The Rogue to Ruin EPB

by Lorret, Vivienne

  Chapter 33

  “Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Sterling’s was an absolute crush. Walking from one cardroom into the next, he was swimming upstream, the flow of bodies always pushing against him. It seemed that every man who’d ever received an invitation was here—one hand on a brimming goblet and the other on a bulging coin purse.

  The red hazard room pulsated with men dressed in their finery, sweating and cursing, laughing and cheering, and losing their shirts.

  It was the best night Sterling’s had ever had.

  With Pickerington at the door, Finch came up beside Reed and cuffed him on the shoulder. “I cannot understand what you could be brooding over, Sterling. Why are you not mingling with your rich guests and crowing about the fight you will win against Savage?”

  “I have been,” Reed said in automatic defense. “This is a capital night.”

  “And yet you speak the words with the same cheerful intonation as a man set before a band of pirates armed with blunderbusses.”

  The truth was, he’d been having second thoughts about the match ever since he’d left Knightsbury. “What do you think Trudie would do if you ever took up fighting again?”

  “Box my ears,” Finch said. Then his expression turned serious. “She’d likely pack up the girls and move to Plymouth with her mother.”

  Reed nodded thoughtfully. “I bet she would.”

  “From your expression, I gather that your new bride is equally opposed to pugilism?”

  Before Reed could offer a reply, Raven pushed his way through the crowd and handed him a pristine white calling card. “Did you actually extend an invitation to this bastard?”

  Reed read the single name in the black letters: Savage.

  “His lordship is in your office,” Raven supplied coolly, appraising Reed as one did a stranger in a dark alleyway. “He specifically asked not to cause a spectacle. Wants to speak with you in private. Claims it’s an urgent matter . . . ‘between friends.’ Havin’ tea with Savage on Sundays, Mr. Matchmaker?”

  Reed grinned darkly and cuffed Raven’s shoulder. “Just for that, I’m going to tell my wife and her sisters that you’re looking to marry. They’ll arrange so many teas with proper young ladies that you’ll beg me to end the torment. And speaking of tea, did you take that parcel to my wife?”

  Raven nodded but looked stricken and pale. “You wouldn’t really do that to me, would you?”

  Turning away to shoulder through the crowd, Reed left him to ponder his fate.

  * * *

  Ainsley stared down at the parcel with dismay. From the post stamp in the corner, it had come from Knightsbury. Reed must have intended to give it to her when they were still at Harrowfield.

  Drat! Why did he keep doing this to her, making her love him more and more?

  Her eyes misted over as she picked up the once-broken teapot from the day he’d first kissed her. Now the shards were lovely works of art, refitted together with seams of shimmering gold. And beneath it in the straw lay a card that read: Proof that all things can be mended. R.

  She noted that it wasn’t signed, With all my love, your husband. Or even, With great esteem and affection. No. Instead, it was just R.

  Placing the teapot back inside the crate, she swiped a tear from her cheek.

  Could all things be mended?

  She tried not to put so much pressure on the outcome of tonight, but failed miserably. If Sterling’s was a success, then Reed wouldn’t have to fight. And she would never have to think of him being hurt, or worse . . .

  Needing a distraction from her thoughts, she busied herself with locking up the offices for the evening. But when she returned to hers, she saw that it wasn’t empty.

  “Mrs. Teasdale,” she said with surprise. “Or rather . . . I’m not sure what to call you any longer.”

  “You could always call me Mum, but given your reserved nature, Rosamunde would be just as nice, too,” she said, smiling up from the knitting in her lap, needles clacking away.

  “Thank you, Rosamunde.”

  As Ainsley sat at her desk, she studied her mother-in-law with fresh perspective. She’d gone through a terrible ordeal with her second husband, yet she was kind and caring. Not only that, but she still found a reason to love. Married four times, and she wanted another chance.

  The woman might very well be batty, but she was batty in the best possible way.

