“What?” He seemed honestly discombobulated.
“He has four fair daughters. Which one are you talking about?”
“I don’t have any idea,” he said impatiently. “I’m not interested in those silly twits, I’m only interested in you.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed the word, but she had no breath to speak. She had thought to tease him. He had cut away the claptrap with his usual single-mindedness.
Satisfied he had silenced her, he continued, “I believe I squelched the rumors about you. I assured Monsieur Vavasseur I had been betrothed to the duchess and I certainly would recognize her.” He brought up his quizzing glass and appeared to be scrutinizing the dancers, but Madeline knew very well he had fixed his attention on her. “Of course, I didn’t say you weren’t the duchess, I only said I would recognize the duchess. It is to be hoped he doesn’t realize the disparity.”
“Because we can’t have you lying,” she said sarcastically.
He brought his quizzing glass around and trained in on her. “No. We can’t.”
And she remembered again that she wished him to do her a favor. Regardless of the provocation, she had to be gracious.
Apparently he read her mind, for without missing a beat, he asked, “While you were abroad, how many men did you kiss?”
“Sh!” She glanced around at the matrons and wallflowers seated before them and whispered furiously, “Are you trying to ruin me?”
“Not at all. It’s a reasonable question.”
Indignation overcame good sense, and she asked, “What makes you think I kissed any?”
“I know you.” He dangled his quizzing glass by its silver chain. “How many men did you kiss trying to get the taste of me off your lips?”
He was so conceited. “Lots. I had a man in every town.”
“Oh, Madeline.”
His disbelief made her huff. “Really. I did. You’re not the only man who likes to kiss me.”
“Most men are too frightened by you to dare try.” He swung the quizzing glass back and forth, back and forth. “How many men did you kiss?”
She stared, hypnotized, at the swaying motion. “Dozens.”
He shook a reproving finger at her nose.
So she had overreached the bounds of his belief. “A dozen.”
“Better.”
She didn’t know why she was bothering to lie, except that . . . well, she despised that confidence of his. She needed to end this conversation, and like a bulldog, he wouldn’t let go until he had the truth. She ate an apple tart, dusted the crumbs from her fingers and lifted her chin at him. “Five.”
“Five men? That’s the whole truth?”
For a moment, his teasing tone returned her to the time when they’d been helplessly in love—and like a ninny, she wanted to be back there. “Four and a half.”
With a laugh that sounded rusty with disuse, he asked, “You kissed a dwarf?”
“It was only half a kiss. I made him stop. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. He had bad teeth and smoked cigars.”
“Poor darling,” Gabriel crooned.
Not that he meant it. His broad, smooth lips smiled, his eyes were as green as the trees and the way he watched her made her feel dizzy and faint. How did he do it? How had he managed to distract her from good sense?
In a tone of breathtaking cheek, he asked, “How many men did you sleep with?”
“Insolent!”
“How many?”
With just a few words, Gabriel administered a slap of passion that made the color rise in her face. She put the plate on the floor and, when she came up, pretended that her blush resulted from that. “The matrons are watching us and gossiping.”
“Answer, and I’ll leave you alone.”
How could she ever have thought she was in love with such an obnoxious man? A frantic glance at the ladies confirmed that their scandalized gazes were fixed on her. “None. Eleanor wouldn’t let me.” Madeline didn’t want any other men, but she wouldn’t tell Gabriel that.
Apparently she didn’t have to. “Your own fastidiousness wouldn’t let you.”
She had to discover another way to get her hands on that tiara. An audacious plan seized her. Perhaps she could . . . but no. That would be dangerous.
She looked again at Gabriel. He was dangerous. Turned in his chair to face her, one foot crossed over his knee, the rich, dark fabric of his coat impressively showcasing those broad shoulders, that narrow waist. Handsome, daring and vividly, fabulously desirable.
Yes, she had to get that tiara without Gabriel’s help, and if the only way she could do it was by stealing it, then steal it she would. “After my experience with you, I am indeed fastidious.”
