A Secret Love (15 page)

She'd paled—she was breathing quickly and leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes had been shut—now they flew open.

“Nothing. Here!” Alathea thrust the nut bag at him, then whirled and opened the modiste's door. “Serena will be wondering where I've got to.”

With that, she fled—there was no other word for it. She dashed into the small foyer, grabbed up her skirts and flew up the stairs to the salon. She didn't care what he thought of her departure—she simply couldn't bear to be so near him—not anymore. Not as Alathea Morwellan.

Two days later, Alathea stood at the window of her office, sunk in thought. Wiggs had just left. In light of his worry over the promissory note, she'd felt compelled to reveal that she'd engaged the services of Gabriel Cynster. Wiggs had been impressed—and hugely relieved. He'd recalled that the Cynsters were their neighbors in Somerset. Luckily, she'd remembered to suggest that, given the necessary secrecy surrounding their investigations, Wiggs should not communicate with Mr. Cynster other than through her.

The rotund man of business had gone off much happier than when he'd arrived. She'd asked him to clarify the procedure for approaching the Chancery Court to have the promissory note declared invalid once they'd secured proof of fraud. She hoped the matter could be dealt with via a petition direct to the bench, avoiding any mention of the family name in open court and the added expense of a barrister.

In the matter of their investigations, all was proceeding smoothly; she wished she could feel as comfortable over the way matters were proceeding between her and Gabriel.

For the past two days, she'd done all she could to avoid meeting him. Not seeing him, however, didn't ease the guilt she felt over his embarrassment. It was doubtless irrational but the feeling was there.

Lurking in her mind was the recognition that he always stepped forward whenever she needed him; incidents like the horse in Bond Street, the crowd about the street vendor—those were not unusual, not for him and her. Despite their difficulty—indeed, in the teeth of it—he'd always helped her whenever he'd known she needed help. He was helping her now, even if, this time, he didn't know it was her he was helping.

He deserved better from her than deceit, but what could she do?

She sighed and concentrated, forcing herself to deal with the latest twist in her charade. For a start, she would make an effort to reinstitute their old relationship and behave normally toward him so he'd forget his embarrassment. As herself, beyond that moment in Bond Street, she'd barely touched his sleeve over the past decade—surely she could get through the next weeks without touching him more than that?

And secondly, regardless of all else, no matter the struggle, she would not allow—
could not
allow—the susceptibility that had overcome her in Bruton Street to surface again. If he came close, she would suffer in stoic silence. That much, she owed him.

She frowned, realizing she now thought of him by his preferred name. Then she shrugged. Better to think of him as Gabriel—Gabriel was the man she had to deal with now. Perhaps, if she bore that in mind, the hurdles she kept encountering might not be quite so surprising.

Gazing at the shifting greens beyond the window, she set aside her resolutions and turned to her next problem: how to learn of his plans. That he had plans, she didn't doubt. He'd told her to leave Crowley to him; it was tempting to simply do so. Unfortunately, as he didn't know her family's identity, that course was too risky. And she needed some control over his capacity to claim rewards.

That was another hurdle. While she desperately wanted to arrange another meeting to ask what he'd learned, what he was doing, what he had planned, justifying the likely indiscretion was not easy. It was perfectly possible he'd discovered something new, some significant fact—what reward would he claim if he had?

Her experience was insufficient to provide an answer. And she wasn't sure she trusted herself—not while in his arms.

That was the part she understood least. While with him as the countess, she seemed to occupy a position in relation to him that had never been available to Alathea Morwellan, despite the fact she knew him so well. It wasn't only the illicit nature of their interaction, but some different, deeper linkage, a sharing more profound. A sharing she coveted but knew she couldn't have.

She'd never been the sort to throw her cap over the windmill; she'd never been the least bit wild. Yet while she was the countess and he treated her as someone different, she'd started thinking and feeling differently, too.

Her charade had taken on new and dangerous dimensions.

A knock fell on the door. She turned. Folwell, her groom, looked in. He saluted respectfully; she smiled and waved him forward, returning to the desk. “Anything to report?”

