A Secret Love

Chapter 19

Sunday evening. Gabriel let himself into his house with his latchkey. As he closed the door, Chance materialized from the back of the hall.

Gabriel handed him his hat and cane. "Is there brandy in the parlor?"

"Indeed, sir."

Gabriel waved a dismissal. "I won't need anything more tonight." He stopped with his hand on the parlor doorknob. "One thing-did Folwell bring his report?"

"Aye, sir-it's on the mantelshelf."

"Good." Entering the parlor, Gabriel shut the door and headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers of brandy, then, glass in hand, lifted Folwell's missive from the mantelpiece and slumped into his favorite armchair. He took a long sip, his gaze on the folded sheet, then, setting both glass and note down on a side table, he pressed his hands to his eyes.

God, he was tired. Over the last week, aside from the time he'd spent with Alathea and a few restless hours' sleep, he'd devoted every waking minute to trying to shake formal statements-statements with legal weight-from a score of civil servants and foreign ambassadors' aides. To no avail. It wasn't that the gentlemen didn't want to be helpful; it was simply the way of governmental authority the world around. Everything had to be checked and triple-checked, and then authorized by someone else. Time, it seemed, was measured on a different scale in Whitehall and foreign parts both.

Sighing deeply, Gabriel stretched out his legs and leaned his head back, eyes closed. It wasn't his failure on the foreign front that was worrying him.

He'd called on Captain Aloysius Struthers that afternoon. Even from that short interview, it was clear that the captain was indeed the savior Alathea had thought him. His testimony, even in the absence of any further facts beyond those they'd already gleaned, would prompt the most reticent judge to a speedy and favorable decision. The problem was the captain had embarked on a crusade with all flags flying. He'd already contacted acquaintances in search of maps and mining leases.

Gabriel wasn't at all sure that was the way to sling a noose around Crowley's neck. Stealth might have been wiser.

He'd spent half an hour urging Struthers to caution, but the man hadn't wanted to listen. He was fixated on bringing Crowley down. In the end, Gabriel had accepted that and left, trying to ignore the presentiment of danger resonating, clarionlike, in his mind.

As long as Struthers appeared at Chancery Court on Tuesday morning, all would be well. Until then, however, the investigation and his nerves would teeter on a knife edge. One wrong move…

Opening his eyes, he straightened, reached for his glass, and grimly sipped. There was nothing more he could do tonight to bolster the Morwellan cause. It was, however, time and past that he attended to the other matter on his plate.

He was a coward.

A difficult fact for a Cynster to face, but face it he must. She had given him no choice.

He hadn't seen Alathea since their meeting in the gazebo the previous afternoon. Indeed, he didn't want to see her, not until he'd decided what to do, how to respond to her ultimatum. She made him feel so… primitive, so stripped of all his elegant attitudes, the patina of his social charm. With her, he felt like a caveman, one who had suddenly discovered heaven on earth was beyond the ability of his club to provide. He'd painted the details of their future life intending to lure her into admitting how desirable it would be, to show her how easily their lives would mesh. Instead, he'd opened his own eyes to how desperately he wanted all that he'd described.

He hadn't considered the details before-he'd known he wanted her as his wife and that had been enough. But now that he'd conjured up such visions in all their glory, they haunted him.

And pricked and prodded at his cowardice.

Was he going to risk that future-the glorious future that should be theirs-simply because he couldn't find the words to tell her what she wanted to know? Because the mere thought of what she truly meant to him closed his throat and rendered him incapable of speech?

But there were no words to encompass all she was to him, so how the devil could he tell her?

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and brooded on that fact. But he had to tell her, and soon. Patience had never been his strong suit-patience that entailed concommitant abstinence was utterly foreign to his nature. He'd endured more than a week without her; his stock of patience was stretched vanishingly thin. He certainly wasn't about to let the court case run its course and risk her slipping back to the country. If she did, he'd have to hie after her, and just think how revealing that would be to the now all-too-interested ton.

