Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“Mr. Langley?”

She was looking at him oddly, and he realized she’d been speaking and he hadn’t heard.

“Please, call me Gabriel. We know each other intimately, after all.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He waited.

“Mr. Langley, I will now show you the letter you have been so keen to possess.”

“Possess. I do like that word.”

She ignored him, reaching into her sleeve with her fingertips, and drawing out a tube of rolled paper. Carefully she spread it out on the table, before handing it over to him.

Bemused, Gabriel bent his head to read.

It wasn’t at all as he expected. The letter was written by a woman called Miss Bridewell, and she was passing on information she had gathered from an acquaintance she’d just visited. She didn’t explain what the visit was about but she did give a name and an address.

Mrs. Miller is at 22 Jonah’s Lane, Lambeth. She has been a resident there for ten years. There may be restrictions on visiting her, but if you mention the name Orange you will be allowed in.

Gabriel finished reading the words and looked up at her, his eyebrows raised. “What does it mean? Who is this woman and why is her address such a secret?”

Before she answered, Antoinette took the letter back and rolled it up, returning it to her sleeve. “First I will tell you where this information comes from. Miss Bridewell is my governess and my friend. When Lord Appleby first came calling, she remembered the name from an acquaintance she knew from years ago, someone who was once Lord and Lady Appleby’s housekeeper, so she wrote to the woman to ask what she knew of him. The woman wrote back warning us against him. She wouldn’t say any more, so Miss Bridewell went to see her and persuaded her to tell us what she knew. You see, she was there when Lady Appleby supposedly died, only she didn’t.”

She looked up at him. “Mrs. Miller is Lady Appleby.”

“Lady Appleby…” His face grew very grave. “The Lady Appleby who is dead, or supposed to be? Do you mean…?”

“He locked her away once he tired of her. She was an heiress, too. If I can talk to her, prove she is who she is, then his name, his reputation, will be destroyed and my sister and I will be safe.”

>

“Have you been to the address in Lambeth?”

“Yes. The building used to be the Asylum for Misfortunate Women, but it burned down. The patients are scattered elsewhere in London and I don’t know where to look.”

“I’ll find her,” he said confidently.

Antoinette gave him a skeptical glance.

“I know someone who is very good at finding people. He’s married to my half sister’s maid…at least she was her maid, once. Marietta speaks of her as a friend these days. I’ll go and see him now.”

Antoinette heard only one word. Marietta. He’d spoken the name, that name he’d called in the night in his sleep. But Marietta was his half sister. She’d been convinced Marietta was his lover, a rival. Now she saw it was yet another mistaken belief that had kept them apart and suspicious of each other, when one question would have resolved the issue and saved her all that pain…

“Antoinette? Wake up, darling. Do you want to stay here, or will I escort you back to Aphrodite’s Club?”

Antoinette rose to her feet. “I will come with you.”

Gabriel smiled. “Good.” He held out his arm, and after a moment she took it.

Antoinette found herself watching him surreptitiously as they sat together in the cab, stopping and starting in the dreadful crush of the London traffic. She couldn’t help herself. The shape of his cheek, the curl of his hair, the way his mouth rested in a half smile, even when he wasn’t laughing. And his hands, strong and long-fingered. These were the hands that had given her such pleasure in Devon.

She missed the way he made her feel. She’d dreamed about him last night while she slept in Aphrodite’s Club. Her body was moving to his touch, heat curling in her belly, and it had been so real that when she woke she truly believed he was there with her. The sense of loss and disappointment she felt when she realized it was nothing but a dream was so painful that she curled up beneath the covers and wept.

She’d accepted then, alone in her bed, that she would never forget him. He would remain with her, a part of her, until she died. Such a realization was a depressing thing for a young woman of twenty years.

And now he was here, beside her, real and in the flesh, and she didn’t know what to feel. So she sat stiffly, keeping a firm rein on herself, anxiously avoiding touching him. Because what if she were to give herself away and he guessed just how much she wanted him? What if he laughed in her face, or worse, decided to be kind to her and grant her wish of one more night together?