A Secret Love

Chapter 1

May 6, 1820

London

Swirls of mist wreathed Gabriel Cynster's shoulders as he prowled the porch of St. Georges' Church, just off Hanover Square. The air was chill, the gloom within the porch smudged here and there by weak shafts of light thrown by the street lamps.

It was three o'clock; fashionable London lay sleeping. The coaches ferrying late-night revelers home had ceased to rumble-an intense but watchful quiet had settled over the town.

Reaching the end of the porch, Gabriel swung around. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the stone tunnel formed by the front of the church and the tall columns supporting its facade. The mist eddied and swirled, obscuring his view. He'd stood in the same place a week before, watching Demon, one of his cousins, drive off with his new wife. He'd felt a sudden chill-a premonition, a presentiment; perhaps it had been of this.

Three o'clock in the porch of St. Georges-that was what the note had said. He'd been half inclined to set it aside, a poor joke assuredly, but something in the words had tweaked an impulse more powerful than curiosity. The note had been penned in desperation, although, despite close analysis, he couldn't see why he was so sure of that. The mysterious countess, whoever she was, had written simply and directly requesting this meeting so she could explain her need for his aid.

So he was here-where was she?

On the thought, the city's bells tolled, the reverberations stirring the heavy blanket of the night. Not all the belltowers tolled the night watches; enough did to set up a strange cadence, a pattern of sound repeated in different registers. The muted notes faded, then died. Silence, again, descended.

Gabriel stirred. Impatient, he started back along the porch, his stride slow, easy.

And she appeared, stepping from the deep shadows about the church door. Mist clung to her skirts as she turned, slowly, regally, to face him. She was cloaked and veiled, as impenetrable, secret, and mysterious as the night.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Had she been there all along? Had he walked past her without seeing or sensing her presence? His stride unfaltering, he continued toward her. She lifted her head as he neared, but only slightly.

She was very tall. Halting with only a foot between them, Gabriel discovered he couldn't see over her head, which was amazing. He stood well over six feet tall; the countess had to be six feet tall herself. Despite the heavy cloak, one glance had been enough to assure him all her six feet were in perfect proportion.

"Good morning, Mr. Cynster. Thank you for coming."

He inclined his head, jettisoning any wild thought that this was some witless prank-a youth dressed as a woman. The few steps she'd taken, the way she'd turned-to his experienced senses, her movements denned her as female. And her tone was soft and low, the very essence of woman.

A mature woman-she was definitely not young.

"Your note said you needed my help."

"I do." After a moment, she added, "My family does."

"Your family?" In the gloom, her veil was impenetrable; he couldn't see even a hint of her chin or her lips.

"My stepfamily, I should say."

Her perfume reached him, exotic, alluring. "Perhaps we'd better define just what your problem is, and why you think I can help."

"You can help. I would never have asked to meet you-would never reveal what I'm about to tell you-if I didn't know you could help." She paused, then drew breath. "My problem concerns a promissory note signed by my late husband."

"Late husband?"

She inclined her head. "I'm a widow."

"How long ago did your husband die?"

"Over a year ago."

"So his estate has been probated."

"Yes. The title and entailed estate are now with my stepson, Charles."

"Stepson?"

"I was my husband's second wife. We were married some years ago-for him, it was a very late second marriage. He was ill for some time before his death. All his children were by his first wife."

He hesitated, then asked, "Am I to understand that you've taken your late husband's children under your wing?"

"Yes. I consider their welfare my responsibility. It's because of that-them-that I'm seeking your aid."

Gabriel studied her veiled countenance, knowing she was watching his. "You mentioned a promissory note."

"I should explain that my husband had a weakness for engaging in speculative ventures. Over his last years, the family's agent and I endeavored to keep his investments in such schemes to a minimum, in which endeavors we were largely successful. However, three weeks ago, a maid stumbled on a legal paper, tucked away and clearly forgotten. It was a promissory note."

"To which company?"

"The Central East Africa Gold Company. Have you heard of it?"

He shook his head. "Not a whisper."

"Neither has our agent, nor any of his colleagues."

"The company's address should be on the note."

"It's not-just the name of the firm of solicitors who drew up the document."

