A Secret Love (18 page)

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.

T
he countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.

“Do you really think there are mining claims in those places—Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?”

“I'd be greatly surprised if there's anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We'll check.” He couldn't see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses—they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley's revelations. “He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I've got it all down. To get the company's notes declared invalid all we need do is prove
some
of those claims false, not all of them.”

“Still”—he heard the frown in her voice—“it won't be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentioned?”

“No, but there must be someone in London who will.”

“He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development—surely that's his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon.”

“He's not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he'll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net.”

Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. “It's a significant victory to have got that much detail from him.”

“Oh, indeed!” She looked up. “Mr. Debbington was quite splendid.”

“And what about the
eminence grise
behind the scenes?”

He knew precisely when she realized—realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.

“You've been very . . . inventive.”

He slid one arm about her waist. “I intend being a great deal more inventive yet.”

He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.

“You've been very successful.” Her tone was slightly breathless.

His lips curved. “I've been brilliant.” He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering . . . but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn't possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips—to the lips that were waiting for him.

Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price—he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.

There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more—know more—of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.

He sensed the hitch in her breathing. Closing his fist in her hair, he drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Blind in the dense darkness, he slid his lips from hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He laved it, then sucked—her breath hitched again. Her fingers had speared through his hair; they spread over his skull as he shifted his hold and closed his hands over her breasts.

Already firm, they swelled and filled his palms, heated flesh begging for his attention. Straightening, dragging in a swift breath, he caught her lips again. She kissed him back—avidly, greedily, as ravenous as he. When he rotated his thumbs about her already ruched nipples, she gasped. Without thought, he backed her until she came up against the wall. Inwardly, he tried to shake his head to clear it of the miasma of lust fogging it. He'd just moved her away from the bed, a patently silly move. Now he'd have to move her back again.

Later.

Trapping her lips with his, he pinned her to the wall and set his fingers to her laces.

He couldn't think—he hadn't planned, although he'd tried to. He rarely embarked on a seduction these days, especially not one he was particularly intent on, without some idea of what would work best, what possibilities were most likely, what avenues held most promise of fulfillment. In thinking of how he would have the countess, he hadn't been able to get past the need to touch her, to know her.

A surprisingly simple need for such an experienced lover as he, and one surprisingly compelling.

He had her laces free, her gown loose, in the space of a heated minute. Using his weight to immobilize her, he reached up and dislodged her hands from his hair. Drawing her hands and arms down, he leaned into their kiss—she drew him deep, then played havoc with his senses. For one definable instant, he lost his will entirely and simply existed, utterly in thrall, then the hot pressure of her breasts against his chest recalled him to his urgent need.

He had to touch her, caress her—feel her. If she wouldn't allow him to see her, he would have to learn her by touch, by having her against him, skin to bare skin, heat to heat.

Without any veils, any cloaks, any barriers between them.

He needed to know her.

Releasing her hands, he reached for her shoulders and swiftly drew her gown down, pushing the sleeves down her arms, deftly freeing her breasts. He sensed her hesitation, the tremor of uncertainty that shook her; capturing her lips, her attention, in a searing kiss, he left her gown in folds about her hips and cupped her breasts, now covered only by the thin silk of her chemise.

Her hesitation evaporated. She gripped his face with both hands and kissed him back, every bit as urgent as he. Through the silk, her skin burned; the ripe swells tipped by nipples hard as pebbles beckoned. Her chemise was fastened by a row of tiny buttons. He ravaged her mouth as he swiftly undid them. He was already aching, rigid with need, but more than anything he wanted to savor each moment, each revelation. Each bit of her as he uncovered it.

Her breasts were a delight. Firm and full, they filled his hands, generous, hot and heavy. Pushing the open halves of her chemise wide, he kneaded and heard her moan. The evocative sound sent another, unnecessary rush of blood to his loins. Dragging his lips from hers, he ducked his head, trailing open-mouthed kisses over her throat, her collarbone, to where her flesh mounded in his hands.

Then he feasted.

She moaned, and panted, and even sighed his name as he tasted, licked, and suckled. He had to be marking her; although he couldn't see, the thought sent a surge of sheer possessiveness through him. He drew one peak deep into his mouth; she cried out. Her knees buckled. He leaned into her, holding her up, his erection hard against her lower belly, his balls cradled between her thighs.

Her softness flowed around him as she slid her arms about his shoulders and clung; her perfume, evocative as sin, wrapped about them.

He lifted his head and found her lips again, swollen and hot and needy. She drew him in, tongue tangling with his, boldly inciting. He slid his hands down to her hips, then further, tracing the smooth lines of her flanks. Her nipples, hard and tight, were twin points of flame surrounded by the fire of her breasts, crushed against his chest as he pressed her to the wall. Her hips tilted into his.

He wasn't even thinking when he grasped the folds of her gown in both hands and pushed them from her hips. His senses didn't register the sibilant “swoosh” as he shifted and the silk slithered to the floor. His senses had seized.

She was like hot, supple silk, alive, enchanted, all his. Her limbs, all but naked, shifted sensuously against him, not to push him away but to enclose him more sweetly. If he'd ever dreamed of a houri, then she was here, in his arms, nubile, nearly naked, ready to fulfill his every want, ready to kill him with pleasure. He couldn't catch his breath, mentally or physically; lust closed like a fist about his gut and shut off his brain. His hands dove beneath the hem of her chemise to close possessively about the globes of her bottom.