A Secret Love

Chapter 18

Their ball had been held on Monday night. Alathea did not set eyes on Gabriel again until Wednesday. Ambling in the park behind his sisters and hers, closely escorted by Lord Esher and Mr. Carstairs, she was deep in disturbing thoughts of Crowley and the Central East Africa Gold Company when she heard her name called. Looking up, she saw the group ahead looking back at her. Heather Cynster pointed to the nearby carriageway-to where her brother held his team of restless bays, stamping impatiently. As she lengthened her stride, Alathea got the distinct impression that the horses were merely reflecting their master's state.

"Good morning." Tipping her head up, she looked into his face, some way above her, courtesy of his high perch phaeton. The carriage held the interest of the girls and their beaux, leaving her to deal with its driver.

He beckoned. "Come up. I'll take you for a tool around the avenue."

She smiled. "No, thank you."

He stared at her.

The others had heard.

"Go on, Allie! You'll enjoy it."

"We'll be safe enough."

"It'll just be for a few minutes."

"Carstairs and I will engage to watch over your charges in your stead, Lady Alathea."

Alathea kept her gaze steady on Gabriel's face. "When last did you drive a lady in the park?"

He studied her for an instant longer, then his lips thinned. "Hold 'em, Biggs." His groom leaped from the back and ran to the horses' heads. Gabriel tied off the reins and jumped down.

Without a word, he took her arm and waved the others on. Absorbed with their own concerns, the girls were happy to comply. By mutual accord, she and Gabriel waited until the group was far enough ahead so they could talk without being overheard, then set out in their wake.

"There's no reason you couldn't let me drive you about the park."

"I have no intention of letting you declare your hand in such a public fashion." She shot him a reproving glance. "I'm not going to be swayed by such manuevers."

"More fool you. How did you know, anyway?"

"Your mama is always full of your doings-yours, Lucifer's, and the rest of your cousins. The fact that none of you drive ladies in the park-ladies other than your wives-is well known to all, I gather."

Gabriel had been counting on it. "How does Gretna Green strike you? We could be there in two days."

"At present, I have matters to deal with here. As soon as those matters are settled, I intend retiring to the country once again."

"Don't wager your mother's pearls on it."

"Humph! Anyway, what have you learned? I take it you got my note last night?"

"Yes, but not until this morning. Last night I was busy trying to prise information from certain African dignitaries."

"What did they say?"

"Enough to unofficially confirm that at least four of Crowley's claims of governmental approvals and permissions are false. I'm working on turning unofficial into official, but no government bureacracy works quickly. We won't have any official support for our petition by the time we have to lodge it."

"And when's that?"

"I would advise against waiting longer than next Tuesday."

"That soon?"

"We can't risk Crowley calling in his notes, and I'd wager my bays he'll do it late next week." Gabriel glanced at Alathea, then continued, "The petition's all but ready. Wiggs's clerk should have finished it-as far as we've gone-by tomorrow. Wiggs will bring it to me. If we have no more to add, with your permission, I'll ask my solicitor to make an appointment for Tuesday morning with one of the judges of the Chancery Court to submit our case. We don't dare wait longer-fighting a rearguard action once the promissory note is executed and the call on funds made will leave us in a considerably worse position legally."

Alathea grimaced. "If that's how it must be…"

"I'll alert Devil, and Vane, too. He'll bring Gerrard up to town when he's needed." His gaze on her face, her profile, Gabriel opened his mouth on the words: "Thea, it's a big risk," but left them unsaid. If he had considered all the dangers and alternatives, she would have, too. There was no danger to her-he would marry her in an instant, and rescue both her and her family from penury-she knew that without his stating it. But what of Morwellan Park, and the title, the long unbroken line of Morwellans stretching back through time? What of her family's pride? That was what she'd set out from the first to protect, and it wasn't something that could be rescued other than by risking all.

Her motives needed no explaining to a Cynster. All he could do was stand by her shoulder and do whatever he could to bring about her victory.

And, perhaps, provide a distraction. "Actually, the reason I came looking for you wasn't to tell you all that. I've tickets for Friday's performance of The Barber of Seville. I thought you and your family might like to attend."

Alathea stared at him. "Friday night's the last night-it's to be a gala performance."

"So I understand." The production had taken the ton by storm. The management had decreed the final performance would be a gala event, to thank both cast and patrons.

"But… the gala was sold out within hours of the announcement last week. How on earth did you manage to get tickets for us all?"

"Never mind how I got the damned tickets! Will you come?"

