Chapter Twenty-five

Gabriel told Smythe when he arrived back at the town house he was renting that he had arranged for passage for him and his family.

“You are going too, sir?”

“Not now,” he said. “Miss Fremont and her maid will be going.”

Smythe looked startled. “Danielle said nothing about that.”

So it was Danielle now.

“She might take some convincing,” Gabriel admitted. “But I heard today that Lord Stammel was killed last night. I fear that both Miss Fremont and Dani are in danger.”

Smythe’s brows knitted together. “Lord Stammel?”

Gabriel nodded. “I suspect Lord Stanhope is responsible.”

“But why? He was a guest there.”

“He owed me money. He drank too much. I think Stanhope believed he stole from him.”

Realization dawned across Smythe’s face. “The jewels?”

“And money.”

Smythe looked stricken.

“Others have conveniently died around Lord Stanhope,” Gabriel continued. “That’s why I want you and your family to leave. And I am trusting you to look after Dani and Miss Fremont.”

“You may need help.”

“Your family cannot go alone,” Gabriel said. “Neither can Miss Fremont and your Dani.”

“She is not my Dani, sir,” Smythe said with dignity.

“She looks at you as if she was,” Gabriel observed.

Smythe looked pleased. “Is that true, sir?”

“Aye, it is.”

“May I say that Miss Fremont looks at you with regard?”

“You may say so, Smythe, but I doubt if she will in the next few days.”

Smythe waited for him to continue.

“It is for her own good,” Gabriel said. “And Dani’s. I will have letters for you to give to the owner of the shipping company that employs me. He will find a place for you to live. And employment.

“Hopefully, Miss Fremont will choose to go,” Gabriel continued. “But if she doesn’t, I will need your help. Now that Stanhope has killed his partner, he will be even more dangerous, especially if he believes Monique has anything to do with it.”

Smythe nodded. “I’ll do what is necessary.”

“Good. Did you get my trunk from her residence?”

“I brought it back today. The horse is still at the stable.”

“I will fetch him,” Gabriel said. “I hope I can take him to America.”

Smythe smiled. “I did well, then?”

“You did very well. You do well in every task I give you. I hope in America you will work for me. Or the shipping company.”

“I am not good at reading and writing,” Smythe said haltingly. “I hope my sister …”

“You can do anything, Smythe. I am quite confident of that.”

Smythe’s face turned a ruddy color.

“I am going to call on Lord Stanhope’s home and see whether he is expected,” Gabriel said.

“Should I go with you?”

“I think not. I might make a visit inside if he has not yet arrived. If anything happens to me, I want you to take Miss Fremont, her maid, and your family to America. There is a letter and funds in the top drawer of my desk. The ship is the Amelia. The captain is Morris.”

Smythe’s face fell.

“I do not want you anywhere near Stanhope’s home. If something happens to both of us, your family, Monique, and Dani will not have any protection.”

Smythe nodded reluctantly.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“The cravat. I want to look distinguished.”

Smythe permitted the slightest smile as he produced a ruffled linen shirt, a pair of breeches, and boots. “Which waistcoat?”

“The most obnoxious one,” Gabriel said.

Smythe reached into the wardrobe and found one of a purplish hue, a color that Gabriel himself had selected after being repelled by it. He thought if he was, then so would others.

He waited patiently as Smythe tied his cravat. “How did you ever learn to do it so quickly?” he asked.

Smythe cleared his throat. “I paid a valet down the street to teach me,” he said.

“How much?”

“A half pound.”

It was considerable for a servant.

“He also taught me how to clean your clothes, sir, and what you might expect from me.”

“And have I met your expectations?”

“No sir. I have decided you are a most unusual lord.”

“Comes of being an American,” he said.

“But you were born here.”

“Aye, I was, but I am American in heart and soul. And I suspect you will be, too.”

The first doubt crossed Smythe’s face, and Gabriel suddenly realized what he had proposed to Smythe. He was taking him away from everything he knew. Smythe had agreed readily enough, but was he playing God with other lives?

He’d told himself it was for Smythe’s protection, but Smythe needed protection only because of Gabriel’s own actions.

