With a disapproving humph, Nellie left.
Alathea cradled the posy in her hands, and let all that it meant wash through her. Then she heard Mary’s and Alice’s voices; blinking, sniffing, she gently laid the posy back in the box and set it to one side of the table. In a daze, she finished her toilette, clasping her mother’s pearls about her throat, placing the matching drops in her ears, lavishly dabbing on the countess’s perfume.
“Allie? Are you ready?”
“Yes. I’m coming!” Her wits whirling, she rose. Her gaze on the posy, cradled in its delicate box, she breathed in, exhaled, then picked up her reticule and turned.
“Hurry! The coach is here!”
“I’m coming.” Reaching the threshold, Alathea lingered. Her hand on the door, she looked back at the delicate box he’d used to send her his heart.
Her gaze lifted to the mirror beyond, to her own reflection.
A moment later, she blinked. Leaving the door, she recrossed the room.
Halting before the dressing table, she picked up his note. She reread his message, then looked again at her reflection. Her lips twisted, lifted. Tucking the note into her jewelry box, she raised her hands to her cap.
It took a moment to ease out the pins. Alathea ignored the chorus of calls wafting along the corridor. This time, her family could wait.
Laying aside the cap, she quickly unwound the posy. She wrapped the ribbon around the tight bun on the top of her head and tied it in a simple knot, the trailing ends interleaving with the surrounding curls. Fingers shaking, she separated three luscious blooms from the arrangement. By the time she’d threaded the stems into her thick hair and secured them with pins, she was smiling, her heart soaring, her face mirroring her joy.
Nellie rushed in, vase in hand, and abruptly halted. “Oh, my! Well, now! That’s better!”
“Put the others in water. I have to rush.” Whirling, Alathea squeezed Nellie’s arm, then, breathless, ran to the door.
Brows high, Nellie watched her go, then, a broad smile wreathing her face, she bustled to the dressing table. She placed the two remaining blooms in the vase, then carefully carried it to the table beside the bed. Nellie wiped her hands and returned to the dressing table to tidy Alathea’s combs and brush. She was about to turn away when the folded note poking out from Alathea’s jewelry box caught her eye.
Nellie cast a glance at the door, then lifted the lid of the jewelry box and took out the note. She unfolded it, read it, then refolded it and replaced it. And chuckled delightedly. “You’ll do, my lad. You’ll do.”
Gabriel saw his flowers in Alathea’s hair the instant she appeared in the archway giving onto Lady Marlborough’s ballroom. The sight transfixed him; joy, relief, and something far more primal locked his lungs. Pausing with her family at the top of the stairs, Alathea looked down, over the ballroom, but didn’t immediately see him. His gaze didn’t leave her as she slowly descended the broad sweep, one hand lightly skimming the balustrade as she searched the throng.
Then she saw him.
He drew breath and started toward her. His eyes didn’t leave her face as he closed the distance between them; he had no recollection of those he passed as he cleaved through the crowd. He reached the newel post before her.
She descended the last steps, her gaze locked with his, pausing on the very last, higher than he, then she stepped down to the floor and angled her head so he could study the blooms.
“I couldn’t carry them—you do understand?”
Triumph washed through him, a rolling wave that nearly brought him to his knees. “Your alternative is inspired.” He took her hand; uncaring of any who might be watching, he carried it to his lips. His eyes held hers. “My lady.”
Some magical force held them trapped, hazel drowning in hazel, so close they could sense each breath the other took, each beat of the other’s heart. Neither could manage a smile.
“And about time, too, but do get a move on! There’s a seat on a chaise over there I want to snare.”
Alathea jumped and whirled. Gabriel looked up, into Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes. She grinned evilly and poked his arm. “Don’t let me stop you in your rush into parson’s mousetrap, but do get out of my way!”
They did; Lady Osbaldestone pushed past them and stumped into the throng. Gabriel turned as Alathea took his arm.
“We’d better do as she says.”
Placing his hand over hers, he guided her into the already dense crowd.
