The Rogue to Ruin EPB
Page 1
Dedication
For Toni, Isabelle, and Abbey. I was blessed the day you joined my family.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
By Vivienne Lorret
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
“This will prove a spirited beginning . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
Autumn, 1825
This wasn’t the first time Reed Sterling had a pistol aimed at him, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Though until now, he’d never seen one brandished by such a prim bluenose.
From the doorway of Sterling’s, he studied the chestnut-haired figure standing in the pallid morning light in St. James’s. She wore a plain straw bonnet, situated squarely on the crown of her head, and a tailored fawn walking dress that covered her from throat to footpath.
As the owner of a gaming hell, Reed had a knack for getting a sense of a person straightaway. This woman, for example, likely imagined that her unadorned self was hardly worth notice and easily forgotten.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
He was wholly aware of her, and it had nothing to do with the weapon in her grasp.
There wasn’t a single embellishment in her attire. No baubles, feathers, or even embroidered cuffs. And yet, his attention was fixed like a child’s who’d spied a brown paper package with his name on the card. And all he could think was, I wonder what’s inside all that clever wrapping.
A pair of brownish-gray eyes narrowed at him. “Surely you are not the owner of this gambling establishment.”
At the slight rasp in her voice, his flesh tightened over his frame, pulse thrumming. “I am Reed Sterling.”
The fringe of her black lashes bunched together. “Impossible. A man of such a reputedly successful business would have a degree of distinction.”
“Carry a walking stick?” he offered, stepping down to the pavement. “Quizzing glass on a chain?”
“Something of the sort. In the very least, he should be graying at the temples.”
Reed scrubbed a hand through his ungrizzled brown hair, still damp from his daily sparring exercises.
She followed the gesture, scrutinizing him the same way he had done to her, her gaze sweeping over his form. The only difference was that her cheeks colored as if she’d never seen a man in his shirtsleeves before. And when he grinned, she flushed deeper.
“Why, you’re not even properly attired,” she chided in a scandalized whisper. “Surely you do not always receive calls in such a state.”
“I was informed that you rapped rather impatiently on the door and demanded an audience without delay. Though the lad neglected to tell me that you intended to shoot me.”
“Shoot you? Of all the absurd—” Her eyes widened slightly when she glanced down to the dueling pistol and frilly white handkerchief in her grasp. Then, with nothing more than a casual turn of her wrist, she pointed the long blackened barrel at the ground instead of at his heart. “This isn’t what it seems. I merely carried the weapon over in my reticule because I knew it belonged to one of your drunken patrons. But do not worry yourself for it isn’t loaded. I made certain of it. And the percussion cap is absent as well.”
“Know a lot about pistols, do you?”
He watched, amused as she awkwardly began to slip the handkerchief through the engraved trigger guard and around the checkered grip as she continued.
“When I discovered the heinous thing this morning, I skimmed through a book in my uncle’s library. I had to ascertain if it was safe to remove from our doorstep. We live there, you see.”
Reed’s gaze did not follow her gesture to the stately townhouse across the street, adorned with pristine white pillars and box windows that had been void of candlelight until a sennight ago. “I already know who my neighbors are, Miss Bourne.”
“You know my—” She broke off, her full lips parting. Then, she straightened with a jerk as if he’d just pinched her bottom instead of merely saying her name. “You should not address me as if we are acquainted. We are not. Nor are we likely to be formally introduced at any social function.”
“Because common blokes like me don’t get invited to the high-society parties you lot attend?”
Those lashes bunched together again. “Because I am certain that I do not share any amusements with a man who promotes lascivious activities like imbibing in liquor, gaming, dueling—”
“Not dueling,” he said firmly, feeling a muscle twitch at his jawline. After his own father was killed in a duel, Reed had a supreme distaste for the practice. In fact, he spent a good deal of his nights trying to keep his more hotheaded patrons from demanding satisfaction over insignificant slights. “It’s a coward’s way to hide behind a pistol. Real men know how to settle a score fairly.”
“An educated man might use words to reach an amicable understanding with another. However, I do not imagine that is the preferred method of the owner of a gambling establishment.”
Actually, it was. As far as Reed was concerned, a man in his line of work had to be skilled in the art of mollifying and mediation. But he didn’t feel the need to explain himself to Miss Bourne. He’d let her think what she liked. Besides, he was enjoying how easy it was to get a rise out of her.
“Using words? Now, where’s the sport in that?” He chuckled at the way she huffed, all smug and superior, even as her curious gaze dipped to the open neck of his shirt once more. “I tell you, nothing excites a mob of dandy, silk-pursed aristocrats more than the prospect of betting on blood sport. Every time I get these duel-at-dawn gents to step into the ring for a few bare-knuckled blows instead, it’s good for business.”
