The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  “You are becoming stuffy in your advancing years,” Beatrice scolded. “Furthermore, what business do you have here?” she asked, too cleverly turning the tables on him.

  He silently cursed. Of course Bea, who missed nothing, wouldn’t be content to let the question about his trips to Oxford Street be.

  “I’m meeting with Father’s man-of-affairs,” he settled for. There, truth. Certainly enough to silence any further—

  “To what end?” she pounced. Then she slowed her steps, paling. “I believed you said Father was merely pretending to be ill.”

  He fell back a step. “Father is fine,” he said in calming tones, while passersby bustled on noisily about them. She studied him a long moment, and then they resumed walking.

  Feeling her gaze on his face, he kept his stare trained forward. “Is it so very shocking that I at my . . . How did you refer to them?” he asked, winging a brow up. “My advancing years? That I should take some interest in the family’s estates.”

  Bea turned a suspicious look up at him. “Why?”

  Ballocks, was there anything she did not see? “Because I’ve failed to do right by my responsibilities before now,” he said quietly, the words spoken with the ease that truth gave them.

  Except, he’d almost abandoned his meeting altogether this morn. He’d almost been the self-absorbed bastard he’d been all these years. He’d almost said no. He’d almost begged off, saying he had other plans, because in a sense he did. With Helena Banbury and their pretend courtship. Now, as they resumed walking and he skimmed his gaze over the rough streets on the fringe of London, he gave thanks that he hadn’t been so selfish in his intentions, because he’d no doubt, knowing Beatrice as he did, she’d have found a way here, herself.

  “Quite sad, isn’t it?” His sister’s quiet inquiry recalled his attention.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand; instead, he looked about the dirtied streets where Charing Cross intersected with St Giles Circus.

  They were red cabbage leaves . . . I’d found something more magnificent than even flowers . . .

  That familiar pressure squeezed about his lungs. This was Helena’s life. One of dark, dank streets and hungry beggars. Robert swallowed hard. Nay, hers had been far worse. Hers had been the streets of St Giles, where the only thing between living and dying in that area was good fortune. And the brothers she’d spoken of yesterday.

  “I expect you hardly think there is anything interesting in visiting a bookshop, Robert.”

  Walking alongside his sister through the growing crowds about Westminster Bridge, with a maid traveling close on their heels, Robert smiled. “Do you think I’m one of those illiterate lords?”

  His sister shot him a look. “Hardly,” she scoffed. “But if you are the rogue the papers purport you to be . . .” By the pregnant pause and long look, she was expecting an answer. Which he assuredly would not oblige her on. “Well, then you do tend to find your enjoyments at your clubs and scandalous events.”

  Robert choked. “What do you know about scandalous events?” He tugged at his cravat. When he’d agreed to accompany Beatrice several days ago, he’d hardly anticipated a discussion with his innocent sister about how he chose to spend his nights.

  “Not enough,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, casting a look about at the lords and ladies picking their way among wagons and shops. She gestured furiously to the small corner shop in the distance. He squinted, reading the crooked wooden sign. Ye Olde Bookshop. “After all, this is my idea of great fun.”

  He made a noncommittal sound. After all, that was quite how a gentleman preferred his sister’s interests to be—wholly unscandalous.

  “What are your clubs like?”

  Robert blinked, as Beatrice’s innocent query cut into his musings. “What are my . . . ?”

  “Clubs like,” she finished. “I confess, I’m quite bored with all the same, tedious events of the ton. I’m conducting research.”

  A memory trickled in of a full, tempting mouth as the spirited nameless vixen had brandished her knife about. Then her words registered. “Conducting research?” he choked. “For what purpose?” Now, this is how a gentleman did not prefer his sister to be.

  “Do not be prudish and straitlaced,” his sister scolded.

  Prudish and straitlaced, he mouthed. Those were assuredly the first time such accusations had ever been leveled at him.

