A Secret Love

Chapter 7

"Good morning, Mr. Cynster."

Gabriel halted and turned; the countess was walking toward him.

Along the pavement of Brook Street in broad daylight.

She was, as usual, fully cloaked and veiled. Gabriel arched a brow. The hunter in him recognized her strategy, but if she thought to deny him all reward, she'd yield something else, instead.

No veil was impenetrable in daylight.

Then she stopped before him, her face high, and he saw the black mask she wore under the veil.

He wondered if she played chess.

"Good morning…" He let his greeting die away for want of a name or specific title; as he straightened from his bow, he amended, "Madam."

He sensed her smile, concealed beneath the mask, then she gestured in the direction he'd been heading. "May I walk with you?"

"By all means." He offered his arm and she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. As they strolled in the direction of Bond Street, he was intensely aware of her height. He could see over the heads of most ladies; it was consequently easy to largely ignore them even when they were on his arm. Ignoring the countess was impossible; she impinged on his awareness in so many ways.

It was just past midday and the ton was slowly stirring, gentlemen emerging from their doors as he had to seek refuge or congenial company in the clubs around St. James.

"I assume," his companion said, her voice, as ever, soft and low, "that you're proceeding with the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company?"

"Indeed." Swiftly considering, he continued, "In order to prove fraud, it's imperative we have witnesses to and evidence of the precise details of the proposal the company representatives present to prospective investors. My man of business has made discreet inquiries, but none of the more wealthy, experienced investors, nor their men of business, have been approached by the company. That being so, we'll need to send the company a potential investor."

She looked down. They crossed South Molton Street before she asked, "Who do you have in mind for the role?"

"A young friend by the name of Gerrard Debbington. He has the presence to pass as over twenty-one, although in fact he's a minor. That, of course, gives him a perfect and valid reason to not, after the company's presentation, sign any promissory note himself."

"His guardians would have to sign."

"Quite. But he's not going to mention them until the end of the interview."

She looked up. "What interview?"

His expression impassive, Gabriel considered the bright glint that was all he could see of her eyes. He didn't know their color, yet he suspected they wouldn't be blue. Brown? Green? "Gerrard has spent the last few days ambling about in all the right places, making vague noises about finding something better to do with his brass than buy up more fields."

"And?"

"Yesterday, Archie Douglas just happened to bump into him."

"And?"

The repeated word held a note of impatience; Gabriel kept his lips straight. "Archie chatted about the Central East Africa Gold Company. When Gerrard showed the right sort of interest, a meeting with the company's representatives was mooted."

"When?"

"Archie had to confirm the details with his friends, but Gerrard, as per instructions, suggested tomorrow evening at the Burlington Hotel."

"Do you think the company representatives, by which I assume you mean Crowley, will agree?"

"I'm quite sure they'll agree. Archie wouldn't have approached Gerrard if Crowley hadn't already singled out his mark."

"But…" Anxiety colored the word. "I believe Gerrard Debbington is a connection of yours. Of the Cynsters. Is that wise?"

Gabriel inwardly frowned. Who was she? "He is, but the connection isn't obvious, at least not in this sense. Archie Douglas is not highly regarded by the ton's hostesses; he won't know of the connection. Crowley's scrutiny will focus on Gerrard's background, which shows he's a wealthy young gentleman from the shires. If the company was in the habit of more prudently checking their marks, they wouldn't have bothered with your late husband."

"Hmm."

His fair companion sounded less than convinced. "Put it this way, if Crowley had any inkling that Gerrard Debbington was in any way associated with me, Gerrard would never have been approached."

Her head lifted. She gave one of her distinctive nods. "Yes, that's true. So… you think Gerrard Debbington can effectively pass himself off as a gullible investor?"

"I'm sure of it. I'll drill him in what we need to know, and give him pointers-a primer, if you will-so he'll know the most useful questions to ask, all couched in language appropriate for a young gentleman fancying himself the next Golden Ball."

"Yes, but do you think he'll be able to carry off the" she waved-"characterization, as it were? If he's only eighteen…"

"He does a very good job of appearing less intelligent than he is. He simply stares vaguely-vacuously-at whoever's talking. He has an innocent-looking face with large eyes and one of those charmingly youthful smiles. He appears as open as a book at all times-that doesn't necessarily mean he is." Gabriel glanced at the countess. "I don't know if you're aware, but he's a budding painter, so even in the most social of settings he's usually considering the line of people's faces, their clothing, coloring, and so on, even while he's supposedly engaged in conversation."

