CHAPTER ELEVEN THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN #2
“What in God’s name are you wearing?”
Eleanor looked down at the academic robe.
“Male privilege.”
His jaw tightened.
“This is not amusing.”
“No. It is enlightening.”
“You entered a building containing at least six Mercury members while dressed as a junior scholar no one knows.”
“Julian knows.”
“Julian should be shot.”
“The Society knows.”
“Beatrice should be encouraged to select a less hazardous family.”
“I have an exit route.”
“Which will be watched the moment your father discovers the manuscripts are incomplete.”
“I carry a concealed blade.”
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened.
“Where?”
Eleanor touched the inner seam of her robe.
Frances had sewn a narrow sheath against her thigh.
Gabriel’s attention followed the movement.
The anger in his eyes altered. Heat moved between them.
Even beneath padding, loose wool and an identity constructed to erase femininity, Gabriel looked at Eleanor as though he remembered every inch of the body hidden underneath. His voice lowered.
“You have a knife strapped to your thigh.”
“Yes.”
“You expect that to reassure me?”
“It reassured Frances.”
“Frances suggested seducing me into submission.”
“She considered it practical.”
Gabriel stepped closer. Eleanor held her ground.
“You told Julian not to inform me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You ended the arrangement.”
“That does not mean I ceased caring whether you survive.”
“Being excluded does not make me alone.”
“I know.”
The immediate answer stopped her. Gabriel’s anger remained, but he did not use it to argue. Eleanor studied him. He continued more quietly.
“I know the Society planned this. I know Julian has men at the exits and Sophia is somewhere in the service corridors. I know you can read every code in this building and probably escape through the roof if provided with a Roman floor plan.”
“The roof would be impractical in these boots.”
His mouth almost curved. He restrained it.
“My exclusion does not stop me from caring,” he said.
The honesty entered the narrow corridor and changed its dimensions. Eleanor’s pulse quickened. She had expected command, not confession.
“Caring does not create authority,” she replied.
“No.”
Another immediate answer.
“You do not have the right to remove me.”
“I know.”
“You do not have the right to change the plan.”
“I know.”
“You cannot order Julian to take control because my decision frightens you.”
Gabriel looked toward the reception hall.
“Julian says the same argument nearly destroyed his marriage before it began.”
“Beatrice entered danger without informing him.”
“Yes.”
“I informed Julian.”
“Yes.”
“And unlike Beatrice, I am not carrying an unloaded pistol.”
“I was told about the knife.”
Eleanor frowned. “By whom?”
“Frances announced it while explaining why the padding at your shoulders was superior to Julian’s plan.”
“That sounds like Frances.”
Gabriel’s gaze moved over her disguise.
“You altered your walk.”
“Sophia taught me.”
“You have been standing with your knees apart.”
“Men appear convinced the floor requires additional occupation.”
His eyes lowered briefly. Eleanor became acutely aware of how the robe fell between her legs.
The memory of Gabriel inside her returned with shocking immediacy: the weight of his body, the slow movement of his hips and the way he had remained face-to-face when she asked him not to disappear into performance.
Gabriel inhaled. He had remembered too. The corridor became too warm.
“You recognised me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked at her as though the question were absurd.
“Your mouth.”
Eleanor’s breath caught.
“The spectacles change your eyes. The robes conceal your body. Your hair is hidden, and you are attempting to move like a young man who has not yet discovered his own shoulders.”
“That is very specific.”
“You still press your lips together when someone praises an argument you made first.”
Eleanor looked away. Gabriel stepped nearer but did not touch her.
“I would recognise you anywhere.”
The words were not a declaration. They felt like one. Eleanor forced herself to remember the note, the countess and his insistence that distance was kinder.
“You chose not to stand beside me,” she said.
Pain moved through his face.
“I made a mistake.”
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
The answer threatened her composure. She tightened her hands inside the loose sleeves.
“The exchange begins after the third bell,” she said. “My father will take the manuscript case to the restricted archive room. A Mercury intermediary is expected to provide the appointment papers.”
Gabriel accepted the change of subject.
“How do you intend to observe?”
“A concealed viewing gallery runs above the archive. Sophia located the entrance through the old librarian’s quarters.”
“Does Julian know?”
“Yes.”
“Who enters with you?”
“No one.”
Gabriel’s expression hardened.
“The gallery is too narrow for two people unfamiliar with its construction. I can read the documents through the screen.”
“And if you are discovered?”
“I use the servants’ stair.”
