A Secret Love

  “No. Nothing. There’s no box here or in the other room with the company’s name on it, but there must be a box for them, surely? If they’re a client, they would have a box, don’t you think?”

  “So one would imagine.” Gabriel glanced around the room. It confirmed his impression of the firm’s incumbents. “Messrs. Thurlow and Brown appear staunchly conservative—if the company’s a client, they’ll have a box.”

  Side by side, they searched swiftly but thoroughly. An hour ticked by. Eventually, the countess sighed. Setting the papers back in the last box, she closed it, and pushed the box to Gabriel to relock. “Nothing.”

  “We’ve still got Thurlow’s room. This will only have been half the practice.” Replacing the locked box on the top of the last shelf, Gabriel returned, picked up the lamp, and waved her on.

  She’d already closed and replaced the ledger she’d used as a screen; now she gave the desk one last, comprehensive glance, checking all was as it had been, then she preceded him out of the door.

  “Was this ajar?”

  “Yes.” She glanced back and nodded at how he’d left the door. “Like that.”

  In Thurlow’s room, they arranged their workplace—the desk cleared, the lamp set and screened as before—then set to. It was slow, demanding work, scanning document after document, looking for any mention of the Central East Africa Gold Company. If anything, Thurlow’s room held more boxes than Brown’s; the bookshelves were taller.

  Gabriel was halfway through yet another box, when he heard a strangled “Oh!” He looked up—just in time to drop the papers he held, cross the room in two strides, and catch the stack of boxes teetering over the countess’s head.

  She was tall enough to reach the top shelf but, in this room, she hadn’t been able to grip the boxes, only touch them. At full stretch, she’d coaxed a stack of boxes to the edge of the shelf; they’d tipped, then started to slide . . .

  He reached over her head and grabbed them, his arms outside hers, his shoulders enclosing hers. They both froze, gripping the tin boxes, desperate not to let them clatter to the floor.

  There was less than an inch between them.

  Her perfume rose, wreathing his senses; her womanly warmth, clothed in soft, sensual flesh, teased them. The urge to close that small gap, to feel her lean against him, waxed strong.

  He sensed the leap of her pulse, the sudden fluster that gripped her. He heard her indrawn breath, sensed her uncertainty—

  Tilting his head, he touched his lips to her veiled temple. She stilled—the tension that gripped her changed in a flash from physical to sensual; from clinging to a physical pose, she was now teetering on a sensual precipice. He shifted, closing the gap between them until she stood stretched upward against him, touching but not pressing. Sliding his lips from her temple, caressing the line exposed by her back-swept hair, he dipped his head and traced the whorl of her ear, then slid his lips lower to tease and tantalize the sensitive spot below her lobe.

  Skillfully he tempted her to ease her locked muscles and lean against him. The silk veil shifted beneath his lips, a secondary caress. She caught her breath on a shaky sob and held it; he bent his head and traced the long line of her throat until, at last, she exhaled. Tentatively, ready to take flight at the slightest sign, she let her shoulders ease against his upper chest.

  Inwardly smiling in triumph, he angled his head upward, pressing gentle kisses into the hollow of her throat, encouraging her to raise her chin until finally her head tipped back against his shoulder. The warm curves of her back sank more definitely against him.

  He wanted much more, but their hands were locked on the boxes still held high and he didn’t dare break the spell. She was sweetly responsive but oh-so-skittish, like a mare never gentled to a man’s hand. So he kept each caress simple, direct, unthreatening, and as each moment passed, she sank more definitely against him. The subtle warmth of her flowed over his hardness; he was aroused but held the pain at bay. It flashed into his mind that she was a castle he intended storming; his present victory was much like watching her drawbridge come down.

  Eventually, she was leaning fully back against him. A fine tension still gripped her, but that derived more from fascinated anticipation than resistance. He pressed a firmer kiss in the hollow beneath her ear, and heard her shivery breath. A tremor shook her, followed by a shaky gasp.

