A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Indoor plumbing, for God’s sake? That question had been posed by the ever practical Earl of Westhaven, and Sherbourne had joined him in investing in copper piping. This flurry of correspondence was Charlotte’s doing, for even before the whole business with Brantford had been resolved, she’d sung the praises of her husband’s commercial genius—her word—to any Windham she’d been able to reach by post.

  Charlotte tugged her husband down beside her onto the sofa. She’d made a small chamber on the third floor her personal parlor, claiming that she wanted to be able to see clear to the colliery when she couldn’t be there in person. The view was lovely, and if the perspective was elevated, well, that didn’t seem to bother her of late.

  “Mama and Papa are a force of nature,” she said, stroking the kitten in her lap, “but yes, I am recovered from their visit.”

  The beast’s name was Beowulf, and he’d been among Sherbourne’s holiday gifts to Charlotte.

  “Your parents will be back,” Sherbourne said, for he was learning to read Charlotte’s moods. “With not one but two grandchildren on the way, we won’t be able to keep them from a return visit.”

  And that was…that was lovely. If half the cousins and sisters and in-laws who threatened to visit showed up, Sherbourne Hall would need an entire wing of guest rooms…Rather like a castle.

  The butler rapped on the door jamb.

  “Come in,” Charlotte said. “I was about to order Mr. Sherbourne a pot of peppermint tea. My parents’ departure has left his nerves in a state.”

  “Another pot of tea. Of course, madam, and His Grace of Haverford has come to call.”

  Haverford strolled in, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his hair windblown. “We announce family now? That will prove problematic when the shire is overrun with Windhams at next summer’s house party.”

  “Not another house party,” Sherbourne groaned. “Scavenger hunts, kite flying, piquet, and whist until I’m bilious—”

  “A house party would be delightful,” Charlotte said, rising and kissing the duke on the cheek. “Have a seat, and stay for a cup of tea.”

  Haverford sent Sherbourne an unreadable look, but he sat beside Charlotte like a good duke. “I come bearing news.”

  “Who’s expecting now?” Sherbourne asked.

  “In a sense,” Haverford replied, “you are.” He placed a folded sheet of vellum on the table before the sofa.

  Charlotte picked the paper up and smoothed it out. “This is…” She blinked rapidly. “Oh, Haverford. You didn’t.”

  Was that a happy you didn’t or an upset you didn’t?

  Charlotte threw her arms around the duke and delivered a crushing hug, while the kitten scampered off with an indignant hiss.

  “Oh, you are awful, Haverford,” Charlotte said. “You are the worst duke ever, and I will name my firstborn after you.”

  “We’re not naming our firstborn Dunderhead,” Sherbourne said, picking up the paper. “This is merely a list of names.” Though reading the list sent an odd sensation shivering over Sherbourne’s skin.

  “That is the New Year’s honors list,” Haverford said. “Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”

  Sherbourne’s gaze lit on his own name. He dropped the paper on the table and crossed the room to throw himself into the reading chair by the window.

  “I have no need of a baronetcy. I don’t want a baronetcy.” Sir Lucas Sherbourne. His father and grandfather were probably dancing a jig in heaven for a baronetcy was hereditary. “I have no need of anything. My colliery is coming along, I have an assistant engineer who can jolly Mr. Jones without offending him and keep track of all three pairs of his new spectacles, not that Jones needs jollying now that’s he’s remarried. I’ve sold my damned bank shares. My in-laws pronounced me a fine addition to the family. What need have I…?”

  Charlotte was regarding him, her eyes shimmering, her gaze enough to set Sherbourne’s heart thumping. To the casual observer, she was the same woman who’d shot top hats from randy bachelors. To her husband, she had blossomed as autumn had turned to winter. Her figure was changing, of course, but she’d also gained a sense of true confidence where bravado and sheer courage had been before.

  “Besides,” Sherbourne went on more softly, “I have my Charlotte. With Charlotte to love, what else in the whole world could I possibly need?”

  She blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and touched his fingers to his lips.

