He almost laughed. "Why does that matter?"

"Because Cynsters like challenges."

He looked at her veiled face. "True," he purred.

Her chin rose another notch. "And because I know I can entrust the family's secret to a Cynster."

He raised a brow, inviting explanation.

She hesitated, then stated, "If you agree to help us, I must ask you to swear that you will not at any time seek to identify me or my family." She halted, then went on, "And if you don't agree to help, I know I can trust you not to mention this meeting, or anything you deduce from it, to anyone."

Gabriel raised both brows; he regarded her with veiled amusement, and a certain respect. She had a boldness rarely found in women-only that could account for this charade, well thought out, well executed. The countess had all her wits about her; she'd studied her mark and had laid her plans-her enticements-well.

She was deliberately offering him a challenge.

Did she imagine, he wondered, that he would focus solely on the company? Was the other challenge she was flaunting before him intentional, or…?

Did it matter?

"If I agree to help you, where do you imagine we would start?" The question was out before he'd considered-once he had, he inwardly raised his brows at the "we."

"The company's solicitors. Or at least the ones who drew up the note-Thurlow and Brown. Their name's on the note."

"But not their address."

"No, but if they're a legitimate firm-and they must be, don't you think?-then they should be easy to trace. I could have done that myself, but…"

"But you didn't think your agent would approve of what you have in mind once you discover the address, so you didn't want to ask him?"

Despite her veil, he could imagine the look she cast him, the narrowing of her eyes, the firming of her lips. She nodded, again that definite affirmation. "Precisely. I imagine some form of search will be required. I doubt a legitimate firm of solicitors will volunteer information on one of their clients."

Gabriel wasn't so sure-he'd know once he located Thurlow and Brown.

"We'll need to learn who the principals of the company are, and then learn the details of the company's business."

"Prospective business." He shot her a look, wishing he could see through her veil. "You do realize that any investigating risks alerting the company's principals? If the company is the sham you think it, then any hint of too close interest from anyone, particularly and especially me, will activate the call on promised funds. That's how swindlers will react-they'll grab what they've got and disappear before anyone can learn too much."

They'd been standing for more than half an hour in the mausoleumlike porch. The temperature was dropping as dawn approached; the chill of the mists was deepening. Gabriel was aware of it, but in his cloak he wasn't cold. Beneath her heavy cloak the countess was tense, almost shivering.

Lips tightening, he suppressed the urge to draw her closer and ruthlessly, relentlessly stated, "By investigating the company, you risk the note being called in and your family being made bankrupt." If she was determined to brave the fire, she needed to understand she could get burned.

Her head rose; her spine stiffened. "If I don't investigate the company and prove it's a fraud, my family will definitely be bankrupt."

He listened but could detect no hint of wavering, of anything less than informed but unshakable resolution. He nodded. "Very well. If you've made the decision to investigate the company, then yes, I'll help you."

If he'd expected gushing thanks, he'd have been disappointed-luckily, he'd had no such expectation. She stood still, studying him. "And you'll swear…?"

Stifling a sigh, he raised his right hand. "Before God, I swear-"

"On your name as a Cynster."

He blinked at her, then continued, "On my name as a Cynster, that I will not seek to identify you or your family. All right?"

Her sigh fell like silk in the night. "Yes." She relaxed, losing much of her stiff tension.

His increased proportionately. "When gentlemen reach an agreement, they usually shake hands."

She hesitated, then extended one hand.

He grasped it, then changed his hold, fingers sliding about hers until his thumb rested in her palm. Then he drew her to him.

He heard her in-drawn breath, felt the sudden leaping of her pulse, sensed the shock that seared her. With his other hand, he tipped up her chin, angling her lips to his.

"I thought we were going to shake hands." Her words were a breathless whisper.

"You're no gentleman." He studied her face; the glint of her eyes was all he could see through the fine black veil, but with her head tipped up, he could discern the outline of her lips. "When a gentleman and a lady seal a pact, they do it like this." Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers.