“Nothing today, m'lady”—Folwell halted before the desk—“but that Chance . . . he's a right talker, he is. With due respect, m'lady, I had to put him right—tip him the wink. He talks far too free about Mr. Rupert. That's not how it's done, m'lady, as you know.”

“Indeed, but in this case, Chance's talkativeness has been useful.”

“Oh, he still chatters to me and Dodswell, of course. But we don't want him chattering to no one else.”

“Quite so.” Alathea restrained a smile at Folwell's instructing Gabriel's odd new gentlemen's gentleman. She'd already received a highly colored account of how Chance had come into his position; all she'd subsequently heard had made her quite keen to meet him. The eccentricity Gabriel had displayed over Chance was both familiar and endearing. As she'd told Celia, Gabriel wasn't cold, but rather, controlled. She was prepared to wager Celia didn't know about Chance.

“Mr. Rupert's not met with Mr. Debbington again?”

“No, m'lady. Just that one meeting like I mentioned. Mr. Debbington hasn't been back.”

“No notes or letters?”

“There was one note last night, m'lady, but Chance doesn't know who it was from. Mr. Rupert read it and seemed pleased, but he didn't say anything to Chance, of course.”

“Hmm.” Celia's complaints wafted through Alathea's brain; she considered Folwell. “What about ladies? Have there been any women visiting? Or has he gone out . . . ?” With her back to the window, Folwell couldn't see her blush.

“No, m'lady. No one. Dodswell says there's been no females in the house for an age—weeks, at least. He says Mr. Alasdair's hunting a new one”—it was Folwell's turn to blush—“but Mr. Rupert's been staying quiet at home, except for going to family gatherings and to meet some mysterious person. That'd be you, m'lady.”

“Yes—thank you Folwell.” Alathea nodded. “Keep stopping by every day, but try to avoid Mr. Rupert's notice.”

“I'll do that, m'lady.” Folwell ducked his head. “You can count on me.”

After he'd gone, Alathea considered the picture that was emerging of Gabriel's life. Celia had always given the definite impression that there was a constant stream of ladies going through the Brook Street house. Admittedly, there were two of them, Lucifer as well as Gabriel, but it certainly seemed that at present, Gabriel was not pulling his weight. Not, at least, in that arena.

Pencil tapping absentmindedly, she pondered that fact.

* * *

Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, held a
grande balle
two nights later. What distinguished it from other balls, Alathea could not have said; it was just as crowded, just as boring. She'd never had much time for balls; the Hunt Ball and one or two others through the year were quite enough for her. To be forced to endure a major ball every night was fast becoming her personal definition of torture. However, the Marchioness was the Dowager's sister-in-law, a Cynster by birth; there'd been no question of declining her invitation.

At least the ball gave her an opportunity to keep an eye on her nemesis; it was possible his plans included meetings at balls. From the side of the ballroom, to which she doggedly clung, she watched him prowl. She was tall enough to see him easily, but she was careful not to fix her gaze. In her mind, she repeated her latest resolution: She would avoid him if possible, but if they were to meet, she would behave as she always had, as if she'd never stood locked in his arms in Bond Street—or anywhere else.

Thankfully, he was heading away from her, broad shoulders shifting under a coat of walnut-black. The brown tint in the material turned his hair to burnished brown; the stark simplicity of the cut only emphasized his stature and intensified the predatory aura he exuded.

After a moment, she unfocused her gaze and shifted it to the crowd between them. Then she glanced at the walls. Their crepe decorations caught her eye. She fell to considering how to reduce the cost of decorating the huge ballroom at Morwellan House while still achieving a satisfactory result. The ball at which Mary and Alice would make their formal curtsies to the ton was all too rapidly nearing.

“Why the
devil
can't you leave those wretched things at home? Or better yet, fling them in the fire.”

Alathea whirled; her heart leaped to her throat. She'd been so absorbed, he'd been able to walk right up to her. Her eyes searched his—he was watching her, waiting . . . her resolution rang in her ears. “I'm twenty-nine, for heaven's sake!”

