The Millionaire Rogue Read online

  Hope tensed at the sound of Sophia’s name on Lord Harclay’s lips. While the earl did not insult her—his words were, Hope knew, meant as a compliment—Hope was overwhelmed by the fierce urge to protect her. Possess her, even; Hope longed for nothing more than to take the earl by the throat and tell him in no uncertain terms that Sophia was his, damn it, and that a thieving prick like him had no right to even think her name, much less speak it.

  Biting the inside of his lip, Hope took a deep breath through his nose. Tread lightly. Harclay is your largest depositor. Think of the bank, all you’ve dreamed and accomplished in its name.

  “Let’s do.” Hope set down his cigar and rose. “I’ve yet to see one of these new-fashioned tables. Is it still lined with felt? And the pockets, I’ve heard they’re all the rage now.”

  Lake slid to his feet with the speed and grace of a tiger on the prowl—had he always moved like this, like a healthy man, a whole man not crippled by injury?—and together with Hope followed the earl out of the room, Hope all the while resisting the urge to slip the pocketknife from his waistcoat and sink it between Harclay’s proud, well-formed shoulders.

  The earl’s billiards room was as tastefully appointed as the rest of his home. Nearly as long and wide as a town coach, the billiards table occupied the majority of the space, while an equally enormous brandy board took up the rest.

  Across the room, Lady Violet was arm in arm with Harclay’s windswept sister, Lady Caroline, their heads bent in deep conversation. As soon as he entered, Violet halted midstride and met his eyes. He replied with a quick, grim shake of his head.

  Nothing. The earl revealed nothing.

  Though that didn’t mean Hope absolved Harclay of all guilt. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact: Harclay’s assiduous hospitality, his offer of aid, and his fawning over the ladies present were suspicious for a selfish man such as he. In all their years as banker and client, the earl had never extended Hope an invitation to his home in Hanover Square. Until now, of course.

  Hope had yet to untangle the intricacies of Lord Harclay’s plot; but a plot there certainly was, Hope had no doubt. He merely needed proof, and then he would be free to make his move.

  Violet nodded, slipping her arm from Lady Caroline’s and making to walk toward him, when the earl stopped her in her tracks. He murmured something in her ear; she flushed pink.

  Dear God. If Hope didn’t know any better, he would say they were well acquainted indeed. Perhaps even more than that.

  He resisted the urge to separate them, to warn Lady Violet off lest the earl do her irreparable harm. But if anyone could snare Harclay at his own game, it was Violet; she was smart and witty and could hold her liquor better than any man this side of the Channel.

  Besides, Hope knew the lady would take offense at the intrusion. Violet wanted to prove she was capable of remedying the mess she believed she’d caused. And while Hope knew she was not guilty in the slightest, she did stand to lose everything on the outcome of their hunt for the jewel. Who was Hope to question her methods, or dictate instruction? He would have to trust her, whether or not he understood what in hell she was doing.

  He balled his fingers into fists.

  Tread lightly.

  He turned, his pulse leaping at the knowledge that she would be there. She. The one he’d wanted to claim. Still wanted.

  The one for whom he’d nearly thrown it all away.

  Sophia sat on a far settee, color high as her mother sat purse-lipped beside her. Lady Blaise had two eyes and a brain; doubtless she’d witnessed Hope’s interlude with Sophia in the drawing room earlier, their shameless ogling of one another. And doubtless she was displeased. For what lady in her right mind wanted a man like Hope—tradesman, orphan, foreigner—for her only daughter?

  He felt her disappointment as his own. He knew it; Lady Blaise did, too: Sophia deserved better.

  And yet he couldn’t stay away from her.

  In the golden light of the candelabra, Sophia looked lovely. Her lips were stained plum from French wine; the long strands of pearls at her neck gleamed a shade paler than her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and wet, reflected the fire’s flame. When she turned them to him, his blood rushed with heat.

  “Ladies.” He nodded his head in greeting. “I hope I did not bore you overmuch with my company at dinner.”