"Speaking for myself, of course I'll come! As for the others, you can ask them yourself." Alathea waved ahead to where the group were gathered about the Morwellan barouche.

Gabriel was glad to see that his sisters had already said their good-byes and were heading for his mother's landau, drawn in to the verge a little way along. Celia saw him and waved but did not beckon him to attend her. Nor did she evince any surprise at seeing him again strolling with Alathea. Those facts declared that Celia, at least, understood his intention and approved; Gabriel knew he could rely on her for support should the need arise.

Joining the others before the Morwellan carriage, he smoothly issued his invitation, specifically including both Esher and Carstairs. Alathea looked at him curiously but said nothing. She didn't have to-everyone was eager to attend the gala performance of The Barber of Seville.

When she arrived with the others at the Opera House on Friday night, Alathea discovered Gabriel had not just secured tickets, but one of the two most sought-after private boxes overlooking the stage. He met them in the foyer, then with her on one arm and Serena on the other, led the way up the stairs and down the plushly carpeted first floor corridor to the gilded door giving onto the box overhanging the left of the stage.

Eyes swivelled as they took their seats, the tonnish occupants of the less-favored boxes craning to see who had commanded prime place on this, the most celebrated evening of the season. Whispers abounded as, head high, her expression serene, Alathea regally sat in one of the chairs at the front of the box. Serena sat beside her, turning to murmur her thanks to Gabriel as he settled in the chair behind and to the side of Alathea's.

Alathea would gladly have boxed his ears, but not in public. As it was, all she could do was smile and return the gracious nods of the ton's matrons. Mary and Alice, wide-eyed, took the other front-row seats beyond Serena. Esher and Carstairs sat behind them. His lordship leaned forward and engaged Serena in some discussion. Alathea turned to Gabriel, intending to inform him she would box his ears later, only to find him leaning closer, a frown in his eyes.

"My apologies. I didn't realize we'd attract this much attention."

Alathea grimaced, absolving him of intent. She refrained from acidly informing him that this was the degree of attention he, a Cynster, should expect in declaring his hand. "I take it," she whispered, glancing briefly at Serena to make sure she was occupied, "that you haven't heard anything of the captain."

"No." His gaze lifted to her forehead. The frown in his eyes intensified. "Stop worrying. One way or another, we'll see this through."

Willing away all external evidence of her state, Alathea sighed. "I've done all I can to be beforehand, just in case…" She gestured helplessly. "I've paid all the accounts from the ball-the caterers, the milliners, the modistes-even the musicians. They all thought I'd run mad, demanding they submit their accounts immediately."

"I dare say. If you've paid them all outright, the Morwellans will be the only family in the ton to finish the Season with a clear slate."

"I thought it would be better-more ethical, in a way. I'd rather our honest creditors were paid before Crowley and his schemes lay claim to all we have."

Gabriel's fingers closed on her hand. She only just had time to brace herself against the sensation of his lips caressing the backs of her fingers.

"Relax. Forget the Central East Africa Gold Company. Forget Crowley, at least for tonight." With a nod, he indicated the stage; the curtain was rising to building applause. "I've brought you here tonight, and the only thanks I want is for you to enjoy yourself. So stop worrying, and do."

Turning her hand, he brushed her inner wrist with his lips, then released her. Alathea faced the stage as the house lamps were doused, and did as he asked.

It wasn't difficult-the production was a tour de force, the singers superb, the sets and orchestra unsurpassed. She had fallen in love with musical performances in those few short weeks when she'd first come to London. She'd felt starved ever since; the efforts of provincial theatres could not compare with the extravagantly superior London events.

Because of the additional scenes and special arias to be presented as part of the gala, there was to be only one interval, occurring after the second act. When the curtain swished down and the lamps flared to life, Alathea sighed contentedly and glanced back at Gabriel.

He raised a brow, then stirred his long frame. "Time to stretch our legs."

Alathea allowed him to draw her to her feet. She turned to Serena.

Her stepmother flicked open her fan and waved it before her face. "I'm going to rest here-you may all stroll the corridors, but do be back in good time for the next act." She smiled on them all, Esher with Mary on his arm and Carstairs beside Alice. Gabriel waved the others on ahead, then he and Alathea stepped from the box into a sea of parading humanity. There was nothing they could do but parade along with everyone else.

"Forget about watching the others," Gabriel advised. "But tell me, have they spoken yet?"

