A Secret Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  She glanced at him. “Just the way you operate.” She waved. “Just like that—throw a duke into the equation.”

  He shrugged. “If one has a duke to throw . . .”

  Her grin fading, Alathea asked, “Have your people learned anything more?”

  “No grand revelations, but Montague is making headway with all those figures and projections Crowley spouted. Needless to say, they don’t add up. My contacts in Whitehall are still checking the claims he made about various foreign government departments and officials, and the permissions he said the company had already received. The more things that are false, the wider the front on which the company’s claims are disproved, the easier it will be to convince the court.”

  “But a witness—an eyewitness as it were—would be the definitive proof. Have you heard anything more about the captain?”

  “Yes and no. Mostly no. There are so many shipping lines, and at too many I have no contact from whom I can discreetly inquire. We can’t risk any overt search, not even for the captain. Crowley’s too powerful. He may well have contacts who’ll report any unusual queries in all shipping lines dealing with his present area of interest.”

  “Is he that omnipotent?”

  “Yes. Don’t underestimate him. He may not have attended any recognized school, but he knows how to play his connections well. Witness Archie Douglas.” After a moment, Gabriel stated, “Whatever we do, we must never forget Crowley.”

  The words disturbed Alathea. Frowning, she shook them aside. “There must be some register of the ships and their captains, surely?”

  “There is—it’s kept by the Port Authority. There are two registers we need to look at—the log which lists all the ships as they enter the Pool of London along with their captain, and the main register of vessels, which shows which shipping line a particular ship sails for. Unfortunately, there was a scandal involving the last port registrar. Consequently, his successor is exceedingly resistant to the idea of allowing anyone access to either the log or the register.”

  “Exceedingly resistant?”

  “Short of an order from the Admirality or the Revenue, there’s no way to view those books.”

  “Hmm.”

  Gabriel glanced at Alathea. “Don’t even think of breaking in.”

  She focused on him. “Why? Because you’ve already considered it?”

  “Yes.” His lips twisted. He looked back along the terrace, then straightened. “The office is manned around the clock. At present, searching the log and register is impossible.”

  Following his gaze to Lucifer, strolling through the shadows toward them, Alathea murmured, “Nothing’s impossible when you’re twelve years old.”

  Gabriel shot her a look as Lucifer, brows high, joined them.

  “What are you two doing out here?”

  What do you think? burned Gabriel’s tongue. He hadn’t yet had time to steer their interaction into the arena he’d intended.

  Alathea waved at him. “He’s looking into something for me. An investment.”

  Turning his head, Gabriel looked at her; her gaze fixed on Lucifer’s face, she ignored him.

  Lucifer was looking at him. “I think the twins have noticed. They’re bubbling and fizzing and exchanging glances like fury. God knows what they’ll do once they realize it’s true.”

  “Once they realize what’s true?” Alathea asked.

  Lucifer turned his dark gaze on her. “When they realize he’s not watching them anymore.”

  “He’s not?” Alathea looked at Gabriel. He’d developed a consuming interest in his manicured fingernails.

  The damned man had listened to her. Listened, and allowed her to influence his direction. She felt slightly giddy.

  “He’s not. And, at the moment, I’m not, either.” Belligerently disapproving, Lucifer looked from her to Gabriel and back again. “I just hope you know what you’re doing. That bounder Carsworth’s sniffing about their skirts.”

  Gabriel looked up. “Has he approached either of them?”

  The question was mild, the underlying tone anything but.

  “Well, no,” Lucifer admitted.

  “Have either of the twins encouraged him?” Alathea put in.

  Lucifer’s expression turned mulish. “No. He intercepted Amelia—not overtly approaching her, just happening to come upon her in the crowd.”

  “And?”

  His reluctance was palpable, but eventually he conceded, “She put on an act like Aunt Helena. Looked him down, then up, then stuck her nose in the air and swanned past without a word.”

  “Well, there you are.” Straightening, Alathea slipped an arm through his. “They’ve been very well trained. They’re perfectly capable of managing, if you’ll only let them.”