  A frown formed on his lips. So this was why his sister had been seeking him out. A desire for . . . information. Information he’d sooner carve his tongue out than utter for her innocent ears. Yet, it was still safer than speaking to her of the family’s finances. “I am afraid you’ll require research material that is decidedly not from your brother,” he said dryly, ruffling the top of her head.

  Beatrice pursed her lips. “I’m not a child, Robert. Nor do I have the same luxury as a gentleman.”

  “Luxury?” he repeated with a wry twist that only deepened her frown. Were they truly different in the expectations Society had of them? His actions, though freer, were still closely scrutinized and whispered about by gossips and recorded in column sheets.

  “I cannot go about and spread my proverbial wings,” she said, throwing her arms wide. “Not without absolute ruin.”

  The solemnity in her tones elicited another frown. His sister spoke with the same frustration of a lady who’d tired of her lot and station. There was a faint desperation there that could only come after four unsuccessful Seasons. Where most gentlemen relished their unwedded state, ladies largely lived with the hope and expectation of a match.

  He picked around his thoughts, searching for something, anything slightly scandalous but still safe to feed her proverbial interests. “There is a thrill at the wagering tables,” he said at last. Or there had been. Now, more than ever, those once-thrilling enjoyments had begun to grow tiresome.

  Beatrice’s eyes lit, and she leaned close, urging him with her gaze to share more. “Do you play whist or faro or hazard? I suspect you are more of the hazard-playing type,” she prattled, as they continued walking, making their way through the largely empty streets. She cast a look upwards.

  “Hazard,” he supplied.

  She gave a pleased nod. “As I suspected. I overheard Papa speaking to his man-of-affairs about those clubs you visit.”

  He gnashed his teeth. His father was speaking to old Stonely about Robert’s habits. It apparently mattered not at all to either man that Robert had committed himself these weeks now to poring over ledgers and cutting expenditures where he could. Fortunately they reached the small establishment, sparing Robert from answering. He removed his hat and beat it against his leg. His sister paused on the stoop, and cast a questioning look back.

  Robert motioned to her and the lingering servants. “I will allow you the privacy of your research,” he said with a wink. “While I see to my busi—”

  A cry went up somewhere ahead, cutting into his parting.

  He and Beatrice swung their heads as one toward the sound. “What is it?” She stretched her neck about, straining to see.

  He took her by the arm. “It is nothing for a lady’s eyes to see,” he said tightly, neatly steering her toward the entrance of the shop. Never again was she coming here. Ever. Even if he had to assign a bloody guard to her.

  His words earned a deeper frown, as his sister dug in her heels.

  Another muffled shout carried the length of the busy street. He searched his gaze ahead and then swallowed a curse as a colorfully clad dandy brandished his walking cane while a street urchin cowered at his feet. A surge of fury went through Robert. The wind carried over a boy’s sharp cry, as the gentleman brought his cane back and—

  Robert’s blood iced cold as a tall, cloaked figure shoved herself in front of the boy. His insides twisted. “Get inside,” he gritted out, and knowing his sister’s penchant for exploration, he turned to the footman. “See her inside.”

  “Robert?” Beatrice’s concerned voice followed after him.


  He quickened his stride. Mayhap he was seeing the woman everywhere. Mayhap that was all that accounted for his conjuring her here, throwing herself in front of a stranger’s raised cane. Because no woman in her right mind would ever dare risk coming here to these streets and putting herself before harm . . .

  Helena would.

  Bloody hell.

  The knots tightened and with his breath rasping in his ears, Robert broke into a run, shoving through the throng of coarse street folk.

  “You bloody cork-brained bastard,” Helena shouted, glorious in her crimson-cheeked fury, as she shook her fist at the young earl. “What manner of brute are you that you’d put your hands on a child?”

  Lord Whitby, one of the ton’s notorious dandies, stood, mouth agape. Of course, with her elegant muslin cloak and cultured tones, he couldn’t know what to make of being challenged by a lady. “Madam,” he at last sputtered. “This thief lifted my timepiece.”