Gabriel appeared airily unimpressed by her crushing reply. “So, you kissed four and a half men and didn’t like it, and you wouldn’t sleep with any of them. One might suppose you’re still infatuated with me.”
“One might suppose that, because of you, I’ve had enough of men to last a lifetime,” she retorted. “Childish, impulsive, irresponsible—”
His lips flattened into a thin, grim line. “That’s your father you’re talking about, not me.”
“Is there any difference between you?”
“Yes.”
His flat reply made her wonder, as she always had. Why did he dislike her father so much? Men usually liked Papa. He was a jolly fellow who gambled, drank and drove with the best of them. So what was it about Lord Magnus that made Gabriel turn curt?
Gabriel watched her as her concentration, which he had focused so thoroughly on himself, turned to her father. The man who had cared so little for her he had gambled her away to a scoundrel, an American.
“He’s still not here,” she murmured, and glanced around the ballroom, as if expecting to see the red-faced, bullish older man burst in, clap the men on the shoulder, kiss the ladies on the cheek and finally notice his only offspring, his only relative.
With a lack of inflection, Gabriel said, “The one thing you can depend on is his lack of reliability.”
“His gambling instincts would never fail him. In everything else, he is . . .”
“As I said, unreliable.” When Madeline had disappeared, Gabriel had sworn he would have her again. He’d thought long and hard about what he’d done wrong, and he’d come to the conclusion he’d been too free with his declarations of devotion. If he was to manage her correctly, he needed to keep her uncertain of his affection and never knowing what he would do next.
After all, her father did that and she was devoted to him.
It was a measure of her worry that she now agreed with Gabriel about Lord Magnus. “I know. I remember . . . the letters he had failed to send to our steward, instructing him to provide me with an allowance so I could run the estates. The times he promised to be home for Christmas and failed to appear.” Abruptly, she stopped, covered her mouth for a moment, then gazed about the ballroom as if interested in Madame Vavasseur’s flirtation with Lord Whittard.
For the first time, she had admitted to the distress her father brought her. Gabriel didn’t underestimate the importance of her revelations—or the fact that she’d turned to him to retrieve the queen’s tiara.
Matters were progressing nicely.
In a voice of studied airiness, she said, “Papa’s absentmindedness seemed excessively tragic at the time, until I realized I simply had to arrange matters so he could not fail in his responsibilities to me and our dependents.”
“Resourceful of you.” Gabriel wanted badly to touch her hand, to reassure her that she’d done an excellent job. But he needed her to be off balance. He wanted her to think about, imagine, dread and anticipate her fate before it overcame her. “You’ve been gone four years. How did Lord Magnus manage without you?”
“I had hired a good steward. He proved to be quite adequate, and honest, too. I am a good judge of character.” She snapped her mouth shut, as if realizing she had either not been a good judge of character with him, or she’d
made a mistake when she rejected him.
He didn’t pound the point home. She was a bright girl. She knew.
“Some companion!” Lady Margerison’s shrill voice carried back to them. “Improper and forward. She should be watched!”
Gabriel scowled at her.
“Gabriel, you must go, but first . . .” Madeline’s eyes were large and solemn as she inquired, “Earlier. When you were talking about kissing . . . and . . . and . . .”
“Intercourse?” he filled in helpfully.
“Why did you ask me such insolent questions?”
Standing, he bowed and prepared, for now, to retreat. “I want to know if you are equal to the value of the tiara.”
Rumbelow took a moment from the dancing, the conversation and the fawning girls to survey the ballroom. Everything was going as planned. The guests had relaxed in the familiar milieu of a house party. The young ladies were flirting, selling their goods to the nearest, richest gentlemen, just like the whores he’d known on the streets.
All except that little Lady Thomasin, who fled Lord Hurth from one corner of the ballroom to the next.
Rumbelow would go rescue her. She didn’t like him, either; it would be amusing to see how Lady Thomasin would react when caught between a rock and a hard place.
The gamblers were relaxed, too, giving attention to their beloved wives and dear children to make up for the fact that tomorrow they’d be locked away in the dowager’s house, playing as if their souls depended on the turn of a card. When in fact, only their wallets did. Their souls were long lost.
