A Secret Love (44 page)

Until tonight.

It hadn't been the extravagance of the box, or even the fact that he didn't, as she well knew, appreciate music. The moment when her certainty had been rocked to its foundations was when he'd whispered, “As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight.”

It was his tone that had struck her, so accustomed as she was to every nuance, every inflection he used. He'd uttered those words as if it was his soul speaking, not just his mind. The words had resonated within her, as if in that moment, heart spoke to heart.

Had she been wrong? Did he love her?
Could
he love her?

The question was: How to tell?

Raising her head, she looked up at the stars, at the moon slowly waning in the west. Asking outright was out of the question. If she wasn't prepared to confess her love for him out aloud, in words, then she could hardly expect him to do so. She felt far too vulnerable to make such a confession; she credited him with sensibility enough to feel much the same way. As for expecting him to go down on his knees and declare his heart . . .

Lips curving, she uncurled her legs and rose. Sobering, she walked to her bed. She slipped between the sheets, no clever plan of how to prompt his confidence revolving in her head, yet on that she was determined. If there was any chance that fate had at last smiled and sent love to touch them both, she could not live without knowing.

The next morning dawned leaden, the skies gray, the light gray, all of a piece with her mood. Toying with her toast, conscious of the subdued nature of the conversations around the breakfast table, Alathea struggled to shrug off a deadening sense of aftermath. The triumph of their ball had been eclipsed by persistent worry over the looming prospect of their incomplete case failing to convince the Chancery Court to declare the Central East Africa Gold Company a fraud. The special magic of her night at the opera, with its seductive suggestion that perhaps, possibly, Gabriel, too, might be concealing the true nature of his feelings, had dispersed in the cold light of morning.

Despite numerous restless hours, she'd been unable to devise any plan guaranteed to make him lower his shield, the barrier with which, for as long as she'd known him, he'd protected his heart. She couldn't, despite their closeness, see into his soul.

She was no better—she'd always been careful to protect her innermost feelings. She wasn't about to drop her guard and let him see into her soul, either. Unfortunately, that seemed the one approach with any chance of success, but the risk . . .

Inwardly heaving a sigh, she reached for the teapot. There
had
to be something she could do, some positive action she could take to slough off her dour mood, if not in unraveling the complexities of her nemesis-turned-lover-and-now-would-be-husband, then in pursuing their investigations. There had to be something not yet done, somewhere not yet searched. Some stone as yet unturned . . .

She looked at Charlie. “Have you and Jeremy visited the museum?”

“No.” Charlie shrugged. “We did mean to while we were here, but . . .”

Jeremy brightened. “Can we go today? The back lawn's too wet to run the curricle over it.”

Alathea glanced at Mary and Alice. “Why don't we all go? We haven't gone out all together for weeks, and there's nothing else happening this morning.”

A tug on her sleeve had Alathea turning. Augusta looked up at her, brown eyes wide. “Me, too?”

Alathea smiled; the grayness receded. “Indeed, poppet. You, too.”

An hour later, Alathea stood in one of the cavernous halls of the museum, looking down at what purported to be a map of Central East Africa spread on a large table and protected by a glass case. Lodwar was marked, but neither Fangak nor Kingi, not even as Kafia Kingi, was shown. Worse, Lodwar appeared to be on the banks of a huge river—a river the explorer whose works she had studied had apparently missed seeing.

Alathea sighed.

She hadn't bothered with the museum before, reasoning that the clerk at the Royal Society would have mentioned any exhibits had there been any of use. In desperation, however, she'd been willing to draw a long bow. On inquiring of the custodian at the main door, and learning that the museum did indeed have an exhibit including a good map, her heart had leaped. Perhaps . . .

She'd left the others wandering, Charlie and Jeremy among the military exhibits, Mary, Alice, and Augusta among the ancient pottery, and slipped into this hall—only to have her hopes dashed again. Other than the map, there was only a display of native artifacts, and a few watercolors of wildlife supposedly found in Central East Africa.

Her heart felt like lead. She'd lifted even this stone but, like all the rest, there was no help beneath it. With one last disgusted look at the unhelpful map, she stepped away—

She cannoned into a gentleman. “Oh!” Falling back, she clutched her slipping shawl.

