A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “Try it. Go ahead and try it,” she told him, finally a hint of defensiveness entering her voice.

  Gabe swallowed, and slowly shook his head. “No.”

  Now it was Amelia who sneered. “Why not? You just said you want to.”

  “Because I can’t,” he admitted, turning away from her. “You know I can’t.”

  “Do I?”

  Gabe closed his eyes, exhaling silently, fighting to remain in control of the flurry of emotions swirling within him. “That night…” he began, his voice low and hoarse. “I have to know. Was it an act? What were you thinking when you…?”

  “It wasn’t an act,” Amelia interrupted, suddenly gentle. “None of it was.”

  He turned to look at her, letting his anguish and confusion show. “How could I not know it was you?”

  Her eyes suddenly shone with a suspicious sheen, and she swallowed hard. “I was wearing a mask. I could be whomever I wanted. And with you… I wanted to be myself. I’ve never felt more myself than when I was with you that night.”

  He restrained a groan and shook his head, fighting the impulse to draw her into his arms. Instead, he remained a safe distance away.

  “I want to believe that. I want…” He suddenly growled and rubbed a hand over his face. “Dammit, I fell in love with you!”

  “And you think I didn’t feel the same way?” she cried, a pair of tears finding their way down her cheeks. “That I didn’t ache in places I didn’t know could ache? That I didn’t cry for you for weeks? You made me dream of a different life for myself, something I never thought I could have, and I wanted it so much. So very much.”

  He had to ignore the break in her voice, the pain he could hear that mirrored his own. “And then to have to go on with life, and see you… To really see you… And I fell in love with you…”

  She gasped softly. “Oh, Gabe…”

  He ignored that as well. “And now, after weeks of tormenting myself, I find that it was you all along. You at the ball, and you as you are.” He laughed without any hint of humor. “I find that I love both versions of you.”

  “I wish I’d known,” Amelia murmured. “I’d have told you how I felt. Gabe, I’ve been in love with you for ages. It was far more believable than Lord Wharton. I could never have him.”

  He gave her a resigned look. “I am Lord Wharton.”

  She smiled bitterly. “And just as far from me as ever. Out of reach and beyond my sight. Serves me right for daring to hope.” She shrugged and sighed wearily. “Well, at least there are no more secrets between us.”

  No more secrets? He could have laughed. There were so many secrets between them.

  Gabe shook his head slowly, smiling maliciously. “Oh, but there are, Miss Tribbett.”

  Amelia’s gaze shot to his, her expression changing to one of affront and disbelief. “You investigated me?”

  “I had to know with whom I was dealing,” he said with an easy shrug.

  She was shaking her head rapidly and held up a warning finger. “That was not part of the contract.”

  “To hell with the contract!” he yelled with a slash of his hand. “I refuse to be kept in the dark anymore, Amelia! Why do you need to find your father? You hate him. You don’t want to meet him, you just want his identity, his location even. What do you have in mind? Blackmail? Murder? Some other form of vengeance? What are you up to?”

  Amelia stared at him without speaking, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, her entire frame coiled with visible tension. “You know what?” she said tightly. “Contract is over. I don’t want your help anymore.”

  Gabe gaped without speaking for a number of heartbeats. “Excuse me?” he managed.

  “You’re too involved,” she told him with a careless shrug. She shook her head. “I need distance and anonymity, and you just ruined that.”

  “You aren’t blameless!” he reminded her, his head spinning.

  She returned to her bitter smile and folded her arms. “I know. If I’d known who you were, this would never have happened. That is my fault. I was careless. One more reason to cut you out. So, take the money I gave you and consider yourself freed from commitment.”

  “What if I don’t want to be freed?” he demanded, taking two steps towards her. “What if I refuse?”

  Her eyes turned colder, and her expression became utterly devoid of emotion. “You don’t have a choice. Get out, or I will do to you what I did to the informant who lied to me.”

  “You are threatening me now?” he asked in disbelief. “You know what I am capable of.”

  “And you know what I am capable of,” she replied with a tilt of her head. “So, are you truly without honor, Rogue? Or will you leave?”

  Gabe stared at her, wondering how he had come crashing down so far so fast. Of course he couldn’t fight her, would never even dream of hurting her. But leave?

  How could he leave?

  “Well?” she demanded indicating the door with her head.

  He straightened up to his full height, considering her coolly. “Good day, Miss Tribbett,” he heard himself say as he offered a short bow. “I sincerely hope you find whatever it is you seek.”

  He could see her jaw quivering, but he could not bring himself to say or do anything except wrench his gaze away and leave the room, as she requested.

  But he was not about to give up the investigation.

  Not for her or anyone.

  The door closed behind Gabe with an almost thunderous slam, despite the lack of force with which it closed.

  It didn’t matter.

  Amelia gasped sharply at the sound, her heart threatening to pound itself out of her chest, and she suddenly could not find breath in her lungs. She paced about the room in agitation, rubbing her chest and grinding her teeth.

