When the Rogue Returns

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Then she collapsed on top of him, spent and limp. He clutched her to him, both of them breathing hard. She could feel the racing of his heart against her breast, where her own heart clamored like the Scottish drums at a military tattoo. His hands stroked her bare thighs, calming her, settling her.

  When at last his breathing slowed and his heartbeat steadied, he pressed his mouth to her ear to whisper, “And now I know what makes you come.”

  A laugh bubbled up inside her. Turning to kiss his stubbled cheek, she whispered back, “And I know the same for you.”

  He chuckled. “Then I hope we’ll be doing this more often.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, flashing him a coy smile.

  The kiss he gave her then offered promises that she prayed he could keep. Because there was still so much unsettled between them. So much to worry about.

  When the kiss ended, the first of those things burst out of her. “I suppose you’ve had a lot of experience at doing this with women,” she murmured, smoothing back a lock of his hair, unable to meet his gaze.

  He stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been a long time since we . . . Surely you weren’t . . . celibate all that time.”

  “Would you believe me if I said I was?” he asked softly.

  Her gaze flew to his. “I don’t know. You did think I had abandoned you, so—”

  “You thought the same of me,” he pointed out. “Yet you remained faithful.”

  “I’m a woman. It’s . . . different for me.”

  “Is it?” A faint disappointment showed in his eyes. When he set her off of him onto the sofa so he could fasten up his drawers and trousers, she thought he wasn’t going to answer her.

  But as she put her own clothing to rights, he draped his arm about her shoulders. “Perhaps it’s time I tell you about my family.” Then he drew her close. “My mother’s name was Elizabeta. She was a tavern wench in Ostend when my father, a duke’s youngest son, met her. He got her with child—me. Fortunately for her, he agreed to marry her, so that I could be born on the right side of the blanket.”

  “That was fortunate indeed, for both you and her,” she murmured, astonished that he’d never told her this. “Not to mention rather surprising for a duke’s son. I would think that a man with his connections would just pay her to keep silent.”

  “I wonder about that, too. But he didn’t. I’ll never really know why. He claimed to love her, though he enjoyed throwing her low connections up to her whenever they argued. But I know for certain their marriage was legitimate—the first thing my cousin the duke did when he found me was confirm that.”

  She snuggled against him and waited for him to continue.

  “Still, Father was no saint in his salad days. From what I understand, he sowed his wild oats liberally. By the time he married Mother, he’d already contracted syphilis during an earlier encounter with a whore.”

  “Oh, Victor,” she whispered.

  “The pox wasn’t too virulent and had no lasting effects, or so we thought. Mother said he showed no signs of it when they married. I only know of it because of what happened when I turned thirteen, and he . . . he . . .” He dragged in a hard breath. “He tried to stab Mother.”

  Isa froze. “What?” she said incredulously. “Whyever for?”

  “The reason he gave was that she burned his potatoes. But the real reason was the syphilis rotting his brain. At least that’s what one of the doctors at Gheel told us when we brought him there.”

  That stunned her. For all of her life in Amsterdam, she’d heard of Gheel. Out of devotion to the Irish saint Dymphna, its inhabitants took care of the insane. “You brought him to the Colony of Maniacs?”

  “Some call Gheel that, yes,” he murmured. “It was certainly fitting for him. That’s where he lived until his death when I was sixteen.”

  Three years. Victor had endured his father’s madness for three years! A chill went through her. The poor boy. His poor mother! Isa had lost her father at twelve, so she knew how difficult that was. But at least Papa had fallen prey to an illness she could understand, and she’d had him there in spirit until his death.

  Victor had been forced to watch his mother suffer through the loss of his father in spirit and sense long before the man’s body had wasted away. How horrible for Victor! It created an ache in her chest that would not be banished.

  She laid her hand on his knee. “Why did you never tell me?”

  His gaze shot to hers, wrought with pain. “That my father went mad because of his whoring? That the rest of us were forced to work long hours in a neighboring village so we could afford for him to be fed and housed and kept from killing anyone? At twenty, it still mortified me to even think of it. I certainly wasn’t going to tell the woman I’d convinced to marry me.”

  “I would have understood,” she said softly.

  “Really?” he asked, his voice suddenly distant. “Your family convinced you that I had a suspicious past solely because I never talked about my background. Imagine how much more convincing their tales would have been if you’d known of my father’s sordid life and death. They would have made much of that, of my mother’s being a tavern maid and my father’s going mad.”

  “Or they would have latched onto you as the descendant of a duke,” she pointed out.

  “I didn’t know about that then.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. Rupert said it came out only a few months ago.”

  Victor nodded. “As far as I knew, my father was an English soldier who’d paid for his whoring days by dying insane at Gheel.” His voice grew ragged. “And who made us pay for them, too.”

  Suddenly she understood why he was finally telling her all this about his family. “So you’re saying you really did remain celibate all those years. And this is why.”

  “Yes.” His jaw tautened. “Although at first it didn’t have that effect on me. When Mother wasted away from grief and then died herself, I joined the Prussian army because I knew the regimental life, and because I knew they would take me even at seventeen.”

  “So that’s how you ended up fighting at Waterloo.”