"Both have asked leave to call on Papa next Wednesday." Alathea smiled. "I understand they're very seriously preparing a joint presentation to win his consent. No one's had the heart to tell them there's no need. They're both dears, each in their own way."

"Just leave them to it. Marriage is, after all, a serious business, not something a gentleman should embark on without due consideration."

"Indeed? Then might I suggest-

"No. You may not. Twenty-nine years of knowing you is consideration enough."

A footman in full Beefeater costume appeared before them, flourishing a tray of glasses; they each took one and sipped. Countess Lieven hailed them through the crush; by the time they gained her side and suffered through her observations, the bell summoning the audience back to their seats was pealing.

Ten minutes later, they regained their box and sank into their seats as the curtain rose. An expectant hush fell over the audience. Gabriel angled his chair so he could see Alathea's face, illuminated by the light from the stage. Then he settled to watch-not the performance but the expressions animating her features, the signs of joy, of sorrow, of delight evoked by the unfolding story. The performers held the ton in thrall, but for him there was only Alathea.

The second half of the program exceeded the expectations raised by the first; at the end the audience was on their feet, applauding wildly, flowers raining down as the soloists took their bows. Finally, it was over, and the curtain fell for the last time. Gabriel watched as Alathea heaved a deep sigh and turned to him, a smile in her eyes, her lips curved, all worries temporarily banished.

Reward enough.

The others were exclaiming, discussing various highlights. Tilting her head, Alathea studied him. Her smile deepened. "You needn't pretend you paid attention."

"One of the numerous benefits of knowing each other so well-there's no need to prevaricate."

She searched his face. "Why did you do this-go to all this trouble, indulge in what I'm sure will prove a shockingly hideous expense?"

He returned her gaze steadily. "You like music."

It was that simple-he let her read the truth in his eyes. Then she shivered. He reached for the shawl she'd left over her chair and held it up. She hesitated, then turned so he could drape it over her shoulders. Releasing the fine silk, he closed his hands about her shoulders; leaning closer, he murmured, "As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight."

The glance she threw him was arrested, her expression not one he could place. But he had no chance to probe in the short time it took to escort her down the private stairway to where their carriages waited.

As he handed her up to the same black carriage he'd handed the countess into weeks before, she squeezed his hand. Then she ducked and entered the carriage. He shut the door and stepped back as Folwell flicked the reins.

Alathea sank back in the carriage, frowning now the shadows gave her freedom to do so. Beside her, Alice chatted animatedly with Tony Carstairs, seated opposite. She left them to their dissection of the performance; there was another performance with which she was far more concerned.

A performance she was starting to think might not be an act at all.

If there was any possibility that that was so…

It was time to face her fear and the emotion that gave it birth. Both were new to her. She'd pandered to the former, while pretending the latter didn't exist. She couldn't do so any longer.

She remained absorbed through the drive back to Mount Street, absentmindedly responding as, together with Serena and her stepsisters, she bade farewell to Esher and Carstairs in the front hall. She climbed the stairs, murmured her good nights, then surrendered to Nellie's ministrations, all the while analyzing each of their encounters, trying to see past his warrior's shield. Finally alone, she hitched a shawl over her nightgown and curled up on the padded seat before her window.

Morwellan House was over fifty years old, built on the foundations of a much older residence. Morwellans had owned the site for centuries. How much longer they would continue here was in the lap of the gods. Her own life, however, was in her hands. She stared at the old trees at the bottom of the back lawn, then heaved a deep sigh, crossed her arms on the stone window ledge, and settled her chin on her wrists.

When had she fallen in love with him? Had it been when she was eleven? Had he sensed it-was that what had first made him edgy when near her? Or had it been later? Had love bloomed unknown to her sometime in her teens? Or had a girlish fancy slowly developed into something more?

Unanswerable questions now. All she knew was that sometime, it had happened. It didn't, in truth, feel like something new so much as something newly discovered, a vulnerability she hadn't known she possessed until fate and circumstance had revealed it. That was bad enough, but there was more she'd yet to face. She loved him, but her love had not yet fully blossomed. It was still a bud, newly burgeoning after an extended winter, it had yet to open. She'd yet to experience the full expression of her love, the total spectrum of her need. But she could feel the force, the power swelling within the bud; if freed, it would sweep her will before it-it would become the dominant force in her life.

That fact only added to her fear.

The two threads of her worry-her family and her love-were headed for simultaneous resolution. Regardless of what transpired in the Chancery Court, he, she knew, would be there, ready to whisk her to safety be the outcome victory or defeat. If it be victory, he'd push for her surrender; if defeat, he'd wait for no permissions but simply claim her as his. From his point of view, all was straightforward; from hers, it was anything but.

