One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  A knock at the door interrupted her, and Elisabeth looked relieved. The Courtlands’ butler, Sewell, stepped into the room and intoned, “Lord Rainsleigh to see you, Mrs. Courtland.”

  “Beau?” said Elisabeth.

  Emmaline’s teacup froze halfway to her lips.

  Lord Rainsleigh swept in on a whirl of long coat and the wave of his hat. “I beg your pardon,” he said, winking at Elisabeth, “I was told this was a meeting of the Milkmaid Chastity Society. Sewell, you’ve misled me again.”

  Silence reigned for a beat, and then the women erupted into a fit of laughter. Emmaline laughed too, but really what she felt was breathless. Beau Courtland worked to be clever, and he excelled at it, but he was dashing without even trying. He was rakish and irreverent; overtly, intriguingly masculine in way that Emmaline had never known a true gentleman to be.

  “Ah, refreshment and a show,” said Lady Frinfrock. “But why have you come, Rainsleigh? I was told you’d moved away and set up camp beneath a bridge. Have the river dwellers evicted you already?”

  “No, in fact, we’ve all become fast friends, the river people and I. And I’ve spoken so highly of Henrietta Place, and of you, in particular, Lady Frinfrock, that a certain unwashed contingent of them plans to abandon canal life and relocate here. Your garden could house a dozen of them at least. It’s charming, really, how unconcerned they are with the notion of crowding. Or bathing. You’ll marvel at how quickly one becomes accustomed to the smell.” He strode up to the old woman and bowed over her hand.

  “Do not threaten me with displaced river people when you cannot even be bothered to visit your brother and sister-in-law for months on end. Miss Baker and I have counted the days. Your neglect is an abomination, and that says nothing of your infrequent calls to me.”

  More laughter, and the viscount looked with deep (and deeply counterfeit) regret. “Counted the days, have you? Why, my lady, I’ve underestimated how very much you care.”

  The women laughed again, and he glanced around the room, taking stock of the adoring faces. Miss Breedlowe. Miss Baker. A young woman introduced as a family friend, Miss Lucy Eads. Another neighbor, Lady Falcondale, who balanced a toddler on her knee. And finally . . .

  Emmaline held her breath, waiting for him to pivot to her. When he did, their gazes locked, and he raised one eyebrow. Emmaline blinked but did not look away.

  “Oh, but allow me to introduce my friend, the Dowager Duchess of Ticking,” called Elisabeth behind him.

  “The duchess and I are already acquainted,” Beau said. His blue eyes did not leave hers, and she forgot, for the moment, to breathe.

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Elisabeth. “She volunteers at the foundation, and we have discussed your role in rescuing my girls.”

  “Yes,” Beau said, “and it occurs to me that you and I might review the meaning of the word ‘covert’ before I risk monitoring another brothel.”

  “Do not tempt me with insubordination,” Elisabeth said, laughing. “Stoker is in town and would unseat you as raid captain, given half the chance.”

  “Would that we were all so lucky,” said Beau. “But it’s Stoker and Joseph I came to see, actually.”

  “You’ll not distract from the progress these boys have made in school, Rainsleigh,” ordered the marchioness. “They are university men now and properly so. But this does not safeguard them against your nightly procession of spirits and loose women.”

  “Nightly procession?” He made a whistling sound, and the women chuckled. “Well, I must occupy myself somehow until I recover from your repeated rejections.”

  “Clever as always,” said Lady Frinfrock, “but perhaps you’ll become serious long enough to announce your intended move back to Henrietta Place.”

  “Not likely. I’ve told you I’ll not return until you acknowledge our secret love, my lady. Not a moment before.”

  The old woman harrumphed. “One can only assume this means that you did not know that Elisabeth has just announced that she and Mr. Courtland will abandon this house to your care, God save us, because they’ve a mind to move away.”

  Emmaline saw the flash of panic shoot across the viscount’s face before he asked coolly, “I beg your pardon?” He paused in his selection of a biscuit from the cart and looked at Elisabeth.

