Dancing with a Rogue (23 page)

She rose and went over to the window. Dawn was breaking. She'd been asleep less than two hours.

Dani must still be asleep in the adjoining room. She had stayed awake until Monique had arrived home, her face drawn with worry.

They had shared a glass of sherry while discussing the evening with Stanhope. Monique did not mention the waltz with the American marquess.

Stanhope had been the perfect gentleman the remainder of the night, after leaving Pamela at his home. They had gone to the second ball, and she'd been grudgingly dazzled by a home that was more a palace.

She recalled the distaste with which she viewed the elaborate buffets, which would probably feed a good portion of London. Even though the host was an older man with a very young wife, he'd made more than a few ribald suggestions every time Stanhope had left her side.

The evening had given her a glimpse of why Stanhope was as powerful as he was. He could be charming. But even under that charm, an undertone of violence lingered, a subtle reminder that he would do whatever necessary to get his way.

People respected his power, feared his ruthlessness. She could see it in their expressions.

She had gone to bed with Stanhope's dark image mixed with the blond hair and green eyes of Manchester prying on her mind. She hadn't been able to banish the feelings she'd had when waltzing with the American marquess. She remembered the possessive feel of his hand on her, the mischief in eyes that were usually expressionless. He'd been a superb dancer despite the stumbling attempts she'd glimpsed earlier when he'd danced with Pamela.

As much as he'd tried to convince her it was all her magnificent instruction, she knew better. He had both confidence and grace that couldn't be taught. Not in minutes. Especially with a dance so new.

Manchester was a chameleon. He was hiding his true self, and there could not be an honest reason for doing so.

Of course, honesty was not one of her better qualities at the moment, either. Was it a simple matter of like recognizing like?

Or did the attraction between them run much deeper? And at what point did their interests clash?

She'd spent a long time pondering those questions before slipping off into sleep. And then the nightmare.

Was something telling her to be even more wary of Manchester than she already was?

Was he even more dangerous to her aims than Stanhope?

She only knew she had to avoid him.

The waltz was a mistake in every possible way. She still remembered the intense look in his green eyes, the slightly amused smile on his lips, the confident feel of his hands.

Maybe she should learn a little more about the Marquess of Manchester.

With that decision made, she turned away from the window. She would find a solicitor to make queries. Unfortunately most of the answers probably remained on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean but for now …

She wanted to know where he went, what his habits were, and what complications he might cost her.

Nothing more. Nothing personal.

Lynch would know someone. He was a careful man. He probably investigated potential investors.

She would go to the theater early tonight. Perhaps she would even have supper with the theater manager.

“I heard you had substantial losses two nights ago,” Stanhope told Stammel.

“Fool's luck,” Stammel said. “I will win it back.”

“I was unaware you had that much blunt to throw away on gaming.”

Stammel flushed. Of the three, he was the one always in financial difficulty. Mostly because of gambling debts.

Stanhope played with his watch fob. He was not ready to accuse Stammel of stealing from him. He did mean to watch him.

“You will need funds for our new venture.”

“I thought Manchester was your source of funds. That was the plan.”

“He will not participate if we do not put our money in as well.”

Stammel shrugged. “Just tell him you have it.”

“He is not that big a fool. He will want proof.”

“I will win it back. I always do.”

He did not, but Stanhope knew it was useless to mention that. Stammel had been useful in the past. He had family money, and because of his title he had influence. He'd always been a gambler, but in recent years he had been drinking excessively, and that made him lazy and reckless.

He didn't doubt for a moment that anything but fear would hold back his partner. Any scruples Stammel once had disappeared years ago, long before he had participated in the ruination of Manchester's father and the theft of his company.

And that thought brought him back to Manchester. There were inconsistencies in the man he didn't like. Or was it simply the way Monique Fremont's eyes were drawn to him when he was in the room?

Stanhope didn't fool himself. He knew the actress was not seeing him because he was the most handsome man in a room. Or the most charming.

She was obviously trying to make the most advantageous financial arrangement she could.

He did wonder why she'd included Daven and Stammel in her little game. Because she knew they were business partners? Did she think they might be of equal stature?

If so, she was the fool. If not, he wondered exactly what her game was.

She did interest him. Any woman who tried to play him for a fool interested him.

No one used Thomas Kane. Not a woman. Not the man who had been his associate for more than twenty years.

“No more gambling,” he told Stammel.

Stammel's face twisted. “I have to recoup my losses.”

“Has it not occurred to you that he might be considerably better than he wants you to believe?”

“No, Thomas. I would swear upon my mother's grave. He was drunk but the demmed cards just kept turning up for him. He has already lost big sums.”

“I will require ten thousand pounds from you,” Stanhope said.

“I do not have it. Not … now. One more game,” he insisted.

Stanhope looked at him for a long time. “Only under the right circumstances,” he said.

Stammel gave him a questioning look.

“I will have a house party and hunt at my estate,” he said. “You can play him there where I can be present. I will know if he is cheating.”

“And our wager? It is still on?”

“You mean the beautiful Miss Fremont?”

Stammel nodded.

“You are more foolish than I thought if you think I will lose that contest. But I will give you an opportunity. I will invite her, too.”

“Her play?”

“She has an understudy. I will make it worth Lynch's while.”

“What if she does not wish to come?”

“I think she will. You and Daven will be there. She can continue to play her game.”

“And you?”

“I can play mine.”

Monique visited the solicitor recommended by the theater manager and was introduced to a man who hired out for investigations of a personal nature.

Robert Grimes was a former Bow Street Runner, a thick man with untidy hair and sharp eyes.

“I need discretion,” she said.

“All my clients do,” he said. “That is why I am often recommended.”

