Dancing with a Rogue (51 page)

He gave her a curious, searching look. As if he knew something—or perhaps Monique herself—had changed.

She turned and went into her dressing room, where Dani waited. She was on edge too, moving around restlessly, which she rarely did.

Monique felt the weight of other lives on her. She wanted Dani to go tonight. She must go. She might never find another man like Smythe, just as she, Monique, would never find another Manchester.

Monique's housekeeper answered the door when Pamela and Smythe arrived at her lodging.

Mrs. Miller recognized Smythe, who then introduced Pamela.

The housekeeper curtsied. “My lady,” she said.

“I am looking for Miss Fremont,” Pamela said.

“She has gone to the theater.”

Pamela felt the earth move under her. She had depended on contacting Manchester, passing on her news and returning home—all hopefully before anyone knew she was gone. That, though, was impossible now. Her absence no doubt had been noted. Why had she not been patient and waited for Manchester at her home?

She had been rash for one of the few times in her life. She should know it always ended in disaster.

“Come, miss,” Smythe said sympathetically. “We will find my lord for you. I know he cares about you.”

The housekeeper looked at them with curious eyes.

Pamela wondered what both were thinking. Had Manchester and Miss Fremont confided in them? Did Manchester's valet realize that they were playing a charade?

“And if we do not?”

“I will take you home,” Smythe said.

She looked at him. “I cannot return there.”

The housekeeper looked distressed. “You can leave a message, but she will not return for at least three hours.”

“Thank you,” Pamela said politely. But even she heard the weakness, even fear, in her voice. Then, “perhaps I can stay here and wait for her.”

Mrs. Miller looked at Smythe, then at Pamela. “I think that would be all right,” she said. “You can have some tea, and rest. You look weary and it would not do for you to go to Lord Manchester's residence.”

Pamela
was
tired. Exhausted, in truth. She had not slept since she had arrived in London and had not slept well before that, not since Lord Stammel's death. And she doubted her father would look for her here. He could not have known that she had grown close to Miss Fremont.

She looked at Smythe in question.

He nodded. “I will continue to look for Lord Manchester, but I think he planned to come by here tonight in any event. He will look after you,” he added with a slight smile.

Pamela turned to Mrs. Miller. “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She turned to Smythe. “And to you.”

His face flushed slightly before he nodded, turned, and left the house.

Pamela had not returned home.

Stanhope had stopped at his residence, hoping she might be there. Perhaps she would know more about Manchester than he'd thought. A woman, even a plain mouse of one, could often exact more information than harsher methods.

The longer Stanhope reviewed the past weeks, the more he centered on a conspiracy between Manchester and Monique Fremont. Nothing else made sense. They had appeared at the same time. Seen too often in one another's company. They always had reasons, but reasons were easy to come by.

He had been played for a fool. No doubt about it. The latest blow came when he arrived at his residence. One more note, this one saying there was some question about the purchase of muskets for Ireland.

He'd read it with growing dread. But the threads were coming together in one giant tapestry.

He now agreed with Daven. He had to leave London, and he had to do it immediately.

He'd seen accusation in Daven's eyes. If his partner was questioned, Stanhope had little faith in his ability to keep silent.

But he needed funds to live well outside England. He had some banknotes, but much of his funds had been spent on refurbishing his ancestral home. Manchester, though, had cash. And Stanhope damned well intended to get it.

In the meantime he planned a visit to Monique Fremont tonight. Barred from the theater? The very thought enraged him. Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope, banned from a common theater.

He waited for his daughter to return home. When that did not happen, he sent out his footmen to make discreet queries about her and to watch the residences of both Manchester and Monique Fremont.

As he waited, he drank brandy. His best. He looked around the comfortable room that he might soon have to forfeit. His ancestral home in the country. His roses.

His anger intensified. It was a fire inside him. With each sip, his rage grew. He had befriended Manchester when no one else would. He had been patient with Monique Fremont. He'd helped fill the theater by recommending the play to his friends.

Now they had turned on him. They had caused his friends to turn on him.

They were trying to destroy him, and they would pay for that error of judgement.

The brandy stirred his thoughts. How bad was the damage? If he killed Manchester and the actress, would the trail lead back to him? Or was Stammel's death his noose?

And why was Stammel dead?

A debt to Manchester. Manchester's accusation that he placed a burr under a saddle. Jewels found in his belongings. And where had Manchester been just prior to finding them?

Manchester. Always Manchester.

Had Manchester stolen the jewels and planted them in Stammel's belongings? Had the American marquess been a far better hand at cards than he'd led Stammel—and himself—to believe? Blazes, had he killed his partner and friend for no reason?

Manchester? But how could the man have gotten into his safe? And how would he know the combination? Though he had left the man in his office, Stanhope did not think he'd had access to the rest of his house.

The soiree!
Monique Fremont had spilled something on her dress. Manchester had disappeared then.

Stanhope saw it all now. All the pieces fit into a very tidy package. He had been outwitted by a common actress and an American upstart. He had seen what he had wanted to see.

He had money at his country estate. Enough to see him abroad.

But first he would see to Manchester and Monique Fremont. Monique first. He would force her into sending a note to Manchester. Then a lover's quarrel. Murder. Suicide.

Gabriel waited in the shadows at the back of the theater. He had finally left Stanhope's home, giving up on trying to see Pamela. He'd wanted to tell her she could accompany them to America or, if she wished, stay in London under the protection of Baron Tolvery.

He had made decisions this night. He had heard the rumors running throughout London that Stanhope had murdered his partner. Gabriel knew exactly where those rumors had started, and so would Stanhope.

Monique was in deadly danger.

No doubt she had known that. So then why had she resisted the opportunity to leave? No theater engagement or contract was worth one's life. Like it or not he was taking her tonight.

