Dancing with a Rogue (6 page)

“Can she clean?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Tell her to come by in the morning. I will talk to her.”

“I … I …” The man seemed to shake slightly. “Thank you, milord. I will do my best for you.”

“Then do not be too curious, Smythe,” he said. “That will be thanks enough.”

“No, milord. No.” He started to back away. “I can start today.”

“Just turn the others away, and bring your mother in the morning. You can begin then.” He fished in the drawer of his desk, taking out several coins. “You will need some clothes. See if you can find something today.”

“What would you prefer?”

Gabriel waved his hand. Smythe still wore the worn remnants of a uniform. “I care not.” He paused. “And get your family something to eat. It can come from your first month's wages.”

For the first time, the man's face broke into a smile.

“Yes, milord. Thank you.”

Gabriel turned away. In truth, he was humbled by the poverty and desperation he'd seen today.

He wondered whether the man's gratitude would continue when he heard the rumors about his employer being a wastrel and an American upstart. Or even caught wind, somehow, that he had been a member of the American forces that had so recently defeated his country.

Yet, oddly enough, he'd felt an instant affinity for the man. Of course, others standing in line had been desperate too, but there was a dignity in Smythe that conveyed a sense of honor. Gabriel thought he would be loyal.

He didn't want to pretend twenty-four hours a day.

And what would he do for those hours spent away from the gambling hells?

Gabriel had worked nearly every day since the moment his father had killed himself. He had made himself useful on the voyage to America and earned a few farthings. And when they had arrived in Boston, they were taken in by his mother's sister.

Her husband had been a wealthy banker but had been barely tolerant of his wife's relatives. Gabriel had decided the first day he would at least try to repay the charity. He had gone to school and worked every spare hour at a shipyard doing every menial job no one else was willing to do.

Eventually his uncle accepted him, even came to respect him, but Gabriel had stubbornly rejected help. He never forgot all the slights, the discourtesies that had eroded his mother's spirit day by day. He was seventeen the day his mother died. He'd left his uncle's house the next day.

He'd been befriended by the owner of the shipping company where he had worked, and he was offered a seaman's post. He'd worked hard enough to catch the eye of the captain, who promoted him. In eight years he'd become a first mate, and had just been named captain when war with Britain broke out. He'd become a privateer, then an officer in the navy.

He liked work. He liked being occupied, and being merely a gentleman was not to his liking.

But being exactly that would fit the portrait of a man ripe for the picking. He would have to squander his hours.

At least tomorrow he would have a cook. He hoped she was a good one.

He spent an hour dressing, trying to tie his cravat into an elaborate knot. He swore frequently. He'd never cared much about appearances and had always tied his neckcloth rather carelessly. He doubted whether his new valet would have much more expertise than he.

The London dandy treasured his cravat. No self-respecting new lord could do less. Pickwick had assisted him the last two evenings.

Now he was on his own. Tonight he would troll alone. He'd decided Pickwick didn't want him to find the men he was seeking. Which probably meant Pickwick knew exactly what happened all those years ago.

He finally achieved the result he wanted with the cravat. Not quite perfect. But pretentious.

He added a quizzing glass to his attire, letting it dangle from a buttonhole. Then he chose one of the canes he'd recently purchased, tucked it under his arm, and sallied forth.

Gabriel knew he would represent a target. He was big, at least in height, and—when he wished—he could intimidate the hell out of most people. But in these clothes, and with the vapid expression he'd perfected, he would be the prime mark for thieves. They might be in for a bit of surprise. He'd learned brawling early in his career at sea.

He planned to take supper at a tavern, then he would begin prowling on his own through London's clubs and gambling hells. He now knew most of the rules, where he would be accepted and where not. He might even try to take on a club where he knew he would be barred.

A fine ruckus was what he needed.

He locked the door of the town house behind him. He'd been very careful as to what he'd brought with him. He wanted nothing to give him away, to reveal, in truth, that the new Marquess of Manchester was also one John Manning, a respected and feared American captain.

For that one reason, he'd used his middle name—John—since the days he'd left his uncle's home. He'd known then what he was going to do.

The plan had festered for a long time.

Now he was Gabriel again, a simple American who had just fallen into luck.

He walked the streets, sometimes reaching for his quizzing glass to ogle a lady or a carriage in the street. It took a certain amount of practice to keep the bloody thing in his eye.

With every lady he passed, his thoughts returned to the actress, Monique Fremont. Every other woman looked colorless. Dull. Lifeless. She had literally brimmed with life, her eyes full of amusement that was part real humor and part sardonic. Unusual for a woman.

He wondered whether she had felt the same jolt of awareness he had, but then why would she? He was a fop. A dandy. A useless man with a title he'd neither earned nor deserved.

His thoughts turned again to Pickwick.

Pickwick had been efficient about the lodgings Gabriel had just let. He'd been efficient in obtaining the services of a good, if supercilious tailor. He'd also been helpful in introducing him to London's nightlife, though Gabriel would have sworn that there were places he was not being taken for Pickwick's own reasons.

Gabriel found a lad hawking one of the city's newspapers, gave him double the amount demanded, and entered a tavern, where he chose a seat by the window.

Gabriel had been checking the newspapers for several days, finding this one to be the most likely to contain gossip. He ordered an ale and a meat pie, then glanced through the paper.

His attention focused on a column about London society, pausing only when he saw his name.

A
LL OF
L
ONDON IS DISCUSSING THE
A
MERICAN WHO HAS USURPED AN OLD AND HONORED TITLE
. H
E HAS BEEN SEEN IN MANY OF
L
ONDON'S NOTORIOUS GAMING ESTABLISHMENTS.

The account continued to say the new marquess had been seen losing large sums in some of London's most notorious clubs. It scorned his clothes, his speech, and his manners. Wealth and title did not equate class, it concluded.