  Sophia grinned. “No more than usual, Mr. Hope. Oh, look, Violet and Lord Harclay are pairing up for a go at this billiards nonsense. Shall we join them?”

  Without waiting for a response she held out her hand. He took it, ignoring Lady Blaise’s bland smile of dismay, and tucked her arm into the crook of his own.

  Alone, at last! If they weren’t in polite company he would’ve danced a jig. Hope was not prepared for the force of his happiness at having Sophia by his side; he’d missed her more than was proper or good. Much more, indeed, than he cared to admit.

  He had told himself to keep his distance. It would not do to further embroil her in the worsening crises that now dominated his every waking hour. While the matter of the jewel thief was being resolved, that of Sophia’s mysterious note and the bastard who threatened her and her family was not.

  Still. To draw her to him was akin to the beating of his heart: an impulse, an inexplicable necessity over which he had no control.

  There were four, maybe five steps from the settee to the billiards table. Hope had no time to waste.

  “Sophia.” God, what to say to her? There was so much, he felt about to burst. “I. Er. I want you to know that just because I haven’t—haven’t been in contact doesn’t mean I don’t think of you. Often.” All the time.

  He watched the working of her throat. “That is kind of you to say, Thomas. And how goes the hunt for the French Blue?”

  “Fine. Awful. I don’t want to talk about that bloody diamond anymore. Not when I’m with you.”

  Sophia turned to him, bottom lip between her teeth. “So what do you want to talk about?”

  Hope swallowed. Truth be told, what he wanted had nothing at all to do with talking.

  He lowered his voice. “What I’m doing—I do to protect you, Sophia. Every time I enter your life I make a mess of things. If I’m not careful I could very well ruin that brilliant match you’ve always wanted. I hear”—he swallowed again—“your courtship with the Marquess of Withington progresses apace.”

  Her eyes snapped to meet his. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I am banker to the most prominent arbiters of the fashionable world, Sophia. That you have captured the attention of this season’s most eligible bachelor has not gone unnoticed. I daresay you’ve sent every debutante and her mama into fits of rage and jealousy. The marquess is no small prize—as his banker, I would know.”

  Sophia drew to a stop, pulling Hope to her side. She looked at him, eyes narrowing as if she fought back tears. She opened her mouth, but thought better of it; quickly she looked away and resumed their stroll.

  “Any word from La Reinette?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Whomever is after me tightens the noose; there was a short but direct attack printed in the gossip pages a few days ago. It’s only a matter of time before he reveals that I am the author of a courtesan’s salacious memoirs.”

  Hope’s grip on Sophia tightened. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, Sophia, you have my word. If you should come to any harm on my account—” He looked at her. “I won’t let them touch you.”

  She returned his gaze levelly. “Then let me help you. We can smoke these men out together, you and I—”

  Sophia jumped at a sudden, deafening thud. Hope turned just in time to see Lady Caroline, cue poised above the billiards table, launch a cue ball smack-dab into the middle of Lady Blaise’s forehead. With a strangled cry, Lady Blaise toppled over on the settee; her arms flailed as she landed none too gently on the floor, and was inundated in the foaming lace of
her petticoats.

  It all happened so quickly Hope could hardly keep pace. The earl, that son of a bitch, was at Lady Blaise’s side in an instant, cradling her head in his hands as he cooed soothing words.

  “Bring water,” he called to the footmen, “and smelling salts. Lots of smelling salts!”

  Across the room, Hope met Mr. Lake’s gaze. Was Harclay’s sudden tenderness all part of the act? Over brandy and cigars the man was rotten, callous, vainglorious in the extreme. And yet here he was, gently whispering sweet nothings into a wounded old woman’s ear.

  The man was a paradox.

  Sophia, her attempts to help having been shooed away by the gentleman, watched the proceedings in mute horror, letting out a small sigh of relief only when the earl helped Lady Blaise to sit upright. Her gaze landed on Hope and Sophia, still arm in arm before her. While her eyes rolled a bit in her head, her mouth settled into a tight, colorless line.