“Beg pardon, m'dear.” The gentleman bowed awkwardly. “I was so incensed by this trumpery stuff, I wasn't looking out as I should.” His gesture took in the entire Central East African exhibit.

“On the contrary, it was I who didn't look.” Alathea took in the man's shaggy brows overhanging features weather-beaten to a walnut-brown. Grizzled whiskers framed them. His eyes were a washed-out blue, his old-style coat and corduroy knee breeches attire no longer common in town. The stance he adopted was unusual, too, his hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, legs braced.

Abruptly turning back to the exhibit, Alathea waved at the map. “Is this incorrect, then?”

His derisive reply came immediately. “Poppycock! All of it. It's nothing like that, upon my word.”

“You've been there?”

“In between my sailings, when I have to wait months because of some flood or famine or skirmish between the tribes, an old prospector and I take to the hills. Why, we've crossed the whole continent a number of times.” The sweep of his hand encompassed the area in which the interests of the Central East Africa Gold Company lay. “Not much improvement on the Great Desert, Central East Africa. Dusty wasteland, it is. This river shown here is nothing more than a trickle, and then only in the rainy season.”

“You sail?” Alathea held her breath. “On a ship?”

“Aye.” The man dragged his hat from under his arm and doffed it in a bow from a bygone age. “Captain Aloysius Struthers at your service, ma'am. Captain of the
Dunslaw,
sailing for Bentinck and Company.”

Alathea exhaled, dragged in another breath and held out her hand. “Captain, you have no idea how glad I am to make your acquaintance.”

Struthers looked taken aback, but instinctively grasped her hand. Alathea shamelessly held on to his. She cast a swift glance around. “If we retire to that bench, I'd like to explain. My interest is prompted by the Central East Africa Gold Company.”

The change in Struthers's expression was instantaneous. “That blackguard, Crowley—” He broke off. “My apologies, ma'am, but when I think of the damage that jackal has done, it fair boils my blood.”

“Indeed? Then you might be interested to learn that a friend and I have plans to bring his latest scheme to naught.”

Slipping his hand from hers, Struthers offered his arm. “I'd be devilish interested in hearing from anyone ready to thrust a spoke in that brigand's wheel. But what's a lady like you doing mixed up with the likes of him?”

That took some time to explain. Alathea hesitated, but, in the end, revealed her identity. If she wanted Struthers's help, it was only fair to be frank. She outlined Crowley's scheme, then detailed all the false claims they'd uncovered. To her relief, Struthers grasped the situation quickly.

“Aye—that's his game, right enough. A bloodsucker, he is. He's swindled the colonists right and left all through that area. And what he's done with the local tribes . . .” Struthers's expression hardened. “I won't sully your ears with the tales of his infamies, my lady, but if ever there was a black-guard overdue in hell, it's Ranald Crowley.”

“Yes, well, I have to agree.” Alathea thrust aside the idea of an opponent steeped in infamy. “Our problem, however, is that we have no absolute proof to disprove Crowley's claims. All our evidence is
surmised
from what we've learned from others. We desperately need someone who can appear before the judge and corroborate what we've learned—an eyewitness, as it were.”

Struthers straightened. “Captain Aloysius Struthers is your man, my lady. And I'll do better than just give you my say-so. I know where I can get maps—signed maps, mark you. And if I ask around quiet-like, I'm sure I can get more on the holdings Crowley's claimed. They ring a bell, they definitely do. I'm not positive, but I think an old acquaintance holds the mining rights to those areas. I can ask, easily enough. You'll want as many nails in your hand as possible when the time comes to make sure Crowley's coffin's good and sealed.”

Alathea didn't argue. The captain's reaction to Crowley, the grim look in his eyes every time he mentioned him, frightened her far more than her previous glimpse of the villain.

Struthers nodded decisively. “It'll be an honor to bring that blackguard down. Now.” Briskly, he turned to Alathea. “How do I contact you when I've gathered my proofs?”