Gabriel smiled as he read. A wealthy American ready for the plucking.

He wondered how long it would take.

His gaze wandered to a column where theatrical announcements were listed. He looked for any notice of a new play. He didn't see one, nor did he see the name of the French actress.

Nonsense. He should be concentrating on three men, not on a woman who frequented gambling hells. She was probably looking for a protector, and he sure as hell couldn't get embroiled in that kind of situation.

A woman like that was trouble.
He suspected that Pickwick was right. And God knew he needed all his wits about him.

He dismissed her from his mind, wondering why she kept intruding there. He'd always had the ability to focus in on one objective and ignore distractions. And that was all she was. A minor distraction.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder whether he might encounter her again during his tour of the clubs tonight. He didn't like the tingle of anticipation he felt. Not at all.

Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope, leaned back in his chair and took a long appreciative draw on his cigar, then dangled it in his fingers as he gazed at his companion.

“So he did decide to take the title?”

“So it appears, Thomas.” Sir Robert Stammel couldn't disguise the tremor in his voice.

Weak
, Stanhope thought and not for the first time. Stammel needed constant reassurance. But his very weakness made him valuable. He was afraid of his own shadow, but more afraid of Stanhope.

“He realizes there are no funds attached?”

“Wicky says he claims he has funds of his own. At the rate he's losing at cards, I would guess he has a fortune.”

“He's paying his gaming debts?”

“Thus far. He's said to be obnoxious, but thus far he's been good for his losses.”

“Where did he get his money?”

“Wicky says he has been raised by a wealthy family in Boston. Supposedly from there.”

“And Pickwick thinks he intends to stay?”

“Wicky says he's looking for an English bride.”

“Hummmmm.” Stanhope rose from the chair and went to the window of his country home, located some twenty miles from London. He looked out at the manicured lawn below him. He loved that lawn. It was orderly. It was also a useless extravagance.

He liked useless extravagances. They were symbols of money and power. Of freedom. His father had hated extravagances.

He turned back to Stammel. “I have a marriageable daughter,” he said. “A marquess would be a good match for her.”

Stammel looked startled. “Surely you are not suggesting … Pamela.”

Stanhope shrugged. “She is quite pretty when she takes care with her appearance. She might be good bait.”

“She is your daughter.”

“Sentimentality, Robert? I never would have suspected you of it.” He raised an eyebrow.

Stammel blinked rapidly. “I just thought …”

“It is time that the little country mouse became useful.” He paced the room. “I have never thought her attractive enough to be useful.” He paused, then said thoughtfully, “Perhaps a man who wants an alliance with a wealthy family can overlook a bluestocking with little looks. The season begins next week. I want invitations for her. Invitations that will include this new marquess.”

Robert sighed heavily, surrendering just as Stanhope knew he would. “She has not been introduced at court.”

Stanhope shrugged. “I will have a coming out at a small soiree at my home. Say she was ill when the presentations were made at court.”

“But the ladies at Almack's …”

“I do not care about them. Nor do I care if she is accepted there. Neither, I suspect, will our American mark. He wants a good English wife. I will give him one. Pamela will not defy me.”

Stammel tried again. “Maybe this Manchester knows something about what happened years ago? Maybe it would be best to stay away from him.”

Stanhope fixed his companion with a stare he knew froze most people. “He was ten years old! A spoiled brat.”

“He found his father's body, for God's sake.”

“From what you say of this fop, he could not care less.” Stanhope paused, then looked at his companion thoughtfully. “Yet it wouldn't hurt to make queries.”

“It will take two months at least.”

“One of our ships leaves for Boston on Thursday. Have the captain make queries about him.”

“In the meantime, perhaps we should stay away from London?”

“I will be bloody damned before I allow a Manning to keep me from London and my club. No one spoils my plans. The theater season is starting and I hear there's a new French actress. Henry met her at a gambling hell. Said she was spectacular.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers.

Stammel returned to the previous subject. “He might remember your name. Or your face.”

“I only saw the brat once. And we were victims, remember?”

“I think we should stay away from him. I have a feeling—”

“You always have feelings, Robert. Nothing ever comes of them. Besides, I think this might be an interesting opportunity.”

“No,” Stammel replied. “It's too dangerous.”

“Then you can stay in the country with your wife.”

Stammel winced. He disliked his wife and seldom stayed in the same vicinity. He was in residence here for that very reason. But he also knew Stanhope didn't like anyone staying here when he was away. “You like playing with fire, Thomas. I do not.”

Stanhope shrugged. “Do as you wish. I'm sure that Henry will be as interested as I am in this new marquess.”

He watched Robert squirm. Unlike himself, Robert had grown fat and lazy, and, as he prospered, thanks to Stanhope, he had grown more and more timid. He was no longer hungry.

But he was addicted to Stanhope. Addicted to Stanhope's power, and Stanhope knew how to use that tether.

“We will return to London tomorrow.”

“I hope you know what you are doing,” Stammel said.

Stanhope shrugged. He liked the idea of a second-generation addle cove. He had sheared one self-righteous Manning. It would be interesting to shear another.

Monique was tired. She'd spent the last two days in rehearsals that lasted late into the night. And her sleep was interrupted by nightmares. In the past few weeks, she often woke drenched in sweat.

She carefully removed the paint from her face in the dressing room. Dani had left earlier at Monique's suggestion. There was little reason for her to sit around hour after hour. Lynch always made sure there was a carriage waiting to take her home.

Monique stared at herself in the mirror. For a moment she thought it the face of a stranger. The girl in her was long gone. If, indeed, it had ever been there.

She couldn't remember a carefree moment, a second when she had not worried about her mother and their survival, not until she'd become a successful actress, but even then the past haunted her.