A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens
Pausing beyond the threshold, she looked around. “Oh, yes. This is perfect.”
Gabriel thought so, too. In the cavelike gloom created by the heavy curtains, a huge four-poster bed sat in stately splendor. It possessed a goodly number of plump pillows and the mattress was thick. He’d already confirmed it met his standards; the countess would have no reason to cavil.
She, of course, paid no attention to the bed; her comment was occasioned by the convenient gap between the half-closed door and its jamb, a gap that gave anyone standing behind the door a perfect view of the seats before the sitting room fireplace.
She was squinting at them when another knock fell on the door.
Gabriel met her questioning glance. “Gerrard. I’ll need to rehearse his lines—he won’t know you’re here.”
He spoke in a whisper. She nodded. Leaving her, he crossed to the door.
Gerrard stood in the corridor looking sleekly debonair, his youth revealed only by the expectant light in his eyes. “All ready?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” Waving him to the seats by the fire, Gabriel shut the door. “We should go over your lessons.”
“Oh, yes.” Gerrard made himself comfortable in what was clearly the host’s chair. “I hadn’t realized how much there was to learn about giving people money.”
“Many don’t, which is precisely what men like Crowley count on.” Gabriel walked to the other armchair, then hesitated. Then he walked to the wall, picked up a straight-backed chair, and carried it over to face Gerrard. “Better to play safe . . .” Sitting, he fixed Gerrard with a keen glance. “Now . . .”
He led Gerrard through a catechism of terms and conditions, couched in popular investing cant. At the end of twenty minutes, he nodded. “You’ll do.” He glanced at the clock. “We’d better speak in whispers from now on.”
Gerrard nodded. His gaze drifted to the tantalus; he rose and poured himself a small amount of brandy, swirling it around the glass to make it appear there’d been more originally. He met Gabriel’s gaze as he resat, cradling the balloon in his fingers. “I’ll offer them a drink, don’t you think?”
“Good idea.” Gabriel nodded at the glass in Gerrard’s hand.
Gerrard grinned.
An aggressive knock fell on the door.
Rising, Gabriel held up a hand to stay Gerrard, then picked up his chair and silently returned it to its place against the wall. After one last glance about the scene, he crossed to the darkened bedchamber and stepped behind the door.
Gerrard set down his glass, then stood, straightened his sleeves, and strolled to the door. Opening it, he looked out. “Yes?”
“I believe you’re expecting us.” The deep booming voice carried clearly to the two behind the bedchamber door. “We represent the Central East Africa Gold Company.”
Gabriel took up his position behind the countess. In the darkened bedchamber, she was no more than a dense shadow, her veiled face lit by the weak light shafting between door and jamb. Slightly to one side of her, Gabriel watched Gerrard greet his visitors with earnest affability.
After shaking hands, Gerrard waved the two men to the sofa. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”
Gabriel struggled to block out the countess’s perfume and concentrate; this was his first view of Crowley. Although he’d only been able to hear the names exchanged, he had no doubt which of the two was he. He was a bull of a man; comparing his height with Gerrard’s, Gabriel pegged him at just on six feet. Six feet of muscled bulk; Crowley would easily have made two of Gerrard. Heavy black brows, thick and strong, slashed across his face, overhanging deep-set eyes. His face was fleshy, his features as coarse as the black hair that curled thickly over his large head.
That head appeared sunk directly into hulking shoulders; his arms were heavily thewed, as were his legs. He was wide and barrel-chested; he looked as strong as an ox and probably was. The only weakness Gabriel could discern was that he moved heavily, with no suppleness to his frame; when Gerrard offered a drink just as Crowley was about to sit, he had to turn his entire body toward Gerrard to answer, not just his head.
He was a distinctly unlovely specimen, but not specifically ugly. His thick lips were presently curved in an easy smile, softening the pugnacious line of his jaw and lending his otherwise unprepossessing countenance a certain charm. Indeed, there was raw energy—an animal magnetism—conveyed in the brilliance of his gaze and in the sheer strength of his movements.
Some women would find that attractive.
Gabriel glanced at the countess. Her attention was riveted on the scene in the sitting room. He looked back to see Crowley lean back on the sofa, completely at ease now he’d seen Gerrard. The expression on his face reminded Gabriel of a cat about to start playing with a mouse—anticipation of the kill oozed from Crowley’s pores.
A soft sound reached Gabriel. He glanced at the countess, and realized he’d heard her swiftly indrawn breath. She’d tensed; as he watched, she almost imperceptibly shuddered.
Looking back at the scene playing out before them, Gabriel could understand. At his vacuous best, Gerrard was chatting amiably with the other man; he wasn’t looking at Crowley’s face. Yet Gerrard, sensitive and observant, wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—unaware of Crowely’s potent menace. Gabriel’s respect for the younger man grew as, with every evidence of artless innocence, Gerrard turned to Crowley.
