The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  The night was cool and clear and wide open. Sophia saw where they were headed long before Hope reined in the horse’s frantic pace. Just past a familiar facade, its blue shutters glittering in the light of a vivid moon, Thomas veered left down a shadowy pathway.

  They rode into The Glossy’s small but neat mews. A groom, trying very hard not to gape at the breathless couple before him, held the reins while Thomas dismounted. The horse grunted with relief.

  Hope turned to Sophia, his movements precise and ruthless as he hooked his hands around her waist and brought her to the ground. Glaring at the curious groom, Thomas whipped back his shoulders and removed his jacket.

  He shrouded Sophia in the fine folds of its fabric, tugging at the collar so as to hide the better half of her face. Pressing a coin into the groom’s palm, Hope murmured his thanks and guided Sophia into The Glossy.

  Sophia was glad to have Hope’s jacket. Stepping foot into the house’s palatial hall, a chill ran through her, strong and visceral, as if she’d plunged through ice into a frozen lake.

  For the first time Sophia did not feel welcome here.

  She had not returned since that night she ran breathless out the door, struggling to keep pace with Hope as he sprinted toward the street. Nor had she yet worked up the courage to write La Reinette who, for obvious reasons, could not send a letter to Sophia at her uncle’s house.

  This much Sophia knew: the events of that night forever altered the rules of their arrangement. Both she and Madame had bared parts of themselves that were very much at odds with what each wanted from the other. Could Sophia trust La Reinette to provide the discretion and safety she’d promised?

  And could Madame, in turn, trust her memoirs to a debutante possessed of a real terror for her reputation while, impossibly, exhibiting a taste for less than wholesome nighttime activity?

  The arrangement couldn’t possibly continue. Not as it had before—well, before this happened.

  And then there was Madame’s relationship with Mr. Hope to consider. Were they in business together? Master and servant? Friends? Allies? Or were they—

  No. It was none of her business. She and Thomas were on the hunt for the stolen French Blue—nothing more, nothing less—though what La Reinette had to do with any of that, Sophia hadn’t a clue.

  Hope charged into the madam’s room without knocking.

  “What do you know?”

  Sophia started at Hope’s growl. He stalked to the far end of the room as if it were his own, pacing behind La Reinette as she sat before her painted vanity.

  With exaggerated slowness the Little Queen dabbed the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief, patting back an errant curl. In the mirror her color was high; Sophia noticed the bed was unmade, its coverlet curled invitingly around rumpled sheets.

  It shouldn’t have surprised Sophia, this still-warm evidence of the skill that made La Reinette famous. Still, she looked away, training her eyes on something, anything, other than the bed; embarrassed, as if she’d interrupted the act itself.

  Madame rose and turned to face them, the diaphanous robe tied about her trim person revealing as much as it concealed. She looked, Sophia thought, as effortlessly lovely as she always did.

  What was it about Frenchwomen and their effortless everything? Really, it wasn’t fair.

  La Reinette’s black eyes, inscrutable, took in her visitors’ disheveled appearance, Hope’s white satin breeches and red-heeled shoes; her gaze lingered a moment on the jagged rent that split Sophia’s skirts. Sophia, face burning, was overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. As if she’d somehow committed a crime against the madam in her own house.

  Sophia gathered the loose edges of her costume in her hands and looked to the floor.

  “Your diamond.” Madame turned to Hope. “Someone stole it, yes?”

  He returned her gaze levelly. “The time for playing coy with me is long passed, Marie. I know well enough that London’s secrets—the ones worth knowing, anyway—pass through this room. So.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me what you know.”

  She stepped forward and took him by the shoulders, halting him midstride. “Look at me, mon chéri, I do not play coy. That is the lucky guess I had, that the diamond, it is stolen. You should be wiser in these things. You display this beautiful jewel before all the world, oui? And what, you think no one will want it for themselves?”

  “I cannot afford to lose the French Blue. Either tell me what you know—”

  Madame scoffed. “Or what?”

