Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  Thane turned his mind to his secret mission. If all went as expected, in the coming weeks he would be very busy indeed.

  Chapter 2

  Most genteel young ladies counted sewing or singing among their greatest accomplishments. But not Miss Lindsey Crompton. If there was one skill at which she excelled, it was spying.

  After a quick glance up and down the deserted corridor, she closed the door of the study. Luckily, no other guests from the ball had wandered into this wing of the house. She held up a candle to view a rather shabby room with a threadbare Persian rug on the floor and a pair of wingback chairs by the unlit hearth. Shadows flickered over shelves of musty volumes that looked as if they hadn’t been cracked open in years.

  Her pale green gown rustling, Lindsey hastened toward the mahogany desk that dominated the room. The distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments warned her there was little time to waste. If she failed to return to the ballroom for the next dance, Mama would be livid. Mrs. Edith Crompton had arranged for a string of eligible noblemen to partner her middle daughter in every set.

  Her mother didn’t know it, but Lindsey was equally determined to remain a spinster. She had no interest in marrying any of the toadying gentlemen who coveted her enormous dowry. Having an aristocratic husband would hinder her plans for her life. For that reason, she intended to find a means to rebuff each and every one of the fools.

  Placing the silver candlestick on the desk, she wrinkled her nose at the stench of stale smoke from an ashtray where Lord Wrayford had stubbed out a cheroot. Beside it, an empty crystal glass rested in the sticky residue of spilled brandy. Men and their nasty habits! How did women put up with such nonsense?

  Muttering under her breath, she opened the top drawer and examined the contents. Inside lay a clutter of quill pens, a silver box of fine sand for blotting ink, assorted bits of string and sealing wax, and a stack of cream stationery embossed with a gold W.

  Nothing of interest.

  She turned her attention to the next drawer. Here a jumbled heap of papers piqued her curiosity. Perching on the edge of the chair, Lindsey proceeded to sort through the mess. It was a task she relished, for there was nothing more fascinating to her than the guilty pleasure of poking through someone else’s private belongings.

  The dire straits of Lord Wrayford’s finances soon became apparent. There were numerous bills from tailors, from boot makers, from jewelers and tobacconists and wine merchants. Most of the accounts were overdue, judging by the many dun notices from creditors demanding immediate payment.

  No wonder Lord Wrayford was her most persistent suitor.

  Or perhaps ardent would be a more fitting term for the way he always stared at her fashionably low-cut bodice. The thought made her skin crawl. The previous day, he had taken her on a drive through Hyde Park, turned the carriage onto a deserted path, and attempted to plant a slobbery kiss on her lips. A hard jab to the ribs had set him straight, but it hadn’t proved sufficient to discourage him for good. This evening, he had secured more than one dance with her—as if she belonged to him already.

  No matter. This ball at his house was the perfect opportunity for her to thwart him for good. It gave her the chance to find a damning piece of information that would put an end to his courtship once and for all.

  Unfortunately, overdue bills would hardly be sufficient to quash her parents’ matchmaking plans. Lord Wrayford was heir to the Duke of Sylvester—a creaky old man with one foot in the grave. The mere thought of Lindsey as a duchess transported Mama into a state of rapture.

  And it filled Lindsey with an equal measure of revulsion. Imagine, having to spend the rest of her life making dreary calls to gossipy old biddies, shopping for the latest fashions, and attending endless parties. Nothing could be further from her own secret ambitions.

  Lud, it was such a nuisance being society’s premier heiress!

  As she started to close the drawer, something caused the wood to stick. She bent down for a closer look and spied a crumpled piece of foolscap stuck in a crack. She worked it free, placed the paper on the desk, and smoothed out the wrinkles beneath the pale light of the candle.

  A short message was penned in black ink, the script distinctly masculine.

  This note is a certified duplicate IOU for the sum of one thousand gold guineas, duly won from Wrayford on the 25th day of March 1816, and payable to me in full by 30 June 1816.