Her fear she at least understood now that she'd acknowledged the strange notion of loving him. One benefit of being twenty-nine was that she knew herself well. Loving him as she knew she would if she allowed her love free rein would leave her wholly committed, totally enmeshed in their relationship. She wasn't capable of doing anything by halves-when she gave, she gave completely. If she gave her heart, it would be his, all his, forever. She hadn't done it yet, hadn't surrendered her love and her life into his keeping. If she agreed to be his wife, she would do precisely that.

But what would happen if he didn't love her?

The pain she feared flowed from that. She'd faced disappointment, misery and loneliness, the threat of servitude, of destitution, of seeing her loved ones in rags. She'd found strength when she'd needed it, yet she knew in her heart that the pain of his kindness would slay her.

For he would be kind, considerate, always gentle. Yet if he didn't love her in the same way she loved him, her love was of the sort that would destroy her from within. She couldn't contain it, simply hold it inside if there was no one to give it to, to lavish it upon. She'd waited too long for the bud to bloom-it would now bloom in glory, or wither and die. There was no other way. And if it died, so would she, in all ways that mattered.

Better the swelling bud froze again, and never bloomed.

She'd been certain he didn't love her. Not for a minute had she believed fate would be so amenable as to arrange for him to fall madly in love with her. Life had never been so kind. He cared for her, yes, just as he always had, in that guarded, rational way of his, where every emotion was nicely logical.

She was annoyed with him for that. How dare he be so logical when she felt so emotional? Yet that difference had seemed to confirm that love as she was coming to know it was not what he felt for her. He was presently in lust with her, he wanted to care for her, to protect her, to marry her, but he didn't love her. She'd held firm against his proposal, utterly certain she'd read him aright.

Until tonight.

It hadn't been the extravagance of the box, or even the fact that he didn't, as she well knew, appreciate music. The moment when her certainty had been rocked to its foundations was when he'd whispered, "As with other pleasures, my reward is your delight."

It was his tone that had struck her, so accustomed as she was to every nuance, every inflection he used. He'd uttered those words as if it was his soul speaking, not just his mind. The words had resonated within her, as if in that moment, heart spoke to heart.

Had she been wrong? Did he love her? Could he love her?

The question was: How to tell?

Raising her head, she looked up at the stars, at the moon slowly waning in the west. Asking outright was out of the question. If she wasn't prepared to confess her love for him out aloud, in words, then she could hardly expect him to do so. She felt far too vulnerable to make such a confession; she credited him with sensibility enough to feel much the same way. As for expecting him to go down on his knees and declare his heart…

Lips curving, she uncurled her legs and rose. Sobering, she walked to her bed. She slipped between the sheets, no clever plan of how to prompt his confidence revolving in her head, yet on that she was determined. If there was any chance that fate had at last smiled and sent love to touch them both, she could not live without knowing.

The next morning dawned leaden, the skies gray, the light gray, all of a piece with her mood. Toying with her toast, conscious of the subdued nature of the conversations around the breakfast table, Alathea struggled to shrug off a deadening sense of aftermath. The triumph of their ball had been eclipsed by persistent worry over the looming prospect of their incomplete case failing to convince the Chancery Court to declare the Central East Africa Gold Company a fraud. The special magic of her night at the opera, with its seductive suggestion that perhaps, possibly, Gabriel, too, might be concealing the true nature of his feelings, had dispersed in the cold light of morning.

Despite numerous restless hours, she'd been unable to devise any plan guaranteed to make him lower his shield, the barrier with which, for as long as she'd known him, he'd protected his heart. She couldn't, despite their closeness, see into his soul.

She was no better-she'd always been careful to protect her innermost feelings. She wasn't about to drop her guard and let him see into her soul, either. Unfortunately, that seemed the one approach with any chance of success, but the risk…

Inwardly heaving a sigh, she reached for the teapot. There had to be something she could do, some positive action she could take to slough off her dour mood, if not in unraveling the complexities of her nemesis-turned-lover-and-now-would-be-husband, then in pursuing their investigations. There had to be something not yet done, somewhere not yet searched. Some stone as yet unturned…

She looked at Charlie. "Have you and Jeremy visited the museum?"

"No." Charlie shrugged. "We did mean to while we were here, but…"

Jeremy brightened. "Can we go today? The back lawn's too wet to run the curricle over it."