“I want to know everything about the Marquess of Manchester. Where he goes. Who he sees.”

Grimes didn't flinch. “He has been in the London newspapers lately.”

“Yes.”

“He is a lord, an important man. I will have to be cautious.”

“I
want
you to be cautious. I do not want him—or anyone else—to know of my interest.”

“It will be expensive, mademoiselle.”

“It does not matter.”

Perhaps it was because he had already seen much as a Bow Street Runner, but nothing flickered in his eyes as she told him what little she knew about the new Marquess of Manchester.

The
Morning Post
reported that the celebrated actress, Monique Fremont, had been seen in the company of the Earl of Stanhope.

While the
Post
discretely did not mention the wagers for the lady's company, it apparently thought it necessary at least to indicate it knew what was common knowledge in every gaming hell and sporting establishment.

Gabriel read the rest of the
Morning Post
, then
The Gazette
. Nothing about him, which was well.

He went back to the article. It had been three days since the ball, and the French actress still dominated his thoughts, taking his concentration from the matter at hand.

She'd been like a feather in his arms. Light. Quick. Graceful. And for some reason she had lied for him.

She was so infernally clever. She was an accomplished liar.

She had caused him to be careless.

Hell, he had done it to himself.

He had never been attracted to liars. He preferred an honest courtesan. He had known what they were, and what they wanted, and what he wanted. It had always been that simple and straightforward.

He did not know what Mademoiselle Fremont was, what she wanted, or, more vexing, what he wanted from her.

She was like a siren's song, and he had to remember what happened to the sailors who succumbed to it.

Don't be a fool. She has made it clear she cares only about the highest bidder.

He put the newspaper aside and finished his tea.

Smythe hovered nearby. “Are you finished, my lord?”

His mouth tightened at the form of address that Smythe couldn't quite relinquish. He hated the bloody thing. He blamed the entire English aristocracy for allowing The Group to destroy people. The nobility didn't have to pay debts, the nobility didn't work, the nobility lived for its own pleasure.

“What is your pleasure?”

“You can help me dress,” he said, realizing how much Smythe craved being of assistance. “There are clothes to be fetched from my tailor, and your mother will need some supplies. I also have a list of books that I wish you to purchase.” He had spent an hour this morning trying to find ways to employ Smythe's time. “You might also look into the purchase of a horse for me. I want a settled mount.”

“But, sir, I know nothing about horses.”

“Then find out,” he said. That should keep Smythe busy awhile at least, busy enough not to worry about his master's whereabouts. “I will require a mount for tomorrow.”

“But …”

“Thank you, Smythe,” he said. “And now you may prepare my bath.”

Smythe permitted as much of a smile as he ever had. “It will be ready shortly.”

Gabriel looked outside. The sun was not quite overhead. Not noon yet.

His first order of business would be to leave a card at Stanhope's, asking to meet with him about the proposed investment.

He would time his visit to find the man asleep. He didn't want to talk to him, did not want to be probed, but he did want to prod him into action.

In the meantime he had to get together funds of his own. He had the banknotes he had taken from Stanhope's residence, more from gaming. He had another ten thousand remaining from what he'd saved from his share of prizes during the war.

He required twenty thousand more.

He also had an estate he had not yet seen. It was, according to his solicitor, fifty miles from London. A day-and-a-half ride at best.

Perhaps it was time to visit his inheritance and see what he might use from it. And determine for himself whether or not it was worthless and should just be abandoned to the Crown. Pickwick said it was entailed and bankrupt, but he knew for a fact that Pickwick was a liar.

Part of him had been reluctant to make the journey. He'd never actually felt it belonged to him. His grandfather had disowned Gabriel's father, had abandoned him when he'd been disgraced. He'd never asked whether the charges were true.

And he had made no effort to help Gabriel's mother.

Gabriel had never forgiven him for that.

He remembered his grandfather from several visits when he was a boy. He'd thought his grandfather a singularly joyless man. Neither had he cared for his oldest uncle.

Spares.
That's what the English called all but the firstborn son. Every good Englishwoman was bound to give her husband an heir and spares.

Hadn't worked well in his family. The two older sons were dead without issue. And the third and last son—Gabriel's father—had disgraced the name and committed suicide.

Even before the scandal his grandfather had disapproved of his father, who was in “business.” Better that he had taken a commission or even been a rakehell. He'd disgraced the family with his independence and insistence on earning his own way.

If it weren't for England's inheritance laws, Gabriel would not have received so much as a pence. Disowned or not, he was the direct heir.

Bitterness was like bile inside. If his mother had received any help at all, any kindness, then perhaps …

But that was wishful thinking. He could not change the past.

He had asked whether there were tenants at the Manchester estates. Only a few, he'd been told, and they maintained the grounds in turn for farming some plots of land.

He hoped there might be jewels or valuables that were not entailed, which could be sold until he had the time to steal more from Stanhope and his pack of thieves.

Before he left London he would have to make provisions for the family seat and those employed to maintain it, since he had no intention of staying in England. He wanted to return to sea. At least the elements were honest.

That reminder brought the unwelcome image of a woman with dark hair and smoldering eyes.

She was as complex as a storm at sea.

And obviously just as treacherous.

He left the house, confident that the efficient Smythe would have located a horse by day's end. And a good one at that.

But now he had other business. He hoped to have his copy of Stanhope's seal today.

Monique sank down in the oversized bathtub and thought about the growing number of cards delivered to her town house. Only two had really interested her. One was for a weekend party at the country home of the Earl of Stanhope. Another came from a famous London hostess, a widow whose salon attracted the cream of London's nobility. A third for a costume ball at the home of an earl.