When You Wish Upon a Rogue--A Debutante Diaries Novel

by Anna Bennett

  For the first time since she’d said goodbye to him, Sophie breathed a little easier. She still longed to see his warm, brown eyes, to hear his deep, gruff voice, and to lay her head against his hard, muscled chest. But at least she knew he was going to be all right—and she took some comfort from knowing she might have played a small part in initiating his healing.

  “You must let me know when the babe arrives,” Sophie said to Violet. “I can hardly wait to find out if you shall have a boy or a girl.”

  “Will you visit us?” Violet asked, her dark eyes pleading.

  “I’ll try,” Sophie said, but she knew it would be difficult. Especially if Violet was living at Warshire Manor. “In the meantime, I’ve gathered a few things I thought might come in handy.”

  She stood, retrieved a basket from behind the counter, and handed it to the young pregnant woman. Sophie had used the last of her money from the newspaper to buy some swaddling blankets, baby booties, bonnets, and a rattle. Violet thanked her profusely, then hugged her and Sarah before waddling out of the shop.

  Sarah remained behind, helping Sophie wash a few dishes, straighten the furniture, and set the tailor’s shop to rights. But when the young widow glanced at the clock and realized it was almost eleven o’clock, she clucked her tongue and scooped up her shawl. “I had better go before my sister thinks I’ve left London on a holiday.”

  “Take care of yourself and your sweet girls.” Sophie handed her a few wrapped packages that contained dolls for the girls and a pretty hair comb that she’d known would look lovely in Sarah’s auburn curls.

  They clung to each other for a few seconds, and then Sarah pressed a kiss to her cheek and dashed out the door, into the night.

  Sophie took one last turn about the deserted shop, so full of memories. It was where she’d prepared valerian-root tea for Reese and where they’d wagered buttons on a game of vingt-et-un. It was where she’d watched him sleep and where she’d started to give him her heart.

  And she was never coming back.

  She swallowed the walnut-sized lump in her throat and gathered all her things—her reticule and bonnet, the tulips, and the journal Sarah had given her. She turned down all the lanterns and was about to blow out the last candle on the counter—then paused.

  Next to the candlestick sat the little potted ivy plant that had been brown and sickly on her first visit to the shop. Now boasting four-foot trailing stems and thick green foliage, it made her think of Reese’s transformation. And she wanted it.

  Deciding he wouldn’t mind, she grabbed the clay pot, juggling it with the other items in her arms, and blew out the candle. She made her way to the door, locked it behind her, and slipped into the dark alley, walking briskly toward the spot one block over where she normally hailed a hackney to Fiona’s house. Only, tonight, she was going home so that she’d be well rested for her engagement ball tomorrow night.

  She was thinking of the ball and all she needed to do the next day as she rounded the corner—and ran directly into a tall man walking in the opposite direction. She slammed into his chest, and the impact momentarily knocked the wind out of her, but she managed to remain upright. She blinked up at the man, irrationally hopeful that she’d see Reese’s chiseled cheekbones and full lips.

  But the man was a stranger—an older gentleman with graying hair and distinct scowl lines bracketing his mouth. “Forgive me,” he said with a haughty glare. “Are you all right?”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Sophie nodded vigorously and averted her gaze. “Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled, before striding away as fast as her legs would carry her.

  “Wait, miss!” the man shouted behind her, but Sophie kept her head down and refused to stop running, even when she heard him call out a second time. She didn’t think that the stranger had gotten a good look at her face, and she certainly didn’t want to provide him with another opportunity to identify her or, worse, inquire as to what she’d been doing. So she sprinted two blocks before hailing a cab. Her chest heaved as she scrambled into the coach and slammed the door. She told herself she was safe, but all the way home, her heart pounded as though Cerberus was chasing her, his huge canines gnashing at her heels.

