Dancing with a Rogue (31 page)

But Dani had been far more adept than Monique. She had been a pickpocket, and her fingers were more facile than Monique's. “I can also help secret whatever you find. No one sees a servant.”

“A very attractive servant,” Monique said, “if you would but let people notice.”

Dani humphed. “And why should I do that, only to have someone leave me a note the next morning?”

Dani had become more and more angry on Monique's behalf in the last few days. She felt responsible because she'd thought Manchester kind and decent. Now she vocally wished him to hell more than a few times.

“He knows I am after Stanhope,” Monique said, excusing him, though the ache of rejection ran deep. “He knows I have promised myself to one of three men. How could he ever think well of me?” She paused. “It does not matter, in any event. I have other more important things to accomplish.”

Dani gave her a skeptical stare. She had been as angry as Monique. For some reason she had raised Manchester to heroic proportions.

“No man is trustworthy,” she said. “When this is done, you and I will return to France.”

“You should have told him about Lord Stanhope,” Dani said unexpectedly.

“Told him what? That Stanhope is my father? And what if he decided to use that information?”

“If he knew everything …” Dani tried again.

“That my father is a completely ruthless man. Manchester is aware of all that. He said as much. But he is still willing to deal with the man.”

“I think he has some honor,” Dani persisted.

“You would make a good advocate, Dani,” Monique observed with a sigh. “But he is obviously faithless. While paying court to my half sister, he seeks out my bed. Then he leaves without so much as a farewell. What kind of honor is that?” She paused, then added sadly, “And what kind of woman does that make me?”

Dani fell into silence. Monique stared out at the passing countryside. Everything was impossibly green, sparkling with the dew of early morning. Peaceful. Deceptive.

She prayed Manchester would not be attending this weekend. She did not know how she would face him again. Nor did she need interference with what she had to do.

She only wished that her detective had discovered more about Manchester.

Why did she care? He obviously did not care about her, other than for a night's pleasure. That stung. More than stung. The pain went deeper than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

She should avoid him from now on, and concentrate on the task to date.

And yet he was paying suit to her sister. How could she ignore him? Should she warn Pamela that he was a bounder? How could she explain her interference?

Everything had become far more complicated than she had ever imagined.

And it had started from the first moment she had seen Manchester on that dratted ship. She wished with all her heart he had never come to London.

They stopped at an inn to rest the horses and for her and Dani to dine. After the first glance at the Stanhope coach with its elaborate crest, the innkeeper and grooms could not do enough for them. It was obvious that Stanhope was a frequent and valued—or feared—patron. She and Dani were served in a private room, although the innkeeper had asked whether the maid should dine in the kitchen.

“Of course not,” she had replied.

The food was plain, but tasty. Slices of beef with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. A good wine accompanied the meal.

Following supper, they were told by the coachman it would be another few moments before they could leave.

Thankful for the respite of the jolting of the coach, Monique tried to relax. She expected the next few days were going to be more than a bit complicated.

It had been less than a day since she had seen Manchester, and her body still pulsed with her newfound knowledge of lovemaking. It pulsed even stronger when she thought of him, though she despised herself for it.

Restlessly, Monique rose and went to the window, watching as another coach rolled into the courtyard. There was no crest and it appeared to be a hired coach. A fine gray horse was tied to the back of it.

Her blood went cold, then hot, as she recognized the gelding. It was the same one Manchester had ridden in the park. She couldn't take her gaze from the door as Manchester stepped down, followed by a large man in somber clothes.

Manchester said something to him, then they disappeared inside the tavern.

She wondered whether he had noticed Stanhope's coach, which was to the side of his, whether he thought Stanhope was inside.

Then the door to the private room opened, and the coachman appeared. “We are ready to go.”

She had no choice but to follow him out the door to the main room. Manchester stood just inside the main door of the tavern. He wore skintight tan pantaloons, a white linen shirt, and a dark brown riding coat. He had not bothered with a cravat. Behind him was the man she had seen alight from the coach with him.

Manchester looked stunned, then frowned deeply as his gaze met hers. “The innkeeper said other members of the earl's party were here. I did not realize you had been …” His brows snapped together in an expression of utter consternation.

“Invited?” Monique asked. She wanted to throw a tankard of wine at him.

Silence.

“I truly did not intend to intrude,” he added, “but the horses needed rest.”

“It is of no matter. We are ready to depart, in any case,” Monique said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Some emotion flicked across his face. It disappeared so quickly she wasn't sure she'd even seen it.

“I do not want to …”

“I do not care what you want, my lord,” she said sharply. “I did not realize you had been invited to Lord Stanhope's home.”

“Nor I you,” he said. “But I am …”

“Delighted? I think not.”

Their eyes met and, to her dismay, whatever existed between them—passion, need, lust—still radiated between them. Heat puddled in her stomach. She detested him. He was everything she had always avoided: a man who used women, then left them.

But fate—or the devil—seemed determined to throw them together. She wanted to rail against whichever it was.

She looked at Dani, who stared at the tall man who stood silently at Manchester's side.

“Come, Dani,” Monique said. She walked to the door, waited for Dani to go before her, then turned back and tossed Manchester a gaze of contempt before retreating.

Her legs did not want to carry her as she walked through the door. She forced herself not to look back as she climbed in, followed by Dani. Against her judgement, she glanced up at the window of the small private dining room. She saw his face looking down. Watching.

Dear God. She wanted to tell the coachman to turn around and return to London. Yet she had come too far to allow such a mistake to cancel all her plans. She should have known Manchester would be invited. Perhaps she had. She just had not expected that her reactions to him would still be so strong.

