Dancing with a Rogue (8 page)

A huge desk dominated the room. The surface was clear.

He tried the desk drawer. Locked. He used the small tools again, opened the drawer, and rifled through the contents. Personal correspondence. Invitations. Household sums. Nothing of importance.

He found Stanhope's seal in a box near the back of the drawer and pocketed it, replacing the box. Hopefully he could return it before Stanhope noticed it was missing.

Gabriel had what he wanted. Still, he inspected the rest of the house, leaving the master suite to the last.

It was far too elaborate for his taste. Closed red velvet curtains darkened a room dominated by a huge four-poster bed. A large wardrobe sat against the opposite wall.

Gabriel absorbed the essence of the room, trying to fathom the man who so easily destroyed others. Then he moved around again until he found what he was looking for.

A safe.

Combination lock this time. He knelt next to it and sandpapered the tips of his fingers to make them more sensitive. Pressing his ear against the lock as Riley had taught him, he turned the knob, listening for the click of a tumbler. Left, then right, then left again. After several tries, he found the combination and the safe opened.

He reached inside. A box contained a necklace of emeralds. Several thousand pounds in banknotes. Shipping contracts. Why here? One he studied with interest and memorized the names on it. Then he replaced everything as it was.

He rose and went to the window, moving the curtain only slightly.

More people were on the street. He saw one woman heading directly for the town house.

Would she come in the back?

Swiftly he moved down the steps, then waited. He heard a turn of the lock at the back, and he went to the front door.

Locked, of course, and he didn't have time to use his tool. He should have unlocked both of them just in the event …

He swore silently and ducked into the office as he heard footsteps moving toward him. They passed him and went up the stairs, probably to the third-floor servants' quarters.

He hurried to the back, through the garden, and turned left on the street.

Gabriel patted the seal in one of his pockets. And smiled.

He'd accomplished his mission.

Stanhope wondered whether his flowers had been delivered. They had been sent from his own gardens prior to his arrival in London.

They were his finest.

He knew Daven. Daven never knew when enough was enough.

He wondered how his gift would be received compared to Daven's and whether the man had made any headway.

Stanhope had a thousand pounds wagered on who would get the French bitch in bed first. And he didn't like to lose.

It would be, he thought, a most entertaining season.

He had a servant out delivering invitations for a soiree at his home to announce his arrival to the social scene. Some families would not accept them, but others would, either out of fear or in hope of doing business with him. His interests were far-flung, including a shipping empire, banking, and interests in mines in Wales and the north of England.

One invitation had gone to Gabriel Manning, the new marquess. Stanhope was curious as to whether he would accept it or not.

He wanted to issue one to Monique Fremont, but that would not sit well with the wives of the men he had invited. His reputation among the ton was not the best since his wife died of a suspicious illness. Rumors swarmed about her death.

But his parties were also celebrated. He always had the finest food, the best wine and spirits, the most celebrated musicians.

He would outdo himself this time. He wanted to impress the new marquess.

Then he would turn his full attention to Mademoiselle Fremont.

Perhaps he would even visit the new theater this afternoon and take a glance at this woman that had so transfixed Daven. Daven had a taste for less-than-acceptable women. But they were always beautiful.

He might even invest in the theater company. He hadn't done that before, but if the woman was all that Daven said …

He called his valet to help him dress and tie his cravat.

While waiting for Ames, he regarded himself in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his fifties. His hair was still dark, as were his sideburns. He took pride in not requiring dye, as did so many of his acquaintances. He knew he looked like a man ten years younger than his actual years.

Ames arrived, breathless.

Stanhope glared at him for not being immediately available, and the man's hands shook as he tied Stanhope's cravat into the fashionable
orientale
style that was damnably uncomfortable. Then Ames helped him pull on his highly polished Hessian boots.

“Do the cravat again,” he demanded. “It is not quite perfect.”

“Yes, milord,” Ames said in a quivering voice. Ames had been with Stanhope only six months. Most of his servants did not last that long, but since the war ended servants were readily available.

He tolerated Ames's clumsy attempts for another thirty minutes, then proclaimed it barely acceptable. He pulled on a pair of spotless gloves—God help every servant in the house if there was the merest discoloration—and told Ames to see that his horse was saddled.

A few moments later he lifted himself into the saddle and guided the horse toward Haymarket and the theaters.

Monique saw two men in the back of the theater. She recognized Daven instantly.

She knew immediately that the second man was Stanhope.

She didn't miss a cue as she tore her gaze away from them and toward Richard, forcing a gaiety in her voice. When she turned again, she saw the two men in conversation with Paul Lynch.

She concentrated on Richard. It was a trick she had learned long ago, to wipe away everything except the character she was playing. She even felt the attraction she was supposed to be feeling. For two hours she would be the wronged wife who responded with revenge and humor and a wounded soul.

For the rest of the rehearsal she was able to keep her mind on only the lines. Her stomach felt a haven for butterflies, her legs were rubbery. But she was the mistress of her fate in the play, and she was bloody determined to be the same outside the theater.

The rehearsal concluded. Mr. Lynch appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Monique?”

“
Oui
, monsieur?”

“The rehearsal is going well. You are everything I hoped you would be.”

“
Merci
.”

“There is someone you wanted to meet. An earl, Monique.” He looked embarrassed. “He offered to invest in the company.”

“I did not know you needed investment,” she said.

He looked uncomfortable. “Investors always help. They tend to bring their friends.”

“Who is this potential investor?”

“The Ea—rl of Stanhope,” he stuttered.

“The man you warned me about?”

He shifted on his feet. “You did say you wanted to meet him and this seems … fortuitous, would you not say?”

Greed had obviously overtaken his sense of protection. She expected no more.

