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Chapter One
May 6, 1820London
Swirls of mist wreathed Gabriel Cynster's shoulders as he prowled the porch of St. Georges' Church, just off Hanover Square. The air was chill, the gloom within the porch smudged here and there by weak shafts of fight thrown by the street lamps.
It was three o'clock; fashionable London lay sleeping. The coaches ferrying late-night revelers home had ceased to rumble-an intense but watchful quiet had settled over the town.
Reaching the end of the porch, Gabriel swung around. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the stone tunnel formed by the front of the church and the tall columns supporting its facade. The mist eddied and swirled, obscuring his view. He'd stood in the same place a week before, watching Demon, one of his cousins, drive off with his new wife. He'd felt a sudden chill -- a premonition, a presentiment; perhaps it had been of this.
Three o'clock in the porch of St. Georges-that was what the note had said. He'd been half inclined to set it aside, a poor joke assuredly, but something in the words had tweaked an impulse more powerful than curiosity. The note had been penned in desperation, although, despite close analysis, he couldn't see why he was so sure of that. The mysterious countess, whoever she was, had written simply and directly requesting this meeting so she could explain her need for his aid.
So he was here -- where was she?
On the thought, the city's bells tolled, the reverberations stirring the heavy blanket of the night. Not all the belltowers tolled the night watches; enough did to set up a strange cadence, a pattern of sound repeated in different registers.The muted notes faded, then died. Silence, again, descended.
Gabriel stirred. Impatient, he started back along the porch, his stride slow, easy.
And she appeared, stepping from the deep shadows about the church door. Mist clung to her skirts as she turned, slowly, regally, to face him. She was cloaked and veiled, as impenetrable, secret, and mysterious as the night.
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Had she been there all along? Had he walked past her without seeing or sensing her presence? His stride unfaltering, he continued toward her. She lifted her head as he neared, but only slightly.
She was very tall. Halting with only a foot between them, Gabriel discovered he couldn't see over her head, which was amazing. He stood well over six feet tall; the countess had to be six feet tall herself. Despite the heavy cloak, one glance had been enough to assure him all her six feet were in perfect proportion.
"Good morning, Mr. Cynster. Thank you for coming."
He inclined his head, jettisoning any wild thought that this was some witless prank -- a youth dressed as a woman. The few steps she'd taken, the way she'd turned -- to his experienced senses, her movements defined her as female. And her tone was soft and low, the very essence of woman.
A mature woman-she was definitely not young.
"Your note said you needed my help."
"I do." After a moment, she added, "My family does."
"Your family?" In the gloom, her veil was impenetrable; he couldn't see even a hint of her chin or her lips.
"My stepfamily, I should say."
Her perfume reached him, exotic, alluring. "Perhaps we'd better define just what your problem is, and why you think I can help."
"You can help. I would never have asked to meet youwould never reveal what I'm about to tell you -- if I didn't know you could help." She paused, then drew breath. "My problem concerns a promissory note signed by my late husband."
"Late husband?"
She inclined her head. "I'm a widow."
"How long ago did your husband die?"
"Over a year ago."
"So his estate has been probated."
Yes. The title and entailed estate are now with my stepson, Charles."
"Stepson?"
"I was my husband's second wife. We were married some years ago -- for him, it was a very late second marriage. He was ill for some time before his death. All his children were by his first wife."
He hesitated, then asked, "Am I to understand that you've taken your late husband's children under your wing?"
"Yes. I consider their welfare my responsibility. It's because of that -- them -- that I'm seeking your aid."
Gabriel studied her veiled countenance, knowing she was watching his. "You mentioned a promissory note."
"I should explain that my husband had a weakness for engaging in speculative ventures. Over his last years, the family's agent and I endeavored to keep his investments in such schemes to a minimum, in which endeavors we were largely successful. However, three weeks ago, a maid stumbled on a legal paper, tucked away and clearly forgotten. It was a promissory note."
"To which company?"
"The Central East Africa Gold Company. Have you heard Of it?"
He shook his head. "Not a whisper."
"Neither has our agent, nor any of his colleagues."
"The company's address should be on the note."
"It's not -- just the name of the firm of solicitors who drew up the document."
Gabriel juggled the pieces of the jigsaw she was handing him, aware each piece had been carefully vetted first. "This note -- do you have it?"
From beneath her cloak, she drew out a rolled parchment.
Taking it, Gabriel inwardly raised his brows-she'd certainly come prepared. Despite straining his eyes, he'd caught not a glimpse of the gown beneath her voluminous cloak. Her hands, too, were covered, encased in leather gloves long enough to reach the cuffs of her sleeves. Unrolling the parchment, he turned so the light from the street lamps fell on the single page.
The promissor's signature -- the first thing he looked at -- was covered by a piece of thick paper fixed in place with sealing wax. He looked at the countess.
Calmly, she stated, "You don't need to know the family's name."
A Secret Love. Copyright © by Stephanie Laurens. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