No-he had to speak before Tuesday morning. God knew how things would pan out after that, Struthers or no. And if, by some hellish twist of fate, things went awry and the decision went against them… if he waited until then to drum up his courage and speak, it might take forever to convince her he wasn't simply doing his all to whisk her into his protection. He'd probably go insane before he succeeded. Best to strike now, when their case looked strong, so she had less justification to attribute all his motive to his admittedly obsessive protective instinct. He wasn't sorry for that instinct-he wouldn't dream of apologizing for it-but he could see that in this case, it was going to get in his way.

So-how to tell her what she insisted on knowing before Tuesday morning?

He couldn't see himself doing the deed via a formal morning call, and trying to talk to her in the park would be insane. Reaching for Folwell's note, he scanned the list of Alathea's engagements. As he'd supposed, the next time he and she would unavoidably meet was at the Marlboroughs' ball tomorrow night.

They'd meet at Chancery Court the next morning.

Gabriel grimaced. How, between appearing in court and now, did fate expect him to declare his hand, let alone his heart?

"Send Nellie up to me, Crisp. I may as well get ready."

"Indeed, Lady Alathea. I believe Nellie's with Figgs. I'll inform her immediately." Crisp sailed on through the green baize door.

Alathea climbed the stairs, doggedly ignoring her constantly vacillating emotions. On the one hand, she felt almost hysterical with relief, buoyed to the point of frivolity over having the sword that had hung over the family's future for the past months all but effectively removed. The captain's testimony would carry the day against Ranald Crowley. There were moments when she had to concentrate to keep a silly grin from her face.

She had mentioned to her father and Serena that matters were looking up. A superstitious quirk had stopped her from assuring them that the family was finally safe. That she would do later in the week, the instant the judge handed down his decision.

But they were safe. She knew it in her heart.

Her heart, unfortunately, was otherwise engaged, not at all inclined to share in her imminent joy. On a matter that had, to her considerable surprise, come to mean more to her than even her family, her heart was troubled. Uneasy. Unfulfilled.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and sighed.

What was he up to?

She hadn't seen him, or heard from him since he'd left her in the gazebo, his harsh words "Don't you think we've wasted enough years?" ringing in her ears. So what now? Did he imagine she'd weaken and meekly acquiesce?

"Hah!" Lips compressing, she swept down the wing and flung open the door to her room. Nellie's footsteps came pattering after her.

"I want that ivory and gold gown-the one I was saving for a special occasion."

"Oooh!" Nellie darted to the wardrobe. "What's the occasion, then?"

Alathea sat before her dressing table; in the mirror, she considered the militant light in her eyes. "I haven't yet decided."

She wasn't going to do it-weaken and give in. She was going to be tenacious, stubborn-she was utterly determined. As far as she could see, she was the one who had taken all the risks thus far-in demanding his sworn motives, in being so naively transparent. It was time he did his part and told her the full truth.

A tap on the door heralded her bathwater. While Nellie oversaw the preparations, Alathea unpinned and brushed her hair, then wound it in a simple knot. Nellie came to fetch her usual bath salts; she mumbled through lips clamped about hairpins, "No-not those. The French sachets."

Nellie's brows rose, but she hurried to the drawer where the expensive birthday present from Serena was secreted. A moment later, a lush scent reminiscent of the countess's perfume wreathed through the room.

Nellie's face was gleefully alight; without further direction, she assembled all required to turn Alathea out at her finest-at her most seductive.

It was nearly an hour later before they were done. As she settled a gold cap on her hair, Alathea studied her reflection, trying to see herself through his eyes. Her hair shone, her eyes were wide and bright. Her complexion-something she rarely considered-was flawless. The years had erased all traces of youth from both face and figure, leaving both honed, refined. She touched her fingers lightly to her lips, then smiled. Swiftly, she scanned the expanse of her shoulders and breasts revealed by the exquisite gown, one Serena had forced on her earlier in the Season.

