The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  “And so I must help you fight against it.” Sophia held up her hand to keep him from interrupting and turned to La Reinette. “What news do you have, Madame?”

  The Little Queen unclasped the round golden locket that hung from her neck, a tiny key falling into her outstretched palm. With the key she opened the first drawer in the desk and retrieved a square of rough paper.

  She placed the letter on the desk and slid it toward Sophia and Thomas.

  “S’ouvrez-le.”

  Open it.

  Sophia met Hope’s gaze.

  “Go on, then.” He nodded at the desk. “Plus de secrets, mademoiselle.”

  Her blood leapt at the effortless confidence of his French. No more secrets.

  Sophia reached for the note and unfolded it. She recognized the bold, shaky hand at once; the same hand that penned the threatening letter she’d received some days ago.

  She stepped toward the fire, holding the page with trembling hands before the light. Like the previous note, this one was written in flowery, well-formed French.

  To the Little Queen of my heart,

  My dearest, how long it has been since we saw each other last! You left us so suddenly—even now I burn when I think of you leaving my bed before I had finished—it is a terrible crime to leave a man thus. How thirsty I was then—I swore I would have you again—these years in Paris, they have been cold. But I never forgot your little trick, sweet dove. I never forgot what you did to me. I do not think you have, either.

  But fear not, my queen, for at last I am delivered of my suffering—I am in London now—and I would have you finish what you started a decade ago. How old we grow! I think you will agree that life—it is sometimes not worth living at such an age.

  I shall come for you. Soon. Do not be afraid—it will be quick, and I hope you will feel no pain, sweet dove.

  In Good Friendship,

  G. Cassin.

  Sophia looked up from the letter. “Who is Cassin? And why does he wish . . . wish you harm?”

  Her query was met with silence. She looked from La Reinette to Mr. Hope, a chill creeping in her limbs as she took in his expressionless pallor. His eyes were trained on the madam; she returned his gaze steadily, but from the pucker of her lips, Sophia could tell she was afraid.

  Slowly Sophia folded the note in her hands. “No more secrets, remember?”

  “Guillaume Cassin.” Hope’s voice was quiet, ominous. “A name I never thought I’d hear again.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “He is a man I knew a long time ago. In a different life, before I came to England.”

  He took the letter from Sophia, read it; swallowed its contents in the space of a single heartbeat.

  He looked up, crumpling the paper in his palm before tossing it into the fire. “We’ve got to leave. Now.”

  “Wait.” Sophia stepped toward him. “A name you never thought you’d hear again? Why?”

  Hope’s face was grim. “Because he’s dead. That’s why.”

  Eighteen

  La Reinette leapt to her feet. “But it is safe here, monsieur, I have paid extra men to guard the house—”

  “We’re leaving. Now.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Hope grasped Sophia by the elbow and blew through the door. She trotted to keep pace with his enormous stride as he led her out into the mews, the madam a few breathless paces behind.

  He whistled to the coachman sitting atop a waiting carriage. Though the vehicle was unmarked, its gleaming sides were lacquered a deep shade of red that spoke of discreet luxury.

  Hope opened the door and all but lifted Sophia into the coach, helping La Reinette inside before settling into the seat beside Sophia. He pounded twice on the roof and they tore off the drive and into the night.

  “We were perfectly safe, yes, back in my study,” Madame sniffed, smoothing her ruffled skirts. “What, do you think I would let that animal make a mess of my house, scare off the clients? Never.”

  “He did before.” Hope stared at her. “It was him, wasn’t it, that night you shoved Sophia and I into the closet? Cassin, and whatever fools he’s paid to do his bidding—they were the riders who gave us chase. How did you not recognize him?”

  La Reinette’s eyes widened in disbelief. “He wore the—the—” She made a tying motion at the back of her head.

  “He wore a mask,” Sophia said, trying not to smile at the quaint gesture. “Makes sense to me.”

  Hope dug a hand through his hair. “How did I miss it? I knew I recognized that voice.”

