Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  If you want to be an ape leader, so be it. That outcome, as distasteful as I find it, is preferable to marrying that Scottish upstart.

  Should your desire to marry Amesbury be genuine—although I can’t imagine how—then I can’t stop you. You’re of age. However, I can and will ensure not a penny of your dowry lines Lord Amesbury’s pockets.

  In short, if you continue with this engagement to Amesbury, know that you do so without the support of your family’s wealth or title. Neither of you will be welcome at Stanwick Manor.

  He didn’t sign it.

  All the air left her lungs in a wobbly cry. He thought their letters were a manipulation tactic on her part. Those prejudices and preconceived notions he held would be the end of them.

  They’d expected a rejection while hoping for a blessing. Leave it to Father to take her by surprise and complicate matters further.

  Cut off. Never allowed to go home. Disowned if she chose Ethan.

  Or everything she’d wanted, handed to her.

  The tears fell in earnest now while birds sang outside the window.

  * * *

  They’d repair the damage to the brewery, since it primarily consisted of stone. But the granary? Ancient timbers and wattle and daub had stood for over a century yet were no match for flames.

  Ethan swore fluently until Connor stopped nodding along and just stared.

  “Are ye done, Ethan?”

  “Whoever did this stole food off the tables of my people.” Ethan spit on the glowing embers of what used to be this year’s grain harvest. “Find the bastard responsible. I’ll have his guts for garters.”

  “I have men listening in the village, plus two footmen goin’ door tae door askin’ questions. Someone somewhere saw something. Macdonell is out for blood.”

  “Milord, message from London.” A servant reined in his horse before handing over a folded piece of paper.

  Glancing at the handwriting, Ethan smiled. Lottie. Memories of how she’d looked when he’d left her bed—soft and pink and well loved in the early morning light—were his bright spots in an otherwise wretched day. Or days, rather. Almost forty-eight hours ago, he’d kissed her goodbye, then rushed from London. Of course, the letter could be news about the earl’s response. In which case, he had other pressing matters to deal with. If the earl said yes, they would celebrate. If he said no, another hour or two of ignorance wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. His people needed him right now, and the earl would have to wait. Ethan tucked the letter in his pocket before nodding his thanks to the servant.

  Acrid smoke lingered against the sun, while the blackened beam remnants of the granary stood as charred testaments of stubborn construction. He would update her via post this evening. She needed to know about this. While it could be the work of an unknown enemy, more likely than not, they’d eventually uncover Montague’s hand behind this attack on his livelihood.

  As he surveyed the damage with tired eyes, the anger that had been his constant companion since he’d come home battled to escape. How dare that worthless bastard set foot on his land? Hurt his people, destroy the fruits of their labors, endanger their livestock’s food supply for the winter? Montague would pay. There wasn’t a consequence severe enough to cover the damage done here. The niggling worry in the back of his mind asked how much more he could afford to economize in order to rebuild. He’d find a way. They’d make it and come out stronger on the other side.

  “My worry is for whatever’s next, aye?” Connor muttered.

  It was a valid point. The day before yesterday, workmen discovered the destruction at the brewery site. Everything flammable had burned. Stone walls had been smashed and equipment destroyed. What should have been a boon for the village economy lay in ruins. That was when Connor had written, and Ethan had set off for home. They’d worked all day to set to rights what they could at the worksite. When the band of men arrived from Lady Agatha’s household, he’d been grateful for the help. They needed every willing hand they could get. Yesterday, instead of returning to London, he’d canvassed the village, searching for answers.

  Last night, as he’d settled in for the night, planning to write Lottie, the alarm had gone up. Another fire. In the summer it would mean devastation to fields. But on the cusp of November, it meant an estate could be beggared by the loss of the harvest, leaving tenants to struggle and possibly starve as the cold set in. They wouldn’t be in such dire straits as that, but it would mean sacrifices and possibly pushing the brewery project back.

  Montague would not win today.

  “If the goal is tae exhaust us tae death, they might win yet. I’m weary tae the bone. How are you holding up?” He glanced down at Connor’s wooden leg.

