One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  It was tedious and exhausting, and (worst of all) it did nothing to satisfy her thoughts of the viscount. One idle memory from the alley could set her cheeks aflame. His words echoed in her head. She saw him leaning over her against the alley wall. She saw his hand beside her face and his mouth when he’d dared her to allow him to teach her instead.

  She could, with alarming clarity, recall the position of every part of her and every part of him. She blamed this on her inexperience with closeness, in general, and touching, in particular. Her parents, God rest them, had not been affectionate, and Teddy became agitated by anything more than a quick hug. For the short time she’d been married to the duke, he endeavored to touch her only in her bed under the cover of darkness, and even then, the effort had ended in a scratchy, slobbery sort of misery that, to this day, left her stomach in a knot and her skin cold.

  But Beau’s—er, Lord Rainsleigh’s—proximity had not elicited stomach knots or coldness of any kind. Quite the contrary. Beau Courtland had caused her stomach to fill with a swarm of moths’ wings that beat in unison and her skin to grow first warm, then hot, then tingle.

  In reality, he’d hardly touched her at all. In fact, lengthy retrospection revealed he had, in fact, not touched her in the alley. He’d done something far worse instead; he had planted the seed of wanting his touch. In the alley or anywhere else for that matter. It was a compulsion that made absolutely no sense, as she couldn’t remember the last time she felt even the slightest stirring of interest in a man. Furthermore, the interest in this man of all men made no sense at all, because he’d done nothing but foil her attempts to repay his brother, and he was rude, and outspoken, and (on two occasions) unconscious from drink. If her marriage to the duke taught her nothing else, it was that she wanted nothing to do with drunkards ever again.

  But he hadn’t been drunk in the alley. In the alley, he seemed in total command of not only his faculties but hers as well.

  The only thing more striking than the memory of Rainsleigh that endless week was Ticking’s gall. With increasing frequency, the duke appeared to hover over her shoulder (stopping just short of lending a hand, of course) and hound her with not-so-subtle questions about the hundreds of thousands of pounds that her parents left behind when their ship went down.

  Who ran the company since her father’s death? he wanted to know. How would Teddy’s inheritance be managed? Were there any other beneficiaries? Did Emmaline have access to the money?

  Emmaline had bit her tongue to keep from shouting, “The money has nothing to do with you!”

  But the reality of his control was becoming more obvious every day. This was why he had tried to curtail her movements. This was why he did not wish for her to contact anyone outside of his family or his staff. The more freely she moved around London, the more carefully she could arrange safeguards for Teddy and herself.

  The converse was also true. The more he hemmed her in, the more she became dependent on him (or so he assumed).

  On Friday evening, when the last piece of cake had been eaten and the final toddler ripped screaming from her skirts, Emmaline trudged across the garden to her dower house and collapsed on a fainting couch while Teddy and Jocelyn Breedlowe looked on in concern.

  After five minutes of staring at the wall in blessed silence, Dyson bade the footmen roll in the tea cart. There were biscuits, and tea, and sherry, and Emmaline’s favorite luxury—ice. She crunched on a piece and picked up a note that Dyson informed her had arrived earlier in the day.

  “Oh, ’tis from Elisabeth Courtland,” Emmaline said, sitting up and breaking the seal. “She’s looking for you, Jocelyn, no doubt. I keep you from your work at her foundation when you mind Teddy for me, day after day. But I could not subject my brother to the madness in Ticking’s nursery for five days. I could not.”

  Jocelyn chuckled a dismissal and helped Teddy select biscuits from the trolley while Emmaline scanned the note.

  Dear Emmaline,

  We have missed you this week at the foundation. Jocelyn assures me that you have duties to the duke, which I completely (albeit sympathetically) understand. If your schedule opens, however, I should like to invite you to tea tomorrow afternoon in Henrietta Place. A few other neighbors may also be there—lovely women that you will enjoy. Nothing formal or fussy, mind you. Please bring Teddy if he can be persuaded. He is always welcome, and Bryson should like to say hello. My hope is that Jocelyn will also come.