Alathea glanced at Mary and Alice. "Why don't we all go? We haven't gone out all together for weeks, and there's nothing else happening this morning."

A tug on her sleeve had Alathea turning. Augusta looked up at her, brown eyes wide. "Me, too?"

Alathea smiled; the grayness receded. "Indeed, poppet. You, too."

An hour later, Alathea stood in one of the cavernous halls of the museum, looking down at what purported to be a map of Central East Africa spread on a large table and protected by a glass case. Lodwar was marked, but neither Fangak nor Kingi, not even as Kafia Kingi, was shown. Worse, Lodwar appeared to be on the banks of a huge river-a river the explorer whose works she had studied had apparently missed seeing.

Alathea sighed.

She hadn't bothered with the museum before, reasoning that the clerk at the Royal Society would have mentioned any exhibits had there been any of use. In desperation, however, she'd been willing to draw a long bow. On inquiring of the custodian at the main door, and learning that the museum did indeed have an exhibit including a good map, her heart had leaped. Perhaps…

She'd left the others wandering, Charlie and Jeremy among the military exhibits, Mary, Alice, and Augusta among the ancient pottery, and slipped into this hall-only to have her hopes dashed again. Other than the map, there was only a display of native artifacts, and a few watercolors of wildlife supposedly found in Central East Africa.

Her heart felt like lead. She'd lifted even this stone but, like all the rest, there was no help beneath it. With one last disgusted look at the unhelpful map, she stepped away-

She cannoned into a gentleman. "Oh!" Falling back, she clutched her slipping shawl.

"Beg pardon, m'dear." The gentleman bowed awkwardly. "I was so incensed by this trumpery stuff, I wasn't looking out as I should." His gesture took in the entire Central East African exhibit.

"On the contrary, it was I who didn't look." Alathea took in the man's shaggy brows overhanging features weather-beaten to a walnut-brown. Grizzled whiskers framed them. His eyes were a washed-out blue, his old-style coat and corduroy knee breeches attire no longer common in town. The stance he adopted was unusual, too, his hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, legs braced.

Abruptly turning back to the exhibit, Alathea waved at the map. "Is this incorrect, then?"

His derisive reply came immediately. "Poppycock! All of it. It's nothing like that, upon my word."

"You've been there?"

"In between my sailings, when I have to wait months because of some flood or famine or skirmish between the tribes, an old prospector and I take to the hills. Why, we've crossed the whole continent a number of times." The sweep of his hand encompassed the area in which the interests of the Central East Africa Gold Company lay. "Not much improvement on the Great Desert, Central East Africa. Dusty wasteland, it is. This river shown here is nothing more than a trickle, and then only in the rainy season."

"You sail?" Alathea held her breath. "On a ship?"

"Aye." The man dragged his hat from under his arm and doffed it in a bow from a bygone age. "Captain Aloysius Struthers at your service, ma'am. Captain of the Dunslaw, sailing for Bentinck and Company."

Alathea exhaled, dragged in another breath and held out her hand. "Captain, you have no idea how glad I am to make your acquaintance."

Struthers looked taken aback, but instinctively grasped her hand. Alathea shamelessly held on to his. She cast a swift glance around. "If we retire to that bench, I'd like to explain. My interest is prompted by the Central East Africa Gold Company."

The change in Struthers's expression was instantaneous. "That blackguard, Crowley-" He broke off. "My apologies, ma'am, but when I think of the damage that jackal has done, it fair boils my blood."

"Indeed? Then you might be interested to learn that a friend and I have plans to bring his latest scheme to naught."

Slipping his hand from hers, Struthers offered his arm. "I'd be devilish interested in hearing from anyone ready to thrust a spoke in that brigand's wheel. But what's a lady like you doing mixed up with the likes of him?"

That took some time to explain. Alathea hesitated, but, in the end, revealed her identity. If she wanted Struthers's help, it was only fair to be frank. She outlined Crowley's scheme, then detailed all the false claims they'd uncovered. To her relief, Struthers grasped the situation quickly.

"Aye-that's his game, right enough. A bloodsucker, he is. He's swindled the colonists right and left all through that area. And what he's done with the local tribes…" Struthers's expression hardened. "I won't sully your ears with the tales of his infamies, my lady, but if ever there was a blackguard overdue in hell, it's Ranald Crowley."

"Yes, well, I have to agree." Alathea thrust aside the idea of an opponent steeped in infamy. "Our problem, however, is that we have no absolute proof to disprove Crowley's claims. All our evidence is surmised from what we've learned from others. We desperately need someone who can appear before the judge and corroborate what we've learned-an eyewitness, as it were."