  “Besides, my full name—Rosamunde Sterling-Wilcox-Teasdale-Stilton—is something of a mouthful.”

  “What brings you here this evening?”

  She offered a half shrug. “A feeling, I suppose. Can’t explain it. I just had the need to be close by. So I came for a chat with my favorite daughter-in-law. Have you ever thought about knitting, dear?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have. I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” Ainsley eyed the misshapen bundle of red yarn and tried to imagine what it might possibly become.

  “Well, that’s not the point of it,” Mrs. Teasdale said with authority. “Knitting is like love, you see. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. Give it everything you have and something will come of it.”

  Ainsley stared, dumbfounded by her mother-in-law’s insight. It was uncanny how she said the most peculiar things but turned them into brilliance.

  “So, I see you’re looking over my son’s application.”

  Ainsley started, and guiltily covered it with her hands. “Oh, I was simply . . . going to . . . put it away.”

  Rosamunde smiled down at her knitting. “I suppose you’re wondering why I kept my answers so vague.”

  Name: Lancelot

  Interests: helping people

  Beliefs: some good, some bad

  Income: a fair amount

  Property: yes

  Ainsley traced the page with her fingertip, the corner of her mouth curving fondly. The answers, while ambiguous, were oddly accurate. “I presume it is because you wanted to keep it a secret?”

  “Partly,” she agreed. “But mostly I just wanted a reason to come back and get to know you. After all, I had an inkling that you were going to marry my son. Of course, I didn’t think it would’ve taken this long.”

  “But you’ve been coming here for a year,” Ainsley said, surprised. “How could you have thought I would marry your son all that time ago?”

  A mysterious grin alighted in her eyes. “Call it mother’s intuition.”

  “Well, you’re very good.”

  “That’s what I keep telling that boy of mine. Never underestimate the power of a determined mother. Now, do you think my first grandchild will like a red muffler or a blue one?”

  “Oh, I . . . um . . . I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll make both. You never know. After all, Reed’s father had a twin, and these things tend to skip down the line like a flat stone on a pond.”

  Ainsley blushed, wanting to change the topic. “Did Reed always want to become a pugilist?”

  “I’d say that boxing found him,” Rosamunde said. “Had a terrible time in school. Those highborn boys weren’t very kind at all. But Reed never gave up. Every day he got a little better and a little stronger. Now some mothers might have worried that their son wanted to be a better fighter to hurt people—especially after what he’d been through—but not him.” She shook her head and sat up straighter, pride in her gaze. “Always had a gentle soul. In fact, I think part of him felt a little sad after every victory.”

  “Then why did he do it?”

  “Because he could never be dependent on anyone other than himself. Even though I offered him a settlement, he refused to take a farthing from Lord Bray’s estate. He took a loan for his education, he’d said, then paid it back, right and proper. To him, that money was tainted—a reminder of how people treated you when they thought you were nothing but common rubbish. When they thought you didn’t even matter.”

>   Tears gathered in Ainsley’s eyes. She knew a bit about how that felt.

  How many times had Reed raised his defenses, labeling himself as common born? She hadn’t paid it any heed because it was never something she thought about.

  In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not a gentleman, highness. Just a man, and a common-born one at that.

  Clearly, it mattered to him. Yet, she’d never told him, unequivocally, that it didn’t matter to her. And when she did, she hoped that he wouldn’t need to fight to prove himself anymore.

  * * *

  Entering his office, Reed saw Savage standing at the window. “When I extended an invitation, I thought I’d find you in the center of the hazard room, demanding a fight at the top of your lungs. And I was going to grant your—”

  “Don’t toy with me,” Savage said without facing him, “not when I’m this close to letting everything fall apart for you. I was fully prepared, mind you, to stand back and laugh at your complete societal annihilation. But my bloody conscience brought me here, instead.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  On a strained exhale, Savage turned away from the window. The flickering light from the single taper on the desk cast eerie shadows over his face, making him look haunted.

