The Redemption of a Rogue

by Jess Michaels

  His cheek twitched. “They would put you in the street?”

  “They would.” She set her napkin on the table with a sigh. “I realized I would need to make alternate arrangements for my future. I thought of marrying again, but my own family is dead. There is no money. And my husband’s family has hindered my ability to come back into Society.”

  “Why?” he asked, his brow furrowing again.

  “They claim that seeing me makes it difficult,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. “And perhaps that is true. Perhaps I remind them of Warren and that chokes them in their grief. But they would destroy me for their comfort.”

  “Their kind always would,” he said, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

  “Personal experience?” she asked.

  He shifted and was silent for a beat. “I know a great many of them in my profession.”

  She thought it might be more than that, but didn’t press the subject. This man’s history was none of her affair.

  “I suppose you do.” She worried her hands in her lap. “The next option for a woman like me was to become a man’s mistress.”

  “That must have been a shocking decision to come to for a woman raised as I assume you were.” There was no judgment to his tone, and that helped her feel less embarrassed by the confession.

  “At first, yes,” she admitted. “But I was not…opposed to what happens between a man and a woman in a bed.”

  His fingers clenched on the tabletop but he didn’t react in any other way so she continued, “And I saw that some women were treated very well. I tried to make discreet inquiries.”

  “And used your real name,” he said.

  She nodded. “It made sense to do so since if I succeeded in obtaining a protector, I would be publicly seen as a kept woman. But it only caused me trouble. My husband’s family was incensed. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I sought a protector, I would be put out of my home immediately and into the street.”

  “And you have no one to take you in?” he asked.

  “My dearest friend is Aurora Lovell, another widow, also left destitute by her situation. She hardly has enough for herself.”

  “Viscount Lovell,” he said, apparently pulling from a never-ending catalog in his mind. “Died of an apoplexy, wasn’t it? In a bawdy house just barely better than the Cat’s Companion.”

  “You are a wonder,” Imogen breathed. “How do you keep your information organized in that mind of yours?”

  He actually looked a little uncomfortable at the compliment. “It matters little. There must be other friends.”

  “There were. There are. But most have gone by the wayside. Some cannot afford to associate themselves with my fall. Some are not allowed. Some are fair-weather friends more interested in position than in helping.” She wished she sounded less invested in that. Less hurt. “So I am on my own.”

  “How did you come to the Cat’s Companion, then?” he pressed.

  “The better places, someplace like Donville Masquerade or Vivien Manning’s… I couldn’t turn to them to find a…a…”

  “Lover,” he said, his tone suddenly rougher. “You’ll have to find a way to say it, Mrs. Huxley.”

  “Please, won’t you call me Imogen,” she gasped. “It seems so wrong to talk about this while you use my husband’s name.”

  Fitzhugh held her gaze a moment and then nodded. “Imogen.”

  She had heard her name said a thousand times, by dozens of different people. It had never sounded the way it did rolling off this man’s tongue. She had never reacted the way she did now, her entire body pulsing with tension. Her sex clenching against nothingness.

  Perhaps she should have learned to live with Mrs. Huxley because this was…so very wrong. Was she so far fallen that the first handsome man who showed her any kindness made her a wanton?

  “I-I—” She struggled to find purchase against the tide of these unwanted feelings.

  His pupils dilated slightly and he said, “You were explaining why you couldn’t go to a more respectable place.”

  “Yes.” She fought to regain her breath. “Yes. Places like those were crawling with people who might report back to my husband’s family. I realized right away they weren’t safe. So I started to go…lower. I was given a card for the Cat’s Companion and so I went there.”

  “Not a very easy place to find a permanent protector,” he said. “It’s a brothel in the truest sense. Men there want a night, nothing more.”

  She nodded. “I know. Last night wasn’t my first night there, you see. Still, I hoped that if I pleased one enough…” She trailed off. “I don’t know if you can understand the kind of desperation I was facing. Perhaps it clouded my judgment. Perhaps it still does.”

  “I understand a little,” he said. “How many nights did you go there, seeking out a savior?”

  “Twice,” she said with a shudder. “As I said, the first was a few days ago, but it…it didn’t go well. He could not complete the…matter and got angry with me for it. He might have harmed me, I think, if he hadn’t passed out drunk before he could. My friend Aurora was horrified. She begged me not to return. I should have listened.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So you’ve escaped with your life twice.”

  “Three times. The reason I ran away and saw the body was because the man I was meant to…to service sounded like an even more brutal one.”

  He pushed to his feet, his chair screeching across the floor as he did so. He paced to the window and stood there, broad back to her. She held her breath, for she didn’t know if he had decided she was too much trouble or not.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said softly.

  He faced her slowly. “How did you see the body?”

  She shut her eyes, the images bombarding her again. She hadn’t realized she was speaking, but she was. And she told him about running, about staggering upon the scene. About seeing that poor woman’s body.

  “What did she look like?” he whispered.

  “Blonde hair,” she murmured. “I couldn’t see much else from that height and in the shadows.”