  Connor waved away his concern. “Tae hit us again will be their undoing. They’d better pray we never catch ’em.”

  It was just like Connor to not speak of his leg, but with the muscles in Ethan’s feet and thighs screaming, he could only imagine how much pain Connor endured to work alongside him. “I mean it. If you need a break, take one. I’ll not have you overdoing it. We both know a raw stump is the last thing you need.”

  “I’m no’ a child, milord.” Connor’s irritation cut through the fatigue to slap at Ethan’s ever-present guilt. “I’ve taken care of this estate for several years an’ done it with only one leg. How about ye let me decide what my own body needs, aye?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m merely looking out for you.”

  “Stop coddling. Yer guilt is as plain as yer face, and I’ll not have it. I could leave you in the dust an’ work anywhere else if I wanted.” Connor glared.

  “God, how could I not feel guilty?” A wind stirred between them, hot with smoke and smoldering flames.

  Connor rolled his shoulders and huffed. “Because ’tis a good life we have here, aye? We work hard, Woodrest rewards us in kind. This is better than the army would have ever been. An’ the only one who’d baby me worse than you is me mother. I can’ go back home. But you’re clan. You are my family. An’ as family, I’ll level yer bloody lordly arse intae the dirt if ye mention my leg again. Let. It. Go.”

  The words repeated in his mind. Better than the army would have ever been. “Do you mean that? The life here is better than the one you’d planned before the accident?”

  “Of course ’tis. Don’ be daft.” Connor dismissed the conversation to survey the damage once more, shaking his head. “Will take a lot of work tae clean up this mess.”

  The guilt he’d carried like a touchstone shifted, lightening. Ethan wanted to hug Connor, to thank him for forgiving the loss of a limb—although that level of acceptance defied understanding. From his body language, Connor wouldn’t welcome a hug—even a manly one. Instead, Ethan turned to face the same direction. “Aye. Will take time and effort. Good thing I have help.” He chanced one heavy palm against Connor’s shoulder and squeezed.

  Connor returned the gesture. “Ye need a nap, but we both know ye won’ take one. Let’s check in with the men. Maybe they ’ave news.”

  “Wait. What’s that?” Ethan pointed.

  Several dozen yards away from what remained of the brewery, a crowd had formed. As they approached, the tension in the air reminded Ethan of a boxing match. Angry cries of men and the occasional pained sound came from whoever lay within the makeshift ring. Connor shot him a worried look as they picked up the pace.

  In the center of the circle lay a man making sounds like a wounded animal as he curled into a ball to protect himself from thrown stones and kicks.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Ethan pushed through the crowd.

  One of his tenants grabbed the beaten man from the ground to hold him aloft like a fresh kill. “We found him. If our children and livestock starve, it’s on his head!” The man threw the arsonist at Ethan’s feet. “Tell him what you told us.”

  When the bloodied man raised his face, Ethan’s anger cooled as if splashed with icy water. Jutting cheekbones, yellowed skin, and hollow eyes w
et with tears were not what he’d expected of the one responsible for all this destruction. A stump of a leg, amputated below the knee, told its own tale. “Is this true? You set the fires? Ransacked the worksite?”

  A nod.

  “Why? Are we enemies?”

  “A gent sent me in a coach. Paid me in coin.”

  “Where’s the money now?” Connor asked, cocking his head. Ethan knew that look. Connor was assessing the intruder and puzzling through the information. It reminded him of Lottie. No doubt she’d handle the situation in a similar way.

  “I gave it to me wife for food. The kids never had full bellies till now. I ain’t done nofink like this ’efore, I swear.” There was no doubt the tears were real, although the thin stranger firmed his chin against them.

  “The man. Describe him,” Connor demanded.

  “Clean. Fair hair. Made all them ladies coo like doves when ’e walked by.”