  “You’re worse than Griffin and Biddy,” Haverford groused. “Sherbourne, think of your lady, who I’m sure wouldn’t mind having a lady’s title. And don’t blame me for this development. Elizabeth set the wheels in motion, and it is to her you will express sincere gratitude. Your library scheme found favor with the sovereign, who, like most worthy people, thoroughly enjoys a good book.”

  “The dratted libraries,” Charlotte said, beaming at her husband. “You could still call me Mrs. Sherbourne when we are private.”

  “I’m leaving,” Haverford said, rising. “If I have to swill another cup of peppermint tea, I will go barking mad. Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”

  The duke was making a good show of irascibility, but Sherbourne knew friendship when he saw it. He shook Haverford’s hand, slapped him on the back, and let him escape before the dreaded peppermint teapot made another appearance.

  Which in subsequent years, it did regularly.

  In later life the baronet became a baron, and the coal mine which he eventually conveyed to Evander Porter was an example of the best, safest, most modern practices. Sherbourne became hopelessly wealthy, in part because his lady wife was a fiend for calculations.

  Charlotte established a charitable undertaking of her own, one that found safe havens for young ladies in difficulties. She relied on a vast network of family and friends of means to ensure that every child brought to her attention was well cared for and well loved.

  And Sir Lucas considered it his greatest privilege to ensure that Charlotte was also well cared for and well loved—very, very, very well loved, indeed.

  Keep reading for a peek at the first book in the Rogues to Riches series.

  Coming in Fall 2018.

  Chapter One

  “You isn’t to be hanged on Monday!” Ned declared. “Old Fletcher’s got the bloody flux. Can’t stir but two feet from the chamber pot. Warden says no hangings on Monday!”

  Joy was the first casualty in the earthly purgatory of Newgate prison. When Ned came bounding into Quinn Wentworth’s cell, the boy’s rare, angelic smile thus had a greater impact than his words.

  An uncomfortable, unfamiliar emotion stirred, something Quinn might once have called hope but now considered a useless reflex.

  “You mean I won’t be hanged this Monday.”

  Consternation replaced ebullience on the grimy little face. “Old Fletcher might die, sir, and then who would they find to do the business? Your family will get you out, see if they don’t.”

  Quinn had forbidden his siblings to “get him out.” Abetting the escape of a convicted felon was itself a hanging felony, as were 219 other crimes, among them stealing anything valued at more than twelve pence.

  “Thank you for bringing me the news,” Quinn said. “Have you eaten today?”

  Ned studied ten dirty little toes. “No so’s I’d notice.”

  Miracles occurred in Newgate. One of the most powerful and feared bankers in London could invite a pickpocket to dine, for example, simply because the banker had learned that company—any company—was a distraction from impending death.

  Despite the death warrant dictating Quinn’s fate, his cell might have been a successful solicitor’s quarters. The floor was carpeted, the bed covered with clean linen, the desk stocked with paper, pen, two pencils, ink, and even—such was the honor expected of a wealthy felon—a penknife. The window let in fresh air and a precious square of sunlight, which Quinn valued more than all of the room’s other comforts combined.

  The foodstuffs, however, had to be kept in a bag t
ied to the rafters, lest the rodents help themselves uninvited. The pitcher of ale was covered to prevent flies from drowning themselves along with their sorrows.

  “Fetch the ale,” Quinn said. “We’ll share some bread and cheese.”

  Ned was stronger and faster than he looked, and more than capable of fetching the ale down from the windowsill without spilling a drop. Quinn was, in his own opinion, weaker than appearances might suggest. The warden had taken one pitying look at him and muttered something about the big ones dying quickest on the end of a rope.

  That comment—a casual, not intentionally cruel observation—had made real the fact of execution by order of the crown. Hanged by the neck until dead, as the judge had said. The proper fate of all murderers in the eyes of the law.

  Though to be accurate, Quinn’s crime was manslaughter rather than murder, else even his coin might have been insufficient to earn him quarters outside the dungeons.

  “Shall I get the bread?” Ned asked.

  The child was being polite, which ought not to be possible, given his upbringing.