Sending heartfelt thanks winging her stepmother's way, Alathea stood. The gown rustled as the stiff silk fell straight, the gold embroidery at neckline and hem glittering. Stepping back, she turned, studying her outline, the way the gown caressed her hips. Determination glowed in her eyes.

As far as she was concerned the next move was Gabriel's, especially given he'd been so helpful as to make her declaration for her. Being naively transparent was bad enough-having one's transparency explained to one was infinitely worse.

She wasn't going to budge. He was going to have to convince her, utterly, completely, beyond a shadow-

"Here!" Nellie turned from the door to which a tap had summoned her. "Look what's come."

Alerted by the wonder in Nellie's voice, Alathea looked around.

Reverently holding a white-and-gilt box, Nellie gazed delightedly on what it contained. Then she beamed at Alathea. "It's for you-and there's a note!"

Alathea's heart leaped; her lungs seized. She sank back down on her dressing stool. As Nellie approached with the box, Alathea realized the reason for her awestruck expression. The box wasn't white-it was glass lined with white silk. It wasn't gilt, either-the decorations at corners, hinge and latch were all pure gold.

As Nellie gave it into her hands, Alathea could not imagine anything more exquisite. What on earth did it contain?

She didn't need to open it to find out. The lid was not lined. Through it, she saw a simple posy.

Simple, yes; in all other respects the posy was a match for the box. A group of five white flowers of a kind she'd never seen were secured with a ribbon of gold filigree. The posy nestled amid the white silk, all but hiding the note beneath. The petals of the flowers were lush, thick, velvety, the green of their stems a sharp contrast.

It was the most elaborate, expensive, extravagant come-out posy Alathea had ever seen.

Swivelling on the stool, she set the box on her dressing table and raised the lid. A drift of perfume reached her, sensual and heavy. Once inhaled, it didn't leave her. Carefully sliding her fingers beneath the flowers, she lifted the posy and set it aside. Then she drew out the note. Barely breathing, she opened it.

The message was simple-a single line in his bold, aggressive hand.

You have my heart-don't break it.

She read the words three times and still couldn't tear her eyes away. Then her vision misted; she blinked, swallowed. Her hand began to shake. Quickly folding the note, she laid it down.

And concentrated on dragging in her next breath.

"Oh, dear," she finally managed, and even that wavered. Blinking frantically, she stared at the posy. "Oh, heavens. What on earth am I to do?"

"Why you'll carry it, of course. Very nice, I must say."

"No, Nellie, you don't understand." Alathea put her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, how like him to make it complicated!"

"Him, who? Master Rupert?"

"Yes. Gabriel. He's called that now."

Nellie sniffed. "Well, I can't see why you can't carry his flowers, even if he is using some other name."

Alathea swallowed a hysterical laugh. "It's not his name, Nellie, it's me. I can't carry a girl's come-out posy."

He'd known, of course. She'd never had her come-out, never received a come-out posy, never had the opportunity to carry one.

"Damn the man!" She felt like weeping with happiness. "What am I to do?" She'd never felt so flustered in her life. She wanted to carry the flowers, to pick them up, rush out of the door like an eager young girl, and hurry to the ball just so she could show him-her lover-that she understood. But… "The scandalmongers are watching us as it is." If she carried the posy, they'd be the on-dit of the night. Possibly the whole Season.

"Maybe I can wear them as a corsage?" She tried it, angling the flowers this way, then that, at her right, her left, in the center of her neckline.

"No." She sighed. "It won't do." One flower wasn't enough against the gold embroidery, but three, the number needed to balance the spray, was too much, too large. Far too visible. Aside from anything else, the spray would be in her constant vision-facing him over it, spending the evening with him by her side with his flowers so blatantly between them would be impossible. She'd never maintain her composure.

"I can't." Dismayed, she gazed at the beautiful blooms-at the favor her warrior had sent her as a token of his heart. She desperately wanted to carry them, but didn't dare. "Fetch a vase, Nellie."

With a disapproving humph, Nellie left.

