Dancing with a Rogue (45 page)

And now he was planning to whisk Monique away from her career and her own needs without giving her a chance to say yea or nay.

“Are you sure you and your family wish to go?” Gabriel asked. “No doubts?”

Smythe nodded after the briefest of hesitation. “Employment is difficult to find here. Elizabeth has few chances.”

Gabriel nodded. He looked in the mirror. The cravat was quite extraordinary.

Indeed, Smythe could do anything.

Yet the thought of playing God plagued him. He had no right to take Monique away even if he thought it necessary.

He would just have to be more persuasive.

Monique reached the theater long before the performance.

She already knew that Lynch was a gossip and had friends at the various newspapers in London.

He looked delighted at seeing her. “My dear. I was not sure you would return today. The understudy … well, she is not
you
. The audiences have not been happy.”

“You heard about Lord Stammel's death?” she said solemnly.

“All of London is talking about it. Dastardly footpads. They will be caught, though. The Crown cannot ignore the murder of one of its distinguished peers.”

Hardly distinguished.
Monique had shed few tears for the man. If half of what she had heard was true, Stammel deserved his fate. Instead, she concentrated on giving the performance of her life. Her hand shook and she managed the slightest warble in her voice. “I am not entirely sure it was footpads, monsieur.”

Lynch's brows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

“I heard a dreadful row between Lord Stammel and the Earl of Stanhope. Some jewelry was stolen during the house party and it was found in Lord Stammel's room.” She hesitated. “And then there is that … competition.”

Lynch's mouth dropped as she continued. “If—if anyone knew I said anything … you must not say anything to anyone,” she said in a quaking voice. “I did not realize Lord Stanhope was a violent man or I never would have …”

She wrung her hands together. “That contest was a terrible idea. To think I might have been responsible … and then I overheard—” She stopped suddenly.

“You are not saying …”

“I am not saying anything.
You
cannot say anything. Unless you wish to be responsible for my—” She stopped suddenly. She knew her face was pale, her eyes frantic.

“Promise me you will say nothing. Nothing.”

He continued to stare at her. “I have heard rumors about him,” he said, conveniently forgetting that Stanhope's bribe to him allowed her to attend Stanhope's party.

“You swear you will not say anything?”

“I swear,” he said. “Do you … need someone to protect you?”

“Against an earl? I am but an actress. If he knew or suspected I had heard anything …”

His face went white. Prinny had been singing her praise and had even suggested he might help obtain a license for legitimate drama. She was his chance at success.

The question was what he would do with the information. She had a fairly good guess. She only hoped she was right.

She tried not to think about what Manchester would think. He would disapprove. She knew that in her heart. But it had occurred to her after he had left.

If her plan worked, it could be a matter of hours before Stanhope struck. Not days.

Lynch would be unable to keep the news to himself, even though it might endanger his prize attraction.

And Stanhope could not afford to let her live.

Stanhope was in residence.

Gabriel knew that as he arrived. Light blazed throughout the house.

Before he could rap the knocker, the door opened and he was admitted. He presented his card.

The butler bowed. “Lord Stanhope has just suffered a terrible loss,” he said. “He may not be seeing anyone.”

“I understand,” Gabriel said.

But seconds later the butler had returned. “Lord Stanhope will see you, my lord.”

He followed the butler into the library he now knew well. Stanhope had obviously regained his composure since that evening at his manor when he had looked so disheveled. His hair was neatly combed, his dress the height of fashion.

“I am pleased you called,” Stanhope said. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

Gabriel bowed. “I came to express my condolences. I will understand if our business arrangement has been canceled.”

“Why would you believe that?” Stanhope said.

“Stammel was your friend and partner. I thought perhaps his role would be necessary in the transaction.”

“It was important, but not crucial,” Stanhope said. “In truth it will give you a larger percentage if you wish it. I did have something else in mind, but now Stammel's death has created a void. I have a contract for muskets destined for British troops in Ireland. All our ships are at sea, and delivery is essential. There is a ship that is available, but my resources are stretched at the moment.”

“And Lord Daven?”

“His also, I fear.” Stanhope paused. “There is something else. Stammel was going to travel with the arms. We have been cheated before by customs officials. Someone from the company must accompany the cargo.”

“But I know little of this kind of business,” Gabriel protested.

“It does not matter,” Stanhope said. “As long as they think you do. It is simply to deter theft.” He paused, then added, “But I need to put the shipment on the seas in the next few days.”

“I do not have all the money yet. It will be two more weeks at most.”

“How much do you have?”

“Thirty-five thousand pounds. Lord Stammel owed me another five thousand.”

Stanhope picked a cigar.

“Stammel was my friend. I will assume that debt. I have no time to delay,” he said. “There is another investor interested, but if you will undertake the voyage and protect our interests, I will make you a quarter owner.”

Gabriel grinned foolishly. “That is kind of you.”

“Then perhaps when your funds arrive, we can find another small investment.”

“What kind of return can I expect? I intend to bring honor back to the Manchester name.”

“You will double your money on this shipment. On the next, perhaps we can do better.”

“The papers?”

“I will have Pickwick draw them. I understand he is also your solicitor. But I consider this a gentleman's agreement.”

“Indeed,” Gabriel replied. “And Pickwick is a happy coincidence.”

“You agree, then?”

“Aye. Double my money? A fine investment.”

“There will be others, my boy. Many others—now that you may be my daughter's husband.”

“Did Pamela return with you?”

“No,” Stanhope said regretfully. “This business with Stammel is ugly. I did not want her involved.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like to announce the betrothal between the two of you.”

“If she gives her consent.”

“She will,” Stanhope said. “I will have Pickwick draw up a marriage agreement.”

Because no one would suspect Stanhope of murdering the betrothed of his daughter?

