All Men Are Rogues

by Sari Robins

  “Escorting Miss Amherst does not necessarily indicate Justin’s intentions,” added Lady Fontaine tentatively.

  “Good. Because my son needs a bit more seasoning before making any rash decisions.”

  Barclay tried to appear nonchalant, but Evelyn watched the small muscle jump in his jaw. “I thought you were agitated about my advancing years and my unfulfilled duty to the title, Mother.”

  “Do not be impudent, Justin.” She resumed her seat, loudly rustling her green muslin skirts. “My George would never have conducted himself so objectionably.”

  His hand on the teacup was steady, but the knuckles were blanched white. Evelyn’s dislike of the dragon lady flared into a seething anger. The poor man had been nothing but kind to her since her arrival, and she sympathized with anyone raised by such a vile, miserable woman. Evelyn set her tea down quietly and rose. Although she had no intention of being courted by the marquis, she could help him thorn his mother a bit.

  “I am off for a stroll in the park.”

  He jumped from his seat. “I will join you.”

  “You have only just arrived,” charged the dragon lady. “A servant can attend her well enough.”

  “Do not worry about appearances, Mother, Miss Myrtle will chaperone.”

  Evelyn was not happy about sharing Miss Myrtle’s company, but she was looking forward to getting out of the stifling atmosphere. Moreover, it would allow Shah to continue her rest uninterrupted upstairs.

  It seemed the young marquis was as enthusiastic as she about leaving. “I will wait for you in the front hall,” he said, already out the door.

  The trees lining the lane were lush with the buds of spring and the rich promise of summer. Brown little puff-bellied birds flew overhead, chirping merrily in the golden afternoon sun.

  “To have such a lovely haven in the midst of the city is quite splendid,” Evelyn commented appreciatively as they strolled alongside a quaint little pond. They stopped to observe the ducks squawking and lapping themselves in the dark green waters.

  “London offers a sundry of activities for any adventurous enough to venture forth. I would gladly show you the amusements as you accustom yourself to Town.”

  “Are you certain you are willing to withstand your mother’s wrath? She does not like me.”

  “Nonsense, Mother is just…well…”

  “A dragon?”

  A small laugh burst forth from his throat, and he quickly coughed into his gloved hand. He peeked over his shoulder at Miss Myrtle, who was walking at least ten paces behind with a burly uniformed footman.

  “She is my mother,” he chided halfheartedly.

  “Are you going to call me out for my impertinence? Pistols at dawn and then off to the Continent?”

  He missed a step but recovered quickly, accidentally brushing against her hip. She ignored the flutter in her middle, reminding herself once again that he was her “cousin.”

  To ease the tension, she decided to make light. “Come, my lord, I cannot be the first to have stated it plainly.”

  “As a matter of fact, you are.”

  She grimaced. “Father always said I was a bit too free with my opinions.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Do you miss him?”

  She watched a robin perch in the uppermost limb of a tree. The fragile branch shifted and swayed under the weight, but the tiny bird did not fly off. “How did you feel when your father passed?” she asked instead.

  “He was our patriarch. Everything revolved around him. When he was gone, everything shifted, changed.” He froze for a moment, staring off. Abruptly he turned to her and shrugged. “But it was not unexpected.”

  They continued on. Evelyn liked the way he strolled, with an inherent grace that was smooth but unaffected. Allowing her to set the pace, he effortlessly matched her steps, despite his longer stride. He really was quite agreeable company.

  Pine needles scraped under her shoes. She inhaled deeply; she had always loved the scent of pine.

  “Was your father ill for long before he passed?” he asked quietly.

  She blinked. Ill? The vibrant man had barely been gone an hour before returning battered and bloody, with his life seeping out through a hole in his side. She could almost hear his raspy breathing as he lay dying in her arms. Although she had pressed her hand against the bandage, the warm, dark blood had continued gushing forth, creating a puddle of death. The bitter metallic stench had filled her nostrils. He had shuddered and wheezed. His eyes had glazed over and then stared off into space. The memory made her shudder as if an icy wind had run through her.

  “Are you unwell?”

  “No.” She swallowed, trying hard to focus on the mother duck swimming along and the five tiny golden ducklings trailing behind.

  He spoke more, but she could not hear his words past the memory of her father’s dying request. She blinked, tearing herself to the present. “Excuse me?”

  “I asked, were you close?”

  “Close?” She recalled his every last breath.

  “To your father?” he asked patiently.

  She blew out a long lungful of air, trying to remember the days before her father was murdered and she became an orphan in more ways than one. “He worked quite a lot. Traveled. He was really quite…busy. There were times when he was gone for weeks at a stretch. But he was my father. My only parent. Well, besides Sully.”

  “Sully?”

  Something eased in her chest, just thinking about the jovial, ruddy-faced man who had tried to be both mother and father to her. Her lips lifted, despite herself. “My father’s man-of-affairs.”

  “And you were close to him?”

  “Quite. He practically raised me.”

  “Why was he so involved with your rearing?”

  “My mother, well, she was not built for being the wife of a diplomat.”

  “How so?”