  “It has been a long while,” Madame said. “A long while for the both of us. He is back from the dead.”

  “He. Would someone please tell me who he is?”

  The carriage bolted left, and Sophia careened across the bench. Thomas grabbed her by the wrist and righted her, his fingers leaving traces of fire on her bare skin.

  His touch, it seemed, electrified her no matter the circumstance. Heavens, even in the midst of an escape from an enemy risen from the dead, Hope’s hands set her entire being alight. He could with his fingers alone make her forget everything, everything, her good sense and her manners and all that she’d hoped and wished and dreamed for her whole life.

  She wished he’d touch her again.

  This time with his lips.

  La Reinette and Hope met eyes across the coach. For a long moment they looked at one another without speaking. Sophia sensed tension between them, as if this were a subject neither party wished to broach.

  “Guillaume Cassin, he was my admirer a long time ago,” La Reinette began. “He inherits a very old banking house, yes, the best in all France. First he loans money to the king. Then he loans money to the emperor. Until I killed him.”

  Sophia’s breath left her body. She stared at La Reinette as if seeing her for the first time. “You killed him? As in. Shot him through the heart killed him? Or just. Er. Metaphorically killed him. With your. Er. Eyes or wiles or whatnot?”

  La Reinette smiled, a hard, rueful thing. “Ah, it is a bit of both. He fell in love with me. But I,” she gestured at Hope, “I was working for monsieur. And monsieur wanted Cassin dead. So, yes. I killed his heart and then I killed the body. Monsieur was there, weren’t you?”

  Hope shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking out the window as if he might leap from it. “Yes. Yes, I was. Not my favorite memory; thank you, Marie, for the kind reminder.

  “It is quite simple.” Hope sighed. “I worked for the British. Cassin worked for the Empire, as banker and as spy. His hands are stained with the deaths of hundreds, thousands of men. I won. Except I didn’t, apparently.”

  “I slit his throat,” Madame said without blinking. “The blood, it was everywhere. It is an impossible thing to survive.”

  Sophia closed her eyes against the well of tears. I slit his throat. As if that explained everything. As if the words were not at all connected to the horrific act itself.

  No, no. Contrary to Hope’s belief, this didn’t feel simple at all; as a matter of fact it was deucedly complex, especially in the small hours of the morning. Something didn’t make sense; there were missing pieces to this puzzle, big pieces, though Sophia couldn’t begin to guess what they were.

  “But what’s this Cassin got to do with us?” she said. “He can’t be the thief, the man who stole the French Blue. Could he? But we’ve pegged the earl . . .”

  La Reinette shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps no. Cassin has come to settle the score, take blood for blood. The French, we have vengeful hearts. First he will kill me. And then he will come for you, monsieur. Already he threatens your woman.”

  “But how?” Hope burst. “How the hell does Cassin know about Soph—about Miss Blaise? We—she—we do not belong to one another.”

  Sophia’s heart twisted at the words he left unspoken.

&nbs
p; Miss Blaise belongs to someone else.

  “I said before,” Madame continued. “Cassin is a smart man. He will ruin those you care about, yes, and you, you watch in agony. Only then will he come for you.”

  Hope drew a long breath through his nose. The stubbly skin along his jaw twitched as silence stretched between them; at his sides his hands were balled into fists.

  When he spoke at last his voice was low and mean. “I want you out of London, Marie. Tonight. It isn’t safe for you here; it will only be a week, maybe two, before I get my hands on Cassin. I think it best you travel in disguise.”

  La Reinette turned her head to look out the window. Outside the coach the night was black.

  “These wild days,” she said. “I thought they were past.”

  “Yes,” Hope replied. “Me, too. And they will be, once I take care of Cassin. Promise me you’ll leave tonight. Do you need money, horses?”

  The madam turned back to him and shook her head. “What do you think me, an imbecile? I will not leave a penny for that man to steal. My coach, it is unmarked, like yours.”