She paled visibly, her mouth set in grim disapproval. “You encourage . . . pugilism in your establishment as well?”
“Aye. I was a prizefighter, you know,” he announced with a carefully humble expression, expecting her to look down the length of him with renewed interest. His former title fascinated most women, no matter if their blood was aristocrat blue or common red.
He waited for her eyes to flit over him, for her mouth to soften. But after a beat or two, and her expression remained unchanged, it became apparent that Miss Bourne was not like most women.
Reed shifted, straightening his shoulders. As a fighter, he was still considered something of a legend. Men from all over England knew his name. And the fortune he’d earned helped him open Sterling’s. In fact, that was what set his hell apart from others and put him on par with clubs like Brook’s and Boodle’s. He offered everything under one roof—betting books, fine food and liquo
r, a private silk-covered room for a gent and his paramour, high-stakes gaming at the tables, and ring-side exhibitions.
Sterling’s was truly a man’s world.
“I also give lessons to the patrons who can afford it,” he added proudly, but wished he’d kept quiet. To his own ears, he sounded as if he was trying to impress her.
She sniffed with disdain, extending the handkerchief-tied pistol that dangled from her fingertips. “How thrilled you must be to teach violence to other men.”
When he took the weapon, she immediately smoothed her hands down her skirts as if the thought of touching him sickened her. So it was like that, was it?
“My family and I are at an unfortunately close proximity to this”—she paused to draw in a breath, her cool gaze flitting over his shoulder to the open doorway—“institution.”
He untied the handkerchief, then balled it in his fist before offering it back to her.
She wrinkled her brow. Then, somehow, she managed to tug the dainty square free without the barest contact, and so swiftly that the finely stitched seams left a burning trail along his palm.
Watching as she tucked the lace down into her glove, he wondered if it was still warmed by the heat of his fist. He hoped it was. He wanted her to imagine that she was only a scrap of lace away from the bare hand of a common man.
“What is unfortunate to some might be fortuitous to others,” he said. “There are many who would enjoy living so near Sterling’s.”
“That is not the case in my circumstance, I assure you. And I would prefer it if you would keep the midnight carousing of your patrons to a dull roar and ask them not to litter on our doorstep.”
“If you don’t wish to live here, Miss Bourne, then take other lodgings. I’m certain that the duchess can find someone else to rent her townhouse, or even to buy it outright.”
Her chin snapped up. “How dare you speak of my patroness in a familiar manner, as if you share an acquaintance. It is because of you and your seedy establishment that the estimable Duchess of Holliford was forced to abandon St. James’s and now lives in Mayfair. Her Grace has been the kindest and most generous person my sisters and I have ever known and I will not stand for any such casual references.”
Miss Bourne was a fierce one, to be sure. All prim and proper on the outside, but with the heart of a warrior.
The sight of those flashing eyes and castigating mouth had Reed’s pulse thrumming once more. Against his better judgment, he wondered what other passions might be lurking beneath such a tempting, haughty veneer.
“If it wasn’t for Her Grace,” she continued, “my family would never have been able to embark on our new venture. We plan to run a business from the townhouse, you see.”
He smirked. “Is that so?”
“Indeed. The Bourne Matrimonial Agency will doubtless become the ton’s premier establishment. We open our doors a fortnight from today. There’s even an advertisement in The Post.”
His amusement faded as the look of smug certainty settled over her fine features. Apparently, this wasn’t a jest.
Suddenly, his mind’s eye flashed with a vision of hoity-toity society women traipsing along the footpath with their frilly parasols and clucking their tongues at his patrons for drinking, cursing, and gambling to excess.
That would be bad for his business.
“And what would this agency do, exactly?”
“Simply put, we are matchmakers. Or rather my uncle, Viscount Eggleston, is. My sisters and I will assist him in taking the applications of our clients and in finding prospective spouses for them.”
Reed choked on a laugh. Why had he worried for a single instant over such a foolish enterprise?
“That’s a new trick for husband hunting. Your uncle pretends to play matchmaker, then, while taking down the names of the most eligible bachelors in London, he just happens to find wealthy, titled husbands for each of his nieces.”
“You are wrong, Mr. Sterling. The purpose of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency is to serve others. To promote worthy ideals like honor and respect—things I’m certain are foreign to a man whose primary goal is to introduce wickedness to the world.”
“I cannot take full credit for all the wickedness in the world, or even in London. It’s been around much longer than either of us. That’s how I know my estimable establishment will outlast yours.”
When her dark winged brows arched in challenge, a thrill shot through him, heating his blood. That inner warrior flashed in her eyes, so close to the surface that he wondered what it would take to unleash it completely.
“It is the prideful man who will fall to his knees the hardest,” she said.