  “I’m going to drop these boxes.”

  He raised his head and looked, and stifled a sigh. Her arms were quivering. He straightened—instantly, she did, too. She drew in a breath and held it. He eased back. Very carefully, she shifted her hands and gripped the lower two boxes, allowing him to lift the upper three away.

  Lowering her arms, she stepped sideways, then turned and, spine poker straight, unmistakable resolution in every line, carried the two boxes back to the desk.

  Leaving him with three tin boxes and a definite ache.

  Jaw setting, Gabriel carried the boxes to the desk, stacking them atop hers. She’d already opened one box. Without glancing at him, she lifted the papers from it and started flicking through them. Eyes narrowing, he considered simply hauling her into his arms; the stiff, abrupt way in which she was turning pages argued against it.

  Gritting his teeth, he picked up the pile of papers he’d been searching. He sent her a hard-edged glance. If she saw it, she gave no sign.

  They continued to search in silence.

  Just as he was wondering if, perhaps, he’d been wrong, and the Central East Africa Gold Company for some unknown reason had not merited a box, the countess straightened.

  “This is it.”

  Gabriel glanced at the box; it was labeled “Swales.”

  Holding a stack of papers to the lamplight, the countess swiftly studied each in turn. He shifted to stand behind her so he could read over her shoulder. “Those are documents the company would need for registration to conduct business in the City of London.” He scanned the sheet she held. “And the company is a formal client of Thurlow and Brown.”

  “Because all these list Thurlow and Brown as the contact?”

  “Yes. The firm must have been hired when the company first entered the City. That means there’ll be very few pieces of legal paper listing the company’s address.”

  “There must be one, surely?” She looked up at him over her shoulder; her lips were outlined by her veil. His gaze locked on them and she froze, then a fragile shiver shook her. She looked away and breathlessly asked, “Or will we need to search some government office to find it?”

  She didn’t see the subtle smile that curved his lips. “There should be at least two documents listing the company’s address. One is the main registration of the company, but that will in all likelihood be with the company. The other, however, is a document all solicitors prepare, but which many clients don’t know about.”

  Reaching out, he tugged at the last sheet in the stack; she let him draw it free. He held it up, and smiled. “Here we are—the internal instructions for the firm on how to make contact with the client.”

  “Mr. Joshua Swales,” she read. “Agent of the Central East Africa Gold Company, in the care of Mr. Henry Feaggins, 142 Fulham Road.”

  They reread the names and address, then Gabriel returned the sheet to the box. Taking the sheaf from the countess’s hands, he rifled through it.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I wondered if we’d be lucky enough to find a list of investors . . . or a list of promissory notes the firm’s prepared . . . but no.” Frowning, he restacked the papers. “Whoever they are, the company are certainly careful.”

  She held the box as he set the papers back in, then he closed and relocked it. Carrying the other boxes, she followed him back to the shelf. He restacked the boxes in the right order, then turned to discover her already back at the desk, setting it to rights, straightening the blotter, realigning the inkstand.

  Completing a last visual scan of the room, he lifted the lamp. “Where did this come f
rom?”

  “The little table out here.”

  She led the way. Gabriel set the lamp down on the side table she indicated, then waited until she passed through the gate in the railings before turning the wick down. The light died. “Let’s hope,” he murmured, moving around the clerk’s desk to the gate, “that the clerk is not the sort to keep a careful eye on the level of his lamp oil.”

  She returned no comment, but waited by the door.

  Retrieving his cane, he opened it. She stepped through. He followed, shutting the door, then crouching down to turn the heavy tumblers of the lock. Not a simple task. They finally fell into place. “How on earth did you manage it?” he asked as he straightened.

  “With difficulty.”

  Certainly not with a hairpin. Stifling his curiosity, he followed her down the stairs. Her heels clicked on the stone. Crossing the cobbles silently would be impossible. At the bottom of the stairs, he took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. She looked up at him—he assumed in surprise. “I presume your carriage is waiting?”

