After they were gone, she could visit the library and find something to read. There would not be the romances she loved or the poetry, but at this moment she would read anything she could find.
Anything to keep her mind off the current disaster. She yearned to be back in the countryside, sitting beside a stream with Robert Bard, the son of the local physician. He would be leaving soon for Edinburgh to resume his study of medicine.
Her father would not consent to the marriage.
She had often asked her aunt why her father would even care, since he had not presented her at court nor given her a season. Her aunt would get a tight look on her face and introduce another subject. It wasn’t until she heard two servants talking just before she left that she really understood.
“Surprised I am he sent for Lady Pamela,” she heard the housekeeper say. “I thought he feared her appearance would stir up all that talk about—”
“Hush,” said the butler. “He will discharge us all if he knew we were gossiping.”
“Everyone knows he killed the poor thing’s mother,” the housekeeper said defiantly. “The poor lady. I worry about the young miss with ’im.”
Pamela’s heart froze. She’d always known something dark and secretive pervaded her father’s house. He’d always been cold to her, cold and even cruel. She’d been grateful to be sent to her aunt’s home.
And now she knew why she had been sent away. In the few days she’d been here, she had seen his eyes. He hated her.
Because of her mother? Because he had hated the woman who had given her birth?
Pamela didn’t remember much about her mother. She had died when Pamela was only six. She remembered sadness. And the smell of roses. She remembered kind touches.
Her journey to London had been full of fear and her meeting with her father so dreadful that she’d visibly trembled. She’d tried to keep her legs from failing her when he’d said he wanted her to attract a marquess.
Her apprehension had doubled when she’d chanced upon a newspaper discarded by her father. She glanced to the fold and noticed the mention of the Marquess of Manchester. A gambler, the story had said, and a poor one at that. An ungraceful upstart from America.
She’d shuddered.
Oddly enough, he had been the only one who had been even a little kind to her. Everyone else at her father’s soiree had looked at her as if she had two heads. She was an earl’s daughter who had never been presented at court. Apparently, that was enough to keep tongues wagging. Had she disgraced the family? Was she weak of mind? Had her father really killed her mother?
She’d heard the whispers and they’d cut to the quick.
Then she’d been forced to take the odd marquess to the garden despite the questionable nature of an unchaperoned outing.
Surprisingly, he had proved to be kind. Or if not kind, disinterested in her as a marriage prospect and ready to make a bargain that would help them both. She hadn’t believed it at first. If he was a friend of her father’s, he had an ulterior motive.
And he did. He obviously wanted to stay in her father’s good graces. And yet she believed there was more to it than that. Perhaps he really was sympathetic.
She wanted to believe. She wasn’t sure she should believe.
She had no choice.
She thought of Robert again, wishing she could run off and join him in Edinburgh. He had even proposed that. But she knew that her father would destroy Robert and his father. She could not let that happen.
She watched as a carriage rolled up and her father entered it. She exhaled, not aware that she had bottled up her breath as he walked from the house.
The very room seemed to express relief.
He would not be back until dawn, if his pattern held true.
She looked out again. The beggar appeared asleep. Maybe he would still be there in the morning. She would take him a few coins then, or maybe some pastries. Cook always made more than they could eat.
She put on her night robe, lit a candle from the oil lamp, and padded down the stairs. No Ames. He must be upstairs attending to her father’s wardrobe. The other servants had retired to their quarters in the basement or up on the third floor.
She used the candle to guide her way into the darkened library and set it on a table. The dark curtains were drawn and she placed the candle where it was hidden from the window so not even a flicker of light could be seen.
She skimmed the titles on the shelves, pulling down one book, then another. Some of the books had never been opened. She loved the smell of leather and paper.
She chose one volume, a history of China, then rearranged the books so that it didn’t look as if one was missing.
Clutching the book to her side, she retrieved her candle and padded back up the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
Gabriel waited until all but one light in the hallway was quenched. Grateful for the fog creeping in from the river, he waited until it enveloped the street, making even the outline of Stanhope’s town house difficult to see.
Under a gaslight he looked at his pocket watch. Past one. He probably had an hour to get in and out.
The street was quiet with the exception of an occasional lone carriage. Stanhope and his friends had left the house an hour ago. Long enough for the servants to have retired.
He moved along the street until he reached the gate into Stanhope’s property. As before, it wasn’t locked. He opened it and entered. He didn’t even need to slink into the shadows thanks to the fog enveloping him. At the back door, he took out his picks. In seconds he had the lock picked, and he slid inside the house.
He closed the door and waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Only the slightest glow from the oil lamp in the hall gave a hint of light. But he knew the house. He had memorized every hall, every turn.
Still, he listened for several seconds for the laugh or grumble of a servant, for a valet preparing for his master’s return. Nothing. His heart beat loudly. It was one thing to invade an empty house, another to invade one occupied by living humans.
