“No, no. I just wanted to speak with you.” Serena stepped back into the drawing room. “It’s about your father.”
“Oh.” Following her and shutting the door, Alathea raised her brows.
“He’s in one of his states.” Serena raised her hands helplessly. “You know—under the weather but not ill.”
“Has anything happened?”
“Not today. He was a little quiet when he came in yesterday, but he didn’t say anything. You know he would normally be at White’s by now, but instead he’s sitting in the library.”
They looked at each other, concern mirrored in their faces. Then Alathea nodded. “I’ll go and speak with him.”
Serena smiled. “Thank you—he always listens to you.”
Alathea hugged her stepmother. “He always listens to you, too, but we talk about different things.”
Her smile strengthening, Serena returned the hug. “Have you learned anything more about this promissory note?”
Alathea nodded. “I think we’ve found a way—a legal way—to have the note declared invalid, but I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up yet.”
“That’s probably wise. Just tell us when we’re free.” They exchanged quick smiles, then Alathea headed for the library.
The door opened noiselessly; she slipped in, noting that the curtains were open, the room bright, not shrouded in gloom. A good sign. While her father did not make a habit of succumbing to the blue devils, he had, she knew, been inwardly berating himself over the wretched promissory note. He’d put on a brave face for her sake and Serena’s, but he would feel the sense of failure, of self-reproach, deeply.
Sitting in his favorite armchair, the earl was looking out over the back lawn. Mary and Alice were cutting roses, each girl as delicately beautiful as the blooms they laid in their baskets. Beyond them, Charlie was teaching Jeremy the rudiments of cricket while Augusta and Miss Helm were seated on a rug in the sunshine, reading a book. The garden was enclosed by stone walls, visible here and there between trees and thick bushes. The scene could have been a painting depicting fashionable family life, but it wasn’t a figment of anyone’s imagination—it was real, and it was theirs.
Empowering certainty filling her, Alathea touched her father’s shoulder. “Papa?”
So engrossed had he been, he hadn’t known she was there. He looked up, then his lips curved ruefully. “Good morning, my dear.”
Catching her hand, he squeezed it; he continued to hold it as she sat on the arm of his chair. Alathea leaned her shoulder against his, comforted by the solidity beneath his coat. “What is it?”
He sighed, the sound deep and defeated. “I really hoped you’d be wrong about that company—that the Central East Africa Gold Company would ultimately turn out to be legitimate. That I hadn’t made yet another mistake.”
He paused; Alathea held his hand firmly and waited.
“But you and Wiggs were right. It was all a hum. Chappie I met at White’s yesterday told me so. He was from those parts—Central East Africa. He knew the company. Condemned it as a racket set up to gull simpletons into parting with their brass.” He grimaced. “I could hardly disagree.”
“You couldn’t have known . . .” Alathea blinked. “This man, who was he?”
“Sailor fellow—a Captain something. Didn’t catch his last name.”
“What did he look like?”
At the sudden tension in her voice, the earl turned to meet her gaze. “He was of middle height, rather portly. Had great grizzled whiskers down both cheeks. His clothes marked him as a seaman, senior rank—there’s always a nautical air to such men.” He searched Alathea’s face. “Why? Is he important?”
Alathea reined in her excitement. “He could be. Wiggs and I think there’s a legal way of overturning the promissory note, but we need to learn more about the company’s business. A man like this captain could be very helpful.” She gripped her father’s hand. “Was he with anyone you knew?”
Her father shook his head. “No. But if it’s important, I can ask around.”
“Do, Papa—it could be very important. And if you should stumble across him again, promise me you’ll bring him home.”
Her father’s brows quirked, but he nodded. “Right, then. I suppose I’d better get on to White’s and see if I can track him down.”
“Oh, yes!” Alathea bounced to her feet as he rose. “This could help us enormously, Papa. Thank you!” She swooped at him and kissed him on the cheek.
