A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  Not inclined to find out, Anthony spoke up. “Robin cannot speak, in his own defense or otherwise. You see, he’s mute.”

  The shrew’s brows lifted. “Really?”

  “Oh, he makes a few guttural sounds now and again, but at heart he’s a primitive. Mostly he uses hand gestures to communicate his basic wants.” He slid Chelsea a sideways glance. Brows crossed and jaw set, she looked as though she were biting her tongue—literally. “And his facial expressions are quite eloquent.”

  Frowning, Mrs. Pettigrew circled Chelsea, examining her as though she were a museum exhibit. “Still, something about him seems disturbingly…familiar.”

  “I suppose Robin just has one of those faces. I apologize if his offends.” He shrugged, turning from Chelsea to Rosamund.

  Spoony-eyed, the girl was more than ready to believe anything he said. Her mother, however, would require a bit more persuasion.

  Anthony shone his brightest smile on the elder Pettigrew. “It might interest you to know that my own carriage was overtaken by the very same rogue. Robin here was quaking in his boots the whole time. I fear One-Eyed Jack may have frightened him out of what few wits he possessed. Poor lad, he’s not been the same since.”

  The matron’s mouth flew open. “Never say you were robbed too?” At Anthony’s nod, she demanded, “I’ll have your name, sir.”

  “Of course. Montrose, at your service.” Anthony tipped his hat and swept his most courtly bow.

  “Lord Montrose? Viscount Montrose!”

  He inclined his head.

  “Why, we are practically neighbors! My husband is the vicar. Allow me to present our eldest, Rosamund.”

  The girl remained immobile, her worshipful gaze still riveted on him.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve gone mute too,” her mother snapped.

  Rosamund mumbled a greeting and careened into a curtsey. Anthony caught her and carried her gloved hand to his lips. Looking down at the pudgy hand he’d just released, she sighed. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “An impossibility when one finds himself in such charming company,” he countered, suspecting she’d refrain from laundering that glove for some time. “May I be so bold as to ask what brings you two lovely ladies to town?”

  Frowning at her daughter, Mrs. Pettigrew replied, “Rosamund is to make her bow next Season, and we are on a shopping expedition to see that she is rigged out in style.” She paused. “She turns seventeen next month. I myself was barely out of the schoolroom when Mr. Pettigrew snatched me from the bosom of my family.”

  Looking between the two, Anthony thumbed the cleft in his chin. “That explains it, then.”

  “Milord?”

  “Why at first I thought you two ladies were sisters.”

  “Oh, Lord Montrose, really!” Mrs. Pettigrew twittered. She leaned forward. “Now there is a young woman back home, a complete hoyden. Her parents were killed last year in a carriage accident. A tragedy to be sure, but I fear they allowed her to run wild. When she isn’t riding pell-mell through the countryside—astride—she’s buried her nose in some wretched book.”

  He glanced at the “hoyden.” Eyes downcast, Chelsea was occupied with toeing clods of earth from the street. He ached to remove the sting of Mrs. Pettigrew’s cutting words. Later. For now logic and not sentiment must be his guide.

  Shifting his gaze back to Mrs. Pettigrew, he took care to look suitably appalled. “You don’t say.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew nodded vigorously. “And the things she reads are—” she clucked her tongue, “—most unsuitable. Her father taught her both Greek and Latin when everyone knows ’tis bad form for a gentleman to even utter a phrase of either in a lady’s presence.”

  Anthony’s smile thinned. “Shocking indeed,” he replied, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  The woman was not only boorish but mean-spirited. Mean-spirited enough to arrange for Robert Bellamy’s abduction? Five hundred pounds would go along way in ensuring her daughter a lavish Season.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s head bobbed. “I, on the other hand, have taken great pains to provide my girls with a suitable education. Rosamund studies household arithmetic, needlework, drawing, and dancing, though no waltzing, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “As to the pianoforte, there’s not a young lady in the parish who is my Rosamund’s equal.”

