A Secret Love (Cynster 5)

Gabriel set his lips. "Yes, but-"

"There'll be no danger to me personally, or to my anonymity, if I secret myself in the bedchamber before Mr. Debbington arrives, hear the presentation, and then wait until after he's left to do the same."

Gabriel held her veiled gaze. "I cannot fathom why you should be so set on senselessly exposing yourself-"

"I insist."

Chin angled imperiously, she held his gaze. Lips thinning, he let the moment stretch, and stretch, then grudgingly gave way. "Very well. You'll need to arrive at the Burlington no later than nine."

He sensed the triumph that flooded her-she thought she'd won a round. Under her mask, she was no doubt beaming. He kept his lips compressed, his frowning gaze on her veiled face.

"I'll leave you now." Withdrawing her hand, she looked back up the street.

He glanced around and saw a small black carriage, presumably the one that had driven him home from Lincoln's Inn, drawn up by the curb behind them. "I'll walk you to your carriage." Before she could blink, he recaptured her hand and trapped it on his sleeve. She hesitated, then acquiesced, somewhat stiffly.

Gabriel raked the carriage as they neared, but it was an anonymous affair-small, black and unadorned-identical to the second carriage most large households maintained in the capital. Used to ferry their owners about discreetly, such carriages carried no insignia blazoned on the door, or identifying detail worked into the body. No hint of the countess's identity there.

The horses were nondescript. He glanced at the coachman; he was hunched over the reins, his head sunk between his shoulders. The man wore a heavy coat and plain breeches-no livery.

The countess had thought of everything.

He opened the carriage door and handed her in. Pausing on the step, she looked back at him. "Until tomorrow evening at nine."

"Indeed." He held her gaze for an instant, then let her go. "I'll leave a message with the porter to conduct you to the suite." Stepping back, he shut the door, then stood and watched the carriage drive away.

Only when it had rumbled around the corner did he allow his victorious smile to show.

He was waiting in the best suite at the Burlington when, at five minutes to nine o'clock the next evening, she knocked on the door. He opened it and stood back, careful not to smile too intently as, inevitably veiled and cloaked, she swept past him.

Shutting the door, he watched as she scanned the room, taking in the two lamps on side tables flanking the hearth, spilling their light over the scene. Two armchairs and a sofa were drawn up in a comfortable arrangement around a low table before the hearth. Heavy curtains screened the windows; the fire dancing in the grate turned the scene cozy. A well-stocked tantalus stood within reach of one of the armchairs.

When she turned to face him, he got the distinct impression she approved of his stagecraft. "When will Mr. Debbington arrive?"

Gabriel glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Soon." He nodded at the door opposite the hearth. "Perhaps you'd care to inspect our vantage point?"

Her skirts swirled as she turned; he followed as she crossed the room.

Pausing beyond the threshold, she looked around. "Oh, yes. This is perfect."

Gabriel thought so, too. In the cavelike gloom created by the heavy curtains, a huge four-poster bed sat in stately splendor. It possessed a goodly number of plump pillows and the mattress was thick. He'd already confirmed it met his standards; the countess would have no reason to cavil.

She, of course, paid no attention to the bed; her comment was occasioned by the convenient gap between the half-closed door and its jamb, a gap that gave anyone standing behind the door a perfect view of the seats before the sitting room fireplace.

She was squinting at them when another knock fell on the door.

Gabriel met her questioning glance. "Gerrard. I'll need to rehearse his lines-he won't know you're here."

He spoke in a whisper. She nodded. Leaving her, he crossed to the door.

Gerrard stood in the corridor looking sleekly debonair, his youth revealed only by the expectant light in his eyes. "All ready?"

"I was about to ask you the same question." Waving him to the seats by the fire, Gabriel shut the door. "We should go over your lessons."

"Oh, yes." Gerrard made himself comfortable in what was clearly the host's chair. "I hadn't realized how much there was to learn about giving people money."

"Many don't, which is precisely what men like Crowley count on." Gabriel walked to the other armchair, then hesitated. Then he walked to the wall, picked up a straight-backed chair, and carried it over to face Gerrard. "Better to play safe…" Sitting, he fixed Gerrard with a keen glance. "Now…"

He led Gerrard through a catechism of terms and conditions, couched in popular investing cant. At the end of twenty minutes, he nodded. "You'll do." He glanced at the clock. "We'd better speak in whispers from now on."