Once More, My Darling Rogue

by Lorraine Heath

  “I won’t stand for you coming into my residence and ordering me about.” With his nose broken, his voice was little more than a nasally whine. “My wife is not going anywhere with you. I shall order Scotland Yard to arrest you for kidnapping her. I shall see you hanged.”

  “There is not a single thing that you can threaten me with that will change my course.”

  “We shall see about that.”

  “I know what you are,” Drake stated flatly. “I know what you did to Ophelia.”

  The man paled, then straightened his shoulders. “I don’t know what the little chit told you but she lied. She’s never liked me—”

  “She’s always had good taste. But she never lies.”

  “Oh, wrapped you around her little finger, has she?”

  No, she’d wrapped herself around his heart.

  “Listen very carefully,” Drake ordered.

  Wigmore opened his mouth—

  “If you speak before I am done, I will be forced to break my word to Ophelia and reintroduce you to my fist. I shall place it where I placed it before and it shall hurt twice as much, I promise you.”

  Wigmore’s mouth closed into a belligerent twist; it took everything within Drake not to slap it right off his face.

  “I intend to destroy you. Slowly, over time. You won’t notice at first. Your yearly income will begin to dwindle. Creditors will turn you away. Your staff will be offered better positions elsewhere. You will find yourself no longer welcomed in Society. I won’t use what you did to Ophelia to destroy you as I won’t have her whispered about, but I can set other whispers into play until you are a pariah among your peers. Until you are totally and completely alone. I shall take everything from you. Your position, your standing, your wealth … your pride. Your life will be nothing, just as you are nothing. Do you understand?”

  “You’re nothing more than an arrogant little whelp. You can’t touch me.”

  “You underestimate me, my lord. I was raised by the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. I consider as my uncles the Earl of Claybourne, Jack Dodger, Sir James Swindler of Scotland Yard, and Sir William Graves, royal physician. My closest friend is the Duke of Lovingdon. Should I require his assistance, I would not hesitate to call upon the Duke of Avendale.

  “I am owner of Dodger’s Drawing Room, and I have at my disposal more resources than you can imagine. But more than that, I know the dark side of London, the dark side of myself. I am the son of a cold-hearted murderer. I have risen from the depths of hell and I have no qualms about returning there and dragging you down with me. Make no mistake, when I am done, you will rue the day you were born.”

  Drake took some satisfaction in Wigmore’s withering before him. He hadn’t planned to flaunt the names of those he cared about, but they were powerful and influential, and he would use all resources at his disposal to see this man brought to heel.

  “You would be unwise to underestimate me,” Drake said. “Don’t do anything that will cause harm to Ophelia or her reputation. The only reason you’re still breathing is because she asked me not to kill you.”

  “They’d hang you.”

  “I’d hand them the rope. I want you out of her life that badly. You are to stay within this room until we are gone. I want her to never again have to set eyes on you. Is my position clear?”

  Averting his gaze, hunching his shoulders, Wigmore nodded.

  “Good.”

  Turning on his heel, Drake stormed from the room. His first order of business was to find Phee and get her, the countess, and himself the hell out of here.

  He was in dire need of a bath.

  If this was her aunt recovering, Phee would have hated to see her while she was truly ill. She was remarkably thin, her gray skin draped over her bones. So little of her seemed to remain.

  “Auntie?”

  Her aunt opened her eyes, and Phee found herself staring into faded green.

  “Phee?” She smiled weakly. “You came. Wigmore said you wouldn’t.”

  Did he think no one would compare tales? “I’m taking you to London.”

  She yanked the bellpull. When the maid finally arrived, she told her, “Pack a small valise of Her Ladyship’s things. We’ll be leaving shortly.” She turned back to her aunt. “Do you feel strong enough to sit up so we can dress you?”

  “You’ve always been such a dear.”

  Phee glanced back over her shoulder at the sound of heavy footsteps. Relief coursed through her at the sight of Drake. He came to stand beside her and she nearly leaned into him for strength. “Auntie, this is Drake Darling. He’s going to help me take you home.”