Alathea cradled the posy in her hands, and let all that it meant wash through her. Then she heard Mary's and Alice's voices; blinking, sniffing, she gently laid the posy back in the box and set it to one side of the table. In a daze, she finished her toilette, clasping her mother's pearls about her throat, placing the matching drops in her ears, lavishly dabbing on the countess's perfume.

"Allie? Are you ready?"

"Yes. I'm coming!" Her wits whirling, she rose. Her gaze on the posy, cradled in its delicate box, she breathed in, exhaled, then picked up her reticule and turned.

"Hurry! The coach is here!"

"I'm coming." Reaching the threshold, Alathea lingered. Her hand on the door, she looked back at the delicate box he'd used to send her his heart.

Her gaze lifted to the mirror beyond, to her own reflection.

A moment later, she blinked. Leaving the door, she re-crossed the room.

Halting before the dressing table, she picked up his note. She reread his message, then looked again at her reflection.

Her lips twisted, lifted. Tucking the note into her jewelry box, she raised her hands to her cap.

It took a moment to ease out the pins. Alathea ignored the chorus of calls wafting along the corridor. This time, her family could wait.

Laying aside the cap, she quickly unwound the posy. She wrapped the ribbon around the tight bun on the top of her head and tied it in a simple knot, the trailing ends interleaving with the surrounding curls. Fingers shaking, she separated three luscious blooms from the arrangement. By the time she'd threaded the stems into her thick hair and secured them with pins, she was smiling, her heart soaring, her face mirroring her joy.

Nellie rushed in, vase in hand, and abruptly halted. "Oh, my! Well, now! That's better!"

"Put the others in water. I have to rush." Whirling, Alathea squeezed Nellie's arm, then, breathless, ran to the door.

Brows high, Nellie watched her go, then, a broad smile wreathing her face, she bustled to the dressing table. She placed the two remaining blooms in the vase, then carefully carried it to the table beside the bed. Nellie wiped her hands and returned to the dressing table to tidy Alathea's combs and brush. She was about to turn away when the folded note poking out from Alathea's jewelry box caught her eye.

Nellie cast a glance at the door, then lifted the lid of the jewelry box and took out the note. She unfolded it, read it, then refolded it and replaced it. And chuckled delightedly. "You'll do, my lad. You'll do."

Gabriel saw his flowers in Alathea's hair the instant she appeared in the archway giving onto Lady Marlborough's ballroom. The sight transfixed him; joy, relief, and something far more primal locked his lungs. Pausing with her family at the top of the stairs, Alathea looked down, over the ballroom, but didn't immediately see him. His gaze didn't leave her as she slowly descended the broad sweep, one hand lightly skimming the balustrade as she searched the throng.

Then she saw him.

He drew breath and started toward her. His eyes didn't leave her face as he closed the distance between them; he had no recollection of those he passed as he cleaved through the crowd. He reached the newel post before her.

She descended the last steps, her gaze locked with his, pausing on the very last, higher than he, then she stepped down to the floor and angled her head so he could study the blooms.

"I couldn't carry them-you do understand?"

Triumph washed through him, a rolling wave that nearly brought him to his knees. "Your alternative is inspired." He took her hand; uncaring of any who might be watching, he carried it to his lips. His eyes held hers. "My lady."

Some magical force held them trapped, hazel drowning in hazel, so close they could sense each breath the other took, each beat of the other's heart. Neither could manage a smile.

"And about time, too, but do get a move on! There's a seat on a chaise over there I want to snare."

Alathea jumped and whirled. Gabriel looked up, into Lady Osbaldestone's black eyes. She grinned evilly and poked his arm. "Don't let me stop you in your rush into parson's mousetrap, but do get out of my way!"

They did; Lady Osbaldestone pushed past them and stumped into the throng. Gabriel turned as Alathea took his arm.

"We'd better do as she says."

Placing his hand over hers, he guided her into the already dense crowd.

"We were late," Alathea murmured. "Only by a few minutes, but it put us so far back in the queue of carriages…"

"I was beginning to wonder if something had happened…"

Something had. Alathea met his eyes; they were gently smiling, magnanimous in victory. She looked away. "You know, I would never have expected flowers from you."