He made out vague forms. A table. An umbrella stand. The stairs. He walked on the outside edge of each step in shoes designed for such nefarious purposes. Still, he heard a creak and stopped. Listened again. Then he took another step.
He reached the landing of the second floor and went down the hall to Stanhope’s suite, looking for a trace of light. What if the valet was preparing the next day’s clothes …?
Nothing. He opened the door and slipped inside, then headed for the safe. He knelt beside it, placed his ear against the lock, then let his fingers find the tumblers. He knew the numbers now, and it took less time than before.
He needed a light, but he didn’t want to take the time to use tinder and flint, and he didn’t want any light to filter through the drawn curtains. Instead, he had to remember the contents he’d seen before. The banknotes were toward the back.
He reached in and found them. He took a stack of them, tucked them inside his coat, and closed the safe.
He heard someone ascending the stairs, saw a light moving upward in the hall. He crouched behind a large chest and waited.
The light and footsteps faded. Whoever it was had turned in the opposite direction. He peered out and saw young Pamela enter a room down the hall. She closed the door, and he was encased in darkness again.
He allowed himself to breathe. God help him if she’d turned around.
Remembering the creak of the steps, he remained still for another few minutes. Hopefully, she had gone to bed and would not venture outside her room again. Hopefully she had not asked a maid for something to be brought to her.
His plan could tumble down from a foundation he already knew was weak.
He took his first few steps, paused, then continued. Down the stairs, down the hall. Out the door.
He quickly sped out of the garden and down the street, pulling off the wig and tucking it inside the coat. He walked swiftly toward the waterfront.
; The tavern would still be open. He would go through the back entrance, up to his room and change clothes, then share a brandy downstairs. He needed to smell like liquor.
Smythe would be waiting for him. His valet would wonder if he returned home without the smell of brandy about him.
Poor Smythe. He must really be wondering about a master who was in residence only a few hours of the day. The poor man’s frustration mounted daily in his inability to better serve the man who employed him.
He reached the tavern and his room, removed the notes from his clothes, and counted.
Twenty thousand pounds.
Enough for a partial payment on a partnership. Enough to send Stanhope into a rage and make him wonder about the honesty of his partners.
He changed clothes quickly. Back into the too tight breeches of a gentleman. The cravat was askew. After all, he had indulged in a night of debauchery.
The tavern was full. The owner served as barkeep and welcomed his new resident. Without asking, he poured a cup of what Gabriel had ordered before.
No one else paid him any attention, apparently considering him no more than a nuisance.
He pretended drunkenness and listened to the waterfront gossip around him. Most of the patrons were sailors looking for and talking about possible berths. The Bristol Star was looking for a cook. The Mary Ann needed a second mate. Five ships had anchored today. There would be available berths after they were unloaded, then provisioned.
He knew every ship owned by The Group.
Three of them were anchored in the Thames. Five were at sea. There were rumors of another purchase.
His ship. His intended investment.
It was—in every one’s estimation—a ship lucky not to be at the bottom of the ocean.
He rose and staggered drunkenly to the door.
It had been a profitable evening.
This was Stanhope’s night.
Monique did not look forward to it. Yet she had no excuse to refuse his invitation to a private ball. The theater was closed this evening.
She had taken great care with her appearance. She’d visited a modiste days ago and offered a large sum to have a gown readied in three days. The modiste had also read about the wager. She was obviously hopeful that her name would be mentioned.
The dress was a deep violet muslin in contrast to the pastel colors she knew the other ladies would be wearing. Pastel was in fashion.
But she was not a lady.
Dani dressed her hair. “I do not like that you go alone with this man,” she said.
“It is a ball, and everyone will know that Stanhope brought me. His daughter is coming with us. I will be perfectly safe.”
Dani looked skeptical.
“Everything goes according to plan.”
“I understand, but … I fear him.”
“I do, too.” She stared at herself in the mirror. What part of Stanhope had passed on to her? Was she wrong for doing this? She’d always considered it a matter of justice, but …
He was her father. Everything dark and evil. Did evil lurk in her as well?
That terrified her more than anything else. Was that why she was endangering Dani? Playing God herself? But if she didn’t, who would?
Her purpose was fueled by the lack of even a glimmer of recognition on his part. But, of course not. Her mother had meant nothing to him. The seduction of a young girl. An attempted murder when there was a child. And the terror that had always followed her, broken her.
Stanhope would never do that again.
So now she would go to a ball with a man who had no idea he was escorting his daughter. A daughter who hated him.
She applied a bit of rouge to her cheeks, then coloring on her lips.
Monique Fremont stared back at herself in the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. Merry Anders was lurking in there someplace, needing to be free again.
Someone who wanted to love rather than hate.
She wondered whether it was too late, whether the decent part of her had been consumed by the other.
She heard the authoritative rap on the door downstairs and her housekeeper opening the door.
Then she gave Dani a forced smile and went to the door. She was not going to be fashionably late.