The countess looked him in the eye. "I see."

So she did play chess, but he was a master. "So Gerrard will meet with the company's representatives tomorrow evening. I've chosen the Burlington as it's the sort of place at which someone like Gerrard's supposed self would stay. He'll have a suite, and while he speaks with whoever arrives to make the presentation in the sitting room, I'll be listening from the adjoining bedchamber."

"Do you expect Crowley to appear?"

"Impossible to be sure. There's no reason he needs to show himself but, based on how he's behaved in the past, I suspect he'll be there. He seems to take delight in personally gloating over those he swindles."

"I want to attend-to listen in on this meeting."

Gabriel frowned. "There's no need for you to be there."

"Nevertheless. I'd like to hear for myself what the Company offers and, ultimately, it means we'll have an extra witness to the presentation if need arises."

Gabriel frowned harder. "What about Gerrard? If you want to preserve your anonymity, surely you won't want him to know of your existence. While I might respect your request not to discover your identity, Gerrard is, after all, only eighteen and possesses an artist's eye."

She stopped. "He doesn't know that you're investigating the company at my behest?"

"As I've investigated other companies purely through my own inclination, there was no need to advance any reason for my interest in the Central East Africa Gold Company. Particularly not with Crowley at its helm."

She fell silent; he could almost hear her mind working. Then she looked up. "Will Mr. Debbington actually be staying at the Burlington?"

"No. He'll arrive about half an hour before the meeting's due to start."

"Very well-I'll arrive before him. I assume you'll be there?"

Gabriel set his lips. "Yes, but-"

"There'll be no danger to me personally, or to my anonymity, if I secret myself in the bedchamber before Mr. Debbington arrives, hear the presentation, and then wait until after he's left to do the same."

Gabriel held her veiled gaze. "I cannot fathom why you should be so set on senselessly exposing yourself-"

"I insist."

Chin angled imperiously, she held his gaze. Lips thinning, he let the moment stretch, and stretch, then grudgingly gave way. "Very well. You'll need to arrive at the Burlington no later than nine."

He sensed the triumph that flooded her-she thought she'd won a round. Under her mask, she was no doubt beaming. He kept his lips compressed, his frowning gaze on her veiled face.

"I'll leave you now." Withdrawing her hand, she looked back up the street.

He glanced around and saw a small black carriage, presumably the one that had driven him home from Lincoln's Inn, drawn up by the curb behind them. "I'll walk you to your carriage." Before she could blink, he recaptured her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She hesitated, then acquiesced, somewhat stiffly.

Gabriel raked the carriage as they neared, but it was an anonymous affair-small, black and unadorned-identical to the second carriage most large households maintained in the capital. Used to ferry their owners about discreetly, such carriages carried no insignia blazoned on the door, or identifying detail worked into the body. No hint of the countess's identity there.

The horses were nondescript. He glanced at the coachman; he was hunched over the reins, his head sunk between his shoulders. The man wore a heavy coat and plain breeches-no livery.

The countess had thought of everything.

He opened the carriage door and handed her in. Pausing on the step, she looked back at him. "Until tomorrow evening at nine."

"Indeed." He held her gaze for an instant, then let her go. "I'll leave a message with the porter to conduct you to the suite." Stepping back, he shut the door, then stood and watched the carriage drive away.

Only when it had rumbled around the corner did he allow his victorious smile to show.

He was waiting in the best suite at the Burlington when, at five minutes to nine o'clock the next evening, she knocked on the door. He opened it and stood back, careful not to smile too intently as, inevitably veiled and cloaked, she swept past him.

Shutting the door, he watched as she scanned the room, taking in the two lamps on side tables flanking the hearth, spilling their light over the scene. Two armchairs and a sofa were drawn up in a comfortable arrangement around a low table before the hearth. Heavy curtains screened the windows; the fire dancing in the grate turned the scene cozy. A well-stocked tantalus stood within reach of one of the armchairs.