  Fire flashed in Helena’s eyes, and she put her arms behind her, protectively touching the child. Robert narrowed his eyes as with the faintest flick of her hand, she slipped the timepiece from the boy’s hand. She marched so close to Whitby that their noses nearly touched. “I’m sure you are mistaken.” And had Robert not been studying her movements so closely, he’d have failed to see the flash of gold before it disappeared.

  Whitby scowled. “I assure you I’m not.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Check your pockets.”

  His eyes bulged. “How dare you—?”

  “I demand you check your pockets, sir.” Her sharp cry shook with fury.

  “I am a lord.”

  “I do not care if you’re God in Heaven come to call—” At her escalating pitch, Robert stepped forward.

  “Whitby,” he drawled, even as tension thrummed through him. What in blazes was she thinking risking her safety in this way?

  Because that is the manner of woman she is . . .

  The cluster of people assembled swiveled their gazes to Robert.

  A gasp rang from Helena’s lips and she touched her hand to her breast. “Rob—my lord,” she whispered. Was it shock that filled her expressive eyes? Guilt? What should she have to be guilty of? Did she think he’d condemn her for her intervention? Or did something else bring her here this day . . . ? All number of inquiries tumbled forward, and he thrust them aside. For now. There would be time enough later to put his questions to Helena Banbury.

  The child, with his dirt-stained cheeks, alternated his attention between Helena and Whitby and backed slowly away. Robert rested his hand on the lad’s small, narrow shoulders. “Miss Banbury, a pleasure, as always,” he greeted.

  The Earl of Whitby opened and closed his mouth. He scratched at his head. “You know this chit?”

  The lady darted her eyes about, giving her the look of a doe caught in the hunter’s snare. He positioned himself between her and a path of escape, and then turned his attention to the dandy in his yellow satin knee breeches. “Indeed. My family is quite closely connected with her father’s.” He gave the other man a hard look. “The Duke of Wilkinson.”

  Whitby emitted a strangled cough. He offered a belated bow. Then: “She’s come between me and my timepiece,” the man said in a remarkably brave display. Or stupid.

  “The lady said to check your pocket,” Robert said coolly.

  “The boy lifted . . .” At the hard look Robert fixed on him, the man gulped audibly, and patted his jacket.

  “See? It is as I—?” The man froze, and shook his head. “I don’t . . . ?” He scratched at his puzzled brow. “I didn’t have it a moment ago,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushed, as the small crowd dispersed.

  “I take it the matter is settled?” he drawled, winging an eyebrow up. The street urchin wiggled, and he tightened his grip.

  “The apology,” Helena piped in. They looked to her. “He owes the boy an apology.” She tipped her chin up a notch.

  “Wait, just a moment,” Whitby began, the color heightening in his cheeks. “I do not apologize to street—”

  Robert glowered him into silence. Granted, with her sleight of hand, she’d maneuvered the stolen timepiece back onto the man’s person, but what manner of life had she known, as a lady outside of the peerage?

  “What is your name?” he gently asked the boy, aching inside for all Helena had known, and now this boy.

  The boy, with his gaunt cheeks and tired eyes, jutted his chin at a mutinous angle, and Robert’s heart pulled. That defensive, proud gesture so very much Helena’s. “James,” he said, reluctance drawing out that utterance.

  “An apology for James,” Robert said tersely.

  Some emotion flared powerful in Helena’s eyes, and then she dropped her gaze to the boy’s head.

  “I apologize,” Whitby bit out.

  Robert inclined his head. “Oh, and Whitby?” he halted, as the dandy turned to go. “If you raise that cane or a single hand to another man, woman, or child, I’ll beat you with it. Are we clear?”

  The earl emitted a strangled choke and with his cheeks flushed, he gave a jerky nod.

  “That will be all, Whitby,” Robert said in austere tones.

  Dropping a tight bow, the other man wheeled on his heel and sprinted down the street.