  Waving away Harclay’s offer of a bed and rest, she allowed him to haul her to her feet. “That is most kind of you, Lord Harclay, most kind indeed, but I would hate to put you out. No, I believe I’ll be quite all right, if you’ll just help me to my carriage. Come, Sophia, it’s time to leave.”

  Hope reached out to help one second too late. As if he were King Arthur and she the Lady Guinevere, Harclay swooped Lady Blaise into his arms and without so much as a grunt carried her from the room.

  If Hope hadn’t wanted to strangle the earl before, he certainly was possessed of the urge now.

  The rest of the party followed, Lady Caroline wailing her apologies, Sophia trotting behind in breathless silence.

  As if by magic, Sophia’s family coach was brought round the front of the house. With great care, Harclay deposited Lady Blaise onto the carriage’s cushioned seat. Together they laughed at some private joke, Lady Blaise’s eyes twinkling despite being hit in the head by a cue ball.

  And then everyone was shrugging into his jacket or her pelisse. As they made their way out the door, Hope noticed Lake and Lady Caroline hanging back in the entry hall. They glared at one another, hungrily.

  The earl and Violet, meanwhile, were staring drunkenly into one another’s eyes as he helped Violet into the carriage; the horses shuffled and huffed.

  Hope’s heart hardened at the knowledge the night was over. For a moment he pressed Sophia to him, as if to say, I am not ready to let you go. She met his eyes, and from the flickering heat he saw there, Hope could tell Sophia was not ready to let him go, either.

  How was it the hours he spent in her presence passed as minutes, seconds, even? He’d been looking forward to this evening for days; and now, in the space of half a heartbeat, it was over.

  “Good night, Miss Blaise.” He did not dare say more: that he wanted to see her again, tonight, tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, too. When it came to Miss Sophia Blaise, it was never enough.

  Her hand lingered in his as he helped her into the carriage. The sound of Lady Blaise’s snoring broke the silence; Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Good night, Mr. Hope.”

  They met eyes one last time. He knew he was grinning like a fool, but he didn’t care. Sophia was happy, and he was, too.

  A poignant, bittersweet sort of happiness. He could not bear to see her go; the torture, it was singular and far too painful to witness, especially with brandy in his belly and a gallon of wine besides.

  Hope pressed a yellow boy into the groom’s palm with instructions that his coach be sent back to his house—yes, yes, he was quite sure he wanted to walk, the night being as fine as it was.

  He turned his back and stalked into the darkness.

  Seventeen

  Sophia watched Mr. Hope’s shoulders disappear into the shadows of Brook Street. Beneath the layers of satin and lace and wine her blood thrummed, skin burning from his touch. She’d never wanted anything more in her life than to follow him down the lane, allow him to swallow her in his arms, put his hands on her as he had that night on the shining expanse of his desk.

  Beside her, Mama snored softly, the trauma of tonight’s events apparently too much to bear.

  Across the coach Sophia met eyes with her cousin; Violet pressed her first fingers to her lips and reached for the latch.

  Heaven above, she was going back in!—back to the Earl of Harclay’s lair.

  If Violet was going, then Sophia was, too. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to catch up with Mr. Hope.

  “You wouldn’t dare. And if you go, I want to come with you,” Sophia hissed.

  Violet returned Sophia’s gaze; her dark eyes were pleading. “Next time, Sophia, I promise. I’ll be home before dawn.”

  Before Sophia could protest, Violet bolted from the carriage.

  Mama snorted in her sleep. The coach creaked into motion.

  Sophia collapsed against the squabs in defeat. Violet and her deuced theories about Harclay being the jewel thief. Seemed more like an excuse to have all the fun, and stay out all hours of the night.

  Next time indeed. Next time Sophia would escape first and never look back.

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when they arrived home. Together with the driver, Sophia brought Lady Blaise to her room. She and Fitzhugh undressed Mama and tended to her injury, which, as one might imagine, was no small task.

