In Bed with a Rogue

by Samantha Grace

  Copyright © 2014 by Samantha Grace

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Judy York

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Sneak Peek of A Good Rogue Is Hard to Find

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my husband, who shares my quirky sense of humor and appreciation for the slightly absurd

  One

  25 May 1819

  Sometimes a gentleman needed a place where no one knew his name. For Baron Sebastian Thorne, that place was the Black Dagger. And if all went as planned, he wouldn’t know his own name by the end of the night.

  Draining his ale, he signaled the serving wench to bring another. The East End tavern hummed with chatter, not that he could follow any of it. Perhaps his drunken state explained the problem, or maybe the patrons’ butchered English was to blame. He didn’t know. Neither did he care, as long as they weren’t talking about him or his betrothed jilting him.

  The shadowy interior hid the filth, but he could still smell it, and there was something sticky under his boots. Yes, the Black Dagger was perfect. He wouldn’t cross paths with anyone he knew among this nest of thieves.

  “Damned thieves,” he mumbled. Sebastian couldn’t escape them no matter where he went. Whitechapel. Mayfair. It made no difference. A thief was a thief, even if he dressed like a gentleman.

  Just that morning he’d learned Anthony Keaton, the most callous of thieves, had returned to Town. The Earl of Ellis had recently stolen the one thing Sebastian needed most: a wife with connections. He chuckled, although there was nothing humorous about being deceived by his former best friend, or in Sebastian’s failure to protect his betrothed from falling prey to Ellis’s scheming.

  The tavern wench plunked a tankard down in front of him, sloshing foam onto the scarred table. “Are you havin’ a right jolly time over here by yerself, milord? If you be lookin’ for company, I know a place.”

  Sebastian tried to fix his blurry eyes on her, but she spun in circles, along with the taproom. “You are a right tasty morsel. Why don’t you keep me company?”

  She cackled, showing off rotting teeth, and patted her scraggly, graying hair. “I got a man that don’t like that sort a carrying-on. A toff like you is temptin’, though.”

  “Damn the luck,” he said and graced her with a smile the ladies had always liked. “Well, if you are not available, I believe I will make my way home.”

  He lurched to his feet and stumbled into the table. More ale sloshed onto the table and splattered his waistcoat.

  “My apologies, madam.”

  When he weaved, the wench sidled up beside him and he slipped his arm around her bony shoulders. She smelled of yeast and a hard day’s work. “Steady now, milord. Can’t have you tearin’ up the place. The Dagger was just redecorated.”

  Sebastian laughed genuinely for the first time in a week. He held on to the woman as the taproom continued its erratic tilting. She stood about as tall as Lady Gabrielle and tucked under his arm as easily.

  He leaned close, underestimated the distance, and bumped his forehead against hers. “I almost married a girl as pretty as you.” His words slurred.

  “You don’t say.” The woman gazed up at him with a half smirk. “What happened to her?”

  “She eloped with another man.”

  Her eyes widened for a moment. “Law! Sometimes the pretty ones be real corkbrains. You get yerself an ugly woman next time. She’ll make you a good wife.”

  Sebastian scoffed. “There will be no next time.” He released the woman and swayed before he regained his balance.

  “Are you sure ye’re fit to go, milord? There’s a room abovestairs where you can sleep it off.”

  He groped for the coin purse in his coat pocket. “Your concern for my welfare is kind. Allow me to give you something in return.”

  Lord knew he rarely experienced kindness from anyone outside his family these days. He wished he could repay his mother and sister as easily as he could the tavern wench. Instead, he had made their lives more difficult by fouling up his search for a wife. Most everyone had forgotten the scandal of his father’s madness and his sister’s abandonment at the altar until Sebastian’s betrothed eloped with his childhood friend. Now the ton was convinced there was something terribly wrong with the Thorne family. Bad blood, they said.

  Fumbling his purse, he tugged the drawstring and dropped it. Gold pieces scattered at his feet. “Damnation!”

  The serving wench fell to her knees quickly for a woman her age and scooped the gold pieces back into his purse. Sebastian helped her off the floor, and she slipped the purse into his hand.

  “May the Angel of Whitechapel watch yer back tonight,” she murmured.

  He’d heard tales this evening about an angel. A heavenly beauty roamed the streets at night giving shillings to the poor. Angels. Sebastian wouldn’t count on one coming to his aid.

  He winked at the serving wench. “Could be the angel stole the blunt.”

  “Oh, no. Ye’re wrong ’bout that. Don’t know no footpads be parting with their money out of kindness.” She escorted him to the exit and smiled up at him. “The angel has a heart o’ gold. She left a basket of bread and milk on my widow neighbor’s doorstep early this morning. And her with five mouths to feed.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “There is our proof then. The Angel of Whitechapel is aboveboard.” He extracted four shillings from his purse. “For you, madam. From the Mad Devil of Mayfair.”

