All Men Are Rogues

by Sari Robins

  She’d been a fool twice now where Justin was concerned. Not that Angel took her to task over it. He mostly kept his thoughts to himself, but his silence was reprimand enough. She felt torn from the inside out, hoping beyond hope that there had been some dreadful mistake. Or that she was misreading the situation somehow. Yet even if Justin had had good intentions supporting his actions, she could not forgive him for taking off without at least discussing them with her.

  Moreover, he had put himself in dire risk haring off on horseback like that. His wounds had healed well, but not nearly enough for a pounding dash on horseback through a rainstorm in the dead of night. He could have fallen off his horse and be lying in a ditch half-dead somewhere. Part of her wanted to kill him for his bravado. Part of her wanted to skin him alive for being so inconsiderate of her feelings. Mostly she wanted to crawl into a hole and mourn the loss of her faith in him and in her judgment. Once again she’d been a reckless cully to trust him. She supposed she had a weakness for the dashing marquis—one she would regret until the day she died. She just prayed that day was none too soon.

  Evelyn inhaled deeply, trying to find something good about the situation, and all she got for her efforts was a coughing fit from too much wood smoke in her lungs. She felt sodden in spirit as well as body. Pressing her hand to her burning chest, she shook her head.

  God, she was pitiful.

  Three knocks banged on the thick pine door to the chamber. She stood and tiptoed to the entry.

  “Angel?”

  Three more knocks came. “Open up, Evelyn.” She’d know that smooth inflection anywhere. She turned the key in the lock and yanked open the heavy door. Angel stepped inside, carrying at least ten different parcels. While she locked the entry, he stepped over to the table in the corner and laid out his cache.

  He unwrapped the first bundle and set out a hunk of cheese; another bundle was a loaf of bread. Another held apples. With a flourish he unwrapped what was obviously his most favored prize, a bottle of reddish-brown liquid. He tugged open the cork, tilted his head back, and took a mighty swig. She watched the Adam’s apple in his olive-skinned throat jump with each gulp.

  He licked his lips. “Beverage of the gods.”

  He held the bottle out to her, and she took a hearty sip. She coughed and sputtered as fire lanced down her chest straight to her hollow belly. Her eyes teared, her nostrils flared, and her chest burned. It was like tasting liquid smoke.

  “Quite the strong tipple,” Angel commented, smiling. He reached for the bottle and took another swill.

  Evelyn sat down on the carpet by the fire, feeling warmer on the inside and out. She watched silently as Angel tore a hunk of bread, sliced some cheese with a shiny silver knife, and held them out to her. She shook her head. Food was unimaginable; her stomach was roiling.

  He frowned disapprovingly but ate the food himself. After a moment, he commented, “You do no one any good if you are feeble.”

  “I am not feeble, I’m simply not hungry.”

  He munched on in the silence-filled chamber. The fire crackled and hissed.

  She stared into the golden flames. “Do you think they are safe?”

  “Ismet will take care of Shah. I pray you’re not including the bloody marquis in your concerns.”

  “Of course not.” She buried her head in her arms, abashed once more. She heard the rustle of clothing and peeked up. Angel’s dark coat and silk vest were draped across the armchair by the window. He stood by the bed wearing only his shirt and pants. The white linen was stuck to his lithe form, and his breeches were like a second skin. He had the body of an Adonis. Heat flashed from her cheeks to her hairline, and she pressed her face back into the fold of her arms. For the first time she realized her situation. She was half-naked and alone in a luxurious inn with an attractive man. For a moment, she disregarded the fact that the man was Angel.

  He dropped a pillow onto the carpet and lounged beside her by the fire. Leaning up on his elbow, he stretched his legs toward the flames and wiggled his toes. She looked away. No matter how dear their friendship, eyeing his bare toes was a bit too intimate for her liking.

  “Are you still cold?” she asked.

  “Not with this to warm me.” He raised the bottle to his lips, then passed her the drink. She took it from him and sipped slowly. Her eyes teared again, but the fiery liquid warmed her down to her soles.