Gabriel juggled the pieces of the jigsaw she was handing him, aware each piece had been carefully vetted first. "This note-do you have it?"

From beneath her cloak, she drew out a rolled parchment.

Taking it, Gabriel inwardly raised his brows-she'd certainly come prepared. Despite straining his eyes, he'd caught not a glimpse of the gown beneath her voluminous cloak. Her hands, too, were covered, encased in leather gloves long enough to reach the cuffs of her sleeves. Unrolling the parchment, he turned so the light from the street lamps fell on the single page.

The promissor's signature-the first thing he looked at-was covered by a piece of thick paper fixed in place with sealing wax. He looked at the countess.

Calmly, she stated, "You don't need to know the family's name."

"Why not?"

"That will become evident when you read the note."

Squinting in the poor light, he did so. "This appears to be legal." He read it again, then looked up. "The investment is certainly large and, given it is speculative, therefore constitutes a very great risk. If the company had not been fully investigated and appropriately vouched for, then the investment was certainly unwise. I do not, however, see your problem."

"The problem lies in the fact that the amount promised is considerably more than the present total worth of the earldom."

Gabriel looked again at the amount written on the note and swiftly recalculated, but he hadn't misread. "If this sum will clean out the earldom's coffers, then…"

"Precisely," the countess said with the decisiveness that seemed characteristic. "I mentioned that my husband was fond of speculating. The family has for more than a decade existed on the very brink of financial ruin, from before I married into it. After our marriage, I discovered the truth. After that, I oversaw all financial matters. Between us, my husband's agent and I were able to hold things together and keep the family's head above water."

Her voice hardened in a vain attempt to hide her vulnerability. "That note, however, would be the end. Our problem in a nutshell is that the note does indeed appear legal, in which case, if it is executed and the money called in, the family will be bankrupt."

"Which is why you don't wish me to know your name."

"You know the haut ton-we move in the same circles. If any hint of our financial straits, even leaving aside the threat of the note, was to become common knowledge, the family would be socially ruined. The children would never be able to take their rightful places in our world."

The call to arms was a physical tug. Gabriel shifted. "Children. You mentioned Charles, the youthful earl. What others?"

She hesitated, then said, "There are two girls, Maria and Alicia-we're in town now because they're to be presented. I've saved for years so they could have their come-outs…" Her voice suspended. After a moment, she continued, "And there are two others still in the schoolroom, and an older cousin, Seraphina; she's part of the family, too."

Gabriel listened, more to her tone than her words. Her devotion sounded clearly-the caring, the commitment. The anxiety. Whatever else the countess was concealing, she couldn't hide that.

Raising the note, he studied the signature of the company's chairman. Composed of bold, harsh strokes, the signature was illegible, certainly not one he knew. "You didn't say why you thought I could help."

His tone was vague-he'd already guessed the answer.

She straightened her shoulders. "We-our agent and I-believe the company is a fraud, a venture undertaken purely to milk funds from gullible investors. The note itself is suspicious in that neither the company's address nor its principals are noted, and there's also the fact that a legitimate speculative company accepting a promissory note for such an amount would have sought some verification that the amount could indeed be paid."

"No check was made?"

"It would have been referred to our agent. As you might imagine, our bank has been in close touch with him for years. We've checked as far as we can without raising suspicions and found nothing to change our view. The Central East Africa Gold Company looks like a fraud." She drew in a tight breath. "And if that's so, then if we can gather enough evidence to prove it and present such evidence in the Chancery Court, the promissory note could be declared invalid. But we must succeed before the note is executed, and it's already over a year since it was signed."

Rerolling the note, Gabriel considered her; despite the veil and cloak, he felt he knew a great deal of her. "Why me?"

He handed her the note; she took it, slipping it once more under her cloak. "You've built something of a reputation for exposing fraudulent schemes, and"-lifting her head, she studied him-"you're a Cynster."

He almost laughed. "Why does that matter?"

"Because Cynsters like challenges."

He looked at her veiled face. "True," he purred.

Her chin rose another notch. "And because I know I can entrust the family's secret to a Cynster."

He raised a brow, inviting explanation.