  Robert fished out a fat purse and handed it to James. “You are, of course, free to continue picking pockets until you find yourself swinging from a hangman’s noose.” He paused. “Or you can use that coin and have a hack deliver you to the Marquess of Westfield’s residence in Mayfair.” Robert fished around for a card and finding one, he held it out.

  The child jerked away from his hand, and eyed Robert with thick suspicion in his jaded eyes. “Who is the Marquess of Westfield?”

  “He is,” Helena said softly, and the boy jerked his angry gaze to her.

  “It is your choice,” Robert said, motioning to the coin in his scarred hands. Helena’s hands. Nausea roiled in his belly. What suffering had she known . . . ?

  “It’s fair work?” the child demanded. “Ye ain’t one of those fancy lords lookin’ te bugger a boy?”

  His gut clenched. Is this the hell endured by children on the streets? Never more did he feel the sting of deserved shame greater than this moment.

  Helena spoke in affirmative tones. “His Lordship is not one of those lords.”

  “Wot do ye know of it?”

  Yes, what did she know of it? Robert fisted his hands, hating a world in which Helena knew the extent of ugliness that existed.

  The proud young woman fell to a knee, and said something close to the boy’s ear. His eyes went wide in his dirt-stained face, and then slowly, he took the card.

  The other man gone, Robert turned his attention back to a pale Helena. Since the moment he’d stumbled into her hallway at the club, the lady had always met his eyes with a bold, unwavering strength. Until now. Now she looked up at the sky, the ground. “Miss Banbury, you are incapable of doing anything without drama,” he said with forced levity. All the while the terror that had threatened his sanity the moment she’d stepped between the child and Whitby’s cane slowly receded. “Do you know,” he said, and shrinking the space between them, he spoke in a hushed whisper. “If you’d wished to see me this day, you needn’t have gone through all the difficulty. I would have gladly obliged.” He held his arm out.

  Helena opened and closed her mouth several times, staring at his fingers as though she’d never before seen a hand. “Why did you do that?” she asked softly.

  Annoyance stirred. Did she believe him to be one of those self-important bastards who’d simply ignore the plight of a child on the street? Then, would you have truly seen the world around you if it hadn’t been for her . . . ?

  Robert leaned down, and put his mouth close to her ear. “Should I have called the constable on the boy for lifting that timepiece?”

  She flared her eyes.

  He captured her hand in his, raising her knuckle to his lips. “You are quite d
eft with your fingers, Helena,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over them.

  Some of the tension left her narrow shoulders and she faintly smiled. “Thank you,” she said, “for helping me and the child.”

  He lifted his lips in a cynical smile. “There is no thanks necessary.” Was her opinion of him so low that she believed he’d have ever stood, a silent observer to the plight of a defenseless woman and child? “Despite what you may believe, madam, I am not a monster.”

  There was a stricken look in her eyes. “I do not believe you are a monster.” And he’d wager his future ducal title that that was the closest Helena Banbury had ever managed in terms of a compliment for any man. She gave a wave of her hand. “But you did not just help the boy.”

  “James,” he amended.

  “You did not just help James.” She paused and looked up. “You offered him employment.”

  “I did.” They continued to make their way through the streets, onward to Ye Olde Bookshop.

  “Why send him in a hired hack with a purse?” Far greater wariness than any young woman her age should possess filled her tone.

  “I expect if the boy truly wishes to begin a new life of honorable employment, he will think on it, and ultimately take the steps. I’ve merely given him the means to do so,” he said, keeping his gaze ahead. “The decision is his.”

  As they continued down the street, silence fell between them. When it became apparent Helena had little intention of speaking to the very obvious question, he said, “Well?”

  A puzzled expression marring her sharp features, she looked up at him.

  “Do you truly think I’ll not wonder about the coincidence in meeting you here this morning, madam?”

  Her cheeks pinkened as they stopped before the shop where he’d left Beatrice and her maid. Then her eyes flew to the sign dangling above their heads. “The bookshop,” she blurted. “I was here for . . . a book.” She narrowed her eyes into thin slits. “And what are you doing here, my lord?”