Dancing with a Rogue (47 page)

She on the other hand had little with which to protect Pamela.

Still, it did not sit well with her that he was taking on something that was her responsibility.

She thought about the bottle of laudanum she had upstairs.

“I will think about it,” she said. “Will you go to the ship, too, to see everyone off?”

“I expect so.” His gaze pierced through her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “How did the play go tonight?” he asked.

“Well.”

“No sign of Stanhope or Daven?”

“No, but Mr. Lynch had news. He believes he will receive a license to perform serious drama.”

He looked puzzled.

She laughed. “Only a few theaters can perform Shakespeare and other serious drama. They are licensed by the Crown. Other theaters are limited to farces and lighter entertainment. It is an honor to be licensed. Mr. Lynch has craved such an honor for years.”

“And this is because of you?”

“He believes so.”

“And if you leave?”

“I do not know.”

“There are theaters in America. They do not have to be licensed by a king.”

“Is it as wild as I have heard? Full of bandits and savages?”

“At the moment I believe London has more of both,” he said. “The cities are safe. So is most of the countryside.”

She filled his glass again. “Are you hungry? I believe there is bread and cheeses and some fruit.”

He put the glass down and his fingers touched her shoulder, then a ringlet of hair. “I must go, Monique. But I wanted to tell you about Stammel's death. And the ship.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “Will you consider the journey to America?”

“I will think about it.”

“I can have an answer later this morning?”

“I have errands. Perhaps at four?”

“I will look forward to it.”

She wanted to ask him to stay, but she was not going to beg him. It was best, anyway. They had already risked the possibility of a child.

Suddenly the thought was attractive. Compelling. A small version of Gabriel Manning. She was charmed by the thought.

She took a step closer, until their bodies nearly touched. She felt his control in the rigid posture of his body. She lifted her face, inviting a kiss.

His lips touched hers and the world rumbled, shook.

Her hand touched his cheek, where she felt a roughness. His scent was enticing. Soap and leather and the hint of the sea.

She thought about standing next to him on the deck of a ship as a setting sun traced gold across the sea and a clean breeze brushed their bodies. No more loneliness. No more ugliness. All swept clean.

His lips lingered a moment, then released hers. He stepped away as if burned, a muscle playing in his cheek. His hand touched her face as if memorizing it. “I must go, love.”

She gave him a long, steady stare, then nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Think about what I said.”

“I will,” she agreed.

Without another word, he turned and strode to the door, never looking back.

She hadn't even had the chance to tell him of the rumor she had started.

Leaving her had been the most difficult thing Gabriel had ever done.

He did not want to leave her with child, though. He might well die in the next week. And he was no longer sure he could control himself. She was intoxicating to him, making him forget everything he'd learned, ignore the discipline of years.

Nor did he want to lie in her arms and her in his when he planned to betray her tonight. She would never understand it as anything else.

He needed the rest of tonight to firm his plans.

He had to make payment today for her passage as well as finish preparations to make sure she would be aboard. She
had
to be on the ship tomorrow. She had to be safe.

Gabriel also planned to visit the
Peregrine
. A survey would demonstrate his loyalty to the project. No one need know he was a hell of a lot more familiar with ships than anyone expected. Then there were the documents at the forger's and a visit to the baron who had sold him Specter.

He had to make some kind of provisions for Pamela, or Monique would never stay away from London. He had seen the intensity of her expression.

Why? He'd asked that question over and over again.

Then something in his brain clicked. It should have earlier, but the idea was absurd. Impossible. Mentally, he pictured both women. Although Monique was probably seven years older, their faces bore more than a passing resemblance. Monique's eyes were gray, not blue; she stood taller, and her hair was darker. But he had seen siblings with dark and blond hair.

What had Monique said about Stanhope? He had hurt her mother.

Could Monique and Pamela possibly be related?

Impossible. Stanhope would know.

But the thought would not leave him as he fetched his horse.

Pamela reached her father's town house at dusk. She and her maid had left his country home just after dawn.

She'd been surprised at the note summoning her to London.

She had not expected to return there for another several days. Her father had left abruptly. No explanation. She'd heard later from the servants that his friend—Lord Stammel—had been attacked and killed on the road.

She regretted any man's death, but she had not liked Lord Stammel. He drank too much and had always stared at her in a way that had made her uncomfortable.

Surprisingly enough, she did want to return to London, despite the presence of her father there. She had a friend now. Two of them.

Manchester and Monique made her think of Robert, the afternoons they had spent discussing books, then the kiss they had shared. Promises made. Until one of the servants told her aunt, who had warned her what would happen

Fear had clouded her life since then. Not for herself but for the pain he could bring to Robert and his family. But in the last few days Lord Manchester and Monique Fremont had given her unexpected courage. Perhaps they could help her be more than a pawn.

The footman—Boothe—welcomed her with a smile. “I will take your trunks to your room,” he said. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. Is my father here?”

“No, Lady Pamela.”

“Do you know when he is to return?”

“He did not say,” Boothe said regretfully.

“I would like you to send a note, to Lord Manchester,” she said. “He asked me to do so when I arrived in London.” She paused. “Do you know his address?”

“Yes, my lady. He lives on New Bridge Street. Your father has had us deliver several invitations to his residence.”

She looked at him for a moment. “It is a private note.” The inference was obviously that her father was not to learn of it. But Boothe was one of the servants she'd come to trust in the past week, and her maid also liked him.

“I understand,” the footman said simply.

She went upstairs to the room. Her father was not someone to defy. She knew she was taking a risk. Yet she felt she had to take it. If punishment came, then so be it.

