The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  The scars left behind by loss and betrayal were the primary reason that Ainsley had never sought to contact either her father or his other children. Recently, however, she’d warmed to the idea of inviting these estranged siblings into her life. She’d even started to exchange letters with John and with a much younger half sister, Amelia.

  As for her father, Lord Frawley had not lingered long—or faithfully—with his second family either. Consequently, there were other siblings scattered about here and there as well.

  Father had reached out to her a few years ago, sending a missive with an absently worded enquiry about her, Jacinda, and Briar, but Ainsley never responded. She’d buried the hopes she’d once had and the hatred she’d felt toward him long ago.

  “But you have other clients,” the duchess said, breaking into Ainsley’s musings. “Lord Hullworth is such a handsome specimen, too. Have you made any progress with him?”

  “I have introduced his lordship to several young women, but he was not enticed enough to court any of them. I daresay he is quite busy this Season, playing escort to his young sister.”

  “He would certainly make an advantageous match,” the duchess remarked, tapping her fan against the arm of her chair. “And on that topic—”

  Ainsley knew what was coming. Drawing in a breath, she steeled herself for another attempt of the duchess’s matchmaking. Like her sisters and Mrs. Teasdale, the duchess was absurdly determined to see her married.

  They were all going to be disappointed.

  “—just the other day, I met a gentleman in the park who had perked his ears at the mention of your name. I daresay, he’s quite keen for an introduction.”

  “Perhaps Your Grace could convince him to apply to the agency instead.”

  The duchess pursed her lips in displeasure. “It will only be once you are married that these rumors of the convenient matches for the nieces of Viscount Eggleston will disappear. Then the ton will be all too eager to become clients.”

  Ainsley had traveled enough down this avenue of the conversation, so she carefully steered away from it. And what better way than to throw Reed Sterling under the carriage wheels?

  “To me, it seems the larger issue is the agency’s proximity to a gaming hell. After all, it was Your Grace who said that you moved to Mayfair because of the den of iniquity at your doorstep.”

  The duchess splayed her fingers over her bosom, penciled brows inching higher in pleased surprise. “Did I say that? A clever turn of a phrase, if I do say so myself.”

  “Indeed,” Ainsley hesitated. Then after a moment of deliberation, she decided to tell the duchess of her plan. “For that very reason I’ve declared war on Mr. Sterling, taking steps to ensure that his patrons will choose another gambling establishment. By the time I am finished, his business will fail and he will be forced to close the doors for good.”

  The duchess studied her from over the rim of her blue-and-white Nanking teacup. “And does Mr. Sterling know of your plans?”

  Ainsley nodded, absently nibbling an almond biscuit, worrying away the outer edge. Once again, her evening interlude with Reed Sterling and their parting words consumed her thoughts.

  Just what could he possibly be plotting?

  “You’ve ensnared me in a state of suspended curiosity. Pray tell, how did he take your declaration?”

  “With far too much amusement, if you ask me,” she said, taking out her hostilities on the biscuit. “He appeared neither threatened nor inconvenienced by my efforts. In fact, he even claimed that this was a game between us and that it was his turn now. Can you believe his audacity?” She huffed, dropping the crumbled remains of the confection on her plate. “Though as of yet, he has done absolutely nothing. I cannot help but wonder what could be taking him so long to retaliate.”

  Likely, he was studying her, just as he’d admitted to doing with every opponent who’d fought against him. It never occurred to her that a man with undue patience could be so . . . so maddening!

  “But is it a game, my dear, or is it war? In the latter, you never wait for your turn.” The duchess punctuated this comment with the rasp of cup to saucer, her cheeks creasing with a grin.

  Ainsley let out a breath of relief, feeling her shoulders relax. “I’d hoped Your Grace would understand.”

  “My dear, I was married to a duke for the better part of forty years and that man loved to irritate me beyond belief. If anyone should know a bit about war, it is I.”

  The notion of pairing marriage with war gave Ainsley pause, a shiver racing down her spine. “Then again, perhaps I should not have done so. After all, I cannot be unquestionably certain of his temperament.”

  The duchess tsked. “I would never have allowed my precious girls to live there if Mr. Sterling had not proven himself to be even-tempered. Granted, he is rough around the edges, but I had my solicitor look into his background quite thoroughly, and there was not a single account of Mr. Sterling fighting another man unless it was for money. Therefore, I say to let him laugh and think this is a game. But you, my dear, will be the one laughing in the end.”

  “I wish I was as certain. Thus far, my efforts have not been grand—only a small number of handbills made it inside his establishment.”

  “What a delight!” the duchess cheered.

  “Unfortunately, I have since learned that all the handbills were turned into tinder for the fire.” Mrs. Teasdale had been just as disappointed as Ainsley and her sisters, too.

  Clearly, she would have to think of something not so easily extinguished, or so easily mocked by Reed Sterling.

  . . . you’re going to have to do a far sight better than handbills.

  Frowning, she could almost hear his condescending drawl. What did the man expect, after all? That she would wallpaper his . . . establishment with . . . advertisements . . .

