Undeniable Rogue (The Rogues Club Book One)

by Annette Blair

  “I feared crushing the baby, so I reversed our positions.”

  Sabrina raised a brow. “You planned this? I do not even know how we got here.”

  “Good,” he said. “That means I am going about this seduction business in just the right way.”

  Chalmer cleared his throat.

  Sabrina started and felt her face warm.

  Gideon grinned.

  “Dinner is served,” the manservant said, almost without expression, except for the smile Sabrina caught as he turned.

  She was terribly uncomfortable by the time they retired that night.

  Gideon seemed so in tuned with her discomfort that he helped her off with her shoes and stockings and left while she finished undressing and got into her nightrail. When he returned, he found her shifting in the bed, trying to find a position to suit her circumstance.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Not what you want to do.”

  “I fear I agree,” he said, coming to stand by the bed. “Tell me what you would like and I will comply. I will even go and sleep in my own bed, if you think you would be more comfortable.”

  Sabrina shook her head. “Honestly? I was more comfortable with you at my back last night than I have been for weeks.”

  “You shall have me at your back then.”

  “Can you rub it, just a bit?”

  Gideon placed his hands at her back and gave himself over to the unexpectedly stirring experience. It was more sensual even than in the library the night before, given the fact that he was now in her bed with her, and he knew her body a vast deal better than he had then.

  “Ah, yes, like that,” Sabrina said. “Down lower. Mmm. Oh, yes. Oh, God, that feels so good. Harder. A bit lower. Yes, just there.”

  “Damn, you are getting me excited.”

  His statement surprised Sabrina, and she could not seem to stop laughing.

  Her mirth was so contagious; Gideon took to laughing with her, though he did not stopped soothing her sore back.

  The thought occurred to him, as he absorbed the sound of her laughter, that he had never before enjoyed a woman—beyond sexual gratification—in or out of bed. He had never laughed with a woman, talked with her, as he and Sabrina had talked before dinner.

  He liked the experience, the easy camaraderie, as if they were a world unto themselves, the two of them alone. Amazing how shared laughter could sweeten life, make it seem...worth living.

  Sabrina calmed after a while, but every so often she would take to giggling again. One of those times, Gideon was so wholly charmed, he could not stop himself; he bent over and kissed her cheek. “Damned if I do not find myself liking you, Sabrina St. Goddard. Welcome to my life.”

  For a minute, he thought she might cry, but she brightened, instead, almost as if she needed to correct her errant emotions and set them on the proper course. Odd that.

  “Thank you,” she said finally. “Your life is not as bad a place as I expected.”

  He did not know how the devil to reply to that. Should he be pleased or angry? In the end, he said nothing, and before long, he saw that she slept.

  He continued to rub her back for as long as he could keep his eyes open, and the next thing he knew, the light of morning had cast a beam across the bed.

  Gideon managed to rise without disturbing his wife and left her to sleep for as long as she was able.

  Rather than sit down to breakfast alone, he grabbed the Morning Post and retired to his study. He had not read more than a minute when he shot from his chair in fury over an anonymous on dit that reeked of revenge: The Duke of S. has married hastily, and of necessity, to a nesting canary...with nary a feather to fly with. This author suggests that S. beware upon whose perch his canary next hops.

  Gideon vowed that when he got his hands around Veronica’s throat, he was going to squeeze.

  First he wrote a scathing letter to the newspaper, demanding a retraction. Then he wrote a scathing letter to Veronica.

  Feeling better after the exercise, he pondered a diversion of pint-size proportions.

  Down in the kitchen, he grabbed so many sweet rolls, Mrs. Chalmer gave him a chiding look, for which he gave her a wink, before going outside to look for Damon.

  The sweet rolls were bait.

  Gideon searched, but the boy was not to be found, not in the mews, nor the kennel. He had just about given up, when he spotted the lad walking purposefully in his direction.

  “Good morning, young man. What have you got there?”

