The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Of course Sophia knew of the French royals; they were in the papers often enough, tales of their enormous stipends and even more enormous appetites providing endless fodder for London’s gossips. Brothers to the fallen Louis XVI, they lived in exile in the hopes that the new King Louis—he styled himself Louis XVIII—might one day reclaim the throne of France.

  Seeing as Napoleon had no intention of ceding said throne; seeing as Louis and Artois were so fat they would sink any ship that attempted to bear them across the Channel; well, such ambitions were laughable at best.

  Harclay’s news did little to further their cause.

  “They said a man by the name of Daniel Eliason, a jewel merchant, is in possession of the French Blue. This week they are to meet on Eliason’s ship in the Docklands, and pay him thirty thousand pounds for the jewel.”

  Sophia swallowed, let out a breath.

  “I propose—hear me out, before you object—I propose we lure the king into our possession, and force him to take us to his brother, who at this very moment is working to procure a loan for the thirty thousand. We take the money, have the royals lead us to Eliason, and—Huzzah!—buy the diamond for ourselves.” He caught Sophia’s eye and had the grace to flush pink. “For Mr. Hope, I mean. Of course the French Blue belongs to him.”

  Sophia furrowed her brow. “How do we set the plot in motion, then? What bait do we have to lure the king to our cause?”

  “Ah!” Here the earl and Cousin Violet exchanged a knowing glance. “It’s quite simple. The king likes whores. Begging your pardon, Miss Blaise, no other way to say it. I propose we—all of us, you and Hope and that one-eyed monster of his—lure old King Louis to my house under the premise it is a palace of pleasure or some such nonsense. Once he’s inside, we get him drunk, very drunk, or . . . yes, or we give him a goodly dose of laudanum, just enough to make him docile. Then he leads us to his brother, the money, and, at last, the diamond.”

  Sophia looked from the Earl of Harclay to Violet and back again.

  Dear God, they were serious.

  This senseless, dangerous, convoluted plot—they meant to put it in play.

  But the plot did involve Mr. Hope; and before her better sense took hold, Sophia blurted, “I’m in! Count me in. Which part shall I take?”

  * * *

  Several days later

  The Earl of Harclay’s Residence

  Brook Street, Hanover Square

  A courtesan, as it turned out; Sophia was one of many half-naked goddesses inhabiting Aphrodite’s Temple, a labyrinthine set that transformed the Earl of Harclay’s well-appointed drawing room into a house of ill repute, complete with swaths of red satin and nude statues of Greek immortals in suggestive poses.

  All was going to plan—Harclay and Cousin Violet managed to lure the king into the Temple, and His Highness King Louis XVIII appeared to be enjoying himself most thoroughly in his chair beside the earl—until Harclay, having sipped from a balloon of brandy proffered moments before by Sophia, suddenly pitched forward.

  His eyes welled; his face matched the swaths of satin above his head.

  Sophia looked down at the empty tray she held in her hands, and looked back up at the king. He appeared healthy as an ox, if not a bit perplexed by Harclay’s sudden, violent movements.

  She’d poisoned the wrong man.

  She’d poisoned Harclay.

  Across the room, Sophia met eyes with Mr. Hope, who up until that moment had been waiting in the wings. Her belly sinking, she watched his face unfurl with understanding, and then he was dashing forward, falling to his knees beside Mr. Lake as Avery, the earl’s butler, held his master’s head in his hands.

  Sophia placed the tray on the edge of the stage and lurched toward the small knot of men, throat thick with tears. Violet was calling for a doctor; Lake, more menacing than ever in his gravity, called for mustard seed and water.

  The earl’s face was now a frightening shade of blue. His body was limp, devoid of any movement. Mr. Hope was shouting now, binding King Louis’ hands and feet; the room pulsed into action around her.

  Dear God. She’d poisoned the earl. And not just any earl. Violet’s earl, the earl that was to lead them to the diamond, to sanity and salvation. What if he never woke? What if she’d killed him, killed him with her carelessness?

