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 from?"
"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."