A Secret Love (2 page)

She was not at all inclined to meekly surrender all she'd fought for, all she'd spent the last eleven years securing—all her family's future—to feather the nest of a pack of dastardly rogues.

There had to be a way out—it was up to her to find it.

May 6, 1820
London

S
wirls 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 defined 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.”