  Sophia checked, and checked again, that the balloon with the chipped foot—the poisoned brandy—would go to His Highness King Louis. But then she’d caught Mr. Hope watching her, his blue eyes following her every movement, lingering on her every curve.

  So much for keeping her distance. Such a thing wasn’t possible, not when he looked at her like that; not when she felt her heart rising beneath his gaze, her heart and blood and the longing that plagued her day and night.

  Sophia remembered her hands shaking as she offered the balloons to Harclay and Louis, her thoughts a riotous tangle. It was entirely possible she offered the wrong drink to the wrong man.

  Her vision blurred by tears, she stood over Mr. Lake as he held a potion to Harclay’s lips. The earl drank it in short, hot sputters; but time and time again his eyes fluttered shut.

  He was dying.

  Panic rose in her throat. Sophia swallowed it, willing herself to remain calm. She’d written scandalous memoirs, deceived a princess, dueled with sinister Frenchmen.

  Surely she could bring a man back to life.

  Sophia elbowed Lake aside and sank to her knees. “Allow me.”

  She wound up her arm and, squeezing shut her eyes, brought down her hand, hard, on Harclay’s cheek.

  Violet was crying out, holding the earl’s head in her lap. Sophia watched as his lips broke into a small smile; and then he was opening his eyes and turning over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto Violet’s costume.

  “I’m sorry,” he sputtered, wiping his lips, “for ruining your toga.”

  An audible sigh of relief coursed through the room.

  Sophia sat back on her haunches. “I’m so very sorry. I don’t know how it happened—”

  With a wince, William drew himself up. “Think nothing of it, Sophia. Just promise me you’ll never again raise your hand to another man—you seem to enjoy it a tad too much. Bloody hurt, too.”

  Thank God he wasn’t dead. Thank God. Through her tears she felt herself smile.

  “I promise.”

  There was a tickle at the back of her neck. Sophia looked up to see Mr. Hope looming above her, his fingers moving to grasp her arm. Wordlessly he lifted her to her feet, branding her with the heat of his touch, his palm to her bare skin.

  They stood very close. His eyes—oh, those eyes—searched her face. She grew warm beneath his scrutiny; when she tried to look away he pulled her closer, his fingers pressing into the flesh of her arm.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

  “Yes.” Sophia glanced across the room. The earl stumbled; Mr. Lake caught him just before he fell face-first to the floor. “Though I cannot say the same for his lordship. Poor Harclay.”

  “An accident.” Hope squeezed her arm. “Nothing Lake and a little mustard seed couldn’t fix.”

  “But I almost killed him! What if he’s—what if he’s crippled forever?”

  “Darling.” Sophia tried to ignore the thrill that sparked in her chest at his endearment. “If brandy could cripple a man, I daresay I’d be gnarled and stooped as an apple tree. That thieving rogue will recover, make no mistake. In the meantime, we must see to tonight’s adventure.”

  Sophia swallowed, squaring her shoulders. Their last adventure; one last wild night. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

  “Excellent.” Hope smiled. He released her arm, running his palm over her bare shoulder. “Here, let me get your shawl. It’ll be chilly by the river.”

  She tried not to shiver at his touch. She didn’t wa
nt to feel like this, not now, not when the fate of her family, of Hope and the bank, hung in the balance.

  She did not want to feel this desire for him pulse through her being with every heartbeat, every breath, more potent than ever.

  She did not want to feel like this.

  But then she met his eyes as she ducked into the frayed cashmere shawl he held open for her. He was looking at her the way girls dreamed of being looked at; adoringly, intently, his eyes at once soft with affection, hard with desire.

  No matter what she wanted, what was good and what was proper, there was no helping the way Thomas made Sophia feel.

  The gentlemen, who, in their attempts to push King Louis through the doorway, had gotten him stuck, were calling for Thomas’s aid; Cousin Violet was twittering about time, they didn’t have much time now.

  Hope reached for Sophia’s hand, took it in his own. By now the gesture was familiar, but that familiarity was thrilling in its own way. It made her feel confident, and warm, as if she might count on his presence at her side no matter tonight’s events. As if he would protect her no matter what happened.

