The Rogue's Conquest

by Lily Maxton

  “I’ll give you points for tenacity, but please don’t take me for a fool. I’m smarter than I look. But what is your real name? Should I address you as Miss Townsend or is it something else entirely?”

  A pit formed in her stomach. What had she done? She’d been so thorough, so painstaking. She’d thought her plan was foolproof. “How?” The word cracked like a whip.

  He shrugged. “You lifted your hand to brush your hair back.”

  She sat there, stunned. “That was it?”

  “That was the most telling thing.”

  All of her preparations. All of her work. All crumbling away because she’d accidentally lifted her hand to brush back her hair and this man had seen it? What were the odds of such bad luck? If she wasn’t on the verge of hysteria, she might have been tempted to laugh.

  “Don’t look so devastated,” he said lightly. “I think this will be a good partnership for both of us.”

  “Partnership?” she said, scowling. She clung to her irritation. Clung to it like a piece of driftwood in a raging, frothing sea. If she didn’t cling to something, a wave would take her under, tossing her around like a ragdoll.

  She’d been so close.

  “I only need your help temporarily. Once you give me access to Lady Sarah, I’ll do the rest,” he said.

  “And what do I get out of our partnership?” she asked, even though she already knew.

  “My silence. My help even, if there’s anything I can help you with. I’m sure it’s not easy to maintain another identity.”

  “I don’t want your help,” she said mulishly.

  “Now, Cecil, don’t be rude.” He cocked his head in that annoying way he had, like he knew everything and would gladly lord it over anyone if he had the opportunity. “Why did you settle on Cecil?”

  “It is a perfectly fine name,” she seethed.

  “If you insist.”

  She stood, glad that she could at least tower over him when he was still seated. “I do insist,” she said, only because she didn’t want to yield to him on this one point, no matter how meaningless.

  She grabbed at one of her cabinets. She tried to pile them all up in her arms, but they teetered precariously. Mr. MacGregor might be able to carry them all at once, but they were too cumbersome for her. She’d had Georgina and Robert’s help when she’d loaded them into the carriage, and a society member’s help when she’d unloaded them.

  Now she only had MacGregor.

  She felt the one on top tipping, sliding. She lurched forward, trying to save it. She would dive to the floor if she had to.

  But MacGregor plucked it from her arms as though it was as light as a kitten. She stumbled against him and he righted her with one surprisingly gentle nudge, coming from such a large man. The touch to her arm was brief, but even through her coat sleeves she felt a strange warm tingle that stretched about the circumference of his hand.

  While she stood glaring up at him, he took the rest of the display cabinets.

  “Can I be of assistance?”

  She’d never been more tempted to strike someone. If this was how he affected most people, mayhap he’d become a pugilist out of necessity.

  She wished she could toss her hair and sweep from the alehouse like some fiery heroine, but she was currently dressed as a man, had no hair to toss except her wig, was in an unfamiliar part of the city, and had no way to carry her cabinets, except enlisting the help of men of dubious character whom she didn’t know.

  MacGregor might be of dubious character, but she felt like she knew the extent of his dubiousness, which was something. She didn’t worry her safety might be threatened by him—her reputation and future if she didn’t do as he asked, yes, but not her immediate safety.

  So the sweeping, hair-tossing path of the fiery heroine was out of the question.

  She righted her unneeded spectacles, which had been knocked askew during her wrestle with the cabinets.

  “Do keep up,” she said coolly, turning away from him and walking to the door with calm, measured strides.

  She could almost feel his triumphant grin burning into her back.

  Chapter Seven

  She was doing a grand job of ignoring James. She set a brisk stride of a pace and didn’t glance his way once as they traveled from the cramped, winding medieval part of town and made their way to symmetric rows and fashionable light-gray stone. The New Town was less populated and less boisterous than the Old Town, and cleaner, too. He lived and had his saloon in the new half of the city, but a part of him still felt more at ease in the Old Town, no matter how much he tried to shake that part.

