The Millionaire Rogue Page 20

  Best get it over with as quickly as possible.

  “There’s something else we need to discuss.” Hope cast a longing glance at the brandy board and swallowed. “It appears Guillaume Cassin has returned from the dead. He knows it was us, Lake. He knows we were behind the plot to have him killed. And now he’s come back to kill us. And, quite possibly, Miss Blaise.”

  Lake bolted upright, his crippled leg bending curiously at the knee Hope knew to be forever stiff, and choked on his brandy. “Guillaume Cassin—back from the dead? But that’s impossible!”

  “Apparently Madame did not sink her dagger deep enough.”

  * * *

  Hope & Co. fared little better the next day. The offices on Fleet Street were a riot of shouts, queues, curses, and wishes for death. Hope’s meeting with Viscount Richards had nearly come to blows; the viscount’s person grew so red Hope feared his heart might burst forth from his mouth.

  It was not, needless to say, a pleasant day at the office.

  At last—dear God, at last—the hour arrived. Hope had grabbed his things and was in his coach before the clock reached its eighth and final strike.

  Hope watched through the window of the coach as familiar sights passed. Westminster Bridge; the muscling, muddy waters of the Thames; and, finally, Vauxhall Gardens.

  The lanterns that lined the walkways and pavilions were already lit, blinking through the trees like so many fireflies.

  Hope emerged from the carriage and breathed deeply. It was a lovely summer night, the chill of spring gone at last. The sky was wide and fading, though the light from the sun would linger for some hours yet.

  He paid the entrance fee, wondering vaguely if he could even afford the three shillings it cost for the evening’s entertainment.

  Once in his box, he took a seat closest to the stage and ordered food and drink from a liveried waiter. Knowing he was on display before the haute ton, Hope took pains to appear relaxed and happy, smiling as he sipped his arrack punch and tried not to gag on its bitter, biting taste.

  His gaze landed on a supper box across the stage from his own. There, seated side by side, faces wide as if they’d been laughing, were Sophia and the Marquess of Withington.

  Hope’s heart lurched, veins flooding with heat. It was none of his business, their acquaintance; Sophia had been nothing but honest when it came to her intentions and the marquess.

  Still. The facts of the matter did nothing to assuage Hope’s wildly pounding pulse, the possessiveness that took captive his every sense.

  Thomas watched as Withington passed her a tiny coupe of punch in that strange, halting manner of his. She brought it to her lips, sharing a witticism as she did so; Withington erupted into laughter, jerking an arm around to slap his knee; she smiled, satisfied.

  Sophia looked beautiful, dark hair coiled fashionably about her head, the low neckline of her ivory gown trimmed in an alluring, wispy sort of gauze that emphasized her eager bosom.

  A bosom that even the well-mannered marquess could not resist, try though he might.

  Across the expanse Sophia met Hope’s eyes. For a moment she hesitated, her smile fading. He was desperate to know what she was thinking, what Withington made her feel.

  She raised her hand and waved. Hope’s heart twisted in his chest. He waved back, smiling tightly; and promptly directed his attention elsewhere.

  As if this day could get any, any worse.

  He felt the stares as the beautiful half of London filled Vauxhall’s supper boxes. Their curiosity was sharp and shameless. Everyone, it appeared, had heard of the French Blue being thieved from right out under his nose.

  Was he bankrupt? Would he lose everything? Perhaps his house in Duchess Street would go up for auction . . . a lovely pile, yes, and of prime location, but those antiques of his, they are rather odd . . .

  But Thomas Hope had not become a banking tycoon on his good looks—ha!—alone; a decade in the business had shaped his heart and head accordingly.

  And so he slapped a jolly smile on his face and threw back punch as if he had not a care in the world. He nodded at acquaintances and flirted with old women; he tipped the waiters generously and complimented the food.

  Mr. Lake joined him not long after and was all too happy to join the act, especially the arrack-punch bit.

  Only when Lady Violet burst into the room, Lady Blaise and Sophia on her heels, did Hope’s facade waver. His blood thrummed at the knowledge that Sophia was near, and would be his for the next hour or two; and yet some small part of him was angry with her.