  “At the far corner of the Fields.”

  “I’ll escort you to it.” In the circumstances, she could hardly argue, yet he knew she considered it. If she’d tried, he would have informed her that, courtesy of five tin boxes, she now had more chance of flying to her carriage than of dismissing him with nothing more than words.

  There were rules to all engagements, in seduction as in war; he knew them all and was a past master at exploiting them for his own good. After the first clashes, every lady he’d ever engaged with had decided his exploitation had been for her good, too. Ultimately, the countess would not complain.

  They set off, openly crossing the courtyard. He felt her fingers on his sleeve flutter nervously, then settle. He glanced at her veiled face, then let his gaze skate down her cloaked form. “You appear to be a recently bereaved widow who could thus have good reason for visiting the Inn late.”

  She glanced at him, then gave a slight nod and lifted her head.

  Approving the imperious tilt to her chin, Gabriel looked ahead. She was no mean actress—there was now not a hint of trepidation to be seen. If he had to have a female partner, he was glad it was she. She could think, pick locks, and carry off a charade—all definite positives. Despite his irritation on first finding her here, he now felt in considerable charity with her role.

  He would, of course, put his foot down and ensure she engaged in no more midnight searches, but that would have to wait until after they got past the porter nodding in his box by the gate. Head up, spine straight, the countess walked past as if the porter didn’t exist. The man touched his fingers respectfully to his cap, then yawned and slouched back on his stool.

  They walked on. In the shadows cast by the huge trees of the Fields, a small black carriage waited, the horses’ heads hanging. As they neared, the coachman glanced around, then hunched over his reins.

  Halting by the carriage, Gabriel opened the door.

  The countess put out her hand. “Thank you—”

  “In a moment.” Taking her hand, he urged her into the carriage. He felt her puzzled glance as she complied. As she settled on the seat, he glanced at her coachman. “Brook Street—just past South Molton.” With that, he followed the countess into the carriage and shut the door.

  She stared at him, then scooted further over as he turned and sat beside her. The carriage rocked into motion.

  After an instant’s fraught silence, she said, “I wasn’t aware I had offered you a ride.”

  Gabriel considered her veiled face. “No doubt you would have—I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

  He heard a small spurt of laughter, instantly suppressed. Lips curving, he faced forward. “After all, we need to consider our next move.” He’d already mapped out several; all could be attempted in a closed carriage rolling through the night.

  “Indeed.” Her tone was equable.

  “But first, a point I should have made plain at the outset. You asked for my help and I agreed to give it. You also asked for my promise not to seek out your identity.”

  She stiffened. “Have you?”

  His lightheartedness evaporated. “I promised. So no. I haven’t.” Each word was clipped, each sentence definite. “But if you want me to play your game any further—if we’re to continue our alliance and save your stepfamily from ruin—you’ll have to promise to abide by my rules.”

  Her silence lasted for a good fifty yards. Then, “Your rules?”

  He could feel her gaze on the side of his face; he continued to look forward.

  “And what are they? These rules of yours.”

  “Rule number one—you must promise never again to act without my knowledge.”

  She stirred slightly. “Your knowledge?”

  Gabriel hid a cynical smile; he’d dealt with women long enough not to label it “permission.” “If you and I act independently, especially in such a delicate affair as this, there’s a good chance we’ll cross tracks to disastrous effect. If that happens, and we reveal our interest to the company too early, then all you’ve worked for will go for nought. And you are not sufficiently au fait with how matters are dealt with in the City to appreciate all the ramifications of what we might learn, which is, after all, why you sought my help in the first place.”

  She had none of her sex’s usual wariness of silence; again, she claimed it to calculate, to consider. As they swayed around a corner, she asked, “These rules—what are the others?”

  “There are only two—I’ve told you one.”

  “And the second?”

  He turned his head and looked at her. “For each piece of information we gather, I get to claim a reward.”

