"Indeed." Gabriel accepted the rolled promissory note. "It's absolute evidence that this meeting took place."
Reaching the door, Gerrard looked back. "Are you coming?"
Stowing the note and their account of the meeting in the inside pocket of his coat, Gabriel shook his head. "Not just yet. We shouldn't be seen together. You go ahead-I'll follow later. Duggan is waiting for you, isn't he?" Duggan was Vane's groom.
Gerrard nodded. "He'll drive me back to Curzon Street. Let me know how it goes." With a salute, he went out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.
Gabriel considered the closed door, then walked across and snibbed the lock. He surveyed the room, then strolled to the lamp beside the fireplace, turning it, then its mate, very low, shrouding the room in shadows. Satisfied, he headed for the bedchamber, for the epilogue to the evening's performance.
Chapter 8
The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.
"Do you really think there are mining claims in those places-Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?"
"I'd be greatly surprised if there's anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We'll check." He couldn't see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses-they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley's revelations. "He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I've got it all down. To get the company's notes declared invalid all we need do is prove some of those claims false, not all of them."
"Still"-he heard the frown in her voice-"it won't be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentione
d?"
"No, but there must be someone in London who will."
"He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development-surely that's his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon."
"He's not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he'll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net."
Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. "It's a significant victory to have got that much detail from him."
"Oh, indeed!" She looked up. "Mr. Debbington was quite splendid."
"And what about the eminence grise behind the scenes?"
He knew precisely when she realized-realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.
"You've been very… inventive."
He slid one arm about her waist. "I intend being a great deal more inventive yet."
He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.
"You've been very successful." Her tone was slightly breathless.
His lips curved. "I've been brilliant." He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering… but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn't possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips-to the lips that were waiting for him.
Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price-he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.
There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more-know more-of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.
He sensed the hitch in her breathing. Closing his fist in her hair, he drew her head back, exposing the column of her throat. Blind in the dense darkness, he slid his lips from hers to trace the supple line and find the spot where her pulse beat hotly. He laved it, then sucked-her breath hitched again. Her fingers had speared through his hair; they spread over his skull as he shifted his hold and closed his hands over her breasts.
Already firm, they swelled and filled his palms, heated flesh begging for his attention. Straightening, dragging in a swift breath, he caught her lips again. She kissed him back-avidly, greedily, as ravenous as he. When he rotated his thumbs about her already ruched nipples, she gasped. Without thought, he backed her until she came up against the wall. Inwardly, he tried to shake his head to clear it of the miasma of lust fogging it. He'd just moved her away from the bed, a patently silly move. Now he'd have to move her back again.
Later.
Trapping her lips with his, he pinned her to the wall and set his fingers to her laces.
He couldn't think-he hadn't planned, although he'd tried to. He rarely embarked on a seduction these days, especially not one he was particularly intent on, without some idea of what would work best, what possibilities were most likely, what avenues held most promise of fulfillment. In thinking of how he would have the countess, he hadn't been able to get past the need to touch her, to know her.