Maybe she should learn a little more about the Marquess of Manchester.
With that decision made, she turned away from the window. She would find a solicitor to make queries. Unfortunately most of the answers probably remained on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean but for now …
She wanted to know where he went, what his habits were, and what complications he might cost her.
Nothing more. Nothing personal.
Lynch would know someone. He was a careful man. He probably investigated potential investors.
She would go to the theater early tonight. Perhaps she would even have supper with the theater manager.
“I heard you had substantial losses two nights ago,” Stanhope told Stammel.
“Fool’s luck,” Stammel said. “I will win it back.”
“I was unaware you had that much blunt to throw away on gaming.”
Stammel flushed. Of the three, he was the one always in financial difficulty. Mostly because of gambling debts.
Stanhope played with his watch fob. He was not ready to accuse Stammel of stealing from him. He did mean to watch him.
“You will need funds for our new venture.”
“I thought Manchester was your source of funds. That was the plan.”
“He will not participate if we do not put our money in as well.”
Stammel shrugged. “Just tell him you have it.”
“He is not that big a fool. He will want proof.”
“I will win it back. I always do.”
He did not, but Stanhope knew it was useless to mention that. Stammel had been useful in the past. He had family money, and because of his title he had influence. He’d always been a gambler, but in recent years he had been drinking excessively, and that made him lazy and reckless.
He didn’t doubt for a moment that anything but fear would hold back his partner. Any scruples Stammel once had disappeared years ago, long before he had participated in the ruination of Manchester’s father and the theft of his company.
And that thought brought him back to Manchester. There were inconsistencies in the man he didn’t like. Or was it simply the way Monique Fremont’s eyes were drawn to him when he was in the room?
Stanhope didn’t fool himself. He knew the actress was not seeing him because he was the most handsome man in a room. Or the most charming.
She was obviously trying to make the most advantageous financial arrangement she could.
He did wonder why she’d included Daven and Stammel in her little game. Because she knew they were business partners? Did she think they might be of equal stature?
If so, she was the fool. If not, he wondered exactly what her game was.
She did interest him. Any woman who tried to play him for a fool interested him.
No one used Thomas Kane. Not a woman. Not the man who had been his associate for more than twenty years.
“No more gambling,” he told Stammel.
Stammel’s face twisted. “I have to recoup my losses.”
“Has it not occurred to you that he might be considerably better than he wants you to believe?”
“No, Thomas. I would swear upon my mother’s grave. He was drunk but the demmed cards just kept turning up for him. He has already lost big sums.”
“I will require ten thousand pounds from you,” Stanhope said.
“I do not have it. Not … now. One more game,” he insisted.
Stanhope looked at him for a long time. “Only under the right circumstances,” he said.
Stammel gave him a questioning look.
“I will have a house party and hunt at my estate,” he said. “You can play him there where I can be present. I will know if he is cheating.”
“And our wager? It is still on?”
“You mean the beautiful Miss Fremont?”
Stammel nodded.
“You are more foolish than I thought if you think I will lose that contest. But I will give you an opportunity. I will invite her, too.”
“Her play?”
“She has an understudy. I will make it worth Lynch’s while.”
“What if she does not wish to come?”
“I think she will. You and Daven will be there. She can continue to play her game.”
“And you?”
“I can play mine.”
Monique visited the solicitor recommended by the theater manager and was introduced to a man who hired out for investigations of a personal nature.
Robert Grimes was a former Bow Street Runner, a thick man with untidy hair and sharp eyes.
“I need discretion,” she said.
“All my clients do,” he said. “That is why I am often recommended.”
“I want to know everything about the Marquess of Manchester. Where he goes. Who he sees.”
Grimes didn’t flinch. “He has been in the London newspapers lately.”
“Yes.”
“He is a lord, an important man. I will have to be cautious.”
“I want you to be cautious. I do not want him—or anyone else—to know of my interest.”
“It will be expensive, mademoiselle.”
“It does not matter.”
Perhaps it was because he had already seen much as a Bow Street Runner, but nothing flickered in his eyes as she told him what little she knew about the new Marquess of Manchester.
The Morning Post reported that the celebrated actress, Monique Fremont, had been seen in the company of the Earl of Stanhope.
While the Post discretely did not mention the wagers for the lady’s company, it apparently thought it necessary at least to indicate it knew what was common knowledge in every gaming hell and sporting establishment.
Gabriel read the rest of the Morning Post, then The Gazette. Nothing about him, which was well.
He went back to the article. It had been three days since the ball, and the French actress still dominated his thoughts, taking his concentration from the matter at hand.
She’d been like a feather in his arms. Light. Quick. Graceful. And for some reason she had lied for him.
She was so infernally clever. She was an accomplished liar.
She had caused him to be careless.
Hell, he had done it to himself.
He had never been attracted to liars. He preferred an honest courtesan. He had known what they were, and what they wanted, and what he wanted. It had always been that simple and straightforward.
