A Secret Love (33 page)

A minute later, she was in the carriage, rolling across the cobbles to the holy portals of the patronesses' dreary rooms. Almacks! She hadn't liked the place the first time she'd seen it, when she'd been a gawky eighteen. She sincerely doubted she'd enjoy her evening, but . . . her sweetly loving stepmother had turned stubborn.

She'd expected to remain home that evening and arrange some discreet rendezvous to discuss her urgent news with Gabriel. Instead, over dinner, Serena had announced that Emily Cowper had made special mention of hoping to see her that evening, having missed her in the park that afternoon. That afternoon, when she'd been off on an excursion to see just how much a twelve-year-old could pry from the otherwise impregnable Port Authority.

Jeremy's success had left her giddy. She desperately wanted to see Gabriel. She'd marshaled all her arguments against Almacks and spent the half hour after dinner laying them out, but Serena had stood firm. That happened so rarely, she'd been forced to acquiesce, which had left her little time to dress. Thankfully, Nellie was fully recovered; despite the rush, her hair was elegantly coiffed, her gloves, reticule, and shawl the correct accessories for her gown of pale green silk.

Not that she cared. Given Gabriel wouldn't be there, her evening would be a complete waste of time. Still, tomorrow morning was, logistically speaking, no different from tonight.

That conclusion rang in her mind the next morning—mockingly. Scrambling to her feet, dusting earth from her cotton gardening gloves and quickly stripping them off, she told herself it didn't matter what he thought, how much he saw.

She looked up as he reached her. “I didn't expect you this side of eleven.”

His brow quirked as he calmly took possession of one of her hands. “You said as early as possible.”

One long finger stroked her palm. Alathea tried to stiffen. “I thought, for you, as early as possible would be close to noon.”

“Did you? Why? I didn't go out last night, remember?”

“Didn't you?”

“No.” After a moment, he added, “There was nowhere I wanted to go.”

Her gaze locked with his, Alathea felt unaccountably giddy. He couldn't possibly mean . . . Was he flirting with her? Abruptly, she cleared her throat and waved vaguely at her stepsiblings. “We like to spend a little time in the garden every morning. Exercise.”

“Indeed?” His shrewd gaze swept the garden. He responded to Mary's and Alice's cheery greetings with an easy smile, to Charlie's familiar “Hoi!” with a wave. Jeremy, helping Charlie lug a branch to the bottom of the garden, bobbed his head. Gabriel grinned, his gaze moving on to Miss Helm, who colored when he bowed. Beside the little governess, Augusta sat, Rose clutched in her arms, her wide-eyed gaze riveted on Gabriel.

“I can't recall seeing Jeremy since he was a babe in arms,” he murmured. “And I don't believe I've met your youngest sister at all. What's her name?”

“Augusta. She's six.”

“Six?” He looked back at her. “When you were six you gave me chicken pox.”

“I'd hoped you'd forgotten. You promptly gave it to Lucifer.”

“We three were always good at sharing.” A moment passed, then he said, “Speaking of which . . .”

She waved at the house. “If you'd like—”

“No need to interrupt your endeavors.” He looked down. “The grass is dry.” So saying, he sat beside her mat, her hand still in his. Looking up at her, he tugged. “You can tell me your news here.”

Alathea only just managed not to glare. She subsided with passable grace, settling once more on her knees, tugging her gloves back on. “You know I hate gardening.”

His brows rose; from the corner of her eye, she could see him recalling. “So you do. How very devoted of you, to keep your sisters company.” A moment passed, then he asked, “Is that why you do it?”

“Yes. No.” Her gaze on the pansies, Alathea could feel her cheeks heating. Drawing in a breath, she reminded herself that he already knew more than enough to guess the truth. “They think
I
love gardening, and Serena insists that they should understand the basics of borders and beds from the ground up, so to speak.”

She felt his gaze sweep her face, then he looked out over the lawns. “I see. And Charlie and Jeremy are the pruning specialists?”

