Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  “Aye.” The view outside was as green as their village on the Solway Firth. The cottage in which he’d spent his youth had been made of stone, just like Woodrest. But that was where the similarities ended. Although he stood as lord and master of a mansion on a hill, there were days when he longed for that small cottage. Ethan couldn’t part with it. A family leased the property now, so he had the comfort of knowing someone else could grow up happy in that corner of Scotland.

  “Yer mum and da would have been tickled tae see you runnin’ this place. Ever think of that?” Connor said.

  Ethan rolled his shoulders under the sudden weight he felt. “If Da were here, he’d be the viscount, not me.” And Ethan would be grateful for it. If given the choice, he’d much rather be a viscount’s son than hold the title himself. “He’d have done a better job of it. One year in London and he’d have had them all eating out of his hand. Da was the charmer.” After eight years, Ethan remained an outsider. Perhaps his son or grandson would have the dubious distinction of finally finding acceptance in the ton.

  “Ach, don’ be so hard on yerself. Yer da was a sweet talker all right. But ye have skills of yer own. Yer makin’ good changes here.” Connor pulled a stack of letters from his pocket and set them on the desk. “These people are lucky three blokes died, so ye got the title. None of those Englishmen would be so hell-bent on building this brewery. They were busy spending more money than they had. Yer makin’ honest work of it.”

  Ethan shot him a small smile while he sorted the mail. Maybe today would bring more scathing letters from peers damning him for sinking a noble title into trade. Investing in a venture he hoped to expand into a retail endeavor was raising eyebrows and ire.

  He divided the correspondence into a stack regarding the estate, an invitation, and a lone personal envelope. A letter from Cal.

  Part of Connor’s statement needed correction. “Four. Four men died. Two I’d never heard of—a father and son, second or third cousins I didn’t know existed—my gran’da, and my da.” His family tree was more of a spindly twig, with Ethan clinging to the end of it. No one underneath supporting him, and no one waiting to inherit should he die.

  Changing the subject, Connor nudged the bundle he’d brought in with him. “What’s this, then?”

  “That must be the rug I ordered. It will fit here along the desk and reach the door.”

  There was a beat of silence while Connor stared at the rolled rug. “Which of the footmen told ye I fell while ye were gone?”

  Shooting him a glance, Ethan said, “Doesn’ matter which one told. You should have said something. Your leg doesn’ like the hardwood floors.”

  “My leg likes them fine. It’s my wood peg tha’ has an issue with things.” Connor smirked.

  “I don’ understand why you won’ get fitted for a wooden leg, Connor. Why use a peg like some kind of bloody pirate?”

  Connor’s short huff of breath clued Ethan in to the fact that this conversation wouldn’t go well. The earlier humor had disappeared at the mention of a prosthetic limb. Each time he’d brought up the subject in the past, Connor had shut him down, and Ethan didn’t understand why.

  “Pretendin’ I have two legs doesn’ make it true. A peg is good enough. It’s better than the crutch, aye? Ye don’ have tae cover the house in carpets. I’m no’ an invalid, milord.” He threw the title with as much force as a weapon.

  Ethan shook his head. “This is your home. I don’ want you falling.”

  Connor left the room without further comment.

  Somehow, he’d bungled that spectacularly. Sighing, Ethan opened the letter from Cal.

  Mac,

  Lady Bartlesby is hosting a dinner this week. She insisted I encourage you to attend. Odd, considering your history with her husband. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart? I promised I would send a note.

  Behold! My note.

  Come to London. Have dinner with that arse Lord Bartlesby. Meet my new neighbor.

  Regards etc.,

  Calvin

  Ethan rubbed at his eyes. They burned with exhaustion despite the early hour.

  Speak of the Devil and he appeareth. Sort of.

  When alive, the heir to the title, Ethan’s distant cousin Jerome, lived with his wife and son in London, surrounded by friends and accepted by society. Lord Bartlesby had been a particular friend. Understandably, the loss of not only Jerome but his son as well, only three months apart, had hit Lord Bartlesby hard. When Ethan met him in London, it hadn’t gone well. Chance encounters since had been frigid at best, especially after Jerome’s widow left London for the continent. What she was doing in Greece was anyone’s guess, but that was where her widow’s pension went. Since establishing the generous fund, he’d heard not a peep from her.

