The Millionaire Rogue Page 4

  Mr. Hope propelled their bodies out of the closet, tucking Sophia behind his broad shoulders. She glanced down at the pistol, able to see it at last in the light.

  It was enormous.

  Not only that. It was enormously complicated-looking.

  Oh dear.

  The sneering intruder was on them now, swinging at Hope. He ducked just in time, allowing Sophia the perfect shot: the intruder’s wide chest was exposed as he fell headfirst toward her.

  She stepped forward and raised the gun, using both arms to support its weight. Slipping her finger into the inviting arc of the trigger, she gritted her teeth and pulled.

  And pulled.

  And pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  “Deuced thing!” she cried.

  Before she could try again, Mr. Hope was behind her, wrapping his arms around her own as he took the pistol in his hand. In the space of a single blink—really, that’s all it took—he pulled back what appeared to be another trigger on top of the gun and fired it.

  Sophia started at the awesome force of it, the sound so loud that for several seconds afterward she couldn’t hear much of anything. A cloud of singed smoke enveloped them, and in the fog Sophia felt the floor beneath her feet vibrate with a single, distinct thud.

  The intruder had fallen.

  Behind her Mr. Hope was shouting, and La Reinette was shouting back from somewhere in the chamber. Their voices were curiously faint.

  And then she and Hope were running, her legs moving as if through water; they were at once heavy and weightless, taking her out of Madame’s chamber, through the gallery, and down a narrow, winding stair hidden behind an iron balustrade.

  Sophia looked down to see her hand clasped firmly in Mr. Hope’s. She looked up to see the gleaming line of his jaw twitch with murderous intent, his dark curls wild around the inviting curve of his ear.

  Behind them came the sound of heavy footsteps. One or both of those dreadful Frenchmen were still in pursuit.

  Hope increased his pace without looking back, tugging Sophia along behind him. Her heart knocked painfully against her lungs, her every muscle begging her to stop the assault.

  Just when she thought she might collapse, they stumbled through an unfamiliar door and out onto a dark lane that stank of refuse and horse manure. The night was close and complete here; Sophia found it difficult to breathe.

  “This way!” Hope skidded on the gravel around a corner and broke into an all-out sprint. He glanced back at Sophia, his blue eyes translucent in the darkness.

  “Not,” he panted, “much. Farther.”

  She began to fall back, and felt herself become a weight on Mr. Hope’s arm. Dear God, she was going to collapse. The air was too thick, her legs too heavy.

  But then the sound of hurried footsteps again broke out behind them. Her panic propelled her forward, her gait pulling her in line with Hope.

  Together they skidded around another corner and drew up before the dark shadow of an unmarked coach. Tendrils of smoke rose from its recently extinguished lamps.

  “Get in!” a man called from the coachman’s bench. He snapped the reins, and the horses began to move, leading the carriage out into the lane.

  Hope reached for the carriage door and pried it open, trotting beside the vehicle as it quickened pace.

  “You. First,” he said to Sophia. He pulled her against him and looped his palms through her underarms. “Pull. And I. Will push!”

  Sophia reached for the carriage and managed to grasp either side of the door opening. Gritting her teeth against the pain of her exertion, she pulled with what was left of her strength. The force of Hope’s push knocked her breathless as she somersaulted into the coach.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew her ungainly leap had exposed a goodly bit of thigh, and probably more than that. But such virginal considerations seemed to hardly signify in the face of pistols and feral Frenchmen.

  She didn’t know why any of this was happening, or where the carriage would take her. But this was just the sort of adventure that she so admired in La Reinette’s tales, and if such adventure involved nudity, then so be it.

  By now the horses were in an all-out gallop, the carriage heaving violently behind them. Sophia scrambled to her feet and reached out for Hope. He took her hands and with an ungainly leap fell into the coach, his legs dangling out the open door.

  When at last she managed to wiggle the rest of his great bulk into the carriage, Sophia collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. Mr. Hope rose to his knees as he reached for the door, which was swinging wildly in time to the coach’s erratic movement.