  “But where will you go?” Sophia asked. “Surely the roads cannot be safe.”

  “You will go to my house in Surrey,” Hope replied briskly, “and wait there for further instruction. Do you understand?”

  La Reinette raised a brow. “You do not give me an order, do you, monsieur?”

  “Christ have mercy.” Hope let out a hot breath, tugging a hand through his hair. “You women shall be the end of me, mark my words. Go where you want, then, but keep out of sight. I don’t need to tell you Cassin is a dangerous man, and cunning besides. If you are not careful he will find you. Do I have your word?”

  Madame stared back at him, her black eyes expressionless. Sophia wondered what she was thinking, how she stayed so calm in the face of all this danger. Heavens, she’d slit a man’s throat, only to face him yet again after he’d come back from the dead. Just the thought of it made Sophia want to howl with terror.

  “Yes,” La Reinette said at last, gaze never leaving Hope’s. “You have my word. Take me back home, yes, for I must pack my things.”

  They rode in silence as the coach backtracked to The Glossy. Sophia’s thoughts were a riot, a hundred questions forming as she replayed all that happened, and all she’d learned, in the past few hours.

  More than anything she longed to know what would become of them after it was all said and done; what their lives would be like, and would she ever see either La Reinette or Mr. Hope again?

  When at last they reached the corner closest to Madame’s establishment, she called for the driver to stop. Placing a hand on the latch, she looked back upon Sophia and Hope, and was about to make her exit, when Sophia reached out, impulsively, and placed a hand upon her arm.

  “Madame, it has been a great pleasure making your acquaintance these past months. There are few things I enjoyed so much as visiting with you, listening to your stories, the things and people you have known. What an honor it has been”—Sophia swallowed—“to have put those stories to paper. I am better, and happier, for having known you. Thank you.”

  La Reinette ducked back into the carriage. She took Sophia’s hands in her own and smiled, eyes shining. “No, mademoiselle, I am to be the one giving you thanks. Perhaps one day, when this is all done, we might meet again, yes, so we might finish what we started. Go safely, ma bichette.” Madame’s gaze flicked to Mr. Hope. “And do not let him order you about very much, yes?”

  Hope groaned. “That’s quite enough of that. Good evening, Marie.”

  Madame’s smile deepened as she winked at Sophia. Squeezing her hands one last time, La Reinette slipped from the coach.

  The driver nodded at Hope’s murmured instructions, closing the door softly against the snorts and sighs of the horses as they struggled to catch their breath.

  Once the door was shut and she was alone with Thomas, Sophia collapsed against her seat, blinking slowly as wide, hot tears coursed down her face and neck.

  Perhaps it was saying good-bye, letting go of all she and La Reinette had accomplished; perhaps it was the awful circumstance in which Sophia found herself, the threat of ruin and death very real indeed; or perhaps it was her exhaustion, coupled with her thrumming desire for the man who sat so close beside her she could smell the heat of the valet’s iron on his shirt. Whatever it was, Sophia could not swallow her tears.

  She inhaled, a shaky, embarrassingly pitiful sound, and wiped her nose with the corner of her hood.

  Mr. Hope took her bare hand in his, holding it as he lightly ran his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles.

  “Sophia.” He sighed. “Sophia, please. I can bear your domineering and your complete and utter disrespect for everything I say and do, but please, Sophia, I cannot bear to see you weep. It’s as you say—neither of us is nearly as good without the other. We are an unbeatable pair. It’s going to be all right.”

  She scoffed. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “Well, no. But you must agree we’ve great luck when we’re together. Please, Sophia, don’t cry. Here.” He held out a handkerchief. “I promise it’s been washed since you used it last.”

  Sophia blotted her eyes. “I”—sniffle—“am never one”—sniffle—“to weep. Too much”—sniffle—“work to be done.”

  “Never? Not once during your first season?”

  “Not”—sniffle—“once. I have yet to meet a gentleman at Almack’s worth”—sniffle—“crying about.”

