by The Rogue
EVERYONE IS IN LOVE WITH THE LIAR’S CLUB!
The Charmer
“Wonderfully sexy!”
—Teresa Medeiros, New York Times
bestselling author
The Spy
“Only a clever wordsmith can make this complex, suspenseful tale work so perfectly. Bradley pulls us into the wonderful world of the Liar’s Club and gives us a nonstop read brimming with puzzle after puzzle.”
—RT Bookclub
“With its wonderfully witty writing, superbly matched protagonists, and intrigue-steeped plot, the third of Bradley’s Liar’s Club historicals is every bit as much fun as The Pretender and The Impostor.”
—Booklist
“A must for readers of the Liar’s Club series and a good bet for those who haven’t yet started . . . I unhesitatingly recommend.”
—All About Romance
“Ms. Bradley has an effortless style to her prose.”
—The Romance Reader
“A Top Pick . . . the best of [The Liar’s Club] so far. Bless Celeste Bradley . . . she just seems to get better at it as she goes along.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
The Impostor
“Bradley carefully layers deception upon deception, keeping the intrigue level high and the tone bright . . . readers will race through this delightful comedy of errors and eagerly anticipate the next installment.”
—Publishers Weekly
“With delicious characters and a delectable plot, Bradley delivers another enticing read brimming with the mayhem and madness that come with falling in love when you least expect it. The devilishly funny double identities, witty dialogue, and clever twists will captivate.”
—RT Bookclub (Top Pick)
“Don’t miss this second book of the Liar’s Club series. With humor, passion and mystery, it’s absolutely delightful in every way! I can’t wait for the next one.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
The Pretender
“Funny and touching . . . totally entertaining.”
—Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling
author of Romancing Mister Bridgerton
“Bradley beautifully manipulates the sinfully sensual yet delicately romantic relationship . . . into an irresistible and supremely satisfying love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Bursting with adventure and sizzling passion to satisfy the most daring reader.”
—Romantic Times Bookclub (Top Pick)
“A charming heroine and a dashing spy hero make The Pretender a riveting read . . . entertained me thoroughly from beginning to end.”
—Sabrina Jeffries, USA Today bestselling
author of After the Abduction
“An engaging, lusty tale, full of adventure and loaded with charm.”
—Gaelen Foley, USA Today bestselling author
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by Celeste Bradley
To Wed a Scandalous Spy
The Charmer
The Spy
The Impostor
The Pretender
The
Rogue
(Book Five in the Liar’s Club series)
CELESTE BRADLEY
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
THE ROGUE
Copyright © 2005 by Celeste Bradley.
Excerpt from Surrender to a Wicked Spy copyright © 2005 by Celeste Bradley.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-93115-8
EAN: 9780312-93115-5
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 2005
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to the first person who read
the first words I wrote . . . and then asked for more.
Thank you, Joanne.
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge all those who keep reading and reading and reading . . . . Keep reading!
As always, my thanks to my friends and family, my editor and agent, and my darling Bill. You make it work.
The
Rogue
Prologue
It was time to come to a decision about the gambler.
The man in the darkened room slouched in a chair placed before the glowing coals in his hearth. His feet were up on a stool, his eyes were closed, and he gave every appearance of relaxation. However, if one were privileged to see the workings of his mind the view would be a busy one indeed.
The gambler . . .
The gambler could be useful—and, indeed, had already been so. The gambler could also be a handicap if the fellow’s weaknesses overcame him. He knew a great deal. It could be dangerous to leave such a piece on the board. And while the gambler’s loyalties had never actually faltered, they had never truly been tested either.
A pawn, so far, limited to moving in only one direction. Yet he was a pawn who could be promoted to a knight—or who could cost the match.
The coals glowed and the house settled and creaked with the advancement of the crisping autumn night. The clock on the mantel chimed the third hour. The man remained sprawled comfortably in his chair, thinking.
Yes, the gambler could yet be useful.
One last time.
Chapter One
ENGLAND, 1813
Lady Jane Pennington was feeling rather hunted. The ballroom was beginning to seem like a forest with impoverished bachelors waiting in the blinds, and she was the doe.
Jane propped herself up against the wall, half-hidden by a potted palm. She didn’t think her toes could bear any more dancing.
Instead, she spent several minutes seeking out her five female cousins, the girls commonly known in Society as the Maywell Mob. Lord Maywell was the host of this evening’s perspiration works—er, ball—and he was also Jane’s uncle.
The gentleman was nowhere in sight, of course, being far more interested in cards than he was in trying to further the acquaintance and marriage possibilities of his five daughters. Jane allowed herself to fume without betraying it in her expression.
