Dancing with a Rogue (34 page)

“Tell me about the valet.”

“He kept me from falling when I was rushing down the hall,” she said. “Then I saw him later in the servants' hall. He is a former soldier, not a valet by trade. He needed employment to feed his mother and sister, and Manchester selected him over a large number of more qualified applicants. He did not even know how to tie a cravat, he said. Then when Lord Manchester discovered he had a young sister, he employed the mother and allowed the child to move in with him.”

The tumble of words was far more than Monique had ever heard from Dani before. Amused but still a bit wary, she asked, “What does this ex-soldier look like?”

“He was a sergeant and he is very large. But shy. His hands are huge but they were … gentle.”

Monique stared at her friend. Dani had never, ever used the word
gentle
before. Nor had she ever expressed the slightest interest in a man.

She did not know whether to be delighted or afraid for Dani.

Just as she did not know whether she should be afraid for herself.

She no longer knew what was true and right.

And of what to be most afraid.

Chapter Nineteen

As he always did, Gabriel woke at the first glimmer of dawn. He had slept restlessly after a late evening of gaming. He'd lost on purpose, but not badly.

Memories haunted his sleep … his father's face when he had handed him the envelope, the desperate plea in his voice minutes before he killed himself. Monique's clear, sharp voice when she had defended him earlier tonight when he could not defend himself. Pamela's face as she smiled.

If he ruined Stanhope, would she be as devastated as he had been? Stanhope was still her father, and scandal could haunt her as it had haunted Gabriel's mother.

But could he allow Stanhope to continue to plunder?

Or was that only an excuse for revenge? Was he his brother's keeper, or an obsessed man out for vengeance, regardless of who was hurt?

He'd never been plagued before by doubts.

He would have to decide soon. Stanhope had asked him to join a hunt at eleven, then wanted to see him at five this afternoon. He did not look forward to the hunt. He had never enjoyed hunting for sport. He'd seen too much death to consider it as entertainment.

He decided to clear his head by a ride this morning before the other guests rose. It would not be as fine as dawn at sea, but it would do.

He pulled on a pair of riding breeches and shaved himself as he always did. Smythe would be at his door in minutes.

As predicted, his light knock came just as Gabriel was wiping his face. His face was, as usual, anxious to be of service. “May I help you with your clothes? Or a bath?” he asked hopefully, though he obviously had been perplexed by Gabriel's frequent bathing habits.

“I think you sleep with your ears open to the moment I wake,” Gabriel said.

“I try, my lord.”

“There you go with the ‘my lord' nonsense again.”

“It is best to do so here.”

Gabriel considered that for a moment. Then he looked at Smythe closely. He wondered if Smythe knew—or suspected—far more than he'd thought.

“Did you see Dani last night?” It was none of his business. He realized that, but he wanted to know more about Monique and wondered whether Dani had confided in Smythe in any way.

Smythe looked uncomfortable and yet there was a slight smile on his face. “Yes, sir.”

He wanted to continue but found he could not use Smythe in that way. It would not be fair to ask.

“I am taking Specter for a ride this morning,” he said. “Then there is a hunt and a meeting with my host. I will not need you hovering around until just before five. Perhaps you can find something to do with Miss Fremont's Dani.”

He watched as a smile played on Smythe's lips. By God, but his man was smitten.

“I will be here to help you prepare for supper,” Smythe said.

“That will be more than adequate. And now you can help find my riding coat and a clean shirt. Since you've become so adept at cravats, I can use your help there.”

In minutes he had dressed in a riding coat and breeches and struggled with pulling on his boots. Even with boot hooks, it took longer than he liked. The damn things came to his knee. But they were fashionable, and the Marquess of Manchester needed to be fashionable.

He stopped by the dining room. Plates already covered the sideboard. He took ham, eggs, and cold fowl from the offerings and sat alone. Apparently few rose at this hour.

Halfway through the meal, Lady Pamela entered. She gave him the usual shy smile, then busied herself at the table. She was dressed in a riding costume.

She looked at him, at his clothing.

“You are going riding?” she asked.

“Aye. I hate to waste a good morning.”

“So do I,” she said with a grin. “May I accompany you?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“My father does not like me to ride. He does not like me to do anything alone, so I leave long before he rises,” she confided. She stole a quick glance at him. “I plan to ride with Miss Freemont later. I don't think my father will object to that.”

She had changed in the past few days. She was still obviously afraid of her father but more willing to defy him. Perhaps because she felt she had an ally now.

They both finished their meal quickly, then went out to the stable.

He'd been surprised at her announcement that she planned to ride with Miss Fremont later in the day. He had noted Monique's quick glances toward Pamela, but he had not thought she would try to befriend the girl. Was Lady Pamela part of whatever plan she had?

He would not have thought that of her. And yet what common interest could there be between a young country-bred aristocrat and an actress?

He planned to ask that question. He did not want Lady Pamela hurt.

Yet he was planning to destroy Pamela's father. Hypocrisy? Bloody hell, he hated questioning himself.

They reached the stables and a sleepy lad saddled two horses, his Specter and a pretty mare for Pamela.

He helped Pamela mount, then mounted himself. He noted immediately that she was a fine horsewoman. She led the way, moving from a walk into a trot, then a canter. “There are ruins nearby,” she called to him.

Gabriel followed, enjoying the bite of the morning chill. He did not have to act with Pamela. She accepted everything he said he was, and liked him anyway.

They rode for thirty minutes or so, then drew up at old stone ruins.

“This was the first Stanhope hold,” she said. “I was told about it two days ago when I first arrived, and rode to see it. There is such an air of desolation here. Sadness.” Her lips pursed in concentration. “I believe two lovers died here.”