  Maybe Cal had it right. Maybe Lord Bartlesby wanted to make amends. Enough time had passed; perhaps the man could move beyond his grief and accept that Ethan held the title instead of his beloved friend. One more ally in the ton certainly wouldn’t hurt, especially with this new business venture. Getting Woodrest’s ale into the finer houses of London would be a massive boon to sales when the brewery was ready.

  If nothing else, Cal would be with him at this dinner, so the forked tongues in the room might behave. Cal’s combination of influence and good looks tended to bring out the best in their peers. And perhaps a change of scenery would help with these damned dreams. Crossing to the doorway, he called, “Connor.”

  The Scotsman poked his head out of a room two doors down. “You bellowed?” The sarcasm, a sign that Connor’s earlier annoyance was either dealt with or forgotten, made Ethan grin.

  “Calvin demands I come tae London for a mysterious dinner party at the Bartlesbys’.”

  “Isn’ he the one who kicked ye out when ye went tae his house two years ago?”

  “And then had me thrown from a club the next month. Yes, he’s a charming fellow. His wife sent an invitation.”

  “Intriguing. Will ye be wanting a valet?” Connor refused to wear livery, but he kept his clothes in sharp condition, ready to stand for an inspection that never came. Like Calvin, Connor openly despaired over Ethan’s utter lack of concern with fashion.

  “No’ this time. You’re in charge, as usual. Send a messenger should any issues arise. Have one of the lads saddle Ezra in an hour.”

  “Consider it done.” Connor hollered for a footman to notify the stables of the master’s departure. “Oh, and while yer galivanting about the city, try tae find a brewmaster, would ye? Martin took another offer. I just got word.”

  Damn and blast. Martin Peterson was the best brewmaster he’d found thus far. He finished his tea in one gulp and set the cup down with a clatter.

  A few hours later, Ethan handed his hat to Cal’s butler, Higgins, then sauntered down the hall to Cal’s elegantly furnished library lined with books that hadn’t been opened in half a century.

  “Don’ think you can summon me like your lackey. That said, here I am, as requested. Now what is this about?” Ethan leaned against the doorway, slapping a rhythm with his gloves on one thigh.

  Cal looked up from the correspondence on his desk. “I’ll try not to make it a habit. Have a seat.” He gestured toward a leather chair.

  “What is so special about this event that the Bartlesbys would open their doors tae me?”

  “I don’t know, Mac. I was more a messenger boy in this scenario. I received an invitation—”

  “Because London is short on decent company these days.”

  “No, because I’m a handsome devil who is not only entertaining but highly decorative at any gathering.” Cal waved in a servant with a refreshment cart, then poured himself a cup of coffee. He was midsip before he nodded toward the teapot to tell Ethan to get his own.

  Ethan snorted in amusement. Thanking the maid, he made himself a cup of tea.

  After swallowing his coffee, Cal picked up the conversation once more. “Also, yes, company is quite thin during these months. I happened upon
our hostess in the park, where she mentioned dinner, then quizzed me about your whereabouts. It was the strangest thing.”

  Ethan settled deeper into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Why would she want me there? Her husband made his opinion of me quite clear.” Sipping his tea, he tried to puzzle through it, but the situation didn’t make sense. “Ach, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Anything else of note since we last spoke?”

  Calvin shrugged. “I received another letter from Emma. She detests school. Can hardly wait for her Season. The usual.”

  “A Season already? I still think of Emma with a dirt-scuffed face and tangled hair full of twigs from running through the woods.”

  “She’ll make her bow at eighteen, but she’s already wailing as if I’m holding her back. This is my last year to enjoy myself before I need to be the adult in the family and beat all the scoundrels off with a stick. Lord knows my father won’t be of use there.” Calvin sighed, taking a drink. “Lady Agatha Dalrymple leased the house across the lane. From what I hear, she’s having some rather extensive remodeling done to her home. Now she’s deigned to grace our neighborhood with her presence, instead of merely managing the next street over.”

