Dancing with a Rogue (17 page)

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Even a fool would see through that. “Minority?”

“I retain control of everything I own,” Stanhope said.

“Then we have nothing to talk about.”

“You do have the funds?” Stanhope said.

Gabriel faked indignation. “Of course.” And he would. Soon.

“I think we can work out an arrangement,” Stanhope said. “Perhaps joint shares, but my manager will see to day-to-day operations.”

And would steal Gabriel blind.

Gabriel nodded. “I have funds on the way. I sent an order to my bank in Boston.”

He held the cigar up in his fingers as a salute.

“I will have the papers drawn,” Stanhope said, standing and reaching over to clasp Gabriel's hand. “Now I must get back to my guests.”

“You have a very charming daughter,” Gabriel said. “May I hope to have your permission to call on her?”

Stanhope stilled. “You must understand how precious she is to me.”

“I have only the most honorable of intentions,” Gabriel said, praying that Pamela would not contradict him. He was sure the girl would be interrogated.

“Then, of course, you have my permission, my good fellow. We hope to see a lot of you around here. Your father would be pleased.”

Yes, he would. Very pleased.

“And now I really must return,” Stanhope said.

“Would you mind if I stayed and finished my cigar? It really is quite excellent.”

He saw Stanhope's glance move around the room as if wondering whether there was anything that should not be seen. Then he shrugged. “Of course not. We are business partners, possibly family. Take your time.”

Then he was gone.

Gabriel waited until Stanhope walked through the door, then closed the door behind him. In seconds he had the desk drawer open. Nothing looked disturbed from the last time he'd inspected it. He was not going to replace the seal if it appeared someone had searched through the desk.

But apparently Stanhope had been too busy with his homecoming and soiree. Gabriel replaced the seal in the box at the back of the drawer, closed and locked it, then went back to his chair, sat down, and enjoyed the very fine cigar.

Chapter Ten

Monique sipped on champagne offered by several admirers who surrounded her, including the Earl of Daven and Lord Robert Stammel. She took turns being a coquette, fluttering her fan first at one, then the other.

All in all, it had been a successful evening. She had an opportunity to see Stanhope's sleeping quarters, had even quickly searched the area. She found diamond cravat pins, jewel-encrusted snuffboxes, and a safe. Unfortunately, she did not know how to open it, but Dani would.

As a small token she picked up a diamond cravat pin.

No more. Not yet. She wanted things to disappear slowly. She wanted to spread distrust between him and his partners. She wanted them to turn on one another.

The stain on her dress had disappeared. She'd worn that particular gown purely because stains did not show. She had not wanted to leave the house, only the public rooms.

She glanced between two of her admirers. Stanhope was returning to the room and heading straight for her. She had seen the marquess and earl leave together.

She licked her lips. It was a nervous mannerism she tried to control, but she also knew slightly moistened lips were seductive to many men.

The other men stood aside for Stanhope. It was clear he dominated any gathering. “My dear, would you care to join me in the library for the music?”

“Of course,” she said, accepting the arm he offered. “These gentlemen were kind enough to bring me champagne. My … escort appears to have abandoned me.” She pouted slightly.

“He and I had some business,” Stanhope said. “He asked me to look after you.”

“It's very kind of you.”

“He just asked to call on my daughter,” Stanhope said, stopping to watch her face.

She kept it motionless. She had seen Manchester and her … half sister enter together. Pamela's face had been flushed, and one of the buttons on Manchester's evening coat was undone. Pamela had given him a hesitant, sideways look, as if they shared some kind of secret.

Monique's heart had dropped. Not for herself, she quickly assured herself. It was Pamela she worried about.

Manchester had told her he hoped to do business with Stanhope. Was he going to use Pamela to do it? For some reason, she had not thought him that kind of man, but what really did she know about him?

He seemed to be a chameleon.

She wondered whether she should warn the girl, but with what excuse? It was none of her affair, or shouldn't be.

Drat him. No, damn him!

She was aware of Stanhope's eyes still on her. She gave him a brilliant smile. “And what did you say?”

“He is a marquess,” Stanhope said. “It would be a fine match. He insists that his intentions are entirely honorable.”

She said nothing, just fluttered her fan.

“You seem to know him, my dear. Do you think he is an honorable man?”

“I have no idea, my lord. He did help me at the theater, but I barely know him and certainly have no interest in him. He is not worldly enough for my tastes. Too much the American bumpkin. Isn't that what people said? That is why I considered him the perfect escort for tonight. He would not be … possessive.”

“That is good to hear, mademoiselle.”

“Oh, posh. You surely did not think …”

“In truth, I did not know what to think, and I would not want him playing with my daughter's heart.”

Neither did Monique, but she thought her concern was far more sincere than his own. He was ready to throw Pamela to the wolves—or wolf—for some reason of his own. She decided she would try to warn Pamela some way.

She wondered where the Marquess of Manchester was at this moment. He appeared to have completely disappeared, and she certainly couldn't ask her companion. She quietly fumed even as she heard the lovely notes of a sonatina.

She looked around the room and saw Pamela sitting with two older ladies, her fan clutched tightly in her hands. The flush in her cheeks was gone, and she looked pale again. Her eyes were fastened on the musicians, but Monique wondered whether she was really listening. She seemed to be in a world of her own.

Manchester
was
an attractive man when he took the dratted quizzing glass from his left eye and removed the ridiculous beaver hat …

Stop thinking of him.

“I would like to see more of you,” Stanhope said as the sonata came to an end.

“I will be very busy when the play opens,” she said.

“I have the date marked.”

“I hear British audiences can be very critical.”