  She didn’t breathe easy again until she’d reached her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. She washed her face, dressed in her nightgown and climbed into her bed, thinking back on the evening. Despite the frightening encounter in the alley, all had gone well.

  Closing her eyes and nestling her cheek against her pillow, she tried to soothe herself with thoughts of the waterfall and the swing and the feel of Reese’s lips on hers. She’d almost drifted off when an icy-cold finger traced a terrifyingly chilling path down her spine.

  Sweet Jesus. The journal.

  She bolted upright and leaped out of her bed, praying her suspicion was wrong. She grasped at each of the items she’d left on top of her bureau. Her reticule, bonnet, the potted ivy plant, and the tulips that she’d popped into a vase were all there.

  But the journal that Sarah had given her was not.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Her gut sank and she started yanking open drawers, rifling through gloves and petticoats and stockings. Maybe she’d stowed the book among her clothes earlier, worried that her mother or sister might discover it. But the journal wasn’t in her bureau.

  Panic rising in her chest, she dashed to her desk and then to her armoire, searching every corner of her bedchamber.

  God help her. The journal—the very sweet, thoughtful, and highly incriminating journal—was nowhere to be found.

  A scream began to rise in her throat, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

  She must have dropped the book when she’d collided with the stranger.

  And now, the most closely held secrets of the Debutante Underground—including the names of every one of its members—had been exposed for all of London to see.

  Chapter 32

  Reese swiped a sleeve across his brow as he walked up his drive. He’d spent the morning inspecting a large cottage on the edge of his property. His great-aunt had once lived in the charming but now-neglected house, which had been shuttered two decades ago when she’d died.

  In his pocket, he had a list of improvements needed to make the cottage habitable, including repairs to the thatched roof, a fresh coat of paint inside and out, and a thorough top-to-bottom scrubbing. But the house had good bones—plenty of windows, spacious rooms, a yard with plenty of sturdy trees for climbing and lots of open space for running.

  Perfect for what he had in mind.

  Besides, he needed another project. Now that the garden had been restored to its former glory, he required something to occupy him. Something all-consuming, so that he wouldn’t think about Sophie and the gaping hole she’d left in his heart.

  He trudged along the gravel drive, squinting at the manor house as it came into view. It almost looked as though there were a coach-and-four parked in front of the entrance. He held a hand to his brow, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare, and sure enough, it appeared he had a visitor.

  He immediately thought of Sophie. Maybe she’d decided to call off the engagement and cancel tonight’s ball. Maybe she was upset and needed someone to talk to.

  He started walking faster and faster until he was jogging, and he didn’t stop until he was sprinting up the steps to his front door, where his butler, Thomas, was waiting. “There you are, my lord,” he said, jowls wagging nervously. Clearly, the staff had become unaccustomed to visitors of any sort.

  “Who’s here?” Reese said, handing his hat to the older man. “I didn’t recognize the coach.” But he still hoped against hope it was Sophie’s.

  “It’s a gentleman.”

  Reese deflated. He was on the verge of asking Thomas to send the visitor away when the butler added, “Lord Singleton.”

  Shit. Reese froze. He couldn’t think of a single reason that the marquess would want to see him. They’d never even been formally introduced, and, as far as Reese k
new, the only thing that they had in common was … well, Sophie.

  “Where is he?” Reese asked.

  “In the drawing room,” Thomas intoned. “I informed him that you were out and asked if he’d like to leave his card, but he insisted on waiting.” The butler shuffled his feet nervously. “He seemed rather agitated.”

  “Did he?” Reese said, his jaw twitching. If Singleton had somehow found out about him and Sophie, he might have come to Warshire Manor to challenge Reese to a duel. If so, Reese was more than happy to meet him at dawn.

  As long as Sophie was not the object of the marquess’s anger. As long as she was safe.

  “Shall I send for tea?” Thomas asked.

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Reese said. “The marquess and I don’t have much to say to each other. He won’t be staying long.”