She hesitated, then stated, "If you agree to help us, I must ask you to swear that you will not at any time seek to identify me or my family." She halted, then went on, "And if you don't agree to help, I know I can trust you not to mention this meeting, or anything you deduce from it, to anyone."

Gabriel raised both brows; he regarded her with veiled amusement, and a certain respect. She had a boldness rarely found in women-only that could account for this charade, well thought out, well executed. The countess had all her wits about her; she'd studied her mark and had laid her plans-her enticements-well.

She was deliberately offering him a challenge.

Did she imagine, he wondered, that he would focus solely on the company? Was the other challenge she was flaunting before him intentional, or…?

Did it matter?

"If I agree to help you, where do you imagine we would start?" The question was out before he'd considered-once he had, he inwardly raised his brows at the "we."

"The company's solicitors. Or at least the ones who drew up the note-Thurlow and Brown. Their name's on the note."

"But not their address."

"No, but if they're a legitimate firm-and they must be, don't you think?-then they should be easy to trace. I could have done that myself, but…"

"But you didn't think your agent would approve of what you have in mind once you discover the address, so you didn't want to ask him?"

Despite her veil, he could imagine the look she cast him, the narrowing of her eyes, the firming of her lips. She nodded, again that definite affirmation. "Precisely. I imagine some form of search will be required. I doubt a legitimate firm of solicitors will volunteer information on one of their clients."

Gabriel wasn't so sure-he'd know once he located Thurlow and Brown.

"We'll need to learn who the principals of the company are, and then learn the details of the company's business."

"Prospective business." He shot her a look, wishing he could see through her veil. "You do realize that any investigating risks alerting the company's principals? If the company is the sham you think it, then any hint of too close interest from anyone, particularly and especially me, will activate the call on promised funds. That's how swindlers will react-they'll grab what they've got and disappear before anyone can learn too much."

They'd been standing for more than half an hour in the mausoleumlike porch. The temperature was dropping as dawn approached; the chill of the mists was deepening. Gabriel was aware of it, but in his cloak he wasn't cold. Beneath her heavy cloak the countess was tense, almost shivering.

Lips tightening, he suppressed the urge to draw her closer and ruthlessly, relentlessly stated, "By investigating the company, you risk the note being called in and your family being made bankrupt." If she was determined to brave the fire, she needed to understand she could get burned.

Her head rose; her spine stiffened. "If I don't investigate the company and prove it's a fraud, my family will definitely be bankrupt."

He listened but could detect no hint of wavering, of anything less than informed but unshakable resolution. He nodded. "Very well. If you've made the decision to investigate the company, then yes, I'll help you."

If he'd expected gushing thanks, he'd have been disappointed-luckily, he'd had no such expectation. She stood still, studying him. "And you'll swear…?"

Stifling a sigh, he raised his right hand. "Before God, I swear-"

"On your name as a Cynster."

He blinked at her, then continued, "On my name as a Cynster, that I will not seek to identify you or your family. All right?"

Her sigh fell like silk in the night. "Yes." She relaxed, losing much of her stiff tension.

His increased proportionately. "When gentlemen reach an agreement, they usually shake hands."

She hesitated, then extended one hand.

He grasped it, then changed his hold, fingers sliding about hers until his thumb rested in her palm. Then he drew her to him.

He heard her in-drawn breath, felt the sudden leaping of her pulse, sensed the shock that seared her. With his other hand, he tipped up her chin, angling her lips to his.

"I thought we were going to shake hands." Her words were a breathless whisper.

"You're no gentleman." He studied her face; the glint of her eyes was all he could see through the fine black veil, but with her head tipped up, he could discern the outline of her lips. "When a gentleman and a lady seal a pact, they do it like this." Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers.

Beneath the silk, they were soft, resilient, lush-pure temptation. They barely moved under his, yet their inherent promise was easy to sense, very easy for him to read. That kiss should have registered as the most chaste of his career-instead, it was a spark set to tinder, prelude to a conflagration. The knowledge-absolute and definite-shook him. He lifted his head, looked down on her veiled face, and wondered if she knew.

Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. "I'll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you'll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?"

