They'd learned what they needed to know, and Gabriel was exhausted by the constant ebb and flow of helpless tension. The countess was sagging, too. Gerrard, on the other hand, was positively glowing. Crowley and Swales saw it as enthusiasm; Gabriel knew it was suppressed excitement at his triumph.

"So you see"-Swales leaned closer to Gerrard, pointing to the lower portion of the promissory note, now unrolled on Gerrard's knees-"if you just sign here, we'll be all right and tight."

"Oh, yes. Right-ho!" Gerrard started rerolling the note. "I'll get it signed right and tight, and then we'll all be happy, what?" He grinned at Crowley and Swales.

There was an instant of silence, then Crowley said, "Get it signed? Why can't you sign it now?"

Gerrard looked at him as if he'd admitted to lunacy. "But… my dear man, I can't sign. I'm a minor." Having dropped his bombshell, Gerrard looked from Crowley to Swales and back again. "Didn't you know?"

Crowley's face darkened. "No. We didn't know." Shifting forward, he held out a hand for the note.

Gerrard grinned and held onto it. "Well, there's no need to worry, y'know. M'sister's my main guardian and she'll sign whatever I tell her to. Well, why wouldn't she? She's got no head for business-she leaves that to me."

Crowley hesitated, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Gerrard's innocent countenance. Then he asked, "Who's your other guardian? Do they have to sign, too?"

"Well, yes-that's how things usually are if there's a female involved, don't y'know. But my other guardian's an old stick-bumbling old fool-my late pater's old solicitor. He lives buried in the country. Once m'sister signs, then he will, too, and all will be right as a trivet."

Crowley glanced at Swales, who shrugged. Crowley looked back at Gerrard, then nodded. "Very well." He stood, slowly bringing his bulk up off the sofa.

Gerrard unfolded his long limbs with the effortless grace of the young and held out his hand. "Right then. I'll get the deed done, the note signed, and get it back to you forthwith."

He shook hands with Crowley, and then with Swales, then accompanied them to the door. As they reached it, Crowley paused. Gabriel and the countess shifted, craning to keep them in sight.

"So when can we expect to get the note back?"

Gerrard grinned, the epitome of foolish vacuity. "Oh, a few weeks should do it."

"Weeks!" Crowley's face darkened again.

Gerrard blinked at him. "Why, yes-didn't I say? The pater's old solicitor lives in Derbyshire." When Crowley continued to glower, Gerrard's brows rose, his expression degenerating to that of a child fearing denial of a promised treat. "Why? There's no tearing rush, is there?"

Crowley studied Gerrard's face, then, very gradually, drew back. "As I said, the company's close to commencing the next phase of operations. Once we reach that point, we won't be accepting any more promissory notes. If you want a share in our profits, you'll need to get the note signed and returned to us-you can send it to Thurlow and Brown, of Lincoln's Inn."

"But if you don't get it to us soon," Swales put in, "you'll miss out."

"Oh, no chance of that! I'll get m'sister to sign and get it off tomorrow. If I send it by rider, it'll be back before we know it, what?"

"Just make sure it is." With one last intimidating glance, Crowley hauled open the door.

Swales followed him into the corridor. Gerrard stopped on the threshold. "Well, thank you, and good-bye."

Crowley's growled farewell rumbled back to them, drowning out Swales's reply.

Gerrard stood at the door, watching them depart, his silly smile still in place, then he stepped back, closed the door, and let his mask fall.

Gabriel closed his hands about the countess's shoulders. She sagged back against him-for one blissful moment, from shoulder to hip, she caressed him-then she remembered herself and stiffly straightened. Smiling in the dark, Gabriel squeezed her shoulders, then released her. Leaving her behind the door, he went out to Gerrard.

He put a finger to his lips as Gerrard faced him. Gerrard dutifully held silent. They both waited, listening, then Gabriel signaled Gerrard to open the door and look out.

Gerrard did, then stepped back and closed the door. "They're gone."

Gabriel nodded, scanning Gerrard's face. "Well done."

Gerrard smiled. "It was the longest performance I've ever given, but he didn't seem to suspect."

"I'm sure he didn't. If he had, he wouldn't have been anywhere near as accommodating." Crossing to the escritoire by the windows, Gabriel drew out paper and pen. "Now to the last act. We need to write down everything we heard, and sign and date it."