  How dare he come here and tell her he loved her in one breath while confessing to investigating her in the next! How could he have invaded her privacy so completely? Who knew what lengths he had gone to, and when he was supposed to be working her case, no less! The object was her father, not herself!

  He was Lord Wharton? It was too far-fetched, and yet she knew it had to be true. She should have seen it. The same charm, despite Gabe’s inclination to hide it; the same eyes, so piercing and captivating; the same smile, so infrequently seen in the day-to-day, but a sight to behold. The very same warmth in his embrace. The passion in his kiss.

  The love in his eyes.

  Oh, how could she not have seen it?

  And how could he betray her like this?

  She grabbed onto her bedpost with a screech of distress, finding herself shaking with fury and aching for the man she had just sent from her room, and possibly her life.

  She had to focus on finding her father. She had to finish this.

  But her heart was breaking into pieces, and she sank onto her bed, still clinging to the bedpost, unable to stand any longer.

  Gabe…

  She exhaled roughly and found a hint of a panicked sob in its sound. She shook her head quickly, desperate to maintain control, to rid herself of the unwanted emotions. She could not give in, could not be weak, could not let herself be so vulnerable as to succumb to the tide within her.

  The harder she fought, the more they resisted, and when she could bear it no longer, she closed her eyes, dropped her head, and let the rising tears fall.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  There were times in Gabe’s life when his instincts outweighed his logic, despite evidence to the contrary and against all odds.

  This was one of those times.

  There was no way in hell that this was a coincidence.

  He’d been in a quiet, dogged mindset in the few days following his fight with Amelia, tracking down the leads he’d uncovered, while also receiving updates from Knutt and Daisy on Amelia’s actions, which had thankfully been remarkably quiet. He couldn’t bear to contemplate why she was so quiet these days, it would make the endless hours excruciating. He’d kept to his investi
gation, determined to find the answers Amelia so desperately sought.

  He wanted her to have them. He wanted her to have the truth. Even if he could never have her for himself, he needed to know that she could be happy. It was, without a doubt, the most sentimental, maudlin, ridiculous idea he’d ever had in his entire life, but he could not shake himself out of it. And if he were the one controlling answers and monitoring her activities, he could ensure that she would not throw her life away for her own agenda.

  She deserved better.

  He snorted to himself as he drew his cap further over his brow. She deserved a lot better than him, that was for sure, but she wouldn’t find that if she wound up in Newgate, or worse.

  Would it be too much to ask that her father had already met his Maker? That would solve everything.

  After a stroke of luck, he’d managed to find the church where Daniel Cole and Mary Clairbourne had been married. It ought to have been much simpler, but parish lines had been redrawn a decade ago, and a stodgy clergyman had balked at the idea of letting a man of Gabe’s appearance peruse the precious archived records. Thankfully, working for the Crown enabled one to exert a certain amount of authority, and once that had been explained in no uncertain terms, the clergyman had been quite accommodating.

  It ought to have been very simple. A look in the register for the marriage between Daniel Cole and Mary Clairbourne, roughly twenty-five years earlier, establish the date, interrogate the man on any information on the persons in question, and then he could move on.

  What he had not counted on had been the name of the male witness of the marriage.

  Richard Keele.

  To any other person looking at the record, it would have meant nothing.

  But Gabe had felt a memory of his earliest days as a spy when he’d had to engage in operations accompanied by a more experienced spy for his training. A particular trainer of his had used that exact name as his alias.

  And that man had been the one they called Tailor, one of the Shopkeepers who ran England, who also happened to be the grand spymaster. In his regular life, he was one of the most influential members of the peerage that ever lived a quiet and overlooked existence.

  There was no reason for his alias to have appeared on a marriage record unless one of the wedded couple had ties to his work, and the idea that one of Amelia’s parents could have worked for the Crown, or still might, was the single most unnerving thought he’d had in some time.

  But there was no possible way he could approach Tailor with this, not even with the exact copy of the license clenched in his hands.

  So, he was going to his next best source: Weaver.

  He’d been to Weaver’s home time and time again for various complaints and situations and knew the way well. He knew better than to use the front door when he was dealing with something of this sensitivity. Instead, he knocked at the servant’s entrance, as odd as that may have seemed to the clearly bewildered maid who answered.

  “Get your master,” he’d instructed her. “Tell him the Rogue is here to see him. He’ll know what you mean.”

  She hadn’t looked convinced, but at his quiet nod, she’d bobbed a sort of curtsey and left, closing the door behind her.

  Gabe leaned against the stone of the house, tilting his head back as he waited.

  If this all became more complicated than it already was, he was likely to go mad.

  Gent and Rook had been curious about his work and had tried to ask him about it, as well as what had happened with Amelia, but he had rebuffed every attempt to get the information. Until Gent had sat down with him and stated, “I think you’re in love with Amelia, and I think you’re terrified of what that means.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Gabe had muttered, not even bothering to look up.

  It had taken Gent a moment to recover his shock, but then he’d proceeded with a gentle, “How much?”