She stepped back. "I'll contact you."

He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. "Thank you. Good night."

The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.

Gabriel drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse's rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.

It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.

Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.

He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess's note arrived, he'd been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he'd sunk. He'd considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment-none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.

The countess's note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however…

Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family-stepfamily, no less-against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the nebulous backers of a company thought to be fraudulent. The situation called for decisive action tempered by caution, with all investigations and inquiries needing to remain covert and clandestine. That much, she'd told him.

So what did he know?

She was an Englishwoman, unquestionably gently bred-her accent, her bearing and her smooth declaration that they moved in similar circles had settled that. And she knew her Cynsters well. Not only had she stated it, her whole presentation had been artfully designed to appeal to his Cynster instincts.

Gabriel swung into Brook Street. One thing the countess didn't know was that he rarely reacted impulsively these days. He'd learned to keep his instincts in check-his business dealings demanded it. He also had a definite dislike of being manipulated-in any field. In this case, however, he'd decided to play along.

The countess was, after all, an intriguing challenge in her own right. All close to six feet of her. And a lot of that six feet was leg, a consideration guaranteed to fix his rakish interest. As for her lips and the delights they promised… he'd already decided they'd be his.

Occasionally, liaisons happened like that-one look, one touch, and he'd know. He couldn't, however, recall being affected quite so forcefully before, nor committing so decisively and definitely to the chase. And its ultimate outcome.

Again, energy surged through him. This-the countess and her problem-was precisely what he needed to fill the present lack in his life: a challenge and a conquest combined.

Reaching his house, he climbed the steps and let himself in. He shut and bolted the door, then glanced toward the parlor. In the bookcase by the fireplace resided a copy of Burke's Peerage.

Lips quirking, he strode for the stairs. If he hadn't promised not to seek out her identity, he would have made straight for the bookcase and, despite the hour, ascertained just which earl had recently died to be succeeded by a son called Charles. There couldn't be that many. Instead, feeling decidedly virtuous, not something that often occurred, he headed for his bed, all manner of plans revolving in his head.

He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity-he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.

Her name. Her face. Those long legs. And more.

"Well? How did it go?"

Raising her veil, Alathea stared at the group of eager faces clustered about the bottom of the stairs. She had only that instant crossed the threshold of Morwellan House in Mount Street; behind her, Crisp, the butler, slid the bolts home and turned, eager not to miss any of her tale.

The question had come from Nellie, Alathea's maid, presently wrapped in an old paisley bedrobe. Surrounding Nellie in various stages of deshabille stood other members of Alathea's most stalwart band of supporters-the household's senior servants.

"Come now, m'lady, don't keep us in suspense."

That from Figgs, the cook-housekeeper. The others all nodded-Folwell, Alathea's groom, his forelock bobbing, Crisp, joining them, carrying the rolled promissory note she had handed him for safekeeping.

Alathea inwardly sighed. In what other tonnish establishment would a lady of the house, returning from an illicit rendezvous at four in the morning, meet with such a reception? Quelling her skittish nerves, telling herself that the fact he'd kissed her didn't show, she set her veil back. "He agreed."

"Well-there now!" Thin as a rake, Miss Helm, the governess, nervously clutched her pink wrapper. "I'm sure Mr. Cynster will take care of it all and expose these dreadful men."

"Praise be," intoned Connor, Serena's severe dresser.

"Indeed"-Alathea walked forward into the light thrown by the candles Nellie, Figgs, and Miss Helm were holding-"but you should all be in bed. He's agreed to help-there's nothing more to hear." She caught Nellie's eye.

Nellie sniffed, but buttoned her lip.

Alathea shooed the others off, then headed up the stairs, Nellie on her heels, lighting her way.

"So what happened?" Nellie hissed as they reached the gallery.

"Shh!" Alathea gestured down the corridor. Nellie grumbled but held her tongue as they passed Alathea's parents' rooms, then Mary's and Alice's, eventually reaching her room at the corridor's end.

Nellie shut the door behind them. Alathea untied her cloak, then let it fall-Nellie caught it as she stepped away.

"So now, my fine miss-you're not going to tell me he didn't see through your disguise?"