“I know precisely how old you are.”

She lifted her chin. “People expect me to wear a cap.”

“There's no more than ten people in this room who can even
see
the horrendous thing.”

“It is
not
horrendous—it's the very latest style!”

“There's a style in horror? Amazing. Nevertheless, it doesn't suit you.”

“Indeed? And why is that?” Heat flooded her cheeks. “Its color, perhaps?”

The cap was the exact same shade as her gown of pomona green silk, an exceedingly fashionable hue that suited her to perfection. Eyes narrowed, she dared him to suggest otherwise; they were right back to normal, no doubt about that.

His gaze swept her face, then returned to his aversion. “It could be solid gold, and it would still be tawdry.”

“Tawdry?”

Up to then, their conversation had been conducted in muted tones; Alathea nearly choked trying to preserve her outward calm. Her gaze on his face, she drew in another breath and in tones of unswerving defiance stated, “As I so choose, I will wear a cap for the rest of my life, and there's not one thing you can do about it. I therefore suggest you either grow accustomed to the fact or, if that's too much to ask, keep your opinions to yourself.”

His jaw clenched; his gaze swung down to lock with hers. Eyes hard, lips compressed—all but toe to toe—they stood by the side of the Huntlys' ballroom, each waiting for the other to back down first.

“Oh,
Allie
!”

The anguished tone had them both turning. Alice materialized from the crowd. “
Look
.” Woebegone, she lifted her skirt to show the trailing flounce. “That stupid Lord Melton trod on it during the last dance, and now my lovely new gown is ruined!”

“No, no.” Alathea put her arm around Alice and hugged her. “It's no great problem. I've pins in my reticule. We'll just go to the withdrawing room and I'll pin it up so you won't miss the rest of the dances, and then Nellie can mend it as good as new when we get home.”

“Oh.” Alice looked at Gabriel, blinked and gave him a watery smile. Then she looked at Alathea. “Can we go now?”

“Yes.” Alathea threw a haughtily dismissive glance at Gabriel. “We've concluded our conversation.”

There was heat in his eyes when they met hers, but by the time his gaze reached Alice, his expression was mild. “Flounces rip all the time—just ask the twins. They rip one every second ball.” Alice smiled sweetly and glanced expectantly at Alathea.

“Come along. The withdrawing room will be just along the corridor.” As she led the way, Alathea could feel Gabriel's gaze on her back. He'd been carping about her caps for the last three years, ever since she'd first started wearing them. The cause of his vehement dislike was a mystery, to him, she suspected, as much as to her—and nothing had changed, thank God.

They were back to what passed for normal for them.

As Alathea walked out of the ballroom, Gabriel heaved an inward sigh of relief and turned away. Good! Everything was back as it used to be—the concern that had nagged at him for the past few days literally evaporated. After his blunder in Bruton Street, the need to set matters straight with Alathea and reestablish their habitual interaction had distracted him, even impinging on his concentration on his plans for the countess.

But all was now settled. Alathea had clearly harbored a similar wish—she'd been ready to revert to their customary behavior as soon as he'd offered the opportunity; he'd seen that consideration flash through her eyes before she'd first snapped at him.

The sense of release he felt was very real—now he could turn his attention fully to the matter that, increasingly, called to his warrior's soul. The countess and her seduction—now all his energies could be focused on that.

The torn flounce took five minutes to fix. In no rush to return, Alathea called for a glass of water and sipped; the exchange with Gabriel had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She was finding it increasingly hard to rip up at him, to keep her voice sharp and shrewish, and not let it soften to the countess's tone—the tone she used privately to those she loved.

Yet another difficulty when she had difficulties enough.

Ten minutes later, she reentered the ballroom in Alice's wake. Gabriel was nowhere in sight.

Alice returned to her circle of very young ladies and equally youthful gentlemen. Alathea strolled; scanning the crowd, she located Gabriel. Unobtrusively, she took up a position beside the wall opposite him, this time near a protective pillar. Not, it seemed, that anything could protect her from the attentions of Cynsters—Lucifer strolled up almost immediately.