The Millionaire Rogue Page 3

  With practiced nonchalance, Hope sat straight-backed beside the window. He yanked his beaver hat over his unruly curls and watched his new friends from the corner of his eye.

  They were sufficiently sinister-looking, and held back just far enough, to confirm Hope’s suspicion that these men were out for blood.

  His blood. Lake’s, too.

  Why, he couldn’t say. Except that half the world was out for Lake’s blood, and for good reason.

  Hope cursed under his breath. Not two hours with Mr. Henry Beaton Lake and already they courted just the kind of attention Hope wished to avoid.

  He banged his fist to the roof. “We’ve got company.”

  “Haha!” came Lake’s muffled reply. “And so the plot thickens!”

  Hope was thrown back in his seat as Lake jolted the team into a canter. He cursed again. Moving this fast through the streets of Mayfair made them as conspicuous as highwaymen on the run.

  Bad for business, his arse. If Hope made it out of this little assignment alive, he would be ruined, and quite thoroughly at that.

  Amid the shouts of outraged groomsmen and foulmouthed pedestrians, Hope continued to watch the riders. They kept pace with the carriage, the hooves of their horses pounding the cobblestones in perfect synchronicity. With each stride they drew nearer, making Hope’s pulse leap.

  He tucked a curl behind one ear. “They’re gaining.”

  “I see that!” Lake replied, voice edged with annoyance.

  The carriage lurched forward, the horses now in an all-out gallop. Hope swallowed, hard, and watched as the street lamps whisked by with alarming speed. He dug his fingers into the velvet upholstery of his seat. Images of an overturned carriage, his mangled body slung across one of its wheels as Lake skipped away, whistling, filled his head.

  “We’ve got to do something!” he called. “They’re going to catch us!”

  “Distract them!” Lake growled in reply.

  Hope pitched forward onto the floor as Lake narrowly avoided mauling a woman and her husband in full ballroom attire. Lake was many things—spy, mentor, pirate, scoundrel—but a coachman he was not.

  “Distract them? How?”

  “I can’t do everything!” Lake shouted. “Think, you idiot!”

  Think. Hope gritted his teeth and pushed off the floor into his seat. If the front wall of the carriage didn’t separate them, he would think about smashing his fist into Lake’s face.

  By now the riders were so close, Hope could hear their horses snorting with effort as they kept pace. His heart pummeled his ribs, and for a moment panic threatened to drown what little sanity he had left.

  Think. Think what? He was trapped in a runaway carriage, chased down by men he didn’t know for reasons he couldn’t begin to guess. He had a pistol tucked into the pocket of his jacket, yes, but he couldn’t very well start a firefight in the middle of a busy lane.

  No, there would be no confrontation. At least not here, for all of Mayfair to see. That would be very bad business indeed.

  What the hell did Lake expect him to do?

  Hope dared another peek out into the night. A familiar stuccoed facade, windows framed by shiny blue shutters, passed by the window. Hope’s blood leapt in sudden recognition.

  Of course!

  The Glossy.

  Why hadn’t Hope thought of it before? La Reinette was one of his oldest clients, and a friend besides. Her house, being what it was, was filled with secret stairways, trapdoors, and hidden rooms; a more perfect place for avoiding certain capture and death did not exist in all England.

  Hope peered down at the lane below. He’d have to jump; if Lake stopped the coach, the riders would be on them in half a heartbeat.

  He blinked, fear clawing its way through him.

  He blinked again. He had to act fast, or he would not act at all.

  He raised his foot and pounded it against the carriage door with all the strength he could muster.

  He nearly laughed when the door did not budge. And then on second thought, he nearly cried.

  Again and again he pounded against the door until it suddenly swung open, banging violently against the outside of the carriage.

  Lake was shouting something; the horses were screaming and the cobblestones of the lane below dashed together with dizzying speed. A rider drew close, his face hidden by the collar of his jacket.

  Hope crouched, holding either side of the door opening. Without further ado, he closed his eyes and leapt forward, out into the night.