When she turned to face him, he got the distinct impression she approved of his stagecraft. "When will Mr. Debbington arrive?"

Gabriel glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Soon." He nodded at the door opposite the hearth. "Perhaps you'd care to inspect our vantage point?"

Her skirts swirled as she turned; he followed as she crossed the room.

Pausing beyond the threshold, she looked around. "Oh, yes. This is perfect."

Gabriel thought so, too. In the cavelike gloom created by the heavy curtains, a huge four-poster bed sat in stately splendor. It possessed a goodly number of plump pillows and the mattress was thick. He'd already confirmed it met his standards; the countess would have no reason to cavil.

She, of course, paid no attention to the bed; her comment was occasioned by the convenient gap between the half-closed door and its jamb, a gap that gave anyone standing behind the door a perfect view of the seats before the sitting room fireplace.

She was squinting at them when another knock fell on the door.

Gabriel met her questioning glance. "Gerrard. I'll need to rehearse his lines-he won't know you're here."

He spoke in a whisper. She nodded. Leaving her, he crossed to the door.

Gerrard stood in the corridor looking sleekly debonair, his youth revealed only by the expectant light in his eyes. "All ready?"

"I was about to ask you the same question." Waving him to the seats by the fire, Gabriel shut the door. "We should go over your lessons."

"Oh, yes." Gerrard made himself comfortable in what was clearly the host's chair. "I hadn't realized how much there was to learn about giving people money."

"Many don't, which is precisely what men like Crowley count on." Gabriel walked to the other armchair, then hesitated. Then he walked to the wall, picked up a straight-backed chair, and carried it over to face Gerrard. "Better to play safe…" Sitting, he fixed Gerrard with a keen glance. "Now…"

He led Gerrard through a catechism of terms and conditions, couched in popular investing cant. At the end of twenty minutes, he nodded. "You'll do." He glanced at the clock. "We'd better speak in whispers from now on."

Gerrard nodded. His gaze drifted to the tantalus; he rose and poured himself a small amount of brandy, swirling it around the glass to make it appear there'd been more originally. He met Gabriel's gaze as he resat, cradling the balloon in his fingers. "I'll offer them a drink, don't you think?"

"Good idea." Gabriel nodded at the glass in Gerrard's hand.

Gerrard grinned.

An aggressive knock fell on the door.

Rising, Gabriel held up a hand to stay Gerrard, then picked up his chair and silently returned it to its place against the wall. After one last glance about the scene, he crossed to the darkened bedchamber and stepped behind the door.

Gerrard set down his glass, then stood, straightened his sleeves, and strolled to the door. Opening it, he looked out. "Yes?"

"I believe you're expecting us." The deep booming voice carried clearly to the two behind the bedchamber door. "We represent the Central East Africa Gold Company."

Gabriel took up his position behind the countess. In the darkened bedchamber, she was no more than a dense shadow, her veiled face lit by the weak light shafting between door and jamb. Slightly to one side of her, Gabriel watched Gerrard greet his visitors with earnest affability.

After shaking hands, Gerrard waved the two men to the sofa. "Please be seated, gentlemen."

Gabriel struggled to block out the countess's perfume and concentrate; this was his first view of Crowley. Although he'd only been able to hear the names exchanged, he had no doubt which of the two was he. He was a bull of a man; comparing his height with Gerrard's, Gabriel pegged him at just on six feet. Six feet of muscled bulk; Crowley would easily have made two of Gerrard. Heavy black brows, thick and strong, slashed across his face, overhanging deep-set eyes. His face was fleshy, his features as coarse as the black hair that curled thickly over his large head.

That head appeared sunk directly into hulking shoulders; his arms were heavily thewed, as were his legs. He was wide and barrel-chested; he looked as strong as an ox and probably was. The only weakness Gabriel could discern was that he moved heavily, with no suppleness to his frame; when Gerrard offered a drink just as Crowley was about to sit, he had to turn his entire body toward Gerrard to answer, not just his head.

He was a distinctly unlovely specimen, but not specifically ugly. His thick lips were presently curved in an easy smile, softening the pugnacious line of his jaw and lending his otherwise unprepossessing countenance a certain charm. Indeed, there was raw energy-an animal magnetism-conveyed in the brilliance of his gaze and in the sheer strength of his movements.