  “Bryson had plans to seek you out this week,” Elisabeth told him. Now she stood, scrambling to her feet to meet his hard gaze. Carefully, she set her teacup on the tray. “We would have told you sooner, but the reasons for our move had not been public. That is, up until ten minutes ago.”

  “So you do know the meaning of covert,” he said lightly, but Emmaline saw his tenseness. For the first time since he’d swept in, he appeared unsettled. Confined. He glanced around at the interested faces beaming up at him and then back at Elisabeth.

  She chuckled. “We were only secretive out of an abundance of caution. I . . . we are expecting a baby, Beau.” She touched a hand to her belly, and joy broke through the seriousness on her face. “But because of my advanced age . . . ”

  “Yes, you are an old crone at thirty-two,” he said with a terse smile.

  “We wanted to be sure the baby and I were healthy before we shared the news. I am nearly three months along now, and the doctor believes things look very promising, indeed. Meanwhile, Bryson and I have had time to consider how we wish to raise our family. I should like to continue my work at the foundation after the baby is born, and it would be easier if we lived closer to my office.”

  “Of course.”

  Elisabeth added, “In Bryson’s mind, it was inevitable that we would leave this house. In his mind, you are the rightful owner.”

  She said this softly, almost regretfully, as if she was sympathetic to his obvious shock and distaste. Even so, Emmaline was indignant on his behalf. Had it been strictly necessary to announce more than her impending motherhood? When she announced the baby to the other women, only the marchioness had lingered on the topic of the Courtlands’ move and the future of the house. Clearly the viscount didn’t wish to discuss it. Even more clear was the fact that he did not wish to live in Henrietta Place. He’d stolen away to a rotting houseboat to escape it, and apparently he had not been back for months.

  His expression had gone cold and agitated, and Emmaline looked away.

  “Congratulations,” he finally said. “I shall be thrilled to meet my niece or nephew. I have waited a lifetime to be an irreverent uncle. Any child of Bryson’s will desperately require such a figure in his life.”

  “Bryson will speak to you about the house,” Elisabeth persisted. “I . . . I’m so incredibly glad you have come. He has missed you.”

  “Not enough to inform me before the neighbors that I’m to become an uncle. But I’ve already seen Bryson, actually. When I came in.”

  Emmaline’s head snapped up.

  If the viscount had already seen Mr. Courtland, then they would both know about her.

  Her heart leapt into a triple-time patter, and she fought the urge to bolt to her feet and assure him that she had not misled him, not entirely, and not on purpose.

  “Doubtless I’ll have to run the gauntlet of his expectations again when I seek out Stoker and Joseph—which I should do straightaway.” He leaned in to kiss Elisabeth on the cheek. “Ladies,” he said, flashing a smile at the room. To Lady Frinfrock, he said, “My love. Until we meet again.”

  “You are a scoundrel and a rogue, Rainsleigh, and I do know the difference,” said Lady Frinfrock, waving him away with her hand.

  With that (not inaccurate) pronouncement, Beau bowed deeply, swept his hat before him, and then strode to the door.

  The last thing Emmaline saw before he ducked into the hall was his glance in her direction—one quick, enigmatic look, and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Inside Bryson’s library, Beau found his brother’s neighbor, Trevor Rheese, Lord Falcondale, reclined in the chair behind the desk, his boots propped up on the blotter, puffing on
a cheroot. Joseph and Stoker were kneeling on either side of a marble chessboard, their hands locked and their faces nearly purple, struggling at an arm-wrestling match. Another young man watched from a chair by the window. Bryson pored over papers at the corner of his desk.

  “Would you believe the ladies are arm-wrestling too?” Beau asked, giving Stoker a light nudge to the hip with the toe of his boot. The boy lost his edge and toppled. “Falcondale’s infant has almost beaten Miss Baker.”

  Joseph laughed, stretching his arm, and Stoker bolted up, swearing under his breath.

  Jon Stoker was a former street boy in whom Elisabeth had seen potential. (Elisabeth couldn’t toss a rock without hitting something or someone she felt had potential.) She’d taken Jon in, seen him tutored, and, for two years now, financed his education at a university in Yorkshire.

