The Millionaire Rogue Page 2

  Hope chewed the inside of his lip to keep from rolling his eyes. “Regardless, I’ve a lot at stake. People depend on me, lots of people. Clients, employees. I can’t risk the livelihood of thousands of families—never mind my own, my brothers, bless their black souls—by engaging in your sort of intrigue. It’s bad business. I’ve worked long and hard to build my reputation. I won’t see that work undone, and millions lost along the way.”

  Hope sipped his brandy, then swirled it in its glass. “But you knew I would say all that. So, Lake. Tell me why you are here.”

  Lake drained his glass and smacked his lips. “I’m here because of that diamond you write so very ardently about.”

  “The French Blue?” Hope eyed his visitor. “Quite the coincidence, that you should appear out of the ether just as I am finishing my history.”

  “I thought together we might begin a new chapter of your lovely little history,” Lake said. “And you know as well as I do it’s no coincidence. You’ve heard the rumors, same as me. You’re going to buy the diamond from her, aren’t you?”

  Hope looked down at his hands. Damn him, how did Lake know everything? He assumed the existence of the French Blue in England was a well-kept secret. The Princess of Wales made sure of that, seeing as she likely came into possession of the diamond through illegal, perhaps even treasonous, means.

  But Hope assumed wrong. He should have known better, especially when it came to Henry Beaton Lake, privateer-cum-spy extraordinaire. The man sniffed out secrets as a bloodhound would a fox: instinctively, confidently, his every sense alive with the hunt.

  “Perhaps.” Hope swept back a pair of curls with his fingers. “I admit I am looking to expand my collection. And diamonds—jewels—they are good investments. In the last decade alone—”

  “Psh!” Lake threw back his head. “You’re buying it for a woman, aren’t you?”

  This time Hope did not hold back rolling his eyes. “I avoid attachments to women for the very same reasons I avoid the likes of you. Much as I admire the female sex.”

  “You did a great deal more than admire said sex when we were in France.”

  “That was almost ten years ago, and hardly signifies.”

  Lake leveled his gaze with Hope’s. “The distractions of women aside. You are attempting to buy the French Blue from Princess Caroline. I’m asking you to buy it for me. For England.”

  Hope choked on his brandy. Before he could protest, Lake pushed onward.

  “We’ve tried to buy the stone from the princess, but she is holding it hostage from her husband the prince and, by extension, our operation. Relations between them are worse than ever. I’m shocked, frankly, that they haven’t yet tried to poison one another.”

  “Would that we were so lucky as to be delivered from that nincompoop they have the nerve to call regent.”

  Lake waved away his words. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. If we manage to obtain the French Blue, we could very well change the course of the war. For years now old Boney’s been on the hunt for the missing crown jewels of France. We have reason to believe he’d trade valuable concessions for the largest and most notorious of those jewels. In exchange for the French Blue, that blackhearted little toad might hand over prisoners, a Spanish city or two. We could very well save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives, and in a single stroke.”

  Hope let out a long, hot breath. “You’re shameless, Lake. Absolutely shameless. I refuse to be cowed into thinking I’m a selfish bastard for wanting to protect the interests of those who depend on me for their livelihoods, and their fortunes. I care for the thousands of lives you’ll save, I do, but—”

  “But.” Lake held up his finger. “You are a selfish bastard, then.”

  Hope gritted his teeth, balling his palms into fists. “I’ve too much at stake,” he repeated. “Princess Caroline has been a client of Hope and Company for years. She is more dangerous than she appears, and wily besides. I’m sunk if she uncovers the plot. I won’t do it.”

  For a long moment Lake looked at Hope, his one pale eye unblinking. He shifted in his chair and winced, sucking in a breath as he slowly rested his weight on the bad leg.

  The leg that had saved Hope from becoming a cripple, or a corpse, himself.

  “Not even for me, old friend?” Lake’s face was tensed with pain, and glowing red.

