A Secret Love (3 page)

They'd been standing for more than half an hour in the mausoleumlike porch. The temperature was dropping as dawn approached; the chill of the mists was deepening. Gabriel was aware of it, but in his cloak he wasn't cold. Beneath her heavy cloak the countess was tense, almost shivering.

Lips tightening, he suppressed the urge to draw her closer and ruthlessly, relentlessly stated, “By investigating the company, you risk the note being called in and your family being made bankrupt.” If she was determined to brave the fire, she needed to understand she could get burned.

Her head rose; her spine stiffened. “If I don't investigate the company and prove it's a fraud, my family will
definitely
be bankrupt.”

He listened but could detect no hint of wavering, of anything less than informed but unshakable resolution. He nodded. “Very well. If you've made the decision to investigate the company, then yes, I'll help you.”

If he'd expected gushing thanks, he'd have been disappointed—luckily, he'd had no such expectation. She stood still, studying him. “And you'll swear . . . ?”

Stifling a sigh, he raised his right hand. “Before God, I swear—”

“On your name as a Cynster.”

He blinked at her, then continued, “On my name as a Cynster, that I will not seek to identify you or your family. All right?”

Her sigh fell like silk in the night. “Yes.” She relaxed, losing much of her stiff tension.

His increased proportionately. “When gentlemen reach an agreement, they usually shake hands.”

She hesitated, then extended one hand.

He grasped it, then changed his hold, fingers sliding about hers until his thumb rested in her palm. Then he drew her to him.

He heard her in-drawn breath, felt the sudden leaping of her pulse, sensed the shock that seared her. With his other hand, he tipped up her chin, angling her lips to his.

“I thought we were going to shake hands.” Her words were a breathless whisper.

“You're no gentleman.” He studied her face; the glint of her eyes was all he could see through the fine black veil, but with her head tipped up, he could discern the outline of her lips. “When a gentleman and a lady seal a pact, they do it like this.” Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers.

Beneath the silk, they were soft, resilient, lush—pure temptation. They barely moved under his, yet their inherent promise was easy to sense, very easy for him to read. That kiss should have registered as the most chaste of his career—instead, it was a spark set to tinder, prelude to a conflagration. The knowledge—absolute and definite—shook him. He lifted his head, looked down on her veiled face, and wondered if she knew.

Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. “I'll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you'll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?”

She stepped back. “I'll contact you.”

He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. “Thank you. Good night.”

The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.

Gabriel drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse's rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.

It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.

Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.

He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess's note arrived, he'd been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he'd sunk. He'd considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment—none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.

The countess's note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however . . .

Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family—stepfamily, no less—against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the nebulous backers of a company thought to be fraudulent. The situation called for decisive action tempered by caution, with all investigations and inquiries needing to remain covert and clandestine. That much, she'd told him.

So what did he know?

She was an Englishwoman, unquestionably gently bred—her accent, her bearing and her smooth declaration that they moved in similar circles had settled that. And she knew her Cynsters well. Not only had she stated it, her whole presentation had been artfully designed to appeal to his Cynster instincts.

Gabriel swung into Brook Street. One thing the countess didn't know was that he rarely reacted impulsively these days. He'd learned to keep his instincts in check—his business dealings demanded it. He also had a definite dislike of being manipulated—in any field. In this case, however, he'd decided to play along.

The countess was, after all, an intriguing challenge in her own right. All close to six feet of her. And a lot of that six feet was leg, a consideration guaranteed to fix his rakish interest. As for her lips and the delights they promised . . . he'd already decided they'd be his.

Occasionally, liaisons happened like that—one look, one touch, and he'd know. He couldn't, however, recall being affected quite so forcefully before, nor committing so decisively and definitely to the chase. And its ultimate outcome.

Again, energy surged through him. This—the countess and her problem—was precisely what he needed to fill the present lack in his life: a challenge and a conquest combined.

Reaching his house, he climbed the steps and let himself in. He shut and bolted the door, then glanced toward the parlor. In the bookcase by the fireplace resided a copy of
Burke's Peerage.

Lips quirking, he strode for the stairs. If he hadn't promised not to seek out her identity, he would have made straight for the bookcase and, despite the hour, ascertained just which earl had recently died to be succeeded by a son called Charles. There couldn't be that many. Instead, feeling decidedly virtuous, not something that often occurred, he headed for his bed, all manner of plans revolving in his head.

He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity—he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.

Her name. Her face. Those long legs. And more.

“
Well?
How did it go?”

Raising her veil, Alathea stared at the group of eager faces clustered about the bottom of the stairs. She had only that instant crossed the threshold of Morwellan House in Mount Street; behind her, Crisp, the butler, slid the bolts home and turned, eager not to miss any of her tale.

The question had come from Nellie, Alathea's maid, presently wrapped in an old paisley bedrobe. Surrounding Nellie in various stages of deshabille stood other members of Alathea's most stalwart band of supporters—the household's senior servants.

“Come now, m'lady, don't keep us in suspense.”

That from Figgs, the cook-housekeeper. The others all nodded—Folwell, Alathea's groom, his forelock bobbing, Crisp, joining them, carrying the rolled promissory note she had handed him for safekeeping.

