The Devil Rogue

by Lori Villarreal

  Ian groaned and shuddered as he erupted, shooting his seed into her with powerful spasms. Clinging to each other, their wildly beating hearts thundered in unison as their breathing slowed to a normal pattern. Finally, the distant sounds of the world intruded once more and they fell back together against the cool sheets. Angela lay over him like a limp turnip, her lips pressing gentle kisses along the side of his neck.

  He loved the slight weight of her body resting on top of him, the way her damp skin smelled, so fresh and clean, and the way the tangled strands of her hair fell about them both like a shimmering, golden shroud. He loved the sweet little noises she made during their love-making, the husky sound of her voice when she was aroused, and the way she engaged herself completely in the task of pleasing him, enjoying every nuance of her own pleasure, as well.

  He loved everything about her.

  He loved her.

  He was in love with her, and with that knowledge came a sense of peace, of resolve to accept the inevitable. His instinct to reject the idea of love dissipated in the reality of it. He – The Devil Rogue – had finally succumbed to the condition poets and songwriters have been prattling about through the ages. He lay with her in his arms, and as their limbs intertwined, so did his love for her wrap itself around his heart in a welcome embrace.

  They slept in each other’s arms, cradled in darkness, their bodies caressed by warm, silken breezes.

  When Angela woke the next morning, Ian was gone. The place where he’d been most of the night was vacant, the sheets cold where they had once been warmed by his skin. In the hour just before dawn, they’d made love one more time with dreamy languor. It had been wonderfully sensual, her climax deep and soulful.

  A soft knock at the door preceded Rosemary’s entrance. She carried a tray laden with enticing breakfast foods along with a pot of tea. “Good morning, love,” she said with an affectionate smile.

  After closing the door with the heel of her shoe, Rosemary placed the tray on a small table. She glanced in Angela’s direction. “I see you’re no worse for wear after last night’s adventure. In fact, by the bloom on your cheeks, and your lack of nightclothes, I’d say the adventure didn’t end when we arrived home.”

  “Rosemary! You’re too impertinent, by far.”

  “And that’s why you love me so much.”

  Angela raised herself to a sitting position, holding the sheet up to her chin. “’Tis true, you’re like a sister to me, wagging tongue and all,” she said, grinning. “And, I daresay, your vision is much too keen for comfort.”

  Rosemary came to sit on the edge of the bed. Looking at Angela, she asked, “Are you ready to admit you love him?”

  Angela waited a moment before answering. “Aye, I love him,” she said in a hushed voice. “What do I do now?”

  “You marry him.”

  “But he hasn’t asked me again. What if he never does?”

  Angela knew for certain that if Ian asked her once more to marry him, she would say yes. He was a noble, honorable man – nothing at all like The Baron – nothing like any man she’d ever met. Behind Ian’s roguish exterior was a kind, generous, caring man. He had wanted to help her find out who her real father was, was willing to risk everything by breaking into The Baron’s house. And even though she believed Ian’s proposal had been spurred by guilt, she no longer cared.

  “He will.”

  “And my real father?”

  “What about him?”

  “I need to find out who he is.”

  “You can marry Blackridge either way.”

  “Only if he asks me again.”

  Rosemary took Angela’s hands into her own. “He will.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of what, love?”

  “All my life I wanted my – The Baron – to love me. What if Ian doesn’t love me as I love him? It frightens me that I might spend the rest of my life trying in vain to win his love like I did with the man I thought was my father.”

  “Can you not see how much he cares for you? If he hasn’t realized his love for you already, he will soon enough. Now, get dressed and eat some of this good food before it gets cold.”

  IAN SAT AT his desk, reading the missive sent by his lead investigator. It stated that the baron has so far kept to a predictable schedule of drinking and gambling most nights. However, there was a report of an unknown gentleman who had made several visits to the baron’s residence. There also was another piece of information, disturbing in its nature. This same as yet unidentified gentleman had also been making inquiries about Angela.

  It brought to mind several important questions. Who was this stranger, what was the baron up to, and how did Angela fit into it?

  So far, there was nothing conclusive to prove Eberly had anything to do with John Winston’s murder. Ian had been so sure, given the evidence of blackmail, that the baron was guilty of the crime.

  Three gentlemen had courted Angela. All three had been rejected, and all three had been blackmailed. But so far, only one of them has turned up dead. Could it be that John was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, the pointless victim of a common robbery? The idea was a ludicrous one: that his friend had died in such a mundane way.

  They needed to identify the stranger. His connection with the baron and his interest in Angela may only be a coincidence, but Ian doubted that was the case. If the baron was involved in John’s murder, and considering the obvious hatred he felt toward Angela, she could be in danger.

  A knot of fear settled in the pit of Ian’s stomach at the thought of losing Angela. His hand clenched, crumpling the note in his fist. It would be one thing for her to leave at the end of their agreed time together. At least he’d know she was still alive somewhere. But it was damned unsettling to think of her gone from this world entirely.

  Perhaps it was time for Ian to pay the baron a visit. If extreme persuasiveness was required to get some answers, then so be it. Besides, Ian was itching to dole out a little retribution on Angela’s behalf. He just hoped he didn’t end up killing the man, at least not before he talked.