  “Ye’re no devil.”

  “But I am quite mad. Ask anyone.” He dropped the coins into her outstretched palm. Tipping his hat, he bid her good evening and stumbled through the tavern exit while trying to shove his purse back into a suddenly missing pocket.

  Fog clogged the narrow street outside the door and he stopped to get his bearings. Where would he most likely find a hack at this hour? Perhaps he should have arranged to have his driver return for him, but he hadn’t known how long he’d wanted to wallow. A couple hours turned out to be too long.

  What
is done is done. Self-pity wouldn’t help his sister to reenter Society, nor would it complete the work his father began before his death. Sebastian had made an oath to see his father’s dream of housing for injured soldiers become a reality, and he was finally making progress this year. To the devil with what others thought of him. He wouldn’t allow a bit of nasty gossip to defeat him.

  Sebastian stepped onto the street, lost in a muted world of mist that lightly fell against his cheeks. Now, where was that hack he needed? He groped his coat once more.

  “There you are.” He found his pocket, at least, and replaced his purse.

  His boots made a sucking sound in the muddy lane, and he sloshed through a puddle, soaking his pant legs. Gads. His valet would be in a mood when he saw the mess Sebastian had made of himself tonight.

  His excursion to the Black Dagger had been less than satisfying. He hadn’t found the comfort he’d sought in anonymity. And now he was returning home looking like a sow after a mud bath.

  A sound, like the scraping of wood against stone, echoed in the street. Sebastian whirled to his right.

  “Who goes there?”

  No one answered. He strained to hear movement in the dark until a ringing silence filled his head. Then he heard it again. Definitely a scrape and a footfall. The hair at his nape stood on end. A black wall of night hid whoever was out there.

  “I am seeking a hack,” he called out, on the off chance there really was an angel waiting to help him.

  No one answered. His heart slammed against his breastbone. A squish behind him made him spin around, and he wobbled off balance. He shouldn’t have overindulged this evening.

  Fumbling in his coat, he searched for his pistol. His fingers brushed the polished wood as something hard slammed across his shoulder blades.

  He cursed and fell to his knees, his back burning as if on fire.

  “Get ’is blunt,” a voice growled.

  Sebastian reached for his flintlock once more, but a heavy boot crashed into his stomach. He doubled over, groaning. On second thought, he wasn’t nearly foxed enough for this kind of treatment. A blow to his head created an explosion of color behind his eyes, and he collapsed in the mud. His assailants ripped the coat from his back while he tried to catch his breath.

  “Found it!”

  Another kick to his kidney paralyzed him in a cloud of pain. Two men grabbed his legs and tugged at his boots.

  “Not the Hessians,” he mumbled.

  They laughed and ran off, the splash of footsteps growing faint.

  “Bloody… hell…” he said between wheezing breaths. He would have given them his purse if they had asked nicely, but no gentleman should have to part with his boots.

  He rolled to his back and cried out as his muscles wrenched. If he ever learned his attackers’ identities, they were in for a shocking introduction of his foot to their backsides.

  ***

  Lady Helena Prestwick jumped in response to a sharp whoop from the street. Laughter and the sound of running footsteps approached her hiding spot. She pressed against the stone wall, her fingers trembling as she clutched the dagger Fergus had given her. The men ran past the alley entrance without noticing her. She released her breath and slumped against the wall.

  Perhaps she should have listened to her late husband’s land steward and stayed behind at the town house while he searched the Wentworth Street brothel tonight, but it had been nine years since she had seen any of her four younger sisters. Waiting one more day to learn of her sisters’ fates was unbearable. Fergus—a man who was more like family to her than a servant—had never lied to her, but she couldn’t quite trust he would do as he promised if she wasn’t present to oversee everything. Her father’s and husband’s duplicitous natures had taught her the value of caution.

  She and Fergus had tracked Lavinia to Whitechapel a week ago. There were an overwhelming number of places to search, but last night they had gotten their first promising lead. A widow with several little ones clinging to her skirts was certain she remembered Lavinia, even though she hadn’t seen her in a long time.

  The woman had wrung her hands. “Such a pretty girl. It’s a shame she landed in a brothel, but it’s no surprise O’Riley wanted her.” She had no recollection of Lavinia having had any living family.

  Helena’s stomach turned and she closed her eyes against the horrid images invading her mind. She couldn’t allow herself to believe Cora, Pearl, and Gracie might be dead. It was awful enough knowing Lavinia had ended up in the rookery. Their father had wagered it all away, then. Had he also lost Lavinia in a lousy game of cards?