Catching her within one arm, he hugged her. “Thank you, my dear.” He looked into her face, then placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Don’t ever think I don’t appreciate all you’ve done—I don’t know what I did right to deserve you. I can only be glad you’re mine.”
Alathea blinked rapidly. “Oh, Papa!” She hugged him quickly, then broke away, glancing through the window. “I must get Jeremy off to his lessons or he’ll play cricket all day.” Still blinking, she hurried out.
That evening at Lady Castlereagh’s ball, Alathea found herself plagued by gentlemen. With but little help from her, the number of mature bachelors who considered her an agreeable dance partner had been steadily growing as the Season progressed. Despite Celia’s conviction that she hugged the walls, she was too astute to do so constantly. True anonymity meant doing nothing to make herself remarkable; she therefore duly danced and waltzed, not every dance but enough to ensure no one saw need to comment on her abstention.
Indeed, she enjoyed waltzing, although there were few men tall enough to meet her requirements. Yet despite the hurdle of her unusual height, the ranks of her admirers, as Serena insisted on terming them, had somehow swollen to the legion.
Which made life exceedingly awkward when, after two dances, she wanted to slink into the shadows, the better to consider her current difficulties. The principal one was present, garbed in severe walnut-black, his locks burnished, his manner ineffably urbane. He’d extended himself to dance the same two dances she had, but was now ambling, deliberately aimlessly, through the crowd. If he could dispense with the need to do the pretty and converse, she felt it only fair that she could, too.
“I’m afraid, dear sirs”—she beamed a smile at the gentlemen surrounding her—“that I must leave you for the present. One of my stepsisters . . .” With an airy wave, she led them to believe she’d been summoned across the room. As joining Mary and Alice meant braving a gaggle of youthful damsels, none of the gentlemen offered to accompany her. They bowed and begged for promises of her return; she smiled and glided away from them.
The crush was unbelievable. Lady Castlereagh was one of the senior hostesses—her invitations could not be declined. That, Alathea suspected, accounted for the presence of most of the Cynsters, Gabriel included. Using the crowd to her advantage, she made her way to a narrow embrasure occupied by a pedestal topped by a bust of Wellington. She took refuge in the lee of the pedestal, screened from at least half the room.
Thankfully also screened from some of the noise—it was hard to hear her own thoughts. Across the room, she saw Gabriel, with obvious reluctance, relieve Lucifer of his watch on the twins. Taking up a position almost directly opposite her, Gabriel looked wary.
Alathea grinned. She searched the throng for the twins. Even using Gabriel’s gaze for direction, she still couldn’t see them. With an expectant sigh, she settled back, almost against the wall but not quite. Anyone seeing her would assume she was waiting for some gentleman or a youthful charge to return to her side.
Thus concealed, she settled to ponder how to tell her knight on a white charger where he should look for their relief. She’d issued the summons; he’d come galloping to her aid—now she was stuck with him and his notion of rewards. Dealing with him further was going to prove difficult, but she couldn’t proceed without him.
Coming up with the captain, stumbling upon him in the crowd on a dance floor, was beyond unlikely—his sort stuck to the clubs, not the park or the ton’s entertainments. The captain was effectiv
ely out of her reach. She didn’t dare pin all her hopes on her father appearing one day for luncheon with the captain in tow.
She had to tell Gabriel about the captain, and as soon as possible. Who knew how long a seagoing captain would remain ashore? He might already have sailed, but she refused to consider the possibility. Fate couldn’t be that cruel. But how to tell Gabriel in safety?
A letter had seemed possible until she’d drafted one. Even though she’d included her father’s description of the captain verbatim, the letter lacked life, and reeked of cowardice. She couldn’t even sign it other than as “The Countess.” Instead of sending it off, she’d torn it up and resumed her pondering.
If she didn’t see Gabriel face to face, she would have no way of knowing how he reacted to her news, nor could she question him over what he’d learned—she was quite sure he wouldn’t have been idle in the five days since they’d last met.