  Joseph was the former serving boy of Lord Falcondale, although the two had survived many adventures together and were far more like family than master and servant. When the Courtlands sent Stoker to school, Falcondale had followed suit with Joseph. The boys had known each other in Henrietta Place, and their unique mix of humble beginnings and sponsored education had only strengthened their friendship at university.

  They’d both grown since the summer, more men now than boys. They wore proper trousers and shirtsleeves, waistcoats, and boots. They were cleanly shaven, with haircuts and watch chains. When Beau spoke to them, they looked him in the eye.

  It did not escape Beau’s attention that some elevated, princely version of this metamorphosis was exactly what Bryson expected of him. But Beau had been to university. Eton too. He’d been a horrible student, naturally; a behavior problem prone to truancy and pranks. But he’d graduated to spite his father and because it had been important to Bryson. It was the least he could do, considering Bryson had paid his tuition.

  But now? Now his father was thankfully dead, and Beau had been financially independent since he’d taken a commission in the navy. He owed Bryson nothing, and he owed less than nothing to the bloody viscountcy. He might be unreliable, carousing, or drunk, but he was not (and never would be) an aristocrat—not in manner or practice. Not after all that he’d seen.

  Falcondale stood up behind the desk and reached to shake hands. “He lives. Good to see you, old man. The boys have been asking for you, but I told them you’d drowned.”

  “Touching,” Beau said. “How is school, lads?”

  Joseph was quick to rattle off his enthusiasm for classes and sport and mates and local girls and the climate in Yorkshire, while Stoker simply shrugged. “It’s all right,” he said.

  “And who is your friend?” Beau nodded to the young man in the window chair.

  “Oh, that’s Teddy Holt, the Dowager Duchess of Ticking’s brother. We were demonstrating my superior strength to him, weren’t we, mate?” Joseph said, pantomiming a roundhouse punch to Stoker’s bicep.

  Falcondale said, “Teddy is keeping a very stern eye on us while the ladies gossip. He’s a quiet one, which is a pleasant switch from this lot.”

  Bryson looked up from his paperwork. “Mind the vases, boys. They look breakable because they are.”

  To Beau, Bryson said, “You’ll remember Teddy Holt—you picked him up wandering the docks alone one night on a raid. This is how we met the dowager duchess. Teddy has been known to go on an unscheduled ramble and frighten his sister, although less now that they’ve invoked Miss Breedlowe to assist with his care.”

  “Miss Breedlowe,” said Teddy, responding to the familiar name.

  “Lovely woman, isn’t she, Teddy?” said Falcondale. “And every minute she spends with you relieves her of time spent with Lady Frinfrock.”

  Beau watched the boy. Stoker and Joseph had opened the face of Bryson’s grandfather clock and were tinkering with the inner workings. The boy watched them, transfixed.

  “Mind if we correct your clock, Mr. Courtland?” Joseph called, his head deep inside the body of the thing.

  “Clock,” Teddy repeated.

  “Only if you promise not to make it worse,” said Bryson.

  “Clock,” Teddy said again.

  “And if you include Teddy in whatever you are doing. There is a strong chance he knows more about it than you do.”

  The young men summoned Teddy, and he watched closely as they explored the gears and springs and interlocking mechanisms.

  Thinking back, Beau did remember this boy. He’d picked up so many young people—girls, certainly, but also other lost souls they happened to encounter as they went through the nocturnal work of planning or executed raids. Teddy had looked more lost and forlorn than most, cold and wet, wandering the docks in Southwark. Beau had first assumed he was drunk, but they’d just rescued a girl who claimed she’d seen the boy walking in circles among the gulls on the boardwalk for the last day and a half. Beau had almost left him, but he’d circled back at the last minute and rounded him up. He’d handed him over to Elisabeth with seven young prostitutes, an African serving boy, and three starving cats. Elisabeth, for better or for worse, never turned anyone away.

  But the irony of this memory was that the duchess owed Beau for Teddy’s rescue, not Bryson. He’d gone back for the boy; he’d delivered him to Elisabeth.