Struthers straightened. "Captain Aloysius Struthers is your man, my lady. And I'll do better than just give you my say-so. I know where I can get maps-signed maps, mark you. And if I ask around quiet-like, I'm sure I can get more on the holdings Crowley's claimed. They ring a bell, they definitely do. I'm not positive, but I think an old acquaintance holds the mining rights to those areas. I can ask, easily enough. You'll want as many nails in your hand as possible when the time comes to make sure Crowley's coffin's good and sealed."

Alathea didn't argue. The captain's reaction to Crowley, the grim look in his eyes every time he mentioned him, frightened her far more than her previous glimpse of the villain.

Struthers nodded decisively. "It'll be an honor to bring that blackguard down. Now." Briskly, he turned to Alathea. "How do I contact you when I've gathered my proofs?"

"The hearing will be on Tuesday morning…" Alathea dug in her reticule and came up with a pencil. "In the judges' chambers at Chancery Court." The only paper she carried was the entry ticket to the museum; the back was blank. She ripped it in half. "If you need to contact me before that, this is my direction." She wrote down her name and address. There was no point giving Gabriel's address; not only had the captain not met her knight, but her protector had a habit of galloping about town. At present, he was making a furious effort to prise some formal acknowledgment of the Central East Africa Gold Company's status from the African authorities' representatives in London. He didn't hold out much hope; neither did she. The captain was their best hope-their savior, indeed. If he needed to contact anyone, it had better be her; they couldn't afford to lose touch with him now. She handed him the scrap of paper. "Now, where are you situated?"

He gave her the address of a lodging house in Clerkenwell. "I find a different place every time I stay in London. I rarely stay long."

Alathea wrote down the address, then tucked the paper into her reticule. "You won't be sailing again before Tuesday, will you?"

"Unlikely," Struthers murmured, reading her address. Then he slipped the paper into his coat pocket. "Right, then. I'd better set to." They both rose. Struthers bowed to Alathea. "Never fear, my lady. Aloysius Struthers won't let you down."

With that, he clapped his hat on his head. With a grimly determined nod, he strode off.

Alathea watched him go. A rush of relief poured through her. Dizzy, she sank back onto the bench. Five minutes later, Mary, Alice, and Augusta found her sitting there, smiling.

"Yes," she replied in answer to their query. "We can, indeed, go home."

She sent a summons to Brook Street the instant they reached home; Gabriel arrived as they rose from the luncheon table. Barely giving him a chance to greet the rest of her family, Alathea dragged him out to the gazebo.

As if in tune with her mood, the clouds had rolled away. The others followed them into the sunshine, spreading out on the lawn to relax and play, but no one attempted to follow them into the shadowed privacy of the gazebo.

"I presume," Gabriel said, following her up the steps, "that you're about to reveal the nature of your 'fantastic discovery'?"

"Captain Aloysius Struthers!" Alathea whirled and sank onto the sofa. "I've found him."

"Where?"

"The museum." Gleefully, she recounted their meeting. "And he's not only agreed to testify as to the falsity of Crowley's claims, but he says he can lay hands on verified maps, and also on details of the relevant mining leases." She gestured expansively. "He'll be even more help than we hoped for." Gabriel frowned. Surprised, she asked, "What is it?"

He grimaced. "I'd be content with the captain simply turning up before the judge-with his testimony to anchor our case, we won't need anything more."

"It won't hurt to have a few more facts behind us."

"Hmm. Did Struthers tell you where he's staying?"

Alathea drew a folded sheet from her pocket. "I copied his address for you. Will you go and see him?"

Gabriel read the address; his expression turned grim. "Yes. If he'd been staying in Surrey, I wouldn't have bothered, but, as it is, I think a visit might be wise."

"Why?"

"To warn him. If he goes nosing about asking after maps and mining leases, he's liable to alert Crowley. We might be nearing the eleventh hour, but Ranald Crowley is not an opponent I'd ever turn my back on."

"Indeed not, but the captain seemed to know him well."

"Nevertheless, I'll speak to the captain. It won't hurt to underline the need for secrecy." Sliding the note into his pocket, Gabriel looked at Alathea, then turned and sat beside her. "Which brings me to another point."

Shuffling to make space for him, she looked at him ques-tioningly.

"Don't go anywhere alone. Not until we have the decision handed down-no, not even then. Not until we know Crowley has left England."