  Mansfield

  The name struck Lindsey with an unpleasant jolt. Mansfield . . . the Earl of Mansfield. He was that celebrated war hero, the one who was always surrounded by fawning ladies. As the stories went, he had led a reckless charge at Waterloo that had routed the French and turned the tide of the battle from near defeat to victory.

  Although Lindsey had seen Mansfield from afar a few times since her debut a fortnight ago, they had never been introduced. The earl’s considerable wealth elevated him to that echelon of blue bloods who didn’t need to marry money and therefore saw no reason to welcome commoners like her into the ton. Although the Cromptons were richer than everyone but the royal family, they were considered outsiders since Papa had earned his vast assets from trade in India.

  Judging by the IOU she held in her hand, Mansfield was far from an admirable man. He was a typical upper-class rogue who frittered away his life at dice and card playing. He preferred the company of wastrels like Wrayford over that of honest, working folk. Even after nearly two years in London, Lindsey found such elitism a distasteful contrast to the relaxed standards of India. At least there she’d had the freedom to pursue her own interests, so long as she took care to do so behind Mama’s back.

  Lindsey took a deep breath. She mustn’t let personal judgments overshadow her purpose here. Emotions only served to cloud the sharp intellect required by the art of detection. All that mattered was the information she held in her hand.

  Lord Wrayford owed Mansfield a considerable sum.

  She allowed herself a smile of triumph. Although her parents had no objection to her marrying a penniless nobleman, they surely would be appalled to learn that Lord Wrayford had accrued such a large gambling debt. Papa would object to his hard-earned wealth being placed into the hands of a wastrel. Only look at how he had opposed her sister Portia’s now-husband, Colin, when everyone had believed him to be a worthless reprobate.

  Yes, this piece of evidence would come in handy indeed.

  Mindful of the softly ticking clock on the mantel, Lindsey bent down to close the drawer. It was nearly midnight and time for the supper dance. She must make haste back to the ballroom before Mama became suspicious.

  Rising from the chair, Lindsey picked up the silver candlestick and hurried across the room. But as she opened the door a crack, the sound of voices echoed out in the corridor.

  Lindsey cocked her head, her senses alert. There were two distinct sets of footsteps, one heavy, the other light. A man and a woman.

  They were heading this way.

  It wouldn’t do for any guests to find her snooping in Wrayford’s study. Or worse, what if Wrayford himself came in? He might seize the opportunity to put her in a compromising situation and then coerce her into marriage.

  She glanced around for somewhere to hide. Crouching behind the desk or a chaise would only make her look extremely guilty. It might be best to brazen it out.

  Her nerves thrumming with tension, Lindsey flattened herself to the wall by the door. The paneling smelled of dusty oak that had seldom known a coating of beeswax polish. Cocking her head, she strained to make out the hum of conversation.

  Unfortunately, the partially closed door muffled their words.

  She felt a trifle silly, skulking here like a dastardly villain in one of the adventure novels she liked to read. The footsteps likely belonged to servants going about their duties. No one else had any reason to venture into this room during a party. Portia and Blythe were forever teasing Lindsey about her suspicious nature and maybe her sisters were right—

  The door ha
ndle rattled.

  Lindsey realized in alarm that she still clutched the purloined IOU in her hand. She had but an instant to conceal it. Since the slim-fitting ball gown lacked pockets, she stuffed the folded paper down into the bodice of her dress.

  Just in time.

  The door swung open. A man and a woman appeared silhouetted against the dimness of the passageway. His hand on her upper back, he steered her ahead of him into the study. His dark head was tilted down as he spoke to his companion.

  It was a gentleman and a lady.

  No, not a lady. A maidservant. An uncommonly pretty one at that, slim and young, in a gray serge gown with a white mobcap perched atop her fair hair.

  Lindsey blinked at the incongruous couple. Before she could fathom their purpose here, her gaze fastened on the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman behind the maid. The world tilted on its axis.

  Mansfield?