  For several minutes, they didn’t speak, but James had never liked being ignored. And against his will, he was a bit curious about her. He hadn’t entirely been jesting when he’d made the comment about her tenacity.

  She might appear unassuming, but there were very few women who would dress up as a man and risk discovery and ruination. There were even fewer who would do it for the sake of sharing knowledge about beetles. He was reluctantly intrigued.

  “Will you tell me your name?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, though her shoulders edged up closer to her ears.

  “If you don’t tell me your name, I’ll have to keep calling you Cecil.”

  No answer.

  “You can call me James.”

  Nothing.

  He decided to turn to a topic she was more passionate about. “How did you become interested in entomology?”

  He was observing her closely, so he saw the slight falter in her gait, the slight sign of awareness, and interest. He nearly smiled.

  “It’s an unusual hobby isn’t it, for a w—”

  “Shhh!” She glanced around suspiciously.

  “Because that’s not conspicuous.”

  She heaved a heavy sigh. “You speak too much.”

  “You don’t speak enough,” he said. “I am only trying to be friendly.”

  “You mean after you coerced me into helping you?”

  He frowned. “Coerce is such an aggressive-sounding word. I mostly enlightened you to the possibilities of a mutually beneficial partnership between us.”

  “Those are rather long words for a pugilist.”

  “You have a tart tongue,” he said, more amused than angry. He supposed he deserved her tartness—she might call it coercion, he might call it possibility, but the truth was, he was using her.

  A better man might have felt guilty about it. But he had never been a better man. And he didn’t think he was really asking all that much of her. Just a little help. Just an introduction. He’d been telling the truth when he said he’d help her in return if she needed it.

  Though, he didn’t know how much help he could offer a woman who paraded around in men’s clothing and discussed mating beetles.

  She increased her pace, and James found himself scurrying to catch up with her. “And a very long-legged stride,” he commented idly.

  She scowled.

  “It’s all right. I admire a long stride in a woman.” He didn’t really know what he was saying, but the more he talked, the more annoyed she seemed, and he liked the rosy tinge that crept into her cheeks, the way her mouth pinched at the corners.

  Directly ahead of them, there were some people gathered on the walking pavement so they had to veer onto the cobblestones. His companion, who had her head held as high as it could possibly go, nearly stepped into a dark pile of what was hopefully horse manure. He grabbed her elbow and steered her away from it, yanking her a bit roughly.

  He was sure a gentleman would have found some way to rescue her from imminent horse manure without such rough handling, but damned if he could figure it out.

  Under the wool greatcoat, under his palm and fingers, her arm was slender, almost fragile. It was odd, because she didn’t look fragile. But then, he supposed he didn’t really know what she looked like. He glanced at Cecil’s profile—the ugly powdered wig, the spectacles perched on the end of her nose. It was a f
ine-boned face, thin lips, narrow nose, small but tilted jaw.

  He assumed she was plain. But he supposed a wig like that might make anyone plainer than they actually were.

  As soon as they were back on the pavement, she jerked her arm away from him and turned her head to glare.

  “Don’t do that,” she hissed.

  “What?” he asked, confounded.

  “Don’t treat me like a woman. You’ll draw attention.”

  He nearly laughed. This had to be the oddest day of his life. “So you’d rather step in horse shit?” he asked bluntly.

  Her eyes widened. He took a moment to admire them—dark lashes under imperious dark brows. The irises were a unique caramel brown, with shades of amber and whisky. Piercing, he might have said, if he was prone to fanciful thoughts.

  He wasn’t.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If that’s what it takes.”

  He huffed out a laugh. Good God, she was contrary. “I’ll remember that, Cecil.”

  A moment later, she stopped in front of a row house. He thought she meant to berate him, but she just folded her arms across her chest. “You may put those down.”