  He turned and made for the king, who was howling some French obscenity or another. For a moment Sophia stood, watching the roll of Hope’s shoulders through the tunic of his Achilles costume.

  “Sophia! Sophia,” Violet snapped. “Oh, come, enough of this wallowing in self-pity. Harclay’s alive, and with any luck he’ll stay that way. We’ve got to go, or we’ll miss our rendezvous with Artois!”

  Sophia blinked, breaking the spell, and followed her cousin out of the room.

  * * *

  Their party piled into two hackneys. With a bit of cajoling, King Louis was at last persuaded to lead them to his brother, the Comte d’Artois, who waited like a sitting duck in his carriage on King Street, a thirty-thousand-pound note tucked into his tasseled pocket.

  Sophia watched the proceedings in mute fascination. At gunpoint, the king and Artois agreed to accompany Hope’s motley crew to the Docklands, where Mr. Daniel Eliason, that shadowy jeweler, awaited their arrival, the French Blue in the strongbox aboard his ship.

  Thomas sat across from her as the hackney rumbled through the darkened streets toward the Docklands. Outside, the night was black, complete; this side of town had no gas lamps of which to speak, and the thoroughfares were narrow and mean, bordered on either side by shuttered tenements.

  Sophia swallowed, and kept her gaze studiously focused on her lap. Not only was she terrified of what was to come—this adventure, it was dangerous, it was stupid, and it would likely get them all killed—she feared meeting Thomas’s eyes. She couldn’t bear to see him look at her like that again. Not when she would leave him behind after tonight. Leave him behind, and all that he had made her feel, all that she had seen and known at his side.

  At last the hackney creaked to a stop. The gentlemen dismounted first. Hope held out his hand, guiding Sophia out of the vehicle. Her fingers shook in the warmth of his palm; he tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and held her close against him.

  She did not protest.

  The stench of the Docklands reached out to them in the humid silence. Now that summer had at last arrived the River Thames was as fragrant as ever; Sophia pressed her nose into her elbow and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  So this is where it’s all going to end, she thought. This is where we shall find our salvation, mine and Violet’s, England’s and Mr. Hope’s. This is where he shall take back what is his, and restore his good name.

  His body felt warm against hers as they made their way to the hackney parked in front of their own. The king and Artois were leaning against the vehicle, panting in unison like two enormous, slobbering bulldogs. Mr. Lake, menacing as ever, was pointing a pistol at the royals.

  She felt Hope hesitate; he reluctantly released her from his grasp, and with his free hand he adjusted the front of his breeches, much as he’d done that night in his study at Hope & Co.

  With a wince, Lord Harclay drew to his full height before King Louis and the comte. “You know where this man Daniel Eliason keeps his ship?”

  Artois sniffed, turning up his nose. Though he was hopelessly shorter than his lordship the earl, he would not, it appeared, be looked down upon.

  When neither Artois nor his brother responded, Harclay waved the thirty-thousand-pound note before them, the paper flapping in a sour breeze.

  “I’ve already got your money. Don’t make me take your manhood, too. Do you know where this man Eliason keeps his ship?”

  Artois huffed. “Oui.”

  “And you will get us to him?”

  King Louis lurched forward in a huff that rivaled his brother’s, and waved his curiously tiny arm at the circle of shadows gathered around him: Lake and Caroline, Sophia and Hope, Harclay, Violet. “Yes. But we cannot take all of you. Eliason is not a fool. If he sees so many coming, he will turn up his tail and run.”

  “Yes, he will run,” Artois added. “We will only take two.”

  Hope stepped forward, pressing Sophia behind him. “It’s a trap, Harclay. If these two won’t lead us to Eliason, to the diamond, then we’ll find him ourselves.”

  Cousin Violet, who until that moment had been unusually quiet, stepped forward and placed a hand on Hope’s shoulder.

  “No. Lord Harclay and I will go with the king.”