  “Who the devil. Was that?” Mr. Hope called out the open door.

  “Who the devil is she?” came the coachman’s shout.

  Mr. Hope slammed the door shut in reply, and with a tremendous sigh fell heavily on the ground beside Sophia.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they sat together gasping for several beats.

  “Oh. Miss Blaise.” Hope turned his head to look at her. “You visited La. Reinette on the wrong. Night I’m. Afraid.”

  Sophia glanced up to meet his eyes. Those eyes. He was looking at her closely, carefully. With great interest.

  Looking at her like no one—man or woman, save perhaps her dearest mama—had ever looked at her before.

  She quickly looked away, focusing her gaze on her lap. A moment ago she believed her heart beat as quickly and as vigorously as it could as she ran side by side with Hope from The Glossy.

  Now she knew differently. It seemed with his gaze alone, Mr. Hope could very well coax her heart to explode from the prison of her ribs.

  She swallowed. Hard.

  “Is this what you do every Wednesday night?” She smiled into her lap. “If I had known bankers lived such exciting lives I would’ve angled to become one myself.”

  Mr. Hope paused, taken aback by her words; and then he laughed, laughed and put his hand on her knee. “Oh. Miss Blaise,” he said again. “If I experienced such excitement every Wednesday, I daresay I’d be dead.”

  Sophia stared at his hand in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the thin muslin of her gown. They were handsome fingers, broad but well kept and elegant, capable-looking, just like the rest of him.

  She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. So much touching. It made her want to reach out and touch him back, to feel the heat of someone else’s thrill beneath her palm.

  Mr. Hope must have noticed, for he cleared his throat and pulled his hand away.

  Sophia shifted uncomfortably as a beat of awkward silence stretched between them. She let her head fall back against the side of the coach, and tried not to wince as they clattered over a particularly jarring bump.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone,” she said, closing her eyes. “Everything. Anything. I know Violet trusts you, but—”

  “You have my word, Miss Blaise. I daresay I must ask the same courtesy of you. You see, I don’t usually—”

  The carriage lurched; suddenly the pounding of hooves, not far behind, filled the night.

  The Frenchman was back, and in hot pursuit on horseback. Sophia’s blood ran cold at the memory of his greedy eyes peeking over the debris of the plasterwork.

  “Bloody hell.” Hope rose into a seat and carefully pulled Sophia up beside him as the carriage bumped and jostled them against one another. He pounded the ceiling with his fist. “He’s back!”

  “I see that!” the coachman replied.

  As if on cue, the rider appeared by the window at Sophia’s side. She could see the gleam of his teeth as he grinned at her, holding the reins in one hand while in the other he brandished a pistol—Hope’s pistol.

  Sophia screamed. She heard the discharge of the gun just as the carriage jerked forward, Mr. Hope pressing her head into his lap. The window shattered and
there was a great, billowing sound, like close thunder.

  She managed to glance up at Mr. Hope. He was grinning. “He missed!” he shouted.

  The carriage bolted left, throwing them against the far wall; then it bolted right, and Sophia nearly careened out the broken window before Mr. Hope grabbed her by her wrists and hauled her back against him.

  For what seemed an eternity the chase continued in such a fashion, the coach leaping and groaning as it hurtled toward God knew where. Sophia was possessed of a strong stomach, but even so she felt the threat at the back of her throat of losing dinner more than once. Together she and Hope held on for dear life as they raced through the streets of Mayfair.

  At last the sound of their pursuer’s horse grew distant, and then disappeared altogether. She dared sit straight, her person once again in the line of fire, only when the carriage drew to a halt.

  Hope let out a long, hot sigh. Sophia, however, was too shaken to feel any sense of relief. Or, perhaps, too enthralled.

  She looked out the broken window and started, a now-familiar panic tingling to life in her chest.

  “Where are we?” Her voice was tight. “We haven’t left London, have we?”

