Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. "I'll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you'll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?"
She stepped back. "I'll contact you."
He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. "Thank you. Good night."
The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.
Gabrie
l drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse's rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.
It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.
Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.
He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess's note arrived, he'd been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he'd sunk. He'd considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment-none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.
The countess's note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however…
Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family-stepfamily, no less-against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the nebulous backers of a company thought to be fraudulent. The situation called for decisive action tempered by caution, with all investigations and inquiries needing to remain covert and clandestine. That much, she'd told him.
So what did he know?
She was an Englishwoman, unquestionably gently bred-her accent, her bearing and her smooth declaration that they moved in similar circles had settled that. And she knew her Cynsters well. Not only had she stated it, her whole presentation had been artfully designed to appeal to his Cynster instincts.
Gabriel swung into Brook Street. One thing the countess didn't know was that he rarely reacted impulsively these days. He'd learned to keep his instincts in check-his business dealings demanded it. He also had a definite dislike of being manipulated-in any field. In this case, however, he'd decided to play along.
The countess was, after all, an intriguing challenge in her own right. All close to six feet of her. And a lot of that six feet was leg, a consideration guaranteed to fix his rakish interest. As for her lips and the delights they promised… he'd already decided they'd be his.
Occasionally, liaisons happened like that-one look, one touch, and he'd know. He couldn't, however, recall being affected quite so forcefully before, nor committing so decisively and definitely to the chase. And its ultimate outcome.
Again, energy surged through him. This-the countess and her problem-was precisely what he needed to fill the present lack in his life: a challenge and a conquest combined.
Reaching his house, he climbed the steps and let himself in. He shut and bolted the door, then glanced toward the parlor. In the bookcase by the fireplace resided a copy of Burke's Peerage.
Lips quirking, he strode for the stairs. If he hadn't promised not to seek out her identity, he would have made straight for the bookcase and, despite the hour, ascertained just which earl had recently died to be succeeded by a son called Charles. There couldn't be that many. Instead, feeling decidedly virtuous, not something that often occurred, he headed for his bed, all manner of plans revolving in his head.
He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity-he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.
Her name. Her face. Those long legs. And more.
"Well? How did it go?"
Raising her veil, Alathea stared at the group of eager faces clustered about the bottom of the stairs. She had only that instant crossed the threshold of Morwellan House in Mount Street; behind her, Crisp, the butler, slid the bolts home and turned, eager not to miss any of her tale.
The question had come from Nellie, Alathea's maid, presently wrapped in an old paisley bedrobe. Surrounding Nellie in various stages of deshabille stood other members of Alathea's most stalwart band of supporters-the household's senior servants.
"Come now, m'lady, don't keep us in suspense."
That from Figgs, the cook-housekeeper. The others all nodded-Folwell, Alathea's groom, his forelock bobbing, Crisp, joining them, carrying the rolled promissory note she had handed him for safekeeping.
Alathea inwardly sighed. In what other tonnish establishment would a lady of the house, returning from an illicit rendezvous at four in the morning, meet with such a reception? Quelling her skittish nerves, telling herself that the fact he'd kissed her didn't show, she set her veil back. "He agreed."
"Well-there now!" Thin as a rake, Miss Helm, the governess, nervously clutched her pink wrapper. "I'm sure Mr. Cynster will take care of it all and expose these dreadful men."
"Praise be," intoned Connor, Serena's severe dresser.
"Indeed"-Alathea walked forward into the light thrown by the candles Nellie, Figgs, and Miss Helm were holding-"but you should all be in bed. He's agreed to help-there's nothing more to hear." She caught Nellie's eye.