A Secret Love (21 page)

“W
ell, miss, and what's got into you?”

Alathea snapped to attention. Reflected in the dressing table mirror before her, she saw Nellie shaking out her pillows and airing her bed.

Nellie caught her eye. “You've been staring at that mirror for the past five minutes, and seeing nothing is my guess.”

Alathea gestured, brushing the query aside, praying she wouldn't blush, that her face showed no evidence of her thoughts. Heaven forbid.

“That meeting of yours last night must have been a long one—four o'clock again before you got in. Jacobs said you was in there for all those hours.”

Alathea picked up her brush. “We had to discuss what we'd learned.”

“So you've found something out about this wretched company—you and Mr. Rupert?”

“Indeed.” Setting the brush to her hair, Alathea forced her mind to that aspect of the night. “We've learned enough to frame our case. All we need do now is assemble the right proofs, and we'll be free.”

Easier said than done, no doubt, but she was convinced last night had set their feet on the road to success. Despite her careful words to Gabriel, she'd felt buoyed by their first real gain, the first scent of ultimate victory.

She'd been careful to hide her elation, aware he'd sense it and take advantage.

He'd taken advantage anyway.

So had she.

“Here, let me.” Nellie lifted the brush from her slack grasp. “Good for nothing, this morning, you are.”

Alathea blinked. “I was just . . . thinking.”

Nellie shot her a shrewd look. “Well, I dare say there are lots of facts from this meeting you need chew on.”

“Hmm.” Facts. Sensations, emotions—revelations. She had a lot to think about.

Throughout the day, her mind wandered, considering, pondering, reliving the golden moments, carefully fixing each in her memory, storing them away against the cold years ahead. Again and again, she was jerked back to the present—by Charlie asking after one of their tenants, by Alice wanting her opinion on a particular shade of ribbon, by Jeremy frowning over a piece of arithmetic.

Finally, in the quiet of the afternoon when, after luncheon, all the females of the family repaired to the back parlor for a quiet hour before driving in the park or attending an afternoon tea, Augusta climbed into Alathea's lap, sitting astride her knees. Placing her soft hands on Alathea's cheeks, Augusta stared into her eyes. “You keep going away—far away.”

Alathea looked into Augusta's large brown eyes.

Augusta searched hers. “Where is it you go?”

To another world, one of darkness, sensation, and indescribable wonder.

Alathea smiled. “Sorry, poppet, I've got lots on my mind just now.” Rose had been dumped in her lap between them; Alathea lifted the doll and studied her. “How is Rose finding London?”

The distraction worked, not for her but for Augusta. Fifteen minutes later, when Augusta slipped from her lap and went to play with Rose in a splash of sunlight, Alathea exchanged a fond and, she hoped, undisturbingly mild glance with Serena, then quietly left the room.

She sought refuge in her office.

Standing arms crossed before the window, she forced herself to concentrate on the company's plans, all that Crowley had disclosed the previous evening. Despite her senses' preoccupation, there was nothing requiring thought in all the rest. It had happened—she'd seized and enjoyed the experience, but that was all there was to it. She wouldn't rescue her family from destitution by dwelling on such matters—on the substance of dreams. Her only major worry arising from her interlude with Gabriel was the difficulty she would experience in facing him as Alathea Morwellan. Knowing him in the biblical sense, and knowing he knew her in the same way but didn't know it was she, wasn't going to make her life any easier.

Despite her charade, she was not a naturally deceitful person; she'd never imagined having to deceive him in this way.

If he ever found out . . .

Dragging in a breath, she turned from the window. Sensibility was not her strong suit—whatever leanings she'd had in that direction had been eradicated eleven years ago. Determinedly, she focused on the company and Crowley. It took mere minutes to concede that she could not, no matter how much she wished it, proceed without Gabriel. Quite aside from the fact that dismissing him would probably be more difficult than summoning him in the first place, she could see no way forward without him.

