The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  Only fight when it matters, son. Use your noggin first, and save your fists for when it’s the only way.

  And so, when Reed finally earned enough prize money to open Sterling’s, he’d stopped fighting.

  “Raven, if you find any more of these, burn them,” Reed said, tucking the stack into the inner pocket of his coat before he left his men to prepare for the evening.

  He went upstairs to his office. Then, closing the door, he stalked toward the window and stared at the townhouse across the traffic-snarled street. A slow grin lifted one corner of his mouth as he thought about a visit he intended to make later this evening.

  So, a certain haughty matchmaker believed she could steal into a hell and leave a few handbills without confronting the devil?

  “Well, Miss Bourne, I’m afraid you’re wrong about that.”

  * * *

  By the time Ainsley returned to the townhouse after dinner at the Duchess of Holliford’s that evening, she was exhausted. And the last thing she’d wanted to see was the queue of carriages lined up in front of Sterling’s. It served as a reminder that the agency had never had such a problem.

  The traffic was so thick, in fact, that she’d had to have the driver drop her at the garden gate, and she’d come in through the servant’s entrance.

  Well, one thing was for certain, she would be glad when Mrs. Teasdale delivered those handbills. Though when, precisely, that would occur remained a mystery. Rosamunde had merely stated that she’d take care of the matter with utmost haste.

  It couldn’t happen soon enough.

  Ainsley stepped into the kitchen, greeted by the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread. Mrs. Darden was brushing the loaves with butter. The beloved family cook was dressed in her nightclothes, a shawl draped over her thickly rounded shoulders, her grizzled hair tied into curls with strips of linen.

  Her plump cheeks lifted when she spotted Ainsley. “You’re home early, dear. Another headache like last week?”

  “Not exactly. I simply had to leave for my own sanity.” There was no need for excuses or pretense with Mrs. Darden.

  “Did Her Grace introduce you to another gentleman?”

  “Yes, and again under the guise of improving our client list.” The duchess was not the subtlest of would-be matchmakers. Though until recently, these weekly dinners had been part of Briar’s schedule. But after her marriage, the duty reverted to Ainsley.

  In all honesty, she couldn’t fathom how her sister had managed to endure this week after week without committing murder.

  Ainsley began yanking off her gloves, finger by finger. “This evening, I met Lord Berryhill. The pretentious stuffed shirt had the gall to say—and mind you, this was before I had known him a full minute of my life—that I would be better occupied with children to look after. And he actually looked pleased with himself, too, grinning with those beaver teeth of his as if he’d spoken the words every woman longs to hear. As if he expected my response to be ‘Oh, yes, my lord. Please rescue me from the life I have chosen for myself and confine me to the childbed.’”

  Mrs. Darden didn’t rail at the injustices that women faced, or even purse her lips in commiseration. Instead, she hid a yawn with the back of her hand. Though, in truth, she’d heard a similar diatribe last week and the week before, so Ainsley was not too bothered by this lackluster response.

  “Perhaps if you told Her Grace that you’ve no intention of marrying, or ever having children of your own, she would stop introducing you to new gentlemen.”

  Ainsley frowned. “It isn’t as if I’ve made a declaration against marriage. Not completely.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Well, perhaps I have. But is it any wonder? After all, there is my age to consider. And the agency, of course,” she said in self-defense. “A lot of men are threatened by a woman with a profession. I should need to find a man who valued my time and my goals as much as his own. And . . . well . . . there isn’t one of those out there.”

  “You’ve looked, have you?”

  “I’ve been busy.” Ainsley slapped her gloves into her bonnet, not particularly caring for the doubting lift of Mrs. Darden’s thin brows. “Just because we haven’t had any clients lately, doesn’t mean I’m not constantly working on ways to draw them inside our doors.”

  The cook yawned again. “Of course, dear.”