She said nothing more; the muscles under her hand slowly tensed.

"There was a note with the flowers…"

Alathea turned smiling eyes his way. "I know. I read it."

He drew her to a halt, his eyes searching hers. "Just as long as you understood it."

His tone held aggression, uncertainty, and a strong undercurrent of vulnerability. Alathea let her expression soften, let her guard down enough for him to see her heart in her eyes. "Of course I understood it."

He looked deep into her eyes, then he released the breath he'd held. "Just don't forget it. Even if you never hear or see the words again, they'll always be true. Don't forget."

"I won't. Not ever."

The noisy crowd around them had faded. For a moment, they remained in that world where only they existed, then Alathea smiled softly, squeezed his arm, and drew them both back to the present. She glanced about. "You could have chosen an evening more conducive to your declaration."

Gabriel sighed and they started to stroll. "Our whole courtship-no, our joint lives thus far have been dictated by circumstance. I'm looking forward to shaking free of the shackles and taking charge of our reins."

"Indeed?" Regally, Alathea exchanged nods with Lady Cowper. "Might I suggest that you resign yourself to sharing the reins?"

Gabriel shot her a glance; his brow quirked. "I'll think about it."

They strolled on through the crush, encountering no member of either of their families. "This is ridiculous," Alathea stated as the press of bodies forced them to a halt. "Thank heaven there's are only a few weeks to go."

"Speaking of time passing, has Struthers contacted you?" Surrendering to the inevitable, Gabriel drew her out of the parading crowd to a spot where they could stand and converse in reasonable comfort.

"No. Why? I thought you were going to see him."

"I did. I told him my address and to get in touch with me if he needed any help, but he hasn't."

"Well." Alathea shrugged and looked about. "Presumably that means all's well and we'll see him tomorrow in court." She smiled and held out her hand. "Good evening, Lord Falworth."

Falworth took her hand and bowed. Gabriel inwardly cursed. Within minutes, her entire court had gathered. They must have located her by tracking him, tall enough to be followed through the jostling throng. Lord Montgomery prosed on; Falworth and others attempted to capture the conversation and steer it in their own directions. A social smile on her lips, Alathea pretended to follow, nodding and murmuring at appropriate moments.

The first waltz and she would be his again. Unfortunately, Lady Marlborough was of an older generation; she'd scheduled a great many cotillions and even a quadrille amid a host of country dances. He'd be waiting a while for his waltz.

Meanwhile…

"Dear Lady Alathea, I most earnestly implore your favor in this dance." Montgomery bowed low.

Mr. Simpkins regarded his lordship with unconcealed dislike. "Lady Alathea, you need only say the word. I would be honored to partner you." Simpkins's bow was abbreviated to the point of abruptness.

Alathea smiled serenely on them all, her gaze at the last touching Gabriel's. "I fear, gentlemen," she said, turning back to her court, "that I will not be dancing, in general, this evening."

They all heard the qualification. They'd all seen that swift, shared glance. Now they all wondered. Furiously.

"Ahem." Lord Montgomery struggled not to glare at Gabriel. "Might one enquire…?"

Alathea waved at the crowd. "It's far too exhausting to even imagine fighting one's way to the dance floor." Again she favored them with a serene smile. "I prefer to enjoy your conversation and"-her gaze slid to Gabriel's face-"save my energies for the waltzes."

His expression inscrutable, he met her gaze, then arrogantly raised a brow. If her court had not yet got the message, the moment, heavy with blatant sensuality, should have opened their eyes. The warrior within him roared in triumph; he hesitated, then inclined his head and tore his gaze from hers. While his primitive self gloated at her gesture, it was doing nothing for his composure, further eroding the thin veneer that, where she was concerned, was all that hid his true feelings from the world.