And now he was planning to whisk Monique away from her career and her own needs without giving her a chance to say yea or nay.

“Are you sure you and your family wish to go?” Gabriel asked. “No doubts?”

Smythe nodded after the briefest of hesitation. “Employment is difficult to find here. Elizabeth has few chances.”

Gabriel nodded. He looked in the mirror. The cravat was quite extraordinary.

Indeed, Smythe could do anything.

Yet the thought of playing God plagued him. He had no right to take Monique away even if he thought it necessary.

He would just have to be more persuasive.

Monique reached the theater long before the performance.

She already knew that Lynch was a gossip and had friends at the various newspapers in London.

He looked delighted at seeing her. “My dear. I was not sure you would return today. The understudy … well, she is not you. The audiences have not been happy.”

“You heard about Lord Stammel’s death?” she said solemnly.

“All of London is talking about it. Dastardly footpads. They will be caught, though. The Crown cannot ignore the murder of one of its distinguished peers.”

Hardly distinguished. Monique had shed few tears for the man. If half of what she had heard was true, Stammel deserved his fate. Instead, she concentrated on giving the performance of her life. Her hand shook and she managed the slightest warble in her voice. “I am not entirely sure it was footpads, monsieur.”

Lynch’s brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

“I heard a dreadful row between Lord Stammel and the Earl of Stanhope. Some jewelry was stolen during the house party and it was found in Lord Stammel’s room.” She hesitated. “And then there is that … competition.”

Lynch’s mouth dropped as she continued. “If—if anyone knew I said anything … you must not say anything to anyone,” she said in a quaking voice. “I did not realize Lord Stanhope was a violent man or I never would have …”

She wrung her hands together. “That contest was a terrible idea. To think I might have been responsible … and then I overheard—” She stopped suddenly.

“You are not saying …”

“I am not saying anything. You cannot say anything. Unless you wish to be responsible for my—” She stopped suddenly. She knew her face was pale, her eyes frantic.

“Promise me you will say nothing. Nothing.”

He continued to stare at her. “I have heard rumors about him,” he said, conveniently forgetting that Stanhope’s bribe to him allowed her to attend Stanhope’s party.

“You swear you will not say anything?”

“I swear,” he said. “Do you … need someone to protect you?”

“Against an earl? I am but an actress. If he knew or suspected I had heard anything …”

His face went white. Prinny had been singing her praise and had even suggested he might help obtain a license for legitimate drama. She was his chance at success.

The question was what he would do with the information. She had a fairly good guess. She only hoped she was right.

She tried not to think about what Manchester would think. He would disapprove. She knew that in her heart. But it had occurred to her after he had left.

If her plan worked, it could be a matter of hours before Stanhope struck. Not days.

Lynch would be unable to keep the news to himself, even though it might endanger his prize attraction.

And Stanhope could not afford to let her live.

Stanhope was in residence.

Gabriel knew that as he arrived. Light blazed throughout the house.

Before he could rap the knocker, the door opened and he was admitted. He presented his card.

The butler bowed. “Lord Stanhope has just suffered a terrible loss,” he said. “He may not be seeing anyone.”

“I understand,” Gabriel said.

But seconds later the butler had returned. “Lord Stanhope will see you, my lord.”

He followed the butler into the library he now knew well. Stanhope had obviously regained his composure since that evening at his manor when he had looked so disheveled. His hair was neatly combed, his dress the height of fashion.

“I am pleased you called,” Stanhope said. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

Gabriel bowed. “I came to express my condolences. I will understand if our business arrangement has been canceled.”

“Why would you believe that?” Stanhope said.

“Stammel was your friend and partner. I thought perhaps his role would be necessary in the transaction.”

“It was important, but not crucial,” Stanhope said. “In truth it will give you a larger percentage if you wish it. I did have something else in mind, but now Stammel’s death has created a void. I have a contract for muskets destined for British troops in Ireland. All our ships are at sea, and delivery is essential. There is a ship that is available, but my resources are stretched at the moment.”

“And Lord Daven?”