  “Humph!” Lucifer let her turn him up the terrace. Arm in arm, they strolled back toward the open doors spilling light and noise across the flags. Although she spared him not a glance, Alathea was intensely aware that Gabriel prowled very close on her other side.

  “Carsworth’s a worm—no real threat.” Over her head, Lucifer exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “But what happens when they try that trick with someone with a bit more”—he gestured—“savoir faire?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “So they’ll learn.”

  “Learn what?” Alathea asked as they stepped back into the ballroom.

  “Learn what would happen if a lady tried such a ploy on, say, one of us,” Lucifer replied.

  Alathea raised a brow at Gabriel.

  He considered her, then flicked a glance at Lucifer. Confirming his brother’s attention had wandered, he looked back, into her eyes. “Try it—and you’ll see.”

  There was something in his eyes that reminded her forcefully of a tiger; the purr in his voice underscored the connection. Recalling what had happened the last time she’d tried, nose in the air, to brush past him, Alathea stiffened her spine and lifted her head. “The twins will manage perfectly well.”

  Lucifer, scanning the crowd, humphed again. “Well, if you refuse to watch, then I may as well put my time to better use.” One black brow arching, he glanced at Gabriel, then, with an elegant nod to Alathea, he shouldered his way into the crowd.

  If anything, the crush had worsened. Alathea felt Gabriel’s fingers close about hers, then her hand was on his sleeve as he steered her out of the ebb and flow before the doors. The tack he took was in the opposite direction to where they’d left her cavaliers.

  “Can you see Mary and Alice?” Why she felt so breathless she couldn’t understand.

  “No.” His lips were close to her ear, his breath a warm caress. “But, like the twins, they’ll manage.”

  So would she, she vowed, as he found them a few square feet of space in which to stand comfortably. Although they were surrounded, they might as well have been alone for all the notice their neighbors took, too caught up in their own conversations.

  “Now tell me, what did you mean about being twelve years old?” Gabriel trapped her gaze as she glanced up at him. “In case it’s escaped your notice, neither you nor I are.”

  The meaning in his eyes was quite different from the subject of their discussion. Alathea reined in her skittering wits. “I wasn’t referring to us.”

  “Good.”

  The subtle easing of his lips did quite peculiar things to her nerves. She dragged in a breath. “I meant—”

  “My dear Lady Alathea.”

  Alathea turned to see the earl of Chillingworth emerging from the crowd. He swept her a necessarily abbreviated bow. “Such solace to discover a divine delight in this unholy crush.” He sent a measuring glance Gabriel’s way. “So nice to know one’s evening won’t be a complete waste of time.”

  Gabriel didn’t respond.

  Ignoring the burgeoning menace at her elbow, Alathea smiled and gave Chillingworth her hand. “I believe the musicians her ladyship has hired are quite exceptional.”

  “If only one could hear them,” Chillingworth replied. “Are your sist
ers enjoying their Season?”

  “Indeed. Our ball will be held next week—dare we hope you’ll attend?”

  “No other hostess,” Chillingworth avowed, “will have any hope of enticing me elsewhere.” His gray gaze roved Alathea’s face, then settled on her eyes. “Tell me, have you seen the latest production at the Opera House?”

  “Why, no. I had heard—” Alathea broke off as the sea of guests suddenly wavered, then parted. As the clamor of voices dimmed, the opening strains of a waltz filtered through.

  “Ah.” Chillingworth turned to her. “I wonder, my dear, if you would do me the honor—”

  “I’m afraid, dear boy, that this waltz is mine.”

  Gabriel’s languid drawl did nothing to conceal the steel beneath his words. Chillingworth looked up; over Alathea’s head, gray eyes clashed with hazel. Turning, Alathea stared at Gabriel’s face, noting the hard edge fell determination lent his features. Relinquishing Chillingworth’s gaze, he met hers. “Shall we?”

  He gestured to the rapidly clearing dance floor, then his arm shifted beneath her fingers and his hand closed about hers. His gaze flicked to Chillingworth. “His lordship will excuse us.”

