A Secret Love (48 page)

“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.

T
he coach carrying Alathea rocked and swayed as it rumbled along the dock. Clutching the window frame, she peered out on a world of dark shadows, of looming hulks rocking on the wash of the tide. Ropes creaked, timbers groaned. The soft slap of black water against the dock's pylons was as inexorable as a heartbeat.

Alathea's own heart was beating a touch faster, anticipation high but in this setting, tempered by caution and a primitive fear. She shrugged the latter off as the product of a too-vivid imagination. For centuries, convicted pirates had been hung off Execution Dock, but if ghosts walked, surely they wouldn't haunt a site so steeped in justice? Surely it was a good omen that it was to this place in all the dingy sprawl of the London docks that the captain had summoned her. She, too, sought justice.

The coach jerked to a halt. She looked out, but all she could see was the black denseness of a ship's side.

The carriage door was hauled open. A head swathed in a sailor's kerchief was outlined against the night. “If you'll be giving me your hand, ma'am, I'll be a-helping you up the gangplank.”

While undeniably rough, the sailors had been as courteous as they knew how; Alathea surrendered her hand and allowed the sailor to help her from the carriage.

“Thank you.” She straightened, feeling like a beacon in the dark of the night, her ivory silk gown shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn't worn cloak or shawl to the ball; the night in Mayfair had been balmy. Here, a faint breeze lifted off the water, brushing cool fingers across her bare shoulders. Ignoring the sudden chill, she accepted the sailor's proffered arm.

The dock beneath her feet was reassuringly solid, the wide planking strewn with ropes, pulleys, and crates. She was grateful for the sailor's brawny arm as she stepped over and around various obstacles. He led her to a gangway; she clutched the rope as they climbed, crossing the dark chasm above the choppy water between the dock and the hull.

She stepped onto the deck, grateful when it did not heave and tilt as much as she'd feared. The movement was so slight she could easily keep her balance. Reassured, she looked around. The sailor led the way to a hatch. As he bent to lift the cover, Alathea inwardly frowned. When the captain had said he plied cargo from Africa, she'd imagined a ship rather bigger. This vessel was larger than a yacht, yet . . .

The thud of the hatch cover had her turning. The sailor gestured to the opening, lit by a lamp from somewhere below.

“If'n you'll just climb down the ladder, ma'am . . .” He ducked his head apologetically.

Alathea smiled. “I'll manage.” Gathering her skirts in one hand, she grasped the side of the hatch and felt for the top rung with her foot. Carefully placing her slippered feet, she stepped down the worn wooden rungs. A rope formed a handrail; once she'd gripped it, the rest was easy. As she descended, a corridor opened up before her. It ran the length of the vessel, with doors on both sides staggered along its length. The door at the very end was half open; lamplight shone from beyond.

As she stepped onto the lower deck and let her skirts fall, Alathea wondered why the captain had not come out to greet her.

The hatch clanged shut.

Alathea looked up. A thick iron bolt slid heavily across the hatch, locking it in place. She whirled, clutching the ladder's rope—

Her gaze locked on Crowley's face.

Through the open rungs of the ladder, he watched her, black, bottomless eyes searching her face, watching, waiting . . .

Alathea's lungs seized. He was watching to see her fear. Waiting to gloat. Mentally scrambling, her wits all but falling over themselves in panic, she drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and lifted her chin. “Who are you?”

She was pleased with her tone—regal, ready to turn contemptuous. Crowley didn't immediately react. A faint trace of surprise gleamed in his eyes; he hesitated, then deliberately stepped out from behind the ladder.

“Good evening, my lady.”

Alathea was seized by an overwhelming urge to stuff him back behind the ladder. She was used to tall men, large men. Both Gabriel and Lucifer were as tall as Crowley, possibly even taller. But neither they nor any of the men she knew had Crowley's weight. His bulk. He was massive—a bull of a man—and none of it looked like fat. Hard and mean, his presence at close quarters threatened to smother her. It was an effort to bristle rather than flee. She raised one brow. “Are we acquainted?” Her tone made it clear there was no possibility of that.

To her increasing disquiet, Crowley's thick lips curved. “Let's not play games, my dear—at least, not
those
games.”

“Games?” Alathea looked down her nose at him. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He reached out, not quickly but without warning; there was nothing she could do—no space—to avoid the thick fingers that closed about her wrist. Her gaze locked on his, Alathea refused to let her rising panic show. Her chin set. “I have not the faintest idea of what you are talking about.”

She tested his grip. It was unbreakable—and he wasn't even trying.

“I'm talking,” he continued, ignoring her futile attempt to break free, “of the interest you've shown in the Central East Africa Gold Company.” He brought his black gaze fully to bear on her eyes. “One of my enterprising schemes.”

“I'm a lady of quality. I have absolutely no interest whatever in any ‘enterprising schemes.' Least of all yours.”

“So one would have thought,” Crowley agreed equably. “It was quite a surprise to learn differently. Struthers, of course, tried to deny it, but . . .” Locking his grip on Alathea's wrist, he drew her arm up, forcing her to face him.

“St-Struthers?” Alathea stared at him.

“Hmm.” Crowley's gaze locked on her breasts. “The captain and I had a most satisfactory conversation.” His gaze swept down, raking her insolently. “It was impossible for Struthers to explain why a paper bearing your name and direction in what was obviously a lady's hand was so carefully placed with his maps and the copies of those damned leases.”