"Of course he didn't-I told you he wouldn't." He wouldn't have kissed her if he had. Sinking onto her dressing table stool, Alathea pulled pins from her hair, freeing the thick mass from the unaccustomed chignon. She normally wore her hair in a knot on the top of her head with the strands about her face puffed to form a living frame. It was an old-fashioned style but it suited her. The chignon had suited her, too, but the unusual style had pulled her hair in different directions-her scalp hurt.

Nellie came to help, frowning as she searched out pins in the silky soft mass. "I can't believe after all the years you two spent rollin' about the fields that he wouldn't simply look at you, veil and cloak or no, and instantly know you."

"You forget-despite the years we spent 'rollin' about the fields,' Rupert has barely seen me for over a decade. Just the odd meeting here and there."

"He didn't recognize your voice?"

"No. My tone was quite different." She'd spoken as she would to Augusta, her tone warm and low, not tart and waspish as when she normally spoke with him. Except for those few breathless moments… but she didn't think he'd ever heard her breathless before. She couldn't recall ever feeling so nervous and skittish before. With a sigh, she let her head tip back as her hair finally fell loose. "You're not giving me sufficient credit. I'm a very good actress, after all."

Nellie humphed but didn't argue. She started to brush Alathea's long hair.

Closing her eyes, Alathea relaxed. She excelled at charades; she could think herself into a part very well, as long as she understood the character. In this case, that was easy. "I kept to the truth as far as possible-he truly thinks I'm a countess."

Nellie humphed. "I still can't see why you couldn't simply write him a nice letter, asking him to look into this company for you."

"Because I would have had to sign it 'Alathea Morwellan.'"

"He would have done it, I'm sure."

"Oh, he wouldn't have refused, but what he would have done was refer it to his agent-that Mr. Montague. Without telling Rupert why it's so desperately needful to prove this company a fraud, it wouldn't have seemed important-important enough to stir him personally to action."

"I can't see why you don't just tell him-"

"No!" Eyes opening, Alathea straightened. For an instant, the lines between mistress and maid were clear-there in the matriarchal light in Alathea's eyes, in her stern expression, and in the suddenly wary look in Nellie's face.

Alathea let her expression ease; she hesitated, but Nellie was the only one with whom she dared discuss her plans, the only one who knew them all. The only one she trusted with them all. While she suspected that meant she was trusting the entire little band downstairs, as the others never presumed to mention it, she could live with that. She had to talk to someone. Drawing in a breath, she settled on the stool. "Believe it or not, Nellie, I still have my pride." She shut her eyes as Nellie resumed her brushing. "Sometimes, I think it's all I truly have left. I won't risk it by telling even him all. No one knows just how close to ruin we came-what depth of ruin we now face."

"He'd be sympathetic, I should think. He wouldn't noise it abroad."

"That's not the point. Not with him. I don't think you can imagine, Nellie, just how rich the Cynsters are. Even I have trouble assimilating the sums I know he regularly deals with."

"Can't see why it matters, meself."

Alathea felt the familiar tugs as Nellie started braiding her hair. "Let's just say that while I can cope with fraudulent companies and imminent disaster, the one thing I really don't think I could face is pity."

His pity.

Nellie sighed. "Ah, well, if that's the way it must be…" Alathea sensed her fatalistic shrug. After a moment, Nellie asked, "But how'd you get him to agree to help if'n you didn't tell him about the family all but being rolled up if that wretched company asks for their money?"

"That-Alathea opened her eyes-"was the main point of my masquerade. I did tell him. All of it. I could hardly expect him to help without knowing the details, and he certainly wouldn't have helped if there hadn't been a real family and a real threat. He's never been easy to stir to action, but he is a Cynster and they always respond to certain prods. He had to be convinced of both the family and the threat, but the way I told it, it's the countess's family. I cast my father as my dead husband, with me as the countess, his second wife, and all the children as my stepchildren, instead of my stepbrothers and stepsisters. Serena I made into a cousin."

She paused, remembering.

"What happened?"

Alathea looked up to see Nellie regarding her in concern.

"It's no use telling me something didn't go wrong-I can always tell when you look like that."