Alathea inwardly sighed. In what other tonnish establishment would a lady of the house, returning from an illicit rendezvous at four in the morning, meet with such a reception? Quelling her skittish nerves, telling herself that the fact he'd kissed her didn't show, she set her veil back. “He agreed.”

“Well—there now!” Thin as a rake, Miss Helm, the governess, nervously clutched her pink wrapper. “I'm sure Mr. Cynster will take care of it all and expose these
dreadful
men.”

“Praise be,” intoned Connor, Serena's severe dresser.

“Indeed”—Alathea walked forward into the light thrown by the candles Nellie, Figgs, and Miss Helm were holding—“but you should all be in bed. He's agreed to help—there's nothing more to hear.” She caught Nellie's eye.

Nellie sniffed, but buttoned her lip.

Alathea shooed the others off, then headed up the stairs, Nellie on her heels, lighting her way.

“So what happened?” Nellie hissed as they reached the gallery.

“Shh!” Alathea gestured down the corridor. Nellie grumbled but held her tongue as they passed Alathea's parents' rooms, then Mary's and Alice's, eventually reaching her room at the corridor's end.

Nellie shut the door behind them. Alathea untied her cloak, then let it fall—Nellie caught it as she stepped away.

“So now, my fine miss—you're not going to tell me he didn't see through your disguise?”

“Of course he didn't—I told you he wouldn't.” He wouldn't have kissed her if he had. Sinking onto her dressing table stool, Alathea pulled pins from her hair, freeing the thick mass from the unaccustomed chignon. She normally wore her hair in a knot on the top of her head with the strands about her face puffed to form a living frame. It was an old-fashioned style but it suited her. The chignon had suited her, too, but the unusual style had pulled her hair in different directions—her scalp hurt.

Nellie came to help, frowning as she searched out pins in the silky soft mass. “I can't believe after all the years you two spent rollin' about the fields that he wouldn't simply look at you, veil and cloak or no, and instantly know you.”

“You forget—despite the years we spent ‘rollin' about the fields,' Rupert has barely seen me for over a decade. Just the odd meeting here and there.”

“He didn't recognize your voice?”

“No. My tone was quite different.” She'd spoken as she would to Augusta, her tone warm and low, not tart and waspish as when she normally spoke with him. Except for those few breathless moments . . . but she didn't think he'd ever heard her breathless before. She couldn't recall ever feeling so nervous and skittish before. With a sigh, she let her head tip back as her hair finally fell loose. “You're not giving me sufficient credit. I'm a very good actress, after all.”

Nellie humphed but didn't argue. She started to brush Alathea's long hair.

Closing her eyes, Alathea relaxed. She excelled at charades; she could think herself into a part very well, as long as she understood the character. In this case, that was easy. “I kept to the truth as far as possible—he truly thinks I'm a countess.”

Nellie humphed. “I still can't see why you couldn't simply write him a nice letter, asking him to look into this company for you.”

“Because I would have had to sign it ‘Alathea Morwellan.' ”

“He would have done it, I'm sure.”

“Oh, he wouldn't have
refused
, but what he would have done was refer it to his agent—that Mr. Montague. Without telling Rupert
why
it's so desperately needful to prove this company a fraud, it wouldn't have seemed important—important enough to stir him personally to action.”

“I can't see why you don't just tell him—”

“No!” Eyes opening, Alathea straightened. For an instant, the lines between mistress and maid were clear—there in the matriarchal light in Alathea's eyes, in her stern expression, and in the suddenly wary look in Nellie's face.

Alathea let her expression ease; she hesitated, but Nellie was the only one with whom she dared discuss her plans, the only one who knew them all. The only one she trusted with them all. While she suspected that meant she was trusting the entire little band downstairs, as the others never presumed to mention it, she could live with that. She had to talk to someone. Drawing in a breath, she settled on the stool. “Believe it or not, Nellie, I still have my pride.” She shut her eyes as Nellie resumed her brushing. “Sometimes, I think it's all I truly have left. I won't risk it by telling even him all. No one knows just how close to ruin we came—what depth of ruin we now face.”

“He'd be sympathetic, I should think. He wouldn't noise it abroad.”

“That's not the point. Not with him. I don't think you can imagine, Nellie, just how rich the Cynsters are. Even I have trouble assimilating the sums I know he regularly deals with.”

“Can't see why it matters, meself.”

Alathea felt the familiar tugs as Nellie started braiding her hair. “Let's just say that while I can cope with fraudulent companies and imminent disaster, the one thing I really don't think I could face is pity.”

His pity.

Nellie sighed. “Ah, well, if that's the way it must be . . .” Alathea sensed her fatalistic shrug. After a moment, Nellie asked, “But how'd you get him to agree to help if'n you didn't tell him about the family all but being rolled up if that wretched company asks for their money?”

“
That
”—Alathea opened her eyes—“was the main point of my masquerade. I did tell him. All of it. I could hardly expect him to help without knowing the details, and he certainly wouldn't have helped if there hadn't been a real family and a real threat. He's never been easy to stir to action, but he is a Cynster and they always respond to certain prods. He had to be convinced of both the family and the threat, but the way I told it, it's the countess's family. I cast my father as my dead husband, with me as the countess, his second wife, and all the children as my stepchildren, instead of my stepbrothers and stepsisters. Serena I made into a cousin.”