  “She hated change. Although it was never said, I knew that she abhorred living outside England. She had a fit every time we were reassigned. She could not abide by ‘foreign’ customs, people, even residences. She was English and wanted everyone else in the world to be.”

  “Families have been known to stay back in England when a husband serves.”

  “Not my family. My father could not bear to be separated from us.”

  “Still, to be dragged from place to place. It is an unsettling life….”

  “I did not mind. I met some wonderful people, was able to visit exotic places.”

  “And where is this Sully fellow now?”

  A cloud drifted overhead, blocking out the sunlight. She turned and scanned the crowd, noting that Miss Myrtle and the burly footman had stopped nearby. Easily within earshot. “Do you think a storm is coming?”

  “Seems fine to me.” He toyed with the head of his ebony cane. “So when will I get to meet Sully?”

  “I disagree. It looks like rain to me. We had best be returning. We would not want to give your mother twitching of the guts.”

  “Too late,” he remarked offhandedly as he nodded greetings to two ladies strolling nearby.

  She smiled. “Now it is you who are being wicked.”

  As soon as they passed, the two ladies leaned together, whispering excitedly like hens plotting a conspiracy. Oh, to be so taken with the trivial.

  He spoke tentatively. “I appreciate your desire for solitude. But I would ask that you grant me the favor of your company this evening, Miss Amherst. You see, I am in need of your assistance.”

  “How can I help you?” she asked dubiously.

  “You can shield me from the procession of marriageable young chits my mother will be parading before me. No matter what she said before, she is on campaign and I am in the trenches.”

  “Well, I can sympathize with your situation, not wanting to marry myself. But I really cannot see how I can be of service to you.”

  “Your public mourning combined with my duty as your escort will keep away most unwanted attention.”

&nb
sp; She raised her brow. “And attract attention of an altogether different sort.”

  “So what if the world thinks that I am interested in you? You and I know the truth of the matter.” He opened his hand. “It will keep the matrimony-minded mamas at bay. And my mother—”

  “—ready to drum my bonnet.”

  “Please?”

  She stared into those pleading greenish-gray eyes. Well, the man had been quite considerate of her situation these last few days, and his mother was a dagger-toothed harpy….

  “Very well.” It would not be too terrible to divert herself a bit with the inevitable distractions Polite Society offered.

  “Thank you.”

  They strolled along in companionable silence.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, this is the first time I have ever flagrantly disobeyed my mother. I do believe that you are a negative influence on me, Miss Amherst.”

  “Sometimes a little transgression is good for the soul. Strengthens the blood.”

  “Or takes one to the devil.”

  “You mean we’re not already there?”

  They shared a little smile.

  Thunder rumbled off in the distance.

  “You were correct about the weather.” He looked up. Clouds were forming into gray clusters on the horizon.

  She sniffed the air. “I have always had a fine sense of approaching storms.” Regrettably, she had not always shown a particular talent for coming in from them.

  Chapter 4

  Evelyn stood at the top of the white marble staircase and beheld the glittering masses attending the Coventry Ball that evening. She soaked in the dazzling diamonds, intricate hairstyles, and colorful costumes of the ton and could almost hear the clank as her social armor slipped into place. Since turning fifteen she had attended various court functions around the world with her father. The languages, costumes, and mores were different, but the social particulars were always the same. She had learned at a young age that steely reserve cloaked behind a pleasant demeanor was the key to mastering any social context.

  “Being the daughter of a knighted diplomat, you must have attended some marvelous balls,” Lady Fontaine commented airily as she waved her lacy fan and scanned the dance floor.

  The orchestra was playing a quadrille, and the dancers squared off and partnered in methodical rhythm. Evelyn was thankful no one would ask her to dance. Appreciating the added protection her public mourning allowed her, she adjusted her black bombazine gown and snapped open her black crepe fan. The heat from the masses assembled below was already climbing to the top of the stairs like smoke from burning embers.

  Miss Madeline Fontaine stood on the tips of her toes, like a twittering bird perched on high, scanning the current above a stream, looking for tasty morsels to dissect. “Miss Erringston is quite the fashion with that deep flounce. And I love her hair. I will have to see if Esmie can do that style. And look at Mr. Darbon’s vest. Why, it must be twenty different shades of red. How appalling.” The young lady giggled.

  “Shall we?” Barclay tilted his head toward the crowd.

  Evelyn accepted his proffered arm, and they walked down the white marble stairs close behind Lord and Lady Fontaine.

  “Quite the crush,” the bright-eyed seventeen-year-old stated happily from Barclay’s other side. “Lady Wellingsford will be pleased. Oh, there is Miss Abernathy.” She pointed her fan across the crowded floor.

  Evelyn braced herself as they dove into the sea of people. She glided along in the tide of muslin and lace, holding on lightly to Barclay’s arm. She was jabbed countless times by the pins of the ladies pushing past and bumped and elbowed on every side by the hordes of loud, colorfully dressed Fancy. The air was rank with heavy perfumes; roses mixed with musk, carnations, violets, and lavender. Her stomach churned with the sickening combinations. The laughter and commentary converged into a wave of discordant clamor blaring out the melody of the ensemble. For someone used to isolation for the past few months, it was like being thrown into a bucket of freshly caught fish waiting to be gutted.