  He landed, hard, on his feet, pain radiating up his shins to land screaming in his knees. He sucked in his breath, wincing, but didn’t resist the forward momentum of his body. He ran for The Glossy and leapt over the low wall that bordered the property, clearing it with nary an inch to spare.

  Behind him he heard shouts, and the whinnying of horses as the cloaked riders rode after him. Hope pumped his arms and legs harder, harder, so hard it felt as if his heart would break free from his chest. He struggled to breathe, lungs burning with the need for air.

  Unfamiliar voices rang out over his shoulder, followed by the crunch of footsteps on the gravel drive. The riders were on his heels and gaining ground.

  Hope ducked into the familiar hedge. Too late did he think to draw up his fists to protect his face, as an errant branch poked boldly into his cheek. He gritted his teeth against the sting—perhaps like Lake he would at last have a dashing souvenir of his daring—and pushed through onto the courtyard.

  He didn’t wait for Umberto to open the door, and instead rammed against it with his shoulder. To his very great surprise—so great, in fact, that Hope lost his footing entirely—the door splintered beneath his weight.

  Catapulting arse over head into the foyer, Hope pushed clumsily to his feet. He waved away Umberto’s pistol and pointed out to the night.

  “Them,” he wheezed. “Get them!” He turned and took off running through the house.

  Hope climbed the stairs three at a time, but tripped to his knees on the top step at the sound of a pistol shot. His heart turned over in his chest. In the close quarters of the house it might as well have been heavy cannon it was so loud; the chandelier was still shivering above Hope’s head as he grappled to his feet.

  He tore down the second-story gallery, pulse roaring when he heard the footsteps, heavy, hurried, behind him.

  At least one of the riders had made it past Umberto.

  Hope swallowed the panic that rose in his chest. He pushed through the tall doors at the end of the gallery, his every sense alive with pain.

  And then he nearly swallowed his tongue at the scene before him.

  A pretty—very pretty—dark-haired girl sat, mouth agape, beside La Reinette.

  Why the devil was Miss Sophia Blaise, exhaustingly virginal debutante, meeting with La Reinette in the middle of the night—and on a Wednesday?

  As the cousin of one of Hope’s largest investors—Lady Violet Rutledge and her father were some of Hope’s oldest and best clients—her very presence threatened Hope’s attempt to keep his clandestine activities exactly that.

  So much for discretion. Mr. Lake and his follies were very bad for business indeed.

  In a single glance, Hope took in Sophia’s expression, equal parts curiosity and horror; the small reticule, heavy with coin, tucked into her long cloak; and her long, ink-stained fingers, clutching at the worn collar of her simple gown.

  A puzzle, and an intriguing one at that.

  But Hope didn’t have time for puzzles. Especially not tonight, with the pounding footsteps of his pursuers drawing closer with each passing moment.

  With some effort he turned his gaze to the madam, which she returned steadily, expressionless.

  “Hide me,” he panted. “Now.”

  Miss Blaise sprang to her feet, eyes so wide he had to resist the impu
lse to hold out his hand to catch them should they pop free of her head.

  “Hide you?” Her voice rose with panic. “Hide me!”

  God above.

  He did not have time for this. But he didn’t have time to protest, either; the riders were hot on his heels.

  And so he reached for Miss Blaise, wrapping his fingers around her elbow as he tugged her alongside him. He ignored her gasp as he followed La Reinette across the room, the madam’s footsteps silent amid those, drawing closer, of his pursuers.

  La Reinette drew up before the far wall, embellished in elaborate gilt plasterwork. She placed both hands on one side of a framed painting and pushed.

  A panel the width of Hope’s forearm swung open to reveal a closet set into the wall. A high shelf held a red lacquer box and a haphazard stack of books.

  Everything was covered in a furry layer of dust.

  Beside Hope, Sophia gaped at the closet in horror.

  La Reinette met his eyes over Sophia’s head.