"Nothing went wrong." She wasn't about to tell Nellie about that kiss. "I just hadn't thought of names for all the children. I used Charles for Charlie-it's a common enough name after all-but I hadn't expected Rupert to ask me about the others. When he did… well, I was so deep in being the countess, I couldn't really think. I called them to mind and had to put names to them instantly or he would have grown suspicious."

Dropping her completed braid, Nellie stared at her. "You didn't go and call them by their real names?"

Rising, Alathea stepped away from the table. "Not exactly."

Nellie started unlacing her gown. "So what did you call them?"

"Maria, Alicia, and Seraphina. I skipped the others."

"So what happens the first time he finds himself in a room with one of those books that list the lot of you? All he'll have to do will be to look up the earls-you being a countess-and it'll jump off the page at him. And he'll know who you are then, too." Straightening, Nellie helped her out of her gown. "Wouldn't want to be in your shoes then, miss-not when he finds out. He won't be pleased."

"I know." Alathea shivered, and prayed Nellie thought it was because she was cold. She knew exactly what would happen if luck dealt against her and Rupert Melrose Cynster discovered she was his mysterious countess-that she was the woman he'd kissed in the porch of St. Georges.

All hell would break lose.

He didn't have a temper, any more than she did.

Which meant he didn't appear to have one, until he lost it.

"That's why," she continued, head emerging from the nightgown Nellie had thrown over her, "I made him swear not to try and identify me. The way I have it planned, he need never learn the truth."

She knew he wouldn't appreciate having the wool pulled over his eyes. He had a deep, very real dislike of any form of deception. That, she suspected, was what lay behind his growing reputation for unmasking business frauds. "For now, everything's perfect-he's met the countess, heard her story, and agreed to help. He actually wants to help-wants to expose these men and their company. That's important." Whether she was reassuring Nellie or herself she wasn't sure; her stomach hadn't relaxed since he'd kissed her. "Lady Celia's forever complaining about him being too indolent, too bored with life. The countess's problem will give him something to work on, something that interests him."

Nellie snorted. "Next you'll be saying being gulled will be good for him."

Alathea had the grace to blush. "It won't hurt him. And I'll be careful, so there's no reason to think he ever will know that he's been 'gulled,' as you put it. I'll make sure he never meets the countess in daylight, or in any decent illumination. I'll always wear a veil. With heels to make me even taller"-she gestured to the high-heeled shoes she'd discarded by the dressing table-"and that perfume"-another wave indicated the Venetian glass flacon standing before her mirror-"which is nothing like anything Alathea Morwellan has ever worn, I really do not see that there's any danger of him knowing me."

Alathea glided to the bed; Nellie bustled ahead, turning down the covers and removing the copper warming pan. Slipping between the sheets, Alathea sighed. "So all is well. And when the company's exposed and her family saved, the countess will simply"-she waved gracefully-"disappear in a drift of mist."

Nellie humphed. She shuffled about, tidying things away, hanging up Alathea's clothes. From the wardrobe, she looked back at Alathea. "I still don't see why you couldn't simply go and see him, and tell him to his face what this is all about. Pride's all very well, but this is serious."

"It's not only pride." Lying back, Alathea gazed at the canopy. "I didn't ask him to his face because he very likely would not have helped me, not personally. He'd have directed me to Montague as fast as he politely could, and that simply won't do. I-we-need his help, not the assistance of his henchman. I need the knight on his charger, not his squire."

"I don't see that-he'd have helped, why wouldn't he? It's not as if you two don't go back near to all your lives. He's known you since you was in your cradle. You played as babies and all through the years, right up until you was fifteen and ready to be a lady." Her tidying done, candle in hand, Nellie approached the big bed. "If you was just to go to him and explain it all, I'm sure he'd help."

"Believe me, Nellie, that wouldn't work. While he'll extend himself to help the mysterious countess, he would never do the same for me." Turning onto her side, Alathea closed her eyes and ignored Nellie's disbelieving sniff. "Good night."

After a moment, a soft, grumbling "Good night" reached her. The candlelight playing on her eyelids faded, then the door clicked as Nellie let herself out.