  Reese strode up the stairs and into the drawing room, where he found his guest sitting on a long sofa, tapping his knee, and scowling at nothing in particular.

  “Singleton,” Reese said, keeping his tone low and even, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  The marquess stood and faced Reese, chest to chest, while each man silently took the measure of the other. Reese had to concede that Singleton was an inch taller and twice as polished, from the obviously coiffed hair on his head to the unnatural shine of his boots. “Warshire,” the marquess said at last, extending a hand. “How do you do?”

  Reese tried to hide his surprise. Singleton wasn’t stewing with the fury of a man looking for a fight. He was acting rather … civil. Reese decided to play along. “Well enough. Can I interest you in a brandy?”

  The marquess gave a grateful nod, so Reese strolled to the sideboard and poured a snifter for each of them while Singleton started to pace. When Reese handed him a glass, the marquess tossed it back, emptying it in one swallow. He carefully set the snifter on a table and pulled on the sleeves of his jacket before speaking. “I’ve recently learned that some distasteful business is being conducted out of a building that you own.”

  Reese arched a brow. “And what building might that be?” he drawled.

  “I believe it used to be a gentleman’s shop of some sort. I checked the property records earlier, and apparently it belongs to you.”

  The hairs on Reese’s arms stood on end. “I’m vaguely aware of the vacant building,” he lied. “I can assure you that no one is currently using it.”

  “I have reason to believe otherwise,” Singleton said. “My uncle was fond of the old shop and happened to be walking by it late last night when he saw a light coming from the windows. He thought it was odd, so he stopped to investigate.”

  Holy hell. Reese didn’t know exactly what Sophie did at the tailor’s shop on Friday nights, but he did know two things. First, it was important to her. And second, it was imperative that no one discovered what she was doing.

  Reese flashed a cajoling, conspiratorial grin. “By any chance was your uncle coming from the pub after a long night of drinking?”

  The marquess frowned. “No.”

  “My building is empty,” Reese said firmly. “But then, many of the shop fronts look similar. I’m sorry to inform you that your uncle is mistaken.”

  Singleton pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry to inform you,” he countered, “that your property is being used—perhaps without your knowledge—for nefarious purposes.”

  Reese chuckled, couldn’t help it. The thought of Sophie involved with anything nefarious was ludicrous. Still, he’d have to warn her at the first available opportunity that the shop was no longer a safe place for her to conduct her meetings.

  “This is no laughing matter, I assure you,” Singleton said, clearly affronted. “I have good cause to believe that your building is the headquarters of a highly radical, subversive group—an organization known as the Debutante Underground.”

  Reese spewed his mouthful of brandy halfway across the drawing room. “I beg your pardon,” he said, cocking one ear toward the marquess. “Did you say the Debutante Underground?”

  Singleton lifted his impeccably clean-shaven chin. “I did,” he said imperiously. “Apparently, that’s the name given to devotees of The Debutante’s Revenge.”

  Reese arched a sardonic brow. “And what, exactly, is The Debutante’s Revenge?”

  The marquess clucked his tongue. “Been living under a rock, have you?”

  “Something like that,” Reese said, unapologetic.

  “It’s a weekly column in the London Hearsay,” Singleton explained. “And the authoress’s latest installment is her most controversial yet.”

  “How so?” Reese asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

  “It encourages the use of witchcraft to shrink a man’s…”—the marquess swallowed, clearly uncomfortable—“… manly parts.”

  Reese barked a laugh, grateful he hadn’t been drinking this time. “Don’t tell me you’re worried, Singleton.”

  “Laugh all you want,” the marquess said. “But the authoress and her followers grow bolder and more devious by the day.” With that, he tossed a folded copy of the London Hearsay onto Reese’s lap.

  Deciding he’d humor Singleton, Reese picked up the newspaper and glanced at the large sketch accompanying the column. His eyes were immediately drawn to the mask-wearing woman who held the flowering vine in her palm. Though most of her face was hidden, he knew deep in his bones that the woman was Sophie. Somehow, the artist had managed to capture her natural grace, innate kindness, and quiet confidence—all the things he loved about her.