“We were late,” Alathea murmured. “Only by a few minutes, but it put us so far back in the queue of carriages . . . ”
“I was beginning to wonder if something had happened . . . ”
Something had. Alathea met his eyes; they were gently smiling, magnanimous in victory. She looked away. “You know, I would never have expected flowers from you.” She said nothing more; the muscles under her hand slowly tensed.
“There was a note with the flowers . . .”
Alathea turned smiling eyes his way. “I know. I read it.”
He drew her to a halt, his eyes searching hers. “Just as long as you understood it.”
His tone held aggression, uncertainty, and a strong undercurrent of vulnerability. Alathea let her expression soften, let her guard down enough for him to see her heart in her eyes. “Of course I understood it.”
He looked deep into her eyes, then he released the breath he’d held. “Just don’t forget it. Even if you never hear or see the words again, they’ll always be true. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. Not ever.”
The noisy crowd around them had faded. For a moment, they remained in that world where only they existed, then Alathea smiled softly, squeezed his arm, and drew them both back to the present. She glanced about. “You could have chosen an evening more conducive to your declaration.”
Gabriel sighed and they started to stroll. “Our whole courtship—no, our joint lives thus far have been dictated by circumstance. I’m looking forward to shaking free of the shackles and taking charge of our reins.”
“Indeed?” Regally, Alathea exchanged nods with Lady Cowper. “Might I suggest that you resign yourself to sharing the reins?”
Gabriel shot her a glance; his brow quirked. “I’ll think about it.”
They strolled on through the crush, encountering no member of either of their families. “This is ridiculous,” Alathea stated as the press of bodies forced them to a halt. “Thank heaven there’s are only a few weeks to go.”
“Speaking of time passing, has Struthers contacted you?” Surrendering to the inevitable, Gabriel drew her out of the parading crowd to a spot where they could stand and converse in reasonable comfort.
“No. Why? I thought you were going to see him.”
“I did. I told him my address and to get in touch with me if he needed any help, but he hasn’t.”
“Well.” Alathea shrugged and looked about. “Presumably that means all’s well and we’ll see him tomorrow in court.” She smiled and held out her hand. “Good evening, Lord Falworth.”
Falworth took her hand and bowed. Gabriel inwardly cursed. Within minutes, her entire court had gathered. They must have located her by tracking him, tall enough to be followed through the jostling throng. Lord Montgomery prosed on; Falworth and others attempted to capture the conversation and steer it in their own directions. A social smile on her lips, Alathea pretended to follow, nodding and murmuring at appropriate moments.
The first waltz and she would be his again. Unfortunately, Lady Marlborough was of an older generation; she’d scheduled a great many cotillions and even a quadrille amid a host of country dances. He’d be waiting a while for his waltz.
Meanwhile . . .
“Dear Lady Alathea, I most earnestly implore your favor in this dance.” Montgomery bowed low.
Mr. Simpkins regarded his lordship with unconcealed dislike. “Lady Alathea, you need only say the word. I would be honored to partner you.” Simpkins’s bow was abbreviated to the point
of abruptness.
Alathea smiled serenely on them all, her gaze at the last touching Gabriel’s. “I fear, gentlemen,” she said, turning back to her court, “that I will not be dancing, in general, this evening.”
They all heard the qualification. They’d all seen that swift, shared glance. Now they all wondered. Furiously.
“Ahem.” Lord Montgomery struggled not to glare at Gabriel. “Might one enquire . . . ?”
Alathea waved at the crowd. “It’s far too exhausting to even imagine fighting one’s way to the dance floor.” Again she favored them with a serene smile. “I prefer to enjoy your conversation and”—her gaze slid to Gabriel’s face—“save my energies for the waltzes.”
His expression inscrutable, he met her gaze, then arrogantly raised a brow. If her court had not yet got the message, the moment, heavy with blatant sensuality, should have opened their eyes. The warrior within him roared in triumph; he hesitated, then inclined his head and tore his gaze from hers. While his primitive self gloated at her gesture, it was doing nothing for his composure, further eroding the thin veneer that, where she was concerned, was all that hid his true feelings from the world.