While Gerrard engaged Crowley in banal preliminaries, asking about the basic nature of the company’s business, Gabriel studied the other man, Swales, the company’s agent.
He was average in almost every way—average height, average build, common in his coloring. His features were indistinguishable from those of countless others, his clothing likewise anonymous. The only thing that set Swales apart was that while his face with its bland expression seemed like a mask, his eyes were never still. Even now, although there was no one in the room bar Gerrard and Crowley, Swales’s gaze darted constantly, now here, now there.
Crowley was the predator, Swales the scavenger.
“I see.” Gerrard nodded. “And these gold deposits are in the south of Africa, you say?”
“Not the south.” Crowley smiled patronizingly. “They’re in the central part of the continent. That’s where the ‘Central East’ in the company’s name comes from.”
“Oh!” Gerrard’s face lit. “I see now, yes. What’s the country’s name?”
“There’s more than one country involved.”
Gabriel listened, occasionally tensing as Gerrard artfully probed, but Patience’s brother possessed a real knack for pressing just so far, then sliding away into patent and unthreatening ignorance one word before Crowley tensed. Gerrard played his part to perfection, and played Crowley just as well.
The countess was equally on edge, equally concerned; she tensed at precisely the same moments he did, then relaxed as Gerrard once again played out Crowley’s line. Crowley was the one hooked on the lure, being artfully reeled in, not the other way about.
By the end of an hour, when Gerrard finally allowed Swales to show him the promissory note, they had heard all they could hope to hear, and that from Crowley’s lips. He’d named the locations of three of the company’s mining claims, and also cited towns where he said the company had a workforce and buildings established. He’d dropped a host of names supposedly of African officials backing the company, and of African authorities from whom permissions had been received. Under subtle prompting, he’d revealed figures aplenty, enough to keep Montague busy for a week. He’d also twice mentioned that the company was close to commencing the next phase of development.
They’d learned what they needed to know, and Gabriel was exhausted by the constant ebb and flow of helpless tension. The countess was sagging, too. Gerrard, on the other hand, was positively glowing. Crowley and Swales saw it as enthusiasm; Gabriel knew it was suppressed excitement at his triumph.
“So you see”—Swales leaned closer to Gerrard, pointing to the lower por
“Oh, yes. Right-ho!” Gerrard started rerolling the note. “I’ll get it signed right and tight, and then we’ll all be happy, what?” He grinned at Crowley and Swales.
There was an instant of silence, then Crowley said, “Get it signed? Why can’t you sign it now?”
Gerrard looked at him as if he’d admitted to lunacy. “But . . . my dear man, I can’t sign. I’m a minor.” Having dropped his bombshell, Gerrard looked from Crowley to Swales and back again. “Didn’t you know?”
Crowley’s face darkened. “No. We didn’t know.” Shifting forward, he held out a hand for the note.
Gerrard grinned and held onto it. “Well, there’s no need to worry, y’know. M’sister’s my main guardian and she’ll sign whatever I tell her to. Well, why wouldn’t she? She’s got no head for business—she leaves that to me.”
Crowley hesitated, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Gerrard’s innocent countenance. Then he asked, “Who’s your other guardian? Do they have to sign, too?”
“Well, yes—that’s how things usually are if there’s a female involved, don’t y’know. But my other guardian’s an old stick—bumbling old fool—my late pater’s old solicitor. He lives buried in the country. Once m’sister signs, then he will, too, and all will be right as a trivet.”
Crowley glanced at Swales, who shrugged. Crowley looked back at Gerrard, then nodded. “Very well.” He stood, slowly bringing his bulk up off the sofa.
Gerrard unfolded his long limbs with the effortless grace of the young and held out his hand. “Right then. I’ll get the deed done, the note signed, and get it back to you forthwith.”
He shook hands with Crowley, and then with Swales, then accompanied them to the door. As they reached it, Crowley paused. Gabriel and the countess shifted, craning to keep them in sight.
“So when can we expect to get the note back?”
Gerrard grinned, the epitome of foolish vacuity. “Oh, a few weeks should do it.”
“Weeks!” Crowley’s face darkened again.
Gerrard blinked at him. “Why, yes—didn’t I say? The pater’s old solicitor lives in Derbyshire.” When Crowley continued to glower, Gerrard’s brows rose, his expression degenerating to that of a child fearing denial of a promised treat. “Why? There’s no tearing rush, is there?”
Crowley studied Gerrard’s face, then, very gradually, drew back. “As I said, the company’s close to commencing the next phase of operations. Once we reach that point, we won’t be accepting any more promissory notes. If you want a share in our profits, you’ll need to get the note signed and returned to us—you can send it to Thurlow and Brown, of Lincoln’s Inn.”
