He fell into step beside her-there seemed little point suggesting he leave her to walk the street alone. Luckily, the bag of nuts gave her a perfect reason for not taking his arm; touching him again would be inviting disaster. As it was, she could stroll with a good two feet separating them-reasonably safe. She flourished the bag of nuts between them, inviting him to help himself as they strolled. It felt like feeding tidbits to a potentially lethal leopard to keep him distracted while she strolled to the cage door.
Thankfully, the door of the modiste's wasn't far. She stopped beside it, contemplating handing him the almost empty bag in lieu of her hand. "Thank you for the nuts." She met his gaze and realized he was frowning.
She froze-apprehension locked her lungs. Had she said something? Done something?
"You don't happen to know…" His tone was diffident. He glanced away. "Have you met a countess, one recently widowed-?"
Gabriel broke off. What was he doing! One glance at Alathea's face confirmed he'd said enough. Her expression was deadpan, her eyes blank.
"No."
He mentally kicked himself. She knew him well enough to guess why he'd asked. A spurt of resentment surfaced; she'd always turned aside any reference to Lucifer's conquests with an amused glance, but she'd never extended the same leniency to him.
He frowned. "Forget I asked."
She looked at him, blank still. "I will."
Her voice sounded odd.
He was about to step back, make his excuses, and leave, when the rowdy crew from the nut vendor's stall came barrelling past. One jostled his shoulder. He turned, stepping closer to the shop front, closer to Alathea, instinctively shielding her once more. The group streamed past, then were gone. Turning back to Alathea, his farewells froze on his tongue. "What's the matter?"
She'd paled-she was breathing quickly and leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes had been shut-now they flew open.
"Nothing. Here!" Alathea thrust the nut bag at him, then whirled and opened the modiste's door. "Serena will be wondering where I've got to."
With that, she fled-there was no other word for it. She dashed into the small foyer, grabbed up her skirts and flew up the stairs to the salon. She didn't care what he thought of her departure-she simply couldn't bear to be so near him-not anymore. Not as Alathea Morwellan.
Two days later, Alathea stood at the window of her office, sunk in thought. Wiggs had just left. In light of his worry over the promissory note, she'd felt compelled to reveal that she'd engaged the services of Gabriel Cynster. Wiggs had been impressed-and hugely relieved. He'd recalled that the Cynsters were their neighbors in Somerset. Luckily, she'd remembered to suggest that, given the necessary secrecy surrounding their investigations, Wiggs should not communicate with Mr. Cynster other than through her.
The rotund man of business had gone off much happier than when he'd arrived. She'd asked him to clarify the procedure for approaching the Chancery Court to have the promissory note declared invalid once they'd secured proof of fraud. She hoped the matter could be dealt with via a petition direct to the bench, avoiding any mention of the family name in open court and the added expense of a barrister.
In the matter of their investigations, all was proceeding smoothly; she wished she could feel as comfortable over the way matters were proceeding between her and Gabriel.
For the past two days, she'd done all she could to avoid meeting him. Not seeing him, however, didn't ease the guilt she felt over his embarrassment. It was doubtless irrational but the feeling was there.
Lurking in her mind was the recognition that he always stepped forward whenever she needed him; incidents like the horse in Bond Street, the crowd about the street vendor-those were not unusual, not for him and her. Despite their difficulty-indeed, in the teeth of it-he'd always helped her whenever he'd known she needed help. He was helping her now, even if, this time, he didn't know it was her he was helping.
He deserved better from her than deceit, but what could she do?
She sighed and concentrated, forcing herself to deal with the latest twist in her charade. For a start, she would make an effort to reinstitute their old relationship and behave normally toward him so he'd forget his embarrassment. As herself, beyond that moment in Bond Street, she'd barely touched his sleeve over the past decade-surely she could get through the next weeks without touching him more than that?
And secondly, regardless of all else, no matter the struggle, she would not allow-could not allow-the susceptibility that had overcome her in Bruton Street to surface again. If he came close, she would suffer in stoic silence. That much, she owed him.
She frowned, realizing she now thought of him by his preferred name. Then she shrugged. Better to think of him as Gabriel-Gabriel was the man she had to deal with now. Perhaps, if she bore that in mind, the hurdles she kept encountering might not be quite so surprising.
Gazing at the shifting greens beyond the window, she set aside her resolutions and turned to her next problem: how to learn of his plans. That he had plans, she didn't doubt. He'd told her to leave Crowley to him; it was tempting to simply do so. Unfortunately, as he didn't know her family's identity, that course was too risky. And she needed some control over his capacity to claim rewards.
That was another hurdle. While she desperately wanted to arrange another meeting to ask what he'd learned, what he was doing, what he had planned, justifying the likely indiscretion was not easy. It was perfectly possible he'd discovered something new, some significant fact-what reward would he claim if he had?
Her experience was insufficient to provide an answer. And she wasn't sure she trusted herself-not while in his arms.
That was the part she understood least. While with him as the countess, she seemed to occupy a position in relation to him that had never been available to Alathea Morwellan, despite the fact she knew him so well. It wasn't only the illicit nature of their interaction, but some different, deeper linkage, a sharing more profound. A sharing she coveted but knew she couldn't have.
She'd never been the sort to throw her cap over the windmill; she'd never been the least bit wild. Yet while she was the countess and he treated her as someone different, she'd started thinking and feeling differently, too.
Her charade had taken on new and dangerous dimensions.