  A rush of tingles skittered through her and she asked, “Would Your Grace happen to have that collection of La Belle Assemblée magazines?”

  “Of course.” Rising from the chair, the duchess bustled to the other side of the room and withdrew a stack from the drawer of a polished Pembroke table. “Are you planning to educate Mr. Sterling’s patrons on more wholesome pursuits? Remind them of their obligations? I’m sure there is an article on deportment as well, for there always is. Ah, yes, here it is.”

  Ainsley’s excited gaze skimmed over at least a dozen issues. This could work. And honestly, there was too much at stake for her to stand around like a ninny, waiting for him to fire the next shot.

  “I’m certain Your Grace is familiar with the epidemic of bills and placards pasted over every shopfront and window?”

  The duchess clucked her tongue in disgust. “Simply dreadful. One cannot shop anywhere without being bombarded with advertisements.”

  “And wouldn’t it be terrible if the windows of Sterling’s resembled a ladies’ shop, with pastel prints and pages on the importance of ruffled hems? I should think that the owner could not so easily dispense of those.”

  The duchess grinned and clasped her hands to her bosom. “What a splendidly devious mind you have, my dear.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Ainsley stood in the shadows of the foyer, peering through the sidelights as she waited for Mr. Sterling’s man-at-the-door to leave in his hackney coach. She’d spoken with the towering Mr. Finch on several occasions when she’d gone there to complain to his employer. He’d always met these requests with more amused curiosity than ill-tempered sternness. Even so, she did not want to risk a confrontation this morning, for that would ruin her plan.

  In fact, she did not want anyone inside Sterling’s to be aware of her maneuver for at least several hours. By then, surely, all of London would have come to gawk at the windows of her nemesis.

  When the carriage trundled out of sight in the patchy fog that shrouded the street, she lifted the hood of her cloak. Then—armed with a stack of papers, a small pail of wheat paste, a wooden-handled brush, and a broad grin—Ainsley
Bourne started a war.

  Chapter 8

  “Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a pleasure.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  A loud rap sounded on the bedchamber door. Reed growled in warning and squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

  Thanks to his encounter with Ainsley Bourne, and his newfound knowledge that the windows across from his chamber were hers, he’d been hard-pressed to find sleep this week.

  But that didn’t mean he was done trying.

  “Sterling.” The knocking continued. “There’s a matter—”

  “Sod off.” Rolling to his side, he sealed the pillow over his head.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about how soft she was. Silky as rainwater rushing over his fingertips. Or perhaps more like that bit of downy feather he’d taken from her hair, or even scented powder, so fine it might have dissolved into nothing.

  He wanted to touch Miss Prim and Proper all over. Hear the whisper-soft sound of her gasp as he explored underneath all those layers, unwrapping her slowly, seeking all the right places, feeling her arch against his hand . . .

  The incessant knocking came again, banging hard enough to rattle a picture on the wall, interrupting a near-perfect—albeit foolhardy—fantasy. He threw the pillow off his head and sat up, hard as an obelisk, and glared at the door.

  “Unless Sterling’s is on fire, I suggest you leave immediately and let . . . me . . . sleep.”

  A creak of hesitation shifted on the floorboards in the corridor. “It isn’t on fire but just as bad as all that.”

  Reed expelled an exhausted breath through his teeth, scrubbing a hand over his face. He recognized the low voice as Raven’s, who wasn’t one to bother him unless the matter was dire. “What is it, then?”

  “Vandals, by the look of it. They’ve pasted pages all over the windows.”

  “Preposterous. There isn’t a man in London who’d dare.” Yet the instant he made the declaration, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. “Pages of what precisely?”

  “I dunno. I just got back from spending the night with a couple of the girls at Miss Molly’s and found a crowd gathered, so thick I had to come in through the back.”

  Naked, Reed stalked stiffly over to the window and yanked open midnight-blue curtains to see the crowd below. Even carriages stopped to have a gawk. His suspicions grew only stronger when he glanced across the street to a certain matrimonial agency.

  Down a few floors, the front door crept open and a face peered out for a second. A pleased-as-punch grin lit up a familiar countenance before the door closed.

  His eyes narrowed. Why, Miss Ainsley Bourne, just what have you done this time?

  * * *

  If Ainsley had known how much fun it would be to wage war on her neighbor, she might have done so when she’d first arrived.

  Grinning, she felt like skipping back to her office. But she refrained, choosing instead to swish her skirts from side to side, like a bell peeling a celebration chorus.

  So Mrs. Darden didn’t think she knew how to have a bit of fun, hmm? Well this was far more enjoyable than any fusty dinner party or parlor game.

  After climbing the stairs to her office, Ainsley sat down in the rose-tufted chair behind her desk and hummed a happy little tune. She didn’t even care that she was essentially ruining the melody through her off-key efforts.

  All that mattered was how she had bested Reed Sterling.

  Scores of servants and laborers traveled this road on the way to the market or the shopfronts where they worked. And from the look of things, every one of them was gawking at the windows of Sterling’s.