  “A weapon. I am going hunting.” Damon pointed toward Grosvenor Park across the road in the center of the Square. “There, in the jungle.”

  Gideon nodded. “I see. Care for some company?”

  “Sure, do you want to come?”

  Since they were going hunting, Gideon thought it a good thing he brought bait. Hand in hand, they crossed to the park. “What kind of animal are we hunting,” he asked the boy.

  “Cat.”

  “Panther? Lion?”

  “Are panthers and lions noisy?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think they sometimes are.”

  “Then, I do not want either of those.”

  “What kind do you want?”

  “I want a quiet cat to keep in the nursery with me. Mama said I can have one.”

  A nursery denoted a large house, which must be nearby, Gideon surmised, since the boy could usually be found near the mews. “You are hunting for a housecat, then?”

  “I...s’pose.” Damon looked sharply up, his eyes suddenly bright with knowledge. “’Cause housecats must be the kind you keep in the house, right?”

  The boy’s grin was deadly, bringing Gideon’s own, and he found himself chuckling and ruffling that small head of dark hair.

  Bedamned, they were hunting for a pussycat.

  Gideon regarded the lad’s weapon askance—a club, if he ever saw one. “If we are hunting for a housecat, I do not think you want to be hitting it with that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, you will do some damage.”

  “You mean, I might hurt it? Do animals hurt like people do, when they are hit?”

  “Afraid so.”

  The boy paled, as if he knew what being hit was like, making Gideon want to defend him, against he knew not what.

  Now the boy’s bottom lip trembled. “I only want to find a quiet cat to come home with me. I would never hurt it.”

  “I will help you catch it. You may discard the club.”

  “Thank you.”

  The shrill whistle that sent the boy scurrying from the kennel yesterday, sounded again, but Damon only slowed, became more alert, and kept walking.

  Gideon shrugged and followed. They pursued that illusive creature, cat, without success. As time passed, joy left the boys face and discouragement loomed heavy.

  “There does not seem to be an abundance of cats loose in the jungle this morning,” Gideon said. “Perhaps we should go and investigate over in that direction.”

  If he had had any notion that the boy wanted a cat, he would have acquired a kitten from some kitchen mouser. Perhaps he might still be able to find one, to give himself an excuse to locate and visit the boy’s home.

  He noticed that Damon was dressed appropriately for the cooler morning. Though his nankeen skeleton suit appeared similar to the outfit he wore the day before, a warmer jacket and knee-length stockings had been added in honor of the brisker day. One of those stockings, Gideon noticed, had a rip in it and drooped a bit, giving the lad that reckless little boy look.

  “Do you know anyone up at number twenty-three?” Gideon asked, nonchalantly. “I have seen you around there several times now.”

  “Miss Minchip, I know. Not much of anybody else.”

  “Ah,” Gideon said. “Well, shall we see if we can build us a cat trap? You go and find some branches, and I will start putting our trap together.”

  The boy skipped off, and before long, he was back with an assortment of spi
ndly branches.

  Together they fashioned a rather foolish-looking contraption that Gideon was certain would blow over in a light breeze.

  Nevertheless, they sat back, man and boy alike, filled with eager anticipation, to await the appearance of a dumb cat.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  While Damon and Gideon waited for a jingle-brained cat to collapse their trap—never mind become caught in it—Gideon offered Damon a sweet roll, which the boy accepted with alacrity.

  In return, the boy pulled from a leather sack, which Gideon had not previously noticed, an earthen jar, and offered it to him. On its label was marked “pickled cabbage?” Gideon hefted the vessel and examined its seal.

  “For in case we get hungry,” Damon explained sniffling.

  Gideon fished out his linen handkerchief and handed it over. “How were you planning to open the jar?”

  Instantly, Damon saw the dilemma, and scanned the area with his gaze looking for an answer. “I know,” he said, using the handkerchief. “We can smash it open on that big rock over there.”

  “Bad idea. You will cut yourself on the shards. Let us just eat the sweet rolls, shall we?”