  “Not too much, caro,” he chided softly. “You have not eaten, and we would not want you to become ill.”

  Her cheeks reddened. It seemed she was in constant need of his guidance these days. She licked her lips, tasting the smoky brandy on her breath. The firelight played across his handsome features, adding a golden glow to his olive skin and chocolate brown eyes. His raven hair curled tightly around his ears, and she just had to ask, “Were you speaking of Isabella when you said you’d had no luck when intrigue crossed swords with love?”

  He stared into the flames a long moment. “She was working for the French.”

  “How did you know?”

  “She was trying to seduce my father.”

  “But he’s happily married.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “But she was with you.”

  “Father and son, an interesting arrangement, don’t you agree?” he replied, bitterness cracking his usually velvety voice. “At first I did not believe Father when he warned me against her. I thought he was jealous. That he wanted her for himself.” His laugh was a harsh bark. “Can you imagine me believing that Father wanted something I had?”

  “She was very beautiful,” she replied softly.

  “She was a scheming bitch.”

  “But you loved her.”

  “I loved someone who did not exist.” He took a swig of the brandy and turned away, his features cast in shadow.

  It somehow made her feel better that she was not the only one with poor judgment in matters of the heart. She pursed her lips. “Have you sworn off marriage?”

  “That is your favorite pastime, Evelyn. I am simply intent on enjoying the amusements women have to offer without becoming entangled in their trickery.”

  Was that what Justin had wanted from her? Amusement?

  Angel commented slowly, “You claim you do not love the marquis. Yet somehow you always seem to wind up back in his arms.”

  “How can I love someone I don’t trust?”

  “How could I love someone who didn’t exist?” Watching her through hooded eyes, he murmured, “If only we could find love where it finds us.”

  The fire crackled and sparked as they sat in silence, each lost in their own musings.

  He stood so suddenly that she had to cram her neck to look up at him. “You take the bed.” He pulled the coverlet off the mattress, and it slid noisily to the floor. “I will sleep by the fire.”

  Nodding, she stood and stepped over to the bed. Staring down at the thick mattress, she turned. “Angel?”

  He sat on the carpet before the hearth, his broad back facing her. “Yes, Evelyn?”

  She needed to say the words. “You mean so much to me. I, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I know, caro.” He rolled over and tugged the blanket over his shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

  Lying beneath the scratchy wool blanket, she realized that she’d changed in the last few weeks. Gone was the maidenly girl who’d thought that seduction was a lighthearted game to be played in relative safety with a friend. Feelings were not without peril, and apparently neither was she when it came to matters between the covers. She grasped that although there were people capable of enjoying the pleasures between the sexes without emotional attachment, she was not one of them. That in opening her body to Justin, she had opened up a small corner of her heart. A corner that had flickered with girlish hope but was now dampened by cold reality. A lonely corner that, when she probed it, still burned with his betrayal.

  Thunder boomed in the distance. Shuddering, she shrugged the roug
h cover higher to her neck and nestled her face deeper into the feather pillow. Before, she had always been afraid of being in another’s power. Now, she realized, power came not just from the bonds of matrimony but from intimacies as well. Intimacies that led to emotional hazards she could not afford to risk.

  Gentle sleep weighed her heavy lids closed, but her mind still struggled with her newfound insight. It was a lesson well learned now, never to allow a man to control her physically, emotionally, or legally. She had once imagined that there were gentlemen with whom she could be safe, but Justin’s words came back to haunt her. “All men are rogues and scoundrels.” But then again, a gentleman lay on the floor by the fire, giving her his protection without asking for anything in return. Perhaps not all men are rogues and scoundrels, she thought dreamily as sleep fogged her exhausted brain, the good ones are just few and far between.

  Justin watched the lightning flash across the window in his study and prayed that wherever Evelyn was, she was safe and dry. Sighing, he looked back down at the letter on his desk, dipped his quill, blotted it, and continued scratching out the missive to Doctor’s Commons.