  The owner likely wouldn’t even be aware of it for hours to come. After all, the man had to sleep at some point, did he not? And by the time he learned of her subterfuge, word would have already spread throughout London that the former prizefighter had gone a bit soft. Sterling’s certainly would not be considered a club for any hardened sinners, wastrels, and rakes. No, indeed. And the exclusive invitations he sent to the ton’s elite would no longer be held in high regard.

  Smiling to herself, she opened a ledger, ready to double-check the accounting figures. Before she uncapped the ink, however, she heard the front door open and close succinctly.

  Her first thought, of course, was of Reed Sterling and a frisson of wariness mixed with her excitement. Would he come in without knocking?

  She glanced at the clock and instantly decided against it.

  It was far too early for a nocturnal creature to be about. And it would be odd if it were either Jacinda or Briar, for they never arrived an hour before they opened for business. Since they married, they were more apt to run an hour late, instead. Though it could be Mrs. Teasdale. She was always here early—though usually by way of the kitchen door—to have a chat with Mrs. Darden and discover what scones they’d be having on any given day.

  Yet, the more Ainsley listened, she decided that the purposeful footfalls climbing the stairs were not at all like Mrs. Teasdale’s. They sounded heavy, like a man’s.

  “Uncle, is that you so soon? I thought you’d just left for your walk.”

  When there was no response, that frisson shot through again. Was Reed Sterling coming to confront her already? This was not part of the plan. She’d wanted her sisters and uncle around her for this. It was safer that way.

  Not because she was afraid that he would be overly cross with her. No indeed, for she believed he was a man who appreciated a worthy opponent. The reason she wished for her family to be near was because, with an audience, he was less likely to have any reason to touch her. Or to remark on the softness of her skin in that low drawl that made her tingle all over.

  Her pulse quickened at the memory, her breath stuttering. “Mr. Sterling?”

  He did not answer. But she supposed he was just the sort of unmannerly person to simply stride directly into her office. So she stood and smoothed down her skirts.

  She would meet him in the hall, she decided. After all, there was no reason to be in a confined space where the appealing scent of his shaving soap would permeate her every breath. And besides, she would rather have the advantage of being only half a head shorter, instead of allowing him to tower over while she was seated at her desk.

  “Mr. Sterling, if you are here to discuss—”

  Ainsley’s throat closed before she could utter the last words. It wasn’t Reed Sterling standing outside her office.

  It was the monster from her nightmares. Her former betrothed.

  Chapter 9

  “—and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “Are you not glad to see me, Ains?” Nigel Mitchum smiled, his tone all politeness and affability.

  For a moment, Ainsley could only stare in disbelief. Her stomach roiled as flashes of their last encounter flooded her mind—the bitter argument, his bruising grip and sudden weight upon her, his forearm pressing against her throat, the cruel hand wrenching up her skirts . . .

  And like then, she was essentially alone. Mrs. Darden was in the kitchen and Ginny was at the market.

  Trapped in a strange hinterland between that encounter and this one, she could only stammer a response. “Wh-what are you doing here, Mr. Mitchum?”

  “Come now, I will always be Nigel to you.”

  She hated the blatant familiarity of his tone, his practiced charm. Only she knew how changeable he was. How quickly the vilest and cruelest words could spew forth without much alteration in his countenance.

  It was painful to admit how pleased she’d once been to be on the arm of such a handsome man with his tall, athletic frame and trim nut-brown hair. But that pleasure faded. She’d come to dread the crunch of his carriage wheels in the drive of her uncle’s house in Hampshire, the sharp sound of his knock, and the hard, methodic steps he would take from the foyer to the parlor.

  And now he
was here in London.

  When she didn’t respond, he tutted. “Living in a fancy house in London, and you’re suddenly too important to receive a call from me, is that it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Instantly, she despised herself for placating him as she had always done. But the edge to his tenor and the coldness in his gaze sent an icy chill down her spine. She even caught herself backing up a step.

  “Then, what is it? Are you still angry that I broke our betrothal to marry someone else?”

  That wasn’t what had happened at all. Then again, he’d usually found a way to twist the facts of things to shed a far more complimentary light on himself.

  When she’d first noticed this flaw in his character, she’d tried to understand it. She’d believed that he’d had to tell these white lies in order to boost his own ego because he was raised by such critical and demanding parents. Foolishly, for a time, she’d wanted to rescue him from that lack of affection in his parents’ house by showering him with compliments. But the kindness was not reciprocated. In fact, the more of it she gave, the more he’d required.

  By the end, she could not even so much as have a displeased tone without him flying into a rage.

  “I did hear of your marriage,” she said, knowing that it wasn’t wise to keep him waiting for a response.

  The same week she’d moved to London, she’d learned that Nigel had eloped with the seventeen-year-old daughter of a cleric in the neighboring village. The scandal it caused eclipsed the sudden end to their lengthy betrothal. That was likely what he’d intended so no one would look too closely at the reason. Not because he’d thought he was in the wrong, but because he could never admit to failure.

  For the first few months of his marriage, Ainsley had always kept the girl in her prayers, until finally deciding to put Nigel and everything associated with him out of her mind for good.