She quickly wrote the note, then placed it on the table. Tish helped her change from the traveling gown to a more comfortable one, then Pamela dismissed her.

Though she wasn't hungry, she forced herself to eat. She'd had little to eat today, and she needed her strength and wits about her. Manchester had land. He had influence. Perhaps he could find another position for Robert's father and provide some protection.

Although Manchester was apparently involved in a business proposition, there was something about him that told her he was not just another lackey for her father. She sensed strength in him. And integrity.

He was, in truth, her only hope. Because of that, perhaps she was giving him qualities he didn't have. It was worth the risk, however.

She sipped the tea that accompanied fruit and pastries, then looked out the window. Her father's carriage stopped, and he stepped out. That meant he would be here for supper. It was not something she looked forward to.

She was right. In moments Boothe was at her door. “Lord Stanhope has asked for you.”

“You did not …”

“No, my lady. It is on the way. A boy in the street. It cost me a shilling.”

She went to her small pouch of coins and gave him two shillings. “My thanks.”

He bowed his way out, a smile on his face.

She glanced in the mirror. Her hair was unkempt from the trip, her face was pale, her dress plain. She decided not to call Tish.

Instead she smoothed her hair, then went down the stairs. She knocked, and he bade her enter.

He was pacing the floor, his face tight and angry. She wondered whether she had done something to offend him or whether it was someone else. He gave her a piercing look that was obviously meant to quell her.

She refused to be quelled. “You called me?”

“You look like a servant,” he said. “Or a farm girl.”

She met his gaze directly. “I see nothing wrong with that.”

He slapped her. “You are a Stanhope. Remember that.”

Her face stung with the blow. She felt tears gathering behind her eyes. Not from his action, but the humiliation. She swore to herself he would never do it again.

She lifted her chin and saw his mouth tightening, his fingers twitching. She knew he wanted to hit her again.

She suspected he would have if there was not a knock on the door. The butler announced Lord Daven.

“We will continue this discussion after supper,” he said. “Along with your impertinence. We can dispense with your presence at the table.”

She left with her head held high as Lord Daven entered. He greeted her, then turned away. She closed the door behind her as she exited the room but not quite all the way.

The butler disappeared, apparently going after refreshments. She hovered at the door, listening to the voices.

“Have you heard the rumors?” Daven asked.

“Just an hour ago. That I had a terrible row with Stammel. I did not. Someone is lying.”

“Nonetheless the rumor is spreading through London that Stammel stole from you and you threatened him.”

“Only a few people left early enough to spread such a tale. Mademoiselle Fremont and Manchester among them.”

“Why would Manchester say anything when he is courting your daughter and joining you in our little venture?”

“He is not to know you are in it,” Stanhope said.

“Why?”

“He is taking the voyage to ‘look' after our cargo. If you were involved he might wonder why you weren't taking that role, since you would know our business far better.”

“Ah,” Daven said. “And where will the ship go down?”

“Somewhere off the coast of Ireland.”

“With no survivors, of course.”

“Well, no known survivors.”

“Then if he's the one who has been spreading rumors—”

“We will be shed of him.”

“And your daughter?” Daven asked.

“I will find someone else for her. Manchester is nothing but a fool. And so is my daughter.”

“What about Monique?”

“I have people looking into the source of the rumor. If she is involved, well I will decide then. I do not want too many accidents, but neither can I allow …”

Pamela could delay no longer. The butler was her father's man. He must not find her listening at the door.

She could barely breathe as she sped for the steps, mounting them just as the butler entered the room beneath her. She could see him but doubted whether he had seen her.

Pamela made for her room. Her heart was beating so rapidly she could barely breathe. She knew about her mother. Other rumors. And now she had heard her father plotting murder.

Manchester. Possibly Monique
. And now she felt certain that he had arranged for Stammel's murder.
Too many accidents
. The words kept repeating themselves in her head.

She had to warn them.

Did Manchester get the note she had sent him? Would he come?

Or would she have to find him?

Before it was too late.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Gabriel had a fruitful morning, and now he had two more stops to make.

He had picked up the forged papers, and he could not tell the difference from Stanhope's signature on the original and on the forgery. He also visited the
Peregrine
, which was being loaded. Crates were being stored in the hold.

He badly wanted to look into one of them, but that might alarm the captain, who might warn Stanhope.

The captain was an older man of hefty girth. The ship looked sloppy, the crew more like brigands than sailors, and they eyed him suspiciously. He was shown the cabin he would have, and it was no more than a mate's closet. The captain was obviously not pleased to have one of the owners aboard, and Stanhope had not told him to pretend otherwise.

But he dutifully showed him around the ship, and Gabriel inspected the timbers that lined the bottom of the hold. They were rotting, but not enough to make it unseaworthy.

He thanked the captain profusely despite the man's lack of hospitality. He had also visited the
Amelia
. The difference between the two ships was like day and night. He was comforted. Monique, Dani, and the Smythes would be safe aboard the latter.

He had one last stop before going back to his lodgings, sending the Smythes to the ship, and finally making sure Monique was aboard.

He rode Specter to Baron Tolvery's home, gave the horse over to the care of the groom, and asked if the baron was inside.

“Yes, my lord. 'E seldom leaves these days. 'E will be pleased to see ye an' hear about the 'orse.”

Gabriel climbed the steps leading to the front door and used the door knocker.

A moment, then two, passed before a footman opened the door. Recognition flashed across his face. “My lord,” he acknowledged.

“Is the baron in?”