Supplying escort and introductions for his daughters was the least the man could do, especially after saddling the poor things with the Maywell nose, not to mention the Maywell propensity to overindulge.
With only her overworked aunt, Lady Maywell, chaperoning all five daughters, the girls had been known to get themselves into some very silly situations.
She spotted her youngest cousin, Serena, shyly watching the dancers. At fifteen, Serena was far too young to be out, but that decision was not up to Jane. Lord and Lady Maywell had thrown their daughters wholesale at the Marriage Mart, evidently hoping that one would stick.
Abandoning the safety of her palm for a moment, Jane made her way to Serena and surreptitiously adjusted the girl’s sash and tucked a wayward strand of strawberry-blonde hair, much like her own, back into its arrangement.
“You’ve a stain on your bodice, dear,” she whispered to Serena. “Re-pin your silk flower over it.”
Serena gulped and nodded, then turned to run for the ladies’ retiring room.
Looking across the room, Jane noticed that Augusta, the eldest of the five, who was still not quite twenty, had found a glass of champagne somewhere. Lady Maywell was nowhere in sight so Jane moved swiftly.
A young man stepped into her path. “Lady Jane! May I beg this dance?”
Jane blinked at him. What the blazes was the little rotter’s name again? She’d been introduced to every male under fifty since coming to London three months ago and could scarcely recall a single individual.
They all remembered her, more’s the pity. Lady Jane Pennington, richly gowned and unwed and therefore a catch for any enterprising fellow who thought himself poorer than he should be. The attention had at first been bewildering, had briefly been flattering, but then had dissolved into annoying when she realized that there was only one reason for the adoration.
Her irritation must have leaked into her expression, for the young man actually took a step back. “My lady?”
Billingsly. The name popped into Jane’s head from nowhere in particular. “Mr. Billingsly—please forgive me.” She forced herself to be polite. After all, it wasn’t Mr. Billingsly’s fault that he was one of the most boring fellows it had ever been her pleasure to have her slippers trod by. “I’m sorry, but I’ve just found that my aunt requires my presence.”
That was true enough, if one considered that if Aunt Lottie knew of Augusta’s actions, she would certainly wish Jane to act on her behalf. “But I see that my cousin Julia is available for this dance.”
Disappointment chased the fellow’s smile away. Rallying, he bowed. “Of course. The pleasure will be all—”
Oh, horse apples. Augusta had drained the flute dry. Jane brushed past Mr. Billingsly with an absent nod. “You will excuse me, I’m sure.”
By the time Jane had maneuvered her way around the dancers, Augusta, who as far as Jane knew had never imbibed a drop of wine in her life, was already blinking dazedly at the shimmering chandelier above her head.
“Look, Jane,” she said when Jane approached her. “It makes little rainbows on the ceiling!” She hiccupped, then giggled. “Isn’t champagne divine?”
Oh, glory. Jane pulled her cousin away from her amazement and down the length of the ballroom. “It is time for you to get some air, dear. It’s far too warm in here.”
Augusta blinked and came willingly enough. “I am a bit dizzy.”
“Have you eaten anything today?”
Augusta shook her head virtuously. “Oh, no. I wanted to get into this gown. Don’t I look fine?”
Jane sighed. This was going to get worse before it got better. “You look lovely, dear heart. Now here we go. Out through these doors . . .”
A few moments later, the champagne was in the bushes and Augusta was on her way to her bedchamber with a maid, suddenly more than willing to bring her evening to an end. Disaster averted.
Jane remained outside on the terrace, breathing in the cool evening air. She herself wasn’t willing to reenter the stuffy ballroom either. She was only willing to go so far to satisfy Mother.
“Follow your uncle and aunt carefully. You’ve little experience at these things.”
Of course, that was then. Now she had three months of experience behind her and all she could say for it was, this was the most bored she’d ever been in her life. Her days were filled with girlish giggles and her evenings were filled with sore toes and false fawning.
She recorded every bit of it dutifully in her daily letters to Mother, although she couldn’t imagine why Mother would be interested.
Taking advantage of being completely unobserved for a moment, Jane indulged in a languorous stretch. Rubbing the back of her neck while rolling her head from side to side, she wondered if she’d fulfilled her obligation to attract young men for her cousins’ benefit for the evening. She was tired, and someone ought to look in on Augusta . . .
A wayward glimmer caught her eye. She looked up at the house before her, shading her eyes from the glare through the ballroom windows. There it was again.
High in a third-floor window—the second from the left—she saw another gleam of candlelight. There was something furtive about that candle. Wasn’t that the room her uncle had closed off, declaring the chimney structurally dangerous?
It certainly looked solid from here, but then, Lord and Lady Maywell were still able to maintain the appearance of prosperity. The house seemed elegant and richly appointed, although Jane knew for a fact that it was a decaying pile.