  Barclay leaned close. “This must be a bit much for you. I understand the back room is usually more quiet.”

  She nodded, and he said something to his cousins, then disengaged from Miss Madeline and led Evelyn down a long, congested corridor toward the rear of the ballroom. The crush kept forcing her against his hard, warm body, and she tried to ignore the tension she felt at his every touch.

  She was a healthy lady of two and twenty and he was an exceedingly attractive gentleman, cousin or not. Still, she did not want him getting any ideas about her. Her life was complicated enough without tossing a dashing marquis into the mix.

  Evelyn let out a small sigh as they escaped the packed ballroom and entered the spacious, gold-gilded parlor. People sat or stood clustered in twos and threes, drinking and conversing quietly. A servant came by with champagne, and Barclay lifted two flutes off the tray and handed her one.

  She sipped it slowly, relishing the tangy flavor and the tickle of fine bubbles on her nose.

  “Señorita Evelyn? Is it you?” came a deep baritone over her shoulder.

  She turned. A tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned gentleman in black formal attire sauntered up to her.

  Her lips split into a wide, warm smile. “Angel!”

  He grabbed her white-gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “Señorita Evelyn,” he said in Spanish, “you are even more beautiful than when I last saw you.”

  “It’s been ages, Angel!” she replied in his native tongue. Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks in greeting.

  His white teeth gleamed wickedly. “The last I saw you, you were chasing away that formidable Señora Morporenda from your father.”

  “After I was finished with her, she didn’t want to be in the same country with us.”

  “She was a bit of a witch.”

  “And what of you? How is your father? And Mercedes? And what ever happened with Señorita Isabella?”

  He pressed his white-gloved hand dramatically to his chest. “Ah, my friend, she broke my heart.”

  She grinned. “And you have likely broken thousands since.”

  “Maybe a few, here and there, but I do not tell tales.”

  Barclay coughed into his hand.

  “Oh, forgive me, Lord Barclay.” She reverted back to English, suddenly aware of how excluded he must have felt. “May I introduce my dear friend Señor Angel Arolas.”

  Angel bowed with a graceful flourish. “At your service, my lord.”

  “How is it you two know each other?”

  “Señorita Evelyn and I have known each other since we were…” He held his hand hip height. “Was it this high?”

  “You were never that high, Angel,” she teased. She turned to Barclay. “Angel’s father is a Spanish diplomat. We have seen each other off and on for years.”

  “Señorita Evelyn made life bearable at the Cortes of Ca’diz. When all of the liberals were drafting the new constitution of 1812 she was trying to keep me from losing my heart.”

  “Is your father stationed in Town?” Barclay asked, casually sipping his champagne.

  “He is everywhere these days.” Angel shrugged.

  “Justin?” a shrill, nasally voice called out from the doorway.

  Lady Barclay stood at the door with a vapid young girl dressed head to toe in violet. Even the feathers on her turban were shockingly purple.

  “On your honor, attend me, Justin. Miss Fecklesby requires a partner.” Her craggy face was pinched into a disapproving scowl.

  The young girl blushed beet red and tucked her chin to her chest, appalled.

  Evelyn leaned toward Barclay and whispered, “Go save her, my lord. It will give me a chance to catch up with Angel without boring you to tears.”

  He seemed on the brink of refusing, but a trio of matrons entered the room, staring at the scene, interested. He bowed stiffly. “Duty calls, but I will return immediately.”
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br />   He walked toward his mother, his back ramrod straight. The dragon lady’s eyes gleamed with wicked satisfaction, the young girl’s with relief.

  “Let us walk outside, where we can speak more privately.” Angel extended his arm.

  The evening air was crisp and smelled of roses and pine. The dark, cloudless sky shimmered with stars, and the pale orb of the moon stared down at them as they strolled along the garden path. Pebbles crunched under their shoes and massaged the soles of Evelyn’s feet against her thin slippers. She let out a sigh. She had known Angel for years. She could be open with him. To some extent.

  “I heard about your father, Evelyn,” he began in Spanish. “He was a good man. I am so sorry.”

  She nodded, slowly. “Thank you.”

  “I must confess, I am surprised to find you back in England.”

  “Why?”

  He pressed his lush lips together. “My father told me what happened.”

  She shuddered. “It was…horrible. Every time I think about it…I become ill.”

  He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and wrapped his arms about her. He smelled of spicy, sharp cologne. She pressed her nose into the soft silk of his jacket, relishing the comfort for a moment, then slowly pushed herself away. “I try not to dwell on it. It is overwhelming, and I need to carry on, to continue.”

  He nodded. “I have always feared facing it, like you did. My papa…well, it is all part of the business, but still…”

  Angel’s father also worked in intelligence. It was something understood but never discussed.

  “But you have no anger toward the English for what they’ve done?” he asked, gruffly.

  She furrowed her brow.

  He let out a long breath of air. “Papa told me that he was killed by his own.”

  “B…but that is impossible,” she slipped into English.

  “The British think he betrayed his country. My father does not believe it. I do not either. But who knows the truth?”

  She blinked. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”