  Angry, perhaps, for sharing her company with that marquess. The idiot fellow didn’t deserve her. Neither did Hope, but that was beside the point.

  The small party exchanged greetings. Thomas came at last to Sophia. All thoughts of bankruptcies and auctions and stolen jewels flew from his mind as she met his gaze, lips parted, eyes full.

  She was so damned beautiful.

  But when he said, “Hello, Miss Blaise,” her beautiful face fell, as if she was expecting more. He furrowed his brow, searching for any clues as to what more, exactly, might be.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hope, for your lovely invitation.”

  Hope bowed, the words leaving his lips before he could stop them. “You are most welcome. It is my sincerest wish that you find it more enjoyable than the marquess’s. Rather dull fellow, isn’t he? Overly fond of the word ‘capital.’”

  For a moment she looked at him, too stunned to speak; he couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure that flooded her dark eyes.

  “Well,” he hastened to add, “in my humble opinion, at least. ‘Capital’ is a popular word these days . . .”

  He prayed it wasn’t pain. After all she’d been through on his account, the weight he’d placed upon her shoulders, he couldn’t bear to see her cry. Not again.

  Hope stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Sophia, I—”

  He turned at the sudden commotion toward the back of the box. Lord Harclay and his sister the Dowager Countess of Berry had arrived; already the earl was stalking toward Lady Violet, a smug grin on his infuriatingly handsome face; while Lake and Lady Blaise pounced on the dowager countess at the same time, as if she were the last especially well-frosted crumpet on a plate.

  Hope turned back to Sophia. They exchanged a meaningful glance, Hope reining in the impulse to accost her with his lips.

  But he couldn’t, he shouldn’t. The weight of his worry returned with crushing force: if he didn’t move, and quickly, Hope could very well lose everything by dinnertime tomorrow. He needed to find the diamond so that he might stanch the bleeding at Hope & Co.

  And he couldn’t accomplish that by spending his time with Sophia, no matter how alluring, how lovely she was.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and turned to the Earl of Harclay. Turned his back on her.

  Twenty-one

  Disappointment rushed through Sophia as she watched the outline of Thomas’s broad, sloping shoulders move across the box. The gleaming velvet of his coat, black and well cut, stretched over the expanse of his back as he bowed before Lord Harclay. His face was hardened into a smile, blue eyes studiously vacant of the emotion that occupied them mere heartbeats before.

  Hope and the earl exchanged words; and while they appeared friendly enough, Sophia sensed a predatory sort of energy between them, two lions circling one another, sizing up strength, weakness, willingness to charge.

  And here men thought women were the catty sex. Not so, at least not tonight. Hope’s biting comment about the Marquess of Withington’s invitation was the perfect example: a mean-spirited admission of envy cloaked in wit and anger. How unlike him, brilliant, levelheaded businessman that he was, to exhibit such raging emotion.

  And good Lord, it had thrilled her to no end. It was shameful, she knew, to take pleasure in Thomas’s pain; but the fact that he was jealous
of the marquess was no small thing. It meant Hope, despite his recent chilliness toward her, desired her as much as she desired him. It meant he adored her more than he cared to admit.

  Not that they had time to indulge said desire. Cousin Violet was in a tizzy over the failing fortunes of Hope & Co. and, by extension, their family. With the bulk of their money invested in the bank, the sudden plummet in the prices of its shares had hit them hard. Though Violet was never one to air her worries, Sophia could tell she was under great duress. That Violet harbored a not-so-secret fondness for the source of said duress—the earl was a terribly handsome fellow—certainly didn’t help matters.

  And then, of course, there was this Cassin fellow intent upon the murder of Sophia’s reputation and Thomas’s person. There had been yet another attack in this morning’s gossip pages; only by the grace of God had Sophia managed to conveniently misplace the paper before Lady Blaise could read it.

