They could live in hope, but he wasn't about to drink.
Turning his head, he studied the pile of journals stacked on a side table. The latest issue of the Gentlemen's Magazine was there, yet… he'd rather consider the countess-all six feet of her. It was rare to meet a lady so tall…
Alathea was nearly as tall.
Three minutes later, he shook aside the thoughts that, unbidden, had crowded into his mind. Confusing thoughts, unsettling thoughts, thoughts that left him more distracted than he could ever remember feeling. Clearing his mind, he focused on the countess.
He enjoyed helping people-not in the general sense but specifically. Individual people. Like Chance. Like the countess.
The countess needed his help-even more, she had asked for it. Alathea didn't, and hadn't. Given how he felt, that was probably just as well. His gaze fixed on the flames, he kept his mind on the countess-on plotting the next phase in their investigation, and planning the next stage in her seduction.
Chapter 3
At twenty minutes past midnight, Gabriel stood outside the oak door guarding the offices of Thurlow and Brown and studied the old lock. He'd seen no one while crossing the quiet courtyard. Light had shone from a few windows, where clerks were presumably laboring through the night; the rooms directly below were occupied, but no one had heard him slip past on the stair.
He felt in his pocket for the lockpick he'd brought, one capable of dealing with such a large lock. Simultaneously, without thought, he tested the door, turning the knob-
The door eased open.
Gabriel stared at the door, at the lock that had been unlocked, and tried to imagine the old clerk shutting up and going home without locking up.
That scenario wasn't convincing.
He could see no light through the crack between door and jamb. He eased the door further open. As earlier in the day, it opened noiselessly. The reception area and the room off it were in darkness. In the room at the end of the corridor, however, faint light gleamed.
Shutting the door, Gabriel eased the bolt home. Leaning his cane beside the door, he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the denser gloom, noting again the position of the wooden gate in the railing of the reception area through which clients were admitted to the chambers beyond.
That, too, opened noiselessly.
His footfalls muffled by the runner, he made his way silently along the corridor and wondered if it was remotely possible that Mr. Brown without an "e" was working late. The occasionally pulsing light presumably came from a lamp turned very low; the lamp was also partially screened, the light thrown back into the room, away from the windows, presumably toward Brown's desk. Pausing at the threshold, Gabriel listened-and heard the steady flick of pages being turned. Then came the soft thump of a book being closed, then papers were shuffled. That was followed by a different sound-he eventually placed it as papers and books being placed into a tin box, and the box shut.
Another box was opened. A second later came more flicking-steady, even, purposeful.
It didn't sound like Mr. Brown.
Beyond curious, Gabriel stepped over the threshold into the shadowed gap created by the half-open door and looked around its edge.
A tall cloaked and hooded figure stood before the large desk, rifling the papers she'd lifted from one of the boxes stacked on the desktop. Her gloved hands gave her away, as did the curve of her jaw, fleetingly revealed when she tilted her head, angling a document so that the light fell more definitely on it. The lamp stood on the desk to her left, a tall ledger propped around it to act as a screen.
Conscious of the tension leaving muscles he hadn't been aware he'd tensed, Gabriel leaned against the bookshelves and considered.
He waited until she'd methodically searched the contents of the now open box and restacked the papers. Then he reached out and pushed the door.
It squeaked.
She gasped. Papers scattered. In a furious flurry she flicked down her veil and whirled, so quickly that, despite watching closely, he failed to catch even a glimpse of her face. One hand at her breast, the other clutching the edge of the desk against which she'd backed, the countess stared at him, as deeply incognito as she'd been in Hanover Square.
"Oh!" Her voice wavered as if uncertain of its register, then, with an obvious effort, she caught her breath and said in the same low tone he recalled, "It's you."
He bowed. "As you see."
She continued to stare at him. "You… gave me quite a start."
"I would apologize, but"-he pushed away from the bookshelves and advanced upon her-"I hadn't expected to find you here." Halting before her, he studied the glint of eyes behind her veil, and wished the veil were thinner. "I thought I was supposed to locate Messrs. Thurlow and Brown. How did you know they were here?"
She was breathing rapidly, her gaze locked on his face, then she looked away. With a sliding step, she slipped out of the trap between him and the desk, smoothly turning so she faced the desk again. "I chanced upon them." Her voice was very low; it strengthened as, collecting the scattered papers, she went on, "I had to visit our family solicitor in Chancery Lane and on impulse I strolled into the Inn. I saw the plaques, so I wandered about-and found them."
"You should have left it to me. Sent a note and stayed safely at home while I did this." Why he was so annoyed, he couldn't have said. She was, after all, a free agent-except that she'd asked for his help.