Rejecting the Rogue

by Riley Cole

  Spencer sagged against the doorframe. For once, he took no pleasure in having his fears confirmed. “Burke’s right. We’ll have to tie this up ourselves.”

  Meena nodded sadly. “How?”

  Exactly. How.

  Spencer rubbed his chin. “What if we could bring you evidence? Irrefutable evidence?”

  Burke stared up at the ceiling, considering. “Could work,” he said finally. “I can make sure it gets to the right people.”

  Briar’s face brightened. She set the pistol aside. “Ramsay must have a stash somewhere. It couldn’t be that hard to find.” Her grin widened. “It’s been too long since we’ve nicked anything.”

  The inspector clapped his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know. Do not want to know.”

  “Of course not.” Meena shot her cousin a quelling look. The next instant she was smiling sweetly at Burke. “We appreciate your assistance, Inspector. Give us a few days. I have no doubt we can present the evidence you require.”

  “Be watchful,” the inspector cautioned, his expression once again all seriousness. “This is nasty business. Miss Sweet? Crane? I recommend you stay away from any of your known haunts until this is over.”

  Spencer moved behind Meena. The urge to wrap his arms around her hit him so quickly, it stunned him. But propriety won out. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “Understood.”

  Burke rose. When he stretched, his long fingers almost brushed the ceiling. “This is the most pleasant kidnapping I’ve had the pleasure to be involved in.” He straightened his suit jacket, tugging on the lapels, and the sleeves, in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles from his ordeal. Once put together, he leveled them each with a look hard enough to splinter steel. “Let’s not do it again.”

  “Agreed.” Spencer rose and shook the man’s hand.

  Sweet followed suit, only instead of letting go, he tightened his grip, pulling Burke a hair’s breadth closer. “Don’t make us do it again, and we’ll all be happy.”

  “Edison, enough.” Meena moved between them, pushing the inventor backwards, like a small child being shooed away from a candy counter. She took the inspector’s large hands in both of hers. “We do appreciate your assistance. We’ll have this put to right soon.”

  Burke’s smile had little to do with politeness or shared humor or even agreement. Spencer recognized that smile, had used it himself on many an occasion. Burke’s smile was meant to charm. To charm, to tease, to entrance and ensnare.

  Spencer clenched his fists. He hated that smile.

  She really should have dressed.

  Spencer had left the makeshift apartment in search of a morning newspaper and something for them to eat. That left her ample time for her toilette, but Meena couldn’t will herself to face the day.

  No, not that.

  She’d mustered the energy to straighten the bedclothes and remove any hints of the amorous activities they’d enjoyed last night. All night. It was more about savoring the feeling of intimacy, the opportunity—the scandalous opportunity—to have her morning tea and toast with a man, dressed only in her dressing gown.

  She had thought about taking a lover. Numerous times. She’d even considered that someday, she might wish to marry, although she wasn’t fool enough to believe any man worth having would put up with her odd proclivities.

  Gaining a husband would mean leaving her work behind.

  She rather doubted she could feel strongly enough about any man to give that up.

  Meena tightened the sash on her robe and crossed to the window facing the street below. The pedestrians traversing the narrow street were mostly men. Bowler hatted men, bareheaded men, men with large mustaches, and men with silly mutton chops.

  Working men, hurrying to their jobs.

  Meena fingered the light lace curtains. None of them—she was sure—men who would allow their wives to consort with thieves and criminals.

  As she watched, Spencer strode toward the door, his arms filled with provisions. The sight of his tousled hair made her heart do a funny little dance in her chest. Even after making love for half the night, she was ready for him again.

  Suddenly shy, Meena rushed from the bedroom, not wanting to greet him in such an intimate space. She busied herself clearing off the table near the small kitchen. They couldn’t dawdle long. Edison and Briar would return soon, ready to devise a plan to catch Leyland White.

  By the time Spencer reached the door she had laid out the silverware and set the kettle on for tea.