  She breathed in deeply to slow the surge of animosity racing through her veins. She had prayed her sisters would escape this fate just as she had with her late husband’s help. If only Wickie had allowed her sisters to come with her to Scotland, they could have been saved, too. Resentment swelled within her, but she pushed it down. Lord Prestwick had been under no obligation to take in Helena, much less her sisters. She tried to remember she was fortunate he’d married her and gave her a home, even if she’d often felt like a prisoner at Aldmist Fell.

  A low groan carried on the air followed by an almost unintelligible curse. Almost. The word bugger had been clear enough to make her blush. The man’s moans grew louder.

  Whoever was out there was in pain, but it was too dangerous to come to his aid. Her fingers gripped her gray skirts. She had promised Fergus she wouldn’t leave the alley for any reason.

  “Help.” The man gasped for air.

  She covered her ears to shut out his pathetic moaning, but it did no good. What if he lay bleeding in the road and here she hid like a frightened mouse?

  She eased along the wall toward the mouth of the alley and peeked around the building. An indistinct dark lump crawled toward a building with flickering lights in the windows, but collapsed in the street.

  “Help me, please.” His voice was raspy and weak.

  He couldn’t know she was there, could he? Yet his plea seemed directed at her.

  “Please.”

  Oh, good Lord above! She couldn’t take it anymore. As quietly as possible, she slipped into the street, holding the dagger at the ready, and hurried to where the man lay facedown in the mud.

  “Help has come,” she whispered as she sheathed the dagger and knelt beside him, “but you must be quiet before someone else discovers you and finishes the task the other men started. Can you roll over?”

  Grabbing his shoulder, she pulled firmly. He flipped to his back with a sharp hiss. “Feels like knives when I breathe.”

  She cradled his head in her lap and wiped the mud from his eyes and mouth as best as she could. “You may have cracked ribs. I know it hurts, but we cannot leave you in the street.”

  He started to reach a hand toward her face then jerked to a stop with another painful moan.

  “Do not try to move yet. We are going to need help.”

  She looked toward the brothel, hoping Fergus would reappear with the lantern so she could see what damage had been done by the footpads.

  “Are you the angel?” the man asked.

  “I am no—” He went limp in her arms. “Angel.”

  Blast! Now what was she to do? She didn’t have the strength to drag him back to the alley. He was at least six feet tall and—she placed her hand against his chest to check for breathing—he was solid. Her hand began to wander and she snatched it back.

  Her body was practically purring with him close. She eased his head to the ground and scooted away. She couldn’t be the only widow to miss intimacy, but that was no excuse for being familiar with a stranger, no matter how well formed he was.

  “Mo chroi,” a harsh whisper carried on the air. “Where are you?”

  Fergus. “In the street. Come quickly.”

  They had decided if Fergus needed to address her on their clandestine outings, he would use the childhood pet name her mother had given her. She would rather no one know she was nobility, although she was a lady
by marriage only.

  It was strange to hear the gruff Scot refer to her as his heart, but it provided a cover story for them as well. She could play the role of disgruntled wife seeking out her husband at the brothel if need be.

  Fergus emerged from the alley with the lantern held aloft. A golden halo surrounded his broad shoulders and highlighted his messy mop of brown hair. He scratched his whiskered cheek and frowned at the man lying in the mud. “Stuck the scoundrel in the gullet like I taught you, aye?”

  “Dear Lord, no! Footpads attacked him.” She studied the man’s sculpted face and recognition sparked. Lady Eldridge, Helena’s cousin by marriage, had pointed him out just yesterday when they were shopping on Bond Street. Lord Thorne’s name and the circumstances of his jilting had been spoken at every gathering Helena had attended this last week.

  “I know him.” She pushed to her feet and took the lantern. “Carry him to the carriage. We will take him home.”

  “He’s no’ a stray cat,” he said as he stooped to heft Lord Thorne over his shoulder. Fergus never ignored her wishes, although he didn’t hesitate speaking his mind. “Can’t give him a dish o’ milk and a scratch under the chin and expect him to curl up on your lap.”

  She aimed a mischievous grin at her companion. “Are you saying I cannot keep him? Pity that. I bet he would clean up nicely.”

  Fergus laughed. “Luna would be jealous if you brought this alley cat home.”

  Luna was the scraggly feline Helena had rescued days earlier during one of their midnight excursions. A bath and a few good meals had worked miracles with the animal’s appearance and disposition. But a cat was one thing. Helena didn’t need a man in her life to order her about, even if her body tended to disagree.

  Fergus jostled the baron to get a better grip and the unconscious Lord Thorne groaned.

  “Be careful. His ribs might be cracked.”

  “He is no sack of flour, lass.”

  “I know he must be heavy, but please. For me.” It was a long jaunt until they reached the Prestwick carriage waiting in a park outside the rookery for fear someone might recognize her berlin. A pang of embarrassment for asking so much of Fergus drove her to reach for his arm. “Thank you.”