  “A musician as well. There’s nothing more diverting of an evening than a woman…at her pianoforte.” He glanced at Rosamund, who’d resumed picking her chin. “A diamond of the first water, to be sure,” he added, wondering if the ransom might be intended to supplement the chit’s dowry. Poor thing, she would require a sizable one to attract a husband. “Only do show compassion for the other young ladies, Miss Rosamund, and try not to win away all their beaux.”

  A pink blotch dotted each of Rosamund’s apple cheeks. She raised a hand to her mouth, muffling a giggle. He caught Chelsea rolling her eyes heavenward and shot her a scowl.

  Turning back to Mrs. Pettigrew, he inquired, “May I inquire how long you will be staying in town?”

  “Less than a fortnight, I’m afraid. Had we met you earlier, we might have altered our plans.”

  “Less than a fortnight, you say?” What an improbable coincidence it was that the Pettigrews’ London excursion should coincide with Chelsea’s brother being held hostage. Although Mrs. Pettigrew didn’t appear clever enough to execute a kidnapping, he shouldn’t rule out the possibility until he’d questioned her at length. “I know that you will think me forward for asking but—”

  “Oh, fie, your lordship.” Mrs. Pettigrew waved a dismissive hand. “Ask away.”

  “The Claridge Hotel is not far, and its tearoom is London’s finest. Dare I hope to persuade you and your daughter to join me for refreshments?”

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s piggy eyes glowed with triumph. “We did have a prior engagement, but nothing that cannot be broken.”

  “Then ’tis settled.” He took their packages and handed them to Chelsea. “Here, boy, see to these.”

  She lifted her face to his, and they exchanged silent glances.

  Must I really, she implored him with her eyes?

  Yes, I’m afraid you must, was his mum reply.

  With a grimace, she reached out and snatched the parcels from him. Arms full and eyes snapping, she stomped toward the back of the conveyance. Anthony released the breath he’d been holding.

  “Good heavens,” Mrs. Pettigrew exclaimed as he handed her up onto the bench. “You really must take a firmer hand, milord.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Chelsea deposit the packages in the boot, then climb onto the footmen’s rest. “I couldn’t agree with you more, madam. I couldn’t agree more.”

  Stiff-kneed, Chelsea climbed down from the carriage, ignoring Anthony’s outstretched hand. Of all the humiliations she’d suffered since coming to London, being forced to dance attendance on Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund was by far the worst and the hardest to forgive.

  She turned and started limping down the street.

  “Where are you going?” Anthony asked, keeping pace beside her.

  “Home.” She was too proud to look at him, but she sensed he was smiling.

  “It’s a long walk. Why not join me in the study for a drink? Afterward, I’ll drive you.”

  “Die,” she hissed.

  “Eventually but first we must talk.” He clasped a hand about her upper arm and commandeered her toward the town house steps.

  Inside the foyer he let her go. Marching behind him to the back of the house, one hand supporting her aching back, she thought about making a run for the door. I’d probably fall on my face. Besides, why turn her back on this golden opportunity to give his lordship his comeuppance?

  She slammed the study door and swung around to face him. “Not overly bright, am I? A bit thick in the pate.”

  Anthony lifted the stopper from a crystal brandy decanter. “Had they thought you a genius, you might very we
ll be cooling your heels in Newgate now. Would you have preferred prison to one uncomfortable hour on the back of my carriage?”

  He was right, of course. Playing the lackey for an afternoon was a small price to pay for escaping the hangman’s noose. That didn’t mean she had to like it, especially when a cocksure smile curved his lips.

  Hands on her hips, she mimicked, “‘Oh, Lord Montrose, you are too kind.’ ‘Your carriage is divine, your lordship. I’ve never ridden in one so well sprung.’ O-ooh, I’d like to do some springing.” She pulled off her wig and slung it to the ground. A cloud of powder rose to her ankles. Stepping through it, she advanced on the desk. “It was all I could do to keep from retching.”