  We have some news, Bryson and I, and I want to share it among close friends. It would mean ever so much if you were there.

  Warmly,

  Elisabeth

  “They must be expecting,” speculated Emmaline after she read the letter aloud to Jocelyn.

  “It’s possible,” Jocelyn said, “although she hasn’t said anything to me. Would you like me to stay behind with Teddy?”

  Emmaline shook her head. “By no means. You should not forgo the diversion so that I may go. I will either take her at her word and bring Teddy or send my regrets.”

  She looked over at Teddy, happily eating biscuits and poring over yet another bird encyclopedia. “Would you like to go out tomorrow, Teddy?”

  Her brother looked up, munching.

  “Mrs. Courtland has invited us to her house to enjoy a lovely tea. You’ll remember that Mr. and Mrs. Courtland have the grand library with thousands of books. There’ll be one or two on birds, I’d wager.”

  “Books,” Teddy said, staring at his biscuit. “You will go, Malie?”

  “That’s right. We shall both go. Miss Breedlowe too. It’s all settled, then.” She smiled tiredly at Jocelyn. “After the week I’ve endured, I could use some time out of the house. I’ll tell the duke there’s a revival at Holy Trinity. Surely after five days of forced confinement, he cannot restrict me now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beau had not called on his brother’s townhouse in Henrietta Place since he’d bought the boat and settled in Paddington Lock. The move had angered Bryson, and Beau’s choice of a dilapidated boat on a murky canal only riled him more. A deliberate thumb in the eye. But Beau preferred the water, and he never intended to remain in London for long. Leaving Henrietta Place had put an end to the daily barbs and jabs, and it gave their once-strong bond a fighting chance.

  But now it was December, and this meant that two former brothel raiders, Joseph Chance and Jon Stoker, were home from university until after the New Year. The young men eagerly rejoined the brothel-raiding team whenever they were in London, and Beau could certainly use them for his current target. But they were university men now, and Elisabeth and Lady Falcondale next door kept proper family rooms for them in their homes. If Beau wished to brief them, he had little choice but to seek them out in Henrietta Place. Bryson would be at home, naturally, but Beau’s plan was to enter quietly through the kitchen, convene with Joe and Stoker in the mews, and ride back to Paddington before he ever encountered his brother.

  “Beau?” called a familiar voice in the hallway, not five minutes after he’d slipped inside the kitchen door.

  Beau tensed at the sound. Slowly, he turned.

  “You’re here.” Bryson walked slowly to him.

  “Indeed,” said Beau. “Stoker and Joseph can be found in the vicinity, or so I’ve heard.”

  Bryson nodded, studying him. Beau wore buckskins, tall boots, and a long duster, his usual attire. His brother hated his lack of formality.

  “I’ll not stay long,” Beau told him. “I did not intend to disturb you.”

  “No disturbance,” Bryson said. “We are glad to see you. We—I have missed you.”

  “Better to miss me than resent me,” Beau said.

  “I never resented you, Beauregard. I merely wanted you to—”

  “Bryse, don’t. I’ve not come for a lecture. I will see the boys and go. But perhaps I should call at the foundation office?”

  “No, no,” Bryson said, catching up, “please don’t go. The boys are here. And Elisabeth would be crushed to miss yo
u—as would her guests.”

  “Guests?”

  “You’re in luck. Elisabeth is in the drawing room taking tea with the neighbors.”

  “Which neighbors?”

  “Oh, the expected assemblage. Jocelyn Breedlowe, Lady Falcondale, Miss Baker, Miss Lucy Eads . . . ” The names were familiar; women Beau had genuinely missed since he’d moved away from Henrietta Place.

  His brother finished, “And, of course, Lady Frinfrock.”

  Beau laughed. “Well perhaps I could pop in for a quick hello.”

