When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  Who had come to call on Liam so early in the morning? Had he seen her well enough to identify her? And by all the saints, could he be trusted not to spread rumors that would ruin her?

  Liam forced himself to keep his eyes on his brother and not on the carriage carrying Bathsheba away. He wanted to curse in frustration at the timing of the interruption, spoiling the moment when he was about to confess to Bathsheba that he’d stopped thinking of that bloody bargain a long time ago. He should have told her last night, but like a coward he’d put it off. In the morning, he’d told himself, he would tell her, and even hint that his heart was engaged. Liam had never told a woman he loved her, and it had seemed like a sound plan to work toward that moment gradually.

  But somehow all the hours of the night had sped by, with Bathsheba in his bed, in his arms, burrowing into his very soul. And now she was gone, before he managed to find the right moment to speak, and his rotter of a brother was here, which did nothing to help his temper.

  “What do you want, Angus?”

  His brother swung off his horse, his face alive with interest. “Is that the woman who threw herself at you? The one who tossed up her own skirts for you?”

  “None of your affair,” Liam bit out. “What do you want?”

  Angus swiveled on one heel to peer after the departing carriage, then back. “It was, wasn’t it? Quite the devil, aren’t you?” Grinning like a fiend, he punched Liam in the shoulder. “I didn’t get a good look, but she appeared a fetching little woman.” He made a show of looking Liam up and down. “And I see you’re just out of bed, so she must have many charms!”

  Liam glared at him. He’d dressed quickly and haphazardly, not intending to see or be seen by anyone except Bathsheba. “If you rode out here at dawn trying to catch me in an assignation—”

  “If I did, then it worked!” Angus roared with laughter. “No, I was entirely sure you were lying about that and had no thought you’d be rushing her out the door. Is she married? You’d better hope her husband’s a careless fellow, or too big a fool to notice his wife is letting you plow her field.”

  Liam had his brother’s cravat in his hand before the last word. “Stop there,” he snarled. “Not one bloody word to anyone about her, do you hear me?”

  Angus blinked, shocked, but still enjoying Liam’s anger too much. “Why should I? It’s not my place to spoil your amour . . .” He paused, looking sly. “Although you’d better be more discreet about it, if you want to keep her a secret.”

  “Perhaps I’ll hire guards to patrol my property and shoot anyone who trespasses.” He shoved Angus away and turned toward the house. “Go away.”

  “But I came to tell you John Winston is leading a shooting party on the heath today,” Angus said, dogging his heels. “He spied a flock of geese. Will you come, or have you had too much sport today?”

  Liam stopped, not needing to turn around to know Angus wore a wide, toothy grin. “No.”

  “Worn you to a nub, has she?” Angus chortled again. “Drained you dry? I confess, my curiosity about this woman grows and grows.”

  “And as is so often the case, you are destined to remain ignorant.” Liam paused in the doorway. “And if you tell Winston aught of her, you’ll regret it.”

  Something in his tone must have finally penetrated his brother’s glee. The smug look faded from Angus’s face. “What—you don’t say—”

  “If you gossip about my personal affairs, I beg you to remember I own a newspaper.”

  Angus drew up in affront. “There’s no call for that. Have I got it wrong? Have you got a wealthy widow on the line, being reeled in one bedroom romp at a time?”

  Liam stared at him. “No wonder you’re a banker. You’ve got bollocks for brains.”

  A cunning smile returned to his brother’s face. “No? A Covent Garden whore? Don’t say it—an aspiring newspaper writer, looking to see her name in print?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out, counting to twenty as he did so. “Angus,” he said, “Go home. Tell Winston I’ve no desire to go shooting today. Then pay a call upon Miss Lachlan and tell her you’re going out of your wits without her. Get down on your knee and beg her to end her mourning early and set a date for the wedding. Then you’ll have your own amour to entertain you.” He spat out the word amour with disdain.

  “I say.” Angus looked offended. “There’s no reason to bring her into this—”

  “If you want to pick apart my romantic life, I’m perfectly capable of returning the favor.”