  A certain S.B. of which we wrote some days ago is in possession of a most naughty pen. Perhaps the scandals of which she writes are those she has been witness to herself. For a debutante, she is proving a worldly creature.

  Sophia glanced across the gardens to the Marquess of Withington’s box. She didn’t have much time now before her great secret was revealed, and in the worst manner possible. If she meant to marry the marquess, she’d better do it, and do it quickly, before all the world knew of the delicious perversions of her pen.

  Scattershot applause broke out in the supper boxes. Sophia started when a troupe of acrobats, their squat faces sickeningly familiar, took the stage.

  They were the acrobats that crashed through the windows at Hope’s ball; the same acrobats hired by the thief to distract Thomas’s guests while he went to work stealing the French Blue.

  Her eyes darted to the Earl of Harclay. He stood frozen at the front of the box with Cousin Violet at his side, their clasped hands tucked discreetly into Violet’s skirts. The acrobats were waving to the crowd now, their gazes lingering at last on the earl as if they knew, they knew, he was their man.

  The breath left her body as Sophia watched the scene unfold. It was like something out of La Reinette’s tales; all they needed was a pirate and a half-naked governess to complete the drama.

  Harclay dropped Violet’s hand and tucked her behind him, away from the acrobats’ glares. Across the box, Lake was biting back a snicker while Thomas watched in stony silence; Lady Blaise frantically fanned herself and Lady Caroline sat very still in her chair at the table.

  Sophia’s thoughts raced. Lake and Hope must’ve revealed to the acrobats that the Earl of Harclay was the man in disguise who hired them—and still owed them money. Doubtless the acrobats, knowing they had the wealthiest earl in London in their pockets, would blackmail him or worse. Sophia’s belly turned over at the possibility that Violet, having been seen by the acrobats in the earl’s company, would somehow be involved in the plot.

  She understood why Lake, and Hope, too, set these events in motion. They thought by exerting pressure on Harclay in the form of blackmail and potential ignominy, they might coax the earl to return the French Blue. But it was a gamble, certainly, that nothing would go awry in the meantime. What if the acrobats took the twenty or so pounds the earl owed them and went on their merry way? And what if, God forbid, Violet were to be harmed, blackmailed herself, or worse, held by the acrobats for ransom?

  Sophia closed her eyes against the panic that took wing in her chest. When she opened them she found Thomas staring at her, his face hard as ever but his eyes pleading.

  Pleading for patience, perhaps; forgiveness, understanding.

  A spot of softness in his strengthening resolve to keep them apart.

  * * *

  Another sleepless night. Sophia tossed and turned, the darkness stifling as her thoughts drifted time and time again to Thomas and those hauntingly beautiful eyes of his. Her body ached for him; it felt like an eternity since he’d put his hands on her last.

  Sophia stumbled to the window, half hoping La Reinette would be waiting in the shadows below, and slid it open.

  The night was warm and quiet.

  Quiet, save for the strange rustling noise off a bit to the right.

  Blinking, Sophia poked her head out the window just in time to see the Earl of Harclay launch headlong into Cousin Violet’s window, one down from her own.

  Sophia blinked again, catching the tip of the earl’s shiny Hessian boot before it disappeared into the house. She heard Violet whispering some curse or another before closing the window behind her midnight visitor.

  Ducking into her chamber, Sophia listened as several telling thuds reverberated through the wall between her chamber and Cousin Violet’s. Whatever Lord Harclay was doing, he was doing thoroughly.

  Well, then.

  An interesting development, to be sure.

  Sophia flung herself upon the bed and with a sigh of frustration tugged a pillow over her head. It was to no avail; she still heard Violet’s fluttering sighs and Harclay’s groans of pleasure. It was a miracle their ardent—er, affections did not wake the whole house.

  She should be scandalized, should knock on Violet’s door and warn her against fraternizing with the enemy. Then again, Sophia was guilty of walking a fine line herself; wasn’t she the one courting the attentions of a well-fortuned marquess while dreaming at night of a different dark-haired gentleman, one with eager hands?

  A gentleman she wished would climb through her window, and do to her whatever it was that Harclay was doing to Cousin Violet.