  He raked a hand through his pale hair. “Apparently, Mitchum is touting a twisted tale, marking you as the villain for absconding with his intended, Miss Bourne.”

  “The blackguard can spin as many stories as he likes. I know the truth,” Reed said with surprising calm that belied the rushing of blood in his ears at the mention of Mitchum.

  “He’s also saying that he came to London to contest the banns.”

  “No one would believe that if they saw what he did to the townhouse.”

  “Yes, but you were too thorough, keeping it all quiet for the sake of her reputation.” Savage pointed an accusatory finger. “Anyone who knows the truth won’t dare speak it for fear of inciting your wrath. Hell, the only reason I know it is from your man Teddy. Who, by the by, cannot tell a lie to save his life. You really ought to be more choosey with your foundlings.”

  Tension built at the nape of Reed’s neck. “It’s Mitchum’s word against mine and I have men who will vouch for me.”

  “Men you pay a salary to will hardly matter. Once word spreads, most gentlemen will be on his side. He’s quite convincing when he wants to be. He has proof as well. A church leaflet with his name and hers, announcing their nuptials. And worse. . . . Mitchum claims that she is carrying his unborn child.”

  “That is a lie,” Reed growled, slamming his fist down on his desk.

  “I suspected as much, considering that you’ve been watching over Miss Bourne for nearly two years.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I’ve always found your patience unnerving, you know. At school, you never came after any of us, no matter how many insults we’d sling your way. I can’t speak for the others, but I never gave a fig about who your parents were or weren’t. I just wanted you to fight me. After all, it was my father who killed Lord Bray. You knew that, and yet you never came after me to settle the score.”

  “Believe me, your father did my mother and me a favor.”

  Savage blinked. “So the rumors were true. Is that why you never unleashed that rage I saw lurking in your eyes?”

  Reed nodded absently.

  “You bastard. You might have said something and saved me years of guilt.”

  Ignoring him, Reed paced the room. “Hasn’t Mitchum done enough to her?”

  “It’s you he wants. A proper fight. He has it in his head that he’ll be the one to defeat the great Reed Sterling.”

  Reed glared at Savage. “I wonder who fixed that notion into him.”

  “What purpose does it serve to cast blame ex post facto? And you could have warned me that he’s insane.”

  “I believe I did.” Reed scoffed. Then, lost in thought, he muttered absently, “But you were always foolhardy, and just as overzealous with your left hook.”

  “Bloody hell.” Savage shook his head. “Well, the point is, you’ll have to fight him.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ll make it disappear.” I’ll make him disappear, too.

  “There are too many people who’ve heard his rants. They are likely on their way now.”

  In that precise instant, Finch stormed into the room. “There’s a mob gathering out front and it’s being led by—”

  “Mitchum.” Reed stalked to the window. Sure enough, that prig was standing on the pavement. Crossing the room, he was eager to tear into the blighter. “He’s not going to get away with this.”

  Finch took him by the shoulders. “That won’t settle an issue of this magnitude.”

  Reed didn’t care. Mitchum was going to pay one way or the other.

  “You must demand satisfaction,” Savage added quickly. “If you don’t, you may as well kiss Sterling’s farewell. No man would respect you enough to walk through your doors. Not only that, but your wife would become a pariah.”

  At that, Reed stopped.

  Finch’s hands fell from his shoulders. “I’m afraid Lord Savage is correct. While you may be able to recover Sterling’s in time—with enough boxing matches and lotteries—the Bourne Matrimonial Agency would cease to exist.”

  The agency and her family were all that mattered to her. And she was all that mattered to him.

  Clearly, there wasn’t another way. Reed looked to Finch, resigned. “You’ll stop me from killing him, won’t you?”

  His friend nodded gravely.

  “Very well,” he breathed. “Bring in Mitchum. We’ll have this out, once and for all.”