“His also, I fear.” Stanhope paused. “There is something else. Stammel was going to travel with the arms. We have been cheated before by customs officials. Someone from the company must accompany the cargo.”

“But I know little of this kind of business,” Gabriel protested.

“It does not matter,” Stanhope said. “As long as they think you do. It is simply to deter theft.” He paused, then added, “But I need to put the shipment on the seas in the next few days.”

“I do not have all the money yet. It will be two more weeks at most.”

“How much do you have?”

“Thirty-five thousand pounds. Lord Stammel owed me another five thousand.”

Stanhope picked a cigar.

“Stammel was my friend. I will assume that debt. I have no time to delay,” he said. “There is another investor interested, but if you will undertake the voyage and protect our interests, I will make you a quarter owner.”

Gabriel grinned foolishly. “That is kind of you.”

“Then perhaps when your funds arrive, we can find another small investment.”

“What kind of return can I expect? I intend to bring honor back to the Manchester name.”

“You will double your money on this shipment. On the next, perhaps we can do better.”

“The papers?”

“I will have Pickwick draw them. I understand he is also your solicitor. But I consider this a gentleman’s agreement.”

“Indeed,” Gabriel replied. “And Pickwick is a happy coincidence.”

“You agree, then?”

“Aye. Double my money? A fine investment.”

“There will be others, my boy. Many others—now that you may be my daughter’s husband.”

“Did Pamela return with you?”

“No,” Stanhope said regretfully. “This business with Stammel is ugly. I did not want her involved.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like to announce the betrothal between the two of you.”

“If she gives her consent.”

“She will,” Stanhope said. “I will have Pickwick draw up a marriage agreement.”

Because no one would suspect Stanhope of murdering the betrothed of his daughter?

“I will send for her tonight. She should arrive tomorrow night. Perhaps you can call on her the next morning. I will arrange for you to be alone. We can make a formal announcement in the Morning Post.”

“And when does the ship leave?”

“The next morning.”

Gabriel nodded.

Stanhope cleared his throat. “Miss Fremont? She arrived home with no more difficulty?”

“She is naturally concerned about her bracelet. Apparently it meant much to her. But there were no highwaymen; of course, she had my protection.” He said the last boastfully.

“Unfortunately Stammel was not so fortunate,” Stanhope said drily.

“Have they caught the villain yet?”

“No, but the road will be patrolled in the future.”

“Please accept my sympathy.”

“It was very kind for you to call,” Stanhope said.

Gabriel nodded. “If you need anything …”

“You can bring your payment when you see Pamela. I will have the papers ready for your signature. Please do not tell anyone else the sum you invested. I will have some angry friends. Including Lord Daven.”

Gabriel started to leave, then stopped and turned back to his host. “May I have a copy of the cargo manifest? And the name of the ship.”

Stanhope raised an eyebrow.

“If I am to supervise the shipment, I do not wish to look totally ignorant of its contents and the procedures. I probably will not understand it, but some familiarity might be helpful.”

Stanhope gave him a searching glance. He hesitated, obviously reluctant. “You do not trust me?”

“Of course I do. It is only to familiarize myself so I will not look the fool.”

“It will not make much sense to you.”

“Then I can ask you questions.”

Stanhope shrugged. “If it is that important to you.”

Gabriel shrugged. “If I am to be in business, I suppose I should learn a little about it.”

Stanhope stood. “A glass of brandy while you wait?”

“Thank you, yes. I never turn down good brandy, and I have tasted yours.”

He watched as Stanhope poured a glass from a bottle on a table, then handed it to him before leaving the room.

Left on his own, Gabriel itched to look through the desk to see whether there was anything there he had not seen in his previous foraging. But he did not want to lose this one victory. Not only would he see the supposed cargo manifest, but he should have Stanhope’s handwriting for the forger.

He resisted temptation. He could ruin everything by being greedy. Stanhope was getting careless. For some reason he wanted Gabriel on that ship.

Which was a damn good reason for not getting on it.

Had Stammel really been intended to sail with the ship? Had his death been an opportunity for Stanhope? A plausible reason to rid himself of the troublesome Manning family? The last link to the past gone, probably drowned?