  Ethan grinned. “Ah, Lady Agatha. I’ve always enjoyed her. Can’t say the feeling is mutual, though. She’s given me the cold shoulder since that blunder with Lady Charlotte. If I remember correctly, Lady Agatha is her godmother.”

  Cal wiggled his eyebrows, grinning at Ethan.

  “Wait. Are you telling me she’s next door? Lady Charlotte is the new neighbor?” A shiver ran up his spine, and he had no idea if it was excitement or instinct warning that everything was about to change.

  “Unless you know of another buxom, dark-haired woman who looks as if she’s gone a few rounds in a boxing ring, then yes.” Cal’s expression was far too smug.

  Both men stared out the window at the gray stone facade of the house in question.

  “London just got more interesting, aye?” The woman who’d been running circles through his thoughts had moved in across the lane from his best friend. What a small world. If he was given the opportunity to see her again, would his disturbing dreams die down? Perhaps his body was telling him there was unfinished business with the brunette. “Uh, you may choose tae read more into this, but brewery business may bring me tae Town more often before the Season. Connor informed me before I left that we need a new brewmaster.”

  “My guest room is available for your use, as always. Stay as long as you like. I enjoy the company. The Puppy shows up in the mornings to fence in the gallery and shuffle papers about on the desk over there. But once he leaves, I rattle around the place with only Higgins for conversation,” Cal said.

  “I can’t believe you call Hardwick the Puppy. Some friend you are.”

  “It fits. You know how he’s all legs and floppy feet? Puppy. Hardwick’s a good sport. Besides, I pay his salary, so I can get away with it. The lad is wet behind the ears but solid.” No doubt the young steward in charge of a small forest Cal refused to do anything with tolerated the name in exchange for a paycheck. “Between the two of you, I might not die of boredom before the Season.”

  “So what you’re saying is, you keep me around for the entertainment value.”

  “Never doubt it, my friend.”

  Chapter Seven

  What a pleasure to see you again, Lady Charlotte.” Lady Bartlesby greeted her like a long-lost friend while Lottie struggled to find a single memory of their hostess. “I heard someone saw you shopping with your godmother, so of course I couldn’t resist inviting you to dine with us. Thank you for accepting my invitation on such short notice. I planned this dinner at the last minute, but it simply would not have been the same without you.”

  A sense of foreboding struck Lottie. Overly friendly strangers usually had an agenda of their own—and she was almost certain this woman was a stranger.

  “Our numbers weigh heavily on the side of the gentlemen this evening. We ladies will have to soldier on while surrounded by some of the finest men in London.” Lady Bartlesby winked.

  “That may not be saying much with the lack of company in Town. But keep an eye out, girl. Your dream wastrel may be present this evening,” Agatha teased Lottie in a whisper.

  In their hostess’s warning that the numbers were uneven, she did not clarify that the only women present besides Lottie and Agatha were herself and a daughter of marriageable age. Naturally. Because why wouldn’t she throw her innocent daughter into this den of hungry bachelors. Although as dens of hungry predators went, this was a small gathering. For that Lottie was thankful. Agatha stopped to greet an acquaintance while the lady of the house towed Lottie along in her wake.

  “You’ll remember Lord Bartlesby, of course.” Her hostess gestured to an older gentleman with the beleaguered air of a man used to swallowing his opinions with copious libations. Lottie had never seen him before. The alcohol fumes surrounded him in a noxious perfume.

  Lord Bartlesby gestured to a man at his side. “May I introduce Mr. Leopold Lurch, youngest son of Baron Ellery.”

  Mr. Lurch’s eyes were a lovely shade of blue, with lush thick lashes sure to be the envy of any woman. A few excessively long, lonely strands of hair attempted to cover his shiny bald pate in a swirling pattern held in place with pomade. His nose had an unfortunate upward tilt at the tip, giving him an undeniably porcine air, with perpetually flared nostrils. Mr. Lurch’s eyes were sharp, leaving Lottie with the feeling she’d already been scrutinized and found wanting. A strong odor of onions came from him as he muttered something about being charmed and kissed the air above her fingers. Thank goodness for evening gloves.

