Now he smiled, a sad, forlorn smile. “Is there anything I can do?”
She hugged his arm. “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, Papa—keep Jeremy entertained and out of mischief.” She drew back. “You’re so good with them—they’re both a real credit to you.”
“Indeed,” Serena agreed. “And if Alathea says there’s nothing to worry about, then there’s no sense worrying. She’ll keep us informed—you know she always does.”
The earl seemed about to speak, then muffled cries and thumps came from the front hall.
The earl’s lips twitched. “I’d better get out there before Crisp hands in his notice.” He touched his lips to Alathea’s temple, stooped to kiss Serena’s cheek, then he strode out to the hall, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head as he crossed the threshold.
With Serena, Alathea followed more slowly. From the dining room doorway, they watched the melee in the hall resolve itself under the earl’s direction. “He’s really a wonderful father,” Serena said as the earl ushered his sons out of the front door.
“I know.” Alathea smiled at his departing back. “I’m really very impressed with Charlie.” She glanced at Serena. “The next earl of Morwellan will hold a candle to all comers. He’s an amazing amalgam of you both.”
Pleased, Serena inclined her head. “But he’s also got a very large dose of your commonsense. Thanks to you, my dear, the next earl of Morwellan will know how to manage his brass!”
They both laughed, yet it was true. Not only was Charlie handsome, unruffleably good-natured, never high in the instep, and always game for a lark, but he was, largely due to Serena, thoughtful, considerate and openly caring. Thanks to the earl’s influence, he was a gentleman to his toes and, as he also spent at least one session a week with Alathea in the estate office, and had for some years, he was at nineteen in a fair way to understanding how to successfully manage the estate. While he still did not know the level to which the earldom’s coffers had sunk, Charlie now knew at least the basics of how to keep them filling up.
“He’ll make an excellent earl.” Alathea looked up as Mary and Alice came clattering down the stairs, bonnets on, ribbons streaming, her own bonnet dangling from Mary’s hand. Augusta had slipped out earlier; Alathea glimpsed her littlest stepsister heading out to the garden, her hand in Miss Helm’s.
Charlie, Jeremy, Mary, Alice, and Augusta—they were the ultimate reasons she’d invented the countess. Even if he discovered her deception, Alathea couldn’t believe her knight would disapprove of her motives.
“Come on!” Alice waved her parasol at the door. “The afternoon’s winging—we’ve already ordered the carriage.”
Accepting her bonnet, Alathea turned to the mirror to settle it over her top knot.
Casting a critical eye over her daughters, Serena straightened a ribbon here, tweaked a curl there. “Where do you intend going?”
Alathea turned from the mirror as the clop of hooves heralded the carriage. “I’d thought to go to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The trees are tall, the grass green and well tended, and it’s never crowded.”
Serena nodded. “Yes, you’re right—but what an odd place to think of.”
Alathea merely smiled and followed Mary and Alice down the steps.
Gabriel discovered the bronze plaque identifying the offices of Thurlow and Brown along the south face of Lincoln’s Inn. Surrounding a rectangular cobbled courtyard, the Inn housed nothing but legal chambers. Its inner walls were punctuated with regularly spaced open archways, each giving access to a shadowy stairwell. On the wall beside each archway, bronze plaques bore witness to the legal firms housed off the stairway within.
After consulting a book listing the solicitors of the Inns of Court, Montague had directed Gabriel to Lincoln’s Inn, describing the firm as small, old, but undistinguished, with no known association with any matter remotely illegal. As he climbed the stairs, Gabriel reflected that, if he’d been behind the sort of swindle it seemed likely the Central East Africa Gold Company was, then the first step he’d take to lull gullible investors would be to retain such a firm as Thurlow and Brown. A firm stultifyingly correct and all but moribund, unlikely to boast the talents or connections that might give rise to unanswerable questions.
