Gabriel discovered the bronze plaque identifying the offices of Thurlow and Brown along the south face of Lincoln's Inn. Surrounding a rectangular cobbled courtyard, the Inn housed nothing but legal chambers. Its inner walls were punctuated with regularly spaced open archways, each giving access to a shadowy stairwell. On the wall beside each archway, bronze plaques bore witness to the legal firms housed off the stairway within.
After consulting a book listing the solicitors of the Inns of Court, Montague had directed Gabriel to Lincoln's Inn, describing the firm as small, old, but undistinguished, with no known association with any matter remotely illegal. As he climbed the stairs, Gabriel reflected that, if he'd been behind the sort of swindle it seemed likely the Central East Africa Gold Company was, then the first step he'd take to lull gullible investors would be to retain such a firm as Thurlow and Brown. A firm stultifyingly correct and all but moribund, unlikely to boast the talents or connections that might give rise to unanswerable questions.
Thurlow and Brown's rooms were on the second level, to the rear of the building. Gabriel reached for the knob of the heavy oak door, noting the large lock beneath the knob. Sauntering in, he scanned the small reception area. Behind a low railing, an old clerk worked at a raised desk, guarding access to a short corridor leading to one room at the rear, and to a second room off the reception area.
"Yes? Can I help you?" The clerk clutched at the angled desktop. Frowning, he flipped through a diary. "You don't have an appointment." He made it sound like an offense.
His expression one of affable boredom, Gabriel shut the door, noting that there were no bolts or extra latches, only that large and cumbersome lock.
"Thurlow," he murmured, turning back to the clerk. "There was a Thurlow at Eton when I was there. I wonder if it's the same one?"
"Couldn't be. His nibs"-the clerk waved an ink-stained hand at the half open door giving off the reception area-"is old enough to be your dad."
"That so?" Gabriel sounded disappointed. Clearly "his nibs" was out. "Ah, well. It was really Mr. Browne I came to see."
Again the clerk frowned; again he checked his book. "You're not down for this afternoon…"
"I'm not? How odd. I was sure the pater said two."
The clerk shook his head. "Mr. Brown's out. I'm not expecting him back until later."
Letting annoyance flash across his features, Gabriel thumped the reception railing with his cane. "If that isn't just like Theo Browne! Never could keep his engagements straight!"
"Theo Brown?"
Gabriel looked at the clerk. "Yes-Mr. Browne."
"But that's not our Mr. Brown."
"It isn't?" Gabriel stared at the clerk. "Is your Browne spelled with an 'e'?"
The clerk shook his head.
"Damn!" Gabriel swung away. "I was sure it was Thurlow and Browne." He frowned. "Maybe it's Thirston and Browne. Thrapston and Browne. Something like that." He looked questioningly at the clerk.
Who shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you, sir. Don't know of any firms with names like that. Mind you, there is Browne, Browne and Tillson in the other quad-might they be the ones you're after?"
"Browne, Browne and Tillson." Gabriel repeated the name twice with different inflections, then shrugged. "Who knows. Could be." He swung to the door. "The other quad, you say?"
"Aye, sir-across the carriage road through the Inn."
Waving his cane in farewell, Gabriel went out, closing the door behind him. Then he grinned and strolled down the stairs.
Regaining the sunshine, he strode across the cobbles. He'd seen enough to confirm Thurlow and Brown's standing-precisely as Montague had said, stuffily, dustily dull. He'd learned which room was whose, and through the open doors he'd seen the locked client boxes lining the walls of both partners' rooms. They didn't lock the boxes away somewhere else. They were there, within easy reach, and the only lock between the landing and the boxes was the old wrist-breaker on the main door.
There had also been no sign of any junior clerk. There'd been only one desk, and little space outside the partners' rooms-no area for a clerk or office boy to spend the night.
Entirely satisfied with his afternoon's work, Gabriel saluted the gatekeeper with his cane and strode through the secondary gateway into the adjoining Fields.
Before him, a small army of old trees, like ancient sentinels, spread their branches protectively over gravel walks and swaths of lawn. Sunlight streamed down. The breeze ruffled leaves, shedding shifting shadows over the green carpets on which gentlemen and ladies strolled while waiting for others consulting in the surrounding chambers.
Gabriel paused in the cobbled forecourt beyond the gate, gazing unseeing at the trees.
Would the countess be impatient enough to contact him that evening? The possibility tantalized, even more so as the realization sank in that her impatience could not possibly match his. While with her, he'd felt he knew her, knew the sort of woman she was; away from her, he'd realized how little he knew of the real woman behind the veil. Learning more, quickly, seemed imperative-he especially needed to learn how to put his hand on a woman who thus far had been a phantom in the night.
Unfortunately, he couldn't learn more until she contacted him-at least now, when she did, he'd have something to report.
Shrugging off his distraction, he settled on Aldwych as his best bet for a hackney and set out along the south side of the Fields. Halfway along, he heard himself hailed.
"Gabriel!"
"Over here!"
The voices coming from the Fields were assuredly feminine, equally assuredly young. Halting, Gabriel scanned the shaded lawns; two sweet young things, their parasols tilted at crazy angles, were bobbing up and down and waving madly. Squinting against the sunlight, he recognized Mary and Alice Morwellan. Raising his cane in reply, he waited until a dowager's black carriage rolled soberly past, then started across the narrow street.
Alathea saw him coming, and had to fight down an urge to screech at her sisters-what had they done! She'd seen him walk through the gates of the Inn and pause. Her attention locked on him, she'd assured herself that he wouldn't notice her in the shadows, that there was no reason for her heart to gallop, for her nerves to twitch.
He'd remained safely ignorant of her presence-she'd been surprised he'd acted so swiftly on the countess's behalf. That was, she presumed, why he was here-if she'd known, she would never have risked coming. Having him find her anywhere near any location he would associate with the countess had formed no part of her careful plans. She needed to keep her two personas completely distinct, especially near him.
As he'd walked along the street, cane swinging, broad shoulders square, sunlight had gleamed on his chestnut hair, gilding the lightly curling locks. Her thoughts had slowed, halted-she'd completely forgotten Mary and Alice were with her.
They'd seen him and called-now there was no escape. As he crossed the grass toward them, she drew in a breath, lifted her chin, tightened her fists about her parasol's handle-and tried to quell her panic.
He couldn't recognize lips he'd kissed but not seen, could he?
Smiling easily, Gabriel strode into the trees' shadows. As he neared, Mary and Alice stopped jigging and contented themselves with beaming; only then, with his eyes adjusting and with their dancing parasols no longer distracting him, did he see the lady standing behind them.
Alathea.
His stride almost faltered.
She stood straight and tall, silently contained, her parasol held at precisely the correct angle to protect her fine skin from the sun. Not, of course, waving at him.
Masking his reaction-the powerful jolt that shook him whenever he saw her unexpectedly and the prickling sensation that followed-he continued his advance. She watched him with her usual cool regard, her customary challenge-a haughty watchfulness that never failed to get his goat.