Dancing with a Rogue (11 page)

Elizabeth looked surprised when she saw him, but she said nothing. Mrs. Smythe looked uncomfortable as well, but she was dressed in what must be her best dress. An old worn bonnet covered graying hair. She held Elizabeth's hand tightly and admonished her over and over again not to let go.

The gardens were filled to overflowing with fashionable families as well as groups of ladies and couples.

Gabriel took pleasure in watching shy Elizabeth come to life, her eyes glowing as they moved around. Smythe looked uncomfortable in his new clothes and Gabriel knew he felt uneasy about socializing with his employer. Still, Smythe's eyes softened as he, too, watched Elizabeth, and Gabriel saw the gratitude in them.

Smythe's mother looked just as awed. If she felt uncomfortable among the fashionably dressed, she said nothing about it. Since others had servants watching over children, he suspected that many thought the child was his and the Smythes his servants.

In truth, he was enjoying every moment with them. He felt a kinship with Smythe as a soldier, even if the man was unaware of it. He liked Smythe's mother, who was one of those women who endured without bitterness and even with a bit of humor. He was enchanted by young Elizabeth and her intellectual curiosity.

He'd seldom taken any time to relax, to enjoy the pleasures of a family. After his father's death, there had been little family life left. His mother had stayed in her room and grown frail and bitter.

This was a respite from the tension of the past few days, the balance between boredom and anticipation as his plan bore fruits. He would be a guest at Stanhope's home, and then he would be in position to implement his plan.

For these few hours, at least, he intended to enjoy the park, the city, and give a few hours' pleasure as well. It had been a long time since he had done that, too.

He stopped at a booth and purchased punch and ham for each of them, then found a table for them to sit. He kept a close eye on Elizabeth. He read the London newspapers each day, looking for mentions of the three men who had betrayed his father and mentions of himself. There had been several of the former, one of which mentioned the soiree to which he had been invited and several not so flattering to himself. Among other reports was one about assaults in the Garden, and he was determined that nothing would happen to his young companion.

Her eyes glowed as she ate the ham and gazed at the well-dressed men and women sauntering and parading down the pathways. He noticed the equally watchful looks of her brother and mother and their very carefully phrased remarks and quick sideways glances at him as if afraid he disapproved of something. He was part of them, yet not a part. He knew that he made them uncomfortable, and as he watched Smythe place an arm around his young sister, he felt a raw stab of loneliness. He didn't know when last he had touched someone with that kind of affectionate intimacy. His mother had for all practical purposes died with her husband. Since then, he'd had no time—or heart—for gentle thoughts or attachments. Love and hate, he'd believed, could not coexist.

Still, he'd never felt the kind of emptiness he did now, nor had he ever wondered whether revenge was worth the toll it required. He had gone too far, though, to leave the path he had taken. He knew every night would be haunted by the face of his father when he had pleaded with an uncomprehending lad.

He finished his meal quickly, a habit he'd formed early, and rose. The others started to do the same, although they had not quite finished.

“Stay and finish,” he said in a voice he suddenly realized was much too harsh, more like the voice in which he issued orders aboard ship. He softened his tone. “I am just taking a short stroll.”

They sank back in the seats, a relieved look on the three faces. He knew regret again. He doubted that he would ever be anything more than “milord” and employer to them.

He fixed the quizzing glass in his left eye and sauntered among the diners. His gaze was abruptly caught by the sight of two women sitting at a table, their backs to him. One had a bonnet over bright red hair. The other's hair was covered by the hood of a cloak. Heat rushed through him like a burst of electricity. Though he couldn't see her features, he knew instinctively by the tilt of her head and the animation in every movement that she was the actress who had occupied so many thoughts in the past few days.

He hesitated, wondering whether he should approach, and damned himself for even considering such a move. She had made far too strong an impression on him.

Nor, did he particularly want her to see him with his quizzing glass, and it wouldn't be wise to discard it just now. He did not know the crowds of men and women, but unquestionably some would be of the ton, and he would invariably meet them in the coming days. He had built his image too carefully to tear it down now. In truth, this outing had been a poor idea, but he'd needed a respite before the next stage of his plan.

He couldn't tear his gaze away, though, and remained there as he saw her back stiffen slightly as a well-dressed older man approached her. Monique's back was still toward him, and he studied the face of the man as he bowed, then said something in a low voice.

Gabriel didn't quite know why but something about the man raised hackles on his back. There was arrogance in every movement, but there was something in his face and in his eyes that gave him pause. It might have been the dark emptiness in those eyes or the way his lips parted in what was obviously meant to be a smile but was more a sneer.

The fellow's smile changed into one of triumph as he sat down, obviously at the woman's invitation.

Disappointment settled deep inside him. It was as if he'd just discovered that a gem he treasured had a flaw he had not expected. His reaction was unreasonable. He knew that. He understood that. Gabriel had accompanied her home and had never attempted to call again, although an unspoken invitation had been in her eyes despite her words. He'd sensed that the invitation had been as reluctant as his own momentary lapse of judgment.

She certainly didn't owe him anything and could speak with whomever she wished. She could also choose her own companions, and yet this man was at least old enough to be her father and there was something about him that …

Was she looking for a protector? A wealthy one?

He waited. Perhaps the man was a patron of the theater. Yet, she flirted with him, using a fan to signal her availability. Then she stood and took his arm, and the two of them walked together toward the concert area, the maid trailing behind the couple.

So, the innocent was not so innocent after all. He had thought—to hell with what he'd thought. He turned back toward the rest of his small party and saw that they had finished with the meal. They too were looking toward Monique, who was disappearing down the pathway.