Ten thousand pounds apiece, ten gamblers—that was one hundred thousand pounds. The expenses were twenty thousand pounds, but the tradesmen couldn’t dun someone who had fled the country. He would never have to pull a job again. He might, though, just to keep his hand in.
He smiled as he looked around at the baaing sheep waiting to be fleeced. Yes, he might have to, just to prove he could.
Thomasin’s “companion” was sitting against the wall wearing an expression that could only be called defiant. Well, of course. Campion had been after her like a hound after a bitch. She was planning something; Rumbelow would give his eyeteeth to know what was hiding beneath that demure facade.
Perhaps she thought of nothing more than the news Monsieur Vavasseur had spread about the ballroom. That she was the duchess, not the companion. Rumbelow grinned toothily. Just as he had foreseen, things were getting interesting.
Of course, he would give a lot to know what Big Bill had said to Her Grace today, too. Big Bill denied doing anything but courting her. Big Bill had always been a fool, and a drunken fool at that, but he never caviled at robbery or murder. So Rumbelow kept him close and utilized him frequently. Rumbelow had never before thought him a dangerous fool, but if he had told “Miss de Lacy” anything that had shaken her confidence in the party or in Rumbelow, she gave no indication. So perhaps they were all right.
And perhaps Big Bill would have to be eliminated when this job was wrapped up.
Rumbelow sighed. It was hard to say good-bye to old friends, but money would soothe the sting.
The tall, elegant, preternaturally calm Lord Campion stood chatting with Monsieur Vavasseur. Campion had a reputation for ruthlessness, and was hand-in-glove with the English Home Office, setting up coastal defenses and doing God knows what in defense of his country—Rumbelow admired himself in the mirror as he sneered—but the Home Office wouldn’t be interested in a mere swindler. So what was Campion’s game, really?
Whatever it was, the duchess had effectively distracted him. Campion knew the truth about Lady Madeline. Would he betray her to the crowd? Rumbelow thought not. Not until he had achieved his goal of bedding her. Then, Rumbelow was sure, Campion would take a pleasurable bit of revenge. Certainly that was what Rumbelow would do.
Rumbelow’s gaze lingered on her lush figure. Bedding her would be enjoyable, and if rumors were true, she had experience. There would be no whining about the pain from her—although he occasionally enjoyed that, too.
Instead there would be the pleasure of knowing he was swiving a duchess.
It was a thought that bore attention.
Chapter Fifteen
When Madeline’s eyes sprang open, the night candle had burned low. She remembered immediately what she must do.
Steal the tiara.
Rising quietly, she checked Thomasin. The girl slept soundly, worn out from her triumph at the ball, where she had been feted and fought over by the gentlemen, and envied by the other young ladies.
Going to the window, Madeline parted the heavy curtains. The darkness outside was almost total, lightened only by faint starlight. Clouds whipped by, shredded by the wind, and everything below appeared empty and silent.
Madeline took a satisfied breath. She could see the outline of the dowager’s house from here, a two-story box of a house looming behind and to the right of Chalice Hall. Not a light shone from its windows. The house waited for tomorrow night’s game—and for her tonight.
From the inside corner of her trunk, she removed her pistol and carefully loaded it with powder and ball. She slipped it into the special holster she’d had made of black velvet, and belted it around her waist. She didn’t plan on shooting it, but when one intended to steal back one’s own treasure, a treasure no doubt protected by some blackguard or another, one had to be prepared for every eventuality.
With a small piece of paper, she made a cone, filled it with gunpowder and folded the top down. One of the French soldiers she’d met had taught her the trick of blowing a lock. She’d always thought it would come in handy someday. She suspected that day had come.
Finally, she tucked the flint in her pocket with the stub of a candle, donned Eleanor’s darkest bonnet, one with a wide rim that placed her face in shadow, and slipped from the room.
As she crept down the corridor, she heard the clock strike three, and counted herself lucky that she saw not a single gentleman tiptoeing along toward adultery.