  “And I’m an aunt, now, don’t forget. I need to keep my schedule free in case Jacinda might have need of me. Not to mention, Briar in the future. And there is Uncle Ernest to watch over. Right this very instant he is wooing Lady Broadhurst at the duchess’s dinner. Someone will have to keep him from spending the remainder of his fortune on flowers and comfits, and to remind him to rest after he stays up all night writing sonnets.”

  Mrs. Darden tutted, though not unkindly. She even shuffled closer and patted Ainsley on the shoulder. “Such a list. I don’t know how you bear the burden. Even when you were just a mite of a girl, you always managed everything around you.” Then she sighed heavily before turning away toward the corridor that led to her compact but cozy room. Through another yawn, she continued her gentle reproof. “But somewhere along the way, I don’t think you ever learned how to have a jolly time. Let down your hair, every now and then.”

  Ainsley scoffed. “I enjoy amusements. I do. I . . . read. In fact, I just started this ridiculous novel about a gloomy castle and a curmudgeonly duke and . . .”

  It was no use. She was talking to an empty room. Mrs. Darden had gone back to bed and there was no one to argue with.

  “I know how to be jolly,” she muttered and stalked out of the kitchen.

  Head high, Ainsley began her nightly rounds of checking the locks on the ground floor windows and the garden door. She wasn’t about to let this evening cause her any more agitation.

  She’d already had enough on her mind since her encounter with Reed Sterling the other day. Ever since, she’d been distracted and somewhat unsettled, much like a repotted plant struggling to take root in new environs. She didn’t like it. And she couldn’t wait until her plan to run him out of business took effect.

  Everything would be right again as soon as he was gone from St. James’s, and gone from her thoughts.

  After snuffing out the majority of the sconces, but leaving enough light for her uncle’s return, she walked briskly down the main hall. As was her habit, she would check on the state of things outside the townhouse one last time before she locked up for the night.

  Yet when she opened the door, it wasn’t the gaming hell she saw looming across the way, but the owner himself.

  On her very doorstep.

  Ainsley startled, her heart rising to her throat. “Mr. Sterling!”

  “A man could set his watch by you, Miss Bourne,” he drawled, his broad mouth slowly spreading in an uncivilized grin.

  The sight of him—all tousled hair, raffish opened collar, and mismatched eyes—caused a perplexing jolt to trample through her, setting off every nerve ending in a series of voluptuous tingles. She didn’t know what to make of it.

  She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him in the evening hours. Darkness accentuated the rough-edged lines of his countenance, casting shadows beneath his heavy brow, hewn cheekbones, and square-cut jaw.

  Admittedly, he was handsome in a raw, brawny sort of way . . . if one were inclined to admire such traits. Which, she assured herself, she was not.

  “Now isn’t the time for paying calls.” She stepped back, intending to close the door in his face.

  “I never took you for a coward. You cannot even own up to your actions, but prefer to hide away in your little palace instead.”

  She bristled, anchoring the door with the toe of her shoe, then peered at him through a narrow crack. “I have done nothing from which to hide.”

  “I’ve a pocket full of handbills that proves otherwise.”

  Handbills! So soon? Ainsley didn’t expect them to be printed already. In fact, she had yet to see one for herself.

 
; “So you’ve come to confront me. Is this what you want—to rail at me face-to-face?”

  Only now, she realized that she hadn’t had a proper amount of time to worry over this eventuality. She still had a bit of thumbnail remaining on her right hand.

  “Can’t be certain.” He shrugged, his midnight tone edged with unabashed wickedness. “Now that you asked, I want to know what my other options are.”

  His dye-dipped gaze coursed over her in a thorough sweep from head to hem as if he could see every bit of her through that small seam in the door. Another disconcerting thrill plucked every one of her nerve endings like harp strings.

  She took a step back from the source. “There are no other options.”

  “’Twas only a jest, highness. Don’t get your neckerchief in a twist,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head as if he’d never imagined her in a more salacious sense.

  Strangely—quite strangely, indeed—the notion irked her. Was she so cold and undesirable? So distant that even the rogue next door could find nothing appealing about her?