  Hope shook his head. “Shameless.” He laughed, a mirthless sound. “How do you know I’m worthy of the task? I am not the nimble shadow I once was. These days, a daring evening is a few too many fingers of liquor and a long, deep sleep—alone, sadly—in my bed.”

  All traces of pain disappeared from Lake’s face as he grinned. “You are not as handsome as you once were, I’ll give you that. But I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t believe you were a capable partner in crime. We shall work together, of course.”

  “Of course.” Hope sighed in defeat. “So. What’s the play?”

  Lake leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and rubbed his palms together with a look of fiendish glee. “Those engagements you have—cancel them. We make our move tonight.”

  Two

  London

  King Street, St. James’s Square

  Adebutante of small name and little fortune would, surely, commit any number of unspeakable acts in exchange for a voucher to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. For there lurked unmarried gentlemen of the rich, titled variety, the kind with palaces in the country and interests in exotic things like shiny boots and perfectly coiffed sideburns.

  So why did Miss Sophia Blaise’s pulse thump with something akin to relief, exhilaration, even, when one of said gentlemen excused himself from her company and disappeared into the crush?

  The Marquess of Withington was not the handsomest peer, but he was the richest, and quite the Corinthian besides. His sideburns were surely the most perfect and the most coiffed, and his boots very shiny indeed. Every heiress and duke’s daughter would willingly claw out the other’s eyes for a chance to be courted by the marquess; such crimes were tolerated, welcomed, even, while on the hunt for this season’s most eligible quarry.

  Even now, as Sophia teetered awkwardly on the edge of the ballroom, she felt the sting of stares from venomous female passersby. Her two-minute conversation with the marquess was apparently grounds for preemptive attack by her fellow fortune hunters.

  But Sophia was nothing if not ambitious. She took a certain pride in being the object of such naked envy. Perhaps she did have a chance at making the brilliant match to which she’d always aspired, after all. Perhaps the marquess—the filthy-rich, swoon-worthy marquess!—was not so far out of reach.

  The conversation itself had been a moderate success—his eyes had remained glued to her bosom, yes, but he had laughed at her jests—and even in the wake of her relief at his departure, Sophia felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Now she had only to dread their next interaction.

  “It will get easier,” her mother counseled earlier that evening, swaying in time with the carriage.

  “You mustn’t take it too seriously,” Cousin Violet said. She took a swig from her flask and let out a small hiss of satisfaction. “Men like Withington are in possession of little wit, and even less intelligence. You’ve nothing to fear from them.”

  It certainly hadn’t gotten easier, or any less serious, as the beginning weeks of the season passed with alarming speed.

  For as long as Sophia could remember, she desired two things above all else: to make a brilliant match with the season’s most eligible bachelor, and a suitably large castle to go with him. Having grown up in a family teetering on the edge of penury, Sophia desired stability, security, too, and a man like the marquess could provide her all that and more: the titles, the crests, the fortune and fame.

  She was not prepared, however, for just how difficult it would be to fulfill her ambition
s. Nor did she anticipate how intimidating, how repellent, she would find a goodly majority of the gentlemen who belonged to said titles and crests.

  Her first season, in short, was turning out to be quite a disaster. Yes, quite.

  Sophia’s shoulders slumped.

  But even as the weight of that sobering truth bore down upon her heart, a flicker of anticipation pulsed there. Faint at first, it flamed hotter as the minutes passed. The hour of her departure from Almack’s drew near; which meant, of course, Sophia was that much closer to her second engagement of the evening.

  And this one, praise God, had nothing at all to do with sideburns or castles.

  Sophia shivered with anticipation when at last the family’s musty, creaking carriage jostled its occupants away from Almack’s door on King Street later that evening, making for the family’s ramshackle manse in Grosvenor Square.

  “You’re smiling.” Violet eyed Sophia from across the carriage. “What’s wrong?”

  Sophia bit the inside of her lip, hoping to hide her grin of excitement. “Nothing out of the usual, Cousin. I very likely offended a marquess. Being the graceful swan that I am, I stepped on Lord Pealey’s feet—yes, both of them—during the minuet.”

