Dancing with a Rogue (7 page)

She wondered whether she could ever love a man after what she had seen and learned, and experienced. Perhaps when she gained a measure of justice.

She had not returned to the gambling hells in the past three days. She had made her presence known. Now she would wait.

In the meantime she worked tirelessly in rehearsals. She'd heard that London audiences could be raucous and critical. It wouldn't fit her plan at all to be hissed off the stage.

So she'd thrown herself into the part. Her role was that of a wife who decided to have an affair to teach her wandering husband a lesson. She plans to take a lover but none suit. And every attempt to be “caught” ends in farce.

It was witty and clever and she and the principle actor played well off each other.

His blond hair and blue eyes contrasted with her dark hair, and unlike many actors he was tall. His off-stage comments, though, were often a little too amorous for her taste. He made it obvious he was seldom refused and considered her attempts to keep the amour on stage but a ploy.

She'd tapped him with her fan more than several times when he'd repeatedly attempted to press his attentions.

A knock came at her dressing room. Probably her leading man again.

She tried to curb her impatience as she rose and went to the door.

A man stood there. Older. Distinguished looking. A warm smile on his lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

He bowed. “Mademoiselle, I am the Earl of Daven,” he said hopefully after a short silence. “We met the other night when you were …”

“Not being a lady,” she finished.

“But you could be nothing else,” he said extravagantly.

Daven.
She knew from her research, he was one of Stanhope's friends. Her trolling had netted a fish. “
Merci
, monsieur. You are too kind.”

“I was hoping you would take supper with me tonight.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but I have a previous engagement.”

Anger flickered in his face, and she suspected he wasn't usually refused.

“Then tomorrow night?”

“Also engaged, my lord.”

“Is that for all succeeding nights as well?” he asked.

“Not necessarily, monsieur. But I have just come to your wonderful city and I have many friends who preceded me. Is it unusual that I wish to see them?”

“But you were at a gambling hell …”

“A foolish decision, to be sure, but I had heard so much about them I wanted to see for myself. And I had not yet found my friends. Now I have.”

“You are encumbered?”

“
Non
, my lord. But neither will I risk my reputation and future without knowing more about my acquaintances.”

“My title is a long and noble one,” Daven said.

“I am sure it is, monsieur, but that does not mean the man holding it is as honorable. And now if you will excuse me …”

The man looked stunned.

Richard appeared beside him, as if summoned.

“Monique?”

“Richard, this is the Earl of Daven. Monsieur, this is Richard Taylor, who is my husband in the play.”

Richard seemed singularly unimpressed, and she liked him all the more for it. He looked at Daven with suspicion, then at her. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

He'd said nothing about accompanying her home, and she appreciated the unexpected gallantry.

“
Oui, merci.
I just need my cloak.” She looked back toward Daven. “I hope you return for the play, my lord,” she said with a brief curtsy. She saw puzzlement in his eyes. And jealousy.

She also knew from his expression that she needed to be careful. He was not a man to toy with. Neither was the man who gave her life, then tried to take it. No wonder they were friends.

From now on, she would carry the small gun a friend had given her.

“You will excuse me, my lord?”

He looked displeased, but nodded. “I do hope you will have supper with me in the future,” he said.

“We will see, my lord. I hope you will attend the opening of our play. And bring your friends.”

“I will do that,” he said.

Under the glare of the younger Richard Taylor, he backed away, his gaze still on her. Consuming her. She felt a chill run up her back.

Then he was gone.

“
Merci
,” she said to Richard.

“I will accompany you home. I did not like the looks of him.”

“He is a lord with an important title,” she mocked.

He grinned. “I heard.” The smile disappeared. “Be careful, Monique. His kind thinks everyone and everything belongs to them.”

“I know. I will be careful.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You will permit me to take you home, then.”

“
Non
,” she replied. “Mr. Lynch has a carriage waiting for me. I will be fine, truly, I will.”

“I will accompany you to the carriage then.”

“That is kind.”

“I want to keep you safe. You are the finest actress I've played with. No fruit will be thrown at us.”

“I have heard of this English custom. Have you ever had fruit thrown at you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But I attributed it to the play, not to my efforts.” His eyes were merry. And mischievously amorous.

“I will allow you to walk me to the carriage,” she said.

“Ah, progress.”

She handed him her cloak and waited until he helped her on with it, then left her dressing room and walked through the darkened theater. Richard stayed with her as they exited the door. As promised, a carriage and driver stood in front.

She glanced around. No one lingered, yet she felt as if someone was watching her.

She shook off the feeling as she allowed Richard to assist her inside the carriage. She looked around as the carriage clattered down the street.

As the carriage passed the next street, she saw a man standing in the shadows. Though she could not see him, she knew his gaze followed her carriage.

For the briefest second she wondered how wise this quest was. But it was too late now. She was committed and she would stay the course.

Gabriel finished the last of an excellent meal in solitude.

He had known he would have to play a waiting game, but it had become more and more difficult. He wanted the three to come to him. That was the only way the plan might work.

In the meantime he had to play the role of a fool, and he was becoming damn well weary of it.

So far his bait had not been taken.

He did, though, finally have food worth eating.

Sydney Smythe's mother was everything the new valet had claimed. In the two days of her employment she had proved to be a good cook and housekeeper.

The only problem, he thought, was that she was too good and too kind. She had already started mothering him.

It had been a long time since he'd had mothering. The essence of his mother had disappeared when his father died. She'd become an empty shell, depending more and more on the wine bottle for solace.

Martha Smythe was of lean stature. She wore a nervous smile. Her hands had clenched tightly during the interview.

