She couldn't break in, or even organize to have someone else break in, to Douglas's mansion. She'd had Jacobs drive her around Egerton Gardens; Folwell had chatted to a street sweeper and discovered which of the large, new houses belonged to Douglas, but breaking in was too risky. Although they might find some of the proofs they needed, the chances of Crowley or Swales realizing their records had been searched and, as Charlie would phrase it, getting the wind up, was high. Then they'd call in the promissory notes and she'd be too busy beating off creditors to press any claim in court.
And she didn't like Crowley. The thought of meeting him at night alone and cut off from help was the substance of nightmares. He was evil. She'd sensed it very clearly, watching him as he'd watched Gerrard Debbington, seeing the cruel gleam in his eyes. Gabriel had said Crowley liked to gloat over his potential victims, but it was more than that. He viewed people as prey. There was viciousness and real cruelty beneath his semicivilized veneer.
She wanted him as far away from her family as possible.
All things considered-and she did mean all-the only sensible way forward was to find the needed proofs without delay. Then Crowley would no longer be a threat, and the countess could fade into the mists.
"Fangak. Lodwar. What was the other one?" Sitting at her desk, she drew a sheet of paper onto the blotter and reached for a pen. "Kafia-that was it."
She wrote the names down, then settled to list all the names and locations she could recall Crowley mentioning.
"Mary? Alice?" Alathea peeked into Mary's bedchamber, where her elder stepsisters often repaired when they were supposed to be resting. Sure enough, both were lolling on the bed wearing identical expressions of disgusted boredom. They both lifted their heads to look at her.
Alathea grinned. "I'm going to Hatchard's. Serena said you could come if you wished."
Mary sat bolt upright. "They have a lending library, don't they?"
Alice was already rolling from the bed. "I'll come."
Alathea watched them scramble into shoes, struggle into spencers, grab bonnets, casting only the most perfunctory of glances at their reflections. "There is a lending library, but before you go looking for Mrs. Radcliffe's latest, I want you to help me find some books."
"On what?" Alice asked as she joined her at the door.
"On Africa."
"That was boring." On a long-drawn yawn, Jeremy sank deeper into the seat of the hackney and leaned against Alathea's shoulder. "I thought they would have known about digging up gold. All they wanted to talk about was melting it."
"Hmm." Alathea grimaced. She'd thought the gentlemen at the Metallurgical Institute would have known about mining, too. Unfortunately, the academy, whose sign she'd glimpsed when walking with Mary and Alice, had proved to focus solely on refining metals and the subsequent workings. The good gentlemen had known less than she about gold mining in Central East Africa. Despite reading late into the night, she knew virtually nothing about the subject.
Alathea glanced at Augusta, snuggled on her other side with Rose propped on her lap. At least Augusta was happy, unconcerned with mining gold. "How's Rose?"
"Rose is good." Augusta looked at Rose's face, then turned her once more to the window. "She's seeing more of the city-it's crowded and noisy, but she feels safe in here with me and you."
Alathea smiled, closing her hand around the small fingers snuggled trustingly into hers. 'That's good. Rose is growing up-she'll be a big girl soon."
"But not yet." Augusta looked into her face. "Do you think Miss Helm will be all better when we get back?"
Miss Helm had developed the sniffles, which was why Alathea had Augusta with her. "I'm sure Miss Helm will be recovered by tomorrow, but you and Rose must be very good with her this evening."
"Oh, we will." Augusta turned Rose's face to hers. "We'll be specially good. We won't even say she has to read to us before bed."
"I'll come and read to you, poppet."
"But you have to go to the ball."
Alathea stroked Augusta's hair. "I'll come and read to you first-I can go on later in the other carriage."
"I say!" Jeremy jerked upright, staring out of the window. "Look at that!"
Alathea did-it took a moment before she realized what she was looking at. "It's a pedestrian curricle-at least, I suppose that's what it is."
She'd heard of the contraptions. Both she and Jeremy leaned close to the window, with Augusta pressing between; they all watched the gentleman in a natty checkered coat balanced precariously above the large wheel weave in and out of the traffic until he disappeared from view.
"Well!" Eyes alight, Jeremy sank back.
Alathea looked at his face. "No."
Her tone was absolute; Jeremy's face fell. "But, Allie-just think-"
"I am-I'm thinking of your mother."
"I wouldn't fall off-I'd be extra specially careful."
Alathea met his eye. "Just like you were extra specially careful when I allowed you to drive the gig?"
"I only got tipped in the river-and anyway, that was old Dobbins's fault."
Alathea held her tongue. The hackney rolled on, taking them back into the fashionable district. As they turned into Mount Street, she glanced again at Jeremy's face. He was still dreaming of the dangerous contraption; she knew he wouldn't let go of his dream until he'd experienced it, or something worse. He was adventurous, the sort who simply had to try things out. It was a compulsion she understood.
"Pedestrian curricles have been around for some years." Her musing comment had Jeremy turning, his eyes lighting. She met his bright gaze. "I'll ask your mama. Perhaps Folwell can find one-"
"Whoopee!"
"On one condition."
Jeremy stopped bouncing on the seat, but his eyes still glowed. "What condition?"
"That you promise not to use it in town at all, but only once we're back at Morwellan Park." Where the lawns were thick and cushioning.
Jeremy considered for only a moment. "All right. I promise."
Alathea nodded as the carriage rocked to a stop before Morwellan House. "Very well. I'll speak with your mama."
Propping up the wall at yet another ball, Alathea stifled a yawn. She blinked her eyes wide, struggling to keep them open; she'd spent the past two nights reading into the small hours after the rest of the household was abed. It was the only time she had to herself to wade through the tomes she'd found on Africa.
Central East Africa, however, continued to elude her. What little she could find on the region was largely speculative, and exceedingly scant on detail.
A familiar head of burnished chestnut hove into sight above the masses. The most peculiar thrill shot through her; she immediately looked for cover. There was not a palm or shadowy alcove anywhere near. Besides, that might not be wise. Getting trapped with him in the shadows was likely to scramble her wits.
Beneath her skirts, she bent her knees and sank just enough so that she was no longer so readily detected by her height. Through gaps in the horrendous crush, she caught glimpses of Gabriel as he prowled the room.
For some peculiar reason, at least viewing him from a distance, he seemed like a different man. She could see, appreciate, aspects of him she hadn't truly noticed before, like the perfection of his restrained elegance, and the subtle aura of leashed power that cloaked his tall frame. And his reserve, that distance, apparently unbreachable, that he maintained between himself and the world.
He was bored-truly bored. She could see why Celia and the ladies of the ton despaired. They were right in thinking he didn't see them at all; from the way his face was set, the steadiness of his gaze, she would have wagered Morwellan Park that he was thinking more of Central East Africa than of a glittering ballroom in Mayfair.