  His brother’s eyes narrowed. “Quite defensive.” He cocked his head in the direction of the long-since departed carriage. “She’s not a whore, is she, nor some married lady looking for a spot of fun.”

  Liam was quiet for a minute. Bathsheba was none of that, nor was she any of the other things Angus had suggested. She was his friend, his partner, his lover—all by her own initiative. That had been niggling at him for a while, and finally here and now it condensed. It was time for him to take some initiative, if he wanted more. “No.”

  Slowly Angus shook his head. The humor had fled from his face and he looked almost pitying. “Then you’re done for, lad. As your older and much wiser brother, I regret to inform you that the only way that sort of affair can end well is if you marry her.”

  Chapter 11

  For several days Bathsheba pondered the etiquette of ending an affair.

  On one hand, since it had been essentially a business arrangement between them, perhaps she ought to send a note of thanks. But on the other hand, her mind went completely blank at the thought of writing anything that came close to conveying her feelings about the nights spent with Liam. She considered writing to remind him of their mutual vow of discretion, but worried that would be insulting and pointless. If he had decided to tell his friends, her caution would mean little to him. Indecision bedeviled her until so much time had passed, it would seem stranger to send a letter than not to, so she wrote nothing, and instantly began worrying that it was a mistake.

  She had no excuse or reason to see Liam. She returned to work on her next story, the words flowing smoothly, but somehow with far less delight than before. Her days settled back into an ordinary rhythm, the same as always and yet somehow utterly different. Danny’s work in Greenwich was demanding, and he was gone more often than he was home. Even when he was home he spent most of his time printing or at the bindery. On the rare nights they dined together, he was very reluctant to talk about his client. Bathsheba put together that the client was a wealthy widow, quite demanding and exacting, and it caused her a pang of worry that her brother was taking on such onerous work to provide for them. Perhaps she ought to tell him about Lady X. The stories had earned her a nice sum . . . but hardly enough to put all their financial worries to rest. And if Danny knew what she had done in the interest of research, he would be furious.

  She was plodding through a scene one morning when her maid tapped at the door. “Mr. MacGregor to see you, ma’am,” said Mary.

  Bathsheba’s pen skittered across the paper, leaving a blotchy trail of ink behind it. What was he doing here? Why would he come? Merciful heavens, what if Danny came home?

  Trying to still the trembling of her fingers, she put the pen down and blotted all that wasted ink. “I’ll be right down,” she told her maid. “Show him into the parlor.”

  Mary disappeared and Bathsheba folded her hands tightly in her lap. She had worked with Liam for the better part of a year now, and not once had he come to her home. They communicated via penny post or her visits to his office, which was more convenient for both of them. He was always at the Intelligencer, after all. And never had she detected the slightest interest on Liam’s part in calling upon her at home.

  As if they were lovers.

  As if they were . . . more.

  She rose from her chair and smoothed a hand over her head. Her hair was pinned into the soft chignon Mary had grown adept at arranging. It was just as practical as the braided knot, but looser. H
er dress was a new one, raspberry-colored with a delicate trail of embroidery at the neckline. Even though it had been ridiculous to spend money on a new dress she didn’t need, Bathsheba liked it. She felt almost handsome in it, and every time the pink skirt swished around her, she remembered Liam saying she should wear colors. Now she twitched that soft, pretty skirt into place, put her shoulders back, and went down the stairs to the parlor.

  Mary had left the door open, and late morning sun spilled through the doorway. Bathsheba’s steps slowed as she crossed the hall and her heart sped up. With a deep breath, she walked into the room. “Good morning. What a surprise.”

  He turned. After three weeks of separation, it was like seeing him for the first time, tall and lean, dark hair ruffled as if he’d pushed his hand through it. The force of attraction nearly bowled her over, even now, and she surreptitiously placed one hand on the door to steady herself.

  “Good morning, Bathsheba.” He paused. “You look well.”

  She had to clear her throat; a lump had formed at the sound of his voice. With a quick breath—chiding herself for being emotionally unbalanced—she closed the door and came into the room. “Won’t you sit down?”