  “Ah,” he said, eyeing the facade of the house—not one of the largest in town, but certainly not one of the smallest. Underneath an intricate, semi-circular fanlight, a lion’s head knocker snarled out from a freshly green front door. He gazed at the wrought iron fence that partially obscured the lower level, where the servants did their work, unseen. No doubt the owners of these houses thought he’d fit better there than among them. “You’re not going to invite me in?”

  At that moment, the door cracked open and a flurry of a girl rushed out. “Eleanor—you—” She stopped, blinked when she realized Eleanor wasn’t alone. “Cousin Cecil,” she said loudly. “I hope the meeting went well.”

  The girl looked a bit like Eleanor—sisters, he would assume. Though, she had light eyes instead of dark, and she was already more curvy than her willowy sister. And if the girl who lived at this house was Eleanor’s sister, did that mean the Earl of Arden was her brother, not a distant cousin?

  Things were working out better than if he’d planned them himself.

  Eleanor sighed. “This is Miss Georgina Townsend. And this is Mr. MacGregor.” She made the introduction with all the reluctance of someone going to have their teeth pulled.

  Georgina was a quick study. Her eyes narrowed when she heard her sister speak in her regular voice.

  “He knows,” Eleanor confirmed.

  “Should we tell Robert?”

  Eleanor glanced at James and then away. “Not yet.”

  “I am standing right here,” he said, annoyed.

  “So you are,” Eleanor replied, as though she hated the fact, and hated more that she couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

  “Our deal?” He knew he was being an ass, but this was his chance. Only an idiot would let an opportunity like this fall into their lap and then let it go because he might step on some toes. This was his moment.

  He could have everything, everything he’d ever wanted.

  And Eleanor Townsend was the key that would turn the lock.

  She gave one curt nod, her jaw clenched. He held out his hand. “Men typically shake on these sorts of things.”

  She stared at his hand like it might be a snake ready to strike, but then, after a moment, she took hold of it lightly, gave one brisk shake, and dropped it just as quickly.

  He grinned. “Are you friends with the Earl of Lark’s daughter, or just acquaintances?”

  “Acquaintances,” she said reluctantly.

  “Try to be friends with her. It will make things easier.”

  “Naturally,” she said, her voice as dry and brittle as tinder.

  “Now, Cecil, keep your chin up. The key to life is appearance. You should know all about that.” With a tip of his hat and a bow, he left Eleanor Townsend glaring at him through her spectacles. “I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he said.

  He walked away with a jaunt in his step, and a feeling like triumph in his chest.

  Chapter Eight

  Eleanor and Georgina stood on the black-and-white marbled floor of the entrance hall in the Earl of Lark’s town house. Eleanor caught a glimpse of her pale reflection in a towering gilded mirror that stood above a pier table.

  She looked sickly. The green dress she wore didn’t really help her complexion any, either.

  “Are you certain about this?” Georgina asked quietly.

  They’d given the butler their card and were waiting on his return. Eleanor half expected to be told that the ladies of the house weren’t at home. They’d exchanged a few obligatory calls with Lady Sarah and her mother when the Townsends had first come to Edinburgh, but their acquaintance had lapsed somewhat since then.

  Though Eleanor was here, ostensibly, to mingle with proper Society and meet eligible gentlemen, she was much more at home reading about insects, or searching for insects, or preserving insects, than she was amidst the foreign specimens of ballrooms and drawing rooms. She went to occasional social events to keep up appearances, but she was far from popular.

  “I don’t have any other choice.”

  “Do you think he’d actually reveal Cecil’s identity if you don’t help him?”

  It was a good question. One she’d dwelt on during the sleepless hours of the night. One she didn’t know the answer to. But she’d recognized that gleam in his eye—ambition, want, something fierce that she couldn’t quite name. James MacGregor was a man intent on climbing to the top.

  And she didn’t want to be the one he pushed off the mountain to get there.

  He really wasn’t asking much. She could ease him into the ways of Society and then give him an opportunity to meet Lady Sarah. And if he was able to woo her, as he, in his egoism, seemed to have no doubt of, and if they married, what was wrong with that? Aristocratic marriages weren’t about love. Ambition, want, greed, pride—they were all just different names for the same thing.