  He looked up from the drinks he was pouring, laughter glinting in his eyes. “In that case, having you ride outside was even a wiser decision than I’d credited.”

  Furious, she combed fingers through her itching scalp, spraying pins. “I rather think you enjoyed having those two ridiculous females fawn all over you. When I think on the blandishments you lavished on that chubby child, I wonder if you have any shame at all.”

  His gaze widened. Then he grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the attention I paid Miss Pettigrew?”

  She took the glass from him. Swirling the amber liquid about the rim, she replied, “Don’t be absurd. Only know that her mother has set her cap for you as a future son-in-law. Don’t blame me when you find yourself pestered to death.”

  His smile fell. “You forget I’m already spoken for.”

  She swallowed against the lump constricting the back of her throat. “I forget…nothing.” The pain of his betrayal washed over her anew. “Last night I didn’t have the chance to wish you happy.” She lifted her glass—and her gaze—to him. “Allow me to do so now.”

  “Chelsea, I should have…” His voice faltered, but his gaze never left hers.

  “Told me you were to marry Lady Phoebe on the thirtieth? Yes, you should have.”

  He drank his brandy in a single swallow. “I’m sorry.” He set the empty glass aside. “I meant to but every time I tried…”

  “Tried, milord?”

  He exhaled. “I suppose I wanted more time to get to know you.”

  “Before you admitted you’d lied?”

  His brown eyes snapped. “Lied, I never—”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you mean to leave your wife on your wedding night to deliver my brother’s ransom?”

  “Yes, I mean no. Chelsea.” He swiped a hand through his hair. “I never meant for it to come to that. With any luck, Jack and I will have Robert safely away before the thirtieth arrives.”

  “With any luck!” Her outrage surged. She slammed her glass on the desk. Brandy lopped onto the polished wood. “This isn’t a game. My brother’s life is at stake. His life. Do you even understand what that means?”

  He slammed a fist onto the desktop. “Yes. God, yes, I do.”

  She started. Then she glimpsed the haunted look in his eyes and her traitorous heart began to melt. She’d not seen him thus since the night he’d spoken of Albuera. But this time she mustn’t soften.

  He turned away. “If you believe nothing else I’ve said, believe this: I will do everything in my power to save your brother.”

  How I want to believe you. But Robert’s life was on the line. She must be absolutely certain of Anthony’s commitment.

  Regarding his taut profile, she asked, “Even if it means postponing your wedding?”

  He hesitated, and her heart sank. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she quoted in a brittle voice. Even he wasn’t certain of himself; how on earth could she be?

  “If it comes to that, yes, I suppose so,” he said after a lengthy pause.

  “You suppose so?” Despair washed over her. “I believe you’ve just answered my question.”

  Was this what the dying felt like when they finally realized there was no more hope? She eyed the door, wondering if she could reach it before the tears started.

  Intercepting her gaze, he swung around and gripped her shoulders. His flexing fingers sent shock waves rippling through her. “Very well, yes. Yes, I will cry off, if that’s what it takes.”

  But the longed-for words came too late. She couldn’t trust him. Not with Robert’s life and not with her heart.

  I’m on my own. There would be no more prevaricating. She would forge ahead with her scheme to steal the coins and ransom Robert.

  She glared down at his hands, still holding on to her, and he dropped them to his sides.

  “Don’t go. Not like this,” he said, but his eyes told her he didn’t really expect her to stay.

  She backed away from him to the door. To safety. “We’ve nothing more to say.”

  Reaching behind her, she found the doorknob. Now all she needed was the courage to rotate it. And leave.

  Turn your back on him and go. Now!

  It wasn’t her inner voice or her father’s, but Robert’s, that called to her, pleaded with her to save him and with him herself.

  The brass knob slipped in her damp grasp, but this time she found the willpower to turn it. Behind her, the door fell open. Cool air brushed her back.

  Someone must be stepping on my grave. That was how the expression went, wasn’t it? Appropriate to this occasion, too, for didn’t she feel as though she were dying inside?

