Dancing with a Rogue (15 page)

Stanhope turned to her. “May I present my daughter, Pamela? She is here from our country house for the season. My dear, the Marquess of Manchester and Miss Monique Fremont. She is opening in a new play in a few days.”

Pamela's eyes flew open for a moment as she acknowledged the introduction. They lit for a moment, then the life left them.

Her sister.
Something moved deep inside her as she stared into the pale blue eyes of her half sister. She searched Pamela's face, looking for similarities to her own. Would Stanhope see any?

She stopped when her gaze returned to Pamela's eyes again. Sad. Hopeless. No spark of joy.

Of course not. She lived with a man who was a monster.

Monique wondered whether he had killed Pamela's mother, or whether there had been another wife. Lynch had only said rumors suggested he had been responsible for his wife's death.

She wanted to take the young woman in her arms. She wanted to take her away from the man who stood at her side. Instead, she merely curtsied. “Lady Pamela.”

The girl smiled shyly.

“Please enjoy the evening,” Stanhope said abruptly, ending the introductions. His eyes ran over her as if he owned every inch. “There is music in the drawing room and food in the dining area.” He turned to her companion. “I would like to speak to you later,” he said.

“At your pleasure,” Manchester replied.

She forced herself to look away. Lord Manning knew what Stanhope was, and yet he was willing to do business with him. She wondered whether he was fully aware of what his host was capable of. Was he intending to fleece him? Why else masquerade as a Sapscull? If so, she feared he was choosing the wrong person.

It was none of her business now. He was her escort, nothing more. She need have nothing else to do with him after tonight. She didn't like the way he made her feel, the new hunger he aroused in her.

He was a distraction she did not need.

And perhaps a danger to her sister. If Stanhope intended to use her …

She hesitated a moment in front of her half sister. “I hope I will see you again.”

Pamela smiled again, a sad small smile.

Stanhope looked from his daughter to her, then back again. “Perhaps I will take her to see your play.”

“I will make sure you receive two excellent seats,” she said.

Stanhope turned then. “Perhaps Lord Manchester would like to accompany us.” He looked expectantly at the two of them.

“Yes,” Manchester said. “That would be most pleasant.”

Monique looked from one man to another, then at Pamela. The smile had disappeared and something like fear had replaced it. Manchester's acceptance had prompted it. But why?

No.
The answer was there in the calculating look in Stanhope's eyes. For some reason, Stanhope was using his daughter—her half sister—as bait for Manchester.

Manchester looked oblivious, but his gaze settled on Pamela. That seemed to make her even more uncomfortable.

Then another couple came through the doorway and Stanhope turned away, as, obediently, did his daughter.

She and Manchester walked into the library where there was less of a crowd than in the dining room. “She is pretty,” Monique observed once they were out of hearing of her father. She wanted an answer. She wondered if there was more resemblance between them than she'd thought.

“Is she?”

“You appeared to like the idea of accompanying them to the performance of the play.”

“You promised good seats,” he replied glibly. Too glibly.

She stopped, looked at him intensely. “You can have a good seat anytime.”

“I find it convenient to go with our host. Unless you have a reason I should not.”

She had no reason to give him. She couldn't say that Pamela was her sister and she would not allow her to be hurt. She couldn't say her father had tried to kill her mother, and herself. She couldn't say that she was intent on bringing him to some kind of justice.

Jealousy.
No. She would not give him that satisfaction, particularly since there would be absolutely no truth in it. She cared nothing about him. Nothing.

“
Non
,” she said. “I simply thought you might enjoy supper after the performance.” As soon as she said the words she regretted them. But she suddenly feared for the young girl, who looked so vulnerable and unhappy.

“I would,” he said. “I shall see it twice.”

She wanted to kick him. But she couldn't show her interest in Pamela.

“Will you bring me a glass of champagne?” she asked. She wanted him to leave her. He was much too disturbing. And she had things to do.

“Will you stay here?”

The dratted man could read her mind. “Yes,” she lied.

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I will find you,” he said. He gave her a crooked grin that said he knew she was lying. He turned and followed a crowd of people heading in another direction.

She stood there for a moment, aware of the furtive glances cast her way. They must wonder why she was here.

She stepped back in the shadows. Aristocrats and then ladies. She and Manchester were the outsiders. Novelties. Welcome for entertainment value.

Manchester?
Where was he?

She thought about going up the stairs, but she had no reason and the hallway was filled. She would be noticed.

Then she smiled to herself. Maybe she would wait for him after all.

She'd planned to spill something on her gown. But she would enlist an unsuspecting Manchester in the charade.

She smiled at a woman who frowned at her, then sniffed and whispered loudly to her escorts, “Another of Stanhope's whores.”

Her husband shushed her.

Monique simply smiled sweetly. She didn't really care what any of these people thought. She blamed them nearly as much as she blamed Stanhope. They didn't care if a merchant's daughter was destroyed by one of their own. For a moment her mother's hopeless face was stark in her mind.

“Miss Fremont?”

Manchester's voice closed that particular door and she turned around, her hand outstretched as she reached for the glass she knew would be in his hand.

Her fingers brushed it and the contents splashed over her dress.

“Oh,” she exclaimed.

His expression didn't change.

“My apologies,” he said, but he didn't look apologetic. One dark eyebrow was arched in question.

“You are clumsy, my lord.”

“So I have been told.”

“Will you ask someone to help me?”

“Of course.”

He turned toward Stanhope, but not before she saw that infernal amusement in his face.

He knew she'd spilled the champagne deliberately.

Chapter Nine

She had spilled the champagne deliberately. If there was one thing she was not, it was clumsy.

The question was why.

Gabriel mused over that as he reached Stanhope, explained that he had clumsily spilled wine on Miss Freemont and she needed assistance.