  “I am home, dear.”

  “To my home.” She looked up at Drake, surprised by the intensity with which he was studying her aunt. “If you’ll leave us, I need to dress her.”

  “Let’s not take the time. I’ve had enough of this place, and I suspect you have as well. I’ll carry her out wrapped in blankets. She can travel in her nightdress. We’ll be back to London before first light.”

  She nodded, ready to leave as well. “Her things?”

  “Leave them. We’ll purchase whatever she needs once we’re away.”

  Phee watched the gentleness with which Drake wrapped her aunt in blankets and lifted her into his arms. A pang of remorse hit her as she remembered his carrying her to his bed. Now when there were things she wished to forget, she could recall them with startling clarity. His passion, his fire … his tenderness. A complex man born into darkness who had risen above it. A man she had once discounted, thought beneath her. Someone to fetch her champagne when he should have been sipping it beside her.

  She followed them down the stairs and out into the night. The footman opened the coach door. Drake settled her aunt on the bench, allowing her to lie across it.

  “I’ll pillow her head,” Phee said, although she would have preferred sitting next to Drake.

  His fingers wrapped around hers as he assisted her up. She was halfway inside when thunder echoed through the night. “What was that?” she asked.

  “Wait here.”

  As though she was going to do anything of the sort. “We’ll be back directly,” she told her aunt, before racing to catch up with Drake. Did he have to have such blasted long legs?

  A stillness hovered in the residence, a sense of disbelief, an aura of foreboding. They were in the hallway, almost to Wigmore’s library, when the butler stepped out of the room, as white as a sheet.

  “His Lordship’s dead. He shot himself with one of his dueling pistols.”

  Phee stopped, pressed her back to the wall as darkness began to circle at the edge of her vision.

  “Phee? Phee? Sweetheart?”

  She was vaguely aware of Drake’s voice, his masculine scent, his warm fingers tapping her cheeks. Then she was gazing into dark, dark eyes. “Why did he do it?” she asked.

  “Because he’s a coward.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I knew what he was, what he’d done, and that I intended to take everything he valued from him.”

  He would have done it. She had no doubt. Reaching up, she skimmed her fingers over his familiar jaw. “You’re not responsible for his death.”

  “Not directly, perhaps. But I’m glad of it.”

  She waited where she was while he gave instructions to the servants regarding how the matter should be handled, where they would be able to reach the countess. She was grateful they wouldn’t be delaying their departure overly long.

  When they returned to the coach and informed her aunt regarding what had happened, she replied, “I never much liked him.”

  Then she promptly went to sleep before Phee could settle her aunt’s head upon her lap. Which left her to sit by Drake. She didn’t object when he placed his arm around her and nestled her close to his side. She had an incredible urge to weep. She didn’t know why. Perhaps because it was over.

  Almost.

  She still had to deal with Somerdale.


  Chapter 24

  “He took his own life?” Somerdale was standing in the front parlor in his nightclothes, dressing gown, and slippers, his blond hair sticking up at odd angles.

  Phee had been rather surprised to find him home and not out carousing. It would have been easier had he been up to his usual escapades. She might have avoided having to explain Drake’s presence.

  Her brother narrowed his eyes and gave Drake a pointed look. “And how was it you happened to be there?”

  “As I tried to explain,” Phee began, “Auntie wasn’t improving and Wigmore wouldn’t allow me to bring her to London. I thought Drake could manage to convince him otherwise.”

  “Uncle said you’d run off.”

  “I suppose he wanted drama. I don’t know. I did leave for a few days, but I hardly ran off. I went to the local village, because he was being quite impossible to deal with and I was frustrated. Then it occurred to me that I simply needed some muscle, so I sent for Drake.”

  “Why not send for me?” Somerdale sounded peevish and hurt. She was really too weary to deal with his pride.

  “When have you ever stood up to Uncle?”

  Somerdale scowled. She had him there and he knew it. “But why would Darling care what you wanted? Why would he traipse out in the middle of the night?”