  He set his packages in the center of the table. “I got the Times and the London Morning Post. Wasn’t sure which you preferred.” Hunger shone in his eyes before he dropped his gaze to the tabletop.

  The unexpected shyness caught at her heart.

  Meena set out the tea things and sat across from him. The table was so small their knees brushed. When he opened it, the paper rustled crisply, as if it were made of something with more substance than mere newsprint.

  Meena unfolded the Times. Her senses were on overload. The tinkle of his spoon against the edges of the mug seemed as loud as church bells. To say nothing of sensations. Her skin was primed for touch. The slide of lawn across her forearm, the pleasing smoothness of fresh paper between her fingers, the memory of his fingers trailing down her chest, cupping, teasing, tweaking…

  Heat seared her cheeks.

  Meena cleared her throat and grabbed her own section of the news, opening it like a shield in front of her.

  “That’s interesting,” Spencer commented from behind his own screen of newsprint. “The Brighton Rail Company is in talks with the Western Atlantic.”

  So many possibilities. Meena picked up her spoon and wiggled it. “An extension up through Cooksbridge would mean—”

  “A great deal more tourist traffic to the region.” Spencer finished her sentence. “Time to look into real estate in Newhaven.”

  Meena stirred her tea. “Precisely.”

  She studied his well-shaped fingers. Of its own accord, her body reacted. Her heartbeat quickened. Her breath shortened. Places she tried to ignore pulsed with heat, with longing.

  She grabbed her mug and swallowed a great mouthful of tea. If this was married life, it had a great deal to recommend itself.

  To her, perhaps, but not to him.

  How very painfully she’d learned that lesson last time.

  Meena sighed. She wrapped her hands around her mug, commanding any thoughts in that direction to die a swift death.

  Spencer Crane would be a disastrous husband. It wasn’t in him. More’s the pity. He might just be the one man who’d understand her crusade.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Meena flinched. Had her thoughts been that transparent?

  Spencer’s eyes darted to the spoon in her hand, busy tapping out a rhythm against the wooden table.

  Meena dropped the spoon and put her hands in her lap.

  Spencer reached across the table. He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed lightly. “Where’ve you gone? You’ve been in the clouds all morning.”

  Meena avoided his gaze, settling for a study of the cabbage rose wallpaper behind him. “I was thinking about this Leyland White.” She sat back in her seat, untwining their fingers. “What are his vices? Where’s he vulnerable? Where can we attack?”

  Spencer set down his paper. The gleam in his eye made her heart leap. She knew that feeling. The excitement of the chase had infected him.

  “I like your thinking.” He stared out the window, his brow furrowed in thought. “Follow his vices, and we’ll find a way to make him vulnerable… or better still, uncover some illegality.”

  “Catch him in the act.”

  “Yes.” Spencer slammed his palms down on the table.

  It wasn’t the approval so much as the stunning grin accompanying it that made her woozy. His enthusiasm for the chase was making her restless. Restless and reckless. Definitely reckless.

  She stood, scooped up her plate, and hurri
ed to the sink. “I’m beginning to pity this Leland White.”

  “How so?”

  “You look as if you’re enjoying the hunt.”

  “I can’t wait for White to get what’s coming to him.”

  Exactly. He understood. Meena set her plate in the sink and turned to face him. “It is most addictive.”

  She plopped back down in her seat. “That’s what I love so much about my work. It’s so satisfying to make things right.” She clasped her hands to her chest. “And making the evildoers pay. I shouldn’t enjoy that part so much, but I can’t help myself.”

  The warm grin on Spencer’s face turned her bones to jelly. His smile widened further, increasing the exquisite torment. How on earth was a man allowed to own a smile so devastating?

  This time she reached for his hand. “It’s most terrifically up-lifting.” She squeezed his fingers. “You should consider it, you know. At the risk of causing your head to swell further, I must tell you, you are quite good at it.”

  A shadow drifted across Spencer’s face. His fingers stiffened, and he pulled slowly away. “I can’t imagine.” He shook his head, clearly impatient to find the words. “I’m happy with my life. I can’t imagine putting that at risk, putting all I’ve built at risk. Not for strangers.”