  When Lottie and her hostess turned away, Lady Bartlesby leaned close. “Quite a decent catch, if you ignore the nose. Good family.”

  There was bitter truth in Agatha’s earlier teasing. Could she stomach adding Mr. Lurch to her list of potential matches? This wasn’t about attraction. A husband who would be content to leave her in the country in charge of the daily management was just as likely to resemble a farm animal as not. Besides, his padded, sloped shoulders lacked the blunt-force impact on her senses Lord Amesbury caused, which could only be a good thing.

  Why would she think of him at a moment like this? There should be no comparison.

  A footman opened the door behind them, and Lottie’s earlier sense of foreboding returned with force. As if her wandering thoughts had summoned him, Lord Amesbury stood in the doorway in evening dress beside Lord Carlyle. Lord Bartlesby crossed the room to shake Carlyle’s hand, then greeted Amesbury with a stiff nod.

  Her unease deepened when their hostess joined the men at the doorway, looking awfully pleased with herself, eyes darting between Amesbury and Lottie. This was a setup from the beginning.

  Of course. It made sense now.

  As the first hostess to get the Paper Doll Princess and Lord Amesbury in the same room—at her table, no less—Lady Bartlesby held the trump card of hot gossip. Their hostess winked at Lottie with a glittering diamond-hard smile, her earlier friendly facade nowhere in sight.

  For a moment, Lottie was that awkward debutante again—a young woman who chose to run from London rather than endure the laughter of her peers. The gossips, led by tonight’s hostess, would feast for weeks on the loaded silence that fell over the room as the guests realized what was happening. Possible plans of action presented themselves. Leaving immediately, remaining silent, or simply pretending she wasn’t bright enough to grasp the situation might work but smacked of cowardice. One by one she rejected her options until only a single clear path remained. This time, Lord Amesbury was a victim of the circumstance as much as she. That put them on the same side of this war, so to speak.

  Amesbury and Aunt Agatha wore twin expressions with hard eyes and tight lips. He didn’t exactly appear welcoming, but she’d have to act quickly and hope he played along.

  As fast as the feeling of impotent panic arrived, it fled. This
situation could be managed, thank you very much. She’d handled worse. If Lady Bartlesby intended to create drama, they would try their best to disappoint.

  Donning her most enthusiastic smile, Lottie greeted the new arrivals with her hands held out, as if sure of her welcome. “Gentlemen, what a delight. I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon.”

  Lord Carlyle bowed first. “Lovely as always, Lady Charlotte. I trust the rest of your trip to London was uneventful?”

  “Thankfully, yes. I think we’ve all had enough dramatics to last for a good long while.” She raised a brow meaningfully at the men. Behind her friendly mask, Lottie counted to three on each inhale and then three again for the exhale as she waited to see if the gentlemen would cooperate with her ruse. If they appeared to be friends, there would be nothing to gossip about, now would there? It was only conflict that fed the chatty cats, and she would not give their hostess any more fodder to share over tea tomorrow. Even if it meant allying herself for a time with a man who waffled between hero and villain.

  All eyes were on them. Amesbury looked panicked for a moment, as if on stage with no idea of his lines. No doubt trying to stall, he kissed her glove, claiming the top of her hand with the pressure. No polite air kisses for him. “A pleasure, Lady Charlotte. Your injuries seem tae be healing nicely. How fares your coachman?”

  “He’s home in Westmorland recuperating, thank you for asking.” Their friendly exchange needed to appear authentic, as if she were entirely at ease in his company, so Lottie slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He froze for an instant, then tucked her against his side. Gracious, there was a lot of him. The lapel of his coat sat at her eye level. Although his smile was easy when he spoke to her, his body was taut with tension. With any luck, they would appear as a united front as she addressed the room at large.

  “On the way to London, my traveling party suffered a horrible accident with grave injury to my coachman,” she explained to the other guests. “Lords Carlyle and Amesbury were staying at the nearest inn and lent their aid with the situation.” Lottie patted Lord Amesbury’s arm for good measure. He was a solid wall of muscle in an evening coat, radiating heat beside her. Something under her skin began to hum.