  Incarceration had also revealed in Quinn a latent propensity for rumination. What would death by hanging be like? Was the point of the proceeding to end the felon’s life, or to subject him to such awful, public indignity that he welcomed his own demise? As a boy, Quinn had once witnessed a hanging. He’d been running the streets as usual, curious about the excitement rippling through a crowd until he’d wiggled his way to the front.

  And there he’d stayed, because the crowd wouldn’t let him wiggle back until—as the mob cheered madly—the condemned had kicked, gasped, thrashed, and pissed his last.

  Quinn had avoided the neighborhood for months thereafter.

  “The bread, sir?”

  “And the cheese,” Quinn said, taking down the sack suspended from the rafter. Cutting the bread required patient use of the penknife. Davies, Quinn’s self-appointed man-of-all-work, and Penny, the whore-turned-chambermaid, were privileged to carry knives, but Quinn shuddered to contemplate what improprieties those knives had got up to when their owners had been at liberty.

  Quinn set the food on the table, cut two thick slices of bread for the boy, situated cheese between them, and poured the child some ale.

  Pewter tankards, no less. That would be his sister Althea’s influence, as was the washstand with the porcelain pitcher and basin. No need to die looking like a ruffian.

  “Aren’t you hungry, sir?” Ned had wolfed down half his sandwich and spoke with his mouth full.

  Quinn took a sip of fine summer ale. “Not particularly.”

  “But you must keep up your strength. My brother Bob told me that. Said when the magistrate binds you over, the most important thing is to keep up your strength. You durst not go before the judge looking hangdog and defeated. You can’t run very far on an empty belly neither.”

  The boy had lowered his voice on that last observation.

  “I’ll not be escaping, Ned,” Quinn said gently. “I’ve been found guilty and I must pay the price.” Though escape might be possible. It wanted vast sums of money—which Quinn had—and a willingness to live the life of a fugitive, which Quinn lacked.

  “Why is the nobs all daft?” Ned muttered around another mouthful of bread and cheese. “You find a bloke what looks half like you and has the consumption. You pay his family enough to get by, more than the poor sod would have earned in his lifetime, and you pike off on Sunday night leaving the bloke in your place. The poor sod ends his suffering Monday morning knowing the wife and kiddies is well set, and you get to live. It’s been done.”

  Everything unspeakable, ingenious, and bold had been done by those enjoying the king’s hospitality. That was another lesson Quinn had gleaned from incarceration. He’d seen schemes and bribes and stupid wagers by the score among London’s monied classes, but sheer effrontery and true derring-do were the province of the desperate.

  He’d also learned, too late, that he wanted to live. He wanted to be a better brother and a lazier banker. He wanted to learn the names of the flowers Althea so loved, and to read a book or two just to have the excuse to sit quietly by a warm fire of a winter night.

  He wanted…

  What he wanted no longer mattered, if it ever had. The reprieve Ned spoke of was more burden than blessing, because Quinn was fated to die, awfully, publicly, and painfully.

  “If you’re not going to eat that, guv, it shouldn’t go to waste.”

  Quinn passed over his sandwich. “My appetite seems to have deserted me.”

  Ned tore the sandwich in two and put half in his pocket. For later, for another boy less enterprising or fortunate than Ned. For the birds—the child loved birds—or a lucky mouse.

  Quinn had lost not only his appetite for food, but also his interest in all yearnings. He did not long to see his siblings one last time—what was there to say? He certainly had no desire for a woman, though they were available in quantity even in prison. He had no wish to pen one of those sermonizing, final letters he’d written for six other men in the previous weeks.

  They’d faced transportation. Quinn faced the gallows. His affairs were scrupulously in order, and had escaped forfeiture as a result of his forethought.

  He wanted…peace, perhaps.

  And revenge. That went without saying.

  The door banged open—it was unlocked during the day—and the day warden appeared. “Wait in here, miss. You’ll be safe enough, and I see that his nibs is enjoying a feast. Perhaps he’ll offer you a portion.” The jailer flicked a bored glance over Ned, who’d ducked his head and crammed the last of the food into his mouth.