  Meena pretended interest in the pattern of the tea leaves at the bottom of her mug. She tried not to let her disappointment seep out, to pretend his answer hadn’t snuffed out a tiny spark of hope.

  He had not the vaguest interest in her quest.

  The disappointment squeezing her windpipe must show on her face. Not even the best actress to tread the boards could have hidden the raw disappointment slashing at her heart.

  Across the table, Spencer stiffened. His beautiful mouth tightened, and the laugh lines radiating from the edges of his eyes faded away, taking the last of the joy in the room with them.

  He would never be the man she wanted him to be. She knew that. Had always known it.

  How unfortunate it hadn’t stopped her from falling into his bed.

  15

  “Is that the best you got?” The wiry man with the battered face leaned back against the ropes of the boxing ring and jeered at his opponent. “You’re going down, Giant, see if you’re not.”

  His taller, broader opponent threw a vicious punch in reply. It missed by a league, maybe more, Spencer estimated.

  He shook his head. From the quality of the fighters in White’s gymnasium, the place was nothing but a front for other activities. Gambling, smuggling, theft. All three, probably.

  A rat skittered past, braving a forest of legs for an old bread crust. Cigar smoke drifted above his head, so thick it all but obscured the fighters. Spencer wrinkled his nose. If only that were the worst of it.

  Old sweat and dust, layered beneath the newer, sharper odors of desperation, defeat, and fear, reminded him too much of his own youth. He shook off the thoughts. They served no purpose, other than to torment him, or worse, dull his edge.

  Filth, and poor fighting aside, the place was packed. For all the brushed and polished society gents crowding around the ring, Spencer would’ve expected the place to smell better, but the choking odors of poverty and desperation overpowered even the wealthy spectators’ pomade and cologne.

  Taking care to breathe through his mouth, he looked around, trying to figure White’s game. Boxing rings were sprinkled all over greater London. Swells like these didn’t need to settle for second-rate accommodations. Just how much power did White have that he could lure men of means to such a hovel?

  In the ring above, the larger man landed a ferocious blow, snapping his opponent’s head back. Spencer ducked the stream of sweat and blood that arced out over the ropes. Locating White was proving more difficult than he’d expected. He’d tailed the man from his coach into the gymnasium, but lost sight of him in the unexpected crush.

  He kneaded the tight muscles at the back of his neck. He was tired of running. Tired of the constant vigilance required. Tired of failing to meet Meena’s ridiculous standards.

  He sucked in a breath, choking on the fog of foul odors. Where in the blazing hell had that come from?

  They’d started a dalliance. Happened all the time. It wasn’t advisable, but there it was. They took pleasure from each other’s company—each other’s bodies—while it suited them. No promises. No expectations. No attachments.

  And yet her disapproval stung.

  Bit hard, actually.

  Hands buried in his pockets, Spencer balled them into fists. He shouldn’t care. He’d gotten carried away. He could admit that. He never planned on wanting her. Never imagined she’d want him anything but dead, after that fiasco of an engagement.

  He kicked a wadded up sweets wrapper under a bench. Damn it to hell, but her disapproval needled him.

  A roar from the crowd caught his attention. As he suspected, the smaller, quicker man had made quick work of his stronger, slower opponent.

  White climbed up into the ring and raised the unlikely winner’s arm in victory. Spencer shook his head. That small man had been punching far above his weight class. No way a fair fight went his way. It told him everything he needed to know about how Leyland White’s world worked.

  His ring. His rules. His profits.

  “Congratulations to our victor,” White yelled. Arms high, he strode about the ring, soaking in the raucous cheers, as if he’d earned the victory himself.

  Spencer turned away. While the tailored jacket and elaborate waistcoat were no more than White’s own customers wore, knowing such finery was bought with the blood, the broken bones, the despair, of men like the two spent souls now sagging on their stools, made Spencer want to strangle the man.