  That seemed to appease him and he moved back toward the table. “You said it was the Earl of Roddenbury down below. Are you certain?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Maggie said his name. And he was a friend of my husband. I’ve seen him many times over the years, though we’ve rarely interacted. It was him, I’m certain of it.”

  His lips had pursed, thinning their full line. She drew a long breath.

  “You saved me, Mr. Fitzhugh. I don’t just think it, I know it. I owe you more than I could ever repay,” she continued. “But I cannot impose upon your hospitality any longer. I will determine what to do to protect myself…somehow. Just have your man call me a hack and I can be on my way.”

  Saying those words was terrifying, but she had to do so. This was not this stranger’s trouble to deal with. She had to manage it herself.

  He tilted his head, his gaze unyielding. “You aren’t leaving.”

  Chapter 4

  The shock that flooded Imogen’s expression was obvious, as was the anger that followed. She lifted her chin, her jawline going harder, and Oscar saw a strength in her, that spunk that had been revealed only briefly last night. She had heart and he had always been attracted to that concept. Not that most men wouldn’t be attracted to this woman.

  That thought pulled him back. She might be desirable, that was a fact, but he couldn’t afford to be drawn to her. It wasn’t in the plan, for one thing. For another, what she needed was help, not some stranger panting over her. He had to get himself in line.

  “You have no right—” she began.

  He held up a hand. “Imogen, these people killed someone. And if you’re right about Roddenbury, they are powerful people. Do you really think they’ll let you skip off into the world where you might tell your tale and perhaps bring their house down around them?”

  He saw that sink in. Saw her lose hope. He hate
d himself for being the one to do that to her, but what choice was there? She had to come to grips with the truth of the matter if he was to have any hope in helping her. Saving her.

  He had to save her.

  “We could…tell the guard…” she began.

  He shook his head slowly. “Without any evidence, you’re going to tell the guard that an earl murdered a woman who worked at the Cat’s Companion? I have lived in this world a long time, my dear—I can tell you they’ll turn away without a thought.”

  Her bottom lip began to tremble. “Because she doesn’t matter.”

  “And he does.”

  “Then there is no hope,” she whispered. “What would you have me do? Change my name and run away to the country? Look over my shoulder for the rest of my miserable days?”

  He shifted because the fact was, it might turn out that way in the end. “Let me help you. I have resources—I’ll work with them to try to figure out how to manage this. If we gather enough evidence, we might be able to stop these people. In the meantime, you will stay with me.”

  She had gotten up from the table and walked away while he spoke, and now she pivoted to face him. “No!”

  He arched a brow. “That option is so distasteful to you?”

  “No.”

  She stepped forward and he watched as her amber gaze flitted over him. She licked her lips, a tell that she wasn’t immune to him, just as he wasn’t immune to her. He ignored it. The circumstances were still the same, after all.

  “No,” she repeated, more softly. “I just…I can’t…you wouldn’t want…” She huffed out a breath in apparent frustration. “You are a busy man. You have a successful club built on catering to men like Roddenbury. And I am nothing to you. Nothing at all. Why would you do this?”

  He gripped his hands at his sides. Confession wasn’t in his nature, it never had been. It was too…dangerous. But these circumstances called for something like it. Some way to make her understand that he was on her side. That they would fight this together.

  “There was…a woman,” he said through clenched teeth. “She…she disappeared from the same brothel six months ago. There is evidence she is also dead.”

  Imogen’s hand came up to cover her mouth and she moved toward him with a long step. “What did she look like?” she whispered.

  He understood why she asked. The same reason he’d asked about the dead woman she saw. “Not the woman you saw last night,” he assured her. “Louisa was red-haired.”

  Some of the tension left her face. “Her name was Louisa?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She reached out and touched his hand with hers. The barest of grazes of her fingers across his knuckles. A touch meant to comfort, and he supposed it did. But it also did something else. He stared down into her upturned face, and for a moment he felt nothing but desire for her.

  It had been a long time since all the other emotions bled away. There was something peaceful about that, even if it resulted in a cauldron of need.

  He moved away from her. He had to. And he cleared his throat. “I should have protected her and I didn’t,” he said. “But I will protect you. I will work out how to…save you.”

  “Can you?” she whispered, her voice a little rougher.

  “Save you?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He moved toward her then. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted to, but he found himself coming across the distance between them in a few long steps. She reacted. A catch of her breath, a frisson of fear, but also something else. Something that called to the need in his own blood. Something that was so very unexpected.

  “I swear to you on my own life that I will do everything in my power, Imogen.”

  She stared up at him, their gazes locked, and her breath shuddered. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and there was nothing in the world he wanted to hear more than whatever that was.

  But he couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t want it. Couldn’t pursue it.

  He stepped back. “You must want to change,” he said.

  She glanced down at her dress. “I…yes. But how? Unless you are going to send someone to my home?”