  The boy shrugged and offered the used handkerchief back.

  Gideon smothered his chuckle by clearing his throat. “You may keep it, in case you need it again. Just tuck it into your jacket pocket. There’s a boy.”

  “So,” Gideon said, to make conversation and pass the time. “What do you and Miss Minchip find to talk about?” But the boy got an odd, cornered look on his face, one of panic and distress, which did not seem to fit his usually happy mien. Then again, Gideon had not known Damon for that—

  “I do not know anybody named Miss Minchip.”

  “I see,” Gideon said, after a minute, more than a bit intrigued by the sudden turnabout. “Well, then, tell me about your mama. Why did she send you hunting for a quiet cat?”

  “She said we make enough noise by ourselves.”

  “We?”

  “Me ‘n— Me. I make lots’a noise all by myself.”

  Gideon felt disoriented, as if he were speaking to an entirely different child, quite an odd feeling. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, without knowing why, but he awaited the boy’s answer, almost with baited breath, while the rooks in the trees above cawed and squabbled louder than usual.

  “Mama is getting me a new brother real soon,” he said. “She has a big belly.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Gideon remarked, his thoughts teeming with speculation, his gaze assessing.

  This must be Damon. Regard the expressive face, the sable hair, those freckles, the short blue serge jacket, droopy stockings—

  Gideon sat straighter. Neither stocking was torn, neither drooped.

  He saw only the one small discrepancy, and yet, one was often sufficient.

  The lad crawled over to check the cat trap as Gideon watched. “Damon,” he called, softly, but loud enough to be heard, to see whether the child would respond automatically to his name.

  Damon did not, which proved nothing, of course.

  Gideon rose and tapped him on the shoulder. “I have an idea. Let us go and set up more traps.” He stepped quickly from the clearing, hoping to catch some phantom child with drooping socks, he supposed, but no one was there.

  When he turned back, however, he saw the lad leave a sweet roll on the boulder before dashing away.

  They walked side by side after that, each lost in his own thoughts, until Gideon stopped. “Forgot something,” he said. “Wait right here.”

  Back in the clearing, nothing had changed, except that the roll was missing. Gideon walked around to the far side of the boulder, and there sat Damon eating the roll.

  “What?” Gideon asked, hands on hips. “Three rolls were not enough for you?”

  “Three?” the boy said, at once indignant and appalled, until he stopped short, as if to reconsider, and shrugged. “Growing boys need lots of good food. Guess I must be growing.”

  “That will be quite enough, young man. Come on out.” He lifted Damon out and sat him on the boulder. “We need to have a talk.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Remember the puppy, yesterday?”

  The giggle was surely Damon’s “He was funny, drizzling on you like that. Too bad cats are quieter.”

  “Tell me,” Gideon said. “What is your brother’s name?”

  “Hunh?”

  “Your twin. At least he said he was your twin.”

  Damon huffed. “Rafe’s a squealer. His real name is Rafferty, but he likes to be called Rafe.”

  “Rafe,” Gideon called. “Come see what I found.”

  The boy came tumbling into the clearing, the ugliest cat on God’s green earth in his arms. “Did you catch one, too?” he asked breathless?

  “Caught this.” Gideon indicated Damon, sitting on the boulder swinging his legs, finishing his sweet roll.

  “Aw, he’s not a cat, he’s my brother.”

  “So I noticed.” The secret, Gideon perceived, was more than the fact that they were twins, though that must be part of it. A wild notion had been scampering in and out of his brain, but it was just too fantastic to be possible.

  One step at a time, Gideon cautioned himself, regarding the two, identically innocent expressions. “Why did you pretend there was only one of you?”

  “Two is trouble,” Rafe said. “Two is noisier.”

  “And messier.” Damon shrugged. “People see us and they say, oh no, two of them, so we pretend, sometimes, like we’re just one. It’s fun fooling people.”

  “You never feel as if you are lying?”

  “No, only playing.”

  Damon nodded. “Telling fibs is bad; we know that.”