Pamela looked impossibly young as she entered the ballroom of one of London’s most fashionable residences, accompanied by the Earl of Stanhope and Monique Fremont.
Their names were loudly announced by a butler, just as his had been announced moments earlier upon his arrival. Since this was Gabriel’s first formal ball in England, he’d been somewhat bemused by having his name announced and everyone turning to stare.
He’d been invited four days earlier. Conspicuously tardy for such an invitation. Then he’d received a personal note from Stanhope, asking him to attend.
Since Gabriel had not been welcomed by the ton, he wondered what Stanhope held over the head of his host. Upon his arrival in the glittering ballroom of one of the finest homes in London, he’d been regarded curiously by the other guests.
It was, Gabriel knew, part of the courtship ritual of English society.
He had appeared as ordered, dressed in his best formal clothes. His cravat was a little too grand. He felt his neck was being stretched several inches, and he wondered if that was how a condemned man felt. His pantaloons were of the newest style and covered the full length of his legs. They were as tight as his skin and damned uncomfortable. He felt he couldn’t move without them splitting.
Still, he noticed clusters of older women eying him with speculation and whispering excitedly to their daughters.
Apparently even a wastrel American marquess was better than no marquess at all.
Most of the gentlemen, however, gave him the cut direct.
The whole event amused him. The mothers, the daughters, the men, the marriage mart.
And then he’d seen Pamela, dressed in a light blue gown that shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles. Her brown hair had been pulled back and tied, a profusion of curly tendrils tumbling artfully around her face. She turned toward him, her eyes widening as she saw him, then she gave him the slightest tentative smile.
But what made him really straighten was the woman who walked behind her. Dressed in a violet gown that contrasted with creamy shoulders and arms, Monique Fremont made every other woman in the room look inconsequential. Every head turned to stare at her.
Her gaze met his, and he thought he saw a slight shiver move through her. But then she turned to look up at her escort, and he wondered whether he’d imagined it.
In seconds half the men in the room were moving in her direction.
He approached Pamela, instead, and gave her a brief bow.
“I am delighted to see you, Lady Pamela. I hoped you would be here.”
She gazed up at him, and he was reminded of the innocence in her eyes, despite being the daughter of Stanhope. There was also apprehension.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Then Stanhope turned toward him and nodded. “I am most pleased you could join us this evening.”
But even while his words were cordial, Gabriel saw anger glowing in the man’s eyes.
Gabriel didn’t doubt that he had discovered the theft. And probably recently. Stanhope simmered with barely controlled rage, which made him a very dangerous man.
Gabriel wondered whether either woman sensed it as he did. Or perhaps only he did, because he knew that the earl might well have had a very unpleasant surprise in the last few days.
“How could I possibly miss an opportunity to see your lovely daughter?” He turned toward Monique. “And it is delightful to see Mademoiselle Fremont again.” He bowed slightly. “You look”—he searched for the right word—“magnificent.”
And she did. The dress made her eyes smokier, deeper, more mysterious. Her face was alive with that vitality that made her more striking than her features. Unwanted desire twisted his stomach.
“My lord,” she said courteously
, though he detected a slight edge in the words.
His gaze turned to Pamela and he smiled. “I hope you both will honor me with a dance this evening.”
Pamela looked downward, and he wondered if she knew how to dance.
Monique’s eyes, on the other hand, sparkled as if at a challenge. “I will look forward to it.”
Stanhope frowned. “I intend to reserve your time, my dear,” he said.
“Oh la, my lord. Surely you need time to speak to your friends.” She fluttered her fan. “And Lord Manchester is an acquaintance.”
Stanhope was trapped. Gabriel glanced quickly at Monique. Was she really that expert a manipulator or was it, as her guileless smile would indicate, merely graciousness trapping the graceless?
He would wager his captaincy on the former.
She was manipulating a manipulator. For riches? If so, it was a damned dangerous way of doing it.
They were interrupted by the host, who expressed pleasure at the arrival of the earl and his guests. Gabriel exchanged extravagant greetings with the host, then watched as the man’s wife escorted Pamela to a chair where she sat with other young ladies.
Stanhope looked at him steadily. “I would like to talk to you later about what we discussed at my home. Perhaps in the game room?”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Are your friends here tonight?”
Stanhope’s face darkened. “No.”
“I had hoped to talk with them again,” Gabriel persisted.
“I imagine you will find them in the clubs,” Stanhope replied shortly. “And now I would like this dance with Miss Fremont.”
Gabriel bowed. “If you do not object—I will ask your lovely daughter to dance with me.”
A brief, curt nod answered him, and Gabriel went over to Pamela. “Do you have room on your dance card for me?”
A look of gratitude crossed her face. “Yes, my lord.”
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “I am an oaf of a dancer.”
Her eyes lit. “I have had little practice,” she confided in a whisper.
“Then may I accompany you for food and drink?”
Dancing with a Rogue Page 16