  In the beat of silence that followed, Sophia sensed something dark moving between La Reinette and Hope. Something heavy and well worn.

  More secrets. So many deuced secrets.

  At last La Reinette released Hope, making for Sophia. She took her burning face in her palms. “And you, ma bichette, more adventure for you! Soon you will write your own memoirs.” Her thumb grazed the rib of Sophia’s cheek. “Tell me. When it was taken, this diamond of monsieur’s. Tell me what you saw. Were you together with him?”

  Sophia swallowed. An odd question, yes. But clearly La Reinette knew something they did not. She glanced at Thomas, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light of the room. He nodded. Go on.

  “Well.” Sophia returned Madame’s gaze. “Mr. Hope and I were dancing the waltz—”

  Madame arched a brow. “A waltz? But then, did you intend to kill off all the nice ladies in your ballroom? I imagine many of them hit their heads, yes, when they swooned? That dance, for you English it is too much. Too much of the passion.”

  “Not amused.” Hope closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not amused, Marie, not one bit. See here, Miss Blaise and I were dancing, and then all of the sudden . . .”

  Hope told his story, about the acrobats flying through the windows, his treacherous guards; he told her about Violet screaming, It’s gone, the diamond, it’s gone!, and then added, strangely, an anecdote about her losing her dinner on the Earl of Harclay’s shoes.

  Like that rapscallion had anything to do with the French Blue and its sudden disappearance from Hope’s ballroom. Sophia hoped Violet had managed to escape that wicked man’s presence. Though heaven knew he was handsome enough to slay even the most upright of the female sex. Perhaps Sophia shouldn’t have left Violet to her own defense. For there was no defense, really, against a face like Harclay’s.

  La Reinette listened to Hope’s tale closely, all the while holding Sophia’s hands in the warm comfort of her own.

  “It is unfortunate, this thing that has happened to you tonight,” she said when Hope had finished. She held a finger in the air and made for her escritoire. “But the fear, let it leave you. These devils steal from you, yes, but we will take their own trick and use it for us. I will make inquiries, discreet of course. Le bleu de France will be yours again, monsieur.”

  Madame sat at the desk and took out a fresh sheet of paper, dabbing a swan feather quill in a pot of blue ink. Sophia bent her arm, intent to brush away a stray eyelash, when a small but succinct crack sounded from the crook of her elbow.

  The note.

  Of course.

  If La Reinette was mistress of secrets, as Thomas implied, then who better to untangle the mystery of Sophia’s note?

  “There’s something else,” Sophia blurted. Hope’s gaze snapped toward her, a warning; but she ignored it, drawing from her glove the tiny square of paper. “A note. It came to my house this evening—someone stuck it in the kitchen door. Do you think it has anything to do with the theft?”

  Madame frowned as she unfolded the note, smoothing it over the blank page on her escritoire. “That night you came to me, here in this room. Who knows of it, besides us? I do not ask from you an explanation of why those men were after you. But you must tell me this.”

  “Virtually no one.” Hope spoke before Sophia could reply, warning her off with n
arrowed eyes. “You, an associate of mine, one or two others. And then, of course, the men who chased us. As far as I know, no one has seen or heard from them since.”

  Madame nodded absently, her attention fixed on the note. “I have been watching for them, but they have disappeared—poof!—into the air. Let us hope they have gone back to the hole they came from, yes?”

  “What of the note?” Sophia asked. “D’you think they wrote it?”

  “Perhaps.” Madame pursed her lips. “Perhaps not. I do not recognize the hand. But now, those men who chased you—they are the first suspects. Perhaps all this”—she waved a hand among the three of them—“is connected. We shall find out, yes?”

  Thomas leaned in to grasp the note, which he tucked into the lapel of his jacket. “Thank you, Marie. As always I appreciate your. Er. Expertise in these matters.”

  La Reinette offered Hope a small but meaningful smile. So meaningful that Sophia felt as if she were eavesdropping on a private conversation.

  “As always, monsieur, it is a pleasure to help you.”