But what if the manifest did not contain Stanhope’s signature?

He sipped on the brandy and went to the window, then brushed by the desk. Several papers on the desk, but they might be missed. Blazes. He tried to open the top desk drawer. Locked.

Then another drawer. To his surprise, it opened. He knew Stanhope’s writing from the papers on his desk. What he needed most was a signature. Then he saw a sheaf of bills.

Voices outside. The butler announcing another sympathy visit.

Gabriel grabbed several of the papers, shut the drawer, and fitted the papers into his trousers, straightening his tight waistcoat as he did so, but it did not look smooth. He remembered Monique’s trick and spilled brandy on the garment.

When Stanhope stepped back in the room with papers in his hand, Gabriel was frantically swabbing at his coat, undoing several buttons. “My lord, my apologies. Some brandy. So clumsy. I spilled some on your fine carpet as well.”

Anger darted across Stanhope’s face before he smoothed it out, hiding the fury behind a courteous mask. Stanhope was obviously a man who did not like imperfections. In anything.

“My butler will see to your waistcoat,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

“No need. It is not one of my favorites.” He reached out. “The manifest?”

Stanhope stubbornly held on to the papers.

“My lord?”

Slowly, Stanhope gave them to him, contempt barely visible in his eyes. “You will bring your investment tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

A knock came at the door.

Stanhope strode to the door and opened it. The butler handed him two cards.

Stanhope turned back to him. “I must see these gentlemen. They came to express their condolences.”

“You did not tell me the name of the ship.”

Stanhope looked harried. “The Peregrine.”

“A fine name. I will be here at four. Again, my apologies for the spill, Stanhope.”

Stanhope’s face darkened at the familiarity, then as before it cleared so quickly that it was difficult to be certain he had seen any emotion other than goodwill.

Gabriel turned and left, his left arm holding the stained waistcoat together.

Once outside the room, and the residence, he straightened. He had picked up Specter earlier, and now swung up into the saddle. He had done good work this day.

Stanhope tolerated the stream of callers, who expressed surprise, sympathy, and curiosity.

He felt that something was wrong, off balance. He usually had utter confidence in his decisions but now …

Stammel had been a problem for the last few years. He drank and gambled too much. Year by year, his love of drink and chance had grown to dangerous proportions.

Stanhope hated to admit any weakness, but he had liked Stammel. And Daven. They had been the only friends he’d ever had. Part of the friendship had been built on self-interest, and yet they were the only people who knew him for what he was, and still accepted him.

Regret for a necessity annoyed him.

So had the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Matters were not going as expected with Monique Fremont, and he feared becoming a laughingstock. His power was his apparent invincibility. If he could not obtain a piece of baggage like Fremont, then his fortress would begin to wear away.

And Manchester? The man appeared to be a gullible fool. He was as obviously besotted with Monique as everyone else, despite the fact he was courting Pamela. That alone enraged him, not for his daughter’s sake, but that he thought he could compete with Stanhope.

Stanhope wanted the engagement. He wanted it public so he could grieve openly when his son-in-law-to-be was lost at sea. In the meantime he would have Manchester’s money. He needed it. His funds had dwindled these past few years; too many rumors had curbed his activities. But Manchester presented an opportunity. The man had no support, no friends in London. His connection to Stanhope’s daughter would be another advantage, as was his father’s reputation as a traitor.

He had hoped for more than thirty-five thousand pounds, but he would take it. And rid himself of a possible embarrassment as well.

He only wished he had more information about Manchester, and who and what he had been before the solicitor found him. He had tried to discourage Pickwick from notifying Manchester that he was the last legal heir. But Pickwick was a timid man, who feared an investigation. He had claimed that he would phrase the letter in such a way that Manchester would stay in America. Unfortunately, he had been wrong.

Hang it all, his troubles had deepened since Manchester arrived, but he couldn’t blame it on him. Stammel’s gaming had worsened, and he had obviously become desperate for money. The theft at his residence. The theft at Daven’s home. It could have been no one but Stammel. No one else could have gotten inside his safe.

And now Stammel was dead.