“I will send for her tonight. She should arrive tomorrow night. Perhaps you can call on her the next morning. I will arrange for you to be alone. We can make a formal announcement in the
Morning Post
.”

“And when does the ship leave?”

“The next morning.”

Gabriel nodded.

Stanhope cleared his throat. “Miss Fremont? She arrived home with no more difficulty?”

“She is naturally concerned about her bracelet. Apparently it meant much to her. But there were no highwaymen; of course, she had my protection.” He said the last boastfully.

“Unfortunately Stammel was not so fortunate,” Stanhope said drily.

“Have they caught the villain yet?”

“No, but the road will be patrolled in the future.”

“Please accept my sympathy.”

“It was very kind for you to call,” Stanhope said.

Gabriel nodded. “If you need anything …”

“You can bring your payment when you see Pamela. I will have the papers ready for your signature. Please do not tell anyone else the sum you invested. I will have some angry friends. Including Lord Daven.”

Gabriel started to leave, then stopped and turned back to his host. “May I have a copy of the cargo manifest? And the name of the ship.”

Stanhope raised an eyebrow.

“If I am to supervise the shipment, I do not wish to look totally ignorant of its contents and the procedures. I probably will not understand it, but some familiarity might be helpful.”

Stanhope gave him a searching glance. He hesitated, obviously reluctant. “You do not trust me?”

“Of course I do. It is only to familiarize myself so I will not look the fool.”

“It will not make much sense to you.”

“Then I can ask you questions.”

Stanhope shrugged. “If it is that important to you.”

Gabriel shrugged. “If I am to be in business, I suppose I should learn a little about it.”

Stanhope stood. “A glass of brandy while you wait?”

“Thank you, yes. I never turn down good brandy, and I have tasted yours.”

He watched as Stanhope poured a glass from a bottle on a table, then handed it to him before leaving the room.

Left on his own, Gabriel itched to look through the desk to see whether there was anything there he had not seen in his previous foraging. But he did not want to lose this one victory. Not only would he see the supposed cargo manifest, but he should have Stanhope's handwriting for the forger.

He resisted temptation. He could ruin everything by being greedy. Stanhope was getting careless. For some reason he wanted Gabriel on that ship.

Which was a damn good reason for not getting on it.

Had Stammel really been intended to sail with the ship? Had his death been an opportunity for Stanhope? A plausible reason to rid himself of the troublesome Manning family? The last link to the past gone, probably drowned?

But what if the manifest did not contain Stanhope's signature?

He sipped on the brandy and went to the window, then brushed by the desk. Several papers on the desk, but they might be missed. Blazes. He tried to open the top desk drawer. Locked.

Then another drawer. To his surprise, it opened. He knew Stanhope's writing from the papers on his desk. What he needed most was a signature. Then he saw a sheaf of bills.

Voices outside. The butler announcing another sympathy visit.

Gabriel grabbed several of the papers, shut the drawer, and fitted the papers into his trousers, straightening his tight waistcoat as he did so, but it did not look smooth. He remembered Monique's trick and spilled brandy on the garment.

When Stanhope stepped back in the room with papers in his hand, Gabriel was frantically swabbing at his coat, undoing several buttons. “My lord, my apologies. Some brandy. So clumsy. I spilled some on your fine carpet as well.”

Anger darted across Stanhope's face before he smoothed it out, hiding the fury behind a courteous mask. Stanhope was obviously a man who did not like imperfections. In anything.

“My butler will see to your waistcoat,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

“No need. It is not one of my favorites.” He reached out. “The manifest?”

Stanhope stubbornly held on to the papers.

“My lord?”

Slowly, Stanhope gave them to him, contempt barely visible in his eyes. “You will bring your investment tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

A knock came at the door.

Stanhope strode to the door and opened it. The butler handed him two cards.

Stanhope turned back to him. “I must see these gentlemen. They came to express their condolences.”

“You did not tell me the name of the ship.”

Stanhope looked harried. “The
Peregrine
.”

“A fine name. I will be here at four. Again, my apologies for the spill, Stanhope.”

Stanhope's face darkened at the familiarity, then as before it cleared so quickly that it was difficult to be certain he had seen any emotion other than goodwill.

Gabriel turned and left, his left arm holding the stained waistcoat together.

Once outside the room, and the residence, he straightened. He had picked up Specter earlier, and now swung up into the saddle. He had done good work this day.

Stanhope tolerated the stream of callers, who expressed surprise, sympathy, and curiosity.

He felt that something was wrong, off balance. He usually had utter confidence in his decisions but now …

Stammel had been a problem for the last few years. He drank and gambled too much. Year by year, his love of drink and chance had grown to dangerous proportions.

Stanhope hated to admit any weakness, but he had liked Stammel. And Daven. They had been the only friends he'd ever had. Part of the friendship had been built on self-interest, and yet they were the only people who knew him for what he was, and still accepted him.

Regret for a necessity annoyed him.

So had the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Matters were not going as expected with Monique Fremont, and he feared becoming a laughingstock. His power was his apparent invincibility. If he could not obtain a piece of baggage like Fremont, then his fortress would begin to wear away.

And Manchester? The man appeared to be a gullible fool. He was as obviously besotted with Monique as everyone else, despite the fact he was courting Pamela. That alone enraged him, not for his daughter's sake, but that he thought he could compete with Stanhope.

Stanhope wanted the engagement. He wanted it public so he could grieve openly when his son-in-law-to-be was lost at sea. In the meantime he would have Manchester's money. He needed it. His funds had dwindled these past few years; too many rumors had curbed his activities. But Manchester presented an opportunity. The man had no support, no friends in London. His connection to Stanhope's daughter would be another advantage, as was his father's reputation as a traitor.