  “Chelsea, don’t…” His voice trailed off, as thin and broken as the childish dreams she’d harbored about him.

  Across the room, he stood as still as any graveyard statue, his face a mirror for her misery. She didn’t want to be moved by him but, God help her, she was. If only she weren’t so bloody weak where he was concerned. If only she could manage to hate him just a little. If only…

  Goodbye, Anthony. Swallowing against the lump at the back of her throat, she stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed.

  I’m too bleedin’ old for this.

  Crouched in the alley across from the Rookery, Jack hugged his coat tighter. The wind was picking up, and he could feel the autumn chill seeping into his bones. His knees and shoulders ached, and he had hours yet before his shift ended. A few doors down, the corner gin shop announced, “Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for two pence, clean straw for nothing.” Inside it would be warm; it might even smell better than the alley. He glanced at his companion, a large white rat foraging through a rubbish heap a few paces away. There had been times, in his youth, when he’d eaten rats to stave off the hunger gnawing his belly.

  Jack, lad, ye’ve gone soft.

  What if he had? At his age, he was entitled to a few comforts. What would one drink, or even two, hurt? He started up. It was then that he sighted a figure in black moving down the other side of the street.

  The man was one of them, a gentleman. Swathed in a caped greatcoat and with his face hidden by a scarf and sloping hat brim, he headed up the cracked limestone steps of one of the Rookery’s crumbling tenements. Jack shrank farther into the shadows. The heel of his boot smashed into something soft.

  The rat squealed, and then skittered away. Across the street, the man in black stopped, turned back, and scanned the street. Back flattened against the brick, Jack held his breath. It was dusk, but the lamplighter had yet to arrive. Dark but not quite dark enough for hiding someone his size.

  Jack’s heart pounded out the passing seconds. Finally the man turned back and opened the door, then disappeared inside the dark lobby.

  Jack exhaled. His drink would have to wait. Ignoring the stiffness in his knees, he rose and bounded across the street.

  The gentleman in black ventured one last, precautionary look into the dark, deserted hallway. Satisfied, he stepped into the low-ceilinged chamber. As soon as he closed the door, the stench of human waste and rotting food hit him in the face like a fist. His stomach heaved, causing him to regret having stuffed himself earlier with sherry and biscuits. But, had he not stopped at the tea shop, he never would have seen her.

  Sl
umped over a table littered with dirty dishes, Stenton came awake with a loud start. Recovering, he said, “Well, well. If it b’aint hisself.” He turned his empty ale mug upside down and pulled a sad face. “I’d offer ye a drink, but the well’s gone dry.”

  The newcomer eyed the uncovered chamber pot that commandeered the far corner. The poor are no better than animals, he mused, pulling a cologne-scented handkerchief from his pocket.

  He held the linen to his nose. “You should know that I don’t care for being summoned. Were I to be seen here—”

  Stenton’s eyes narrowed. “And I don’t care for bein’ cheated.”

  The gentleman frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Stenton’s bony fist crashed onto the table. “The lad says his sister don’t ’ave the blunt.”

  Oh, was that all. He’d prepared himself for worse news than that. “And you believed him?” He made a tsk-tsking sound. “What our young friend doesn’t know is that his sister has been a very enterprising young lady since she received my ransom request.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That what money she hasn’t stolen on her own, no doubt her wealthy lover will provide. Anthony Grenville is one of England’s richest peers.”

  As well as an accomplished seducer. An image of Grenville’s too-handsome face flitted before him, and his right eye skittered. He concentrated on relaxing the tick.

  “Anthony Grenville! The same Grenville that’s about to get leg-shackled?”

  He raised his brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve been reading the society column?”

  Stenton rubbed his gold front tooth with the back of his thumb. “Let’s just say I ’ave me sources.”

  The felon’s sudden smile made him anxious, enervating the twitch. The rogue was hiding something, but what? If his nerves weren’t already unraveling, he might stay long enough to find out. As it was, a dose of laudanum and a nap were in order.