Stanhope looked down at his daughter, a slight sneer on his lips. “My daughter can help her. She's very domestic.” He looked down at Pamela. “You will be happy to do so, won't you, my dear?”

Pamela Kane's eyes brightened but Gabriel didn't know whether it was because she really wanted to be of help or to get away from her father. She looked terrified of him.

He bowed slightly. “I would be grateful. I wish to redeem myself in her eyes. I was unforgivably bird-witted.”

“She is beautiful,” Lady Pamela said wistfully.

He wanted to say she too was quite an attractive young lady and, in truth, had much of the same facial structure as Monique. Her hair was lighter, and her eyes blue rather than gray, but …

He dismissed the notion as fanciful. Perhaps he looked for Monique in other women now.

Pamela did not meet his gaze as she stared at someone or something behind him. “I will fetch Annie. She's my maid and ever so good about removing stains.”

He pasted an eager smile on his face, then he led the way to the place he'd left Monique.

She wasn't there.

They looked in the dining room, then the other rooms, avoiding only the hallway where her father continued to greet newcomers. Music was now coming from the library.

“Perhaps the kitchen, my lord,” she suggested. “She might have thought someone there could help her.”

“Lead the way,” he said, though he knew very well where it was.

She went ahead of him, avoiding other guests. He realized she was happy to have an excuse not to be on display.

He didn't want to like Stanhope's daughter. Maybe it was her evident vulnerability and her obvious fear of her father that made him want to protect, just as he'd found himself drawn to young Elizabeth. Perhaps because he'd had no sister, no one but his mother and he hadn't been able to do anything to help her.

But Stanhope was going to pay for what he had done to his father. Nothing had to get in the way of that. It wasn't only for his father, but for all the others the man had swindled and betrayed and murdered.

He wanted to take everything from Stanhope. His money. His power. His reputation. His life.

Perhaps he would be doing young Lady Pamela a favor also.

He vowed that in doing one, he would ensure he was doing the second.

Monique was not in the kitchen. They went upstairs to the withdrawing room, where several men were in deep conversation. They instantly quieted when he approached, but he recognized one as the Earl of Daven, whom he'd seen at several gambling hells.

He knew from his own search of the home that the only rooms remaining were the master suite, two additional bedrooms—one of which supposedly was Pamela's—and the study, which had been closed.

Where did she go? And why?

Then he saw her emerge from the master suite. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

Pamela moved toward her. “Father wanted me to help you.”

“Thank you,” Monique said, then looked wryly down at her dress. “I thought I should find something right away. I hope you do not mind my wandering about. I thought I might find a water pitcher.”

An excuse. Nothing more. She could have also found it in the kitchen, but Gabriel didn't say anything, merely raised one brow to indicate his disbelief. He knew the moment he did that it was a mistake. The Marquess of Manchester would never have been so aware of someone else's deceptions.

Was she a thief as well?

The idea interested him. Intrigued him.

Yet she was a successful actress. Would she risk everything for a bauble or two?

Maybe she had searched for a servant, and decided to try one of the bedrooms.

“I was afraid the material would stain. It is my favorite gown.”

He bowed slightly. “I can easily understand why. But you would be lovely in the simplest of garments.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I speak only the truth. You are a woman of many facets.”

Sparks crackled between them. He was barely aware of Pamela, who stood next to him.

“I am but a simple actress.”

“I think you are anything but simple,” he replied.

“And the Marquess of Manchester?” she said in a low voice. “What is he?”

“The marquess is enchanted,” he replied, ignoring the nuance.

She gave him a disdainful look.

Pamela backed away, whether because of the words or the evident tension that had thickened between them, he did not know. He only knew he was alone with her and that he longed to reach out and touch that black curl.

Instead, he hardened his voice. “Has no one ever told you not to wander alone in strange houses?”

“But I'm not alone, am I, my lord? There is a houseful of guests.”

Her gray eyes were large and innocent looking. And yet her body was tense.
She's an actress.

But it was her business, not his, and he had his own plans. He knew he couldn't become involved with any petty thievery she might undertake to enhance her salary.

He certainly was no saint himself. Yet he felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He was surprised at the depth of his disappointment. He'd felt it a few nights ago when she'd flirted with Stanhope, too.

He was a thief, too. He'd stolen Stanhope's seal. Or borrowed it.

Just long enough to get it duplicated. Winsley had made his cast. The forged seal should be ready in the next few days.

Even now he felt the weight of the original in an inside pocket of his evening coat, which he wore over a very snug waistcoat. He'd meant to find a moment to replace it in Stanhope's study and pray he'd not needed it.

He needed all his skills to do it, and here he was, staring like a damned fool at a woman who was probably as devious as himself.

“Would you like to go to the drawing room?” he asked. “Since you were at the Vauxhall Gardens, you must enjoy music.”

“I do. Very much.”

Her tongue moistened her lips, and he felt a burning, untamed need inside him. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted another woman, and God help him that was the last thing he needed.

He forced himself to turn around. “I will escort you back, since you seem to get lost.”

“Does my gown look presentable?” she asked, a husky note in her unsteady voice.

Did she feel the same heated pull?

“It is every bit as lovely as the woman who is wearing it,” he said.

She gave him a small smile. “You are a flatterer, my lord,” she said, that husky sound still evident. Her gray eyes were smoky, elusive, challenging.

He held out his arm, and she placed her own arm on it. Then she looked up at him. “You do not have to look after me, my lord.”

“Would you prefer the earl?”

She didn't answer that, just lifted her chin and moved ahead.

He looked down on her dark hair, clasped by a silver comb. A gift from an admirer? The sweet smell of roses drifted enticingly upward. He wondered whether the dark curls were as soft and silky as they looked.