  Mr. Hope stuck his head out the broken window and considered their surroundings. The night was ravenous here, swallowing everything in its path. New grass and open space filled the air. It was damp; the rain would come any minute now.

  “Well. I cannot be sure. But I’ve never known London to smell like this.” Mr. Hope ducked back into the carriage, his smile fading as his eyes fell on her face. “You needn’t worry, Miss Blaise, I’ll have you back—”

  The carriage door swung open, revealing a tall, sinister shadow with pale hair that gleamed blue in the faint light of the clouds above. Sophia jumped, nearly landing in Mr. Hope’s lap.

  “Terrifying, I know,” Hope said.

  “Terrifyingly handsome, you mean,” the shadow said. He raised a lantern, illuminating his face, one side of his mouth kicked up in a devilish smirk. Sophia practically clawed Mr. Hope at the sight of the black patch covering one of the man’s eyes, the sinister intent glittering in the other.

  Dear God, pirates really did exist, despite her mother’s assurances to the contrary!

  “I thought you said you didn’t like women,” the shadow said, his eyes—his one eye—never leaving Sophia.

  She leaned further into the solid warmth of Hope’s chest. It was obvious this man was no coachman.

  Mr. Hope tucked back the curls from his forehead and sighed. “I said that I avoided women, not that I didn’t like them. Besides, it isn’t what you think.”

  “Who is she? One of La Reinette’s girls?”

  “No,” Hope replied. He rose to his feet and pushed the shadow from the threshold. Leaping to the ground, Mr. Hope turned and held up his hands.

  “Who is she?” the shadow asked again.

  Hope put his hands to Sophia’s ribs, grazing the underside of her breasts with his thumbs.

  She couldn’t help it. She had to sigh as he lifted her to the ground. In the dark his hands lingered on her body a beat longer than was necessary.

  Her heart hiccupped in her chest.

  Too soon, he pulled away.

  “I’m not above leaving her here if you don’t tell me who she is.”

  Mr. Hope looked from Sophia to Lake and back again. He ran a hand through the tangle of his curls and sighed.

  “If I vouch for each of you,” he said, “might I make the introduction? You’ve my word as a banker and a friend, anything that happens this night shall remain between the three of us.”

  The shadow harrumphed. “Your word as a banker? Best run for the hills, then.”

  Sophia swallowed. He was even more enormous up close. His neck appeared to be as big around as her leg.

  She glanced at her surroundings. They were stopped on the edge of a poorly tended road, a copse of trees to their left, a fallow field to their right. She hadn’t a clue where they were, or why, or if the Frenchman would return to slit their throats.

  Sophia looked back to the shadow. She risked everything by revealing herself to him. But she risked even more doing nothing.

  There was something dangerous about this man. A character straight out of La Reinette’s tales, he stank of intrigue and adventure. She had no doubt she would experience both in spades if she followed him, and Mr. Hope, into the night.

  Dropping into a curtsy, she bowed her head and spoke before Hope could stop her. “Sophia Blaise. I am your servant.”

  To her surprise the shadow sketched an elegant bow. Just low enough, no groveling for him; he was, she realized, a gentleman.

  “Well now, that wasn’t so difficult! I am Henry Beaton Lake. Tell me, Miss Blaise, since we are on the subject of service; how do you feel about aiding in the fight against those nasty libertines the French? King and country, my dear. Tonight they require your aid.”

  Severed from rational thought, the word escaped her lips in a rush. “Yes.”

  “No,” Hope said. “You’ll not involve her in this.”

  Mr. Lake shrugged. “She’s here. Nothing we can do about that now—begging your pardon, Miss Blaise. Indeed, I do believe this is a most happy surprise, for as I have looked upon your most lovely face, I’ve been struck by a novel idea. But first you must swear upon your very life that you shall tell no one what we share with you this night. I do so hate killing those who betray our cause.” He held aloft the lantern, its yellow light illuminating his wolfish grin.