She couldn't break in, or even organize to have someone else break in, to Douglas's mansion. She'd had Jacobs drive her around Egerton Gardens; Folwell had chatted to a street sweeper and discovered which of the large, new houses belonged to Douglas, but breaking in was too risky. Although they might find some of the proofs they needed, the chances of Crowley or Swales realizing their records had been searched and, as Charlie would phrase it, getting the wind up, was high. Then they'd call in the promissory notes and she'd be too busy beating off creditors to press any claim in court.

And she didn't like Crowley. The thought of meeting him at night alone and cut off from help was the substance of nightmares. He was evil. She'd sensed it very clearly, watching him as he'd watched Gerrard Debbington, seeing the cruel gleam in his eyes. Gabriel had said Crowley liked to gloat over his potential victims, but it was more than that. He viewed people as prey. There was viciousness and real cruelty beneath his semicivilized veneer.

She wanted him as far away from her family as possible.

All things considered—and she did mean all—the only sensible way forward was to find the needed proofs without delay. Then Crowley would no longer be a threat, and the countess could fade into the mists.

“Fangak. Lodwar. What was the other one?” Sitting at her desk, she drew a sheet of paper onto the blotter and reached for a pen. “Kafia—that was it.”

She wrote the names down, then settled to list all the names and locations she could recall Crowley mentioning.

“Mary? Alice?” Alathea peeked into Mary's bedchamber, where her elder stepsisters often repaired when they were supposed to be resting. Sure enough, both were lolling on the bed wearing identical expressions of disgusted boredom. They both lifted their heads to look at her.

Alathea grinned. “I'm going to Hatchard's. Serena said you could come if you wished.”

Mary sat bolt upright. “They have a lending library, don't they?”

Alice was already rolling from the bed. “I'll come.”

Alathea watched them scramble into shoes, struggle into spencers, grab bonnets, casting only the most perfunctory of glances at their reflections. “There is a lending library, but before you go looking for Mrs. Radcliffe's latest, I want you to help me find some books.”

“On what?” Alice asked as she joined her at the door.

“On Africa.”

“That was
boring
.” On a long-drawn yawn, Jeremy sank deeper into the seat of the hackney and leaned against Alathea's shoulder. “I thought they would have known about digging up gold. All they wanted to talk about was melting it.”

“Hmm.” Alathea grimaced. She'd thought the gentlemen at the Metallurgical Institute would have known about mining, too. Unfortunately, the academy, whose sign she'd glimpsed when walking with Mary and Alice, had proved to focus solely on refining metals and the subsequent workings. The good gentlemen had known less than she about gold mining in Central East Africa. Despite reading late into the night, she knew virtually nothing about the subject.

Alathea glanced at Augusta, snuggled on her other side with Rose propped on her lap. At least Augusta was happy, unconcerned with mining gold. “How's Rose?”

“Rose is good.” Augusta looked at Rose's face, then turned her once more to the window. “She's seeing more of the city—it's crowded and noisy, but she feels safe in here with me and you.”

Alathea smiled, closing her hand around the small fingers snuggled trustingly into hers. “That's good. Rose is growing up—she'll be a big girl soon.”

“But not yet.” Augusta looked into her face. “Do you think Miss Helm will be all better when we get back?”

Miss Helm had developed the sniffles, which was why Alathea had Augusta with her. “I'm sure Miss Helm will be recovered by tomorrow, but you and Rose must be very good with her this evening.”

“Oh, we will.” Augusta turned Rose's face to hers. “We'll be specially good. We won't even say she has to read to us before bed.”

“I'll come and read to you, poppet.”

“But you have to go to the ball.” Alathea stroked Augusta's hair. “I'll come and read to you first—I can go on later in the other carriage.”

“I say!” Jeremy jerked upright, staring out of the window. “Look at
that
!”

Alathea did—it took a moment before she realized what she was looking at. “It's a pedestrian curricle—at least, I suppose that's what it is.”

She'd heard of the contraptions. Both she and Jeremy leaned close to the window, with Augusta pressing between; they all watched the gentleman in a natty checkered coat balanced precariously above the large wheel weave in and out of the traffic until he disappeared from view.