Some women would find that attractive.

Gabriel glanced at the countess. Her attention was riveted on the scene in the sitting room. He looked back to see Crowley lean back on the sofa, completely at ease now he'd seen Gerrard. The expression on his face reminded Gabriel of a cat about to start playing with a mouse-anticipation of the kill oozed from Crowley's pores.

A soft sound reached Gabriel. He glanced at the countess, and realized he'd heard her swiftly indrawn breath. She'd tensed; as he watched, she almost imperceptibly shuddered.

Looking back at the scene playing out before them, Gabriel could understand. At his vacuous best, Gerrard was chatting amiably with the other man; he wasn't looking at Crowley's face. Yet Gerrard, sensitive and observant, wouldn't be-couldn't be-unaware of Crowley's potent menace. Gabriel's respect for the younger man grew as, with every evidence of artless innocence, Gerrard turned to Crowley.

While Gerrard engaged Crowley in banal preliminaries, asking about the basic nature of the company's business, Gabriel studied the other man, Swales, the company's agent.

He was average in almost every way-average height, average build, common in his coloring. His features were indistinguishable from those of countless others, his clothing likewise anonymous. The only thing that set Swales apart was that while his face with its bland expression seemed like a mask, his eyes were never still. Even now, although there was no one in the room bar Gerrard and Crowley, Swales's gaze darted constantly, now here, now there.

Crowley was the predator, Swales the scavenger.

"I see." Gerrard nodded. "And these gold deposits are in the south of Africa, you say?"

"Not the south." Crowley smiled patronizingly. "They're in the central part of the continent. That's where the 'Central East' in the company's name comes from."

"Oh!" Gerrard's face lit. "I see now, yes. What's the country's name?"

"There's more than one country involved."

Gabriel listened, occasionally tensing as Gerrard artfully probed, but Patience's brother possessed a real knack for pressing just so far, then sliding away into patent and unthreatening ignorance one word before Crowley tensed. Gerrard played his part to perfection, and played Crowley just as well.

The countess was equally on edge, equally concerned; she tensed at precisely the same moments he did, then relaxed as Gerrard once again played out Crowley's line. Crowley was the one hooked on the lure, being artfully reeled in, not the other way about.

By the end of an hour, when Gerrard finally allowed Swales to show him the promissory note, they had heard all they could hope to hear, and that from Crowley's lips. He'd named the locations of three of the company's mining claims, and also cited towns where he said the company had a workforce and buildings established. He'd dropped a host of names supposedly of African officials backing the company, and of African authorities from whom permissions had been received. Under subtle prompting, he'd revealed figures aplenty, enough to keep Montague busy for a week. He'd also twice mentioned that the company was close to commencing the next phase of development.

They'd learned what they needed to know, and Gabriel was exhausted by the constant ebb and flow of helpless tension. The countess was sagging, too. Gerrard, on the other hand, was positively glowing. Crowley and Swales saw it as enthusiasm; Gabriel knew it was suppressed excitement at his triumph.

"So you see"-Swales leaned closer to Gerrard, pointing to the lower portion of the promissory note, now unrolled on Gerrard's knees-"if you just sign here, we'll be all right and tight."

"Oh, yes. Right-ho!" Gerrard started rerolling the note. "I'll get it signed right and tight, and then we'll all be happy, what?" He grinned at Crowley and Swales.

There was an instant of silence, then Crowley said, "Get it signed? Why can't you sign it now?"

Gerrard looked at him as if he'd admitted to lunacy. "But… my dear man, I can't sign. I'm a minor." Having dropped his bombshell, Gerrard looked from Crowley to Swales and back again. "Didn't you know?"

Crowley's face darkened. "No. We didn't know." Shifting forward, he held out a hand for the note.

Gerrard grinned and held onto it. "Well, there's no need to worry, y'know. M'sister's my main guardian and she'll sign whatever I tell her to. Well, why wouldn't she? She's got no head for business-she leaves that to me."

Crowley hesitated, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Gerrard's innocent countenance. Then he asked, "Who's your other guardian? Do they have to sign, too?"

"Well, yes-that's how things usually are if there's a female involved, don't y'know. But my other guardian's an old stick-bumbling old fool-my late pater's old solicitor. He lives buried in the country. Once m'sister signs, then he will, too, and all will be right as a trivet."