  Once White climbed out of the ring, Spencer stayed to the back of the crowd, keeping himself out of his line of sight. He didn’t think the man would recognize him, but no sense putting that theory to the test.

  At the far end of the room now, White hurried up a narrow stairway. Spencer followed, threading his way through the audience. The fighters still hunched in their corners, their battered faces slick with sweat and blood.

  At the top of the stairs, a hallway lined with narrow rooms led to the back of the building. White, his large bodyguard, and another man disappeared down the hallway. As far as Spencer could tell from the ground, there was only one hall leading to a few small offices. A stranger would be noticed. He looked around, searching for something to help him create an excuse to follow.

  He tore off his jacket, dropped it on a bench next to the wall, and grabbed a worn cap off the peg above. With the greasy cap settled on his head, he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his vest. A harried clerk might have some business with White. Could be bringing an important message, a piece of mail, or news of an interesting wager to fix.

  Posters announcing upcoming matches marched unsteadily along the wall behind him, tacked in place as if by a blind man. With an eye on the crowd, Spencer reached behind and yanked one down. He folded in half, creasing it so it appeared to be a neatly folded missive.

  Careful to hold it so the contents were invisible, he climbed the stairs.

  He made it three steps before a large hand with a fighter’s battered knuckles, grabbed him from below. “Hey now. Those are private offices.”

  Spencer gave an exaggerated start. He touched the edge of his cap. “Apologies, sir. I’ve a message here. A gent by the door told me a Mr. Lester White is upstairs? This is for him.” He waved the paper, careful to keep it out of reach. “I was told it’s important. Confidential, like.”

  “Leyland. Mr. Leyland White.” The man released his arm. “Last room on the left. But don’t dawdle about.”

  Spencer took the stairs two at a time. Any private meeting was something he wanted to hear. Once on the small landing, though, he saw the upper floor was small, just a narrow hall lined with closed doors.

  Nowhere to loiter without reason.

  Nowhere to hide.
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  One door stood ajar. Spencer moved closer and peered inside. A supply closet. With a quick look behind him, he slipped inside. It smelled of bleach and linseed oil. A bucket of brooms and a pile of rags had been thrown in the corner. On a coat hook behind the door, he struck gold. A well-used apron hung from the hook. He slipped out of his vest and pulled it on. Then he grabbed a mop and a dirty rag and headed back out into the hallway.

  Voices came from the room that shared a wall with the broom closet. Spencer put an ear to the wall, but the voices were still too faint to make out. He headed out into the hall, pushing the mop in front of him. When he reached the doorway, he pulled the rag from his back pocket, pretending to scrub the baseboards.

  He hadn’t planned to find the keyhole at eye level, but he’d be sure to make it seem so when he told the tale.

  The keyhole afforded nothing but the narrowest of views. At least he could see White. He and the other man stood at a desk, their backs to him. White’s oversized thug sprawled across a sofa along the wall.

  “So he says he won't pay?” White sounded amused.

  The other man shook his head.

  “No matter. Chesterfield will change his mind once he understands the alternatives.”

  Pain seized Spencer’s calves. He winced, shifting his legs to keep them from going numb.

  “We have a three fight card going tomorrow,” the man offered. “Chesterfield won’t miss that. He put money on all of ‘em. After the fights, I should bring him up?"

  “No!” White barked. “What if he doesn’t cooperate? I don’t want to make any of our other customers uncomfortable. Tell him to stop by The Rose afterward. Much easier to handle him there, should he choose to be difficult.”

  The other man bowed. “Very good, sir.”

  Spencer jumped to his feet. He pushed the broom to the far end of the hallway and busied himself with dusting the window that marked the end of the building.

  He waited until the door opened and both men made their way back downstairs, followed by White’s powerful servant, before he turned around. This Chesterfield had to be one of White’s blackmail victims. But how to prove it? Burke needed solid proof. Mere observation wouldn’t be enough to trump the power of White’s heritage. He wound the thin rag around his fists, jerking it tight over and over again.