  He was the very gentleman whose signature was scrawled across the IOU tucked inside her corset. What stroke of ill fate had brought him into this room?

  The maid spied her and uttered a squawk of surprise. She shrank back against the earl. He lifted his head and stared straight at Lindsey, the dark slash of his brows lowering in a scowl.

  Clearly, he had expected to find Lord Wrayford’s study deserted.

  Mansfield’s eyes were so dark a brown they were almost black. They seemed to penetrate her very soul. Fighting the impulse to shrink back, Lindsey had the uneasy sense that he could see into her mind and guess her illicit purpose here.

  Ridiculous.

  Lifting her chin, she returned his stare. She had trained herself to assess a person’s character at a glance. He stood a good six inches taller than her, and the boldness of his gaze gave a clue to his success in the military. He would be the sort of daredevil leader who inspired his men to follow him into wild deeds of bravery.

  And considering his excess of masculine allure, it was little wonder that Mansfield enjoyed great success with the ladies. He cut a dashing figure in his coffee brown coat and white cravat, the formal white breeches encasing long, muscled legs. A thin scar ran at an angle across his left cheek, likely a legacy of the battlefield. Those chiseled features held a coolness that bespoke confidence and hinted at secrets.

  Her heart fluttered of its own volition. She would be lying to herself if she denied he was quite the handsomest man she had ever seen. But that was all the more reason to be wary of him. Men of his ilk were always conceited. They viewed themselves as king cobras when by moral standards they were lower than a common garden snake.

  The maidservant cast a wide, imploring glance up at the earl. He glanced down and gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Without saying a word, she ducked under his arm and fled the study.

  As the tap-tap of departing footsteps faded into the distance, Lindsey’s mind raced. Why would the Earl of Mansfield bring a maidservant to a deserted area of the house during a party? Why had the girl looked so alarmed? What could he possibly want with someone so far beneath his lofty stature?

  Struck by nasty speculation, Lindsey tightened her fingers around the candlestick. What indeed!

  “Pray excuse me,” she said coldly, stepping toward him. “I was just departing.”

  She was forced to halt when he blocked her exit by remaining in the doorway. Something about his speculative perusal unsettled her. He didn’t know her, she was just another anonymous debutante, so would he detain her?

  His gaze flicked to the bosom of her gown and lingered there a moment. Lindsey was keenly aware of the purloined paper nestled between the corset and her bare skin. Was a corner of the IOU poking out of her bodice?

  Surely not.

  She resisted the urge to pique his interest by glancing down to check. Mansfield was gawking because he was a man. A wicked rogue who thought nothing of ogling a young woman’s figure.

  He inclined his head in a bow, affording her a glimpse of his thick black hair. “Miss Crompton. What an unexpected pleasure.”

  She could not have been more startled—or suspicious. “How do you know my name?”

  “Heiresses are always the talk of the ton. Especially the beautiful ones.”

  His compliment stirred a peculiar warmth in the pit of her stomach. Thank goodness she wasn’t one to fall prey to a man’s oily charm. “War heroes are also the subject of gossip,” she countered. “You are Lord Mansfield.”

  “Thane Pallister to my friends.”

  Thane. How very unusual. But he must be mad to think she would address him by his first name when they had just met. “How good of you to introduce yourself, Lord Mansfield. If you will please step aside now.”

  The earl again ignored her request. He settled his shoulder against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. His bland expression revealed nothing of his thoughts. “First, I’d like to know why you’re trespassing in Wrayford’s study.”

  “I wished a few moments of quiet from the crush in the ballroom. Have you an objection to that?”

  “This room seems an odd choice, considering its distance from the party.”

  “Then why are you here? Or perhaps I should pretend not to have noticed the little tryst you had planned with the housemaid.”

  He surprised her by laughing. “You’re quite right. Some topics should never be broached in polite company. Especially by innocent young ladies.”