  “Unless fibbing is the only way to keep Mama from getting hit,” Rafe said.

  Damon nodded. “Right.”

  Once again, Gideon felt as if he had stepped into a world where he was playing a game he must win, except that he did not know the rules. And whatever those rules were, he would not be learning them today, nor would he pursue such sad and revealing statements with children, especially ones he did not know.

  Gideon regarded them and ignored the tightening of his chest. “I commend you on your care of your mother.”

  Then he smiled. “Rafe, my boy, are you certain that is a cat you have there?”

  The mangy, three-legged feline, with one and a half ears and half a tail, licked sweet-roll-icing off Rafe’s fingers as if it had not eaten in a month, precisely how the ghastly creature looked. Pry the burrs from its fur, where fur grew, and Rafe’s feline might increase in beauty all the way up to...god-awful.

  “’A course this is a cat.” Rafe grinned. “He’s our cat now.”

  He was a she, but Gideon did not know if you explained such things to four-year olds. He would have to ask Sabrina. He had a sneaking suspicion she would know.

  He did not know exactly how he felt about any of it.

  There was a good possibility that she had lied to him. Oh, all right, she had not lied, she had omitted the truth, as he had omitted his title. As the boys omitted the fact that they were two peas in the proverbial pod. As Sabrina omitted the fact that there were any peas at all.

  Gad, he was making himself dizzy.

  But, children? Two of them? Gideon groaned inwardly. Two more, he should say, if he considered the babe.

  No wonder Sabrina was nervous.

  Had he not recently thought he might not be ready to become immediately and directly responsible for a child? One child.

  Gideon felt almost ill, and needed to sit on the boulder while his stomach calmed and his head cleared.

  The boys watched him with wide, uneasy eyes. Eyes so closely resembling the shape of Sabrina’s that—

  Like the woman he believed was their mother, fear lived inside these two.

  Gideon ruffled Rafe’s hair, and Damon stepped near for a hair-ruffle of his own

  “How did you
manage to catch the cat?”

  “He let me pick him up, did you not, pretty boy,” Rafe crooned to his purring pet, his expression full of love and admiration.

  “What color would you say his fur is?” Gideon asked, thinking that it looked like mud to him.

  “It is like when we mix up our paints,” Rafe said, “and all the bright colors run together, except for that tan patch around one of his eyes.

  Ugly, Gideon thought.

  Damon tilted his head to study the scruffy creature in question. “I think he looks exactly the color of the stuff inside a Christmas pie.”

  “Mincemeat,” Rafe said. “We can call him Mincemeat.”

  Gideon barked a laugh. If a better name for that cat existed anywhere, he could not imagine what it might be. “Shall we head back across the street, before someone misses you?”

  They walked side by side, Gideon in the middle, Rafe petting nightmare-cat, Damon pensive.

  “Do you think Mincemeat is a quiet enough cat for your mother?” Gideon asked. “You know how she worries about noise and everything.” He asked the question with nonchalance, hoping to garner information about their mother, but neither boy spoke. Instead, their expressions had become serious.

  Together they crossed Grosvenor Square and Gideon stopped by the kissing gate of number twenty-three to bend on his haunches before them. “Your Mama is often sad, is she not?”

  Unsmiling, Damon nodded then he brightened. “But not so much since we came here.”

  Gideon experienced a bittersweet jubilation at that. She was less sad, perhaps, but no more trusting.

  “Even when she is sad, she plays games with us,” Rafe said. “When she can get away from that man.”

  “Let me ask you something else,” Gideon said. “And I want you to be honest in your answer. Are you afraid of me?”

  “No,” Damon said, as if his question was absurd. “We had fun together with the puppies, yesterday, and even hunting today, did we not?”

  “We certainly did,” Gideon said, that odd, threatening jubilation back. “Do you not wonder why you always see me around here?”

  “You take care of the kennel,” Damon said. “Miss Minchip told Mama that you are a nice man, so it is all right for us to talk to you.”