  “I think that I’ve been exceptionally patient with you, Justin, and I’ve just about had enough of your heavy-handedness,” his mother chided from the doorway. The single candelabra lit in the room sat on his desk, barely illuminating her by the threshold. Yet he could not miss the silly black sash still wrapped around her thin frame.

  She glided into the study, her red silk dress swooshing with her every step. “I have not pressed you for answers, even though you owe me them. I have allowed you your petty little desire to order everyone about, yet I am your mother and I demand the respect due me.”

  He scratched out the next word and examined his work. “Respect cannot be insisted upon; it is earned.”

  She crossed her arms. “If George were here, he would set you to rights.”

  Justin dropped the quill to the desktop and stared at the woman who had tormented him with George’s death for years, as if he had been responsible for his brother’s descent into madness. One thing was for certain: George would never have put up with half of his mother’s malicious tactics. “Well, George is not here,” he stated mildly.

  Scowling, she raised her hand and patted her ash blond hair. “If only you were more like your brother.”

  “I am sorry, Mother, but I do not have the inclination to put a pistol to my head.”

  She hissed, her catlike eyes flashing daggers. “For shame!”

  “No, Mother, shame on you. You toss George’s death about like some sort of chalice signifying your martyrdom.” He stood, squaring his stance for a confrontation for which he had little time or patience. “George is no longer here, due solely to his own actions, which you seem to forget, and you are left dealing with me. It might not be what either of us wants, but it is all we are left with. Since you’ve chosen to interrupt my work, I suggest you state your needs and be gone. What can I do for you?”

  She sputtered, her gaunt cheeks coloring white, then pink. “I, I require some answers….”

  “Don’t we all,” he mumbled under his breath. He sighed. “What do you wish to know?”

  Watching him nervously, she replied, “You said something about marrying a lady. I want to know your intentions.”

  He looked down at the letter on his desk and then up at her. “You will meet my lady wife when I am good and ready. Not a moment before.”

  “But I am your mother and must prepare her, I mean, for her.”

  “I will not have you poisoning the most important relationship in my life.” From the look in her eyes, it was clear that she understood his implication that his maternal relationship did not rank.

  “Not every woman is worthy of the Barclay jewels.”

  “The woman I love is worth everything I have,” he spat back, “including the Barclay bridal gems.” He leaned forward, bracing his fists on the tabletop. “And why do you continue to wear that ridiculous black sash?”

  She lifted her left shoulder, as she’d always done when on the defensive. “I was worried for you. It is my right as a mother to care.”

  He felt like laughing, so comical was her reply. “If you truly cared, you’d be asking after my health instead of demanding my intentions.”

  She scowled, guiltily. “You seem fine enough to rant at me.”

  Dear Lord in heaven, had she always been this awful? What had Evelyn called her? Lady dragon. Well, the designation fit. He stared down at the papers before him, astonished that he’d ever put up with such twaddle. Now more than ever he had no time for such nonsense and could not have his mother interfering with his delicate plans. He came to a decision. “Mother, I realize that you have your needs and they must be met.” Or you’ll muddle up everyone else’s existence.

  She harrumphed. “I’m glad you see the error of your ways.”

  “Most assuredly. So much so, I am sending you off to the fort in Wales, where you can satisfy your need to be queen of the castle.”

  “But…that’s so far away, and Audrey is coming out this Season, and…”

  “Aunt Leonore and I will take care of Audrey. You have your wants, and they must come first. I absolutely insist, and I will not take no for an answer. Stanley!”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man must have been hovering by the door, listening to every word. Good. Let everyone understand who held the reins in this household.

  “I want the servants to pull all the stops to get my mother packed and out of the house on the morrow.”

  “The morrow…” she sputtered.

  “We will move heaven and earth, my lord.” The butler was having difficulty containing his delighted smile.