Now she'd all but publicly declared that she was his, surely his possessiveness could relax, triumphant? Unfortunately, he felt anything but relaxed. Alathea reinstituted a conversation with Falworth, regally ignoring the not-quite-convinced looks on Montgomery's and Simpkins's faces. Gabriel tried to stand easily beside her and not think of what he'd rather be doing.

Both proved impossible. She'd been right. Marlborough House filled to the rafters was not a useful venue for what he would prefer to be doing with her, to her. Finding an empty parlor tonight would be impossible. Was there any other way they could steal an hour or so alone? With the conversations about them droning in his ears, he considered all the options, regretfully rejecting every one. He slanted her a glance. The instant she and her family were free of Crowley's threat, he would have to kidnap her, for a few hours at least. Long enough to soothe the beast within.

Thinking of how he would soothe his clamorous needs did nothing to ease them. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his thoughts onto a different track. Struthers. He'd sent Chance to call on the old seadog at noon, offering his services in any helpful capacity. The captain had, not entirely unexpectedly, sent Chance off with a gruff but polite refusal. Chance had obeyed orders and kept watch on the run-down lodging house in the Clerkenwell Road. The captain had left late in the afternoon and headed for the City, then on toward the docks. Chance had faithfully tracked him, a talent learned in his previous existence, but the captain must have sensed he was being followed. He'd gone into a tavern and then disappeared. Chance had searched the three alleys the tavern gave access to, but hadn't been able to find the old man. Defeated, he'd returned to Brook Street to report.

If the captain was fly enough to lose Chance, then he could take care of himself. Presumably. The presentiment of danger that had struck Gabriel on first meeting the captain continued to nag at him.

Shifting, he glanced at Alathea. At least she was safe. From Crowley. She wasn't entirely safe-not in her terms- from him. They had nigh on a decade to make up for, and more than one event to celebrate. His gaze rose to her hair, to the gift he'd given her that had finally accomplished what he'd sought for so many years to achieve. He'd gotten rid of her damned caps. Never again would she wear one-he'd ensure she never even thought of it.

All of which added to his tension, to the impatience he could feel rising like a tide, a building pressure he could do nothing to release, not here, not now. He drew in an increasingly tight breath and refocused on her face, abruptly conscious that he was nearing the end of his severely strained tether. He glanced around at the gentlemen surrounding them; none posed as much of a threat to her as he.

Straightening, he shifted closer, all too aware of the countess's provocative perfume gently rising from her warm flesh. The thought of how much more strongly that scent would rise once her skin heated with passion had him clenching one fist.

Risking a scene at this point was senseless. He'd do better to take his clamoring instincts, possessive and otherwise, a short distance away.

A sudden gust of laughter from a nearby group had her court looking behind them. He seized the opportunity, touching the back of Alathea's arm, fingers light on the soft skin bare above her glove.

Vivid awareness streaked through him-and her. It was there in her wide eyes as she looked up. "What?"

The word was breathless; she was as giddy as he.

"I'd better circulate. I'll be back for the first waltz."

Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were so close, they could sense each other's breaths. She moistened her lips. "Perhaps," she whispered, "that might be… wise."

She lifted her gaze to his. Gabriel nodded.

He managed to turn away without touching his lips to hers.

Alathea watched him go, then, with an inward sigh, she returned her attention to her court as, the nearby ruckus abating, they turned back to her. She was relieved Gabriel had taken himself off; she'd sensed his suppressed tension. The fact that she now knew what caused it-what it truly was-did not make being its subject any less unsettling. Nevertheless, she would much rather have gotten rid of all her court, slipped away on his arm, and done all she could to ease him.

Keeping her social smile in place, she encouraged her court to entertain her. Her heart, however, wasn't in it. When a footman pushed through to her side, a folded note on a salver, that unruly organ leaped. Her first thought was that her warrior had found some bolt hole and was summoning her to his side.

The truth proved more disturbing.

Dear Lady Alathea,

I have secured all the information I sought and more. I have evidence enough to discredit Crowley's scheme but have been summoned back to my ship and must up anchor and depart on the morning tide. You must come at once-I must explain some of the details of the maps and documents in person, and it will be vital to your cause for me to make a signed deposition before witnesses, and leave the whole in your hands.