  “Yes. Father had instilled in me a hatred of Boney, so I was itching for glory, glad to be part of the fight against the French. And like any soldier, I played as hard as I fought, making frequent use of the camp followers.”

  He laid his hand on hers and gripped it tightly. “But then a friend of mine caught the clap from one of them, and that brought it all back to me—Mother’s suffering, Father’s madness—and I realized how dangerous a game I was playing. I stopped consorting with camp followers then and there.”

  Both of his hands now clutched hers. He stared down to where they were joined, and his voice dulled. “After you left . . . I considered it again. I was so lonely that even a whore—” He choked off the words. “But I could never blot the image of Father trying to stab Mother from my mind.”

  Tears clogged her throat, but she was careful not to let them out. Some instinct told her that he would not endure pity from her.

  “Then I considered taking a mistress,” he went on, threading his fingers through hers. “Until I realized how lucky Mother had been, that when she found herself with child, Father was willing to marry her. I couldn’t marry anyone I sired a child upon; I was still married to you.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “In the end, I figured it was better to pleasure myself. Less risky.”

  She could hardly breathe. “So . . . no other women.”

  “No.” He caught her by the chin. “Not since you.”

  His kiss was gentler this time, more like the kisses of their youth, and rich with memories of all they’d been to each other and a promise of what they could be, if they put the past behind them. It made her wish she could linger forever in his embrace. When he drew back, it was to settle her more firmly in his arms, with her head tucked beneath his chin.

  “Tell me about Amalie,” he said.

  The yearning in his voice made her heart twi
st in her chest. How she hated that her family’s actions had torn him from his child. Their child. “Oh, Victor, you’ll adore her. She can be willful at times, like any child, but she has a knack for seeing the good in everyone.”

  “That can be a curse,” he said, and she knew he was thinking of her and her family.

  “It can also be a blessing. Any disparaging remarks she hears about her mother who’s in trade or about her lack of a father roll right off of her back.” When he tensed, she added hastily, “She tells me that those people are just jealous because I’m so brilliant and they have boring, regular mothers.”

  As she’d hoped, that made him chuckle, and the rumble of it settled her anxiousness over wanting him to like Amalie, to be proud of her and see her for the wonderful girl that she was.

  “Does she have her mother’s talent for chemicals?” he asked.

  “Not a jot. She says chemicals are messy, nasty things.” She nuzzled his chest, drank in the scent of his musk oil. “But if I have anything to say about it, she won’t need to learn a trade to survive. Not only is she pretty, but thanks to her schooling, she’s so accomplished she’ll have men clamoring to marry her.”

  “As did you.”

  She lifted her head to eye him askance. “You were the only one who wanted to marry me, if you’ll recall.”

  “I was merely the only one who dared to ask,” Victor said dryly. “The jewelers’ apprentices all had their eyes on you.”

  “Nonsense. They were hateful to me.”

  “Only because you ignored their attempts at courtship.”

  She stared at him. “What attempts?”

  Amusement showed in his face as he smoothed a lock of her hair from her cheek. “Their posturing. Their bragging about their prowess at shooting or hawking, and their talk of their connections to men of rank.”

  “That was courtship?” she said, incredulous. “I just thought they were all braggarts.”

  He shrugged. “Some men think that’s how to court a woman, by preening and showing their feathers for her.”

  “You didn’t,” she said softly.

  “I had no feathers to show. I was a rough-and-tumble soldier who’d witnessed too much hard death in battle to brag about my shooting skill.” His gaze met hers. “And you were an angel whom I thought too good to be true.”

  “I thought the same of you, you know,” she whispered. “To me you were a noble, brave hero who’d helped to rout Boney. I could scarcely believe that you wanted me.” Her throat tightened. “Which is why it was so easy for Jacoba to play on my fears and convince me that you didn’t.”

  His face darkened. “I swear, I wish I’d throttled her while I had the chance. I can’t believe she tried to justify why she ripped you from me.” His voice grew strained. “And the daughter you won’t even trust me with.”

  “Victor—”

  “Forgive me,” he said tightly. “I’m still having trouble taking it all in.”

  Isa swallowed. “If I . . . tell you where Amalie is, will you swear not to go there until I can introduce you properly to her?”

  Pain slashed over his face, but he nodded. “I have no more desire to see her harmed by them than you do.”

  “I know that.” She tensed. “And speaking of my relations—assuming that Rob finds out where Gerhart is hiding, what do you mean to do to him and Jacoba?”

  He froze a long moment. Then he rose to pace before shooting her a determined glance. “I mean to get rid of them once and for all.”

  16

  VICTOR WANTED JUSTICE and, yes, vengeance. It was all he could think about. He wanted to be done with them for good.

  Isa looked wary. “How do you propose to do that? You can’t yet even prove that you and I had no part in their theft.”

  “Which is why I’m not going to try prosecuting them. I’m going to call Gerhart out. It’s simple and effective, and it will rid us of them once and for all.”

  Shock spread over her features. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said sharply. “You are not going to duel with my brother-in-law.”

  “Why not?” He stalked toward her. “He took my wife from me. He took my daughter from me. He can rot in hell—and I’m more than happy to help him get there.”