  Chapter 34

  “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Rosamunde was just attempting to teach Ainsley how to knit when Uncle Ernest rushed by her office door. A moment later, she heard the sounds of porcelain smashing.

  She lurched to her feet, hurrying into the corridor. The door to his office was ajar, light flickering from within. Then came another crash just as she came upon the scene of chaos. “Uncle!”

  Both urns were shattered on the floor, plumage scattered. A disarray of papers and broken pens littered the floor. An armchair overturned. And Uncle Ernest looked like a madman, wrenching open the drawers and letting them collapse, unheeded.

  “Where is my sword?” he shouted, color rising to a beet hue. “It wasn’t in my bedchamber. Mr. Hatman assured me that it was downstairs. And that cad isn’t going to get away this time.”

  Ainsley blinked, thoroughly confused. “Mr. Hatman, a cad? What could he have possibly done?”

  But her uncle didn’t hear her. He continued his frantic search, muttering under his breath about honor and justice and doing whatever he must to protect his family.

  Rosamunde swept past her and entered Bedlam. Without uttering a word, she stood toe to toe with him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him soundly.

  Uncle Ernest tipped back on his heels, owl eyed. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “You were off your rocker,” Mrs. Teasdale said with a light pat to his cheek. “Something had to be done.”

  He drew in a breath, his color returning to normal. “Well . . . thank you . . . Rosamunde.”

  “My pleasure.” And then she kissed him again before taking a step back.

  Ainsley shook her head, the last minute of her life leaving her more than stunned. Her uncle seemed to be equally perplexed. “Why are you looking for your sword?”

  His attention swerved to Ainsley. “I have some distressing news that has to do with your husband and Mr. Mitchum. My dear, you may want to be seated for this.”

  Ainsley didn’t sit. She stood on her feet and faced the news directly. Even so, her knees wobbled as her uncle told her about Nigel’s lies and the accusations he’d fired upon Reed.

  “They are having a duel of honor in Sterling’s boxing ring as we speak.”

  She forced
herself to be pragmatic. No matter what her wishes were, Reed had to fight. Whether it was for her honor, his own, or for the sake of Sterling’s, it didn’t matter. The match was happening, regardless. “But there’s one thing that I cannot understand. Why were you looking for your sword?”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of Mr. Mitchum walking away without justice. I’ve heard he’s a rather formidable opponent.”

  A cold chill washed over her and she shivered to the soles of her feet.

  “You’re frightening the poor girl with all this talk.” Rosamunde tutted, stepping around the carnage in the room to take hold of Ainsley’s hand. “My son is an exceptional fighter. Lightning quick, they used to say.”

  Panic rushed in Ainsley’s ears. He wasn’t fast any longer. And Nigel would use that to his own advantage.

  “There’s no need to fret, my dear,” Uncle Ernest said, coming up beside Rosamunde. “After all, Mr. Sterling has your heart and there is nothing that gives a man greater power.”

  But Reed didn’t know that he had her heart. She’d never told him that she loved him. Loved everything about him . . . Even the prizefighter he once was.

  Chapter 35

  “I may have lost my heart but not my self-control.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  His house. His rules. His challenge to fight Mitchum for the sake of honor. So then why didn’t Reed feel in control?

  He pushed through the crowd, bumping shoulders, his focus on the ring straight ahead. No one would know that his usual sense of calm assurance had abandoned him. His palms were sweaty, his ears ringing.

  Mitchum was already there, dressed like a dandy in his blue-frocked coat and high-necked cravat. The younger son of a blueblood, trying to look the part. He had a pair of sycophants cooing over him as well—one taking the coat from his shoulder, and the other offering a spoon of snuff.

  Mitchum took a quick snort and pinched his nose before slowly rolling up his sleeves to the elbow.

  Reed wasn’t about to pretend this was a gentleman’s fight. So he stripped his shirtsleeves over his head and tossed them to the floor, standing bare chested.