  He shifted. “I’m watching your house, but I assume I’m not the only one. Sending someone there would be too dangerous at present. But I…” He shut his eyes. “I have a few things here. They won’t be a perfect fit, mind you, but close enough. I’ve arranged a bath to be drawn for you. You can tidy up while my staff finds those things and readies them.”

  When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him. For a moment, he thought she might speak. Might ask him something. But then she turned away. “Very well.”

  He grunted as a reply as she moved toward the door to the study. There she turned and speared him with a glance one last time. “Thank you again, for all your kindness.”

  She left before he could respond, which was a good thing because all he could do was let his breath out in a long stream. Had he been holding it? It seemed that was what he did whenever she came near him. Made him hold his breath.

  Made him lose it. And it had been a long time since a woman made him do that. Which made Mrs. Imogen Huxley very dangerous, indeed.

  Imogen sank down in the fine brass bathtub, letting the water cover her shoulders. It felt like heaven, for in her own home it was all basin washes for her. So this was a luxury. One she would have to thank Fitzhugh for later.

  Her mind flitted to him, as it had been since she departed his company less than an hour before. Oscar Fitzhugh. He probably had a lot of women who sat in tubs thinking about him. Certainly he drew the attention if he was in a room.

  Once he had it, he kept it. Those dark eyes always seemed to be boring into her. She had to assume it was the same with anyone else he encountered. She only wished she could read him. When he looked at her it was all endless depths, but nothing within them. Was he angry she was here disrupting his life? Was he happy to help her?

  Did he only do so because of the woman he’d spoken of earlier? Louisa. The woman he…had he loved her? Imogen couldn’t tell about that, either. He was, in short, a mystery.

  Behind the screen, she could hear the maid tidying up. Imogen shifted a little in the water, grabbing for the fragrant soap that had been left on the ledge of the tub. As she lathered up her hands, she called out, “How long have you worked for Mr. Fitzhugh, Mary?”

  “Oof, as long as I can remember. Me ma worked for him, and when I came of age, I was offered a job in the house, as well.”

  Imogen worried her lip. If she’d been raised in this house, the girl would have some insight into the man. For safety purposes alone, of course, Imogen had to know about him, didn’t she? If she were going to truly put her life, her future, into his hands.

  “What sort of person is he?” She wished she sounded less invested in the answer, but there it was.

  The noise of tidying and arranging continued on the other side of the screen as Mary said, “I couldn’t say a cross word about the man. When Ma died, he was kind as could be. Gave me all the time I needed.”

  Imogen swallowed hard. When her mother had died, Warren had expected her to be fine within hours. And he was her husband. Yet Fitzhugh had offered such grace and kindness to his servant. That certainly spoke very highly of him.

  “What about his business?” she asked, knowing she shouldn’t. It was none of her affair.

  “Fitzhugh’s Club?” the girl asked. “Though I’ve never seen it, it’s very successful. He works himself ragged to ensure it. Eats at that desk of his more often than at a table. Spends plenty of nights there until two or three in the morning overseeing it. We’re all very proud to work for such a dedicated person.”

  “Indeed, I have only heard good things about the place,” Imogen murmured, but her mind was turning on this information. So the man was driven. Not a surprise. One could see that by just the way he held himself.

  “Of course he’s handsome as the devil,” the young woman continued. “But y
ou know that, of course. If you become his mistress, you will be well pleased.”

  Imogen jerked to attention and water sloshed around her. “His—his mistress!” she gasped out. “Oh no. I mean to say that isn’t…”

  Mary popped her head around the edge of the screen. Her cheeks were bright pink. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I assumed. Please don’t be angry.”

  Imogen struggled for calm. After all, how could it not be assumed that was what she had been brought here for? She and Fitzhugh had been alone in his house last night, unchaperoned, whether or not she had shared his bedroom.

  “I’m not angry,” she assured the young woman.

  Relief washed over her face. “Very good. Th-they should have those gowns almost ready, Mrs. Huxley. I’ll go check on them if you’re well on your own.”

  “I am,” Imogen said, forcing a bright smile so the poor girl would no longer look so sick.

  She slipped away and as the door shut, Imogen rested her head back on the rolled towel Mary had placed as a pillow on the edge of the tub.

  Fitzhugh’s lover! What a thought. One she couldn’t get out of her mind. What kind of lover would he be? Surely he would bring the command he exhibited in life into the bedroom. Those full lips would feel like heaven on her skin. Those strong hands would be like magic on her body.

  She blinked up at the intricately carved ceiling above. Great God, what was she doing thinking such things? What was she doing feeling the pulse of need at those thoughts? A need she could easily slake by…

  She slid her hands beneath the water, spread her legs a fraction and smoothed a fingertip across her entrance. She was wet, and from far more than the bathwater. Electric pleasure jolted through her. Her breath trembled from her lungs as she repeated the action.

  Her whole body thrummed with tension. Both from the horror of her situation and a more pleasant kind. She knew release would help. It was something she’d learned over the lonely years of her marriage. She could make the pressure lift with a few strokes of her hand, even if the relief didn’t last forever.