  Hope made a choking noise; Sophia saw his face flush pink. “The French Blue belongs to me, Lady Violet. I’ll be damned if I make the same mistake I did that night in the ballroom. We cannot trust Harclay; not with the diamond, and especially not with your life.”

  He was not the only member of their party to object: Lake said something about the earl being liable to faint, to which his lordship replied he was fine, just fine, before turning to vomit quietly at Artois’ feet.

  “You have my word, Hope,” Violet said. “I will return the French Blue to you.”

  His eyes flicked to the earl. “You understand why I question your motives, Violet.”

  “I do.” Sophia watched above the ball of Hope’s shoulder as her cousin looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, serious. “But you’ve got to trust me. Trust us. Harclay’s the one who started all this—let us, together, finish it. Lake is—well, it’s obvious what he is, too big, too mean—and liable to scare Eliason witless. And you, Hope.”

  Violet met Sophia’s eyes. “You have other matters to attend to.”

  Hope opened his mouth to protest. Impulsively Sophia reached out, gathering his sleeve in her fingers. She looked at him with all the calm and steadiness she could muster. Though he remained flush, she sensed his surrender to her touch, his anger, his worry fading.

  With a long, rather dramatic sigh, Hope stepped back. “Very well. But make no mistake, Lady Violet. If you’re not back here in half an hour with diamond in hand, I’ll search for you myself and have the two of you thrown in gaol. Do I make myself clear?”

  Harclay nodded, and spoke some nonsense about being the one who fooled them all, the one who stole the French Blue from under their noses at the ball.

  Hope was silent as they watched the stooped outline of the earl’s figure disappear into the night beside Lady Violet’s. Ahead of them, the king and Artois panted rather colorful obscenities at one another.

  And then they were gone, lost to the night.

  Sophia and Hope, Lake and Lady Caroline had only to wait.

  Thirty

  Everything, everything Hope had ever wanted, everything he’d worked for, all that he’d done for the family he loved and missed—it all hung in the balance. What happened tonight, in the minutes and hours ahead, would determine the course of the rest of his life. His failure or success—whether he would win back the diamond or not—now rested on the outcome of his enemy’s foray into the great darkness spread before them. By dawn he would either have the diamond . . . or h
e wouldn’t.

  Hope should be terrified. He should be going with them. He should be ill with anticipation, or at the very least, drowning his sorrows with the flask of whiskey he’d stuffed into his breastplate.

  Instead he was staring at the lithe figure beside him, electrifying his skin with the gentle probing of her fingers.

  Sophia shivered in the breeze. Without thinking, he gathered her shawl in his hands and drew it tighter about her shoulders, her hand grazing his thigh as it fell from his arm.

  In his belly desire curled, heady, fully formed in the space of half a heartbeat.

  Not now. He must focus, concentrate what little energy he had left on the French Blue, his plans to save Hope & Co. from the brink of failure.

  And the marquess’s diamond ring. Sophia wore it about her neck, and soon she’d wear it on her fourth finger, where it would leave its narrow mark on the pale, tender skin of her hand.

  It was useless, this desire. That night they swore they’d leave these inconvenient longings in his room, and in his bed. Leave behind each other.

  And yet he found leaving her behind more difficult than he could have ever imagined. The desire inside him was, despite his efforts, impossible to ignore.

  Sophia gasped as he pulled her closer, fisting the fine fabric of her shawl in his hands. Gasped, but did not protest.

  Beside him, Lake cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “Well, then. Jolly good of Harclay to do the heavy lifting for us, eh? Come, let’s have a nip in the hack while we wait.”

  Grasping Sophia’s shawl in one hand, Hope reached for the flask inside his breastplate with the other, and wordlessly passed it to Mr. Lake.

  Lake cleared this throat. “Well, then,” he repeated. “We’ll just, er, meet you . . . there. Do take your time, we have all night. Half an hour, at least.”

  Placing his hand on the small of Lady Caroline’s back, Lake led her into the darkness. Hope heard Caroline giggle, and Lake snort with laughter, before they disappeared altogether.