At the Burlington Hotel.
The mere name sent a wave of uncertainty through her; she immediately blocked it off. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions rule her, or dictate her moves. What had Gabriel learned? Had Crowley done anything more? These were questions to which she needed answers; she would get answers only if she met Gabriel face to face, of that she was absolutely sure.
But the thought of being private, alone with him in the dark, made her shiver—and not with dread. The fact only increased her wariness and made her question her arguments. Were they merely rationalizations?
Standing in the pedestal’s shadow, she examined, dissected, and reassembled her thoughts—and got nowhere. The situation irked; her inability to make up her mind rasped her temper.
Then he moved. She’d been watching him from the corner of her eye. As he forcefully handed the twins’ watch back to Lucifer, then stepped into the crowd, she straightened. A clamp slowly closed about her lungs. There was, she told herself, no reason he should stroll her way, no reason he even knew she was there.
She’d underestimated the power of her cap.
It drew him like a lodestone. He cleaved through the crowd so efficiently that, once she realized she was indeed his target, she didn’t have time to beat a retreat. He halted beside her.
Trapped, she raised her chin and fixed him with a glare. “Don’t say a word.”
His eyes held hers for a pregnant moment; she inwardly quivered, and told herself he couldn’t see through her disguise. That he’d never see the woman who’d lain naked in his arms in the lady who now stood before him.
Lips thinning, Gabriel nodded curtly. “There’s obviously no need, although I can’t see why you bother—your hair will go gray soon enough.”
Alathea’s eyes flashed, but instead of ripping up at him, she smiled. Acidly. “I’m quite sure you’ll have gray hairs aplenty if you persist in acting like a dog with a bone over your young cousins.”
“You know nothing about the matter, so don’t start.”
“I know the twins are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”
He snorted derisively. “Which shows how much you know.”
“I would have thought”—her tone had him tensing—“that any females capable of routing one of the Cynsters, capable of detecting the chink in his armor and plotting and acting to press their advantage, and succeeding, would be thought capable of managing even the ton’s most notorious rakes.” Her gaze slid around to his face. “Don’t you?”
Gabriel felt his eyes narrow; his temper surged. He would infinitely have preferred impassivity, but with her, that always seemed beyond him. He transfixed her with a glittering glance. “You told them.”
He didn’t need the artful lift of her brows to tell him that was the truth.
“They approached me with their problem—I merely made an observation.”
“You are the cause of their current obsession with finding me a suitable bride.”
“Now, now”—she wagged a finger at him—“you know perfectly well I couldn’t be responsible for that. You’re the one who’s yet to marry. You’re the one in need of a wife. The twins are merely trying to be helpful.”
What he muttered in response was far from polite; Alathea merely smiled. “They’re trying to be helpful in exactly the same way you’re trying to help them.”
“And what way is that?”
She looked him in the eye. “Misguidedly.”
He blinked.
When he didn’t immediately respond, she looked away. “I rather wondered how you’d react if the shoe was on the other foot.”
“You knew damned well how I’d react.” He gritted his teeth. “You only suggested it to plague me.” Her lips quirked, very briefly but enough to set his temper soaring. “I know Lucifer attempted to explain the need for our watch on the twins—he clearly didn’t succeed. So perhaps a demonstration’s in order”—he lifted his gaze to the cap covering her soft hair—“to drive the point through your demonstrably thick skull.”
Her head whipped around. She was frowning. He shifted closer, crowding her into the nook between the pedestal and the alcove wall. Clamping one hand on the pedestal’s top, he caged her into the small space.
Meeting her gaze, fell intent in his, he was surprised to see her eyes flare—surprised to see how far into the gap between the pedestal and the wall she’d backed herself.
Her gaze falling to his chest, mere inches from hers, Alathea swallowed and wrenched her gaze back up to his face. She fought against the urge to press one hand to her breast in a vain effort to calm her leaping heart. Oh, God! In situations like this, she would customarily slap a hand to his chest and shove—she wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t stop to consider any possible impropriety. And although her strength couldn’t possibly shift him, if she shoved, he’d move.