  Hope was offering an arm to Sophia when La Reinette suddenly turned, finger to her chin. “Oh yes! I cannot forget. You, Hope, must watch over our dear friend the mademoiselle. The two of you, you were close, yes, in those last moments before the theft? The thieves, they may try to use her against you. Forget this chase tonight; you will find nothing. Go home, keep her safe. That note, I do not like it.”

  Sophia started, a pulse of fear racing through her. Dear God, just what did La Reinette mean by that?

  “Thank you, Marie,” he repeated, voice edged with impatience as he tugged Sophia out of the room. It was obvious, as head of his own bank, Thomas was rather more used to giving orders than receiving them.

  “And do take care!” La Reinette called after them as they made their way out of the room. “These devils may want more than your diamonds, monsieur!”

  Eleven

  City of London

  Hope & Co. Offices, Fleet Street

  Hope shoved aside the detritus on his desk, setting in its place two heavy-bottomed crystal glasses and the only bottle of port he’d managed to rummage from his sideboard, crowded as it was with brown liquors of every shape and stripe.

  From the stricken look on Sophia’s face, he could tell the last thing the girl needed was a kick in the arse from an especially potent Scotch. Port, surely, was a better bet. Ladies drank port, didn’t they?

  And even if they didn’t, Hope sure as hell did. He needed libation.

  Several libations, in fact.

  And even then he wasn’t sure he’d be able to erase the fact that the French Blue—the French Blue, the Sun King’s fifty-carat diamond, and quite possibly England’s ticket to victory on the Continent—was stolen, right from under his nose.

  The weight of his anger, his helplessness and his guilt, was suffocating.

  The port. Yes. That would help.

  At least a little.

  Hope watched Sophia watching him as with swift hands he twisted the corkscrew into the mouth of the bottle, tugging the cork free with an airless pop.

  In the soft glow of the lamp her eyes were enormous, depthless; he could practically see thoughts cross her mind as she thought them, brow furrowed.

  Part of his anger was directed at her. Why didn’t she listen to him when he told her to run, to seek safety with her family? He had a stolen diamond to find, God damn it, and she would only slow him down. As La Reinette had so eloquently reminded him, whoever was after Hope was deadly, a very real threat. If those men dared take his diamond, perhaps they would not hesitate to take his life, too.

  And now that Sophia was with him, she was also in danger. That bloody note proved nothing good came of her involvement in his plots; that nothing good came of her involvement with him.

  Even so. Now that the damage was done and the night was darkest, Hope found he was relieved, glad even, to have her with him, to share a drink—many drinks, on his part—with her in the cool quiet of his office at Hope & Co.

  He would take her home after the first glass. At least that’s what he told himself as he helped her dismount in the mews behind the building. La Reinette was right to say Sophia was in danger; nevertheless, she was an unmarried debutante of gentle birth, and such creatures usually shied away from staying out all hours of the night with tradesmen like himself.

  Hope poured each of them a glass and passed one to Sophia. She straightened, grasping the glass eagerly in her gloved hand.

  He was, apparently, not the only one in need of a drink.

  He held up his glass but could not think of a toast. Sophia waited impatiently, biting her bottom lip against an exhausted smile.

  “Forget it,” she said at last. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Praise God. Me neither.”

  Over the rim of his own glass Hope watched Sophia take one, two long, luxurious pulls, wincing a bit as she guided the glass into her lap.

  “That’s good.” Again she brought the cup to her lips. “That’s very good, Thomas.”

  She set the empty glass on the desk and fell back into the chair with a contented sigh. With her hair and costume askew, a milky white thigh peeking through the makeshift slit in her skirts and lips purple-red from the port, Sophia appeared more nymph than debutante.

  “More?” he asked, grasping the bottle.

  She nodded. He poured.

  They drank in silence. At once he felt the port working its magic way through him, the ache in his shoulders and neck easing with every sip he took.