  Giddy, slightly stunned by what she’d glimpsed in his hooded eyes, Alathea smiled apologetically at Chillingworth. The earl bowed easily. Without more ado, Gabriel led her forward. A second later she was in his arms, whirling down the floor.

  It took a full circuit before she caught her breath. He was holding her too close again, but she wasn’t going to waste what breath she had protesting that point. “I don’t suppose there’s any sense in pointing out that this waltz wasn’t, in fact, yours to claim.”

  He met her gaze. “Not the slightest.”

  The look in his eyes stole her breath. She mustered her wilting temper for protection. “Indeed? So whenever you feel like waltzing, I’m to expect—”

  “You misunderstand. Henceforth, all your waltzes are mine.”

  “All?”

  “Every last one.” He expertly twirled her around the end of the room; as they joined the long line going back up the ballroom, he continued, “You may dance any other dance with whomever you please, but you’ll waltz only with me.”

  All inclination to argue, to protest, evaporated. Don’t tempt me. He’d warned her once—the words were again in his eyes. They rang in her head. When she finally managed to draw in another breath, Alathea looked over his shoulder and tried to gather her wits and focus on his motives.

  Only to fall victim to her senses, to the seductive shift and sway of their bodies, their long limbs twining, sliding, separating, then coming together again. He waltzed as he did all physical things—effortlessly, expertly, with an inherent grace that only emphasized the leashed power behind every move. He held her easily, his strength palpable, surrounding her, guiding her, protecting her.

  She’d waltzed with others but none with his matchless authority, founded as it was in his knowledge, physical and sensual, of her. He knew she couldn’t resist, that while in his arms she was helpless. That her heart beat unevenly, that her skin heated, that she would go wherever he led. He had her trapped in a web, one she had helped fashion, of passion, of yearning, of desire slaked by sensual reward. She was his and he knew it. What he meant to do with the knowledge, with her, remained an unsettling unknown.

  The music ended and they slowed, then halted. She studied his face, the hard planes unyielding, uninformative, and inwardly sighed. “I should find Serena.”

  Releasing her, he placed her hand on his sleeve, and protectively steered her through the crowd.

  The following evening, Alathea left her bedchamber once again in a tearing rush. Heading for her office, she flung the door wide and dashed for her desk. Sitting, she pulled a sheet of paper free, settling it on the blotter as she flicked open the inkwell.

  “You wanted me, m’lady?”

  “Yes, Folwell.” Alathea didn’t look up. Dipping a pen in the ink, she industriously scribbled. “I want you to deliver this note to Brook Street.”

  “To Mr. Cynster, m’lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, m’lady?”

  “As soon as you get back from driving us to Almacks.”

  A minute passed, the only sound in the room the scritch-scratch of the pen. Then Alathea blotted her missive, folded it, and scrawled Gabriel’s name on the front. She dropped the pen and stood. Waving the note, she crossed the room to Folwell. “There won’t be an answer.”

  Folwell slipped the note into his coat pocket. “I’ll drop it off on the way back from King Street.”

  Alathea nodded. Lips compressed, she strode for the front hall where Serena, Mary, and Alice were waiting.

  A minute later, she was in the carriage, rolling across the cobbles to the holy portals of the patronesses’ dreary rooms. Almacks! She hadn’t liked the place the first time she’d seen it, when she’d been a gawky eighteen. She sincerely doubted she’d enjoy her evening, but . . . her sweetly loving stepmother had turned stubborn.

  She’d expected to remain home that evening and arrange some discreet rendezvous to discuss her urgent news with Gabriel. Instead, over dinner, Serena had announced that Emily Cowper had made special mention of hoping to see her that evening, having missed her in the park that afternoon. That afternoon, when she’d been off on an excursion to see just how much a twelve-year-old could pry from the otherwise impregnable Port Authority.

  Jeremy’s success had left her giddy. She desperately wanted to see Gabriel. She’d marshaled all her arguments against Almacks and spent the half hour after dinner laying them out, but Serena had stood firm. That happened so rarely, she’d been forced to acquiesce, which had left her little time to dress. Thankfully, Nellie was fully recovered; despite the rush, her hair was elegantly coiffed, her gloves, reticule, and shawl the correct accessories for her gown of pale green silk.