But she didn’t dare touch him.
Couldn’t guarantee what her hands would do if she did.
Gracious heavens! What on earth was she to do? She could already see puzzlement dawning in his eyes.
Senses reeling—he was far too close!—she stiffened her spine, drew herself up to her full height, and made a passable attempt at looking down her nose at him. “I do wish you’d think!” Her gaze locked with his, she did—frantically. “Protecting them from real threats—threats that actually materialize—is all very well, but in this case, your”—she gestured, using her wave to make him lean back—“constant hovering is actually limiting their opportunities. It’s not fair.”
“Fair?” He snorted. To her immense relief, he eased back, letting go of the pedestal and turning to glance to where she imagined the twins must be. “I can’t see where fairness comes into it.”
“Can’t you?” Able to breathe again, she dragged in a breath. “Just think. You never used to stop me from . . . oh, riding neck or nothing with you and Alasdair—you wouldn’t stop me doing it now.”
“You ride like the devil. There’s no need to stop you—you’d be in no danger.”
“Ah, but if there was something dangerous in my path—if, for instance, I’d jumped a fence into a field with an enraged bull. Wouldn’t you come racing to save me?”
The look he shot her was disgusted—disgusted she’d even asked. “Of course I would.” After a moment, he added more softly, “You know I would.”
She inclined her head, a very odd knot of emotion in her stomach; as children, he’d always been the first to interpose himself between her and any danger. “Yes—and that’s precisely what I mean about the way you’re suffocating the twins.”
Deliberately, she fell silent. She sensed his reluctance; it poured from him in waves. He didn’t want to hear her theory, didn’t want to canvass the possibility that he, his brother, and his cousins might be wrong, might be overreacting. Because if he did, he’d have to rein in his Cynster protectiveness, and that, she well knew, was very hard to do.
Eventually, he shot her a far from encouraging glance. “Why suffocating?”
She looked away, across the sea of heads. “Because you won’t
let them spread their wings. Rather than letting them ride wild, stepping in only if they’re threatened, you’re making sure they’re not threatened in the first place by ensuring they never ride at all.” He opened his mouth; she held up a placating hand. “A perfectly valid approach in other contexts, but in this arena, it means you’re blocking off all chance of their learning to ride—all chance of their succeeding. Well”—she gestured across the room—“just look at them.” She couldn’t see them, but he could. “They may be surrounded by ten gentlemen—”
“Twenty.”
“How ever many!” Her terse tone had him meeting her gaze. “Can’t you see they’re the wrong men?”
Gabriel looked at the teeming masses around the twins, and tried to tell himself he couldn’t see it at all.
“Can you seriously imagine any of those innocuous gentlemen married to the twins? Or is it more accurate to say you—all of you—have been carefully avoiding imagining the twins married at all?”
She was like his conscience, whispering in his ear. Like his conscience, he couldn’t ignore her. “I’ll think about it,” he growled, unwilling to even meet her eyes. All he would see was the truth, his own truth reflected back at him.
He dragged in a breath, chest swelling against the usual constriction, the constriction he always felt when around her. Lord, she made him uncomfortable. Even now, when they weren’t tearing strips off each other but having what was, for them, a rational discussion, his insides felt scored, like claws had dragged down from his throat over his chest, then locked about his heart, his gut.
She’d shaken him, too. Again. Why the devil had she looked at him like that—eyes wide with what?—when he’d backed her against the wall? The sight had rocked him; even now, his skin was prickling just because she was close.
His impulse, as always, was to verbally lash at her, to drive her away even though, if she was in the same room, he would compulsively head for her side. Stupid. He wished he could tell himself that he disliked her, but he didn’t. He never had. Keeping his gaze from her ridiculous cap—the sight would assuredly set him off—he drew in another breath, scanning the nearer guests, about to bow and excuse himself—