“Well!” Eyes alight, Jeremy sank back.

Alathea looked at his face. “No.”

Her tone was absolute; Jeremy's face fell. “But, Allie—just think—”

“I am—I'm thinking of your mother.”

“I wouldn't fall off—I'd be extra specially careful.”

Alathea met his eye. “Just like you were extra specially careful when I allowed you to drive the gig?”

“I only got tipped in the river—and anyway, that was old Dobbins's fault.”

Alathea held her tongue. The hackney rolled on, taking them back into the fashionable district. As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced again at Jeremy's face. He was still dreaming of the dangerous contraption; she knew he wouldn't let go of his dream until he'd experienced it, or something worse. He was adventurous, the sort who simply had to try things out. It was a compulsion she understood.

“Pedestrian curricles have been around for some years.” Her musing comment had Jeremy turning, his eyes lighting. She met his bright gaze. “I'll ask your mama. Perhaps Folwell can find one—”

“Whoopee!”

“
On
one condition.”

Jeremy stopped bouncing on the seat, but his eyes still glowed. “What condition?”

“That you promise not to use it in town at all, but only once we're back at Morwellan Park.” Where the lawns were thick and cushioning.

Jeremy considered for only a moment. “All right. I promise.”

Alathea nodded as the carriage rocked to a stop before Morwellan House. “Very well. I'll speak with your mama.”

Propping up the wall at yet another ball, Alathea stifled a yawn. She blinked her eyes wide, struggling to keep them open; she'd spent the past two nights reading into the small hours after the rest of the household was abed. It was the only time she had to herself to wade through the tomes she'd found on Africa.

Central East Africa, however, continued to elude her. What little she could find on the region was largely speculative, and exceedingly scant on detail.

A familiar head of burnished chestnut hove into sight above the masses. The most peculiar thrill shot through her; she immediately looked for cover. There was not a palm or shadowy alcove anywhere near. Besides, that might not be wise. Getting trapped with him in the shadows was likely to scramble her wits.

Beneath her skirts, she bent her knees and sank just enough so that she was no longer so readily detected by her height. Through gaps in the horrendous crush, she caught glimpses of Gabriel as he prowled the room.

For some peculiar reason, at least viewing him from a distance, he seemed like a different man. She could see, appreciate, aspects of him she hadn't truly noticed before, like the perfection of his restrained elegance, and the subtle aura of leashed power that cloaked his tall frame. And his reserve, that distance, apparently unbreachable, that he maintained between himself and the world.

He was bored—truly bored. She could see why Celia and the ladies of the ton despaired. They were right in thinking he didn't see them at all; from the way his face was set, the steadiness of his gaze, she would have wagered Morwellan Park that he was thinking more of Central East Africa than of a glittering ballroom in Mayfair.

One lady braved his detachment and put her hand on his sleeve. He smiled, urbanely charming; gracefully, he lifted her hand and bowed over it. Straightening, he exchanged a light word, some quip to set the lady laughing, hoping . . . only to be disappointed as with no more than that superficiality, he smoothly moved on.

He was a master at sliding through a crowd, refusing to be anchored, ineffably polite, arrogantly assured, and utterly impossible.

“Alathea! Good gracious, my dear—what peculiar fetish do you have with walls?”

Abruptly straightening, Alathea looked around—into Celia Cynster's startled eyes. “I was . . . just easing my legs.”

Celia gave her a hard, inherently maternal stare, but was distracted by a glimpse of her firstborn through the crowd. “
There
he is! I made him promise to attend—he's been to hardly any balls this entire Season—well, only family affairs. How on earth does he expect to find a wife?”

“I don't think securing a wife is uppermost in his mind.”

Celia nearly pouted. “Well, he had better get started on the matter—he's not getting any younger.”

Alathea kept her lips sealed.

“Lady Hendricks has been dropping hints that her daughter Emily might suit.”

An image of the lovely Miss Hendricks popped into Alathea's mind. The young lady was sweet, modest, and excessively quiet. “Don't you think she's a little too timid?”