Crowley glanced at Swales, who shrugged. Crowley looked back at Gerrard, then nodded. "Very well." He stood, slowly bringing his bulk up off the sofa.

Gerrard unfolded his long limbs with the effortless grace of the young and held out his hand. "Right then. I'll get the deed done, the note signed, and get it back to you forthwith."

He shook hands with Crowley, and then with Swales, then accompanied them to the door. As they reached it, Crowley paused. Gabriel and the countess shifted, craning to keep them in sight.

"So when can we expect to get the note back?"

Gerrard grinned, the epitome of foolish vacuity. "Oh, a few weeks should do it."

"Weeks!" Crowley's face darkened again.

Gerrard blinked at him. "Why, yes-didn't I say? The pater's old solicitor lives in Derbyshire." When Crowley continued to glower, Gerrard's brows rose, his expression degenerating to that of a child fearing denial of a promised treat. "Why? There's no tearing rush, is there?"

Crowley studied Gerrard's face, then, very gradually, drew back. "As I said, the company's close to commencing the next phase of operations. Once we reach that point, we won't be accepting any more promissory notes. If you want a share in our profits, you'll need to get the note signed and returned to us-you can send it to Thurlow and Brown, of Lincoln's Inn."

"But if you don't get it to us soon," Swales put in, "you'll miss out."

"Oh, no chance of that! I'll get m'sister to sign and get it off tomorrow. If I send it by rider, it'll be back before we know it, what?"

"Just make sure it is." With one last intimidating glance, Crowley hauled open the door.

Swales followed him into the corridor. Gerrard stopped on the threshold. "Well, thank you, and good-bye."

Crowley's growled farewell rumbled back to them, drowning out Swales's reply.

Gerrard stood at the door, watching them depart, his silly smile still in place, then he stepped back, closed the door, and let his mask fall.

Gabriel closed his hands about the countess's shoulders. She sagged back against him-for one blissful moment, from shoulder to hip, she caressed him-then she remembered herself and stiffly straightened. Smiling in the dark, Gabriel squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Leaving her behind the door, he went out to Gerrard.

He put a finger to his lips as Gerrard faced him. Gerrard dutifully held silent. They both waited, listening, then Gabriel signaled Gerrard to open the door and look out.

Gerrard did, then stepped back and closed the door. "They're gone."

Gabriel nodded, scanning Gerrard's face. "Well done."

Gerrard smiled. "It was the longest performance I've ever given, but he didn't seem to suspect."

"I'm sure he didn't. If he had, he wouldn't have been anywhere near as accommodating." Crossing to the escritoire by the windows, Gabriel drew out paper and pen. "Now to the last act. We need to write down everything we heard, and sign and date it."

Gerrard drew up a chair. Together, they recounted the conversation, noting down names, locations and amounts. With his sharp visual memory, Gerrard was able to review the conversation, verifying Gabriel's recollections and adding further snippets. An hour had passed before they were satisfied.

Gabriel pushed back from the escritoire. "That gives us a lot to check, a lot to verify-more than enough chance to prove fraud." He glanced at Gerrard, just as Gerrard yawned. "Now it's time you were off home."

Gerrard grinned and rose. 'Tiring work, acting, and I'm driving to Brighton with friends tomorrow, so I'd best turn in."

Gabriel followed Gerrard to the door. Gerrard stopped by the sofa. "Here-you'd better take this, too."

"Indeed." Gabriel accepted the rolled promissory note. "It's absolute evidence that this meeting took place."

Reaching the door, Gerrard looked back. "Are you coming?"

Stowing the note and their account of the meeting in the inside pocket of his coat, Gabriel shook his head. "Not just yet. We shouldn't be seen together. You go ahead-I'll follow later. Duggan is waiting for you, isn't he?" Duggan was Vane's groom.

Gerrard nodded. "He'll drive me back to Curzon Street. Let me know how it goes." With a salute, he went out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Gabriel considered the closed door, then walked across and snibbed the lock. He surveyed the room, then strolled to the lamp beside the fireplace, turning it, then its mate, very low, shrouding the room in shadows. Satisfied, he headed for the bedchamber, for the epilogue to the evening's performance.