Alathea sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress, trying to relax the muscles that had tensed when he'd kissed her. That was the one development she hadn't foreseen but it was hardly serious, presumably the sort of sophisticated dalliance he practiced on all likely ladies. If she could start her charade again, she'd think twice about making herself a widow, one already out of mourning, but it was done-the masquerade had begun. And while she might not be able to fully explain it to Nellie, her charade was absolutely essential.

Rupert Melrose Cynster, her childhood playmate, was the one, perfectly armed knight she'd had to win to her side. She knew his true mettle-what he could accomplish, would accomplish, once he was fully committed to a cause. With him as her champion, they would have a real chance of triumphing over the Central East Africa Gold Company. Without his aid, that feat had appeared close to impossible.

Knowing him of old-so well, so thoroughly-she'd known that to secure his commitment, she would need to fully engage his ofttimes fickle interest. She needed him to focus on her problem, willingly bringing his considerable abilities to bear. So she'd invented the countess and, cloaked in beguiling mystery, had set about recruiting him, body and soul, to her cause.

She'd won her first battle-he was ready to fight beside her. For the first time since Figgs had placed the wretched promissory note before her, she allowed herself to believe in ultimate victory.

As far as the ton would see, the Morwellans were in town as expected to allow the younger daughters to make their curtsies to society and for Charlie to make his bow. She, the eldest daughter, now an ape-leader, would hug the shadows, assisting with her stepsisters' come-outs, in her spare moments donning cloak and veil to masquerade as the countess and remove the sword presently poised over her family's future.

She smiled at such melodramatic thoughts. They came easily to mind-she knew precisely what she was doing. She also knew precisely why Rupert wouldn't have helped her as he would the countess, although it wasn't something she was eager to explain, even to Nellie.

They disliked being in the same room, certainly not within ten feet of each other. Any closer proximity was like wearing a hair shirt. The peculiarity had afflicted them from the age of eleven and twelve; since then, it had been a constant in their lives. What caused it remained a mystery. As their younger selves, they'd tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't there, but the relief they'd both felt when her impending ladyhood had spelled an end to their all but daily association had been too real to ignore.

Of course they'd never discussed it, but his reaction was there in the sharpening of his hazel gaze, the sudden tensing of his muscles, in the difficulty he had remaining near her for more than a few minutes. Uncomfortable wasn't an adequate description-the affliction was far worse than that.

She'd never been able to decide if she reacted to him as he did to her, or if her aggravation arose in response to his. Whatever the truth, their mutual affliction was something they'd learned to live with, learned to hide, and ultimately, learned to avoid. Neither would unnecessarily precipitate a prolonged encounter.

That was why, despite growing up as they had, despite their families being such close neighbors, he and she had never waltzed. They had danced-one country dance. Even that had left her breathless, waspish and thoroughly out of temper. Like him, she wasn't given to displays of temper-the only one able to provoke her, all but instantly, was he.

And that-all of that-explained why the countess had walked the porch of St. Georges. While she could not, absolutely, know his mind and thus be certain he would not have personally helped her, she imagined his instincts would have prompted him to help, but his reaction to her would have mitigated against it. Dealing with the company for her would mean seeing her frequently, often alone, which usually made the affliction worse. They'd met briefly only a few months ago-their affliction was stronger than ever. They'd reduced each other to quivering rage in under three minutes. She couldn't believe, if she asked for his help, that he'd break the habit of years and readily spend hours in her company-or, if he did, that it wouldn't drive them both demented.

More to the point, she hadn't been able to risk finding out. If she'd presented her problem to him as herself, only to have him send her to Montague, she couldn't then have appeared as the countess.

No choice.

He would never forgive her if he ever found out-ever learned she was the countess. He would probably do worse than that. But she'd had no choice-her conscience wasn't troubling her, not really. If there'd been any other sure way of getting him to help her without deceiving him, she would have taken it, but…

She was halfway asleep, drifting in the mists, her mind revisiting bits and pieces of their rendezvous, revolving more and more about that unnerving kiss, when she started awake. Blinking, eyes wide, she stared up at the canopy-and considered the fact that their decades-old mutual affliction had not reared its head that night.