  5

  Villarreal / The Devil Rogue

  Chapter 20

  “A LORD BLACKRIDGE to see you, baron.”

  Lord Eberly raised bleary eyes up at the man who spoke to him from the doorway of his study. He didn’t recognize him as one of the usual servants. His muddled mind had trouble remembering who the rough-looking man was, but after a moment he recalled that all his servants had gone. Most of them he’d discharged, the others had mysteriously vanished, abandoning him to an empty house. He remembered that that man had sent this fellow, who looked more like a pugilist than a butler.

  Blackridge!

  It was because of Blackridge that Eberly drowned his sorrows in drink every night, and languished in self-pity over his predicament during the few daylight hours he was awake and sober. And it was because of that bitch of a step-daughter why that man had come.

  Mr. Hawk was his name, the stranger who had come with his money and threats. He was tall, with dark, penetrating eyes, always dressed entirely in black. His appearance, combined with his strange accent, made him seem . . . demonic. Whenever Mr. Hawk was here, in this house, Eberly felt like death had come knocking on his door. A shiver ran up his spine with the memory of the man’s most recent visit.

  Oh, if he had only treated Angela kinder, he would not be in this situation now! He’d never asked for this, had loved her mother so much he hadn’t minded that she carried another man’s child – at first. He hadn’t known then who the father was, but he did now, and he knew he was going to pay for his sins.

  Eberly rubbed a thick-fingered hand over his protruding stomach, trying to alleviate the gnawing pain there. He needed a drink. Licking his dry lips, he said in a petulant tone of voice, “Tell Blackridge to go away, I’m not receiving visitors.”

  “He’s very determined, my lord,” said the pugilist. He eyed Eberly with a look of disgust.

  “I don’t c
are how determined he is, I won’t see him!” Eberly shouted. He slumped back in his chair, drained of energy from his outburst. He really needed a drink. His guts burned like the fires of hell.

  The pugilist was clearly not intimidated by Eberly’s outburst. In a calm voice with the same foreign accent as Mr. Hawk’s, he said, “Blackridge has informed me that he will not leave until he has spoken with you.”

  With a shaky hand, Eberly reached for the decanter near the edge of the desk. After filling his glass, he raised it to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the strength of his salvation wash down his parched throat and seep into his blood. Fortified with the illusion of courage, he said, “Bring him, then.”

  IAN STOOD IN the same entryway he had the night he came for Angela. With new eyes, he viewed the dim interior. A thick layer of dust coated every surface. Slivers of sunlight breaking through small holes in the curtains revealed tiny particles floating in a silent ballet in the stagnant air.

  The walls were missing most of the paintings that had once hung there, as evidenced by the outlines left behind. Everything that might have had any value was gone, leaving empty places on all the tables and stands. Why hadn’t he noticed this before? Why hadn’t he seen the threadbare rugs, the cobwebs, the moth-eaten curtains? Why hadn’t the overall shabbiness of the place registered in his mind? Because, on that particular night, his mind had been on only one track – the acquisition – and subsequent ruination – of Miss Hopkins.

  Feelings of guilt and remorse welled up inside him again for what he’d done to her. But there were no regrets for taking her away from this, from her life with a man who hated her.

  The sound of approaching footsteps intruded on Ian’s thoughts. The man who had answered the door walked with a steady, unhurried gait toward him. When Ian had made his intentions clear, the man hadn’t said a word, just nodded his head. He most definitely didn’t look like the usual servant. Taking in the man’s huge, muscular shoulders, the barrel chest, and the flattened nose, Ian figured he was probably a fighter, or had been at one time. Ian was not unfamiliar with the lower end of society. He knew a henchman when he saw one. Did this rough-looking character work for the baron? Was he involved somehow in John’s murder?

  “If you will follow me, my lord, the baron will see you now.”

  Ian noted the man’s accent. His speech indicated he was more literate than his looks implied, which meant he’d been educated somewhere. But where? The accent was very close to Russian, but not like any Ian had ever heard before. Moving to follow, he felt it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “May I inquire as to where you’re from?”

  “Not from here, my lord.”

  Obviously. The man was being purposefully evasive – why? “What is your name?”

  “Ivan.”

  A good Russian name. “Are you from Russia? Your accent seems to imply it, as well as your name.”

  “Not Russia, my lord, but a small neighboring country,” Ivan said.

  “You can’t tell me the name of this country?”

  “It is not for me to tell.”

  “Do you work for Eberly – I mean, did he hire you?”

  Apparently, Ivan decided he could answer that question, at least. “I work for only one master. It is not the baron.”

  “Who is your master?”

  “It is not for me to tell.”

  Ian clenched his teeth in frustration, but considered himself lucky he’d gotten that much out of Ivan. His attention turned to the man sitting behind the desk in the same study he and Angela had recently searched. The baron looked to be in ill health, his physical appearance a shocking contrast to the last time Ian had seen him. Whatever had happened in the last few weeks had definitely taken its toll. Could it be Ian’s plan to ruin Eberly had been successful, or was some other factor responsible, or a combination of both?