  He took the small sofa opposite her. The Crawford parlor had seen better days, but it had also seen far worse. It didn’t have the eccentric charm or the secluded quiet of Liam’s house in St. John’s Wood. Bathsheba was irrationally aware of this as she perched on the edge of the armchair.

  “How have you been?” Liam asked, his gaze intent upon her.

  “Very well, thank you.” She pressed her hands into the fabric of her skirt to keep from fidgeting. “You?”

  His mouth quirked. “Perfectly well.” He hesitated. “I’ve not received pages from you, and wondered when I may expect them. It’s been several weeks since the last story was published. I’ve been receiving queries.”

  “Oh.” This was good news, and yet her heart seemed to drop from her throat all the way to her shoes. He’d come on business. She tried to rally a pleased expression. “How wonderful that it’s wanted. I should have something by next week.”

  “Excellent,” he said with a quick smile. “I had begun to fear—” He coughed. “That is, I’m relieved you’re working as usual.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She rubbed her hands back and forth, her smile stiff. As usual. As usual, she pictured Liam’s handsome face on every hero she wrote. As usual, she thought of him every night when she retired to her quiet bed, and wondered if he had a new lover.

  “I also worried . . .” His gaze dipped momentarily to her midsection. “You’ve not suffered any . . . unease?”

  She blushed deep red. Had she conceived a child, he meant. She had wondered if she might, for a few days after their glorious night together, but that had soon been put to rest. Some tiny, unreasonable part of her had dwelt on the prospect with longing. Her heart yearned for Liam’s child in her arms, a little hand in hers, a lifelong reminder of her one taste of sensual bliss with the man she loved. She might never have another chance to be a mother, and it had taken her off guard how appealing it suddenly seemed.

  But she also knew it would be a terrible thing for that child, to be illegitimate and possibly unwanted by his father, so when her monthly courses arrived on schedule, she told herself it was for the best.

  “None,” she assured him.

  “Ah.” His face was inscrutable. She couldn’t tell if his response was relieved or disappointed. Perhaps he’d merely had his curiosity satisfied.

  “I would have notified you if so,” she added.

  “Of course.” He glanced at the door. “I trust it remains our secret?”

  She blushed again. “Danny doesn’t know, and never will.”

  “Are you . . .” Liam seemed to be choosing every word with great care. “He would not beat you if he knew, would he?”

  Bathsheba blinked. If her brother would beat anyone, it would be Liam. “No. I’m sure not.”

  “But he would be displeased?” Liam persisted, his voice low. “You were so adamant that he not know about Lady X, I couldn’t help but wonder if he would take it badly if he knew about us.”

  She bit her lip. “Danny would not be pleased,” she admitted. “He believes himself responsible for me, even though I’ve told him many times he mustn’t feel so.”

  “I see.” Liam looked at the floor. “Would he be displeased on principle, or because I was the man?”

  What was he after? Suddenly wary, she tried to parse his question. “Both, I imagine,” she said cautiously. “He would not like me taking a—a lover, and as he knows you, I suspect he would view it as a sort of betrayal. He would likely have wanted you to refuse my entreaty and then perhaps even tell him what I’d done, so he could put a stop to it.” Liam’s eyes flashed, and she stopped. “But he’ll never know,” she promised quickly. “Not from my lips, and I told no one at all. Only your coachman knows . . . and the man who called upon you that last morning . . .” Her voice trailed off questioningly. She’d suffered a thousand pangs of curiosity and dread over that man.

  Now Liam looked awkward. “That was my brother Angus. He was neither expected nor welcome. I extracted his promise not to say a word, and he’s got no idea who you are.”

  “Oh.” She let out her breath in relief.

  “Bathsheba, I think you ought to tell your brother,” said Liam. She froze, eyes wide. “About Lady X. Your sales have been strong, steadily growing. I know you wished to keep it secret in case things did not go well, but they unquestionably are going well. You plan to keep writing, don’t you?”