He was surprised at how much regret that caused.

It was after dark.

Nonetheless, Gabriel decided to visit his forger. Time was of the essence now. He had to finish this before Monique and others were hurt.

Perhaps if she knew it would be just a few days, she would leave with the Smythes.

The thought of her waiting for him in America was a sweet one.

And most likely, he admitted to himself, highly unlikely knowing the lady’s determination.

Specter was obviously eager for the outing, and Gabriel did not have time to return him to the baron’s stable before finding the printer. Gabriel went through a park and several backstreets to insure he was not being followed. By the time he reached the dock area, most of the shops were closed and most of the taverns were noisy.

Still cautious, he found a public stable and left Specter there. He did not intend to have the horse stolen, something altogether likely in this part of London. Then he walked by foot through the area, his cloak concealing the fine clothes he wore to see Stanhope.

To his surprise, and gratification, a light shone through the window of the printing shop. The door was locked but soon opened at his knock.

Winsley had his glasses perched on his nose as he opened the door for him.

“You are late tonight,” he said.

“I have what you requested,” Gabriel said. He pulled out the list of items to be shipped along with the personal correspondence he’d purloined. “I have his signature, a sample of his handwriting, and a copy of a manifest of goods supposedly to be delivered to the army in Ireland.”

“Come to the back,” Winsley said, leading the way to the back room. He perched on his stool, pulled an oil lamp closer, and studied the documents.

“What do you want me to say?”

“This is a manifest for five-thousand muskets and a thousand uniforms along with other equipment. I am sure the boxes will be filled with weights and the ship sabotaged in some way. He is quite insistent that I accompany the cargo to prevent any pilfering in Ireland.”

“And Lord Stanhope can claim the insurance without paying for the cargo?”

Gabriel nodded.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Create a bill of sale to show that Stanhope purchased only a thousand muskets to be delivered to the ship.”

“And the uniforms?”

“We might need some help with that. Do you know someone who sells shoddy materials?”

“Aye.”

“Then create a bill of sale showing the purchase of uniforms to Stanhope at a price well below that shown on this list.”

Winsley smiled for the first time since Gabriel had met him. “When do you need them?”

“Tomorrow at noon. No longer.”

“You will have them.”

“And the price?”

“Stanhope’s ruin is price enough,” Winsley said.

“Nonetheless, there will be two hundred pounds for you.”

Winsley’s smile broadened. “Can’t say that would be refused.”

“Wednesday night, then?”

“It will be ready.”

How long would it be before word reached Stanhope that she had heard something she should not have heard?

The question hammered at Monique prior to her performance. But once she went on stage, she turned that part of her mind off and became the wronged wife. The audience was even more boisterous and approving than usual, perhaps because she had returned to the stage tonight. She instinctively reacted to its approval and knew the performance was one of her best.

She felt the usual glow of pleasure as flowers rather than fruit were thrown on the stage.

Lynch beamed as he met her when she and her leading man left the stage. “Magnificent, mademoiselle.”

“Merci,” she replied. Then, “Have you seen Lord Stanhope?”

“No,” he said.

“And you have said nothing, of course?”

Red started to creep into his cheeks. She knew at that moment that he had told someone. “I … of course not.… You told me not to say anything, but I did ask a gentleman to keep an eye on you. You are very important to me, and …”

“What gentleman?”

“A patron of the theater. A man in the government. He was here tonight, his third time. He does not care for Lord Stanhope, and I thought—”

“You might well have signed my death warrant,” Monique said.

“No, no. He said he would be very discreet. He said he will investigate Stammel’s death. Lord Stanhope would not dare to harm you if people suspect … I am only looking out for you.”

He was stumbling over his words now. Whether it was his sincere desire to help her, to get his license for serious drama, or his love of gossip, it made no difference. The rumor was out now.

She looked at him with approbation. “What is done is done. If anything happens to me, or if I must leave London, it lies at your door.”

He wrung his hands together. “I … I …”

“I will never confide in you again, Monsieur Lynch,” she said righteously. She turned away from him and marched to her dressing room.

The third and final act was about to begin.