The Redemption of a Rogue

by Jess Michaels

  “Thank you,” he said softly. “We have worked hard to make it thus. It was Will’s club to begin with. It was struggling and I bought in as an owner. We changed the name to Fitzhugh’s because, obviously, White’s was already very much taken.”

  She smiled at the quip. “Do you like the work?”

  “I do,” he said, and he looked around almost as if he were seeing the room for the first time, too. “The membership is more diverse than in other clubs. We have the titled, of course. There is no avoiding that if one wants to be successful, but I’m much more interested in catering to those without title or family connection. Men who are building themselves up through industry and science, freedom and justice. If our salons are spoken about, as you said in the carriage, it is because our membership is collectively great of mind.”

  He was passionate as he spoke, as passionate as he often looked when he touched her, took her. His dark eyes were bright and intense and his hands moved in animated fashion.

  She smiled because she couldn’t help it. His enthusiasm, so often muted by design, was impossible to deny.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked, shifting slightly.

  She shook her head. “You’re very charming, Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  He choked out a laugh, and for only the second time since she met him, a broad smile broke across his face. Her heart stuttered once again at seeing it. Like finding the most beautiful pearl in an oyster, it was a rare and valuable thing.

  “Don’t spread that around,” he said. “If it is true I’ll have lost all my powers to impress those who require me to be dark and brooding.”

  “I won’t say a thing,” she said.

  He moved to the sideboard and fiddled with the bottles. “Tell me more about Lady Lovell. We can trust her, can’t we?”

  She nodded without hesitation. “Of course. We met at a soiree years ago. She had only recently married, I had been unhappy for a long time. We latched on to each other, told each other secrets no one else knew. Until you, that is.” She blushed, because it seemed she was now incapable of doing anything but revealing herself to him more and more.

  Even if she knew that it could end in no good.

  “You are more like sisters than friends,” he mused as he looked at her with a troubled gaze.

  Those words soothed her a little. “We truly are. I’m so lucky to have her in my life. I don’t know what I’ll do if I—” She bent her head and drew a few long breaths before she spoke again. “If I cannot see her ever again.”

  He stiffened and pivoted away. She saw the flex of his shoulders. The tension there. For her, about her, because of her. It felt like a wall between them, and she faced the fireplace slowly, creating her own distance between them.

  She lost herself in the flames for a moment, trying to settle her mind. It was only a sound from the door that shocked her from her troubled reverie. She pivoted toward it and her knees went weak.

  Aurora was standing at the door beside a handsome gentleman holding a cane. Her friend met her eyes, lifting her shaking hands.

  “Imogen!” she cried out as she released her companion and rushed across the room. They launched themselves toward each other at the same time, and Imogen clung to her in the tightest hug she’d ever shared with her friend.

  They parted, and she looked Aurora up and down. She had always been exquisitely beautiful. She had honey hair and green eyes, high cheekbones and a full, curvaceous figure. She was the kind of woman men turned to look at on the street. But she had never looked more beautiful than she did in that moment and Imogen recognized, with instant power and clarity, that it was because Aurora was in love.

  Out of nowhere, everything became so overwhelming. She glanced at Oscar, who was still standing at the sideboard, hand clenched against the tabletop, not looking at her. Putting up the wall that always came between them. She buried her head into Aurora’s shoulder and burst into humiliating tears.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I frightened you,” she murmured as Aurora stroked her hair gently, offering the comfort Imogen needed, but perhaps didn’t fully deserve.

  “What the fuck are all of you doing here?”

  She jerked her face toward Oscar and followed his gaze toward the door. Now it wasn’t just Aurora’s companion, the one Imogen was certain she was in love with, in the doorway. No, the room was now filling with people. Two white couples and a tall, handsome Black man had all filled the room and stood silently.

  And Oscar stared at them, all the color draining from his face, even as he glared in that commanding, almost menacing way he could sometimes muster. He looked truly troubled and she realized he knew some of Aurora’s friends.