“But if you don’t get it to us soon,” Swales put in, “you’ll miss out.”
“Oh, no chance of that! I’ll get m’sister to sign and get it off tomorrow. If I send it by rider, it’ll be back before we know it, what?”
“Just make sure it is.” With one last intimidating glance, Crowley hauled open the door.
Swales followed him into the corridor. Gerrard stopped on the threshold. “Well, thank you, and good-bye.”
Crowley’s growled farewell rumbled back to them, drowning out Swales’s reply.
Gerrard stood at the door, watching them depart, his silly smile still in place, then he stepped back, closed the door, and let his mask fall.
Gabriel closed his hands about the countess’s shoulders. She sagged back against him—for one blissful moment, from shoulder to hip, she caressed him—then she remembered herself and stiffly straightened. Smiling in the dark, Gabriel squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Leaving her behind the door, he went out to Gerrard.
He put a finger to his lips as Gerrard faced him. Gerrard dutifully held silent. They both waited, listening, then Gabriel signaled Gerrard to open the door and look out.
Gerrard did, then stepped back and closed the door. “They’re gone.”
Gabriel nodded, scanning Gerrard’s face. “Well done.”
Gerrard smiled. “It was the longest performance I’ve ever given, but he didn’t seem to suspect.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. If he had, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near as accommodating.” Crossing to the escritoire by the windows, Gabriel drew out paper and pen. “Now to the last act. We need to write down everything we heard, and sign and date it.”
Gerrard drew up a chair. Together, they recounted the conversation, noting down names, locations and amounts. With his sharp visual memory, Gerrard was able to review the conversation, verifying Gabriel’s recollections and adding further snippets. An hour had passed before they were satisfied.
Gabriel pushed back from the escritoire. “That gives us a lot to check, a lot to verify—more than enough chance to prove fraud.” He glanced at Gerrard, just as Gerrard yawned. “Now it’s time you were off home.”
Gerrard grinned and rose. “Tiring work, acting, and I’m driving to Brighton with friends tomorrow, so I’d best turn in.” Gabriel followed Gerrard to the door. Gerrard stopped by the sofa. “Here—you’d better take this, too.”
“Indeed.” Gabriel accepted the rolled promissory note. “It’s absolute evidence that this meeting took place.”
Reaching the door, Gerrard looked back. “Are you coming?”
Stowing the note and their account of the meeting in the inside pocket of his coat, Gabriel shook his head. “Not just yet. We shouldn’t be seen together. You go ahead—I’ll follow later. Duggan is waiting for you, isn’t he?” Duggan was Vane’s groom.
Gerrard nodded. “He’ll drive me back to Curzon Street. Let me know how it goes.” With a salute, he went out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.
Gabriel considered the closed door, then walked across and snibbed the lock. He surveyed the room, then strolled to the lamp beside the fireplace, turning it, then its mate, very low, shrouding the room in shadows. Satisfied, he headed for the bedchamber, for the epilogue to the evening’s performance.
The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.
“Do you really think there are mining claims in those places—Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?”
“I’d be greatly surprised if there’s anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We’ll check.” He couldn’t see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses—they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley’s revelations. “He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I’ve got it all down. To get the company’s notes declared invalid all we need do is prove some of those claims false, not all of them.”
“Still”—he heard the frown in her voice—“it won’t be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentioned?”
“No, but there must be someone in London who will.”
“He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development—surely that’s his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon.”
“He’s not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he’ll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net.”
Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. “It’s a significant victory to have got that much detail from him.”
“Oh, indeed!” She looked up. “Mr. Debbington was quite splendid.”
“And what about the eminence grise behind the scenes?”
He knew precisely when she realized—realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.
He slid one arm about her waist. “I intend being a great deal more inventive yet.”
He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.
“You’ve been very successful.” Her tone was slightly breathless.
His lips curved. “I’ve been brilliant.” He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering . . . but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn’t possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips—to the lips that were waiting for him.
Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price—he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.
There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more—know more—of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.
He sensed the hitch in her breathing. Closing his fist in her hair, he drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Blind in the dense darkness, he slid his lips from hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He laved it, then sucked—her breath hitched again. Her fingers had speared through his hair; they spread over his skull as he shifted his hold and closed his hands over her breasts.
Already firm, they swelled and filled his palms, heated flesh begging for his attention. Straightening, dragging in a swift breath, he caught her lips again. She kissed him back—avidly, greedily, as ravenous as he. When he rotated his thumbs about her already ruched nipples, she gasped. Without thought, he backed her until she came up against the wall. Inwardly, he tried to shake his head to clear it of the miasma of lust fogging it. He’d just moved her away from the bed, a patently silly move. Now he’d have to move her back again.