  Five

  Montague House was a pile of soot-blackened stones and tiny, squinting windows that lent it the appearance of an elderly fellow suffering a bout of digestive distress.

  Appropriate, thought Hope, for the residence of Her Majesty the Princess of Wales.

  Together with Miss Blaise he ascended the shallow front steps, her arm tucked snugly into the crook of his own. She held her shoulders square, but by the way she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, he could tell she was nervous.

  Oh, that lip. A just-bitten shade of pink, swollen from her ministrations. For a heartbeat he imagined himself finishing the job, taking the top lip and working it between his own.

  Miss Blaise looked at him from the corner of her eye and caught him staring. He snapped his eyes to Montague House’s front door, painted a garish shade of red, and felt himself flush the same color.

  “Keep calm.” He spoke as much to himself as he did to her. “And as I told you before, Miss Blaise, it is best not to stare.”

  She arched a brow. “‘Miss Blaise’? If I am to play your betrothed, shouldn’t you call me Sophia?”

  The heat in his cheeks burned hotter. He cleared his throat and gave his cravat a ruthless tug. “Of course. Sophia.”

  “Of course. Thomas.” Her grin was impish, her gold eyes dancing. He blinked. Hope had never seen her like this; during his visits to her family, Sophia always played the proper, if somewhat bland, young lady. But now he saw that mischief suited her. Hell, the girl had attempted to shoot a man not an hour ago. Though the attempt was unsuccessful, Sophia appeared all the more alive and eager for having done it.

  Sophia. Thomas. The sound of his given name on her lips. He hadn’t been called Thomas in years, not since he left his family and fortune behind in Amsterdam.

  And now here he was, risking all he’d earned back with a lie on his tongue and a damnably alluring debutante at his side.

  There were no two ways about it. He was mad.

  Together with Sophia, Hope mounted the top step and raised his hand, knocking soundly on the door. He stepped back and waited in breathless silence, the muffled sounds of the house loud in his ears. Music, laughter, the strangled barking of small dogs.

  Hope swallowed his surprise when a handsomely middle-aged man opened the door and bowed them inside. The but
ler was exceedingly normal, charming even, for a member of Princess Caroline’s entourage.

  “You are just in time.” The butler took Sophia’s cloak, and held out a hand for Hope’s hat and coat. “Her Majesty is expecting you.”

  He led them up a short, squat stair to a wide gallery decorated in the Prussian style. Heavy dark moldings enclosed the space, and enormous paintings and banners hung from the walls in an excessive and self-conscious proclamation of Princess Caroline’s exalted lineage.

  The music and laughter grew louder and reached a crescendo when the butler paused outside a low, wide doorway, and motioned them inside.

  Sophia glanced up at Hope. He nodded and let go of her arm, trailing his hand down her side to rest on the small of her back. He felt her spine harden as she took a deep breath, the butler’s voice clear and proud as he announced their presence.

  Hope followed her into the small chamber, a tower room with curving walls and a tall beamed ceiling that rose to a fine point high above their heads. Sophia fell into a deep curtsy as he sketched his finest bow. They rose, and he heard Sophia’s sharp intake of breath as her eyes fell upon the scene before them.

  A pair of nubile young men, eyes narrowed to slits with drink, were laid out upon a sofa. Hope could tell they were Bavarians by their frilly dress and long, unkempt hair. They said nothing, but peered at Hope with a hostile glitter in their eyes, mouths agape as if waiting for an open pour of wine.

  Sophia stood very still beside him. She was trying—and failing—not to stare at the figure seated across the room.

  Her Majesty the Princess of Wales rose behind a gilded harpsichord, a passel of spaniels at her feet. Hope didn’t know where to look first—the painted eyebrows, arching tragically over her tiny black eyes? The grotesquely huge bosom, bursting from a satin gown that Caroline’s meaty girth seemed to be swallowing from the inside out? Or the enormous pearl earbobs dangling from her ears, an unfashionable foil to the fist-sized emerald slung from a diamond chain about her neck?