“More or less.” He said nothing for a moment, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, one arm draped over his raised knee. Then he turned again to her. “So what have you learned?” Alathea yanked out a clump of grass. “I've learned that being twelve years old can open the register at the Port Authority.” His gaze switched to Jeremy. “It can?”

“I took Jeremy on an excursion to learn about how ships are managed in and out of the Pool of London. The harbor master was extremely accommodating—he has a young boy of his own. Of course, being the son and daughter of a belted earl helped.”

“I dare say. But all we had was the captain's description. How on earth did you manage to learn more discreetly? I take it you have.”

“Indeed! I primed Jeremy—he has an excellent memory. I described the captain as Papa had seen him, and explained what we needed to find out. We decided it would be best to ask about the information in the log and register, and then ask what it might be useful for. That allowed us to suggest that it could be used to find out which shipping lines carried goods to different parts of the world. At that point, I suitably vaguely remembered a friend of ours, a Mr. Higgenbotham, who—”

“Wait! Who's Higgenbotham? Does he exist?”

“No.” Alathea frowned. “He's just part of our tale.” She yanked up another weed. “Where was I? Oh, yes—this Mr. Higgenbotham had dropped by with a friend of his, a captain whose ship recently docked from Central East Africa. That, of course, was Jeremy's cue to challenge the harbor master to see if his log and register would tell us who the captain sailed for.”

“And the harbor master obliged?”

“Of course! Men always like to demonstrate their abilities before an appreciative audience, especially one composed of a female and a youthful pup. It took him twenty minutes—there were quite a few ships to cross-check—but we think the captain must be one Aloysius Struthers who sails for Bentinck and Company. Their office is in East Smithfield Street. The harbor master recognized the description and is certain Struthers is our man.”

Gabriel resisted the urge to shake his head. “Amazing.”

“Jeremy,” Alathea decreed, plonking another weed onto her pile, “was simply magnificent. Even had you been the harbor master, you would have happily searched the log for him. He played his hand
just
right.”

Gabriel raised a brow. “He's obviously like you—he must have inherited the same thespian tendencies.”

He waited, but Alathea pointedly ignored the comment, reaching instead for another weed. After a moment, she asked, “So what's next?”

Gabriel looked across the lawns to where her stepbrothers were wrestling with a thick branch. “I'll visit Bentinck and Company this afternoon.”

Alathea frowned at him. “I thought you said any open inquiry was too dangerous?”

Completing his scan of the garden, Gabriel returned his gaze to her face. “Surely you don't think you're the only one who can assume a disguise?”

Her lips twitched. “What will you be? A merchant from Hull looking for a fast ship to carry his whitebait to Africa?”

“
Hull?
Good God, no. I'll be an importer of wooden artifacts looking for a reliable line to transport my wares, bought throughout Africa, to St. Katherine's Docks.”

“And?”

“And I'll have received a recommendation for Struthers and the line for which he sails but, being an exceedingly fussy client, I'll insist on speaking directly to Struthers before making any decision. That should encourage the company to give me Struthers's direction with all possible dispatch.”

Alathea nodded approvingly. “Very good. We'll make a thespian of you yet.”

She looked up, expecting some light retort—he was studying her, his hazel gaze steady and keen. He held her trapped, searching, considering . . . the sounds of the others, their chatter, their laughter, the bright calls of the birds and the distant rumble of carriage wheels, faded away, leaving just the two of them on the grass in the sunshine.

Then his gaze shifted, dropping to her lips, briefly sweeping lower before returning to her eyes. “The trick,” he murmured, his voice very low, “is not in assuming the role, but in knowing when the charade ends and reality starts.”

In his eyes, so like hers, lay living reminders of all they'd shared—the childhood triumphs, the youthful adventures, their recent intimacy. Deep in their gaze, Alathea simply existed. Reaching out, he caught a wayward lock of her hair lying loose along her cheek. Taming it, he tucked it back behind her ear. As he withdrew his hand, with the backs of his fingers he caressed the whorl of her ear, then lightly traced the line of her jaw.

His hand dropped.