  After his second glass he grew courageous enough to step round the desk, trailing his hip along its edge until he drew up beside Sophia’s chair. He refilled both their glasses and, setting the bottle on the desk behind him, leaned the backs of his thighs against the desk, facing her, and crossed his arms.

  “I bet you wish you were at home, in bed. Don’t you, Sophia?”

  Sophia blinked, as if he’d just insulted her. She crinkled her nose. “No. Why? Do you?”

  “What, home in bed? Your bed? My bed? What?” he scoffed, suddenly flustered. “No-o?”

  So much for the debonair adventurer. After a glass or three of port he was no smoother than a randy fifteen-year-old boy.

  He gulped his port. Yes, it could only make things worse, but what else was he supposed to do when she was looking at him like that, with those eyes and that hair and that goddamned thigh . . .

  Hope cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is, don’t you wish you’d kept dancing with that marquess of yours? Stayed safe and sound in your family’s house? Seems the moment I step in, a whole heap of trouble follows.”

  He nearly winced as the words left his lips. Where the devil had that come from? Speaking of randy fifteen-year-old boys: the marquess was a perfect example, yes, but that hardly signified. He and Sophia had shared a dance; and if they shared more than that, well.

  It was none of Hope’s business.

  Still. Even in his own ears the words smacked of jealousy. It was an unfamiliar feeling; Hope was not a jealous man. Especially when it came to women.

  So why the sudden, hot tug in his belly at the memory of Sophia stumbling through the steps of a reel at the Marquess of Withington’s side?

  You know my family’s circumstances. I don’t have much choice. A good marriage will go far to repair our fortunes, and our reputation.

  Hope recalled Sophia’s words, her dreams of a brilliant match.

  A match with a titled, fortuned man like the marquess. A man who couldn’t be more different, in family, history, circumstances, than Hope.

  Well, except for the fortune part. Hope trumped the marquess there.

  Nevertheless.

  Sophia, praise God, had the grace to ignore Hope’s comment, but not without a small smile.

  “I like your
kind of trouble.” She looked down into her glass. “I wish you’d stop feeling guilty, Thomas. You didn’t drag me into this; I joined you willingly. Whatever trouble I’m in has been of my own doing. I daresay if I hadn’t run into you my first season would prove awfully dull.”

  “I suppose,” Hope said carefully, “I should take that as a compliment?”

  Sophia raised her glass and clinked it against his own. “You should. Cheers.”

  She finished her port with a hiss, and waved away Hope’s attempts to refill her glass. Her color was high; she shifted in her chair, crossing her legs invitingly so he could see just enough skin to drive him wild, imagining the vision of more skin, more leg.

  Her eyes, gold in the low light of the room, caught on an array of pages that hung precariously off the edge of his desk. Brow furrowed with curiosity, she bent forward in her chair. Before he could stop her she reached for them, lips curling into a grin as she read the first line.

  “A History of the World’s Greatest Diamond, by Thomas Hope.” Her eyes danced as she met his own. “I did not know you were a writer!”

  He tried again to take the pages from her, but she snatched them from his grasp. “Yes, well. It’s not quite finished, you see . . .”

  Hope waited with bated breath as Sophia read one page after another, her smile at times fading, others growing, as her lips moved silently in time to the words. By the time she set her empty glass on the desk and gathered the pages in a neat pile, Hope’s heart was racing.

  “Well?” he asked weakly.

  Sophia cleared her throat, setting the History on the desk. “Well.”

  Her gaze met his. She let out a sound—a sob, a sigh?—and only when Hope felt the rise in his own belly did he recognize it as laughter.

  And then they were laughing together, tears gathering at the edges of Sophia’s lovely eyes as she recited that bit about forbidden fruit, and Hope nodding yes, yes, it is terrible, isn’t it?

  “Not all of us, Miss Blaise, can be bestselling authors!”

  “Bah!” Sophia wiped her eyes with her first finger. “Hardly signifies, when I am merely a vessel; the stories aren’t my own. I only wonder why you wrote such a history? Why the French Blue? Aside, of course, from your interest in all things extravagant.”