  The candle flame played over the smirk on his too-handsome face. Lindsey blamed him for the blush that heated her cheeks. It caught her notice that the cad hadn’t denied his plan for an indiscretion. “I’m well aware of the conventions, my lord. But I find it silly to pretend ignorance of what is right in front of one’s nose.”

  “A no-nonsense girl. You remind me of someone.” He frowned and then snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. It was a governess I had when I was perhaps six or seven years of age.”

  “A governess.”

  “Miss Pinchgill was her name. She was a stickler for the rules. Whenever I was naughty, she rapped my knuckles and then made me sit in the corner for hours.” His mouth twisted wryly. “I invariably deserved it.”

  Lindsey wavered between being insulted by the comparison and smiling at the image of him as a mischievous lad. One thing was certain: she must not encourage further conversation.

  “How fascinating,” she said in a tone that implied it was anything but. “Now, pray stand aside. It is highly improper for us to linger here unchaperoned.”

  “As you wish, Miss Crompton. Far be it from me to ignore the proprieties.”

  Mansfield stepped back into the dimly lit corridor, affording her enough space to slip past him. Gripping the candlestick, she glided through the doorway. She was keenly aware of his tall, muscular form looming in the shadows. A peculiar tension assailed her insides, and she cursed the effect he had on her.

  High-and-mighty noblemen had always irritated her. She scorned them as snobs who judged a person by his bloodline. There could be no other reason why she suddenly was anxious to escape the scrutiny of those disturbing dark eyes.

  As Lindsey started to turn away, his hand flashed out. It happened so fast that she had time only to gasp. His fingers brushed the top of her bare breasts and dipped into the valley. Her nipples contracted in instant reaction. Goose bumps skittered over her skin as he deftly plucked out the IOU.

  “What have we here?” Glancing at the paper, he cocked an eyebrow. “Ah, just as I suspected. You’ve been rifling through Wrayford’s desk. The next time you play at thievery, I would advise you to make certain the loot is tucked deeper into your bodice.”

  Every fiber of her body quivered with emotion. Shock at Mansfield’s ungentlemanly assault on her. Rage at his audacity in touching her bosom. Alarm that he now possessed the proof she needed to reject Wrayford’s suit.

  Heedless of the candle in her hand, Lindsey made a wild grab for the paper. “Blackguard! Give that back to me.”

  She collided with him as he whipped the IOU up out of her reach
. His arm clamped around her waist, catching her hard against his chest so that Lindsey found herself locked in an unintentional embrace. Surprise held her immobile. She could feel the strong beating of his heart, smell his aroma of exotic spice, see the faint black shadow along his jaw where he had shaved. Her fingers itched to trace the thin curve of the scar that bisected his cheek.

  In one dizzying instant, she noticed that his eyes were quite beautiful from close up. The irises were not a flat dark brown as she’d first thought, but scattered with gold flecks that glinted in the pale light of her candle. His ebony lashes were lowered slightly to guard his thoughts. The mysteries she sensed in him held a powerful allure. If she stared long enough, surely she might discern the depths of his soul. . . .

  He flinched, abruptly releasing her. “Blast it!”

  Lindsey took an involuntary step backward and saw him sucking his forefinger. Only then did she realize what must have happened. Hot wax from her candle had dripped on his hand.

  It served the knave right.

  Her body still quivered from their close contact. Aside from her father’s affectionate hugs, she had never known a man’s embrace. That must be why her skin felt scorched.

  “Cad,” she snapped. “You merit far worse than that.”

  He quit babying his finger and scowled at her. “It was you who came flying at me in a rage.”

  “Because you stole the paper from me in a most improper manner. I want it returned at once.”

  Chuckling darkly, Mansfield placed his hand—and the IOU—atop the door frame, well above her head. The action parted the flaps of his coat and stretched his white shirt and the dark waistcoat over his broad chest.

  His gaze scrutinized her from head to toe, as if measuring her worth. “Now what could you want with a private receipt between me and Wrayford? You must be intending to blackmail one or the other of us. Since we’ve only just met, I must presume your target is Wrayford.”