Their gazes held, then Alathea drew a shaky breath and looked down. He looked away. “I'll see what I can learn.”

Gathering his long limbs, he rose. Alathea kept her gaze on her pansies.

“I'll let you know if I'm successful.”

She inclined her head. “Yes. Do.”

With no “Good-bye,” he moved off, waving to the others, stopping to exchange a polite word with Miss Helm. Alathea hestitated, then gave in to the urge to turn her head and watch him as he strode away.

Twelve hours later, Alathea stood by the side of Lady Hendricks's overcrowded music room, enraptured by the composition faultlessly rendered by the capital's most sought-after string quartet. The first segment of the performance was drawing to a close when long fingers curled around her wrist, then slid down to tangle with hers.

Her head whipped around. Her eyes widened. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Gabriel looked at her, an incipient frown in his eyes. “I wanted to see you.”

He eased in beside her; she was forced to make room. The last thing she wanted was to draw more eyes their way. “How did you know I was here?” They both spoke in whispers.

“Folwell told me where you were headed.”

“Fol—? Oh.” She caught his eye. “You know about Folwell.”

“Hmm. Has he mentioned my new man?”

“Chance?”

Gabriel nodded. “His tongue runs on wheels, out of my presence or in it. I knew Folwell was haunting my kitchen from the first. I didn't, however, connect his presence with you. I thought he was there to see Dodswell. I know better now, but Folwell does have his uses.”

With a sniff, Alathea returned her gaze to the musicians. “I can't believe Lady Hendricks sent you a card for this—not even she could be that naively hopeful.”

“She didn't.” Gabriel settled close beside her. “I simply walked in, secure in the knowledge she won't show me the door.” He studied Alathea's profile, watching it soften as the music drew her back. The line of her jaw fascinated him, a subtle melding of feminine strength and vulnerability. She had always struck him that way—as much a partner as one to be protected. He'd recognized that quality in the countess; he'd known it in Alathea all his life.

Following her gaze to the players, he waited until they concluded their piece on an uplifting crescendo before murmuring, “The captain is presently uncontactable.”

The outburst of applause distracted the crowd so none but he saw her disappointment. It filled her eyes as well as her expression. He moved across her, lifting her hand to his sleeve. “Come to the window—we can speak more freely there.”

The narrow windows were open, a balcony, barely a ledge, beyond them. A cool breeze wafted the filmy curtains. Pressing them aside, they stood on the threshold, facing each other, hardly private but sufficiently apart from other guests to talk without being overheard.

Alathea leaned back against the window frame. “What did you learn?”

“Aloysius Struthers is our man—the clerks at the shipping line confirmed the description, and also that he's something of an expert on East Africa, having sailed those coasts for the last decade and more. Unfortunately, the captain is presently away visiting friends—the company has no idea where. He has no family and no fixed abode in this country. However, he does call in now and then to check there's no change in his sailing schedule. He's not due to sail again for a month. I left a message guaranteed to bring him to Brook Street the instant he reads it, but he may not get it for a week or more.”

Alathea grimaced.

Gabriel hesitated, then continued, “There's also the possibility that he might not be willing to help. The clerks painted a picture of an irascible old gent more concerned with his ships and Africa than anything else. I gather he doesn't have much time for nonsailors.”

“Do we have enough proof to mount a case without his testimony?”

Gabriel paused, then said, “Montague's figures are strongly suggestive of deliberate fraud, but are not conclusive. A good barrister could argue his way around them. What else we have on the three towns—Fangak, Lodwar and Kingi—relies on the reports of explorers who are not themselves available to vouch for the details. As for information from the African authorities, my contacts in Whitehall are finding it exceedingly difficult to get any straight answers, which in itself is highly suspicious. For any serious investor, what we have would be more than enough to pass judgment on Crowley's scheme. For a court of law, we need more.”

“How much more?”

“I'll keep pressing Whitehall. Without more definitive proof, lodging a petition at this stage would be unwise.”

“Essentially, we need the captain.”

“Yes, but at the moment, there's nothing more we can do on that front.”