CHAPTER FOUR THE WIDOW IN RED #3
He bowed and pressed his mouth to her knuckles. The kiss lasted one second too long. Gabriel knew because he counted. Eleanor did not pull away. She allowed the contact, then withdrew her hand smoothly as Vauclair straightened.
“I found Florence generous,” she said. “London has yet to prove itself.”
“Then allow me to begin the campaign.”
Gabriel smiled. “You mistake welcome for surrender, Henri.”
“Do I?”
Vauclair’s gaze remained upon Eleanor. Gabriel experienced the unfamiliar urge to break the man’s fingers. He placed one hand lightly at Eleanor’s lower back. The gesture was part of their disguise. The possessiveness was not. Eleanor glanced up at him. He felt her recognise the distinction.
“Mrs. Grey has an interest in antiquities,” Gabriel said. “I thought your collection might entertain her.”
Vauclair brightened. “I possess several pieces from Asia Minor.”
“Acquired legally?” Eleanor asked.
The diplomat laughed. “Legal ownership is a flexible concept where antiquity is concerned.”
“Owners of stolen objects often find law unexpectedly rigid.”
Gabriel’s hand remained at her back. Beneath his palm, Eleanor’s muscles relaxed rather than stiffened. She was performing perfectly. Too perfectly.
Vauclair offered her his arm. “May I show you a small bronze of Hermes?”
Gabriel answered before Eleanor could.
“Later.”
Vauclair’s eyes moved toward him.
Eleanor turned her head slightly. “Lord Ashcombe promised to introduce me to the musicians.”
She had rescued the refusal without making it obvious. Gabriel felt both relieved and rebuked.
Vauclair bowed. “Then I shall wait.”
As they moved away, Eleanor said quietly, “You interrupted.”
“He was testing you.”
“I know.”
“He wanted to separate you from me.”
“I know.”
“You considered going.”
“I considered learning why he wished me alone.”
Gabriel’s hand pressed more firmly against her back. “That would have been unwise.”
“Would it?”
“Yes.”
“Because he is dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“Or because he kissed my hand?”
Gabriel looked ahead. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“Your fingers tightened.”
“That was part of the performance.”
“Of course.”
He should have released her. He did not.
For the next hour, Eleanor became Mrs. Grey with a skill that unsettled him.
She spoke little enough to encourage curiosity but no longer allowed silence to make her invisible.
She accepted compliments without apology, redirected questions about her imaginary husband and used dry humour to make men feel clever for understanding her.
She also watched everything. Gabriel saw her note which guests greeted Vauclair privately, which scholar passed a sealed card to a bookseller and which woman wore the Mercury winged staff disguised as a hair ornament.
Eleanor never stared. Her gaze moved with apparent idleness while her mind collected details.
At supper, she sat between Sabine and Vauclair.
Gabriel was placed opposite. He had arranged the seating days earlier, believing distance would allow him to assess Eleanor’s performance.
He now considered the decision evidence of temporary madness.
Vauclair poured wine for her. Eleanor touched the rim but did not drink until Gabriel gave the slightest nod confirming he had seen the bottle opened.
She obeyed without drawing attention to it.
That pleased him. The fact that Vauclair leaned close while speaking did not.
“The Mercury Club possesses a remarkable collection,” the diplomat said after Sabine turned to address another guest. “Particularly in the upper gallery.”
Eleanor lifted one brow. “I was told the club’s interests are less scholarly than commercial.”
“Scholarship has always required patrons.”
“And patrons require profit.”
“Not always financial.”
Gabriel watched Eleanor allow the silence to lengthen. Vauclair filled it.
“Certain manuscripts reveal information more valuable than gold,” he said. “Family histories. Private correspondence. Proof of ownership.”
“Or proof of betrayal?”
The diplomat’s eyes sharpened. Eleanor had risked too direct a question.
Gabriel reached beneath the table and rested one hand upon her knee.
The touch was concealed by the cloth. Eleanor went still.
He intended it as warning. Her gaze shifted to him across the candles.
Gabriel pressed his thumb once against the silk covering her knee.
She resumed breathing. Vauclair did not appear to notice.
“Betrayal is merely loyalty viewed from the wrong side,” he said.
“And the literary auctions?” Eleanor asked.
His smile returned. “You have heard rumours.”
“London survives upon them.”
“The upper gallery is restricted.”
“To members?”
“And invited companions.”
“How does one obtain an invitation?”