  A woman—a lady—entered the cell. She was tall, dark-haired, and her attire was plain to a fault.

  Not a criminal. A crusader.

  “Bascomb,” Quinn said rising. “This is not Newgate’s family parlor. The lady can wait elsewhere.” He bowed to the woman.

  She did not curtsy. “I must wait somewhere,” she said. “Papa will be forever among the convicts, and I do not expect to be entertained. I am Jane Winston.”

  She was bold, as most crusaders were. Also pretty. Her features were Madonna-perfect, from a chin neither receding nor prominent, to exquisitely arched brows, a wide mouth, high forehead, and intelligent dark eyes. The cameo was marred by a nose a trifle on the confident side, which made her face more interesting.

  She wore a long, voluminous cloak, bits of straw clinging to the hem.

  “As you can see,” Quinn replied, “we are a company of gentlemen here, and an unchaperoned lady would not be comfortable in our midst.”

  The warden snickered. “Wait here or leave the premises, miss. Them’s your choices, and you don’t get a say, Wentworth.”

  As long as Quinn drew breath he had a say. “I am convicted of taking an innocent life, Miss Winston. Perhaps you might see fit to excuse yourself now?”

  He wanted her to leave, because she was an inconvenient reminder of life beyond a death sentence, where women were pretty, regrets were few, and money meant more than pewter tankards and a useless writing desk.

  And Quinn wanted her to stay, because she was pleasing to look at, had the courage of her convictions, and had probably never committed anything approaching a crime. She’d doubtless sinned in her own eyes—coveting a second rum bun, lingering beneath warm covers for an extra quarter hour on the Sabbath. Heinous transgressions in her world.

  He also wanted her to stay because frightening the people around him had stopped amusing him before he’d turned twelve. Even Ned didn’t turn his back on Quinn for more than an instant, and Davies remained as close to the unlocked door as possible without giving outright offense. The wardens were careful not to be alone with Quinn, and the whores offered their services with an air of false bravado.

  Miss Winston’s self-possession wafted on the air like expensive perfume. Confident, subtle, unmistakable.

  “If a mere child can break bread with you, then I don’t have much to fear,” she said
, “and my father will expect me to wait for him. Papa is easily vexed. Do you have a name, child?”

  Such boldness.

  Ned remained silent, sending a questioning glance at Quinn.

  “He is Edward, of indeterminant patronymic,” Quinn said. “Make your bow, Ned.”

  Ned had asked Quinn to teach him this nicety, and grinned at a chance to show off his manners. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Winston.”

  “I’ll just be leaving,” the guard said. “You can chat about the weather over tea and crumpets until…” He grinned, showing brown, crooked teeth. “Until next Monday.”

  “Prison humor.” Miss Winston stripped off her gloves. Kid, mended around the right index finger. The stitching was almost invisible, but a banker learned to notice details of dress. “I might be here for a good while. Would you like to regale me with a tale about what brought you to this sorry pass, Mr. Wentworth?”

  The lady took the seat Ned had vacated, and she looked entirely at ease there, her cloak settling around her like an ermine cape.

  “You don’t read the papers?” Quinn asked.

  “Who has time for such frivolity, Mr. Wentworth? Papa would have apoplexies if he caught me reading that drivel. We have souls to save.”

  “I don’t think I’d like your father. Might I have a seat?” Because now—for reasons known only to the doomed—Quinn wanted an excuse to sit down with her.

  “This is your abode. Of course you should have a seat. You need not feed me or offer me drink. I’m sure you can better use your provisions for bribes. I can read to you from the Bible or quote from Fordyce’s sermons if you like.”

  “I do not like,” Quinn said, slicing off a portion of cheese. He was a convicted felon, but he was a convicted felon who’d taken pains to learn the manners of his betters. Then too, somebody had to set an example for the boy. Quinn managed to cut off a slice of bread with the penknife and passed the bread and cheese to Miss Winston.

  She regarded his offering with a seriousness the moment did not warrant. “You can spare this? You can honestly spare this?”