  Aristocratic marriages were about advancement. Not affection.

  At least, not often.

  There was no reason to feel like she was doing something devious. No reason to feel guilty.

  “Should we dispose of him?” Georgina whispered.

  Eleanor stared at her blankly. “What? Do you mean kill him?”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I mean…I don’t know…kidnap him and lock him in a crate going to India or some such thing.”

  How did her sister come up with such mad ideas? Eleanor hadn’t forgotten that dressing up as Cecil had been Georgina’s scheme. Eleanor might have been angry with her for planting the seed in her mind if she hadn’t felt so perfectly…right…so perfectly accomplished, giving her lecture and showing off her cabinets.

  “And how is that not killing him?”

  Her sister shrugged. “Someone would hear him, at some point. I think.”

  “With murder in the balance, I don’t believe I think is good enough.” She shook her head. “No, we’ll just grit our teeth and get on with it. The sooner James MacGregor has what he wants, the sooner he’ll be out of our lives.”

  The butler stepped back into the entrance hall. “Lady Lark and Lady Sarah will see you.”

  Eleanor’s stomach jumped, and they were shown into a drawing room with silk-papered walls of white-and-pale-green stripes. The furniture—a settee and some scattered armchairs—matched the walls. The room smelled like lavender, and Eleanor noticed pastille burners framing the mantel.

  The two women were on the settee, both very beautiful, both with perfect poise, and hands folded primly in their laps. The two of them looked like plates straight out of Ackermann’s Repository—fashionable, pretty, their chestnut hair coiled in immaculate ringlets.

  Lady Sarah smiled warmly. Lady Lark observed them more coolly, though not unkindly.

  They greeted one another and Georgina and Eleanor took the chairs next to the settee.

  “Are you enjoying Edinburgh?�
� Lady Sarah asked. “You’ve not been here long, I recall?”

  “No, a few weeks,” Georgina said.

  In social situations, her younger sister often took the lead. Eleanor had always had difficulty making small talk, and she was naturally reserved with people she didn’t know well.

  “London is larger, I know, but we’re quite fond of it here,” Lady Sarah said.

  “It is a beautiful view, to see the castle over the city. I’d love to explore it,” Georgina replied easily.

  “Quite right. Perhaps one day it will be open for touring.”

  Lady Lark eyed Eleanor. “And will your brother and his new wife come to Town this winter as well? They’re not in residence now, are they?”

  She smiled stiffly. “No, and I doubt it. They much prefer the country life.”

  Georgina jumped in to fill the silence that descended. “Your gloves are lovely, Lady Sarah. Where did you find them?”

  Eleanor let the conversation fade as they began discussing the best shops in town, and then moved on to what dressmaker Lady Sarah used. She stared at Lady Sarah’s gloves—soft kid leather, embroidered with pale-blue silk flowers. The well-made gloves fit her hands perfectly.

  Her mind drifted to James MacGregor. Everything in this drawing room fit as perfectly as those gloves—every gilded painting, every trinket on the mantel and tables, every occupant on every piece of furniture. Would he fit here, too? Or would this quiet properness stifle him?

  She thought of MacGregor trying to rest on the spindly legged settee—he’d have to go about it gently. If he ever threw himself down with too much force he’d probably smash the thing into pieces. She thought of those large hands engulfing a teacup—it would look like a child’s toy. He could hunch his shoulders or try to appear as meek as he wanted—he’d never look like he belonged.

  Then she thought of Icarus, doomed for his pride, doomed for his wanting, doomed to plummet back to earth for flying too high.

  But maybe, for some, the thrill of the flight was worth the risk of the fall?

  She shook her head slightly. She didn’t know what drove James MacGregor, nor did she wish to know.

  If the troublesome man wanted to surround himself with pretty, spindly, breakable things, it was really none of her concern.