He did not know what Mademoiselle Fremont was, what she wanted, or, more vexing, what he wanted from her.
She was like a siren’s song, and he had to remember what happened to the sailors who succumbed to it.
Don’t be a fool. She has made it clear she cares only about the highest bidder.
He put the newspaper aside and finished his tea.
Smythe hovered nearby. “Are you finished, my lord?”
His mouth tightened at the form of address that Smythe couldn’t quite relinquish. He hated the bloody thing. He blamed the entire English aristocracy for allowing The Group to destroy people. The nobility didn’t have to pay debts, the nobility didn’t work, the nobility lived for its own pleasure.
“What is your pleasure?”
“You can help me dress,” he said, realizing how much Smythe craved being of assistance. “There are clothes to be fetched from my tailor, and your mother will need some supplies. I also have a list of books that I wish you to purchase.” He had spent an hour this morning trying to find ways to employ Smythe’s time. “You might also look into the purchase of a horse for me. I want a settled mount.”
“But, sir, I know nothing about horses.”
“Then find out,” he said. That should keep Smythe busy awhile at least, busy enough not to worry about his master’s whereabouts. “I will require a mount for tomorrow.”
“But …”
“Thank you, Smythe,” he said. “And now you may prepare my bath.”
Smythe permitted as much of a smile as he ever had. “It will b
e ready shortly.”
Gabriel looked outside. The sun was not quite overhead. Not noon yet.
His first order of business would be to leave a card at Stanhope’s, asking to meet with him about the proposed investment.
He would time his visit to find the man asleep. He didn’t want to talk to him, did not want to be probed, but he did want to prod him into action.
In the meantime he had to get together funds of his own. He had the banknotes he had taken from Stanhope’s residence, more from gaming. He had another ten thousand remaining from what he’d saved from his share of prizes during the war.
He required twenty thousand more.
He also had an estate he had not yet seen. It was, according to his solicitor, fifty miles from London. A day-and-a-half ride at best.
Perhaps it was time to visit his inheritance and see what he might use from it. And determine for himself whether or not it was worthless and should just be abandoned to the Crown. Pickwick said it was entailed and bankrupt, but he knew for a fact that Pickwick was a liar.
Part of him had been reluctant to make the journey. He’d never actually felt it belonged to him. His grandfather had disowned Gabriel’s father, had abandoned him when he’d been disgraced. He’d never asked whether the charges were true.
And he had made no effort to help Gabriel’s mother.
Gabriel had never forgiven him for that.
He remembered his grandfather from several visits when he was a boy. He’d thought his grandfather a singularly joyless man. Neither had he cared for his oldest uncle.
Spares. That’s what the English called all but the firstborn son. Every good Englishwoman was bound to give her husband an heir and spares.
Hadn’t worked well in his family. The two older sons were dead without issue. And the third and last son—Gabriel’s father—had disgraced the name and committed suicide.
Even before the scandal his grandfather had disapproved of his father, who was in “business.” Better that he had taken a commission or even been a rakehell. He’d disgraced the family with his independence and insistence on earning his own way.
If it weren’t for England’s inheritance laws, Gabriel would not have received so much as a pence. Disowned or not, he was the direct heir.
Bitterness was like bile inside. If his mother had received any help at all, any kindness, then perhaps …
But that was wishful thinking. He could not change the past.
He had asked whether there were tenants at the Manchester estates. Only a few, he’d been told, and they maintained the grounds in turn for farming some plots of land.
He hoped there might be jewels or valuables that were not entailed, which could be sold until he had the time to steal more from Stanhope and his pack of thieves.
Before he left London he would have to make provisions for the family seat and those employed to maintain it, since he had no intention of staying in England. He wanted to return to sea. At least the elements were honest.
That reminder brought the unwelcome image of a woman with dark hair and smoldering eyes.
She was as complex as a storm at sea.
And obviously just as treacherous.
He left the house, confident that the efficient Smythe would have located a horse by day’s end. And a good one at that.
But now he had other business. He hoped to have his copy of Stanhope’s seal today.
Monique sank down in the oversized bathtub and thought about the growing number of cards delivered to her town house. Only two had really interested her. One was for a weekend party at the country home of the Earl of Stanhope. Another came from a famous London hostess, a widow whose salon attracted the cream of London’s nobility. A third for a costume ball at the home of an earl.
The reason for the two latter invitations, she realized, was curiosity. Her presence at an affair would probably guarantee the presence of others. She knew that all of London was talking about the competition between three business partners.
The invitation from Stanhope was intriguing. Of course, she could not attend. She had performances.
Mrs. Miller’s eyes had lit as she saw the seals on the envelopes. Servants—including housekeepers—were judged by the social acceptability of their employers.
Her prestige had just increased several notches.