  The Marchioness of Frinfrock was an eighty-five-year-old widow who presided over the street like a ruthless schoolmistress. She maintained a pretense of aloof detachment and claimed she preferred plants to people. But when she saw value (or rather, when she saw the opportunity for improved value), she drove her personal stake into the lives of others, whether they desired her intrusion or not. She was opinionated and crotchety, and she employed biting rudeness, designed to weed out the weak or insecure. Oh, but for those courageous souls who could see beyond her crusty exterior, she was generous, and indulgent, and wise.

  Beau Courtland she adored, although she did her best to disguise it as outrage and shock. Beau devoured the attention. There were few reactions he valued more than adoration, outrage, and shock.

  “Oh, and there is one more guest,” Bryson said, turning down the great hall to the drawing room. “A new friend of Elisabeth’s. A young widowed duchess. Lady Ticking.”

  Beau stopped and stared at his brother’s back. “Lady Ticking is here?” His heart rate inexplicably kicked up. “Why?”

  Bryson glanced back. “She’s become very friendly with Elisabeth. I’m happy to introduce you, actually. Lovely woman. Please be on your best behavior.” Beau hadn’t moved, and his brother paused. “What is it?”

  “You’re rubbish at pranks, and you know it.”

  “What does that mean? What prank? It’s an honest request—please be pleasant.”

  Beau laughed. “Far too late for that.”

  Bryson was shaking his head. “What’s gotten into you? Since when have you balked at meeting a pretty girl?”

  “Well, at least you admit that much.”

  “Admit what? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about my previous acquaintance with Lady Ticking. My multiple previous acquaintances. You act as if I’m about to clap eyes on her for the first time.”

  “Are you saying you already know the dowager duchess?”

  “Hilarious, Bryse. Don’t forget that I am the clever one.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bryson repeated. He sounded truly concerned. “How could you possibly know any duchess? What do you know about her?”

  Beau put his hands on his hips. “Well . . . I know you’re holding an Atlantic crossing over her head. I know you’ve enlisted her to train me like a monkey. She told me all of it, Bryson.” His brother stared, and Beau said, “Your relentlessness about the bleeding title is a marvel, really it is. But to go so far as to tell a desperate widow that she may earn passage on one of your precious boats if she can take me in hand? You’ve all but extorted her.”

  “Extortion?” Bryson sounded horrified. “I haven’t held anything over her head. She’s Elisabeth’s friend. I barely know her. What do you mean, take you in hand?”

  With exaggerated patience, Beau told his brother about her visits to his boat and their encounter in the alley.

  “Good God,” marveled Bryson, “she took me at my word.”

  “And what the bloody hell does that mean? Everyone takes you at your word. You’re Lord Immaculate, remember?”

  Bryson cocked an eyebrow. “Not anymore.”

  The casual tone with which Bryson could discuss the loss of his title had taken months to cultivate, and Beau tried to remind himself of all that his brother had given up. He’d had Elisabeth by then, of course, which was the only reason he’d survived the loss of the title, but it had taken months for him to discuss the whole affair with such nonchalance.

  Now Bryson shook his head. “I’m not surprised she believed what I suggested, but there was no actual ‘agreement,’ Beau. No ‘deal’—not in a formal sense. She was our guest to dinner, and I was simply making conversation, and idly so, about you and the title. About how much I felt you could bring to the viscountcy, if only you would apply yourself.”

  Beau made a growling noise.

  “Come now—surely you know I discuss this on occasion. It’s no secret how I feel.”

  Beau glowered at him, but Bryson kept talking. “She was telling us about her childhood and how much comportment and elocution and etiquette training she had endured. I commented how convenient it would be for her to school you in this, her area of expertise.”

  “How convenient that she is also blonde and brown-eyed. And a widow. All my favorites.”

  “Well, I’m not blind. But I thought of her because of the copious free time she might have, now that she’s been widowed and moved into the dower house. She’ll have fewer obligations with the old duke’s son carrying on as lord and master.”

  Beau shook his head in disgust. “And you idly suggested that she use this newly discovered free time to train me? After you bandied about my gross social ineptitude, of course.”