She slid down from the sidesaddle and tied the reins to a tree. He did the same and followed her into the ruins. Then she stood there.

“I can almost hear them,” she said.

“You are a romantic, Lady Pamela.”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “For years I had little to do but read, and I loved romantic stories. Then a neighbor taught me to ride, and I found something I was good at.”

“And painting,” he said.

“I said I liked it,” she said. “I did not say I was good at it.”

“I imagine you are very good at it.”

“I am going to sketch Miss Fremont when we come here this afternoon,” Pamela said. “She said I could.” A gleam danced in her eyes.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Lady Pamela?”

“Whatever would that be, my lord?”

“You are a minx,” he said. “And you look so …”

“Malleable?” she said disdainfully.

He stared at her for a long time. “I thought that at first, but now I think there is a great deal more strength than you believe.”

The wistful look returned. “I have always wanted to be strong. I always dreamed myself as brave and independent. But then my father comes, and I … all that courage leaves me.”

He remembered what Pamela had said about her young man. Her father would destroy his father. How could they have any happiness based on misery and destruction?

She looked into his eyes. “But you and Miss Fremont do not have that problem.”

“I believe we have many problems, Lady Pamela.”

“Call me Pamela,” she said. “Why? I saw the way you looked at her, and the way she looked at you. She called you impertinent and a rogue.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you believe that means she is interested in me?”

“It was the way she said it.”

“And you decided to try to unite us,” he concluded.

“I thought you might like to know she will be here this afternoon. We will have a picnic, and I … we would very much like to have you join us.”

“How could I resist such a charming invitation?”

“You are laughing at me.”

“Never, my lady.”

“Then you will come?”

“I will try,” he said, once more wondering why she was so much Monique's champion. Because of the faint resemblance? But that meant nothing.

“Tell me more about the ruins,” he said, changing the subject.

“They date back to the tenth century,” she said. “They are said to be haunted and no one comes here.”

“Except you?”

“I think they are kind ghosts who are looking for each other.”

He was beginning to understand a little. She did not think she and her love would ever be together. So she was trying to unite two other people.

He felt the terrible fraud. “I think we should go,” he said.

“I wish to stay.”

“Then what kind of gentleman would I be to leave you alone to fend for yourself? Your father would horsewhip me.”

“I think not,” she said with a small sigh.

He stood there waiting. He would not leave her here alone.

In a moment she surrendered with a small sigh. “All right.”

He helped her mount. “You see,” he said. “It is a good thing I stayed to help you mount.”

She gave him a heartbreaking twist of the lips that was meant to be a smile.

“Do not give up your dreams, Lady Pamela,” he said softly.

“You really care about them?” she said with that vulnerability that always struck a chord in him.

“Yes,” he said.

“You are a very nice man, my lord.”

He wondered whether she would keep that thought after he ruined her father.

They laughed together as if they were sisters.

Monique sat amidst the ruins while Pamela sketched. She found herself repeatedly looking into her sister's face and had to force herself to look up at the cloudless sky. It was a true blue. The same color as her sister's eyes.

She wondered how someone so untouched had survived Stanhope. Only, she thought, because Stanhope had not wanted anything to do with her, just as he'd wanted a child five years older than Pamela to disappear.

“May I see?” she asked.

She watched emotion flit across Pamela's face. Embarrassment. A little pride. “It is not very good,” Pamela said.

Monique rose and went over and looked at it.

She had never seen herself in the mirror with that expression.

A slight smile crossed her face in the sketch. She looked younger. Wistful. Yet there was a quality of movement in the sketch. Of vitality. It was as if there were two people in the sketch. Two personalities.

It was very good indeed.

“How long have you been sketching?” she asked.

Pamela shrugged. “I used to draw as a child, but it was my secret. I was afraid …”

Afraid that pleasure would be taken from her. “Did you have an education?”

“Oh, yes. The vicar in the village came to our home twice a week. He would bring me books.”

“No other children?”

Pamela shook her head. “But I used to visit the stables, and the grooms were kind. Just like Adam here.”

How could anyone be unkind to her? Except their father. “Did you see your father much?”

Pamela's expression did not change. “Rarely. He would come and stare at me, then look away. Sometimes he would ask a question but I was always too frightened of him to answer.”

“But you are no longer so afraid?”

Pamela said nothing for a moment. “He does not love me. He only wishes to use me. I know that. But I am braver. Lord Manchester says I should seek my own dream. I wish that I could, but how can you take happiness at the expense of someone else?”

“Who is someone else?”

“I have already said too much,” she said.

“I will never repeat a word,” Monique promised.

“Robert. His father is a doctor. My father would never approve of the match. My aunt found us together and said my father would ruin his family. My father had other plans for me, she said.”

“Lord Manchester.”

“Yes,” Pamela said.

“You can always come to me,” Monique said.

Pamela looked up at her. “Why?”

Monique took a deep breath. “I do not have a sister,” she said. “I would like one.”

“I have a duty to my family.”

No
. Monique wanted to scream the word. No one had a duty to a monster like Stanhope. But then many people would not have defended Monique's mother, either. She had been a whore.

Not even fashionably unpure, as some courtesans in London were called. No such exalted term for her mother.

“You are very good at sketching. Have you ever tried oils?”

“I have no money.”

Monique wanted to kill Stanhope with her own two hands. Everything in his two homes announced the fact that he was a very wealthy man. Yet, he could not spare a pound or two for paints and canvas.

“You look happier than before,” she said.

“I think Lord Manchester has given me courage.”

“How?” she asked.

“He talks to me as though I am someone he truly likes, as if I am truly worth knowing.”