  “A reward?” Wariness had crept into her tone.

  He suppressed a wolfish smile. “Reward—a customary token of gratitude given in return for services rendered.”

  She knew precisely what he meant, her knowledge clear in the fine tension that gripped her. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “What reward do you want?”

  “For locating Thurlow and Brown—a kiss.”

  She went still—so still he wondered if he’d shocked her. But she could hardly be surprised—she knew very well who and what he was. From behind her veil, she stared at him, but if she was flustered, there was no sign of it—her hands, folded in her lap, remained still. “A kiss?”

  “Hmm.” This time, he couldn’t stop his lips curving, couldn’t suppress the seductive purr that entered his voice. “Without the veil. Take it off.”

  “No.” Calm—absolute.

  Arrogantly, he raised his brows.

  She shifted on the seat. “No. The veil . . . I . . .”

  He sighed resignedly. “Very well.” Before she could think of some pretext on which to refuse the kiss altogether, he framed her face with one hand, his thumb under the edge of her veil, lifting it from her lips as he covered them with his.

  Her lips had parted on a startled exclamation—as he caught them, she stilled. She didn’t freeze, didn’t panic—she simply sat, warm and alive, and let him fashion his lips to hers. He tilted her chin slightly; her face moved easily—she wasn’t stiff. But there was no response as he pressed the caress upon her.

  He wasn’t having that, but he knew when to be patient. He kissed her lightly, gently shifting his lips on hers, artfully dallying, waiting . . .

  Her first surrender was a shiver—piercingly sweet, a ripple of pure sensation. He sensed the hitch in her breathing, the increasing tension in her spine.

  Then her lips moved, firming under his, still not giving, but alive. It was as if she was a statue coming to life, cool marble slowly heating, stone carapace melting, giving way to flesh, blood, and life.

  He held her face steady and increased the pressure of the kiss. Acutely focused on her, he knew when she lifted one gloved hand from her lap, raising it to where his hand cupped her face. Her fingers hovered, an inch from his hand, then, very gently, almost as if she wasn’t sure h
e—his hand—was real, she touched her fingertips to the backs of his.

  The hesitant touch rocked him—it held a wondering innocence that captivated and held him.

  Her leather-encased fingertips trailed, tracing the back of his hand; they hesitated for one quivering instant, then settled.

  Like a butterfly on the back of his hand.

  Her fingers didn’t grip, didn’t tug—they simply touched. He drew breath—drew her perfume deep—and deepened the caress. Asking—for once in his life, not demanding.

  And she gave. Of her own accord, she tipped her face further, swaying toward him as she offered her lips.

  He swooped like a conqueror and took, claimed—but immediately reined back when he sensed her sudden skitter. She was unused to being kissed. Strange as that seemed, he knew it for fact—he didn’t ponder the cause but set himself to ease her, tease her, encourage her.

  She was a quick study—soon she was kissing him back, gently but without reserve. He longed to draw her into his arms, but experience warned against it. Her nervousness was now explained—for whatever reason, she wasn’t used to this. His lips on hers, his hand about her face, seemed, at this moment, all she could assimilate, so he set himself to work with that.

  Set himself to cajole and tease, to lead her to yield more, to seek more. When she hesitantly parted her lips, he felt he’d won a siege, but he was careful, this time, of taking advantage too quickly—which meant he savored every sweet moment of her surrender, the whole extended like a necklace of precious, individual gems of sensation.

  When she tentatively touched his tongue with hers, then slowly, sinuously, caressed him in return, his head very nearly spun.

  She was like fine wine—best savored slowly.

  He finally drew back as the carriage rumbled around a corner. Chest swelling, he studied her lips, briefly illuminated by a street flare. They were full, deeply rosy, slightly swollen. “Now, for learning Swales’s address . . .”

  Her lips parted—whether in protest or invitation he didn’t wait to learn. He covered them again; they molded easily, this time, to his, and parted fully the instant he touched them with his tongue.