Thurlow and Brown’s rooms were on the second level, to the rear of the building. Gabriel reached for the knob of the heavy oak door, noting the large lock beneath the knob. Sauntering in, he scanned the small reception area. Behind a low railing, an old clerk worked at a raised desk, guarding access to a short corridor leading to one room at the rear, and to a second room off the reception area.
“Yes? Can I help you?” The clerk clutched at the angled desktop. Frowning, he flipped through a diary. “You don’t have an appointment.” He made it sound like an offense.
His expression one of affable boredom, Gabriel shut the door, noting that there were no bolts or extra latches, only that large and cumbersome lock.
“Thurlow,” he murmured, turning back to the clerk. “There was a Thurlow at Eton when I was there. I wonder if it’s the same one?”
“Couldn’t be. His nibs”—the clerk waved an ink-stained hand at the half open door giving off the reception area—“is old enough to be your dad.”
“That so?” Gabriel sounded disappointed. Clearly “his nibs” was out. “Ah, well. It was really Mr. Browne I came to see.”
Again the clerk frowned; again he checked his book. “You’re not down for this afternoon . . .”
“I’m not? How odd. I was sure the pater said two.”
The clerk shook his head. “Mr. Brown’s out. I’m not expecting him back until later.”
Letting annoyance flash across his features, Gabriel thumped the reception railing with his cane. “If that isn’t just like Theo Browne! Never could keep his engagements straight!”
“Theo Brown?”
Gabriel looked at the clerk. “Yes—Mr. Browne.”
“But that’s not our Mr. Brown.”
“It isn’t?” Gabriel stared at the clerk. “Is your Browne spelled with an ‘e’?”
The clerk shook his head.
“Damn!” Gabriel swung away. “I was sure it was Thurlow and Browne.” He frowned. “Maybe it’s Thirston and Browne. Thrapston and Browne. Something like that.” He looked questioningly at the clerk.
Who shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, sir. Don’t know of any firms with names like that. Mind you, there is Browne, Browne and Tillson in the other quad—might they be the ones you’re after?”
“Browne, Browne and Tillson.” Gabriel repeated the name twice with different inflections, then shrugged. “Who knows. Could be.” He swung to the door. “The other quad, you say?”
“Aye, sir—across the carriage road through the Inn.”
Waving his cane in farewell, Gabriel went out, closing the door behind him. Then he grinned and strolled down the stairs.
Regaining the sunshine, he strode across the cobbles. He’d seen enough to confirm Thurlow and Brown’s standing—precisely as Montague had said, stuffily, dustily dull. He’d learned which room was whose, and through the open doors he’d seen the locked client boxes lining the walls of both partners’ rooms. They didn’t lock the boxes away somewhere else. They were there, within easy reach, and the only lock between the landing and the boxes was the old wrist-breaker on the main door.
There had also been no sign of any junior clerk. There’d been only one desk, and little space outside the partners’ rooms—no area for a clerk or office boy to spend the night.
Entirely satisfied with his afternoon’s work, Gabriel saluted the gatekeeper with his cane and strode through the secondary gateway into the adjoining Fields.
Before him, a small army of old trees, like ancient sentinels, spread their branches protectively over gravel walks and swaths of lawn. Sunlight streamed down. The breeze ruffled leaves, shedding shifting shadows over the green carpets on which gentlemen and ladies strolled while waiting for ot
hers consulting in the surrounding chambers.
Gabriel paused in the cobbled forecourt beyond the gate, gazing unseeing at the trees.
Would the countess be impatient enough to contact him that evening? The possibility tantalized, even more so as the realization sank in that her impatience could not possibly match his. While with her, he’d felt he knew her, knew the sort of woman she was; away from her, he’d realized how little he knew of the real woman behind the veil. Learning more, quickly, seemed imperative—he especially needed to learn how to put his hand on a woman who thus far had been a phantom in the night.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t learn more until she contacted him—at least now, when she did, he’d have something to report.
Shrugging off his distraction, he settled on Aldwych as his best bet for a hackney and set out along the south side of the Fields. Halfway along, he heard himself hailed.
“Gabriel!”
“Over here!”