Now she’d all but publicly declared that she was his, surely his possessiveness could relax, triumphant? Unfortunately, he felt anything but relaxed. Alathea reinstituted a conversation with Falworth, regally ignoring the not-quite-convinced looks on Montgomery’s and Simpkins’s faces. Gabriel tried to stand easily beside her and not think of what he’d rather be doing.
Both proved impossible. She’d been right. Marlborough House filled to the rafters was not a useful venue for what he would prefer to be doing with her, to her. Finding an empty parlor tonight would be impossible. Was there any other way they could steal an hour or so alone? With the conversations about them droning in his ears, he considered all the options, regretfully rejecting every one. He slanted her a glance. The instant she and her family were free of Crowley’s threat, he would have to kidnap her, for a few hours at least. Long enough to soothe the beast within.
Thinking of how he would soothe his clamorous needs did nothing to ease them. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched his thoughts onto a different track. Struthers. He’d sent Chance to call on the old seadog at noon, offering his services in any helpful capacity. The captain had, not entirely unexpectedly, sent Chance off with a gruff but polite refusal. Chance had obeyed orders and kept watch on the run-down lodging house in the Clerkenwell Road. The captain had left late in the afternoon and headed for the City, then on toward the docks. Chance had faithfully tracked him, a talent learned in his previous existence, but the captain must have sensed he was being followed. He’d gone into a tavern and then disappeared. Chance had searched the three alleys the tavern gave access to, but hadn’t been able to find the old man. Defeated, he’d returned to Brook Street to report.
If the captain was fly enough to lose Chance, then he could take care of himself. Presumably. The presentiment of danger that had struck Gabriel on first meeting the captain continued to nag at him.
Shifting, he glanced at Alathea. At least she was safe. From Crowley. She wasn’t entirely safe—not in her terms—from him. They had nigh on a decade to make up for, and more than one event to celebrate. His gaze rose to her hair, to the gift he’d given her that had finally accomplished what he’d sought for so many years to achieve. He’d gotten rid of her damned caps. Never again would she wear one—he’d ensure she never even thought of it.
All of which added to his tension, to the impatience he could feel rising like a tide, a building pressure he could do nothing to release, not here, not now. He drew in an increasingly tight breath and refocused on her face, abruptly conscious that he was nearing the end of his severely strained tether. He glanced around at the gentlemen surrounding them; none posed as much of a threat to her as he.
Straightening, he shifted closer, all too aware of the countess’s provocative perfume gently rising from her warm flesh. The thought of how much more strongly that scent would rise once her skin heated with passion had him clenching one fist.
Risking a scene at this point was senseless. He’d do better to take his clamoring instincts, possessive and otherwise, a short distance away.
A sudden gust of laughter from a nearby group had her court looking behind them. He seized the opportunity, touching the back of Alathea’s arm, fingers light on the soft skin bare above her glove.
Vivid awareness streaked through him—and her. It was there in her wide eyes as she looked up. “What?”
The word was breathless; she was as giddy as he.
“I’d better circulate. I’ll be back for the first waltz.”
Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were so close, they could sense each other’s breaths. She moistened her lips. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “that might be . . . wise.”
She lifted her gaze to his. Gabriel nodded.
He managed to turn away without touching his lips to hers.
Alathea watched him go, then, with an inward sigh, she returned her attention to her court as, the nearby ruckus abating, they turned back to her. She was relieved Gabriel had taken himself off; she’d sensed his suppressed tension. The fact that she now knew what caused it—what it truly was—did not make being its subject any less unsettling. Nevertheless, she would much rather have gotten rid of all her court, slipped away on his arm, and done all she could to ease him.