  Beau was just about to point out this fact, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Ticking,” said the butler importantly, swinging the door wide.

  Falcondale whipped his feet off the desk and snuffed the cheroot. Stoker and Joseph turned away from the clock and dipped their heads.

  “Malie,” said Teddy Holt.

  The duchess stepped tentatively inside, with Miss Breedlowe behind her.

  “Your Grace,” said Bryson, dropping his paperwork, “is anything the matter?”

  She’d worn gray today. This was the first time Beau had seen her out of the suffocating black. Half mourning, he assumed. The veil was gone, thank God, but she was wearing another one of her awful hats—now in matching gray. It depressed him to know that so many hideous hats existed in the world, and she owned all of them.

  The gray and the hat did nothing to diminish her beauty, and every man in the room stared. Beau looked away, irritated with himself. He enjoyed pretty women. Hell, he even enjoyed plain women. But there was something about this woman. She caused him to reverse his first instinct and do the opposite. He wanted to stare, but he wouldn’t allow it. He wanted to flirt with her, or tease her, or tell her she was lovely, but he hadn’t even choked out a greeting.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Courtland,” she told Bryson. “My brother and I cannot linger. The duke will expect us back to Portman Square before long, and our carriage is due.” She looked to Teddy. “Time to go, Teddy Holt. What can we say to Mr. Courtland and his friends?”

  “Clock,” said Teddy.

  “Oh yes, it’s lovely.” She smiled at Stoker and Joseph. “Thank you, gentlemen, for entertaining Teddy. The opportunity to dismantle a clock is one he won’t soon forget. Come now, Teddy, say your good-byes.”

  “Clock,” Teddy said again, turning back to the open face.

  “Teddy,” the duchess said, her voice firmer, “you know how the Duke of Ticking, er, worries when we are away too long.”

  The boy tensed at the sound of the duke’s name, and he plodded to his sister.

  “There’s a good boy. Perhaps the young men could be convinced to pay a call to look inside our grandfather clock.”

  The boys agreed, and Miss Breedlowe stepped forward to lead Teddy out the door.

  The duchess said, “Thank you again, Mr. Courtland, for a lovely afternoon.”

  “You are welcome any time,” Bryson said. “Elisabeth enjoys it, to be sure. And now that I’ve learned you’ve made the acquaintance of my brother . . . ” He let the sentence trail off.

  Beau finally looked at her, really looked at her.

  If he thought she’d blanch or deny their association, he was wrong.

  She said, “Oh y
es, quite so,” and smiled warmly.

  Bryson stepped up and held out his arm. “I’ll walk you out.” She slid her gloved hand on his brother’s bicep, and Beau looked away.

  Bryson called back to him, “Beau, do not leave.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Papa,” Beau said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Emmaline fixed her face with what she hoped was a pleasant expression and allowed Mr. Courtland to guide her into the hall. What choice did she have?

  They know.

  While she walked, while she smiled, while she stared at Teddy and Miss Breedlowe in front of them, she heard a resounding chorus of, They know, they know, they know.

  Bryson Courtland knew that she had been trying to instruct his brother, doggedly so. She’d been doing it whether he remembered asking her to do it or not. Whether he wanted her to do it or not.

  And the viscount knew that his brother hadn’t specifically—not contractually, not really—promised her an Atlantic crossing, if she did it.

  Everyone knew. Doubtless, Elisabeth and Jocelyn would soon know. There was little to be done but explain her motivation and then asked to be excused. Forever. Back to her dower house, where she would remain, trapped under Ticking’s rule, with Teddy and his money at the duke’s avaricious mercy. Also forever.

  Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to remember the logic she’d employed when she’d hatched the idea. It was but a loose plan—one of many loose plans that she hoped to weave together to form a net that would rescue her and Teddy from the Duke of Ticking’s grip.

  It had all begun so innocently. Bryson Courtland had mentioned his desire for his brother to undergo some of what he called “comportment training”—a review of working manners to get his brother through a fancy dinner, some advice on who was who in society.

  Emmaline remembered thinking at the time, My God, these are quite literally the only things I know how to do.