  “Because she is Grace’s friend,” Drake said. “Stop trying to analyze everything, Somerdale. You’ll only give yourself a headache.”

  “It’s just odd that you were asking after her no more than a week ago, and now when she needs you, here you are. I fear something else might be afoot here. Did you take advantage of my sister?”

  “He did not,” Phee said. “Now will you please send for Dr. Graves so he can examine Auntie? Or shall I have Drake do that as well? She’s quite ill.”

  Somerdale scrubbed his hands up and down his face. “No, no need to involve Darling further. I shall see to it.”

  As soon as he left the room to search out a footman, she turned to Drake. “I’m grateful for your assistance tonight. But you need not stay any longer.”

  His gaze slowly roamed over her face as though he was striving to etch every line and curve into his memory. “He’s going to keep asking you questions.”

  “I can handle Somerdale. I have since I was born.”

  He nodded. “I shall miss having you in my residence.”

  She almost confessed that she was going to miss being there, but the wound of his betrayal was still fresh and she was confused regarding her feelings toward him. Where he was concerned, a whirlwind of emotions rocked her: gratitude for his assistance, anger at his betrayal, passion, desire, hurt. She didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to sort it all out.

  “I never—” he began, halted, shook his head. “I was going to say that I never meant to hurt you, but of course that’s a lie. You always thought I was beneath you and I proved you right. I’m sorry, Phee. Sorry for more than I can say.”

  He walked out of the room, out of her life. Tall, strong, proud.

  And she, who had never wept during the most horrendous moments of her life, sank into a chair and wept, feeling bereft and confused.

  “Arsenic,” Dr. Graves said. Phee, Somerdale, and Graves were standing in the hallway outside the room where Auntie Berta slept. “Definitely signs of slow arsenic poisoning.”

  “Will she recover?” Phee asked.

  “Quite possibly. It depends on how much he was giving her and for how long, what damage may have been done to her organs. We’ll need to keep a close watch over her.”

  “Wigmore said she’d begun to improve.”

  Graves shrugged. “Perhaps guilt began to get the better of him and he stopped.”

  Phee wondered if there had ever been a more reprehensible friend than Wigmore.

  “Why would Wigmore kill his wife?” Somerdale asked. “He already had her dowry, her money. What would he gain?”

  “A younger wife, a chance for an heir?” Graves speculated. “I don’t understand the workings of the mind, only the body.”

  “But he was wretchedly old,” Somerdale said. “Could he have even performed?”

  “Does it matter?” Phee asked.

  Somerdale’s face burned a bright red as though he’d forgotten his sister was there to hear the conversation about performance. “Apologies. Of course it doesn’t matter. I just find this entire circumstance odd. You and Darling traipsing about in the middle of the night. Poisoning. Suicide. Skullduggery. My God, the next thing I know I’ll discover a madwoman in the attic.”

  Laughing lightly, she rubbed his arm. “I think that’s highly unlikely.” She turned to Graves. “We appreciate your coming in the middle of the night like this.”

  “I’m sorry my services were needed, but I’m glad that it’s something from which she will most likely recover. I’ll come by to check on her tomorrow.”

  While Somerdale saw Graves out, Phee went to look in on her aunt one more time. She looked so peaceful sleeping there. Then her eyes fluttered open.

  “He was trying to kill me, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  “We think so,” Phee replied.

  “I married him because my father wished it. Marry for love, Phee, as your mother did.”

  “Love is not so easy to find.”

  “Recognizing it, that’s the tricky part. A man worthy of you is even harder.”

  Being worthy of a man, that was the most difficult. Drake knew her secrets now, and while he might have thought he’d miss her, she suspected as time passed, he would be very glad that she was no longer in his life.

  She was sullied. After Wigmore she’d never again wanted a man to touch her. Yet Drake had. From him she’d welcomed what she’d thought she’d never be able to tolerate. Now she wasn’t certain how she would carry on.