Three days.

She had only three days to turn Stanhope against the others. Three days to avoid the Marquess of Manchester.

She wondered how she would endure it.

Stanhope's estate was magnificent.

Gabriel regarded the country manor with grudging admiration, especially in comparison to his own poor property. Then he reminded himself that it did not matter. He wanted a deck beneath him, and the sky above. He wanted to return to America as soon as possible.

He was finding himself very uncomfortable with the trappings of the English aristocracy. He longed for the sea and the honest companionship of fellow sailors.

The manor in front of him was glaring evidence of the excess that had killed his father.

He alighted from the coach. A footman opened the door as he approached. Several other servants—grooms—emerged from the stable to take care of the horses.

Smythe had tied his cravat in the coach and replaced his riding coat with a waistcoat, one that was not in the best of taste. He added a beaver hat and put his quizzing glass in place.

He had lost his amusement in his role. He had seen the shock and disdain in Monique's face. Because she was repulsed by what had passed between them? He had not wanted to wake her that morning, and he'd had business …

Hell, he hadn't only been confused. He'd been befuddled. He'd needed to gather his wits about him, and he couldn't do that with her in the room. In the same residence.

She had never said anything about love, or affection. She'd never hid the fact that she was pursuing a wealthy protector. She was obviously an opportunist. A woman on the make.

And a virgin, damn it.

It simply did not make sense.

He should have contacted her, but he'd had business …

Bloody hell, he had thought … to hell what he had thought.

In that moment at the inn he'd suddenly seen himself through her eyes and did not like what he saw there. He'd always thought of himself an honorable man with women. He had never led one to believe a liaison was anything more than that.

He had not planned to seduce Monique Fremont. He'd wanted information, but then … that bloody attraction between them got in the way and one thing led to another. He'd even hoped that it might get her out of his bloody mind.

Instead, she had insinuated herself in his heart. He'd been trying to deny it for the last two days. He'd been telling himself she had been using him, that the only thing she cared about was money and power. Why else would she instigate such a contest between three wealthy and even dangerous men? Why would she sell herself?

And yet he had seen flickers of hurt in her eyes despite the haughty cut.

That led him back to the question as to why she was doing what she was doing. She must do well as an actress. Her clothes were expensive, her home respectable and pleasant. She had a maid.

He had never seen her wear expensive jewelry, though.

That had surprised him, since she had so many admirers.

What if she had reasons of her own to go after the same three men he sought? He knew his father hadn't been Stanhope's only victim. Rumors abounded in London's gambling hells about his ruthlessness in business.

All those questions haunted him on the drive from the inn to Stanhope's estate.

She would already be there.

He followed a footman inside and was met by the butler, who requested his name, then instructed the servant to take him and Smythe to the blue room.

Gabriel noted the magnificent hall on the right, the marble flooring, the grand staircase leading to the next floor. He'd started to mount the steps behind the servant when he saw Pamela.

Her solemn face lit when she saw him, and he felt like a fraud. She trusted him.

“Lady Pamela,” he said.

“My lord, I am so glad you came.” She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I do not like many of these people.”

“Miss Fremont?” he asked. “I saw her at the inn about midway.”

“Oh, she arrived an hour ago, and yes, she is very pleasant, but I do not care for my father's business friends. One is always looking at me in a … greedy way. He will not dare to do so with you here.”

So much faith. Faith he didn't deserve. He had offered to act her suitor for his own selfish reasons. A rational part of his mind reminded him that it suited her purposes as well, that there were no illusions for either of them. That had not been the case with Monique. She had deceived him by implication, if not actual words. She played the role of experienced woman well.

“I will be delighted to be your protector,” he said.

She gave him the shy smile that was so appealing to him. “I will see you at supper then,” she said.

He bowed. “I look forward to it.”

He followed the footman up the stairs, then down a long hall to a room on the left. He wondered where Monique had been placed.

Get her out of your head.
He could not appear to have an interest in her, not if he had declared his intention to form an alliance with Pamela. He had done enough damage already.

Smythe efficiently unpacked his clothes, then followed the footman to his quarters. He would return immediately to see to Gabriel's needs, he said.

Gabriel went to the window and looked out. Manicured gardens stretched out directly beneath the window. He looked beyond the flower beds and saw well-tended green hedges that looked impenetrable.

A maze? He had heard of them but had never actually seen one.

He pulled on a waistcoat of questionable cut and taste. His cravat was looking a little worse for wear, but that didn't matter. In fact, he liked that small touch.

Unwillingly, he thought of Monique and wondered whether she was with Stanhope or Stammel.

Damn, the thought curdled his blood.

He decided to do a little reconnaissance. He walked the full length of the hall and wondered which room was occupied by Monique if, indeed, she was on the floor at all. Then he went to the next floor. More rooms. He saw what was obviously a woman's maid back out of one, and disappointment struck him as he saw it was not Dani.

An older well-dressed couple left a room down the corridor and nodded to him as they passed. They did not introduce themselves. It was definitely what he'd heard termed as the cut indirect. He thought it an amusing term.

He finished his walk on that floor, then descended the staircase. Others were coming down from the second floor. Some he recognized, others he did not.

The women were all in magnificent dresses, the men far more formally dressed than he.

One man with whom he'd played whist stopped to exchange a word. “Manchester. Did not know I would see you here.” His puzzlement was only too obvious.

“I hope to press my suit for Lady Pamela,” he explained.

The gentleman—a baron, Gabriel thought—arched an eyebrow. “You do say?”

“Yes. And it has Lord Stanhope's approval.”