"And I thought it was me who was melodramatic."

"I'm serious." Jaw setting, he took her hand. "Crowley is not some predictable English villain-he recognizes no law but that of the jungle. From the minute he learns of our plans until he returns to the jungle, or some other uncivilized place, you will not be safe." He trapped her gaze. "Promise me you won't go anywhere alone, and that, even in company, you'll restrict your outings to the purely social. No visits to the museum, or the Tower-no more searching at all. We have enough to defeat Crowley now. There's no reason whatever for you to place yourself in danger."

A gust of laughter had them both looking to where Charlie and Jeremy stood on the lawn, teasing Mary and Alice, seated on a rug.

"They're safe enough. While you remain within the ton, you'll all be safe-that's not an arena Crowley can move within without attracting immediate attention." Looking at Alathea, Gabriel squeezed her hand. "Promise me you'll take care."

Alathea looked into his eyes. She saw urgency and an unaccustomed softness in the hazel depths. "I'll be careful, but if-"

"No buts, no ifs." In a blink, all softness vanished from his face. Her knight-protector all but glared at her. "Promise."

A demand, no plea. Alathea glared back. "I'll be careful. I won't do anything silly. With that, you'll have to be content. I've never been yours to rule."

His expression, the granite hardness in his gaze, gave credence to his low growl, "You're treading on thin ice."

Yes, but what was underneath? Desperate to know, once and for all, Alathea returned his gaze haughtily. "I am my own person-not yours."

Hazel eyes fell into hazel. A long moment passed, then he looked away. His expression hardened as he gazed at Jeremy and Alice, Augusta and Mary. "Let me tell you what's going to happen after we gain our judgment against the Central East Africa Gold Company.

"First, we're getting married. Not in any hole-and-corner fashion, but right here, in the heart of the ton. St. Georges Church one fine June morning. After that, we'll divide our lives between London and Somerset-the Season in London, and various trips as required for business, but we'll spend most of the year at Quiverstone Manor. Aside from anything else, from there you and I can keep an eye on Morwellan Park and lend a hand if Charlie needs it. And you'll be there to watch Jeremy and Augusta grow. We can sponsor Augusta for her come-out, and while in London you'll be able to catch up with Mary and Esher, and Alice and Carstairs.

"In between, you can learn about those of the Manor's tenants you don't already know, and help Mama with all the thousand and one things she does about the estate, so you'll be ready to step in when she eventually flags. And there are Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, who, as you well know, will be thrilled to call you sister. You could try teaching them not to giggle-God knows, Mama hasn't managed it yet.

"The east wing will have to be redecorated, too. I never did more than order the old furniture cleaned. I don't even know the state of half of it, although my bed there is sound enough."

Alathea swallowed the question, "Sound enough for what?" The answer was not long in coming.

"And if all that doesn't keep you sufficiently amused, I have a number of other distractions planned-at least three sons and any number of daughters." Turning his head, he met her gaze. "Yours and mine. Ours. Our future."

She held his gaze steadily, and prayed he couldn't see how much the thought tugged at her heart.

"Picture it-us sitting under the old oak on the south lawn, watching our children play. Hearing the shrill voices, the laughter, the cries. Picking them up to soothe them, to comfort them, or perhaps just to hold them." He searched her eyes, his own hard as agates. "You've always liked children, you always expected to have a tribe of your own. That was always your dream, your destiny. You gave it up for your family, but now fate's handing it back to you." His gaze raked her face, then, as if satisfied with what he saw, he sat back and looked across the lawn. "I know you too well to believe you'd turn your back on that dream a second time."

His confidence tweaked Alathea's temper, but she shrugged the temptation to ire aside. His words-his pronouncement-should have chilled her; there'd been no loverlike softness in his words. He'd been all warrior-logical, practical-her knight-protector carrying her off to a new beginning, for which she should be duly grateful and acquiesce to all his decrees.

It was enough to make her laugh, but she didn't. If he'd been charming, presenting his arguments with the light, airy touch of which she knew he was capable, her heart would have sunk without trace. That was how he behaved in matters that did not touch him deeply. Instead, he'd presented her with his warrior side, all impenetrable granite and impregnable shield. She had to wonder what he was shielding. Lifting her chin, she fixed her gaze on his profile. "And what about us? You and me. The two of us together. How do you see us?"

The question hit a nerve. His swift frown, an infinitesimal tensing of muscles otherwise under rigid control, told her so.

"I see us in bed," he growled, "and in a few other places, too. Do you want to know the details?"