But once she had the position, she'd begun to show her nurturing nature. Piece by piece, Gabriel had learned her story.

She had been a merchant's daughter who'd fallen in love with a soldier and married against her family's wishes. She'd had two stillbirths and four live ones, two of whom died in childhood. Only Sydney, who'd followed his father's path into the army, and his sister, Elizabeth, now twelve, survived.

Martha had relied on Sydney's small contribution and her own meager earnings. She'd mended and washed clothes as well as baked pies for a nearby tavern that had also employed Sydney. When it burned down, they both had lost their main source of sustenance. They had reached the end of their very tiny savings when Sydney, in desperation, had decided to try for a position for which he was entirely unsuited …

It was, Gabriel thought, a small piece of fate.

At the end of the interview he had asked about the daughter. Martha planned to walk the long distance between her small room and Gabriel's.

“This house is large enough for both of you,” he said. “There are several rooms above, and she can help you with the cooking.”

The gratitude in her face nearly unhinged him.

So now he had a household he really hadn't wanted.

And a young girl would move in with them tomorrow.

He wondered if things weren't getting out of hand. The more people around him, the more danger for him.

Yet, he hadn't felt he had a choice. He knew what it was like to have nothing.

The problem was he didn't expect to be here long. He planned to return to America as soon as he'd taken care of matters here.

Where would that leave Sydney and his mother?

He grabbed his cane. He needed a walk. A long one.

He started out, wondering where to go. He remembered the actress. Monique. The theater where she would perform was not that far from his town house.

Gabriel had resisted the temptation for five days.

He decided not to resist any longer. He would just walk by. Surely she would not be there at this evening hour.

At least it was a destination.

Flowers were delivered to both Monique's lodgings and the theater. So many flowers that they filled the entire town house.

Most were from the Earl of Daven.

They left her unmoved. The only reason she had anything to do with Daven was that she'd been told he was a friend and companion of the Earl of Stanhope.

She ignored them and went up to her bedroom to read awhile before leaving for a rehearsal. She'd just picked up the book when she heard the knocker downstairs. Annoyed, she put the volume down. She truly enjoyed Walter Scott and his adventurous romances.

She went down the stairs and watched as Mrs. Miller opened the door and accepted yet another bouquet of flowers for which she would have to find a vase.

After Mrs. Miller shut the door, Monique looked at the bouquet of the most beautiful roses she'd ever seen. Not as elaborate as Daven's had been. Not an ostentatious number of blooms, but perfect in every way.

She looked at the card and the bold black handwriting scrawled across it. “
For gracing London with your beauty
.” It was signed by Lord Thomas Kane, Earl of Stanhope.

She held the card for a long moment as she stood in the hallway of the town house. Then she dropped it as if it had just exploded into flames.

Her father.

Harriett Miller, the housekeeper, hurried over to her. “Oh, miss. These are so lovely.”

Monique wanted to tell her to throw them away. But servants talked. And throwing away a bouquet from an earl would, no doubt, become a topic of conversation. Still, she wanted them somewhere she wouldn't see them often.

“Put them in the dining room,” she said. She rarely ventured there, taking most of her meals in the bedroom with Dani.

“But …”

Monique's glare stopped the protest immediately.

She stood against the wall for several moments. This is what she'd wanted. What she'd planned all these years.

But now she wondered whether she could really complete the masquerade she'd planned. What would she do when she saw him face-to-face?

Would he recognize a daughter of his blood?

Would she have any feeling other than the hatred she'd learned from her mother?

Planning was easy. The execution, she realized now, was going to be far more difficult.

“Mademoiselle?”

Dani appeared from her room, where she had been cleaning one of Monique's dresses. It was uncanny the way her friend always knew when she was distressed.

She tried a smile. “Everything is going as planned. I just received flowers from Stanhope.”

Dani regarded her solemnly.

Monique wondered if her face was pale. She would have to be a far better actress than she had been today if she was to carry this off.

“We can go back to Paris,” Dani said slowly. “You know Monsieur Fayssoux would be more than delighted.”

“England is my home,” Monique said. “And my mother needs justice.”

“Not at your expense.”

“It has begun. I cannot put the genie back in the bottle.”

Dani sighed. “Then we must go and make you beautiful. He will probably be there tonight.”

“
Oui
,” Monique said. “You must make me very beautiful.”

Chapter Five

Gabriel limped down the street outside the Earl of Stanhope's town house.

He looked like an old man, stooped and battered.

No sign of life appeared within the house. He had gone by several times yesterday and again today.

But then most of the town houses appeared vacant other than a servant or two. The season would not begin for another few weeks, and the influx into London was several days away.

He had watched a servant leave twenty minutes earlier, probably to go shopping. It was a good time to get into the house and explore it.

He looked around. A carriage clattered down the streets.

He sank down on a step as if his legs would no longer carry him, then, when no one was in sight, made his way to the gate. It was locked, but he took only seconds to open it with a pick, and he entered the garden.

It was exquisite. Who cared for it while the earl was in the country? A full-time gardener, no doubt. Yet he'd watched all morning and seen no one.

He went to the servant's entrance and rang the bell. No one came.

After a moment he used the two picks he'd obtained in Boston. A twist of his fingers and he was inside the house.

He paused to adjust his eyes in the gloom of the interior hall.

The walls were lined with portraits. He paused to look at them, seeking an insight into the character of the man. The men looked grim, the women joyless.

He moved through each room carefully, always aware there could be an unexpected retainer still in the residence. No one on the first floor. He went down the steps to the basement. The kitchen and what appeared to be a servants' area were also empty. Satisfied no one was in the residence, he continued his search of the house, stopping in what was certainly Stanhope's office.