Dancing with a Rogue (16 page)

Then they were at the stairs. He looked down. Guests seemed unaware that two of their number had disappeared and oblivious to the waves of attraction radiating between them.

He forced his eyes straight ahead and away from the woman at his side. When they reached the bottom of the steps he turned toward the library and saw Stanhope there.

The earl's dark eyes were like pieces of black onyx. The side of his mouth twitched, but Gabriel knew it wasn't any kind of smile. A muscle jumped along his tightened jaw. He was furious, but trying to hide it.

He stepped forward. “My daughter said all was well, Miss Fremont.”

“Yes.” She smiled at Stanhope. Gabriel cringed at the smile. It appeared spontaneous and real, but then he'd learned exactly how good an actress she was.

“May I borrow her for a while?” the earl asked, offering his arm. “I would like to introduce her to some friends. Perhaps my daughter can show you our gardens.”

Gabriel turned and saw Pamela. He hadn't noticed her. It was almost as if she was hiding herself.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, relinquishing Monique with the contradictory emotions of regret and relief.

He moved out of the way as the earl offered Monique his arm, and she looked up at Stanhope with admiration shining in her eyes, just as those same eyes had shone up at him just minutes ago.

Gabriel managed a smile and turned to Pamela. She really would be a pretty young lady if apprehension did not constantly cloud her face. She looked as if she expected to be struck.

“You really do not have to see the gardens,” she said shyly.

“But I would like to,” he replied as gently as he could without completely disregarding his role of fool.

She looked stricken but nonetheless obediently led him out the front and around to the back of the house.

He had been impressed with the garden the day he'd taken the seal. Now lanterns highlighted the well-tended beds of flowers.

“I am surprised that your father is such a fancier of gardens,” he said.

She stumbled, and he reached out to assist her. He wondered whether it was her nervousness. And he also wondered why her father had asked her to escort him. He didn't think he looked like a flower lover.

“I—I—” she stuttered, and he realized she was terrified of him.

He looked down at her. “I do not bite, my lady.”

“Father … Father thinks …” She could not go on.

“He thinks what?”

Although it was too dark to see, he knew her face was probably red with embarrassment. If he hadn't hated Stanhope before this moment, he certainly would now. He wondered why Stanhope was throwing his daughter at him, despite the fact that the child was far too young for him and obviously had no interest in him at all.

“Do you usually live in London?” he asked, trying to make her feel at least a little more comfortable.

“Oh no, my lord. I live with my aunt in the country. My father sent for me this week. He usually …”

“He usually what …?”

“He usually doesn't care what I do,” she said softly, then flinched again, as if that brief comment would bring blows.

But Stanhope
had
wanted her to come this week and had even suggested they walk together at night in the garden. Or was it just to keep Gabriel away from Monique Fremont? There was no question that Stanhope lusted after her.

Bloody hell, what man wouldn't?

“Where does your aunt live?”

“A dower house in Leicestershire. She is widowed.”

“Do you see your father often?”

“No,” she replied.

He saw her shiver. “You should have brought a cloak,” he said. He took off his evening coat and put it over her shoulders.

“We should go back inside.” But she didn't say it with any real conviction, and he suspected she was relieved to be outside the view of her sharp-eyed father.

But he did not want to go inside. He didn't want or need that feeling of almost feverish excitement every time he saw Monique, particularly since he questioned her honesty and honor. Still, she always made him feel more alive than at any other time in his life.

“I suppose we should return,” she repeated after an awkward moment. He couldn't comfort her. The Marquess of Manchester would not do that, and he couldn't afford to make mistakes now, not even to ease her disquiet.

Still, he did not want to force her to return to an untenable situation, either. She was so fragile.

He looked at her again and had that same odd feeling of familiarity. She certainly didn't have Monique's vibrant and confident presence, but there was a delicacy about their facial bones and a similarity of build. He had even seen her lift her chin, just as he had seen Monique do.

Nonsense, he told himself.

“But you would rather stay out here?” he finally asked, trying to rid himself of softness. It was impossible.

“I don't like those people,” she blurted out.

Neither did he. Most of them had looked at him and Monique with undisguised contempt. Of course, that was what he'd planned, but it didn't make him like them any better.

“What
do
you like?” He shouldn't be asking these questions. He knew that. But she was obviously lonely. Lost. Even frightened. And he found he couldn't walk away from her. Even if she was Stanhope's daughter.

Or perhaps because she was.

“Home. My aunt.” She started to say something but stopped before he knew what it was.

“A young man?”

Terror replaced fright on her face.

“Why don't we make a bargain, you and I?” he said.

“What kind of bargain?” The question was suspicious.

“Your father obviously wants to make a match between us. I can … call on you and perhaps it would benefit both of us. I will make no demands on you.”

“Why would you do that? I saw the way you looked at Miss Fremont.”

“I am trying to establish myself in London. I am looked upon as an outsider, most likely because I am. If I am calling on the daughter of a respected noble …”

“And Miss Fremont?”

“I think her interest lies elsewhere.”

“My father?”

She was obviously not as naive as he thought. “I think so,” he said wryly.

She looked at him for a long time, judging his face, weighing his words. Then she nodded. “It's what my father wants. I do not know why. He has never … indicated any interest in me before.” She paused. “He must want something from you.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Is it a bargain?”

“How do I know I can trust you? You are an acquaintance of my father's.”

“Because as enchanting as you are, my dear, you're too young for me.”

Her eyes didn't leave his eyes. “What do you want from him?”

“An investment. A business arrangement. Nothing that will hurt you,” he said. At least, he hoped to hell not.

“You will not want anything from me?”

“Only the pleasure of your company.”

“My father says I am dull and unappealing.”