  If his anger was any indication, he knew them very well.

  His attention broke from them and pivoted to her. The betrayal was lit in his eyes. “Imogen, this was not our arrangement.”

  As Oscar stared at her, Imogen caught her breath. He still couldn’t tell if she’d known about this ambush all along, or if it was a surprise. Still, when she stepped away from Lady Lovell and toward him, her hands shaking as she lifted them in silent entreaty, he wanted so much to reach for her. He had to fight that desire with all his might, fight to keep his gaze on hers, but not soften it.

  “I didn’t know,” Imogen said, softly but firmly. She was all but willing him to see it was true. He could read it on every line of her face.

  But he still wasn’t certain. After all, this roomful of people weren’t just some random collection of individuals. The man Aurora had come into the room with at first was Oscar’s half-brother, Nicholas Gillingham. One of the other women at the doorway was his half-sister, Selina Oliver…Huntington, he thought her married name was.

  And the other couple with them was the Duke and Duchess of Willowby. Old friends of his brother, the newest Duke of Roseford. In fact, Robert was the only one missing from this merry band of intruders.

  This connection between Lady Lovell and Imogen, that she’d brought his family, the one he’d banned from his life, along with her…

  That couldn’t be coincidence. And the only one he’d told any version of that story to was Imogen. So how could she not be involved?

  “She didn’t know,” Lady Lovell said firmly as she crossed to stand beside Imogen. She really was lovely, though her beauty dimmed a fraction when next to Imogen’s light.

  He also had no idea if she could be trusted. But she certainly surprised him when she examined him closely for a fraction of a moment, then held out a hand to Oscar.

  “Mr. Fitzhugh, you have no idea how much I owe you for helping my friend,” Lady Lovell continued. “I could never repay you.”

  Oscar took her outstretched hand at last, shaking it gently. “There is no repayment necessary. It was my pleasure.”

  His gaze moved to Imogen, and now she blushed. He had gone too far, revealed too much before this audience and embarrassed her. He had no idea why he’d done it. Why he’d felt a need to reconnect with her when he didn’t even know her intentions.

  Lady Lovell squeezed Imogen’s elbow gently, and he saw Imogen straighten a little, as if she had been buoyed up by her friend’s support. That made him like the viscountess even more.

  Lady Lovell cleared her throat and said, “But I swear to you that Imogen had no idea I was bringing this small army with me.” Oscar met Imogen’s eyes and she nodded slightly. Lady Lovell continued, “I thought you might not see us if I told you I was bringing help. But that is what this group is. Everyone here wishes to assist with this investigation. Help Imogen.”

  Oscar jolted. Could that be true? Was none of this sudden arrival of his family about him after all, but…her? And if so, how could he refuse that assistance if it might save her life?

  “I suppose I understand that,” he said reluctantly. He faced the gathered crowd. “I think most of us need no introduction.”

  “Yes, you wrote us off long ago, didn’t you?” Selina said as she glared at him and folded her arms.
She looked so much like their late father in that moment that he nearly flinched. “So why waste time on pleasantries now?”

  “Selina,” the man beside her said softly, his hand coming to the small of her back. Then he nodded toward Oscar. “I am Derrick Huntington, Mr. Fitzhugh. Selina’s husband.”

  “Selina is my sister, Imogen,” he said.

  Imogen caught her breath and stepped forward, her hand fluttering out like she wanted to touch him, comfort him, but not quite doing it. He found himself wishing she had in this dizzying moment. “What?”

  Oscar ignored the question and gave a slight nod for Huntington.

  “This is my partner and fellow investigator, Mr. Edward Barber,” Huntington continued, motioning to the Black man who was coming forward, hand extended.

  “A pleasure,” Oscar said, and meant it, for while he might have issues with Selina and Nicholas, he had none with her companions. “I’ve heard good things about your investigative prowess, gentlemen.”