"No. I'm quite imaginative enough to supply my own."

"Well, then." But his tone had softened, as if in thinking of her question, he'd seen more than he'd expected. "I imagine we'll ride like we used to, every day. You always liked riding-do you still ride a lot?"

After an instant's hesitation, she said, "I sold all the horses years ago."

He nodded. "So we'll ride every day. And, I just realized, you can help me with the estate accounts, which will leave more time for riding. And investing-studying the news, weeding out the rumors, checking with Montague and my other contacts. I manage all the Cynster funds. You've dabbled to good effect with the Morwellan treasury, such as it was, but I play a more aggressive hand."

"I'm not particularly good at aggression."

"You can take an interest in the defensive side, then-the bonds and capital." He gestured expansively. 'That's how I see us."

Alathea waited a moment, then softly said, "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. I wanted to know what you see between us."

His head whipped around and he scowled at her. "Thea-stop resisting. We'll be married soon. All I just said is going to happen-you know it is."

"I know nothing of the sort. Why do you imagine I'll agree to your dictates?"

He hesitated, his narrowed gaze locked with hers. Then he said, "You'll agree because you love me."

Alathea felt her lips part, felt her jaw drop. Horrified, she searched his eyes. The comprehension she saw horrified her even more. How could he know? She snapped her lips shut and fixed him with a militant glare. "I'll be the judge of whether I love you or not."

"Are you saying you don't?" His tone was a warning.

"I'm saying I haven't yet made up my mind."

With a disgusted snort, he looked away. "Pull the other one."

Although he'd muttered, Alathea heard him. "You don't know that I love you-you can't know!"

He looked her in the eye. "I do."

"How?"

After a moment, he looked away; this time, his gaze fastened on the jasmine, blooming in profusion over the gazebo, filling the arches, fragrant white blossoms nodding in the breeze. Catching a spray, he snapped it off. Looking down, he turned it in his hands, long fingers caressing the velvet-soft blooms. "How many men have you allowed to make love to you?"

Alathea stiffened. "You know perfectly well-"

"Precisely." He nodded, his gaze on the jasmine. "Only me. You don't know-"

Alathea waited; after a long moment, he drew breath and met her gaze. "I know you love me because of the way you give yourself to me. The way you are when you're in my arms."

"Well!" She fought down an urge to bluster. "As you're the only lover I've yet known-"

"Tell me,"-his steely words cut her off-"can you imagine being as you are with me, if it wasn't me with you but some other man?"

She stared at him. She couldn't begin to even form a mental picture; the idea was utterly foreign.

So foreign, she suddenly realized she'd lost sight of her agenda. "You're avoiding my point." It was a wrench to drag her mind from the avenues into which he'd lead it, to consider instead that if he knew she loved him, he'd be even more chivalrously inclined to wed her regardless of any other motive. The realization fueled a fresh rush of emotions, hope and frustration equally represented. Hope that the reason for his self-protective shield was a heart as vulnerable as hers; frustation over convincing him to lower his guard long enough for her to know.

She felt like clenching her fists, screwing her eyes shut, drumming her heels, and demanding he tell her the truth. Instead, she fixed her eyes on his and carefully enunciated, "I will not marry you until you tell me why you want to marry me, and place your hand on your heart and swear you've told me all-every last one-of your reasons."

Those who thought him the epitome of a civilized gentleman would never have recognized the harshly primitive warrior who now faced her. Luckily, she'd encountered him often enough not to quake.

"Why?"

The very air shivered beneath that one word, so invested with suppressed passions-anger, frustration, and barely leashed desire.

Alathea didn't blink. "Because I need to know."

He held her gaze for so long, she began to feel giddy, then he wrenched his gaze from hers and abruptly stood. He looked out over the lawns, then glanced down at her.

His expression was impassive. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed the sprig of jasmine into her lap.

"Don't you think we've wasted enough years?"

His gaze rose, touched hers, then he turned and strode down the steps.

Alathea sat in the gazebo mentally replaying their exchanges, wondering, if she had the chance, if she would say anything different, do anything different, or manage to achieve anything more.

At the end of an hour, she lifted the jasmine and inhaled the heady scent. She focused on the sprig, then, with a self-deprecating grimace, tucked it into her cleavage.

For luck.

She'd diced with fate for her sisters and won. She'd just played for her own future-had she told him she wasn't aggressive? She'd risked everything on a last throw.

She'd do it again in a blink.

With a sigh, she rose and headed for the house.