  Violet shrugged. “That makes for a better turn at Almack’s than last week.”

  Lady Blaise said nothing as she swatted back Cousin Violet’s attempt at another swig from her flask.

  Violet tilted her head back and swigged anyway, draining every last drop.

  Sophia sighed and looked out the window. One more hour. One more hour until my escape.

  * * *

  Grosvenor Square

  Pulling her hood over her nose, Sophia leaned against the crumbling brick of her uncle’s house and stepped into her boots, one stockinged foot at a time. She straightened and peered into the shadows, long and sinister in the flickering light of the gas lamps. Satisfied no one was about, she stole into the square, pressing to her breast the pages hidden in her cloak.

  The night was cool and clammy; there would be rain. Above, the stars hid behind a thin layer of gray cloud, while the light of the full moon shone through like a lone, opaque eye, following her as she moved through the dark.

  With each step her pulse quickened. The daring of it all, the risk—reputation, ruination, retribution—was immense. And exhilarating, all at once.

  Whatever this feeling was, it far outshone the anxiety, and the disappointment, she’d experienced while in the Marquess of Withington’s presence at Almack’s.

  It was not far to The Glossy. While Sophia had no occasion on which to dwell on such things, it had surprised her nonetheless that establishments such as La Reinette’s populated Mayfair as thickly as potbellied peers.

  Those potbellied peers, Sophia had quickly discovered, were possessed of wicked appetites in more ways than one.

  The Glossy occupied a stately spot between Viscount Pickering’s massive pile and the Earl of Sussex’s broad, tired-looking townhouse. Now Sophia understood why Sussex was such a jolly fellow, despite a succession of sour-faced wives.

  Its namesake shutters were lacquered deep blue, the slick paint glittering in the low light of lanterns on either side of the front door. Sophia slipped past The Glossy’s facade onto a narrow lane that descended along one side of the house. She stopped at a hedgerow—wait, yes, this was the one—and ducked into the boxwood’s firm grasp.

  For several heartbeats she scraped through the darkness, complete and sweet smelling. She emerged onto a small but immaculately groomed courtyard, illuminated by exotic-looking torches standing guard around the perimeter. With light footsteps she crossed to a door, half-hidden by a budding vine of wisteria. She knocked once. Twice.

  Waited a beat.

  Then knocked twice more.

  The door opened. A tall mulatto emerged, his enormous bulk occupying the whole of the threshold. His black eyes sparked with recognition as they fell upon Sophia’s half-hidden face.

  “Good evening, miss.” He bowed. “Please, come in. The madam is waiting for you. Lily will show you up.”

  Sophia stepped into the hall but did not remove her hood.

  The scent of fresh-cut flowers, mingled with a vivid musk Sophia had yet to name, filled her nostrils. She followed Lily, a yellow-haired woman so beautiful it was difficult not to stare, down a wide gallery and up a curving stair.

  The Glossy was as lovely as Sophia remembered. Lovelier even than the first-rate homes of the ton, for La Reinette eschewed overstuffed severity in favor of feminine flair. Enormously tall ceilings were frescoed in the Italian style, blues and pinks and naked bodies aflutter. Light sparkled from heavy crystal chandeliers. The gilt furniture was upholstered in various shades of ivory and pink. Paintings lined the walls, depicting lovers past in various states of repose—Tristan and Isolde, Diana and Actaeon, Romeo and Juliet.

  When at last Lily drew up before a pair of painted doors, Sophia was dizzy, intoxicated by her surroundings. Lily opened the doors and Sophia stepped mutely over the threshold, blinking to bring her blood back to life.

  Before she could thank her guide, the doors swung shut behind her. A voice, thick and seductive, called out from inside the room.

  “Ah, mademoiselle! S’il vous plaît, entrez, entrez!”

  La Reinette approached, knotting the tasseled belt of her Japanese silk robe. She dropped into an elegant curtsy, and in her excitement Sophia did the same. La Reinette was more legend than lady; really, how did one greet the mistress to prime ministers and Continental royalty? She was called the little queen—la reinette—for good reason.