Keeping her social smile in place, she encouraged her court to entertain her. Her heart, however, wasn’t in it. When a footman pushed through to her side, a folded note on a salver, that unruly organ leaped. Her first thought was that her warrior had found some bolt hole and was summoning her to his side.
The truth proved more disturbing.
Dear Lady Alathea,
I have secured all the information I sought and more. I have evidence enough to discredit Crowley’s scheme but have been summoned back to my ship and must up anchor and depart on the morning tide. You must come at once—I must explain some of the details of the maps and documents in person, and it will be vital to your cause for me to make a signed deposition before witnesses, and leave the whole in your hands.
I implore you do not dally—I must weigh anchor the instant the tide turns. Take heart, dear lady—the end is nigh. All the necessary documents will shortly be in your hands and you will be able to send Crowley to the devil.
I have taken the liberty of sending a carriage and escort for you. You may trust the men implicitly—they know where to bring you. But you must come at once or all may be lost!
Your respectful servant,
Aloysius Struthers, Captn.
Alathea looked up. Her court were chatting among themselves, giving her a moment of privacy in which to read her note. She turned to the footman. “Is there a carriage waiting?”
“Aye, my lady. A carriage and a number of . . . men.”
They’d probably be sailors. Alathea nodded. “Please tell the men I’ll be with them directly.”
The footman was too well-trained to show any reaction. He bowed and withdrew to do her bidding. Alathea touched Falworth’s arm and smiled at Lord Montgomery, Lord Coleburn, and Mr. Simpkins. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I’ll have to leave you. An urgent summons from a sick relative.”
They murmured sympathetically; she doubted they believed her. Alathea inclined her head and left them. Stepping into the crowd, she lifted her head, scanning the throng. She couldn’t see Gabriel.
“Damn!” Muttering under her breath, she started to quarter the room. He’d been tripping over her skirts for weeks. Now, when she needed him, he was nowhere to be found. The crowd was so dense, she couldn’t be certain she wasn’t crossing paths with him. She saw Celia, and Serena, and the twins, but their cousin was not to be found. Nor was Lucifer. Stepping onto the bottom of the ballroom stairs, Alathea cast an exasperated glance around, but could see no one—not even any of the other Cynsters—who might be of use.
“My lady?” The foot
man materialized at her elbow. “The men are very insistent that you leave right away.”
“Yes, very well.” With one last disgusted glance about the packed room, Alathea picked up her skirts, turned—and spied Chillingworth talking with a group of other guests in the lee of the stairs. “One moment.”
She left the footman and plunged into the crowd. With a laugh and a bow, Chillingworth turned away from his friends as she pushed nearer. He saw her instantly.
He started to smile, then he took in her expression. He searched her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Alathea caught the hand he held out to her and pressed the note she held into it. “Please—see this gets to Gabriel. It’s important. I have to leave.”
“Where are you going?” Chillingworth closed his hand about both the note and her fingers. He glanced at the footman on the stairs as another liveried servant hurried down to whisper in the first’s ear.
Alathea followed his gaze. “I have to go with someone—that’s a message. Gabriel will understand.” With a skill honed through years of wrestling with Cynsters, she twisted free of Chillingworth’s grasp. “Just make sure he gets it as soon as possible.”
The first footman had pushed through to her side. “My lady, the sailors are growing restive.”
“Sailors!” Chillingworth grabbed for her arm.
Alathea eluded him. Pushing past the footman, she hurried to the stairs. “I haven’t time to explain.” She threw the words back at Chillingworth, following as fast as he could in her wake. “Just get that note to Gabriel.”
Reaching the less-crowded stairs, she lifted her skirts and hurried up.
“Alathea! Stop!”
She didn’t. She kept doggedly on to the top, then rushed through the archway and on out of the house.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chillingworth stared after her. An influx of guests swept down, making it impossible for him to follow her. Other guests who’d heard him bellow cast him odd looks. His lips setting grimly, he ignored them. “Damn!” He looked at the note crumpled in his fist, then he turned and surveyed the throng. “Serve Cynster bloody well right.”