A knock fell on the door. She turned. Folwell, her groom, looked in. He saluted respectfully; she smiled and waved him forward, returning to the desk. "Anything to report?"
"Nothing today, m'lady"-Folwell halted before the desk-"but that Chance… he's a right talker, he is. With due respect, m'lady, I had to put him right-tip him the wink. He talks far too free about Mr. Rupert. That's not how it's done, m'lady, as you know."
"Indeed, but in this case, Chance's talkativeness has been useful."
"Oh, he still chatters to me and Dodswell, of course. But we don't want him chattering to no one else."
"Quite so." Alathea restrained a smile at Folwell's instructing Gabriel's odd new gentlemen's gentleman. She'd already received a highly colored account of how Chance had come into his position; all she'd subsequently heard had made her quite keen to meet him. The eccentricity Gabriel had displayed over Chance was both familiar and endearing. As she'd told Celia, Gabriel wasn't cold, but rather, controlled. She was prepared to wager Celia didn't know about Chance.
"Mr. Rupert's not met with Mr. Debbington again?"
"No, m'lady. Just that one meeting like I mentioned. Mr. Debbington hasn't been back."
"No notes or letters?"
"There was one note last night, m'lady, but Chance doesn't know who it was from. Mr. Rupert read it and seemed pleased, but he didn't say anything to Chance, of course."
"Hmm." Celia's complaints wafted through Alathea's brain; she considered Folwell. "What about ladies? Have there been any women visiting? Or has he gone out…?" With her back to the window, Folwell couldn't see her blush.
"No, m'lady. No one. Dodswell says there's been no females in the house for an age-weeks, at least. He says Mr. Alasdair's hunting a new one"-it was Folwell's turn to blush-"but Mr. Rupert's been staying quiet at home, except for going to family gatherings and to meet some mysterious person. That'd be you, m'lady."
"Yes-thank you Folwell." Alathea nodded. "Keep stopping by every day, but try to avoid Mr. Rupert's notice."
"I'll do that, m'lady." Folwell ducked his head. "You can count on me."
After he'd gone, Alathea considered the picture that was emerging of Gabriel's life. Celia had always given the definite impression that there was a constant stream of ladies going through the Brook Street house. Admittedly, there were two of them, Lucifer as well as Gabriel, but it certainly seemed that at present, Gabriel was not pulling his weight. Not, at least, in that arena.
Pencil tapping absentmindedly, she pondered that fact.
Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, held a grande balle two nights later. What distinguished it from other balls, Alathea could not have said; it was just as crowded, just as boring. She'd never had much time for balls; the Hunt Ball and one or two others through the year were quite enough for her. To be forced to endure a major ball every night was fast becoming her personal definition of torture. However, the Marchioness was the Dowager's sister-in-law, a Cynster by birth; there'd been no question of declining her invitation.
At least the ball gave her an opportunity to keep an eye on her nemesis; it was possible his plans included meetings at balls. From the side of the ballroom, to which she doggedly clung, she watched him prowl. She was tall enough to see him easily, but she was careful not to fix her gaze. In her mind, she repeated her latest resolution: She would avoid him if possible, but if they were to meet, she would behave as she always had, as if she'd never stood locked in his arms in Bond Street-or anywhere else.
Thankfully, he was heading away from her, broad shoulders shifting under a coat of walnut-black. The brown tint in the material turned his hair to burnished brown; the stark simplicity of the cut only emphasized his stature and intensified the predatory aura he exuded.
After a moment, she unfocused her gaze and shifted it to the crowd between them. Then she glanced at the walls. Their crepe decorations caught her eye. She fell to considering how to reduce the cost of decorating the huge ballroom at Morwellan House while still achieving a satisfactory result. The ball at which Mary and Alice would make their formal curtsies to the ton was all too rapidly nearing.
"Why the devil can't you leave those wretched things at home? Or better yet, fling them in the fire."
Alathea whirled; her heart leaped to her throat. She'd been so absorbed, he'd been able to walk right up to her. Her eyes searched his-he was watching her, waiting… her resolution rang in her ears. "I'm twenty-nine, for heaven's sake!"
"I know precisely how old you are."
She lifted her chin. "People expect me to wear a cap."
"There's no more than ten people in this room who can even see the horrendous thing."
"It is not horrendous-it's the very latest style!"
"There's a style in horror? Amazing. Nevertheless, it doesn't suit you."
"Indeed? And why is that?" Heat flooded her cheeks.
"Its color, perhaps?"
The cap was the exact same shade as her gown of pomona green silk, an exceedingly fashionable hue that suited her to perfection. Eyes narrowed, she dared him to suggest otherwise; they were right back to normal, no doubt about that.
His gaze swept her face, then returned to his aversion. "It could be solid gold, and it would still be tawdry."