He'd never known this-this all-consuming passion. She was open, honest, and soul-shatteringly courageous in her giving. Without conditions, she offered the ultimate satiation-something deep inside him shook as, driven, he reached to claim it.

And then it was his, and they were caught in the tide, buffeted by the glory. The intense release swelled, rose, then washed through them, and he was drowning in the bottomless well of her giving, in the ultimate ecstasy.

His last thought as he slid beneath the wave was that she was his. Tonight-and forever.

He woke in the depths of the night. For one instant, he savored the fluid stillness that held them, then reluctantly he disengaged, lifting from her and untangling their limbs, then sinking down beside her and gathering her to him. He would have liked to simply lie there, sharing the contentment, the aftermath of pleasure still warm in their veins, but she woke, too, and turned skittish. Not with any false modesty but with anxiety.

"I must go." A reluctance to match his resonated in her words, colored her determination. That last, however, was strong.

She pushed away and he let her go, shaken by the spike of need that drove him to pull her back. He'd never been possessive; it was, he told himself, simply that he'd enjoyed her so well, that the experience of her was so new to him.

He listened as she slipped from the bed, tracking her by sound as she rounded the bed to grope by the wall for her gown.

Rising, he found his trousers, pulled them on, then padded into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, having relighted both lamps. She was in her gown, her veil already down; she was struggling to redo her laces.

"Here." Strolling up, he caught her about the waist and turned her. "Let me."

Expertly, he did them up, noting the fine tension that had gripped her the instant he'd touched her. He left her drawing on her stockings in the semi-darkness, and quickly finished dressing. By the time he shrugged into his coat, she was fully cloaked and veiled. He wasn't surprised by her sudden bolt back into secrecy, but he was very tired of that veil.

She glanced at him. "I'll see myself out." The words were slightly breathless.

"No." Strolling forward, he stopped by her side. "I'll see you to your carriage."

She considered arguing; he could sense it in her stance. But then she acquiesced with an inclination of her head. Not haughty, but careful.

Without another word, he escorted her from the room, down the stairs, and through the foyer. The sleepy doorman let them out with barely a glance, too busy stifling a yawn.

Her black carriage was waiting just along the street. He handed her in, then she turned back to him. He felt her gaze search his face, lit by a nearby street flare, then she inclined her head again.

"Thank you."

The soft words feathered his senses, leaving him very sure that it was not his efforts regarding the company for which she was thanking him.

She settled into the dark of the carriage; he shut the door and nodded at her coachman. "Drive on."

The coach rattled away. Filling his chest with a slow, deep breath, he watched it turn the corner, then he exhaled and headed home. The sense of achievement that suffused him was profound and intensely satisfying. Intensely gratifying.

Everything-everything-was going very well.

Chapter 9

"Well, miss, and what's got into you?"

Alathea snapped to attention. Reflected in the dressing table mirror before her, she saw Nellie shaking out her pillows and airing her bed.

Nellie caught her eye. "You've been staring at that mirror for the past five minutes, and seeing nothing is my guess."

Alathea gestured, brushing the query aside, praying she wouldn't blush, that her face showed no evidence of her thoughts. Heaven forbid.

"That meeting of yours last night must have been a long one-four o'clock again before you got in. Jacobs said you was in there for all those hours."

Alathea picked up her brush. "We had to discuss what we'd learned."

"So you've found something out about this wretched company-you and Mr. Rupert?"

"Indeed." Setting the brush to her hair, Alathea forced her mind to that aspect of the night. "We've learned enough to frame our case. All we need do now is assemble the right proofs, and we'll be free."

Easier said than done, no doubt, but she was convinced last night had set their feet on the road to success. Despite her careful words to Gabriel, she'd felt buoyed by their first real gain, the first scent of ultimate victory.

She'd been careful to hide her elation, aware he'd sense it and take advantage.

He'd taken advantage anyway.

So had she.

"Here, let me." Nellie lifted the brush from her slack grasp. "Good for nothing, this morning, you are."

Alathea blinked. "I was just… thinking."