Beneath the silk, they were soft, resilient, lush-pure temptation. They barely moved under his, yet their inherent promise was easy to sense, very easy for him to read. That kiss should have registered as the most chaste of his career-instead, it was a spark set to tinder, prelude to a conflagration. The knowledge-absolute and definite-shook him. He lifted his head, looked down on her veiled face, and wondered if she knew.

Her fingers, still locked in his, trembled. Through his fingers under her chin, he felt the fragile tension that had gripped her. His gaze on her face, he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on her gloved fingers, then, reluctantly, he released her. "I'll find out where Thurlow and Brown hang their plaque and see what I can learn. I assume you'll want to be kept informed. How will I contact you?"

She stepped back. "I'll contact you."

He felt her gaze scan his face, then, still brittlely tense, she gathered herself and inclined her head. "Thank you. Good night."

The mists parted then reformed behind her as she descended the porch steps. And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.

Gabriel drew in a deep breath. The fog carried the sounds of her departure to his ears. Her shoes tapped along the pavement, then harness clinked. Heavier feet thumped and a latch clicked, then, after a pause, clicked again. Seconds later came the slap of reins on a horse's rump, then carriage wheels rattled, fading into the night.

It was half past three in the morning, and he was wide awake.

Lips lifting self-deprecatingly, Gabriel stepped down from the porch. Drawing his cloak about him, he set out to walk the short distance to his house.

He felt energized, ready to take on the world. The previous morning, before the countess's note arrived, he'd been sitting morosely over his coffee wondering how to extract himself from the mire of disaffected boredom into which he'd sunk. He'd considered every enterprise, every possible endeavor, every entertainment-none had awakened the smallest spark of interest.

The countess's note had stirred not just interest but curiosity and speculation. His curiosity had largely been satisfied; his speculation, however…

Here was a courageous, defiant widow staunchly determined to defend her family-stepfamily, no less-against the threat of dire poverty, against the certainty of becoming poor relations, if not outcasts. Her enemies were the nebulous backers of a company thought to be fraudulent. The situation called for decisive action tempered by caution, with all investigations and inquiries needing to remain covert and clandestine. That much, she'd told him.

So what did he know?

She was an Englishwoman, unquestionably gently bred-her accent, her bearing and her smooth declaration that they moved in similar circles had settled that. And she knew her Cynsters well. Not only had she stated it, her whole presentation had been artfully designed to appeal to his Cynster instincts.

Gabriel swung into Brook Street. One thing the countess didn't know was that he rarely reacted impulsively these days. He'd learned to keep his instincts in check-his business dealings demanded it. He also had a definite dislike of being manipulated-in any field. In this case, however, he'd decided to play along.

The countess was, after all, an intriguing challenge in her own right. All close to six feet of her. And a lot of that six feet was leg, a consideration guaranteed to fix his rakish interest. As for her lips and the delights they promised… he'd already decided they'd be his.

Occasionally, liaisons happened like that-one look, one touch, and he'd know. He couldn't, however, recall being affected quite so forcefully before, nor committing so decisively and definitely to the chase. And its ultimate outcome.

Again, energy surged through him. This-the countess and her problem-was precisely what he needed to fill the present lack in his life: a challenge and a conquest combined.

Reaching his house, he climbed the steps and let himself in. He shut and bolted the door, then glanced toward the parlor. In the bookcase by the fireplace resided a copy of Burke's Peerage.

Lips quirking, he strode for the stairs. If he hadn't promised not to seek out her identity, he would have made straight for the bookcase and, despite the hour, ascertained just which earl had recently died to be succeeded by a son called Charles. There couldn't be that many. Instead, feeling decidedly virtuous, not something that often occurred, he headed for his bed, all manner of plans revolving in his head.

He'd promised he wouldn't seek out her identity-he hadn't promised he wouldn't persuade her to reveal all to him.