I implore you do not dally-I must weigh anchor the instant the tide turns. Take heart, dear lady-the end is nigh. All the necessary documents will shortly be in your hands and you will be able to send Crowley to the devil.

I have taken the liberty of sending a carriage and escort for you. You may trust the men implicitly-they know where to bring you. But you must come at once or all may be lost!

Your respectful servant,

Aloysius Struthers, Captn.

Alathea looked up. Her court were chatting among themselves, giving her a moment of privacy in which to read her note. She turned to the footman. "Is there a carriage waiting?"

"Aye, my lady. A carriage and a number of… men."

They'd probably be sailors. Alathea nodded. "Please tell the men I'll be with them directly."

The footman was too well-trained to show any reaction. He bowed and withdrew to do her bidding. Alathea touched Falworth's arm and smiled at Lord Montgomery, Lord Coleburn, and Mr. Simpkins. "I'm afraid, gentlemen, that I'll have to leave you. An urgent summons from a sick relative."

They murmured sympathetically; she doubted they believed her. Alathea inclined her head and left them. Stepping into the crowd, she lifted her head, scanning the throng. She couldn't see Gabriel.

"Damn!" Muttering under her breath, she started to quarter the room. He'd been tripping over her skirts for weeks. Now, when she needed him, he was nowhere to be found. The crowd was so dense, she couldn't be certain she wasn't crossing paths with him. She saw Celia, and Serena, and the twins, but their cousin was not to be found. Nor was Lucifer. Stepping onto the bottom of the ballroom stairs, Alathea cast an exasperated glance around, but could see no one-not even any of the other Cynsters-who might be of use.

"My lady?" The footman materialized at her elbow. "The men are very insistent that you leave right away."

"Yes, very well." With one last disgusted glance about the packed room, Alathea picked up her skirts, turned-and spied Chillingworth talking with a group of other guests in the lee of the stairs. "One moment."

She left the footman and plunged into the crowd. With a laugh and a bow, Chillingworth turned away from his friends as she pushed nearer. He saw her instantly.

He started to smile, then he took in her expression. He searched her eyes. "What's wrong?"

Alathea caught the hand he held out to her and pressed the note she held into it. "Please-see this gets to Gabriel. It's important. I have to leave."

"Where are you going?" Chillingworth closed his hand about both the note and her fingers. He glanced at the footman on the stairs as another liveried servant hurried down to whisper in the first's ear.

Alathea followed his gaze. "I have to go with someone-that's a message. Gabriel will understand." With a skill honed through years of wrestling with Cynsters, she twisted free of Chillingworth's grasp. "Just make sure he gets it as soon as possible."

The first footman had pushed through to her side. "My lady, the sailors are growing restive."

"Sailors!" Chillingworth grabbed for her arm.

Alathea eluded him. Pushing past the footman, she hurried to the stairs. "I haven't time to explain." She threw the words back at Chillingworth, following as fast as he could in her wake. "Just get that note to Gabriel."

Reaching the less-crowded stairs, she lifted her skirts and hurried up.

"Alathea! Stop!"

She didn't. She kept doggedly on to the top, then rushed through the archway and on out of the house.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chillingworth stared after her. An influx of guests swept down, making it impossible for him to follow her. Other guests who'd heard him bellow cast him odd looks. His lips setting grimly, he ignored them. "Damn!" He looked at the note crumpled in his fist, then he turned and surveyed the throng. "Serve Cynster bloody well right."

He found Gabriel in the card room, shoulders propped against the wall, idly watching a game of whist.

"This"-Chillingworth thrust the note at him-"is for you."

"Oh?" Gabriel straightened. His tickle of presentiment changed to a full-blown punch. He took the note. "From whom?"

"I don't know. Alathea Morwellan charged me to see it to you, but I doubt it's from her. She's left the house."

Gabriel was busy scanning the note; reaching the end, he swore. He looked at Chillingworth. "She's gone?"