  Lady Lovell moved to the door and took Oscar’s brother’s hand. Nicholas didn’t take his eyes off Oscar, but allowed her to draw him to Imogen. “This is Nicholas Gillingham. Nicholas, this is my best and truest friend, Imogen Huxley.”

  “He’s also my brother,” Oscar interjected, and for a moment he thought Imogen might fall over from the shock of it all.

  “Nicholas who you…” Imogen whispered, and Lady Lovell nodded to fill in a gap Oscar didn’t understand. “I-I didn’t know he was related to Oscar…Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  “Neither did I until Mr. Fitzhugh’s name came up in your letter,” Lady Lovell said, and glanced at Oscar.

  Nicholas came forward, slow with his cane. Oscar found himself glancing at his leg. Everyone knew Gillingham had nearly died in the war. Now he found himself wondering more about him. He’d always all but ignored his existence, going so far as to ban him from his club.

  “We’ve never met,” Gillingham said as he extended a hand. “Nicholas Gillingham.”

  It was a firm handshake when Oscar took it. His brother didn’t posture or pull. And when he let him go, his gaze wasn’t cold or cruel, rather kind but also curious.

  Oscar cleared his throat and turned away. He didn’t want kind. He didn’t want curious. Not from the siblings he’d made a purposeful effort to avoid.

  “And I recognize our other companions,” he said in the most breezy tone he could manage. “The Duke and Duchess of Willowby, if I’m not mistaken. Friends of our only legitimate sibling, the great Duke of Roseford. I assume you’re here on his behest?”

  He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone, and he noted how Willowby’s eyes narrowed in protective annoyance. “I am a friend of Robert’s,” he admitted. “But I’m not here because of that connection. My wife and I are in the War Department, Mr. Fitzhugh. I’m here on behalf of king and country.”

  Imogen gasped, and again her hand fluttered like she wanted to touch him in this moment. “You are the agents?”

  The Duchess of Willowby arched a brow at her husband. “You act as though you’ve heard of us.”

  “Only rumors of your existence,” Imogen breathed. “And that you were titled. He really is a duke, Oscar.”

  “I am that,” Willowby said with a shrug. “Amongst a great many other things. My title might be the least interesting thing about me.”

  Oscar glared at him. He supposed that was this man’s attempt to offer some kind of comfort when it came to this situation. That somehow he was better than the others who might hold his title. Well, he would believe that when he saw it. Which meant they should get down to business.

  “And now that we’ve participated in Mrs. Huntington’s required pleasantries,” Oscar said with a quick glance for Selina, who glared at him in return, “perhaps we can get down to what we’re all here for.”

  “Imogen, where have you been? What happened?” Aurora said, grasping her friend’s hands and drawing her to a settee in the middle of the room. The rest took places around them.

  Imogen shifted and her cheeks darkened. Oscar could feel her discomfort from across the room, and a wild and protective instinct rose up in him. Like he could just sweep her up and carry her away and never make her face this terrible thing ever again.

  A patently foolish idea considering this room was full of people who might actually be able to leverage their connections to save her.

  “I didn’t expect to be telling this story for an audience,” she whispered.

  Lady Lovell squeezed her hand. “They’re friends. I promise that. They can all be trusted.”

  Oscar shook his head and poured a splash of madeira into a glass. Imogen liked madeira in the afternoon if she had a drink. Sherry was for before supper. He knew that like he knew a dozen things about her. Like that she was stronger than she believed. Like that she was better than perhaps he deserved.

  He moved to the settee and handed the wine over to Imogen. She lifted her gaze to him, and again their eyes held. He tried with all his might to pour all his support into her, tried to show her that he would not walk away, nor let anyone hurt her in this room or any other.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said softly. “And you owe them nothing. None of them were invited, so they can all get the fuck out of my club.”

  Imogen swallowed as she glanced around at the gathering of strangers. His family…but strangers. “Can you truly help me?”

  The Duke of Willowby stepped forward. “I think we can, Mrs. Huxley. If we understand what is going on. But if you don’t wish to tell the story to an audience, we can step out. Only my wife would stay to record your statement if that would make you more comfortable.”