“I will see him,” she said, “and I will be most pleasant. For your sake, of course. But then I am always pleasant unless someone makes me otherwise.”

She watched as he digested the warning.

“No one has ever proved anything against the Earl of Stanhope.”

“Do you vouch for him now, Mr. Lynch?”

The man's face turned even redder.

“I will expect my carriage to be waiting.”

He nodded.

She left him without another word and went to her dressing room, where Dani waited.

“He has taken the bait, Dani. He wants to invest in Lynch's company.”

Dani was already taking pins from her hair. “You are making him wait?”

“
Oui
. Our lord needs a little humility, I think.”

“Do not twist the tail of the tiger, mademoiselle.”

“Oh I plan to do a great deal of twisting.”

A knock came at the door, and Monique exchanged a look with Dani. “Answer it,” she said.

Dani opened the door a slit, peering out.

A voice obviously accustomed to obedience boomed into the room. “I wish to give my compliments to Miss Fremont.”

“She is changing clothes,” Dani said cooly. “It must wait.”

“I am the Earl of Stanhope. Lynch said …”

“I do not care if you are Father Christmas. You must wait.” She closed the door and turned back to Monique.

“We will take our time, Dani,” Monique said.

“Of course,” Dani said as she unbuttoned the back of Monique's dress.

Monique expected impatient knocks at the door, or even a broken door. She knew about Stanhope. She knew from her mother, and she knew from local London gossip. He wasn't a man who liked to be kept waiting.

Which was exactly why she was making him wait.

So she was surprised at the silence outside her dressing room as Dani helped her put on another dress, and brushed her hair back. Adding just a small brush of paint to Monique's cheek, Dani stood back and nodded her approval.

Monique picked up her fan in her hand and opened the door.

A man dressed in riding clothes was sprawled in a chair outside the dressing room.

“My lord,” Monique said, bobbing just enough to make the curtsy look slightly mocking.

He bowed. “I am Thomas Kane, the Earl of Stanhope.” His gaze ranged over her like a buyer about to purchase a turkey for supper. A chill ran down her back as his nearly black eyes glittered with something close to malice even as his lips curved into a smile. If she had any doubts about her mother's tales, she didn't now. Here was a man who disliked women, perhaps even hated them.

She knew he had to be near sixty years of age, but he looked younger. He would have been a handsome man were it not for the coldness of his features, the arrogance in the way he held his head as if he alone ruled the world. He was of middle stature, not tall but not short either. Close to her own height. His lips seemed to have a permanent smirk.

“I am honored, my lord,” Monique said. “Monsieur Lynch said you were considering investing in our small play.”

“Not the play,” he said. “Nor Mr. Lynch. You, my dear. You were spectacular.”

“Oh, posh. We are not so ready. But
merci
, my lord.”

“I hope you will have supper with me.”

“Oh, but then Lord Daven would be very unhappy with me. He also asked and understood that my time is consumed by rehearsals. It is my art,” she said dramatically.

“He is my friend, and I do not think he will object.”

“That is very generous of him, but I do not socialize with investors, my lord.” She started to brush past him.

He neatly maneuvered his body to block her. The chill down her spine grew colder.

“Then perhaps I should withdraw my support,” he said.

“You may do whatever you feel best,” she retorted.

His face changed. Surprise, then annoyance, and finally something else. He studied her for a long moment.

“I believe I will keep my investment with Lynch,” he said slowly. “And how much would it cost me for you?”

“I am not for sale, monsieur, and you
are
insulting. Please leave.”

She wondered how insulted she should be. She wanted to be unobtainable because from what she had learned of him, he couldn't resist a challenge. And yet … she knew he was no one to play with. He had tried to kill her mother. He might have killed his wife.

Still, to accomplish her goal, she had to have access to his home. And safely. She saw now that it would be much harder than she first believed.

He still didn't move. Finally, after seconds that seemed like minutes passed, he stood aside. “I intended no insult,” he said smoothly. “I am accustomed to making it clear when I want something.”

She stared at him. “You make things much too clear, my lord. I do not know how you regard actresses in London, but I assure you I am not looking for a protector. I am not what you call here a cyprian and most certainly not a doxy that you can tumble in bed. I do the choosing, not the … gentleman.” She let enough of a pause pass before the last word to tell him she wasn't sure she considered him as such. “And now if you will excuse me, my maid and I would like to leave.”

He finally stepped back, but his eyes said he was none too pleased. “I did not intend to offend,” he said, though it was obvious to her that he was struggling to contain his anger. “I hope you would not hold it against me.”

“I will consider that an apology,” she said, “and accept it.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I hope you will attend our opening performance.”

“You may be sure of it.” He bowed slightly, and, with the same arrogance with which he'd appeared, he turned around and left.

Monique heard Dani's sigh behind her, as if she had been holding her breath for a long time.

“My lady, he is a bad one. I was afraid …”

“That he would hit me?”

“
Oui
.”

“A man like that commits his violence behind closed doors,” Monique said.

“Perhaps we should return to Paris. I am afraid for you.”

“
Non
. I have taken that first step. I am a challenge now, one he has to win.”

“And then?”

“And then I will find a way to prove he is a murderer.”

Dani was silent.

Monique willed herself to relax. She could control Stanhope. She just had to make sure she was never alone with him.

Dani helped her on with her cloak. In minutes she would be back at the town house and Mrs. Miller would have tea prepared. And a bath.

What a lovely thought.

She sent a lad outside to fetch their carriage.

A crowd of young bucks lounged outside as they left the theater. They had been gathering there the last few days as word of her arrival circulated. But this afternoon there were more than a few, each one craning their necks. One approached her.