  “Well—yes, but—”

  “Daniel didn’t disapprove of you working on Fifty Ways to Sin. He knew you read it, even edited some issues,” Liam went on. “I think you do him wrong to believe he would view it as indecency.”

  Her mouth was hanging open. “I never said that—”

  “Then why don’t you tell him?” Liam edged forward. “You’re succeeding. You think he worries about providing for you, but you’re providing for yourself. Why do you hide this from him?”

  “Because it’s not enough,” she said before she could think better of it. Liam sat back, brows raised. Bathsheba sighed. “The money I’ve saved . . . It’s not enough to show him and say, there—you needn’t worry about providing for us.”

  “When will it be?”

  She raised her hands and let them fall helplessly. “I don’t know. Perhaps never. It’s not reliable like an annuity, you know.”

  “So you intend to keep it secret forever?”

  “I don’t know,” she said again.

  “Is it only about the money?” There was an underlying urgency in his question that unsettled her. Why did it matter to Liam if Danny knew what she was doing? And why did she not have any answer about telling her brother? Her small savings was not trivial, and even if it would never be enough for her to feel completely secure, it would surely give Danny some comfort to know she had it. But she hadn’t told him.

  “Mostly,” she muttered.

  Liam was quiet for a moment. “Is it because you fear it would reveal your deepest desires, and you’re ashamed of having them?” Bathsheba sucked in her breath indignantly. “Or is it because you’re afraid of pursuing them, so much that you’d rather give up all hope of gaining them?”

  “What does that mean?” she demanded, furious.

  “You’d rather lie to your brother for the rest of your life to keep him from knowing you write successful stories. You’d rather spend the rest of your life minding his house and protecting him than strike out after something that brings you pleasure.”

  “I wonder what you mean by that,” she retorted. “I did strike out after pleasure. But now that’s done and I must live my life”

  “So tamely and nervously?” he persisted. “Sneaking around any time you want to have a word about your writing. Pretending he’s the only source of support you’ve got.”

  Sneaking around. Bathsheba stared at him. “Sne
aking around to see you, do you mean?”

  Liam’s mouth firmed into a flat line. He said nothing.

  She drew a deep breath. “If I told Danny, you think it would make me more independent, more daring. I could go out whenever I chose, and spend the night where I wished. Is that it? Do you want to carry on as we were?”

  His eyes flashed. “You make it sound so craven. I didn’t advocate telling Daniel in the hopes of prolonging our affair. I thought you wanted to be independent, and not have to lie to him about where you are going. Don’t you want to have a life of your own?”

  “I do have a life of my own,” she protested. “Perhaps not the life you would choose, but it’s the one I’ve chosen.”

  “But if you weren’t hiding—”

  “Then what?” She shook her head. “I have to think of Danny, too.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Liam pointed out. “He could make do without you.”

  “Yes, but what would I do?” Bathsheba asked before she could stop herself.

  Liam opened his mouth, and then he went still, as if frozen in mid-thought. The silence stretched taut. For a wild second she hoped he would say, elope with me. Because she would. For Liam, for his love, she would leave Danny without a qualm. All he had to do was say one word . . .

  But that was unlikely, and sure enough he didn’t say it. After a long pause, during which he seemed to struggle with some inner decision, he gave a nod. “Very well. As you say, it is your life to choose. I should be going.” They both rose and Liam bowed. “Oh yes—” He clapped one hand to his side as if just remembering. “You forgot this,” he said with a hint of his usual wry smile. He drew out her reticule from his coat pocket. “Good day, Miss Crawford.”

  She bobbed a slight curtsey and he left her standing there with the reticule in her hands. The front door closed behind him and she flinched, knowing it was probably the last time. Slowly she sank back into her chair. Was he right? Ought she to tell Danny—not just about Lady X, but about her desire to have a lover? The only reason she could see for Liam’s bewildering insistence that she drop the secrecy was that he wanted to continue their affair, which made her heart take a leap even as her mind protested. If three nights had left such a deep mark on her, what might three months—three years—do to her?