  It was at that moment that Gabe realized precisely the depth and breadth of his feelings, and how to accurately convey them to his colleague and friend. He looked Gent squarely in the eyes. “She is my Margaret,” he’d told him without blinking.

  Gent had barely moved for so long that Gabe returned to his work. “What can I do?” Gent had asked in a surprisingly rough voice.

  Gabe had put his friend to work, and he would no doubt use him again when this interview ended.

  The door beside him opened and Gabe shoved off the wall to face the tall man standing within, who had clearly been in the process of preparing for bed.

  “Rogue,” he greeted simply, folding his arms. “This is unexpected.”

  “Weaver,” Gabe replied with a nod. He swallowed and held out the copy of the marriage license in his hand, pointing directly at the witness line. “What is this?”

  Weaver took the paper and tilted it towards the light from the candles within. His eyes widened, and Gabe saw him fight for a controlled expression. He prayed he would not ask any sort of inane question such as where it came from or how he got it, as those should have been obvious. He wouldn’t put it past Weaver to try to divert him from the line of questions, despite their years of friendship and professional association, and he would not take kindly to that.

  Thankfully, Weaver looked up at him with a bit of a drawn expression. “You’d better come in, Rogue. There’s a lot to explain.”

  The taproom was no place for a woman, but that made little difference to Amelia these days. It was the best place to spend her evenings, tucked away in a corner where no one disturbed her. She could drink to her heart’s content without disapproving glances or any drunken sot coming to try his luck with her. Her fellow tenants knew her well enough to ward others off, and they seemed to sense that she was even less agreeable than usual lately.

  Her determination had not lessened in her desire for answers, but she could not seem to manage the connections and intelligence she once had. Her investigation was as fruitless now as it had been in her early days of attempting it.

  The days before Gabe.

  She scowled as she drew her fresh glass of gin to her mouth and faintly wondered if it was her second, third, or fourth. It was so hard to remember these things, particularly when her days seemed to be running together in a monotonous sort of drudgery. And really, she was imbibing so often these days that the drinks were all slurring together as well. Surely this was only her second. She did not feel out of sorts at all.

  Her head was beginning to feel a little fuzzy, though. But it was the end of a rather long day, and even the smallest amount of gin could enhance such fatigue.

  She took another drink, and this time she tasted something different. Rather than the sharp potency of gin, there was a bitter overtone than tingled her tongue. She pushed her drink slightly away, staring at it.

  She knew that taste.

  She tried to focus on it, licked her lips and forced herself to remember where she had tasted it before.

  Her head became worse, and her limbs felt heavy and strange. She shook her head with difficulty and pushed herself out of her chair, barely remembering to toss some coins onto the table, though if their drinks were this bad, they did not deserve her payment. She staggered out of the taproom to the stairs, fumbling her way up and tripping repeatedly.

  What was this? What was happening to her? This was no mere matter of alcohol. This was…

  Opium.

  Amelia tried to nod to herself at the answer, but she could not manage to bring her head back up to its proper position once it dipped to touch her chest.

  Who would have given her opium? She would have to investigate the staff of the boarding house after she slept. She would have to sleep for a while; she was feeling quite terrible at the moment. Sleep would help, and she could sleep on the floor if she had to. The bed was so far away from the door.

  She tried three times to manage the doorknob, and finally shoved her way into her room, hardly able to keep herself upright.

  Sleep… That was all she needed.

 
She started to crumple as she found the bed, her hands barely able to grip the counterpane.

  Suddenly, arms wrapped tightly around her, and her mouth was covered.

  Amelia screamed and thrashed, the sound muffled but her motions frantic enough to throw her captor off balance. Her eyes refused to open, and each move she made exhausted her more, but she was not about to be taken without a fight. She thrashed from side to side, tossing her head back to attempt to make contact with whoever it was, with no success. She managed to slip an arm free and slammed her elbow up and back, grunting with satisfaction as she connected with his head. She faintly registered his pained growl, but her head was growing fuzzier and fuzzier, and she could not fight anymore.

  A gag was suddenly forced into her mouth, and rather than resist, Amelia relaxed and slumped in her captor’s hold. What was the point?

  At least now she could sleep.

  She wished her head would explode as it was threatening to. It would be much more of a relief than sitting here with this agonizing throbbing that pulsed against every part of her skull.

  Amelia winced as she became more aware of herself and her surroundings. Her body hurt absolutely everywhere, and her arms…

  She frowned. Her arms were behind her, bound with rope, if the scratching against her skin were any indication. Her shoulders were aching from their position, but she’d been in worse. Her arms weren’t the only things bound; her legs were strapped to the chair she sat in, her body was tied to it, and her mouth…

  Hmm. The gag was gone. She licked her parched lips and winced at the disgusting taste.

  Opium was dreadful stuff, and she probably had taken in a good amount, given how quickly she’d lost consciousness, and the strength of the taste.

  Amelia forced her eyes open and winced at the light, though it was faint. She was in a warehouse of some kind, with crates and boxes filling up half of the spacious room. Up at the top of the thick walls were small windows letting in the faintest amount of light. So, it was morning, then.