Vauclair reached for her bare hand again.
Gabriel’s fingers tightened around her knee beneath the table.
Eleanor allowed the diplomat to lift her hand, though this time she turned her wrist before his lips could reach her skin.
The movement placed her fingertips against his palm instead.
It was a more intimate gesture and entirely controlled by her.
Vauclair looked pleased. Gabriel wanted him dead.
“The right token opens most doors,” the diplomat murmured.
“What kind of token?”
“A widow recently returned from Florence should understand the value of mystery.”
Eleanor withdrew her hand.
“She understands when mystery has become evasion.”
Vauclair laughed. Gabriel felt an unwelcome surge of pride. Then the diplomat reached into his waistcoat and drew out a small coin, balancing it across his fingers before making it disappear. Eleanor’s gaze followed the movement.
“So theatrical,” she said.
“Mercury rewards nimble hands.”
“Does the club?”
“The club rewards discretion.”
Vauclair leaned closer and whispered something Gabriel could not hear.
Eleanor’s mouth curved. Jealousy arrived not as heat but as something colder.
Gabriel had experienced possessiveness before, usually connected to information, advantage or the temporary inconvenience of sharing a woman’s attention.
He had never mistaken it for affection and certainly did not mistake what he felt now.
It was anger. Entirely unreasonable, entirely personal anger at the sight of another man speaking into Eleanor’s ear while she wore the red gown Gabriel had adjusted.
He removed his hand from her knee before the pressure became noticeable.
Eleanor glanced toward him. She knew. Her smile deepened by the smallest degree.
The woman was enjoying herself. That, more than Vauclair’s interest, threatened Gabriel’s self-command.
After supper, the musicians resumed. Guests spread through the connected rooms, several gathering around a card table while others moved toward the library or conservatory.
Gabriel intercepted Eleanor near the fireplace.
“A word.”
“How ominous.”
“Now.”
She looked toward Sabine, who was occupied with a violinist.
“Is commanding widows part of the disguise?”
“Only difficult ones.”
Eleanor followed him into the library. The room was empty except for a low fire, several lamps and shelves filled with books Sabine had purchased largely for the beauty of their bindings.
Gabriel closed the door but did not lock it.
Eleanor walked toward a table where a bronze figure of Hermes stood upon a marble base.
“Was my performance unsatisfactory?” she asked.
“You allowed Vauclair too close.”
She turned. “Did I?”
“He touched your hand twice.”
“You touched my knee.”
“That was a warning.”
“It did not feel like one.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
Eleanor examined the bronze figure. “Count Vauclair revealed that access tokens are commemorative coins. Members conceal them inside waistcoats or glove compartments. The coins may be passed temporarily to invited companions.”
“You could have learned that without encouraging him.”
“How?”
“I would have asked.”
“And he would have recognised your interest.”
Gabriel crossed toward her. “Information is not worth unnecessary risk.”
Eleanor turned to face him.
“You teach me to use attention, then object when I do.”
“I object when the attention belongs to a man who may work for Vesper.”
“That is precisely why it was useful.”
“He wanted to take you into a private gallery.”
“And you would not have allowed it.”
“No.”
The word came with the same force as it had in the publishing office. Eleanor studied him.
“Do you object as my instructor,” she asked, “or as a man?”
Gabriel stopped. The fire shifted behind him.
He had several answers available and could remind her that their arrangement required caution.
He could joke about the burden of professional responsibility or accuse her of enjoying Vauclair’s interest. Every available response would be a lie or an evasion.
Eleanor waited. Gabriel smiled. It was the expression he used when women asked questions whose answers might create obligations. She saw it form. Her gaze changed.
“You are a poor liar when emotionally involved,” she said.
He laughed. “Emotionally involved?”
“You smiled before answering.”
“I smile often.”
“Not like that.”
“There are categories?”
“At least seven.”
“I admire your scholarship.”
“You are avoiding the question.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised her. It also ended nothing.
Eleanor stepped closer. Gabriel became aware that they were alone in a warm room, that the red gown exposed her throat and shoulders and that he had spent the evening watching men imagine touching her.
She stopped just beyond reach. Her gaze lowered deliberately to his mouth.
His body tightened. She let silence gather between them exactly as he had taught her. Then her fingers touched his sleeve.
The contact was barely there, the pad of one finger resting against dark wool. Gabriel recognised the method. She was using his own instruction against him.
“Dangerous,” he murmured.
“What is?”
“Learning quickly.”