  “It is this, or the certain death,” Madame said. She reached out and with her thumb swiped at the cut on his cheek. He felt the warm smear of blood on his skin. She pulled back with a frown, rubbing his blood between the pads of her thumb and forefinger.

  The footsteps in the gallery grew louder. Hope heard the labored breathing of his assailants as they cursed their way toward La Reinette’s chamber.

  Hope pulled Sophia against him, her breast to his belly. With a look that implored her to silence, he wrapped an arm about her shoulders and ducked both their bodies into the closet.

  His shoulders—gah!—got stuck halfway in. Hope was forced to pull Sophia tightly against him—so tightly she let out a little gasp of pain as at last they slid into the tiny space.

  La Reinette shoved the panel back into place, pressing it against the side of Hope’s body with such force his shoulder cracked to fit inside.

  Darkness settled over Hope and Miss Blaise, along with a hysterical silence.

  Well. This was awkward.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “No. No, most certainly not all right,” came her muffled reply.

  “Excellent.” He tried to stand very still, not daring even to breathe. “Me neither.”

  Her chest heaved rather invitingly against his as she attempted to catch her breath. He was suddenly aware of her warmth, her every limb pressed against his own. Knees, forearms, hips, and even her nose, which grazed the sensitive skin at the base of his throat.

  He took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling her scent as he did so. She smelled of fresh air and wine; not a hint of perfume. It was lovely, made lovelier by the novelty of it. Debutantes of her shape and stripe usually inhabited clouds of sickly-sweet tuberose and ambergris; he could always smell a fortune hunter long before he saw one.

  Needless to say, Hope’s deep breath had the opposite of its intended effect.

  Hope felt Miss Blaise tremble as the sound of male voices filled La Reinette’s chamber. He sensed her rising panic and quickly covered her mouth with his free hand, his own heart racing as La Reinette exchanged words with his pursuers.

  There were two men, and they were responding to the madam’s queries in rapid-fire French. To Hope’s surprise, the intruders spoke the sort of airy, refined French of the ancien régime.

  They were well-bred, aristocrats.

  Or, at the very least, pretending to be.

  In a voice like gravel, one of the men told Madame they were looking for a dangerous man, dark-haired with blue eyes, very tall.

  Recognition pulsed in Hope’s chest. That voice! It was vaguely familiar—he knew it in another time and place, another life—though he struggled to place it.

  La Reinette responded to the intruder’s queries with convincing bafflement, warning that while she had seen no such man, she would not allow them to bother her clients in the other rooms.

  The men ignored La Reinette, and began to ransack the room. Drawers opened, pages scattered, a heavy piece of furniture skidded with a crash across the wood floor.

  One of the men was pacing the room, his footsteps growing louder until Hope sensed his presence nary a hairsbreadth from the wall behind which Hope now cowered.

  Suddenly the closet was filled with a strange, hoarse scraping noise. The intruder, running his hands along the gilded expanse of the wall.

  Hope’s heart sank even as it raced faster and faster with each passing second. The man’s hands were now passing directly over the wall panel that hid Hope and Miss Blaise; Hope heard the man’s labored breathing, the crinkling of his cloak as he bent to inspect the baseboard.

  As noiselessly as he could manage, Hope tried to reach for the pistol in his jacket. But Miss Blaise was wound too tightly in his arms for him to access it; he had no room in which to move besides.

  The scraping sound of the intruder’s hand halted just as suddenly as it began. Hope nearly choked with relief; Miss Blaise remained stiff and shivering against him.

  Hope removed his hand from her mouth. As if on cue, Miss Blaise whimpered, a small but succinct sound.

  She froze. He froze. The voices in the room went silent.

  La Reinette tried to pass the sound off as her own, and began offering her unwanted guests the company of her girls.

  But they were not listening.

  Their footsteps were impatient and heavy as they hurried toward the closet, cursing with glee in their native tongue. With their gloved hands they pressed against the panel where it met with Hope’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the tight burn that laced through his arm. He pulled Sophia against him, and braced himself for—

  Well. For whatever came next.