Nellie shot her a shrewd look. "Well, I dare say there are lots of facts from this meeting you need chew on."

"Hmm." Facts. Sensations, emotions-revelations. She had a lot to think about.

Throughout the day, her mind wandered, considering, pondering, reliving the golden moments, carefully fixing each in her memory, storing them away against the cold years ahead. Again and again, she was jerked back to the present-by Charlie asking after one of their tenants, by Alice wanting her opinion on a particular shade of ribbon, by Jeremy frowning over a piece of arithmetic.

Finally, in the quiet of the afternoon when, after luncheon, all the females of the family repaired to the back parlor for a quiet hour before driving in the park or attending an afternoon tea, Augusta climbed into Alathea's lap, sitting astride her knees. Placing her soft hands on Alathea's cheeks, Augusta stared into her eyes. "You keep going away-far away."

Alathea looked into Augusta's large brown eyes.

Augusta searched hers. "Where is it you go?"

To another world, one of darkness, sensation, and indescribable wonder.

Alathea smiled. "Sorry, poppet, I've got lots on my mind just now." Rose had been dumped in her lap between them; Alathea lifted the doll and studied her. "How is Rose finding London?"

The distraction worked, not for her but for Augusta. Fifteen minutes later, when Augusta slipped from her lap and went to play with Rose in a splash of sunlight, Alathea exchanged a fond and, she hoped, undisturbingly mild glance with Serena, then quietly left the room.

She sought refuge in her office.

Standing arms crossed before the window, she forced herself to concentrate on the company's plans, all that Crowley had disclosed the previous evening. Despite her senses' preoccupation, there was nothing requiring thought in all the rest. It had happened-she'd seized and enjoyed the experience, but that was all there was to it. She wouldn't rescue her family from destitution by dwelling on such matters-on the substance of dreams. Her only major worry arising from her interlude with Gabriel was the difficulty she would experience in facing him as Alathea Morwellan. Knowing him in the biblical sense, and knowing he knew her in the same way but didn't know it was she, wasn't going to make her life any easier.

Despite her charade, she was not a naturally deceitful person; she'd never imagined having to deceive him in this way.

If he ever found out…

Dragging in a breath, she turned from the window. Sensibility was not her strong suit-whatever leanings she'd had in that direction had been eradicated eleven years ago. Determinedly, she focused on the company and Crowley. It took mere minutes to concede that she could not, no matter how much she wished it, proceed without Gabriel. Quite aside from the fact that dismissing him would probably be more difficult than summoning him in the first place, she could see no way forward without him.

She couldn't break in, or even organize to have someone else break in, to Douglas's mansion. She'd had Jacobs drive her around Egerton Gardens; Folwell had chatted to a street sweeper and discovered which of the large, new houses belonged to Douglas, but breaking in was too risky. Although they might find some of the proofs they needed, the chances of Crowley or Swales realizing their records had been searched and, as Charlie would phrase it, getting the wind up, was high. Then they'd call in the promissory notes and she'd be too busy beating off creditors to press any claim in court.

And she didn't like Crowley. The thought of meeting him at night alone and cut off from help was the substance of nightmares. He was evil. She'd sensed it very clearly, watching him as he'd watched Gerrard Debbington, seeing the cruel gleam in his eyes. Gabriel had said Crowley liked to gloat over his potential victims, but it was more than that. He viewed people as prey. There was viciousness and real cruelty beneath his semicivilized veneer.

She wanted him as far away from her family as possible.

All things considered-and she did mean all-the only sensible way forward was to find the needed proofs without delay. Then Crowley would no longer be a threat, and the countess could fade into the mists.

"Fangak. Lodwar. What was the other one?" Sitting at her desk, she drew a sheet of paper onto the blotter and reached for a pen. "Kafia-that was it."

She wrote the names down, then settled to list all the names and locations she could recall Crowley mentioning.

"Mary? Alice?" Alathea peeked into Mary's bedchamber, where her elder stepsisters often repaired when they were supposed to be resting. Sure enough, both were lolling on the bed wearing identical expressions of disgusted boredom. They both lifted their heads to look at her.