The voices coming from the Fields were assuredly feminine, equally assuredly young. Halting, Gabriel scanned the shaded lawns; two sweet young things, their parasols tilted at crazy angles, were bobbing up and down and waving madly. Squinting against the sunlight, he recognized Mary and Alice Morwellan. Raising his cane in reply, he waited until a dowager’s black carriage rolled soberly past, then started across the narrow street.
Alathea saw him coming, and had to fight down an urge to screech at her sisters—what had they done? She’d seen him walk through the gates of the Inn and pause. Her attention locked on him, she’d assured herself that he wouldn’t notice her in the shadows, that there was no reason for her heart to gallop, for her nerves to twitch.
He’d remained safely ignorant of her presence—she’d been surprised he’d acted so swiftly on the countess’s behalf. That was, she presumed, why he was here—if she’d known, she would never have risked coming. Having him find her anywhere near any location he would associate with the countess had formed no part of her careful plans. She needed to keep her two personas completely distinct, especially near him.
As he’d walked along the street, cane swinging, broad shoulders square, sunlight had gleamed on his chestnut hair, gilding the lightly curling locks. Her thoughts had slowed, halted—she’d completely forgotten Mary and Alice were with her.
They’d seen him and called—now there was no escape. As he crossed the grass toward them, she drew in a breath, lifted her chin, tightened her fists about her parasol’s handle—and tried to quell her panic.
He couldn’t recognize lips he’d kissed but not seen, could he?
Smiling easily, Gabriel strode into the trees’ shadows. As he neared, Mary and Alice stopped jigging and contented themselves with beaming; only then, with his eyes adjusting and with their dancing parasols no longer distracting him, did he see the lady standing behind them.
Alathea.
His stride almost faltered.
She stood straight and tall, silently contained, her parasol held at precisely the correct angle to protect her fine skin from the sun. Not, of course, waving at him.
Masking his reaction—the powerful jolt that shook him whenever he saw her unexpectedly and the prickling sensation that followed—he continued his advance. She watched him with her usual cool regard, her customary challenge—a haughty watchfulness that never failed to get his goat.
Forcing his gaze from her, he smiled and greeted Mary and Alice, veritable pictures in mull muslin. He made them laugh by bowing extravagantly over their hands.
“We were utterly amazed to see you!” Mary said.
“We’ve been to the park twice,” Alice confided, “but that was earlier than this. You probably weren’t about.”
Refraining from replying that he rarely inhabited the park, at least not during the fashionable hours, he fought to keep his gaze on them. “I knew you were coming to town, but I hadn’t realized you were here.” He’d last met them in January, at a party given by his mother at his family home, Quiverstone Manor in Somerset. Morwellan Park and the Manor shared a long boundary; the combined lands and the nearby Quantock Hills had been his childhood stamping ground—his, his brother Lucifer’s, and Alathea’s.
With easy familiarity, he complimented both girls, fielding their questions, displaying his suave London persona to their evident delight. Yet while he distracted them with trivialities, his attention remained riveted on the cool presence a few feet away. Why that should be so was an abiding mystery—Mary and Alice were effervescent delights. Alathea in contrast was cool, composed, still—in some peculiar way, a lodestone for his senses. The girls were as bubbling, tumbling streams, while Alathea was a deep pool of peace, calm, and something else he’d never succeeded in defining. He was intensely aware of her, as she was of him; he was acutely conscious they had not exchanged greetings.
They never did. Not really.
Steeling himself, he lifted his gaze from Mary’s and Alice’s faces and looked at Alathea. At her hair. But she was wearing a bonnet—he couldn’t tell whether she was also wearing one of her ridiculous caps, or one of those foolish scraps of lace she’d started placing about her top knot. She probably was concealing some such frippery nonsense, but he couldn’t comment unless he saw it. Lips thinning, he lowered his gaze until his eyes met hers. “I hadn’t realized you were in London.”
He was speaking directly to her, specifically of her, his tone quite different from when he’d spoken to the girls.