“The hearing will be on Tuesday morning . . .” Alathea dug in her reticule and came up with a pencil. “In the judges' chambers at Chancery Court.” The only paper she carried was the entry ticket to the museum; the back was blank. She ripped it in half. “If you need to contact me before that, this is my direction.” She wrote down her name and address. There was no point giving Gabriel's address; not only had the captain not met her knight, but her protector had a habit of galloping about town. At present, he was making a furious effort to prise some formal acknowledgment of the Central East Africa Gold Company's status from the African authorities' representatives in London. He didn't hold out much hope; neither did she. The captain was their best hope—their savior, indeed. If he needed to contact anyone, it had better be her; they couldn't afford to lose touch with him now. She handed him the scrap of paper. “Now, where
are you situated?”

He gave her the address of a lodging house in Clerken-well. “I find a different place every time I stay in London. I rarely stay long.”

Alathea wrote down the address, then tucked the paper into her reticule. “You won't be sailing again before Tuesday, will you?”

“Unlikely,” Struthers murmured, reading her address. Then he slipped the paper into his coat pocket. “Right, then. I'd better set to.” They both rose. Struthers bowed to Alathea. “Never fear, my lady. Aloysius Struthers won't let you down.”

With that, he clapped his hat on his head. With a grimly determined nod, he strode off.

Alathea watched him go. A rush of relief poured through her. Dizzy, she sank back onto the bench. Five minutes later, Mary, Alice, and Augusta found her sitting there, smiling.

“Yes,” she replied in answer to their query. “We can, indeed, go home.”

She sent a summons to Brook Street the instant they reached home; Gabriel arrived as they rose from the luncheon table. Barely giving him a chance to greet the rest of her family, Alathea dragged him out to the gazebo.

As if in tune with her mood, the clouds had rolled away. The others followed them into the sunshine, spreading out on the lawn to relax and play, but no one attempted to follow them into the shadowed privacy of the gazebo.

“I presume,” Gabriel said, following her up the steps, “that you're about to reveal the nature of your ‘fantastic discovery'?”

“Captain Aloysius Struthers!” Alathea whirled and sank onto the sofa. “I've found him.”

“Where?”

“The museum.” Gleefully, she recounted their meeting. “And he's not only agreed to testify as to the falsity of Crowley's claims, but he says he can lay hands on verified maps, and also on details of the relevant mining leases.” She gestured expansively. “He'll be even more help than we hoped for.” Gabriel frowned. Surprised, she asked, “What is it?”

He grimaced. “I'd be content with the captain simply turning up before the judge—with his testimony to anchor our case, we won't need anything more.”

“It won't hurt to have a few more facts behind us.”

“Hmm. Did Struthers tell you where he's staying?”

Alathea drew a folded sheet from her pocket. “I copied his address for you. Will you go and see him?”

Gabriel read the address; his expression turned grim. “Yes. If he'd been staying in Surrey, I wouldn't have bothered, but, as it is, I think a visit might be wise.”

“Why?”

“To warn him. If he goes nosing about asking after maps and mining leases, he's liable to alert Crowley. We might be nearing the eleventh hour, but Ranald Crowley is not an opponent I'd ever turn my back on.”

“Indeed not, but the captain seemed to know him well.”

“Nevertheless, I'll speak to the captain. It won't hurt to underline the need for secrecy.” Sliding the note into his pocket, Gabriel looked at Alathea, then turned and sat beside her. “Which brings me to another point.”

Shuffling to make space for him, she looked at him questioningly.

“Don't go anywhere alone. Not until we have the decision handed down—no, not even then. Not until we know Crowley has left England.”

“And I thought it was me who was melodramatic.”

“I'm serious.” Jaw setting, he took her hand. “Crowley is not some predictable English villain—he recognizes no law but that of the jungle. From the minute he learns of our plans until he returns to the jungle, or some other uncivilized place, you will not be safe.” He trapped her gaze. “Promise me you won't go anywhere alone, and that, even in company, you'll restrict your outings to the purely social. No visits to the museum, or the Tower—no more searching at all. We have enough to defeat Crowley now. There's no reason whatever for you to place yourself in danger.”