A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens

direction at once to make sure no one saw her slip away. The vise locked about her lungs owed nothing to the fact that she was soon to meet Gabriel—not Rupert, but his far more dangerous alter ego—once more in the dark of night.
    Folwell had been waiting as instructed in the thick bushes lining the carriage drive. He’d brought her cloak, veil and high-heeled shoes, and her special perfume. Drawing in a deep breath—steeling herself—Alathea let the exotic scent wreathe through her brain. She was the countess.
    In her disguise, she actually felt like someone else—not Lady Alathea Morwellan, spinster, ape-leader. It was as if her anonimity and the seductive perfume brought out another side of her—she had little difficulty sliding into her role.
    The gazebo stood tucked away at the end of the shrubbery—she’d remembered it from years ago. It was far enough from the house to be safe from the risk of others chancing by, and so overhung by trees and rampant shrubs that she need not fear any stray beam of light, a pertinent consideration as she’d been unable to change her gown.
    Outside, gravel crunched. A sudden thrill shot through her; tingles of excitement raced over her skin. Facing the archway, she drew herself up, head erect, hands clasped before her. Anticipation slid, insidiously compelling, through her veins. Ruthlessly quelling a reactive shiver, she drew in a tight breath. Tonight, she was determined to hold her own.
    He appeared, a black silhouette filling the doorway, her sworn knight come to report. He was a dark presence, intensely masculine, achingly familiar yet so unnervingly unknown. Pausing on the threshold, he located her in the dark; he hesitated—she felt his gaze rake her, felt an inexplicable urge to turn and flee. Instead, she stood still, silent and challenging.
    He strolled forward.
    â€œGood evening, my dear.”
    She was a creature of night and shadow, discernible only as a darker shape in the dense gloom within the gazebo. Her height, her veil and cloak—Gabriel could see nothing beyond that, but his senses had abruptly focused; he was sure it was she. Halting directly before her, he studied her, very conscious of the alluring perfume that rose from her flesh. “You didn’t sign your note.”
    Despite not being able to see it, he knew she raised a haughty brow. “How many ladies send you messages to meet them in dark gazebos?”
    â€œMore than you’d care to count.”
    She stilled. “Were you expecting someone else?”
    â€œNo.” He paused, then added, “I was expecting you.” Not here at Osbaldestone House, under his very nose, but he hadn’t imagined she’d calmly sit in her drawing room and wait for a week before contacting him again. “I expect you’d like to know what I’ve learned?”
    He heard the purr in his voice, and sensed her wariness.
    â€œIndeed.” She lifted her chin; he could feel the challenge in her gaze.
    â€œSwales doesn’t live at that address on the Fulham Road—it’s a public house called the Onslow Arms. Henry Feaggins is the proprietor. He holds the mail for Swales.”
    â€œDoes Feaggins know where Swales lives?”
    â€œNo—Swales simply stops by every few days. There was no mail to be collected, so I sent a letter—a blank sheet. Swales came in this morning and picked it up. My man followed him—Swales went to a mansion in Egerton Gardens. It seems he lives there.”
    â€œWho owns the mansion?”
    â€œLord Archibald Douglas.”
    â€œLord Douglas?”
    He looked sharply at her. “Do you know him?”
    She shook her head. “Could Lord Douglas be the chairman of the company?”
    Her question effectively answered his. “Unlikely—Archie Douglas cares for nothing beyond wine, women, and cards. Spending money is his forte, not making it. However . . .” He paused,