Chillingworth nodded. "And yes, I did try to stop her, but you haven't trained her very well. She doesn't respond to voice commands."

"She doesn't respond to any commands." Gabriel's attention was on the note. "Damn! This doesn't look good." His expression hardened. He hesitated, then handed the note to Chillingworth. "What's your reading of it?"

Chillingworth read the letter, then grimaced. "He's effectively told her to 'come immediately' three times. Not good."

"My feelings exactly." Retaking the note, Gabriel stuffed it into his pocket and pushed past Chillingworth. "Now all I have to do is figure out where the hell she's gone."

"Sailors." Chillingworth followed in Gabriel's wake. "The footman said the men waiting for her were sailors."

"The docks. Wonderful."

They were nearing the stairs when Chillingworth, still behind Gabriel, said, "I'll come with you-we can take my carriage."

Gabriel threw him a look over his shoulder. "I'm not going to feel that grateful, you know."

"My only interest in this," Chillingworth replied as they went quickly up the stairs, "is in getting the damned woman back so she can plague you for the rest of your life."

Reaching the top of the stairs, they made their way through the gallery, then descended the grand staircase and strode across the front foyer. They swept up to the main door, shoulder to shoulder-

Looking back over his shoulder, down the steps to the forecourt, Charlie Morwellan collided with them on the threshold. He fell back. "Sorry." He started to bow then recognized Gabriel. "I say-do you know where Alathea's gone?" He looked toward the road leading to the City. "I can't understand why she had to go with that rough lot-"

Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where did they go? Did you get any idea?"

Charlie blinked at him. "Pool of London, Execution Dock, as a matter fact."

Gabriel released him. "You're sure?"

Charlie nodded. "I was getting some air-terribly stuffy in there-and struck up a conversation with the sailor by the carriage." He was talking to two departing backs; Charlie started down the steps in their wake. "Here-where are you going?"

"After your sister," Gabriel ground out He shot a glance at Chillingworth. "Which carriage?"

"The small one." Chillingworth was striding along, scanning the ranks of carriages drawn up along the road.

"I might have known," Gabriel muttered.

"Indeed you might," Chillingworth retorted. "I, at least, had plans for the night."

Gabriel had had plans, too, but-

"There it is!"

Together with a score of other coachmen, Chillingworth's coachman had left his master's unmarked carriage in the care of two of their number while the rest adjourned to a nearby tavern.

"I can run like the wind and 'ave your man here in a jiffy, guv'nor," one of the watchers offered.

"No-we haven't time. Tell Billings to make his own way home."

"Aye, sir."

The carriage was wedged between two others; it took the combined efforts of Gabriel, Charlie, and the two coachmen to clear the way sufficiently for Chillingworth to ease his carriage free. He waited only until Gabriel swung up to the box seat alongside him and Charlie leaped on the back before giving his blacks the office.

"Billings is going to have a heart attack." Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel. "But never mind that. What's going on?"

Gabriel told them, omitting only the extreme extent to which the Morwellans were at financial risk.

"So she thinks she's going to meet this captain?"

"Yes, but it's all too pat. Why tonight, the last night before the petition is lodged? I spoke with his shipping line only last Friday and they had no expectation of the captain sailing so soon. Struthers himself didn't expect to sail for weeks."

"This Crowley character. What's his caliber?"

"Dangerous, unprincipled-a gutter rat grown fat. One with no known scruples."

Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel, taking in the cast of his features, the granite-hard expression thrown into harsh relief by the street lamps. "I see." His own expression hardening, Chillingworth looked back at his horses.

"Alathea'll be all right," Charlie assured them. "No need to worry about her. She's more than a match for any rogue."

Unslayable confidence rang in his tone; Gabriel and Chillingworth exchanged a glance, but neither made any move to explain that Crowley was no mere rogue.

He was a villain.

"Pool of London," Chillingworth mused, reaching for his whip. "Vessels can leave directly from there."

With a flick of his wrist, he urged his horses on, clattering down along the Strand.