Monique had been amused at the reaction. She was nothing but a curiosity and an obsession. Her acceptance in London society was based entirely on that, quickly gained and just as quickly withdrawn. And if the ton discovered she was a thief as well …
Her thoughts went to Stanhope, then to Manchester. Two self-indulgent men. She knew what Stanhope was. Murderer. Defiler of women. She did not know exactly what Manchester was. A womanizer, certainly. A thief and cheat, probably.
Why did she care?
She hoped the runner would give her some answers.
In the meantime she would accept the invitation to Lady Isolde’s salon. She would send her regrets for Lord Stanhope’s weekend. His reaction would be interesting. She doubted he took refusals well.
She sank deeper into the bathtub.
Gabriel wasn’t sure of the moment he became aware that someone was following him.
He had reached the waterfront when the hackles on his neck rose. It had happened before in ports throughout the world. He had learned to heed their warning.
He ducked into a seamen’s tavern. As he usually did when going to this part of town, he wore more casual clothes. Breeches. Plain boots. A linen shirt and a cloak that hid the fact he wore no waistcoat or cravat. He could always claim he knew the dangers of being too obviously the dandy in a dangerous part of London.
He chose a table in the back and a chair that had a full view of the door and the interior of the tavern and ordered an ale.
Patience, he told himself.
He sat there for a long time, watching as sailors and workmen came in for their one pleasure. He drank one glass of ale, then another.
A heavy man dressed differently than the others finally entered. Sharp eyes darted around the interior, obviously trying to determine whether there was another way out.
Then his gaze swept over the tavern, lazily, as if looking for a friend. They did not hesitate on Gabriel.
He took a seat, facing the opposite direction, but Gabriel knew the man would be aware if he stood and left.
He was being watched, followed. He’d expected no less, though he had expected it to take more time for suspicions about him to be raised.
So much for meeting with the forger for the next few hours.
He sat back in his chair. He would spend the afternoon here, then walk around London. Perhaps he would even visit Hyde Park and enjoy the spectacle of the bulky man trying to follow him on the paths. He would be as obvious as a donkey among horses.
He ordered a meat pie and another ale. He ate slowly. Not very appreciatively. Mrs. Smythe’s cooking was far better.
Gabriel paid the bill, rose, and made for the door. He walked unsteadily, as if befuddled by drink. He paused once and leaned against a fence, which gave him the opportunity to glance behind him.
No one. His imagination perhaps.
Still he intended to be careful. He flagged down a hackney and gave directions to the town house he had rented. If the man was following him, he might have an interesting time catching up with him. But today demonstrated how much he needed a mount.
A gentleman simply did not walk everywhere, though Gabriel was well used to doing just that. There were few carriages for hire.
The coach halted in front of his residence and he stepped down. He looked around. No sign of the person he believed to be following him. He had an impulse to take the carriage back to where he had originally been headed, but a small bribe to the driver would undoubtedly reveal where he had been taken. He wanted no connection between himself and the small print shop.
He took the steps quickly and used the door knocker. Mrs. Smythe answered. Her eyes narrowed a
t the whiff of the bad ale he’d been drinking. She stepped aside to allow him to pass her.
“Sydney has compiled a list of some likely mounts for you, my lord,” she said, taking his cloak. “He could not make appointments because he did not know when you would be back.”
“I am ready now,” he said.
She nodded. “There was one offered just two lanes away,” she said. “He went to inspect it.”
As if the very words had summoned him, Smythe appeared from the back. “Sir.”
His face had more life than Gabriel had ever seen before. “I found a horse,” he said. “A very fine horse.”
“You said you do not know anything about horses,” Gabriel reminded him.
Smythe’s face fell slightly. “I believe it to be a fine horse,” he corrected himself. “It is gray. Tall. The owner said he was well mannered.”
“Did he say why he was selling him?”
“It was his son’s horse. The son died in France.”
So that was why it was a very fine horse. Gabriel had discovered his valet had sympathy for everyone who fought for Britain.
“And how much is this fine horse?”
“Three hundred pounds,” Smythe said. “I know that is a large sum, my … sir … but it did look like a …”
“Fine horse,” Gabriel finished for him. “Well we shall go and inspect this paragon before someone snatches him from under our very noses.”
“I also found a mews,” Smythe said with an eagerness that Gabriel thought was part pride in fulfilling his master’s desires and at the same time joy in helping the family of a fallen comrade.
Gabriel reached for his cloak again. Three hundred pounds was more than he wanted to spend, but he did need an adequate—even flashy—mount.
Tomorrow would be a good day to inspect his estates. He could foil the man hired to follow him without raising suspicions. Visiting one’s estate would be expected of anyone.
“Smythe, I am in your hands.”
Smythe looked a bit uncertain about that. But he opened the door for Gabriel and followed him down the five steps to the street. Gabriel saw his shadow at the end of the street, reading a newspaper.
Gabriel ignored him, and ten minutes later he was running his hands over a large gray gelding. He was a handsome fellow, and obviously well treated. He eyed Gabriel inquisitively, as if he knew he might be looking at his new master. He playfully reached out and muzzled Gabriel’s hand.
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