  A servant passed, trimming candles, and Bryson pulled Beau to the wall and said lowly, “If you want to know what happened, here it is: we discussed her proficiency in society life and my desire for you to take some interest. I joked that she could serve as your tutor. She then asserted that she had less spare time than ever before, because she is determined to carry out her late father’s dream of exporting his business to America.”

  “She’s determined to what?” This was the last thing Beau expected to hear.

  Bryson repeated, “Carry on her father’s dream of exporting his business to America. Her father and mother died when their ship went down on the way to New York. Did you know it?”

  “She made cryptic reference to a shipwreck. But I really don’t know anything about her except that she follows me around and harangues me with your misplaced desire to see me bound up and gagged with a satin bow.”

  This wasn’t entirely true. She’d revealed more in the alley. About her parents selling her, for all practical purposes, into the aristocracy. He’d thought about it far too often in the last week.

  Bryson continued. “So you don’t know who her father was, do you?”

  “I cannot say it enough: I know almost nothing about her.”

  “Theodore Holt,” Bryson said. “This was her father.”

  Beau smirked, and Bryson explained, “The publishing giant from Liverpool. She’s Holt’s only daughter. He made a fortune printing and selling cheap, salacious novels—you know the ones, Holt’s Fireside Adventures? Provocative, rollicking stories for the masses. Brigands, and pirates, damsels, and duels.”

  “Never heard of him.” This was another half-truth. Beau had read the runaway best seller, A Proper Scandal, the summer before, along with everyone else in London. He’d paid no mind to the publisher, but he knew the book to be part of the popular Fireside Adventures series. He’d read several, in fact.

  “Theodore Holt was as rich as King George and set to grow richer, apparently, reselling his previously published adventures to Americans. Of course, they’ll be all new to the colonials. According to the dowager, she intends to realize her father’s dream. She told us that night that she’d arranged every detail of her father’s plan to sell books in New York, except for the shipping of the first lot.”

  “Quite a big detail to leave unanswered.”

  “I suppose that was her motivation to take me at my word,” Bryson said, “even if I was merely thinking wishfully out loud. I promise it never crossed my mind that she would take my offer seriously. I chuckled at her ambition and told her—as a mere joke, mind you—that if she could teach you anything—anything at all—I would convey her tawdry nov
els to New York in trade. But I was speaking hypothetically. We all laughed at the notion and began talking about something else entirely. I never thought she’d do it. And to seek you out herself? Egad. I cannot believe she ventured as far as Paddington Lock.” He made a disgusted face.

  Beau studied him, considering this. “What care would a wealthy dowager duchess have for plying trade in America—peddling books or anything else?”

  Bryson shrugged. “She was more discreet when it came to this. I didn’t press because—and you must believe me—I truly thought it was a joke.” He drew nearer to Beau. “But what of your meetings with her? Please tell me you were not rude or abrasive or, God forbid, indecent. She’s all of twenty-three years old, and I cannot say for sure, but I believe the new duke may not be altogether gracious to her. I would truly regret it if you caused her any distress.”

  “Then why did you launch her at me with a bloody incentive of hustling books to Americans?” Beau shoved off the wall and strode down the hall, his mind spinning.

  She intends to realize her father’s dream.

  Sell the books in New York.

  The new duke may not be altogether gracious to her.

  Behind him, Bryson called to his back, “Stoker and Joseph are with Falcondale and me in the library. There is more to discuss, Beau. Please don’t leave before you and I speak.”

  “The ladies are in the drawing room, you say?” Beau called over his shoulder. To his way of thinking, his brother had said enough already.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emmaline couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself more. How lovely Elisabeth Courtland’s friends were. Well, perhaps “lovely” was not the precise term for one neighbor in particular; but Lady Frinfrock was bitingly clever, and the other women did not seem to take offense at her strident opinions or unsolicited advice. Elisabeth had just delivered the most exciting news to the group, and the marchioness was challenging her around bites of cake.

  “But of course you will not move away before summer,” Lady Frinfrock demanded of Elisabeth. “Your furniture will be ruined, piled into carts in the rain, with the roads in the worst condition of the year. If you must go, wait until the weather is mild, when—”