  Ethan nodded to Connor. That described Montague all right. Cal had been following him from gaming hell to brothel and back again, then visiting the men who had his vowels the next day. As of a few days ago, he and Cal were Montague’s largest dun. Encouraging Montague’s father to call him home to rusticate was supposed to get him out of Town and bring an end to the gossip columns. It would appear Montague had hidden depths of villainy. “Where are you from?”

  “Seven Dials. Gent waltzed in like ’e was the bloody king ’imself.”

  Ethan squatted in front of the man and sniffed. He reeked, but not of alcohol. As Ethan stood, he towered over the man in the dirt, his shadow covering the arsonist, who shivered in the rags he wore. No doubt, those rags were all he had. And here Ethan had planned to throw away his soot-covered clothes. His abundance stood in stark relief against the man’s condition.

  Desperate men did desperate things. Ethan rubbed a palm over tired eyes. Heavens, he should have slept days ago. He shared a look with Connor in silent agreement. “What’s your name?”

  “Billings. John Billings.” The man eyed Connor’s peg leg, then his own. The look held such a weight to it, Ethan felt it in his chest. A plan came to him, fully formed, and the rightness of it fell into place with an almost audible click. Connor wasn’t the only man needing a home and work despite a missing limb.

  “Mr. Billings, I will give you a choice. You were hired tae perform a dastardly task, and you did it, which tells me you’re good at following orders. I can walk away now, let you find your way back tae London and your family, as the man who hired you intended. But that assumes the other men let you get that far.”

  The man’s eyes darted, taking in the angry faces around him.

  Connor spoke up. “Or I take ye in a coach tae get yer woman an’ bairns. Then ye return tae rebuild what ye destroyed.”

  John Billings froze, staring at Connor and Ethan. “Rebuild?”

  “Do ye have any experience building things, or do ye jus’ prefer tae set them on fire?” Connor cocked his head in challenge. The circle of men shuffled closer.

  “I built some in the army.”

  Ethan offered the man a hand and waited until John grasped his palm before pulling him to his feet. He weighed next to nothing. Without releasing the hand, Ethan drew him close, until the man had to crane his head up to meet his eyes. “Your choice, Mr. Billings. Go back tae London and rot, or stay and make recompense.”

  The tears on John’s face left rivers of mud in their wake. “Yer givin’ me a job? But I hurt yer master. Burned the granary. The lord will never let me stay.”

  “Eh, the viscount does what I tell ’im,” Connor said, breaking the tension when several of the group chuckled.

  Ethan grasped John’s hand. “You claim you’ve never done this before. Prove it. This is the hard path. I’m lord and master of these lands, and you’ve hurt my people, John Billings. I’m no’ like tae forget it soon. The men hate you. None of us trust you. You’ve an uphill battle ahead. I expect you tae work an honest day’s labor for an honest day’s wage. But hear me now—if you betray me, I’ll beat you myself, throw you tae the wolves, an’ never regret it.”

  “Me wife an’ kids? They’ll have a roof? Food?”

  “Aye. As long as you work without another issue like this, you have my word.”

  John collapsed his beaten head against their clasped hands and, after a shuddery sigh, wept with such force his shoulders shook.

  An hour later John Billings and two footmen were London bound. The local men begrudgingly agreed to not kill the man when he returned. Their acceptance came easier after Ethan assured them no one would starve or suffer from the sabotage. Purchasing grain from neighboring estates would take profits from the year, but in the end they’d all live to eat another day. Rebuilding might have to wait until after the next harvest, but they’d figure it out.

  Back in his room, the water in the pitcher hit Ethan’s flame-toasted skin with all the gentleness of shards of ice, then trickled down his chest, rinsing away the soap. Drying with a linen, he searched for a clean shirt. The smoke-filled clothes from the night lay draped over a wooden chair, far away from any other fabrics they might destroy. It was when he donned a new waistcoat that he remembered the letter in his pocket.

  Forgive me. Common decency demands I say these things face-to-face instead of writing. I suppose we shall add cowardice to my sins, listed below inconsistency.

  I cannot marry you. No, that is not entirely true.

  I will not marry you.