“Who is that?” Elizabeth said, and he realized she must have seen his face. He'd noticed before that she read moods well. She listened and watched.

“An actress,” he said.

Her mouth formed a perfect
O
and her eyes were curious. Her mother admonished her by touch. “She did not mean to be impertinent,” her mother said.

“Asking questions is never impertinent,” he replied. “One never learns anything without them.”

Mrs. Smythe looked uncertain about that answer, but merely nodded. Gabriel suspected Elizabeth would receive a lecture later.

“Let us go and hear the music,” he said.

But for some reason, his heart was no longer in it. A light had just inexplicably dimmed.

Monique agreed to accompany the Earl of Stanhope to the concert area.

She'd been startled to see him, and her plans for a relaxing evening fled. Her heart had nearly stopped for a moment as he approached.

But this was a safe place with all the people promenading. She instinctively knew he was a man she could not refuse often. His arrogance would not allow continued refusals. She had to keep his interest.

She gave him a practiced smile that promised nothing, but she saw the flicker in his eyes. Let him think he'd won this round.

He barely glanced at Dani, unlike the marquess who'd saved her from an awkward situation. This man had only disdain for a servant.

She wished she could stop thinking of the marquess. He certainly had shown no more interest in her, and, even if he had, no marquess would be attracted to an actress as anything but a mistress. She would never be any man's mistress. Never. The memories of her mother were far too painful. Her mother had been forced into prostitution by the very man walking next to her.

“How do you like our gardens?” Stanhope asked.

“
C'est si belle
,” she said.

“So are you,” he said.

She played with her fan. “You are … most amiable, monsieur.”

“You are the talk of all of London. Every eye is on you.”

“I think not, monsieur.”

“Ah, a modest woman.”

Her stomach was queasy. She'd never imagined she would feel the fear he evoked in her. There was something distinctly evil about him, and it sent quivers up her back.

His blood ran through her. Was she anything at all like him? Was her quest for vengeance as wicked as his actions?

Justice, she told herself. She was seeking justice. How many women other than her mother had he destroyed?

“Do you have a family, monsieur?” she asked.

“A daughter,” he said.

“Oh, is she here in London with you?”

“She stays with her aunt,” he said shortly. “She needs a woman's influence.”

“But surely the season …”

“Pamela is rather shy.”

“And your wife?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted him to say it. She also wondered about her half sister. What kind of life did
she
have?

“Mary died ten years ago,” he said shortly.

She ignored the warning in his voice. “You have not remarried?”

He stopped and looked down at her. “I enjoy the company of beautiful women,” he said.

“And that excludes marriage?” she said, fanning herself.

“I like new challenges.” His eyes glittered with a brightness that was frightening.

“And then you discard them?” she asked.

“There are no complaints,” he assured her.

A chill ran through her. She took another step, but his hand stopped her from moving farther. “I pay whatever is necessary to get what I want,” he said.

“Money is not important to me.”

“Money is important to everyone.”

“Truly, monsieur? More important than anything else? Than your daughter?”

“You can do anything if you have money,” he said. “My daughter is fortunate. She has the finest in clothes, in jewelry. I can give the same to you.”

“That is most flattering, monsieur,” she said, ignoring his title. “But for the moment I am most satisfied with my life. I enjoy the theater. I have no need of anything more.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes.

“I would like for you to visit my house,” he said. “You will like it.”

“It would not be … proper, my lord. A visit to your home alone and I would be known as your mistress.”

He seemed to hesitate, then said, “Then will you come if there are others there? I am planning a soiree at the end of the week. I would be most pleased if you could attend.”

She raised an eyebrow. “An actress, my lord?”

He shrugged.

“May I bring an escort?”

“Who?”

“It would be someone respectable,” she assured him.

He hesitated.

“We will make it some other time, then.”

“You may bring whomever you wish,” he said after a momentary pause. “And now will you attend the concert with me? I have a supper box.”

“You like music?”

“Yes,” he replied.

That surprised her. One thing they apparently had in common. She didn't want anything in common.

They strolled to the concert area, and she realized her hood did not give her the anonymity that she'd wanted. But now she did not care. Her carefree evening with a friend had been destroyed, and now she was playing a role again.

He helped them into the box and started to close the door on Dani.

“If Danielle doesn't join us, I will not stay,” she said.

Stanhope looked startled, irritated, then reopened the door and placed a chair at the back, as far from the two of them as he could.

A chamber orchestra played Mozart. Music usually enthralled her, but tonight she was too aware of the man next to her and the many sly glances directed their way.

It was what she wanted. Part of her plan.

But with every passing second, she wondered whether she could really do what she had planned all the years she had cared for her mother, watching as desperation and grief and shame ate away at the beauty Monique remembered. She stole a glance around. It caught a man standing not far away with what looked like a family group. A pretty young child. A woman whose clothing spoke of a lower class. The child's eyes glittered with excitement, and her hair was the same color as the marquess's. She looked up at Lord Manchester with adoration.

Her blood froze as her gaze met Lord Manchester's and locked. The warmth of the other day was gone, and yet an emotion burned deep within. He seemed as unable to look away as she did. She didn't miss a quick flash of contempt, though.

Then she heard a cough next to her.

She turned her attention back to Stanhope.

A lump formed in her throat. Was the child a by-blow of the Marquess of Manchester?

And why should she be surprised if she was?

Still, she felt a sickness deep inside. She knew the pain of being a bastard child.

“Who is that?” Stanhope's displeasure was clear in the way he emphasized the last word.

“The Marquess of Manchester,” she replied. “He gave me some assistance several days ago.”

Stanhope visibly stiffened, and he turned to study the small family group several aisles away. “An odd group. I did not know he had a child.”