So if that room was dangerous—what was someone doing in there with that furtive candle?
Jane backed up a few steps, trying to see into the window. The terrace ended in a balustrade that ran to curving stone stairs to the left and right. Jane lifted her skirts with one hand and ran lightly down the stairs and out onto the lawn, never taking her eyes off that window.
The angle was still too severe. What a pity. For a moment, she’d thought she actually had something interesting to tell Mother.
She cast a look behind her. At the edge of the lawn, just outside the circle of light cast by the ballroom windows and terrace lanterns, stood a grand old elm.
Jane liked that tree, for it was the only thing in her relations’ tightly maintained garden that reminded her of the old wild groves in Northumbria.
Once upon a time, she had been an accomplished climber of trees. She cast one last thoughtful glance at the window. Was the candle gone?
A flicker of light from the upper window encouraged her. The sturdy-looking branches of the elm virtually dared her.
Jane smiled to herself and crossed the lawn to the tree.
The ballroom was crowded with predators intent on sensual fulfillment, virgins intent on a triumphant match, and chaperones determined to keep them apart—usually an interesting mix, certain to provide an evening’s worth of cynical amusement.
At the moment, however, Ethan Damont—gambler, rampant bachelor, and gainfully unemployed counterfeit gentleman—only wanted to find the back door.
Over the years, Ethan had learned that it was always best to leave by the less obvious exit after a lucrative night, in case someone belatedly decided that a certain professional gambler had been . . . well . . . “cheating” was really the only word for it.
It wouldn’t do to have his sleeves and pockets searched at the moment. Ethan was very proud of his unbroken record of evident honesty and he wasn’t about to tempt fate now by sailing out the front door in full sight.
A crimson glove caught his arm, forcing him to pause. A dark-eyed lady with a memorable bosom smiled up at him.
“Why, what a pleasure it is to see you again, Mr. Damont.” The last was said in a bedroom purr. For a moment, Ethan fondly recalled other names she’d called him in that very tone.
Of course, the lady’s husband hadn’t been very happy to hear cries of “Faster, my stallion!” coming from his wife’s bedroom during that best-not-remembered house party.
But it was time for him to leave. With a last wistful look at the aforesaid bosom, Ethan bowed and smiled regretfully. “I must beg your leave, madam. Urgent business, you know.”
He hadn’t taken more than ten strides when another gloved hand caught him short. This one was clad in emerald silk that perfectly matched the stones around the neck of a statuesque blonde.
“Darling, I didn’t know you were here!” She inhaled deeply. Miraculous things happened within the structured bodice of her jet-black gown.
Ah, the Widow Bloomsbury . . .
The nights—and mornings, and afternoons—he had spent in the widow’s bed shone with a fiery glow in Ethan’s memory. So very limber!
Ethan kissed the back of that gloved hand. “Another time, another place, pet,” he murmured. “I must be off.”
He turned away to see a vaguely familiar lady in sapphire blue moving toward him with an intent gleam in her eye. Bloody hell, perhaps this ball didn’t contain any virgins after all! He dashed around the dancers to avoid her.
This time he kept his head up and his e
yes peeled. He managed to detour around the next several ladies heading in his direction and make the door to the terrace without having to stop again.
Breathless and feeling rather like the fox before the hounds, Ethan cast one last desperate look behind him, then slipped outside into the dark garden.
Evidently what Lady Jane Pennington’s mother had often told her was true. One never knew when one would be glad one wore a fresh pair of knickers. Thank goodness she’d donned a brand-new pair this evening. When one was hanging upside down from a tree, the condition of one’s knickers and garters became of vital importance.
Jane stopped trying to fight back the skirts that hung over her face and arms and hung quietly by her knees from the tree branch, swinging only slightly in a pensive manner.
The ground—too far down to simply let go and fall. The branch—impossible to grasp when her upper body was sheathed in her own inverted skirts. “ ‘The new silhouette is very narrow, miss’,” Jane quoted the absent dressmaker viciously to herself. “ ‘Small steps are all the rage, miss. Elegance first, miss’.”
Right then, time for another try. Carefully bunching the fabric in her hands as she went, she worked the hems of her petticoat and gown up to her elbows, then higher, this time successfully freeing her face and shoulders. Taking a deep breath of cool night air, she shot a leery glance at the ground just a bit too far below her.
The worst of it was that it was all for nothing. The glimmer in the window was long gone now and she hadn’t seen anything worthwhile.
Taking a deep breath, she swung her body back and forth, reaching upward at the top of each arc to grasp for her limb with both hands. Her fingers slipped on the crumbling bark the first and second times. She swung upward once more.