"So, you see, that's why we watch over them. Do you understand now?"
She refocused on Lucifer. What was the right answer? Yes? No? She sighed. "Never mind." The twins would have to fight their own battles. Putting a hand on his arm, she eased him back. "There's a waltz starting-come and dance. I need distraction."
"I can't-I'm on watch."
"Gabriel's free-signal to him. He can take over."
Lucifer did, and Gabriel did, and she got her distraction.
Much good did it do her.
By the time she was in the carriage rolling home through the deserted streets, she'd accepted the fact that she would have to meet with her knight again. Cudgeling her brains, she tried to devise some way for the countess to meet him in safety. Somewhere that would inhibit him from claiming any further reward.
He'd had reward enough.
She couldn't, in all conscience, allow him to claim anything more, not even if he'd learned further facts. He'd taken liberties enough as it was.
But how to prevent his taking more?
Chapter 7
"Good morning, Mr. Cynster."
Gabriel halted and turned; the countess was walking toward him.
Along the pavement of Brook Street in broad daylight.
She was, as usual, fully cloaked and veiled. Gabriel arched a brow. The hunter in him recognized her strategy, but if she thought to deny him all reward, she'd yield something else, instead.
No veil was impenetrable in daylight.
Then she stopped before him, her face high, and he saw the black mask she wore under the veil.
He wondered if she played chess.
"Good morning…" He let his greeting die away for want of a name or specific title; as he straightened from his bow, he amended, "Madam."
He sensed her smile, concealed beneath the mask, then she gestured in the direction he'd been heading. "May I walk with you?"
"By all means." He offered his arm and she laid her gloved hand on his sleeve. As they strolled in the direction of Bond Street, he was intensely aware of her height. He could see over the heads of most ladies; it was consequently easy to largely ignore them even when they were on his arm. Ignoring the countess was impossible; she impinged on his awareness in so many ways.
It was just past midday and the ton was slowly stirring, gentlemen emerging from their doors as he had to seek refuge or congenial company in the clubs around St. James.
"I assume," his companion said, her voice, as ever, soft and low, "that you're proceeding with the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company?"
"Indeed." Swiftly considering, he continued, "In order to prove fraud, it's imperative we have witnesses to and evidence of the precise details of the proposal the company representatives present to prospective investors. My man of business has made discreet inquiries, but none of the more wealthy, experienced investors, nor their men of business, have been approached by the company. That being so, we'll need to send the company a potential investor."
She looked down. They crossed South Molton Street before she asked, "Who do you have in mind for the role?"
"A young friend by the name of Gerrard Debbington. He has the presence to pass as over twenty-one, although in fact he's a minor. That, of course, gives him a perfect and valid reason to not, after the company's presentation, sign any promissory note himself."
"His guardians would have to sign."
"Quite. But he's not going to mention them until the end of the interview."
She looked up. "What interview?"
His expression impassive, Gabriel considered the bright glint that was all he could see of her eyes. He didn't know their color, yet he suspected they wouldn't be blue. Brown? Green? "Gerrard has spent the last few days ambling about in all the right places, making vague noises about finding something better to do with his brass than buy up more fields."