  During the week since Phee’s return, Somerdale, bless him, tried to ascertain exactly what had transpired between the moment she’d walked from his library with the understanding that she would travel to Stillmeadow with their uncle, and the moment she had returned to his residence, but his questioning was frightfully ineffectual and she suspected he really didn’t want to know the truth of it. So she provided vague answers, muttered, and sighed, and he seemed content that he had at least done his brotherly duty and looked into the matter.

  While she wandered through the residence striving to recall what she did with herself all day when she didn’t have to polish boots, or furniture, or banisters. She wasn’t up to making morning calls, not just yet, and looking after her aunt provided her with the perfect excuse to avoid all the gay affairs that were being hosted. She wasn’t receiving, which was completely understandable for a woman who had lost an uncle—not that she offered that excuse. Society, as its way, simply assumed, for which she was grateful. She was having difficulty erecting the walls that she needed to move about within polite circles.

  Her aunt was recovering nicely. That afternoon she took her tea in the garden.

  “You’re looking quite spry,” Phee told her aunt as she took a chair at the linen-covered table near the roses.

  “Oh bosh. I’m years past spry, but I am feeling more myself.”

  “I’m glad.” She prepared a cup of tea and passed it over to her aunt.

  “Thank you, dear. Tell me, whatever became of that handsome fellow who helped us escape from Stillmeadow?”

  Her stomach tightened. “Drake Darling? He’s quite busy.”

  “Too busy to come see a girl he’s sweet on?”

  “He’s not sweet on me.”

  “Oh, I thought perhaps he was. But I was never good at it.”

  “Good at what, Auntie?”

  “Figuring out who the fellows were keen on. I thought Wigmore fancied me. I think he did in the beginning. But what did I know? I was only seventeen.”

  Her heart lurched. Yes, the devil would have liked her aunt very much when she was seventeen.

  “We never had much in common, and after I had the three miscarriages, well
, I became more an ornament than a wife.” Reaching over, she patted Phee’s hand. “Don’t become an ornament, dear. It’s dreadfully lonely and boring as hell.”

  Squeezing her aunt’s fingers, Phee smiled tenderly. “We’ll have to see that you attend some parties.”

  “Oh, I’ve no time for that. Did Somerdale inform you that I had a letter from Wigmore’s solicitor?”

  “No, he didn’t.” She stirred sugar into her tea. “Good news, I hope.”

  Her aunt leaned toward her. “Wigmore left me a considerable sum. Of course, his cousin Bartlett and his wife will be moving into Stillmeadow as he is next in line for the title. Fine fellow. I like him very much. He’ll be a good earl. They’re packing up my things so I don’t have to go back there. Ever so nice of them, I say.”

  It was nice of them. She’d once met Bartlett. He seemed a decent enough fellow, certainly better than the man he was replacing. “We shall have to find you a residence in London.”

  Her aunt’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I’m not staying, dear. I’m going to travel once I’m strong enough. Somerdale assures me that I can see quite a bit of the world on the money that has been left to me.”

  Phee couldn’t help herself. She grimaced. “Auntie, I’m not certain I would take financial advice from Somerdale. He means well, but as I understand it, he hasn’t seen after his own inheritance very well.”

  “What about this handsome fellow then? I wouldn’t mind clapping eyes on him again before I leave.”

  Phee released a small laugh. God, it felt good. The last time she’d laughed … had been with Drake. Before she’d remembered everything, before she understood the depth of his betrayal. “He’s a commoner.”

  “Ahhh.” She nodded sagely. “I see.”

  Her words, few as they were, carried a measure of disappointment. “What do you see?”

  “Your father believed a man was born to his place in this world and should never seek to move beyond it. I daresay you believe the same.”

  Phee did wish she’d already drunk her tea so she could busy herself by pouring another cup. She didn’t like the earnestness with which her aunt was studying her, waiting for an answer. “Perhaps once. Now I … I don’t know any longer.” She thought of the long hours Drake put in, all the things he oversaw. He’d earned his success, earned respect from those who had trusted their business to his care.