Folwell had been waiting as instructed in the thick bushes lining the carriage drive. He'd brought her cloak, veil and high-heeled shoes, and her special perfume. Drawing in a deep breath-steeling herself-Alathea let the exotic scent wreathe through her brain. She was the countess.
In her disguise, she actually felt like someone else-not Lady Alathea Morwellan, spinster, ape-leader. It was as if her anonimity and the seductive perfume brought out another side of her-she had little difficulty sliding into her role.
The gazebo stood tucked away at the end of the shrubbery-she'd remembered it from years ago. It was far enough from the house to be safe from the risk of others chancing by, and so overhung by trees and rampant shrubs that she need not fear any stray beam of light, a pertinent consideration as she'd been unable to change her gown.
Outside, gravel crunched. A sudden thrill shot through her; tingles of excitement raced over her skin. Facing the archway, she drew herself up, head erect, hands clasped before her. Anticipation slid, insidiously compelling, through her veins. Ruthlessly quelling a reactive shiver, she drew in a tight breath. Tonight, she was determined to hold her own.
He appeared, a black silhouette filling the doorway, her sworn knight come to report. He was a dark presence, intensely masculine, achingly familiar yet so unnervingly unknown. Pausing on the threshold, he located her in the dark; he hesitated-she felt his gaze rake her, felt an inexplicable urge to turn and flee. Instead, she stood still, silent and challenging.
He strolled forward.
"Good evening, my dear."
She was a creature of night and shadow, discernible only as a darker shape in the dense gloom within the gazebo. Her height, her veil and cloak-Gabriel could see nothing beyond that, but his senses had abruptly focused; he was sure it was she. Halting directly before her, he studied her, very conscious of the alluring perfume that rose from her flesh. "You didn't sign your note."
Despite not being able to see it, he knew she raised a haughty brow. "How many ladies send you messages to meet them in dark gazebos?"
"More than you'd care to count."
She stilled. "Were you expecting someone else?"
"No." He paused, then added, "I was expecting you." Not here at Osbaldestone House, under his very nose, but he hadn't imagined she'd calmly sit in her drawing room and wait for a week before contacting him again. "I expect you'd like to know what I've learned?"
He heard the purr in his voice, and sensed her wariness.
"Indeed." She lifted her chin; he could feel the challenge in her gaze.
"Swales doesn't live at that address on the Fulham Road-it's a public house called the Onslow Arms. Henry Feaggins is the proprietor. He holds the mail for Swales."
"Does Feaggins know where Swales lives?"
"No-Swales simply stops by every few days. There was no mail to be collected, so I sent a letter-a blank sheet. Swales came in this morning and picked it up. My man followed him-Swales went to a mansion in Egerton Gardens. It seems he lives there."
"Who owns the mansion?"
"Lord Archibald Douglas."
"Lord Douglas?"
He looked sharply at her. "Do you know him?"
She shook her head. "Could Lord Douglas be the chairman of the company?"
Her question effectively answered his. "Unlikely-Archie Douglas cares for nothing beyond wine, women, and cards. Spending money is his forte, not making it. However…" He paused, considering how much to reveal. Looking at her veiled face, upturned to his, he inwardly admitted that it was her investigation as much, if not more, than his. "If Swales is the company agent and he's using Archie's home as his base, then there's a very good chance-better than even money-that a good friend of Archie's, who also happens to be in residence at this time, is the real power behind the Central East Africa Gold Company."
"And who is this friend?"
"Mr. Ranald Crowley." The name hung heavy on the air, laden with dislike.
"You know him." It wasn't a question.
"We've never met. We have, however, crossed swords, financially speaking, and I know a great deal of his reputation."
"Which is?"
"Not good. He's a black-hearted scoundrel. He's been thought to have been involved in a number of less-than-straightforward dealings, but whenever the authorities show any interest, the venture simply evaporates. There's never been any proof against him, but in the… shall we say, underworld of business, he's well known." He hesitated, then added, "And well feared. He's said to be cunning and dangerous-few doubt he would balk at murder if the gain was sufficient."
She shivered and wrapped her arms about her. "So he's a clever, black-hearted scoundrel." A moment later, she said, "I overheard that Lord Hertford declined to invest in the company purely because of'the man in charge.'"
Focused on her, Gabriel waved dismissively. "Don't worry about Crowley-I'll look into the situation."
He reached for her-she was in his arms before she knew it. Amazed to find her hands resting on his chest, she looked up. "What-?"
He heard the fluster in her voice, sensed the anticipation that flashed through her. Inwardly, he grinned. "My reward for locating Swales."
She hauled in a rushed breath. "I never said anything about rewards."
"I know." Tightening his arm about her, he brushed her veil aside and lowered his lips to hers, touching them lingeringly once, twice… she quivered, then surrendered. He caught his breath as her supple, womanly warmth sank against his much harder frame-a tentative, evocative caress. His lips a mere whisker from hers, he murmured, "You'll need to pay nevertheless."
She made no effort to deny him-he claimed his due, his lips firming, then hardening on hers. She met him, not proactive but ready to follow his lead, her reactions a mirror reflecting his desire, her giving a reflection of his need. Inch by unconscious inch, her hands stole upward, eventually sliding over his shoulders. She angled her head, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
He did. She sank into his embrace and he tightened his arms, and his hold, on her. Her perfume sank into his brain.
All he asked for, she gave, not just willingly but with an openhearted generosity that was an invitation to plunder. So he plundered, but with no sense of seizing anything that wasn't freely given. If he wanted, she gave-readily, easily, as if she delighted in the giving. Which only made him want more.
He pushed her veil back; with her head tipped up, there was no need to hold it. Sliding his hand down, he found the opening of her cloak. With her arms over his shoulders, he couldn't flick the cloak up and over hers. Instead, he parted it, sliding his palm over the silk of her gown, around to the back of her waist. Supporting her there, he transferred his other hand beneath the heavy cloak; closing both hands about her hips, he drew her nearer.
She obliged without a murmur of dissent-she was so tall, they were nearly hip to hip, her thighs against his, the hollow at their apex a cradle for his erection. If she was aware of it, she gave no sign, not that he gave her time to think. His lips remained on hers, commanding her senses while his sought wilder pleasures.
When he closed his hand about her breast, he wondered if he'd gone too far-the shock that lanced through her was very real. He instinctively soothed, distracting her with his lips, his tongue, with increasingly explicit kisses, but he didn't remove his hand. Moments later, she drew in a shaky breath. Beneath his hand, her breast swelled; against his palm, he felt the furling of her nipple. Only then did he caress the soft flesh, feeling it heat and firm. She was wearing nothing more than two layers of fine silk; the temptation to do away with them, to lower his head and set his mouth to her sweet flesh, grew with every second, with every shared breath.