  Hmph. “State your business, if you please.”

  “We have a matter to settle. It seems to me that—”

  Before he could continue, a blur of white darted between them, squeezing in through the door. A creature of some sort. Ainsley had just enough time to catch a glimpse of a bedraggled gray tail as it scurried around her skirts and into the foyer, trailing a length of crimson ribbon.

  She didn’t shriek but took an automatic step to follow, hoping the animal wasn’t hurt. Then she remembered the door and turned to close it.

  “Deuced cat.” Reed Sterling nudged the door wider, wedging a shoulder inside.

  Ainsley held fast. “What are you doing? You cannot come in here.”

  “That’s my cat.”

  “Impossible. A man like you cannot have a cat. A vicious, rabies-infested wolf, perhaps.”

  His brow flattened. “Yes, yes. We both know your opinion of me, but she stole a ribbon from my man and is likely frightened. So, will you let me in or not?”

  Chapter 5

  “. . . she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  So, will you let me in or not?

  Ainsley pulled the corner of her mouth between her teeth, mulling over all the possible ramifications. The midnight caller, however, did not wait for deliberation.

  Reed Sterling elbowed the door wider. Then he crossed the threshold, watching her closely as if anticipating her argument.

  He’d never set foot inside the agency before. Sure, he’d stood on the doorstep a time or two, but he’d never been right here, underneath the same roof. And the instant he closed the door behind him the air thickened, permeated with the spicy scent of his shaving soap and the natural heat of his skin.

  Now the spacious marble foyer seemed to shrink to intimate proportions. Strangely, even her clothes felt tighter.

  She shifted, not knowing whether to stand apart or to stand her ground. “You hardly gave me a moment to answer.”

  “I’ve learned that, when you have any real objections, you voice them straightaway.”

  Glancing past her and toward a flash of moon-white fur darting between rooms, his shoulders lifted in an offhanded shrug. The neck of his shirt parted to expose more of his throat, the heavy protrusion of his Adam’s apple, and the hollow niche underneath.

  Did the man never wear a cravat?

  Her gaze drifted to the horizontal ridge of his clavicle, following the line until it disappeared beneath the linen. Absently, she wondered what it looked like when it reached his shoulder. Did the bone end in a knobby protrusion the way hers did, or was it enshrouded in thick ropes of muscle?

  An intriguing question, but one she dared not seek the answer to. She couldn’t very well ask him, after all. And she could just imagine the appalled expressions on the attendants of the circulating library. Might you direct me to the nude etchings in your collection? Preferably the ones depicting large, strapping males.

  Ainsley cleared her throat. This would be one instance that her curiosity would be left unresearched and unsatisfied.

  Still, she couldn’t seem to halt her study of this subject. She noted how the golden glimmer from the sconce drifted over the wavy locks of his dark hair and softened the shadows on his countenance. Beneath his strained brow, his eyes hinted at a genuine concern that surprised her.

  In this light, he didn’t look capable of pummeling other men with his fists. Even if that was precisely what he did and, by all accounts, excelled at, too.

  She reminded herself to keep that thought foremost in her mind. “The fact of the matter is, I didn’t invite you inside. A moment of careful consideration doesn’t imply approval or a welcome with open arms.”

  It was a mistake to mention her limbs, for he took the opportunity to study them. And everything else about her, from her sheer silk-net fichu to the ruffled hem of her ivory gown.

  Her skin reacted, warming, drawing taut, puckering with sensitive gooseflesh. His blue gaze settled on her face, the scorched iris smoldering as it flicked over her mouth.

  The pulse on the side of her throat quickened. Was he thinking of kissing her?

  At once, her lips felt plump as peony blossoms before the first bloom. She pressed them together, gently biting down on the tender flesh to keep them from opening.

  A smirk teased the scar on his upper lip. “All I want to know is if you can use those arms of yours for anything other than fanning yourself.”