  Not that she cared. Given Gabriel wouldn’t be there, her evening would be a complete waste of time. Still, tomorrow morning was, logistically speaking, no different from tonight.

  That conclusion rang in her mind the next morning—mockingly. Scrambling to her feet, dusting earth from her cotton gardening gloves and quickly stripping them off, she told herself it didn’t matter what he thought, how much he saw.

  She looked up as he reached her. “I didn’t expect you this side of eleven.”

  His brow quirked as he calmly took possession of one of her hands. “You said as early as possible.”

  One long finger stroked her palm. Alathea tried to stiffen. “I thought, for you, as early as possible would be close to noon.”

  “Did you? Why? I didn’t go out last night, remember?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No.” After a moment, he added, “There was nowhere I wanted to go.”

  Her gaze locked with his, Alathea felt unaccountably giddy. He couldn’t possibly mean . . . Was he flirting with her? Abruptly, she cleared her throat and waved vaguely at her stepsiblings. “We like to spend a little time in the garden every morning. Exercise.”

  “Indeed?” His shrewd gaze swept the garden. He responded to Mary’s and Alice’s cheery greetings with an easy smile, to Charlie’s familiar “Hoi!” with a wave. Jeremy, helping Charlie lug a branch to the bottom of the garden, bobbed his head. Gabriel grinned, his gaze moving on to Miss Helm, who colored when he bowed. Beside the little governess, Augusta sat, Rose clutched in her arms, her wide-eyed gaze riveted on Gabriel.

  “I can’t recall seeing Jeremy since he was a babe in arms,” he murmured. “And I don’t believe I’ve met your youngest sister at all. What’s her name?”

  “Augusta. She’s six.”

  “Six?” He looked back at her. “When you were six you gave me chicken pox.”

  “I’d hoped you’d forgotten. You promptly gave it to Lucifer.”

  “We three were always good at sharing.” A moment passed, then he said, “Speaking of which . . .”

  She waved at the house.
“If you’d like—”

  “No need to interrupt your endeavors.” He looked down. “The grass is dry.” So saying, he sat beside her mat, her hand still in his. Looking up at her, he tugged. “You can tell me your news here.”

  Alathea only just managed not to glare. She subsided with passable grace, settling once more on her knees, tugging her gloves back on. “You know I hate gardening.”

  His brows rose; from the corner of her eye, she could see him recalling. “So you do. How very devoted of you, to keep your sisters company.” A moment passed, then he asked, “Is that why you do it?”

  “Yes. No.” Her gaze on the pansies, Alathea could feel her cheeks heating. Drawing in a breath, she reminded herself that he already knew more than enough to guess the truth. “They think I love gardening, and Serena insists that they should understand the basics of borders and beds from the ground up, so to speak.”

  She felt his gaze sweep her face, then he looked out over the lawns. “I see. And Charlie and Jeremy are the pruning specialists?”

  “More or less.” He said nothing for a moment, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, one arm draped over his raised knee. Then he turned again to her. “So what have you learned?” Alathea yanked out a clump of grass. “I’ve learned that being twelve years old can open the register at the Port Authority.” His gaze switched to Jeremy. “It can?”

  “I took Jeremy on an excursion to learn about how ships are managed in and out of the Pool of London. The harbor master was extremely accommodating—he has a young boy of his own. Of course, being the son and daughter of a belted earl helped.”

  “I dare say. But all we had was the captain’s description. How on earth did you manage to learn more discreetly? I take it you have.”

  “Indeed! I primed Jeremy—he has an excellent memory. I described the captain as Papa had seen him, and explained what we needed to find out. We decided it would be best to ask about the information in the log and register, and then ask what it might be useful for. That allowed us to suggest that it could be used to find out which shipping lines carried goods to different parts of the world. At that point, I suitably vaguely remembered a friend of ours, a Mr. Higgenbotham, who—”