Another reason to ruin Stanhope.

“I think he is very wrong.”

“You are different,” she said.

“Different?”

“Different from what I thought when I first met you. You seemed …” She stopped in midsentence.

“I am learning my way in London,” he said. “I am American and don't always understand your customs. Perhaps you can help me? You can tell me who everyone is and explain all these titles, and …”

“I do not know many people in London,” she said, still resisting.

She was reluctant, obviously not quite ready to trust him. Yet what better way to get to her father? Especially if her heart was with some young man, which he suspected it was. He would not be toying with her. It would be a mutual arrangement, pure and simple. Still a niggling moment of conscience prodded him. While he would not be toying with her, nor was he being honest.

“You can call it off whenever you wish,” he said.

She finally nodded. “Then you will disappear? Jilt me?”

“Or you can jilt me,” he said. “Whatever would be easier for you.”

A little life came into her face.

“Do you swear?” she asked, the hope in her voice striking a chord in him. “A little time …”

“I swear. You can be my instructor on English manners and tradition. I will protect your heart.”

A smile lit her face, making her extraordinarily appealing. He hoped her young man was worthy of her.

“Let us go inside,” he said. “You are chilled.”

“I've been cold since I arrived here,” she said. “But it's the chill in the heart, not the air.”

He took another look at her. Not the timid mouse. Someone much too wise for her years. Just as he had been.

He waited for her to lead the way to the steps, then the door. There he took his coat back and carefully buttoned it. They entered into a hall blazing with lights. The sound of Mozart drifted from the library.

Gabriel saw Stanhope and Monique together in a corner. Her dress showed no sign of the stain now, and she lifted her head and laughed. He hadn't heard her laugh like that before. Like chimes of music.

And for Stanhope.

Gabriel led Pamela past them, pausing in front of Stanhope. “You have a truly delightful daughter,” he said. “I would like to see more of her.” He smiled at Monique.

The affair seemed to drag on interminably after that.

Stanhope had said he wanted to speak to him privately, and Gabriel wanted to know the earl's intentions. He also wanted to get inside the study. The seal in his pocket was growing heavier.

But it was not difficult to talk to Pamela. Once her fear faded, she was a charming companion, intelligent and well read. Some young man would be very lucky.

He saw Monique leave Stanhope's side. “Please pardon me,” he said to Pamela, “I must speak to your father.”

Her eyes shadowed again.

“About business, Lady Pamela. Not about you.”

“Be careful,” she whispered.

How much did she know about him? he suddenly wondered. But though he would reluctantly use her, he wouldn't ask her to betray her father. No matter how much he wanted Stanhope, he wasn't going to make her live with that kind of guilt.

He knew what guilt was. Perhaps if he had not left his father's study that day …

He stood and walked over to Stanhope, swaggering a little as he did so, like a man who'd had too much wine. “You said you wished a private conversation, my lord.”

A flicker of disgust crossed Stanhope's eyes, then he inclined his head sightly in consent. “My study,” he said. “It is toward the rear.”

He started for the hallway, expecting Gabriel to follow him. He did.

The study was as Gabriel remembered it, the desk as clean as it had been. Hopefully in the few days since he'd taken the seal, Stanhope hadn't needed the damned thing.

“My lord?”

“I understand you might be looking for some investments,” Stanhope said as he sat down in the chair at the desk.

“Yes. I feel I should invest in my new country,” he said piously.

“Very loyal,” Stanhope said.

“I can be. To people I trust.”

Stanhope opened a humidor and handed him a cigar. Then he handed him the oil lamp to light it.

“You know your father and I worked together. I was devastated to see what happened to him.”

Gabriel took a deep draw on the cigar. It was the only way he could keep from leaping on the man across from him and pummeling him. But he had a more agonizing end for the Earl of Stanhope.

“I am sure you did what you could to help him,” he said.

“We offered money. We engaged the best barrister that could be found. Perhaps he could have explained, if he had not …”

“Shot himself,” Gabriel said. “Yes, it was the final disgrace. We could not even bury him properly.”

“You were …”

“Ten. He kept everything from us, of course.”

“Well, perhaps now we can have a more successful partnership. Your father would approve, I think.”

Gabriel smiled and took another deep draw of the cigar. He almost choked.

“Do you have something in mind?” he finally asked.

“I'm outfitting several ships,” Stanhope said. “Now the war is over, trade should increase, both with the United States and France. You can help us in the colonies.”

“I don't think they are colonies any longer,” Gabriel said with a disarming smile. “They really do not like the reminder of their recent … relationship with England.”

“Renegades and ruffians,” Stanhope said dismissively. “If we had not the French to contend with, we would have made short order of them. We will have them back someday. Mind my words.”

“You have plans, then?” Gabriel asked.

Stanhope shrugged, as if reminding himself he was talking to an American. But apparently Gabriel's birth in England and his recent title made him an Englishman, even if he was still considered a great fool. “I would like to purchase a new ship. I would make an interest available to you.”

“Oh, that sounds jolly,” he said, pasting a greedy smile on his face. “What kind of ship?”

“You leave that up to my manager,” Stanhope said. “In England, fine gentlemen do not get involved with their businesses. They just invest.”

Gabriel knew he couldn't look too much the idiot. “Americans do not hold that view,” he noted. “If I invest,” he said, “I would want to see the ship and see manifests.” He was well aware how easily it would be to forge manifests, both by Stanhope—and by himself.

He could see the calculation in Stanhope's eyes. “Exactly how much do you have to invest?” the earl asked.

“How much do you need?” he replied shrewdly.

Stanhope looked at him with appraising eyes, evidently weighing greed against caution.

“Fifty thousand pounds for a minority interest.”