Her lashes flickered; her grip on her parasol tightened. “Good afternoon, Rupert. It is a lovely day. We came up to town a week ago.”
He stiffened.
Alathea sensed it. Her stomach knotted with panic, she looked at Mary and Alice and forced herself to smile serenely. “The girls will be making their come-outs shortly.”
After a fractional hesitation, he followed her lead. “Indeed?” Turning back to Mary and Alice, he quizzed them on their plans.
Alathea tried to breathe evenly, tried to hold her sudden lightheadedness at bay. She refused to let her gaze slide his way. She knew his face as well as her own—the large, heavily hooded eyes, the mobile lips given to wry quirks, the classic planes of nose and forehead, the uncompromisingly square chin. He was tall enough to see over her head—one of the few who could do so. He was strong enough to subdue her if he wished, and ruthless enough to do it. There was nothing about him physically that she didn’t already know, nothing to set such a sharp edge to her usual tension.
Nothing beyond the fact that she’d seen him last night in the porch of St. Georges, while he hadn’t seen her.
The memory of his lips covering hers, of the beguiling touch of his fingers beneath her chin, locked her lungs, tightened her nerves, set her senses leaping. Her lips tingled.
“Our ball will be in three weeks,” Mary was telling him. “You’ll be invited, of course.”
“Will you come?” Alice asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” His gaze flicked to Alathea’s face, then he looked back at the girls.
Gabriel knew exactly how a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way felt—precisely how he always felt near Alathea. How she did it he did not know; he didn’t even know if she had to do anything—it simply seemed his inevitable reaction to her. He’d react, and she’d snap back. The air between them would crackle. It had started when they were children and had grown more intense with the years.
He kept his gaze on the girls, ruthlessly stifling the urge to turn to Alathea. “But what are you doing here?”
“It was Allie’s idea.”
Blithely, they turned to her; gritting his teeth, he had to do the same.
Coolly, she shrugged. “I’d heard of it as a quiet place to stroll—one where ladies would be unlikely to encounter any of the more rakish elements.”
Like him.
She’d chosen to live her life buried in the country—why she thought that gave her the right to disapprove of his lifestyle he did not know; he only knew she did. “Indeed?”
He debated pressing her—both for her real reason for being in the Fields and also over her impertinence in disapproving of him. Even with the girls all ears and bright eyes before them, he could easily lift the conversation to a level where they wouldn’t understand. This, however, was Alathea. She was intractably stubborn—he would learn nothing she didn’t wish him to know. She was also possessed of a wit quite the equal of his; the last time they’d crossed verbal swords—in January, over the stupid Alexandrine cap she’d worn to his mother’s party—they’d both bled. If, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed with temper, she hadn’t stuck her nose in the air and walked—stalked—away from him, he would quite possibly have strangled her.
Lips compressed, he shot her a glance—she met it fearlessly. She was watching, waiting, as aware of the direction of his thoughts as he. She was ready and willing to engage in one of their customary duels.
No true gentleman ever disappointed a lady.
“I take it you’ll be accompanying Mary and Alice about town?”
She went to nod, stopped, and haughtily lifted her head. “Of course.”
“In that case”—he smiled disarmingly at Mary and Alice—“I’ll have to see what amusements I can steer your way.”
“There’s no need to put yourself out—unlike some I could mention, I don’t require to be constantly amused.”
“I think you’ll discover that unless one is constantly amused, life in the ton can be hellishly boring. What, other than boredom, could possibly have brought you here?”
“A wish to avoid impertinent gentlemen.”
“How fortunate, then, that I chanced upon you. If avoiding impertinent gentlemen is your aim, a lady within the ton can never be too careful. There’s no telling precisely where or when she’ll encounter the most shocking impertinence.”
Mary and Alice smiled trustingly up at him; all they heard was his fashionable drawl. Alathea, he knew, detected the steel beneath it; he could sense her increasing tension.
“You forget—I’m perfectly capable of dealing with outrageous impertinence, however unamusing I might find such encounters.”