  Madame clucked her tongue and lifted Sophia by her elbows. She drew back Sophia’s hood and smiled in that languid way only Frenchwomen could, placing her palms on Sophia’s neck.

  Her spine tingled at La Reinette’s touch. “Good evening, Madame. I am happy to see you again.”

  “And I am very happy, yes.” Madame nodded at a table and chairs set before the fire. On the table, several quills were placed beside a mother-of-pearl inkwell and a quire of fine paper. “Come, let us sit. I am most eager to see the work you have done with my tales.”

  Sophia settled into her chair and placed the pages, bound in thin red ribbon, on the table. She watched as La Reinette hovered at a sideboard, pouring red wine into elegant goblets. Without asking, Madame placed a goblet on the table before Sophia and swept into the chair opposite.

  “Drink it,” Madame said. “It is very good, from my country. Not the vinegar that is made in Italy. It helps me to remember. I think it will help you to write.”

  Sophia brought the glass to her lips, gaze flicking to meet Madame’s. In the glow of the fire her eyes appeared wholly black, like a stag’s; a striking foil to her pale skin and hair.

  Sophia pushed the bound pages across the table. “The edits from our first meeting are complete, and I compiled everything you gave me from the second. I—” Sophia blushed. “I enjoyed this week’s tales. Thoroughly. That spy you knew, back in France—the one with the curls, who could fell a girl with his gaze alone? He is my favorite gentleman yet.”

  Again Madame smiled. “Yes,” she said. “He is my favorite, too.”

  She placed a reticule, woven with pink thread, before Sophia on the table.

  “Five pounds, as we agreed, and a bonus.” Madame held up a thin, elegant hand at Sophia’s protest. “It is no small risk you take, visiting me like this.”

  “I have come to enjoy our meetings, very much.” Sophia squirreled away the reticule in the folds of her cloak. “The adventure you have seen, and the gentlemen you have known—they certainly don’t make them like that in England.”

  Madame raised an eyebrow. “Your prince, you have not found him yet? But this is your season!”

  “No prince. Not yet. Perhaps it is not my season, after all.” Sophia set down her wine and picked up a qu
ill, examining its sharpened nib. “But I’d rather discuss your princes. Where did we leave off last week? Oh yes, the spy, the one with the gaze. Together you were boarding a ship bound for Southampton—”

  Sophia started at an enormous sound, the walls set trembling as if by thunder. The thump thump thump of heavy footsteps followed—running, whomever the footsteps belonged to was running—and drew closer with each passing heartbeat. So many footsteps it sounded as if The Glossy were being invaded by the whole of the French army.

  She ducked at the violent, throaty crack of—dear God, was that a pistol? It couldn’t be, not here, not in Mayfair, not in the madam’s inner sanctum . . .

  Sophia’s thoughts ran riot. Madame had promised her discretion, protection too, and assured her she would not be seen by any guest, man or woman. But what if, by some accident, she were to be seen? And by, God forbid, someone she knew—someone who mattered?

  “Are you expecting visitors?”

  “No.” La Reinette’s mouth was a tight white line. She set down her goblet and twisted in her chair at the sudden racket by the doors.

  They catapulted open, banging against the walls.

  To Sophia’s very great horror, Mr. Thomas Hope sprang breathlessly into La Reinette’s chamber, dark tendrils of hair curling from his forehead in a disheveled—and rather dashing—manner. A small but deep cut on his cheek oozed blood in thick, languorous drops.

  His wide blue eyes swept over Sophia before landing on the madam.

  With an authority that startled Sophia from her staring, he said, “Hide me. Now.”

  Three

  It began as a familiar tingle at the back of Hope’s neck, a spider of suspicion waking long-dormant senses as Lake, playing coachman, jostled the carriage into evening traffic.

  They were being followed.

  Darkness had fallen early, but even so Hope could see two blurs of blackness, blacker even than shadow, following them down the lane. Riders, their cloaks billowing about them in a close breeze.