  Four

  Yes, Sophia was in a state of most acute distress; yes, she was, in the next five minutes, likely to face death and dismemberment; and yes, she was in the arms of an apparently dangerous, definitely handsome man, the crisp lapels of his dinner jacket sliding up and down her breasts with each breath he took, his scent of sandalwood and lemon faint but delicious.

  Even in the midst of such ghastly circumstances, she marveled at her stupidity. Though the whimper had escaped her lips instinctively, without invitation, she cursed herself for ruining their chances of escaping these goons unscathed.

  Never mind the fact that the whimper had nothing at all to do with said goons. She’d whimpered not out of fear or distress or panic. No.

  Sophia had whimpered at the loss of Mr. Thomas Hope’s touch. Oh, that touch.

  It was confident and urgent and very warm. A lovely little shiver had raced through her at the sensation of his skin pressed against her own. Combined with the heat of their tangled limbs, it was enough to fill Sophia’s head with all sorts of salacious imaginings. How it would feel, for example, if it were his lips pressed against her mouth, instead of his palm. How that palm might make its way down the slope of her neck to cup her shoulder, then her breast—

  Good God. La Reinette’s tales of romance and adventure had certainly taken root in Sophia’s fertile imagination.

  But now that Sophia was in the midst of her own adventure—the romance bit had yet to materialize, but she apparently longed for it, madly—she was making a muck of it. Indeed, if she kept whimpering—really, who whimpered?—this was going to be her first, and last, adventure. Ever.

  Sophia’s bare hands were caught between their bodies, her palms pressed against Mr. Hope’s broad, solid chest. She felt his heart pounding beneath the layers of his clothes, and pound yet harder when the men chasing him began clawing at the panel behind which she and Hope were hiding.

  This was bad. Very, very bad.

  Panic sliced through her. Instinctively her fingers clenched on Hope’s chest, pulling at the fine fabric of his jacket. The first two fingers stilled when they gathered between them something jarringly hard and shap
ely tucked into his waistcoat.

  Her fingers went to work, tracing the outline of what felt to be—oh dear, it was indeed—a pistol.

  Her blood jumped. A pistol! Hysteria sparked at the back of her throat, stoked to flames by the intruders’ incessant pounding against the closet panel. She tried to draw her hand away but Mr. Hope held her too tightly, pressing her hand firmly against his weapon.

  La Reinette would have used just such a euphemism in her tales, Sophia thought wildly, and together they would have laughed about it over their pages and their wine.

  The thought calmed Sophia, and she wondered what, exactly, would La Reinette, that great admirer of dangerous men, do in this situation?

  As soon as she asked the question, Sophia knew the answer.

  La Reinette would take matters into her own hands. Literally.

  Mr. Hope’s pistol pressed invitingly against Sophia’s palm. She knew he could not reach the pistol himself, his arms stuck akimbo in the tiny closet. In the darkness she tapped twice on the gun, and while she could not see his face, she felt his eyes upon her. A beat of understanding passed between them; Hope loosened his grip on her so that she might grasp the pistol.

  She curled her fingers around the metal, warm after having been tucked against the heat of his body. The weight of it nearly snapped her wrist as she pulled it from Hope’s waistcoat. It was bigger than she’d imagined, and felt sinister in her hand.

  Another euphemism that would have made La Reinette proud.

  “Be careful,” Mr. Hope hissed. “Have you ever shot before?”

  “No-o?”

  “Well,” he answered tightly. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there, Miss Blaise?”

  The intruders’ pounding became unbearable. The wall that hid Sophia and Hope clattered against its frame, and finally splintered with a heartrending crack.

  “Careful!” Hope breathed into her ear as the light from Madame’s chamber flooded the closet.

  The intruders, their masked, unshaven faces feral, peered over the debris like two red-eyed raccoons. They pulled what was left of the panel away from the closet. One of them—Sophia knew he was the cigar-voiced man, just by looking at him—sneered and lunged forward.