  My father has refused the match and I find myself unwilling to challenge him in this. Thank you for offering the protection of an engagement when I needed it. As per our original agreement, I am ending our arrangement now that your services are no longer required. I tire of London and shall soon be free of Montague’s vile rumors.

  Consider your moral debt paid, since we both know that is how all this began. Your slate is clean, Ethan.

  I wish you the best.

  The edge of the bed caught him because his knees were useless. Like a punch to the gut, Lottie’s words turned his vision to a watery haze.

  The earl didn’t approve of the match. He’d probably rejected Ethan without a second thought. Or maybe this was just the natural order of things correcting itself. A shepherd didn’t marry a lady. A young man who hurt a woman from a place of damaged ego didn’t eventually win the girl. It wasn’t the way life worked.

  His head weighed heavy in his hands, and Ethan’s breathing echoed as a harsh gurgle in the room. So this was how heartbreak felt. Aptly named when the woman you loved walked away, breaking and stealing pieces of you as she went. No wonder it hurt so damn bad. Parts of him were gone forever, given away with a kiss to the lovely Lady Lottie, who lost control only when she was in his arms.

  Ethan crumpled the letter in his fist, threw it to the floor, then stared at it. In a fit of pique, he stomped on the paper.

  What a day. Hell, what a week. The highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and a lovely bit of arson in between. At least Montague no longer had John Billings in his pocket. John, who hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking with the master here, because the lord of the manor looked like a common laborer.

  The cream stationery’s clean purity showed a sacrilegious blemish of a sooty boot print where it lay on the carpet. Ethan stared at it until the mark became more than a dirty blemish.

  The sooty print proved he worked and fought and toiled alongside his people. But he did all those things because he was the master here. And not only here. No matter where he laid his head or tracked his filthy boots, Ethan would remain Viscount Amesbury.

  All the Cousin Jeromes and Lord Bartlesbys in the world couldn’t change that fact. It didn’t matter that society hadn’t fully embraced him, or even that there were merchants who looked down their noses at his rough ways. Ethan was a viscount, and damn anyone who’d try to shame him for the bit of wicked luck that had landed him in this position.

  And a viscount would not retreat meekly from the presence of a damned managing
lady like a shepherd boy would.

  He loved her. He’d shown her over and over in that big bed after announcing to the ton that he was marrying her. “If she wants tae end things, she can do so tae my face. Connor! Whoever can hear me—saddle Ezra.” Slamming the bedroom door behind him, Ethan stopped in his tracks, then returned to the room. With black-stained fingers, he plucked the crumpled paper from the floor and smoothed the letter back into a flat, smudged sheet. Although his hands shook, he carefully folded Lottie’s last letter to him and tucked it away in his pocket. The ride to London would be brutal on his aching body, but the day had only begun.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Please tell me it’s poisoned. Put me out of my misery,” Lottie croaked.

  “Don’t tempt me. You’ve wallowed half the day away already. That’s enough, thank you very much.” Darling held the teacup, waiting.

  “Blast! Madame Bouvier has probably already begun work.” Lottie shot up in bed, shoving her mass of hair out of her eyes. “I need to cancel the order for the wedding dress.” She rested her head in her hands, wishing the day would end. Father’s letter was written in permanent ink in her brain, she’d read it so many times. Even after sleeping on it, she’d been unable to find a solution.

  So she’d ended it.

  It had taken five tries to get the letter to Ethan right. The first version was weepy, laying out the whole process, her father’s ultimatum, and her struggle with the decision. Bit by bit she culled the emotion from it until the final draft was crisp and businesslike. With this decision, she was taking her emotions back from his tender care, and it felt wrong to pour her pain into his lap to grapple with alongside his own. The giving of her trust hadn’t been done lightly, so it came as no surprise that the taking back of it was just as deliberate.

  A messenger carried the letter to Woodrest this morning while she returned to her room and huddled under the covers like a child hiding from ghosts. The pillow Ethan had used still had traces of his scent, and she’d cuddled it close, wetting the down fluff with her tears.