  Oscar glanced at the duke again. It was a kind offer. One he hadn’t expected and yet appreciated.

  “But she’ll repeat it to you all anyway,” Imogen said, letting out her breath in a shaky sigh. “She would have to in order for you to understand.” No one denied that, and Imogen glanced up at Oscar again. As if he somehow had the answers for her. How he wished he did. “It will be worth the humiliation,” she said at last.

  He clenched his teeth at the absolute defeat in her stare. The pain that she would have to tell this horrible story yet again to an audience of outsiders. He wanted to touch her so very badly in that moment. But she had already mentioned humiliation. If he touched her, he wouldn’t be able to hide their connection. So he watched helplessly as Imogen took a gulp of wine and handed her glass back to him.

  “I…I was in dire straits after my husband’s death,” she began. He listened as she told the story, the one he could have recited himself, he’d pondered it so often since she careened into him in that alleyway. Listened as her strength went on display for everyone in the room to see.

  Speaking of the murder she’d been witness to was the only time her voice wavered. The only time she hesitated. He felt her pain, her guilt, her horror on behalf of that poor woman, her terror that she would end up the same way. Discarded like trash in the river.

  He couldn’t help it then. He pressed a hand to her shoulder, fingers curling there for support as she continued.

  “I stumbled into Oscar—Mr. Fitzhugh—and he has been hiding me ever since, trying to help me prove what I know. What I saw. Who I saw. He saved my life,” she finished.

  He caught his breath as she lifted her gaze to him. That gaze that had become so important to every part of his life, his day, any moment he was in. This woman had wound her way into his soul since he met her. There was no denying the importance of that as he stared down into her eyes. At least not to himself.

  But he couldn’t let her see it. Certainly, he couldn’t let this roomful of people he didn’t trust be a part of it.

  He released her reluctantly and backed a step away. “I didn’t do much. But this situation goes deep. Much deeper than one murder.”

  Willowby nodded with a small glance toward his wife. “The War Department suspects as much. Between what we’ve gleaned and what help we’ve had fr
om Mr. Barber and Mr. Huntington’s sources, I think we’re close to uncovering the mastermind behind this…ring of blackguards.”

  Oscar tensed. Uncovering. That meant they didn’t know about Roddenbury and his involvement.

  Imogen seemed to have the same idea as she sent him a look and got to her feet. “If I could help I would—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, there was an explosion of glass from the huge window behind them, followed by a series of shots that ricocheted around the room.

  Oscar didn’t think, he didn’t plan—he just dove over the back of the settee and prayed he could protect Imogen. Because Imogen was all that mattered.

  Chapter 20

  Imogen screamed, but it was cut off as Oscar’s heavy weight hit her, knocking the air from her lungs and dragging her to the floor. He covered her, his arms around her as they had been around her so many times in the past few weeks.

  After what felt like a lifetime, the explosive shooting stopped and the room fell eerily silent.

  Oscar rolled away so he no longer fully covered her body, but he said nothing as he smoothed his hands over her. Under any other circumstances, the touch would have been erotic, but right now he just looked terrified.

  “Were you hit?” he whispered, and she wasn’t even certain that he was asking her as much as asking the universe. “Please tell me you weren’t hit.”

  “I-I don’t think so,” she said, and caught his arms. “Oscar.” He tried to shake her off and continued looking for any injury. “Oscar!” she repeated, this time sharper. “I’m not hit.”

  He cupped her chin, and then he leaned down and kissed her. Hard. Heavy. Swiftly over, but powerfully felt.

  She dropped her hands away from his arms and was about to ask him if he was hit when she noticed the wetness on her palm. Blood.

  “Oscar,” she said, sitting up. “You’re injured.”

  He glanced down at the hole in his jacket. Blood seeped from the wound beneath. The others were calling out now, indicating they were unharmed, and she grabbed his arm with both hands, putting pressure on the wound as they rose from behind the couch.