  Clutching the pillow over her ears, Sophia closed her eyes. She and the marquess were to attend Almack’s tomorrow; yes, she would think of that. They’d become friends, she and Withington. Even his notoriously sharp-tongued sisters had taken a liking to Sophia. All was going well, and could only get better.

  Perhaps, perhaps he would propose by the end of the summer—or, at least, before she was outed as the author of La Reinette’s memoirs—and all her dreams would come true: the extravagant engagement ball, the envious tittering of the ton, the titles and the castle and the fortune. The things she’d dreamed of all these years would at last be hers.

  Sophia closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

  And woke that morning with a start when she realized she’d dreamt not at all of a glamorous turn at Almack’s on the arm of the Marquess of Withington.

  No.

  It had been Thomas Hope who’d taken captive her dream, whispering into her ear all the things he wanted to show her.

  All the things he had yet to make her feel.

  Twenty-two

  City of London

  Fleet Street

  Standing with both hands on the desk, Hope stared at the open ledger and swallowed the panic that threatened to choke him.

  Five more investors had sold their Hope & Co. shares, causing the price to plummet; a dozen or more depositors had pulled their funds from the bank, leaving his liquid assets dangerously low.

  Another week like this, and he’d be through by month’s end. The bank for which he’d sacrificed everything would no longer be solvent; he’d be as poor and disheartened as he was when he first arrived in London nearly a decade ago.

  Hope glanced at the pile of newspapers beside the ledger. The news certainly didn’t help. No matter his entreaties, the bribes he offered, Hope’s friends at the papers printed headline after headline about the disappearance of the French Blue. The public, they said, couldn’t get enough of the story: a cursed jewel, thieved in the midst of the season’s most lavish ball—for an editor, it was the stuff of dreams.

  Hope pushed aside the papers, tugged the spectacles from his head. He had to find the diamond, now more than ever. The Earl of Harclay was the thief, of that he had no doubt; but Lake’s scheme to take back the stone, whatever it was, didn’t seem to be working. If only Hope could get his hand
s on that bastard the earl—

  Hope’s head snapped to attention as the doors at the far end of the room were flung open, revealing the tall, broad figure of none other than Lord William Townshend, the Earl of Harclay.

  Speak of the devil, Hope thought wryly, and he doth appear.

  The earl’s face was hard; Hope could tell the man’s immaculate sense of self-control was on the verge of breaking.

  Neither man made any pretense of greeting the other; Hope did not bow, and without so much as a how do you do, Harclay began speaking.

  “I need to make a withdrawal. And quickly.”

  A withdrawal? For what? Perhaps Lake’s scheme was working.

  Though that didn’t make Harclay’s demand sting any less.

  Rage, hot and sudden, burned through Hope. He rose, his eyes never leaving the earl’s. His voice, when he spoke, was deadly quiet. “I assume you’ve seen the papers?”

  The earl’s face darkened. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t mean to be rude, Hope—”

  “Eight days. I’ve been in the headlines for eight days straight. Each headline worse than the last; by now all of London must think me a brainless buffoon. Never mind the success of my business before the French Blue incident. Now I am being judged on one bloody night of theatrics; a drop in the proverbial bucket, as they say. And my business—it has suffered greatly, Harclay.” Hope balled his hands into fists. “Greatly indeed.”

  To Hope’s very great satisfaction, he saw the earl’s dark eyes flash with pain. “I understand your frustration, Hope.”

  His rage pulsed hotter. “I don’t think you do. You see, when Lady Violet came to me with her little theory about you being the thief, I very nearly dismissed her out of hand. Why would Lord Harclay do such a thing, I thought, and to me of all people? I’ve guarded his investment, shown him generous returns.”

  Hope knew this was his chance; his chance to pressure the earl into giving up the diamond. If he froze Harclay’s accounts at the bank—accounts that held virtually all the Townshend family fortune—perhaps the earl, unable to pay so much as the grocer’s bill, might be convinced to hand over the French Blue.