  Tucking her legs up beneath her on the sofa, she pointed out, “My sister had a part in it, too.”

  “We both know she would have never come up with such a scheme on her own. She always did what he wanted. I would wager my life that he was the instigator.”

  “I don’t hold Jacoba quite as blameless as you do,” she said, “but even if I did, I wouldn’t let you duel with Gerhart. You could be killed!”

  He snorted. “He could no more win a duel against me than Rupert could.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Fine. Let’s say you won the duel and killed Gerhart. The law would consider that murder, and you would be hanged.”

  “Not if I fled to the Continent.” Never mind that he’d be leaving his new cousin behind, and a potential position with Manton’s Investigations. It would be worth it to see that wretch pay for what he’d done. It would be worth it to keep his family safe. “We could return to the Netherlands, the three of us, and be free of them at last. Once Gerhart is gone, Jacoba will come to heel.”

  Isa flashed him a skeptical glance. “Or she’ll hound you to the gallows in revenge for taking her husband from her.” She rose to place her hand on his arm. “Come now, there can be no dueling. I don’t fancy seeing you dangling from the end of a noose, now that I finally have you back. And we cannot drag Amalie off to the Continent if there’s any chance that Jacoba might try to get us arrested.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “If we don’t find some way to be rid of them, they’ll attempt to blackmail us either into helping them, or into paying for their silence. And paying and paying and paying . . .”

  She shook her head. “They can’t make us do anything we don’t want to do. I say we call their bluff. If they threaten to expose our past, we’ll threaten to turn them in to the authorities in the Netherlands. Surely they’ll back down if they think we’d really do it. They have as much to lose if things go against them as we do.”

  “Do they?” he said. “Unlike us, they have no children to worry about.”

  A frown knit her brow. “You don’t know that. They could have had children by now.”

  He scoffed at her. “Don’t you think Jacoba would have used her ‘poor defenseless children’ to play on your sympathies if she’d had any?”

  “Verdomme,” she muttered. “You’re right about that. And we certainly can’t risk Amalie’s being left alone if we’re carted off to prison.”

  The sight of her consternation made his throat constrict. “Amalie is the reason you wouldn’t entertain having them prosecuted when we discussed it last night. Isn’t she?”

  She nodded.

  He scrubbed his face, then went to stand before the fire. Staring into the flames, he considered and discarded several solutions, all of which ended badly. “Since you won’t let me shoot Gerhart,” he grumbled, “we need to rid ourselves of them legally without landing either of us in gaol and leaving Amalie without family.”

  “I say we should just hold fast to our determination not to give in to them,” she said earnestly. “They’re both cowards at heart, Victor. You saw how Jacoba ran when I threatened her. Once she accepts that exposing us would mean exposing them, too, she’ll back down and disappear.”

  “And escape justice in the process. I can’t let them do that. Besides, I think you underestimate them.” He faced her, squaring his shoulders. “We need help and legal advice. We need Dom and his brother.”

  Alarm sparked in her eyes. “The Bow Street investigators?”

  “They don’t work for Bow Street; they work for themselves. Dom studied law long enough to know it very well, and Tristan used to work for Eugène Vidocq, whose expertise with criminals is legendary. Between them, they can help us determine how to scuttle any attempts
your family makes to ensnare us in their nasty plans.”

  “No, Victor, you mustn’t speak to them.” She hurried up to him. “The minute we involve the authorities in any way, we’re taking a huge risk.”

  “They’re not the ‘authorities,’ damn it! They’re my friends. They won’t do anything to make matters worse. And I daresay my cousin Max, the duke, can make sure your family is dealt with. Though I hate to involve him, I will if I must.”

  Her mouth flattened into a grim line. “He’s not going to want that kind of scandal. And what if his response is to urge you to divorce me? It’s not as if we have to do anything right away,” she pleaded. “We can wait and see how much of a problem Gerhart and Jacoba become. They may do nothing more than make vague threats they can’t carry out.”

  “Isa,” he chided, “you’re a fool if you think they’ll give up trying to get money from us. They followed me all the way from the Continent. That’s not the behavior of people who will roll over and play dead.”

  “At least give me a chance to talk some sense into Gerhart.”

  He scowled at her. “You’re not going anywhere near that bastard. I’ll deal with him myself. Alone.”

  “By calling him out? Or worse, threatening to send investigators after him? That will only provoke him! We have to be cautious.”

  “Your caution is what got us into this mess in the first place!”

  When her face fell, he could have kicked himself.

  “I’m sorry, Isa,” he murmured. “I don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said, wringing her hands. “But I have survived all these years by being cautious. You can’t expect me to throw caution to the winds just because you have come back into my life.”

  “And you can’t expect me to go on with this cloud hanging over our heads. We have to act—”

  A knock came at the parlor door.

  They exchanged a glance. Then Isa turned for the door. “Yes?”

  “Rob is back, madam,” Betsy said through the door. “I thought you’d wish to know.”

  Isa hurried to open the door. But when Victor saw Betsy’s crestfallen expression, he knew that the news was bad. “I take it that the lad didn’t find out where they were staying,” he said tersely.