  An hour after Sophia fell into bed, exhausted, she lay awake, unblinking in the darkness, thoughts and body alive with the memory of Mr. Thomas Hope.

  She’d been about to confess everything to him in that moment he’d brought up the marquess. Yes, their courtship proceeded apace, and yes, they had become friends, good friends. She liked to think she and Withington genuinely enjoyed one another’s company.

  In an innocent, companionable sort of way. Though their acquaintance was awkward at first, it had blossomed into friendship; and while that friendship was lovely and good, it was certainly no romance.

  Sophia did not feel for the marquess the heat, the desire, the longing to know and do and say more that she did for Mr. Thomas Hope. Tonight made her realize that while she felt affection for Withington, her feelings for him would never go beyond that.

  Because whatever was beyond that—well, she felt it for Thomas. Dear God, merely occupying the same room as Hope made her heart soar and blood rush.

  She couldn’t explain it. All Sophia knew was she’d never felt this way for anyone else—including, it seemed, the Marquess of Withington.

  Sophia threw off the covers. It was suddenly stifling in her chamber, her sheets and night rail damp with sweat. She hobbled to her feet, exhaustion ringing in her every limb, and made for the window.

  With no small effort she hauled it open. She closed her eyes and took a deep, contented pull of fresh air.

  And was then promptly hit in the nose by something cold, hard.

  Her eyes flew open, landing on the narrow alley below. There in the shadows stood a figure, its hooded face turned toward Sophia.

  “Mademoiselle.” La Reinette’s accent was immediately recognizable, even in a whisper. She dropped the rocks she held in her hands and motioned for Sophia to join her. “Your timing is very good. Come, quickly, we hurry.”

  Sophia blinked, meeting with mixed success as she attempted to clear Thomas and his fingers from her thoughts.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes!” Madame hissed. “Come, quickly! They will see me.”

  Sophia nodded, darting through her chamber as she tossed whatever she found—morning gown, spencer—over her head.

  The routine came back to her in a heady rush. She tucked her boots into the crook of her arm; then she listened at the door, sliding into the hall when she was satisfied the house was abed. Down the stair, and down again, tiptoeing through the servants’ hall to the kitchen’s back entrance.

  La
Reinette waited just beyond the stoop, hood pulled low. When Sophia appeared the madam looked up, her dark eyes reflecting the shallow light of the night sky above.

  They moved through the darkness in silence, Sophia’s heart alight as they traced the familiar route. She’d missed this: the clean night air, the gas lamps flickering silently as Sophia’s thoughts swirled with scenes from Madame’s latest adventure.

  The Glossy blazed with light and laughter, a glowing star amid the sea of stony silence that was Mayfair past midnight. La Reinette led her past the back rooms, crowded with men in embroidered waistcoats and the beautiful, butterfly-like ladies who attended them, to a study at the front of the house.

  “Come in, mademoiselle, we are safe to talk here.”

  Pulling back her hood, Sophia stepped over the threshold. Her eyes fell on a familiar figure seated in the slight wingback chair by the fire. He rose to his feet and turned, running a hand through the dark coils of his hair.

  “Tho—Mr. Hope!”

  He fell into a brief, unsteady bow. The light in the room was low, but Sophia thought she saw his cheeks flush pink.

  “Miss Blaise.” His gaze slid accusingly to La Reinette. “I did not know you would be here.”

  The madam closed the door and swept into the room, waving away his words. “The news I have, it concerns the both of you. Miss Blaise, she has as much right as you, mon chéri, to know these things I have learned. You are naïve, yes, to think you keep her safe by not sharing your secrets.”

  She slid into the cane-backed chair behind a small desk. “Do not forget, Monsieur Hope. She is smarter than you.”

  “Bah! Of course she is. Smarter than me, and most everyone else.” Hope met Sophia’s gaze. Her face grew warm when she saw that yes, yes he was blushing, and rather adorably at that. “That doesn’t make the danger we’re in any less real.”