She took extra care in passing Gabriel’s bedchamber. The man had always seemed to have a sixth sense about her intentions, and she doubted he would approve of them now. Nor would he care that he’d left her no choice. He would rail at her, demand she stop and probably, right then, insist on payment for a job he hadn’t completed.
Her steps faltered. Then she hurried on, fleeing temptation on leather-slippered feet. She had been outraged by his demand that she pay him for his services with her body. She still was. Moreover, that faint sensation of elation she had experienced when he made his claim mortified her. She denied it, and would until the day she died. She might admit, in the secret recesses of her soul, to wanting Gabriel, but she would not be helpless. Bitter experience had taught her the misery of vulnerability, and time had taught her wisdom.
Therefore, when she retrieved the tiara, she wouldn’t waste precious time gloating to Gabriel about her coup. Instead she, for once, would do as Eleanor would advise if she were here, and make good her flight, prize in hand. With luck, Madeline would be gone by sunrise.
She departed the main house via the side door, left conveniently open by, no doubt, one of the footmen as he slipped out on a tryst. Eleanor’s gown of dark blue might not please Lady Tabard, but it worked admirably well to conceal Madeline as she slinked across an unknown landscape, keeping to the shadows of the trees and the tall trellises.
The wind smelled clean and fresh. It plucked at her skirts with playful fingers, got behind her and pushed her toward her goal. Branches groaned. Leaves flapped. She could distinguish the black shapes against the thinner darkness. A tree, a gazebo, the dowager’s house rising before her.
She experienced an unruly exhilaration. If she could just pull off this one heist, she would have control of her life again.
Her sense of omnipotence faded when she rounded the corner and caught a whiff of tobacco. She froze, then stared into the darkness. There. A cigar glowed as one of Mr. Rumbelow’s men took a puff. On her guard, she
backed away and considered.
Mr. Rumbelow stored the tiara in the dowager’s house in the safe. He would have guards, but perhaps the guards were all outside.
She grinned ruefully. And perhaps not.
Staying in the deepest shadows, she moved along the side wall, stopping every few feet to listen.
In her experience, people perceived trouble that didn’t exist and refused to try, while she tried and overcame trouble as it occurred. Most of the time difficulties could be defeated with a little daring and determination, and of those qualities, Madeline had plenty. That, and a pistol in her pocket.
But first she had to get in. Blowing the lock or breaking a window would be too noisy, so . . . she found the side door and turned the doorknob.
The door opened easily and without a squeak.
She frowned. The door from Chalice Hall was open. This door was open. It was almost as if someone had already come from Chalice Hall to the dowager’s house. And why? For the same reason she had? Or for some other, darker reason?
Well, whoever it was, was in for a surprise, because the duchess of Magnus was a formidable opponent, and that tiara was hers.
Quietly, she tiptoed inside, expecting at any moment to be grabbed. There was no one. By the sounds of her soft footsteps, she knew the room was large and tall, a study perhaps, but drapes covered the windows—and it was dark.
Shutting the door, Madeline crept inside, hoping desperately not to bang her shins on the furniture. Taking her time, she crossed hardwood and carpet and, as her eyes adjusted to a yet denser darkness, she spotted the way out of here. She moved toward the inner house, and wondered if she would have to use her stub of a candle to find the safe. Surely it had to be in the gaming room, but where would the gaming room be?
In the library or the drawing room, someplace roomy and luxurious where men could wager away huge sums of money while suffering from the illusion of invulnerability.
She moved into the next room, large enough but bereft of furniture, and made her way through easily. She realized she had reached her goal at the next room. The smell of tobacco permeated the air. She found five small tables, straight-backed chairs and larger, cushioned seats. She searched for the safe. She banged her shins on the ottoman. “Merde!” she whispered, and even that seemed too loud in the silence of the dowager’s house. At last her hands touched the large, cold metal box—the safe. It stood as tall as her thigh and was solid, heavy steel. She slid her fingers down the front, following the outline of the door until she found the locking mechanism. Groping in her pocket, she found the stub of her candle—
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