Gerrard drew up a chair. Together, they recounted the conversation, noting down names, locations and amounts. With his sharp visual memory, Gerrard was able to review the conversation, verifying Gabriel's recollections and adding further snippets. An hour had passed before they were satisfied.

Gabriel pushed back from the escritoire. "That gives us a lot to check, a lot to verify-more than enough chance to prove fraud." He glanced at Gerrard, just as Gerrard yawned. "Now it's time you were off home."

Gerrard grinned and rose. 'Tiring work, acting, and I'm driving to Brighton with friends tomorrow, so I'd best turn in."

Gabriel followed Gerrard to the door. Gerrard stopped by the sofa. "Here-you'd better take this, too."

"Indeed." Gabriel accepted the rolled promissory note. "It's absolute evidence that this meeting took place."

Reaching the door, Gerrard looked back. "Are you coming?"

Stowing the note and their account of the meeting in the inside pocket of his coat, Gabriel shook his head. "Not just yet. We shouldn't be seen together. You go ahead-I'll follow later. Duggan is waiting for you, isn't he?" Duggan was Vane's groom.

Gerrard nodded. "He'll drive me back to Curzon Street. Let me know how it goes." With a salute, he went out of the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Gabriel considered the closed door, then walked across and snibbed the lock. He surveyed the room, then strolled to the lamp beside the fireplace, turning it, then its mate, very low, shrouding the room in shadows. Satisfied, he headed for the bedchamber, for the epilogue to the evening's performance.

Chapter 8

The countess was waiting, no longer behind the door but seated on the end of the bed. A dark shadow, she rose as he neared.

"Do you really think there are mining claims in those places-Kafia, Fangak, and Lodwar?"

"I'd be greatly surprised if there's anything there at all. Towns or villages, maybe, but no mining. We'll check." He couldn't see her other than as a denser figure in the gloom; the already dark room had darkened even further with the dimming of the light from the sitting room. So he had to rely on his other senses-they told him she was still absorbed with Crowley's revelations. "He gave us more than enough facts, not only names and places but also figures and projections. I've got it all down. To get the company's notes declared invalid all we need do is prove some of those claims false, not all of them."

"Still"-he heard the frown in her voice-"it won't be easy to prove what really is happening in deepest Africa. Did you recognize any of the places he mentioned?"

"No, but there must be someone in London who will."

"He also stated that they were close to commencing the next stage of development-surely that's his way of saying that they plan to call in the promissory notes soon."

"He's not at that stage yet. Unless something triggers the call, he'll wait to see how many more gullible gentlemen up from the shires for the Season he can lure into his net."

Silence ensued. Her gnawing anxiety reached him clearly. He stepped closer. "It's a significant victory to have got that much detail from him."

"Oh, indeed!" She looked up. "Mr. Debbington was quite splendid."

"And what about the eminence grise behind the scenes?"

He knew precisely when she realized-realized she was alone with him in a very dark bedchamber with a very large bed a mere foot away. Her spine straightened, her chin tilted higher; a fine tension gripped her.

"You've been very… inventive."

He slid one arm about her waist. "I intend being a great deal more inventive yet."

He drew her against him. After only the slightest resistance, she permitted it, settling breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, as if she belonged there.

"You've been very successful." Her tone was slightly breathless.

His lips curved. "I've been brilliant." He found the edge of her veil. Slowly, he lifted it. All the way up. She caught her breath, one hand rising, hovering… but she allowed it. The room was so dark he couldn't possibly distinguish her features. Then he bent his head and set his lips-to the lips that were waiting for him.

Waiting, yearning, ready to pay his price-he knew she had no idea how precious, how heady, he found her lack of guile, her open generosity, the way she yielded her mouth at his demand, the way she sank against him, into him. The way she gave without restraint.

There was power in her giving. As before, it caught him, captured him, and held him in thrall. He had to have more-know more-of her. His fingers found the ties of her cloak; a minute later, it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor at their feet. A curved clip across the crown of her head anchored her veil; he slid one hand under the veil, past her throat, and encountered the heavy weight of her hair, coiled at her nape. Soft as silk, it caressed the backs of his fingers; without conscious direction, they searched. Her pins pattered on the floor; her hair spilled over his hands, both the one at her throat and the one at her waist. Her hair was long and so soft; he caught strands between his fingers and played, enthralled by the texture.