  Thomas smiled. “For one who never weeps, you put on a hell of a show for the Princess of Wales. Those sobs of yours were most convincing.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  He arched a brow. “Your dear mama?”

  “My mother would give Mrs. Jordan a run for her money.”

  Sophia leaned her head against the cushion and took a deep breath, steadier this time. A beat of silence passed between them. From the corner of her eye she caught Hope’s gaze.

  “No secrets,” she said at last. “Tell me.”

  His eyes were transparent pools of blue in the dim light of the coach. They were clear, honest; devoid of his usual struggle over what he should and should not share with her.

  Thomas looked down at their clasped hands and Sophia looked down, too. His enormous hand swallowed hers; the warmth of his calloused skin soothed as much as it inflamed her.

  “I haven’t told anyone this story.” His voice was low, soft. “Even Lake doesn’t know the whole of it.”

  Sophia swallowed. It was no small thing, what she now asked of him. London knew very little of Mr. Thomas Hope, and he’d worked hard to keep it that way; the mystery surrounding his name served him well.

  But now he volunteered that information to her freely. Her, and her alone. It was an admission of trust and friendship; it was a gesture of goodwill.

  No one had trusted Sophia with so much as a schoolroom secret in all her life. And here was Thomas, one of the richest and most important men in England, sharing with her things he’d never told anyone else.

  She felt the smart of tears begin anew at his faith in her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Hope squeezed her hand. With his free fist he reached up to pound the roof, calling for the coachman to drive until he told him to stop.

  Thomas turned to her, using the knuckle of his first finger to wipe away what was left of her tears.

  For a moment his gaze flicked to her lips. She knocked her shoulder against his, shaking her head. “No. After, perhaps. But tell me your story first.”

  Nineteen

  Thomas looked down at their joined hands, tilting his head as he considered her proposal. The sharp angle of his smooth-shaven jaw caught an edge of moonlight and gleamed blue; the muscle there jumped, rippling beneath the skin.

  “We—my family and I—we were
to flee Amsterdam before the French arrived,” Hope said. “But we were too late. I was the only one to escape; I left my family behind. Later my brothers, Adrian and Henry, would follow me to London. But the terror—it changed them. We aren’t close, my brothers and I.”

  Sophia swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “My family, my city.” Hope squeezed her hand. “I left them behind, and was lost for years. Henry Lake found me, and offered me asylum in London.”

  “And in return?”

  The sides of his mouth kicked up. “And in return, I gave him the name of the banking house that supplied Boney with funds for the invasion of England.”

  “The invasion of England?” Sophia started. “You knew about that?”

  “Only the bank that was lending Napoleon the money to do it. Cassin & Sons, based in Paris. I knew of Cassin through my father’s connections back in Amsterdam.”

  She drew back. “So you and Lake, with La Reinette’s aid, went after Cassin, and in so doing saved England from Napoleon?”

  Hope shrugged, as if during that fateful night in Paris he’d been a mere tourist, out for a merry jaunt about town, rather than savior of king and country. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I doubt the invasion would have happened whether we took out Cassin or not. But it was a great victory for England, and for Lake.”

  Sophia looked from Thomas’s face to their hands, clasped in her lap. She wanted to ask about his family—who they were, how they were, how he’d lost them—but she remained silent, holding his fingers tightly so that he might feel her warmth.

  “We boarded a ship bound for London in Calais. The storm took us at the first glimpse of English coastline. Lake saved me from a fallen mainmast. That’s why he walks with a limp now.”

  Sophia nodded. “He must love you, to have risked his rather enormous neck to save your own.”

  “He left his family, too, not long before I did. We were as brothers then.”

  “And now?”

  Thomas’s grin deepened. “I could loathe someone so much only if I loved him, much as it pains me to admit it. When he appeared in my study after all these years—it was more loathing than loving, yes. But now? Now I’m glad he’s back, though I cannot say the same for my accounts at the bank. He’s the only family I’ve got left. The only family with whom I’m in contact, anyway.”