  “Excellent. I want nothing to interfere.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you, my lord.”

  Justin nodded, once again focusing on the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing them both. His mother gave a curt nod of her head and glided from the room, looking as if she’d eaten a sour grape.

  He reread his missive. Your Grace, I write to you on a matter of the utmost urgency….

  Chapter 25

  Sully knew he was dying, and he was not much put out by the thought. The gut-wrenching aches all over his body had faded to a distant roar of pain, and the piercing shards no longer tore at his chest every time he breathed. He heard a faint wheezing sound and realized that it was his wretched body struggling for air through his smashed and broken nose. He’d grown almost accustomed to the bitter metallic taste of blood in his mouth and no longer could find the energy to care about what it was exactly his tormentors wanted from him. He felt the oddest floating sensation and welcomed the blessed blackness.

  Consciousness winked out. He floated along until black turned to gray and gray into shadow. In the distance, a hazy glow of lantern light peeked through the swirling fog. The light bobbed and swayed, accompanied by the sound of shuffling boot steps and the clanking of a rattle. It must be a Charlie, prowling the district for unrest, Sully realized. But this was Seven Dials. No watchman dared go out alone in the deadly London neighborhood for fear he would never make it home alive. In this brutal quarter a man would be killed simply for the coat on his back or the boots on his feet. Someone was whistling. It was a hauntingly familiar tune. Curious, Sully followed the receding light as it ebbed through the gloom.

  The dense fog suddenly parted, and he stood before a large wooden door lined with metal bars and hinges. A board hung high above the threshold, squeaking loudly as it swung in the vaporous wind. He shrugged his coat closer, warding off a sudden chill.

  Although the paint was faded and scarred, the sign clearly depicted a rose and a crown. The Rose and Crown. Sully stared at the closed doors to the familiar backwater where the ale was weak, the barmaids surly, and the customers categorically belligerent. A mighty gust of wind blew at his back, pushing him forward. He opened the door and stepped out from the gloomy night into dimness of another kind. Darkness lined with l
ingering shadows.

  “Ah, there you are, my good man.”

  Phillip sat at the second table on the right, healthy and affable, with a long dark coat draped across his chest and a tall tankard of ale sitting on the table before him.

  Sully stepped forward, thrilled to see Phillip alive. He gripped his dearest friend’s muscled arm. “Phillip! Holy Jasus, you’re a sight for sore eyes!” Suddenly a memory filtered into his consciousness. A pool of death drowning his dear mentor. His darling Evelyn draped in mourning black. Pain, agonizing shards of torture piercing his legs, tearing at his chest. He could not breathe. Just as quickly, the recollections faded into nothingness, leaving behind only a fuzzy feeling of discomfiture.

  “Sit down, my old friend,” Phillip invited as he waved an elegant hand at the seat across from him.

  Sully could barely contain his joy as he dropped into the rickety wooden chair. “By Gad, it’s good to see you again.”

  A wiry barmaid shuffled over, her ratty hair a mass of snarls. She pushed a clump of dark tangles from her eyes, exposing a haggard face with slashing scars lining her hollowed cheeks. “Drinkin’?”

  Phillip waved her off. “He’ll not tarry.”

  She shrugged and shuffled off to the bar.

  “But I’m so thirsty,” Sully complained, eyeing the large tankard. He couldn’t remember the last time a drink had passed his parched lips. “Just a nip to ease my throat.” He grabbed for Phillip’s tankard, but his friend negligently swatted his hand away.

  “You don’t tip from this particular spirit, Sully. It’ll be the death of you.” Phillip leaned forward; his familiar, striking face, which reminded Sullivan so much of his Evelyn, was banked in earnest appeal. “Listen to me, Sully. We don’t have much time and I need you to go back. Leave this place and get on with your business, our business.”

  Sully leaned back, and the wooden chair screeched in protest. In the dim light, he took a long, hard look at his beloved mentor, a whisper of doubt unfurling in his belly. “What is this place, Phillip?”