“I do not believe you have anything to worry about, my dear. They will love you.”

“You are kind, my lord.”

“To those I like,” he said with a patently false smile on his face. She wondered whether he really believed it was not obvious.

“I thought I would have a country party this weekend,” he continued. “You can rest before the play opens. I already checked with Lynch. He also thinks you need a diversion.”

“You just arrived in London,
oui
?”

“Yes. But my country home is less than a day's journey, and I would like you to see it.”

She did want to see it. But she would be in his territory then.

“I cannot,” she said. “I have other commitments this weekend.”

His face mottled with anger. She saw him struggle with it, saw his one hand clench his cane until his fingers were white.

“But,” she said after a moment's silence, “I too would like to see you again. Perhaps a supper.”

His face cleared slightly.

“I truly would like to see your home. But the play opens next week and I do need the rehearsals. I want to stay here in London and I cannot do that unless the audiences like me.”

Her eyes pled with him.

He nodded and moved closer to her, obviously completely oblivious to the other people in the room, including his daughter. “You would not have to act,” he said. “I can take care of you.”

“And then you would grow tired of me, and what would I do?”

“I cannot imagine anyone growing tired of you.”

“Ah, sweet words now.”

“You do not believe me?”

“I believe no man, my lord. My mother was deserted by one. That is why I have learned to care for myself.”

“Then what are your terms?”

She looked at him for a long time. “Your two friends have also made offers,” she said.

“I will better either one.”

“Ah but money is not everything,” she said. “I like to know the man.”

“I'm one of the most powerful men in England,” he boasted.

She raised an eyebrow, which she knew how to do very dramatically.

He gave her a small smile. “You are not impressed?”

“As I said, my lord, I believe no man.”

“What do you want?”

“Time to decide among you.”

He seemed to weigh her words even as she watched him struggle with anger, lust, and pride. A potent combination, and a dangerous one.

Yet he was also a competitive man. She'd noticed that, too.

“How long?” he finally asked.

“A month, and I expect no demands during that time.” She held her breath.

“And if you do not need a month?” he asked. The challenge won, as she'd hoped it would.

She smiled. “I am promising everyone a full month.”

“And they have agreed?”

“No, I have not asked them yet.”

“What if they do not wish to play your game?”

“Then it will be none,” she said. It was a game of chance. She had thrown the dice. The question was whether or not he would accept the wager.

“Done,” he said.

She gave him her most brilliant smile.

She had done well tonight.

Monique looked across the room at her half sister. And the feeling of triumph was short-lived.

In truth, her stomach twisted at the thought of Pamela with Manchester. Together.

Because of Pamela?

Or because of her own disappointment?

That was a truly disturbing thought.

The journey back to her lodgings was tense.

Manchester acted as if nothing had happened. When it had been time to leave Stanhope's home, he'd suddenly appeared at her side.

Ever the excellent escort.

An American oaf? Why did that ring increasingly false?

And where had he been during much of the evening?

Unfortunately—even amazingly—she-felt the tiniest sensation in her lower stomach when his leg brushed hers as he entered the carriage.

“Did you accomplish what you wished?” she asked.

“Yes, and you?”

Drat, but his eyes were intense.

“
Oui
.”

“I noticed you and the earl seemed to enjoy one another.”

“He is a wealthy and powerful man.”

“Yes.”

There was an uncommon amount of agreement between them.

“What did you think of Pamela?” She could have kicked herself for asking the question. It just came out.

He looked at her for a moment, his eyes clear in the light of the lantern hanging inside. “She is pretty enough.”

She wanted to slap him. “Enough for what?”

He yawned.

She wanted to murder him.

“Lord Stanhope said you asked permission to call on her.”

“Yes.”

She really hated those one-word sentences.

“Why?”

“Because it is a good alliance,” he explained patiently, as to a child, as if surprised that she should even ask. “You should know about alliances,” he added. “I noticed that you were paying a great amount of attention to the good earl.” The latter sentence had the least bit of bite to it.

“He was our host.”

“Yes,” he acknowledged once more with that maddening agreeability.

She turned away and looked out the window as the carriage clattered down the road.

She wanted that thrill back, that moment when she sensed victory. She wanted to revel in thoughts of Stanhope's downfall. Instead, she only saw Manchester looking down at Pamela.

“She's very young,” she suddenly said.

“Who?”

He was being deliberately obtuse.

“Pamela.”

“Young wives are the best wives.”

“She's an innocent and you don't care anything about her.”

“And you do?”

She started to respond and stopped. Some new note had entered his voice. Curiosity, yes. But something else.

“I just met her,” she said.

“She reminds me of you.”

Shock ran through her body, and she stiffened. “She looks nothing like me.”

“No,” he agreed, putting the quizzing glass in his eye and ogling her. “It's something … more subtle. Your bodies, the way you tilt your heads …”

“I do not see any similarities at all,” she said huffily, hoping he would think she just didn't care for the comparison.

“My imagination, perhaps,” he agreed again.

“Does she … agree to you calling on her?” she asked.

“Now that is a personal question, mademoiselle. But I would think my suit would be welcomed. I have resources. I have a title.”

“She's a child.”

“Oh, she's much more than that,” he said.

The carriage came to a stop in front of her town house. She waited for him to move. He didn't.

“You did not take my warning about the earl, mademoiselle. I don't think you should be lecturing me.” There was an anger in his voice she hadn't expected.

She started to move, but his arm pinned her down. “You are playing with fire.”

“It is my concern, not yours.”

“You are right there,” he said, “but for some reason …”

Their voices had lowered to little more than husky whispers. The air in the closed carriage was sparking, hissing, crackling. Threatening to ignite.