  Even if the baron wasn’t connected with John Winston’s death, Eberly’s predicament was of his own making for his deplorable treatment of Angela.

  “Eberly,” Ian said, approaching the desk.

  The baron took a sip from his re-filled glass. “Blackridge,” he said with a sneer. “I see you’re as arrogant as ever, intruding where you’re not wanted. No doubt diddling my daughter has you strutting around like a proud cock. No pun intended.”

  Rage built like a black thunderhead within Ian. He fought to keep from slamming his fist into the baron’s face. “Angela is no daughter of yours, Eberly,” he said in a steely voice.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want the truth about Angela, as well as information about another matter.”

  “Finally figured it out, did she? She always was such a stupid girl. No matter how many beatings she got, she never learned to keep her mouth shut.”

  “Not so much stupid as spirited, compassionate, and courageous. Thank God you weren’t able to destroy those qualities in her.”

  The baron laughed. “Oh, this is too good! You’re in love with her, aren’t you? The Devil Rogue and the bastard daughter of—”

  Ian snapped.

  With lightening speed, he leaned over the desk, knocking the drink out of Eberly’s hand, and grasped him by the throat. “Yes, I’m in love with her,” he growled into the baron’s face. “So know this – I’d do anything for her, including beating you to a bloody pulp. Now tell me who her father is.”

  Eberly’s eyes widened in fear, his face draining of all color before it turned crimson from Ian’s vice-like grip around his neck.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you,” the baron choked out.

  Ian released his hold, but remained leaning over the desk, his hands flat on the surface in a threatening position. He was much bigger than the baron and he used that fact to his advantage.

  “She’s a princess,” Eberly rasped. At Blackridge’s blank look, he continued, “Her father is king of some small country. It’s tiny and insignificant, but he’s king just the same. That makes Angela a royal princess by blood.”

  Ian’s mind reeled. Angela – a real princess? How ironic that he’d been calling her princess all this time. “You never knew this?”

  “I knew her mother loved another man,” Eberly said, rubbing his neck, “but she never told me who it was, and she never told me why he didn’t marry her.”

  “You still married her knowing she was in love with someone else, carrying his child?” Ian had trouble reconciling the bitter, hateful man before him with the one who would rescue an abandoned, pregnant woman.

  The baron lifted his chin. “Yes. I loved her.”

  “You loved her, but not her child,” Ian said coldly.

  “I tried, but I couldn’t do it. Angela was a constant reminder of Anna’s love for another man. We were never able to conceive children together, so my resentment grew worse.”

  “You’re a foolish man, Eberly.”

  “More than you’ll ever know,” Eberly whispered.

  “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this,” Ian said, his voice filled with the intensity of his emotions, “but I’ll say it anyway. Stay away from Angela. If you ever go near her again, you’re a dead man.” It was true. Ian would kill this man, or any other who threatened Angela.

  “Are you through?”

  “Not just yet. I have one more question. Angela had a suitor. His name was John Winston. Do you remember him?”

  Eberly shifted in his chair, his eyes darting from side to side. “Angela had many suitors, so I suppose he could have been one of them.”

  “A situation you apparently used to your advantage,” Ian said with a sneer of disgust. “I know about the blackmail, and I know John was one of your targets. What I need you to tell me is if you had anything to do with his murder.”

  “Murder? How dare you imply—”

  Ian shot forward, once again, grabbing the baron’s shirtfront. “John Winston was like a brother to me, so stop your self-righteous blathering, and tell me the truth, or I swear I’ll kill you right now.”

  Eberly tried t
o shrink away, but he was held immobile by the strength of Ian’s grip on his shirt. “I-It wasn’t me!” he sniveled. “I didn’t do it! I never intended it to happen that way. I-I mean, yes, I hired a couple of thugs to rough him up a bit. You know, j-just to bring him around to paying the money.” At the thunderous look on Blackridge’s face, he whined defensively, “How was I to know those two would take it too far and kill him?”

  Ian shoved Eberly back into his chair. Straightening, he ran his fingers through his hair. How he would like to wrap his hands around the baron’s throat, watch his eyes bulge from lack of air, look into those eyes until the flame of his life went out. But as Eberly said, he wasn’t the one who killed John. He may have put him in danger’s path, but it was ultimately the act of the two men hired by the baron. Ian’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to sink to their level.

  Eberly sobbed out his excuses. “You don’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve had to do all these years just to keep things afloat! You don’t know what I’m up against now.”

  “It’s quite evident what you’ve been up to as far as Angela is concerned,” Ian said, barely in control of the impulse to beat the man senseless. “You’ve made your own fate. You have no one else to blame but yourself.”

  “And what about your own fate? It’s all become clear to me now. You planned to ruin Angela along with me right from the beginning, didn’t you?”

  “I admit I thought her as guilty as you at first, but now I know differently.”

  “When she learns what you’ve done, she will never forgive you,” Eberly said with a satisfied smirk.

  “That’s for me to worry about, but as for you, baron—”

  “W-what do you intend to do, a-about the blackmail, that is?” Eberly looked up at Blackridge with bloodshot eyes glistening with moisture.