  He took a minute to read the accompanying column, doing his best not to smile. When he’d finished, he glared at Singleton. “I don’t think the author presents a danger to society. And this column doesn’t say anything about casting spells or shrinking cocks.”

  “Not explicitly,” the marquess conceded. “But I think it’s fair to say that the threat is implied.”

  “Personally, I see nothing objectionable here.” Reese crisply slapped the paper on the table, hoping to signal the end of the conversation. “Even if I did, I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve already told you that no illicit meetings are taking place in my building.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Singleton said ominously. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. “My uncle bumped into a woman outside of your abandoned shop, and she dropped this in the alley.”

  Reese shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “It looks like a journal. Don’t tell me you object to women keeping journals.”

  “Not as a rule, no,” Singleton said, oblivious to Reese’s sarcasm. “But there’s one name that is written in here again and again, and it may refer to someone who is … rather close to me.”

  An odd tingling stole across Reese’s neck. “Perhaps you should take the matter up with that person.”

  “I am hoping it’s merely a coincidence,” the marquess confessed. “Only given names are written in the journal, and this one is not terribly uncommon.”

  Reese stared at the book in Singleton’s hand, fairly certain that it belonged to Sophie—and that she would not want her fiancé to have it. Reese was tempted to snatch it away from the marquess and light it on fire, but even he could tell the situation called for subtlety.

  And a little finesse.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Reese began, pretending concern. “I will stop by the shop myself later today and check that the locks are secure. If there’s any sign that the property has been disturbed or any clues that would lead me to believe a clandestine meeting has taken place there, I shall inform you at once. Perhaps we can uncover the mastermind behind this plot to emasculate the men of London.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Singleton exhaled as though he was relieved to have finally found an ally. “I’m hosting a ball tonight,” he said. “You should put in an appearance.”

  At Sophie’s engagement ball? He’d rather be chained to a rock and have his liver eaten by
an irate eagle. “Thanks, but I do my best to avoid balls and social engagements in general.” Reese leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “May be so bold as to make a suggestion?”

  The marquess nodded warily. “Of course.”

  “I would not discuss your suspicions or share the contents of the journal with anyone else—not until we’re able to gather conclusive evidence. If the women realize that we’re close to uncovering their scheme, they’ll simply go, well, farther underground. Besides, we don’t want to falsely charge anyone—especially the person who is close to you.”

  “True, true,” Singleton said, frowning. “Although time is of the essence.”

  “I feel certain we’ll get to the bottom of the matter quickly,” Reese assured him. “Maybe even before tonight.”

  “That would be helpful.” The marquess cast a distasteful look at the journal, then tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He stood and shook Reese’s hand. “Thank you, Warshire.”

  Reese nodded and walked with him as he shuffled out of the room. “Glad to be of assistance.”

  Halfway to the door, the marquess froze, his boots nailed to the floor. “One more thing,” he said, turning to Reese. “Would you happen to know a woman with the first name Sophie? A cousin or other family member, perhaps? Maybe even a member of your staff?”

  Reese kept his face impassive, paused for several seconds, then shook his head. “It’s hardly an unusual name, but no. I’m afraid I don’t have much family, and I’m not aware of anyone on my staff who goes by Sophie. Why do you ask?”

  Singleton pressed his lips into a thin line. “Let’s just say that the name appears quite often in here.” He tapped the journal in his chest pocket. “I’d wager that finding this particular Sophie is the key to unlocking all the secrets of the Debutante Underground—and putting an end to its twisted sorcery.”

  Shit. Reese scrambled for something, anything, to plant a seed of doubt in Singleton’s feeble mind. Shrugging, he said, “I suspect that an organization as devious as this one could use code names to protect their identities.”