  Ainsley stiffened. Clearly, there was no need to worry that he would make any untoward advances. Which was excellent news, of course. After all, every solid inch of this man was built for strength and power. A mere touch of his hand would likely shatter her bones into dust.

  So why, in heaven’s name, had she let him in?

  Hiding her inner confusion, she adjusted her fichu firmly about her shoulders, making certain no part of her was exposed. “I can manage to use them to find one cat.”

  “You? Aren’t you going to ring for your servants instead?”

  “Being the lowborn scoundrel that you are, I’m certain you are unaware that, in respectable households, many servants retire early because they must awaken early.”

  “Have them buttering your crumpets at dawn, do you?”

  Argh. “You’re impossible.”

  Fully prepared to end this search and be rid of her odious neighbor with utmost haste, she turned on her heel and spotted a blur of white and gray. The only problem was, the cat was heading up the stairs.

  Botheration! This was going to take longer than she wanted.

  Crossing the foyer, she noted that he kept pace beside her. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay here.”

  “I don’t suppose you could,” he said, taking the stairs with her.

  Ainsley hoped to find his cat at the very top so that she could send Mr. Sterling on his way. Perhaps over the railing with a quick shove.

  Then again, she likely wouldn’t have time to drag the corpse out of doors before her uncle came home.

  That thought gave her a bit of pause, but only for Uncle Ernest’s sake. There was no telling what he would think to find her alone with a man, and well after business hours.

  Then again, her uncle needn’t worry. Clearly, Reed Sterling saw her only as the gatekeeper to his cat and nothing more alluring. Which was perfectly fine. She preferred to be seen as forbidding. The idea of being the object of his carnal appetites didn’t appeal to her.

  Not in the least.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, and now more ill-tempered than she’d been at the bottom, she picked up a lamp from the marble-topped demilune table against the wall and began her search.

  “Our offices are on this first floor. Earlier, I closed most of the doors aside from my own office, so it should take nothing more than a cursory glance down each corridor
.”

  “Keeping all these beeswax tapers burning must cost a pretty penny,” the interloper said with an undisguised note of disapproval. “That’s no way to run a business. You should switch to tallow or use oil.”

  She sniffed, not appreciating the advice. “Our clients don’t like the scent of tallow, and oil smoke stains the wallpaper.”

  “Then why bother keeping them lit at all after business hours? Unless . . .” He paused. “Miss Bourne, are you afraid of the dark?”

  There he was, goading her again.

  Having no intention of answering, she continued her course. She would hardly tell him that it gave her peace of mind to see down the length of the halls, beyond the straight-backed chairs and slender tables alongside the doors, to account for every single shadow.

  However, when she glanced over, she caught him scrutinizing her with the precision of an artist tracing her silhouette on vellum. So she gave in.

  “I cannot fathom why it should matter to you, but I have a system. I extinguish the flames floor by floor before I retire,” she admitted. “Regardless, it is better for our search. Though if my uncle were home we should be quicker, still. I daresay, we could locate the cat solely from the sound of his sneezing. He is dreadfully allergic.”

  “Your uncle is not at home?”

  The note of censure in his voice plucked a string of alarm in her. She should not have made such an admission.

  Facing him, she held the lamp between them, eying his hard-set features carefully. “He will return at any moment.”

  “And when he does”—Mr. Sterling growled, raking a hand through his hair with an impatient swipe of his large hand—“only to discover a man alone with his unmarried niece, what then? Will he raise the alarm and call the guard? Or will he call the vicar instead?”

  Understanding the reason for his irritation, she expelled a breath that stirred the flame. “Ah. I see that you are familiar with some of society’s strictures—though clearly not the ones regarding proper attire—but fear not. You won’t be forced to marry the forbidding spinster across the way. No one here is set on fleecing you of your fortune. Rest assured, if my uncle returned to find your hulking form lurking about in the dark, he’d likely shoot you before you could even announce yourself, thereby saving you from a lifetime of untold misery.”