“With the blade at your thigh.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. Gabriel held up one hand before she could speak.
“Not no to the plan.”
She paused. He exhaled.
“Tell me how I can assist.”
The question cost him. She saw it in the effort required to remain still while every instinct urged him to seize control. It also repaired something small and fragile between them. Eleanor considered the archive layout.
“Lord Peregrine Vale is expected to attend.”
Gabriel’s face changed.
“Hargreaves identified him as the intermediary?”
“Not conclusively. The Vienna payment passed through an account he controls, and he sponsored three of my father’s private editions.”
“Peregrine advises the Foreign Office on antiquities restitution.”
“He also claims not to read Greek.”
“He does not need to if he transports the work.”
Eleanor lowered her voice.
“If he enters the archive room, distract him after the exchange begins. Keep him facing away from the north cabinet.”
“What is in the cabinet?”
“A duplicate manuscript packet. I intend to replace the one my father brings with the incomplete copies.”
Gabriel stared at her.
“You intend to steal the original package while both men stand inside the room.”
“Yes.”
“Eleanor.”
“You asked how to assist.”
He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, anger had become reluctant admiration.
“What does Peregrine fear?”
“Exposure.”
“Everyone fears exposure.”
“His mistress is the wife of his secretary.”
Gabriel’s mouth curved for the first time. Not charm. Strategy.
“He also owes sixteen thousand pounds to a gaming establishment in Paris,” Eleanor added.
“Now you sound like Hargreaves.”
“Is that praise?”
“Never.”
The first bell sounded through the building. Eleanor looked toward the corridor entrance.
“Ten minutes.”
Gabriel stepped closer. His hand lifted, stopped and then settled lightly against the edge of her cravat. The contact was proper for adjusting a young gentleman’s clothing. Nothing about it felt proper. His fingers straightened the cloth where it concealed her throat.
“What are you doing?”
“Your cravat is crooked.”
“Frances tied it.”
“Frances believes symmetry is oppression.”
Gabriel’s knuckles brushed the skin beneath her jaw. Eleanor’s pulse leapt. His gaze fixed upon the place.
“You should go,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
He did not move. Neither did she. The memory of their last true intimacy filled the silence.
Eleanor saw the fear in his eyes that morning, the instant he recognised love upon her face and decided it meant danger.
She wanted to ask whether he still intended to flee.
She wanted to kiss him until every clever argument collapsed.
Instead, she stepped back. Gabriel’s hand fell.
“North cabinet,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Three bells.”
“Yes.”
“Blade at your thigh.”
“You sound preoccupied.”
“I am considering every way your disguise may become inconvenient.”
Heat rose into Eleanor’s face. Gabriel saw. The old smile began to appear, softer than the one he used for society. Then he stopped it himself.
“No performance,” he said.
The words belonged to her. Eleanor’s anger weakened.
“Help me recover the manuscript,” she replied. “Then we discuss the rest.”
Gabriel inclined his head.
“Agreed.”
They returned to the hall separately.
* * *
The private archive occupied a long chamber behind the lecture hall.
Tall cabinets stood beneath a painted ceiling, each labelled according to period and region.
Glass-fronted cases displayed papyrus fragments, coins and tablets loaned by private collectors.
Scholars entered in groups, speaking in hushed voices as though proximity to old paper required moral improvement.
Mr. Fenwick’s access card admitted him immediately.
A librarian glanced at the forged reference letter and pointed toward the Thessalian cases.
“The uncatalogued fragments are through there.”
No suspicion. No challenge. No demand that Elias Fenwick prove he possessed the intelligence to understand what he saw. Eleanor walked through the open gate.
Behind her, Professor Latham called, “Fenwick, come examine this inscription.”
She nearly laughed at the absurdity.
The same man who had once informed Eleanor that epigraphic evidence required “the steadier judgement of a trained male mind” now requested Mr. Fenwick’s opinion before three colleagues.
Eleanor approached. Latham pointed to a damaged marble rubbing.
“The final letter. Sigma or epsilon?”
“Neither.”
He frowned. Eleanor traced the edge without touching it.
“The vertical mark belongs to the preceding letter. The final character has been lost.”
Hales leaned nearer.
“She is right.”
The pronoun passed unnoticed amid the scholarly conversation. Eleanor looked at him sharply. Hales flushed.
“He,” he corrected. “Fenwick is right.”
Had he recognised her? No. His embarrassment came from an ordinary slip rather than knowledge. Latham studied the rubbing.
“Remarkable.”