He leaned in, just a bit, and lowered his voice. “Not when he fixes his attention on what matters.”
Her cheeks colored again, but she didn’t back down. She set her hands on her hips as if to make herself larger. “Mark my words—the Bourne Matrimonial Agency is here to stay.”
“You and your sisters will be married off and gone in six months.”
“Proof of how little you know of your new neighbors.”
“I know that three highborn young women wouldn’t have moved to London unless they intended to find themselves three highborn gentlemen to marry.”
“Wrong again, Mr. Sterling.”
Miss Bourne didn’t bother to elaborate. Instead, she turned on her heel with a snap and confidently navigated through the morning traffic.
Reed watched her go, admiring the swish of her plain brown skirts. And by the time she safely reached the other side, any lingering concern that this matchmaking agency would jeopardize Sterling’s success was laid to rest. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Miss Bourne would take a husband and lose interest in her business within six months. Perhaps even sooner.
Chapter 1
“Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.”
Jane Austen, Emma
A Year and a Half Later
Scrutinizing the white-glazed sign on the outer door, Ainsley Bourne absently worried the corner of her thumbnail. Her livelihood depended on these freshly painted words.
Welcome to the Bourne Matrimonial Agency.
For exceptional matchmaking services, please enquire up the stairs.
Was this enough to spark curiosity and entice passersby? She knew something had to change or the family business would fall into utter ruin.
The flesh of her brow knitted in doubt. Perhaps she should have underlined exceptional. And was it her imagination or did please sound a bit beggarly?
Until this moment, she never realized what a needy word it was. Slanting to the right, please even resembled a crawling thing, the e dragging the rest of the letters along like a dog that had left something foul on the parlor rug, the looped tail of the p trailing behind.
“Botheration,” she huffed, wondering if there was enough paint left in the pot. Had she actually gone through seventeen drafts, six sheets of paper, a jar of ink, three brushes, and a permanently splattered apron just for this? A costly endeavor.
Frustrated, she lifted the red ribbon off the peg for her eighteenth attempt.
The agency may be hard-pressed for clients, but she was not about to grovel. If people refused to seek a happy union based on trust and respect, then she felt sorry for them. What did it matter to her if men wanted to marry empty-headed ninnies? Or if women chose men of questionable character, only to end up heartbroken and abandoned like her mother . . .
A cold chill tumbled through Ainsley. She hesitated, wavering one-footed on the threshold.
“I know I can depend upon you, dear. You’ve always been the strongest of us all,” her mother had once said.
More than ten years had passed since Heloise Bourne-Cartwright’s death, but Ainsley could still hear their last conversation. Still feel the grip of the frail hand that had squeezed her own.
Expelling a soul-deep sigh, Ainsley set both feet on the ground and hung the sign back up. Then, she adjusted the ribbon until it was equ
al lengths on either side. There.
Who knew? It might make a difference. At the very least, she could give it until the end of the day to see if any monumental changes would happen. Just a smallish ravening horde would suffice.
“And perhaps the ton will suddenly see the agency in a new light and stop believing that we are only interested in making matches for ourselves,” she muttered under her breath, her inner cynic rising to the surface.
Though with her two younger sisters, Jacinda and Briar, now married to their once-best clients, Ainsley could hardly fault society’s presumption.
And yet, that was last year. It didn’t explain why there was still a lull in new applicants.
After all, they’d survived the initial wave of mean-spirited gossip when Uncle Ernest first started the agency. And when Jacinda had married the Duke of Rydstrom, there was speculation regarding their methods but also a good deal of interest. Then, Briar’s marriage to London’s most rakish bachelor, the Earl of Edgemont, had brought in a handful of the curious and more adventurous clients.
In Ainsley’s opinion, the fact that they remained open proved that they intended to stay that way. But the frightening truth was, they were only months away from closing their doors for good, and no one knew but her.
She didn’t have the heart to break the news to her family. All she wanted was to make the Bourne Matrimonial Agency a sweeping success. Well that, and to fill the family coffers with more coin than moth wings.
After everything they’d overcome already, this year’s Season should have brought the change they needed. So then, why weren’t there scores of eager debutantes and young bucks seeking their services?
Ainsley believed she knew the answer.
Because there was one thing the agency couldn’t overcome—their location.
Turning away from her own sign, her gaze settled on another across the street. Sterling’s—the bane of her existence.
How was a respectable matchmaking agency supposed to succeed with such an unsavory establishment just steps away?
At first glance, the pale gray brick corner building was stunning in the morning light, regal even, with three stories of arched windows polished to a mirror-like finish. Such a façade might deceive some poor, naive soul into thinking that it was respectable. Or even that the name, chiseled into the stone hood molding above the door, represented a sense of long-standing permanence. But it was all an illusion created by the owner, Reed Sterling.