They both had started in motion events that could not be stopped. Stanhope was neatly trapped in a pincer movement. And there was nothing as dangerous as a trapped animal.

He looked at his watch. He'd sent a message to the captain of the
Amelia
that he might be late, but most certainly would have his passengers aboard before sailing time.

Thunderous applause ran through the theater as the play ended. He had seen it before, of course, and tonight Monique appeared as effervescent as previously. He stepped out the doors and went for his horse. He planned to wait until she left the theater and follow her carriage to her home. She was not going to be alone this night.

The air outside was damp and the first tendrils of fog crept along the streets. It would not be long before it eclipsed the carriages waiting outside the theater.

He watched from a side street as the carriages left one by one. His gaze was centered on the side door from which the actors entered and left. He finally saw her emerge. Lynch was at her side and helped her into the carriage.

Gabriel wanted to join her, but he wanted more to determine if anyone else was following her.

The carriage pulled out onto the street. Gabriel waited until another one pulled out, then followed.

The fog was growing dense. It blocked the streetlights and masked the people walking in the streets. They were little more than shadows, just as the carriages ahead were barely visible.

But he knew the way. He didn't think anyone else was following, and he closed the distance.

Covered with a long dark cloak and wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes, Stanhope studied Monique's residence from the street. Lights shone from two downstairs rooms. Smoke curled from the chimney.

He had to get rid of the housekeeper first. Then he would wait for Monique and her maid to return.

He looked up and down the street. Residences more than one hundred feet distant faded away in the fog.

Stanhope waited as a carriage clattered by, then went up to the door and knocked loudly. He then quickly went down three stairs and flattened himself against the wall.

The door opened and he heard an exclamation from a woman, then, “Is anyone there?”

He made a small choking noise and bent over. She came toward him. He swung his arm, hitting her on the head. Unconscious, she sank down on the sidewalk. He lifted her, putting an arm around her as if helping, and dragged her through the still-open door into the residence, then down the stairs into the kitchen area. He tied her hands and ankles, gagged her, and pushed her into a storage area.

Everything was silent inside. A fire roared in the sitting room.

He looked around. He had sent flowers, but none were in evidence. Monique apparently had kept none of them.

The anger flashed again, then settled into stone-cold rage.

He thought about going up the stairs, but Monique's maid always went to the theater with her. There had been no lights on above.

He looked through a cabinet, found some brandy, and poured himself a glass.

And waited.

Smythe was as frantic as he had ever been. He could not find his lord anywhere.

His family was packed and ready to leave. He knew the name of the ship, and Gabriel had given him both funds and letters to present to a shipbuilder in Boston.

But he felt responsible for Lady Pamela, and he worried about his master.

Servants everywhere were talking about Lord Stanhope and the possibility he might have killed his partner.

Smythe had left Lady Pamela at Miss Fremont's residence under the care of Mrs. Miller. Miss Fremont would know what to do, and it was far better for Lady Pamela to be there rather than wandering the streets or staying in a male household.

He had gone to the clubs, then waited outside Lord Stanhope's residence before going home to wait. Surely, his master would return before time to go to the docks; Smythe knew from Dani there was still the possibility that both would journey to America with them. If not, they would meet later.

He prayed they would go together. He had never thought to attract a young lady. That someone like Dani had evidently enjoyed his company was an amazing thing.

Smythe did something he seldom did. He paced. He gave himself another hour, and then he would go to Miss Fremont's. He wanted this journey to America. It would give his mother, sister, and himself opportunities he never thought to have. But it would mean little if he lost Dani.

Monique and Dani alighted from the carriage and walked inside her residence. The door was unlocked, which was unusual. Even more unusual was the fact that Mrs. Miller did not greet them. Usually she was waiting at the door, wanting to know if Monique wanted tea or some refreshment.

An oil light flickered in the hallway.

Dani took her cloak and went up the stairs while Monique looked for Mrs. Miller. She wanted to tell the housekeeper that she may be leaving shortly.

If Gabriel still wanted her after he heard the truth …

In the past few hours of soul-searching she had come to the conclusion that nothing was more important than Gabriel, that, yes, she could rely on him to make sure Pamela was safe.

But would he feel the same once he knew …

Mrs. Miller was not down in the kitchen. Monique came back up the stairs and saw Stanhope blocking the front door.

She lifted her head slightly in puzzlement, a streak of apprehension running up and down her back. “My lord, I did not expect you.”

“No, I do not suppose you did,” he said. He was wearing a cloak much like she had seen Manchester wearing. His head was bare of any covering, and his hair askew. His eyes were glittering black pieces of coal.

“Where is Mrs. Miller?” she asked.

He shrugged, but his body was rigid with rage.

“You did not harm her?”

“You should not worry about her,” he said.

Her eyes reflexively went to the door.

“Is your love expected?” Stanhope asked. “Then I will not have to ask you to write him a note.”

“No one is expected,” she said.

Stanhope laughed. “Now I know he is coming. You are quite an accomplished liar, Monique. But what I want to know is why?”

“I do not understand,” she said in a cool voice.

“You and Manchester. I can guess at Manchester's reasons. But not yours.”

“You talk in riddles, my lord. There is no me and Manchester. He is merely an acquaintance.”

Monique played for time now. She wondered where Dani was, whether she'd heard voices. She could not get to the back entrance without coming down the stairs, and Stanhope was facing those.

Stanhope grabbed her arm. “You will tell me what I want to know. If you do not, there is your maid upstairs. Perhaps she can.”

The malevolence with which he said the words sent chills through her. She tried to jerk away from his hold, but it only tightened.

Two men were outside. The ones that were to take Manchester to the ship if necessary. She had to maneuver her way back into the window and signal them with the lamp. But how?