Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  Ford approached the gaunt, tall man, made even taller by a black top hat, who stood with his back to them, discussing something with a shorter man wearing workman’s coarse woolen clothing.

  “Now, guvnor, I’d knock out this back wall here, and I’d connect the two houses with a walkway, see?” Ford heard the workman say.

  “What’s this?” Ford asked. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” asked the gaunt man disdainfully, turning to face him. “I own this bookshop.”

  “Pardon me, you do not own this bookshop, I do.” Lady Beatrice stepped closer. “I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley. Your name, sir?”

  “Richard Foxton, at your service, Lady Beatrice. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  Ford stopped in his tracks. He’d only been eight when his mother had taken him to London with her. He recognized the hooked nose and the deep-set gray eyes, but his hair had gone snow white.

  This was the villain from his youth. The big bad ogre in all his mother’s stories.

  The man his mother had made him swear never to contact, never to claim a connection with, never even to name.

  Richard Stamford Foxton.

  His grandfather.

  Chapter Seven

  Ford caught a flicker of unease in Foxton’s hard gray eyes.

  “The duke’s solicitor, Mr. Greenaway, informed me that the property was for sale, Lady Beatrice. The terms have been decided.”

  Lady Beatrice regarded him with the icy, aristocratic stare Ford recognized from their first interaction in the library at Thornhill House. “Mr. Greenaway acted without my knowledge or consent.”

  “Do you mean that you don’t wish to sell? How odd. As you can see, the shop has a leaky roof and hazardous flooring. The building is unstable and would require expensive renovations to make it habitable.”

  “That’s only partially true, and you know it.” Ford puffed out his chest. “This building is structurally sound, and the repairs won’t be extensive or costly.”

  Foxton glanced at him dismissively. “That’s your opinion, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Wright. John Wright.” His middle name. He wasn’t going to announce himself to the man he’d promised his mother never to contact. He looked evenly into Foxton’s eyes, daring him to recognize his own grandson, to make the connection and acknowledge him, but Foxton’s face remained blank and hostile.

  This was the cruel and ruthless man who had torn apart his own family to satisfy his pride.

  Ford had made a discreet study of him. Foxton’s property empire was built on similarly heartless principles. No tenant had ever received leniency during lean times from his grandfather. No bricklayer down on his luck with a sick wife and child at home was ever given a loan to tide him over to the next payday.

  Foxton lived for the god of profit alone. He didn’t care about the backs he broke or the lives he ruined in his quest for the almighty gold.

  “You may have knowledge of structural integrity, Mr. Wright,” Foxton said. “But Mr. Brown here has been employed by my firm for ten years now, and he says the building’s in dangerous disrepair.”

  “That’s right.” Mr. Brown walked toward them, nearly stumbling over a crate of books.

  “Be careful of those books, Mr. Brown,” said Lady Beatrice.

  “Apologies, milady,” mumbled Mr. Brown.

  “I don’t want the books, of course, Lady Beatrice. I’ll pay to have them delivered to a warehouse of your choosing.” Foxton attempted to soften his voice, but the result was more grating than empathetic. “Aren’t you in the midst of preparing for the whirlwind of the social season? Surely you don’t wish to trouble yourself with these matters. Allow our solicitors to work out the details and then—”

  “Do you presume to know the goals of young ladies?”

  Uh-oh. Ford knew where this conversation was headed.

  “Er.” Foxton’s bony fingers tightened around the gold knob of his walking stick. “I meant no offense. It pains me to speak so bluntly, but Mr. Greenaway did lead me to believe, in essence, did guarantee, that you were amenable to selling this property. For a handsome profit, of course.”

  Ford delighted in bursting his grandfather’s soap bubble. “This property will soon house a clubhouse for bluestocking lady knitters.”

  “For what?”

  “For whom, Mr. Foxton.” Lady Beatrice pursed her lips. “The Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, though we shall have to change our society’s name once we occupy these premises.”

  “These lady knitters have goals,” Ford said with relish. “Deadly serious ones.”

  “But Lady Beatrice, you can’t seriously be considering such a thing. You do know that this bookshop, besides having fallen into disrepair, was . . . is . . . not a fit place for any lady to enter, much less own or gather inside? Genteel ladies would never patronize a bookshop with a less than savory reputation.”

  Lady Beatrice smiled, but her eyes remained as cold as wintry wind blowing over the ocean. “Are you referring to the hidden bookshelves, Mr. Foxton? Because I know all about them.”

  “But . . . but Lady Beatrice,” sputtered Foxton, looking like a man who was rarely thwarted and was at a loss as to how to proceed. The purple veins in his temple protruded.

  Ford rejoiced at the sight of those protruding veins. He’d promised his mother he’d never seek out his grandfather, or attempt to exact revenge, but if his grandfather walked into his life, he’d damned well do his best to see that he got a taste of his own bitter medicine.

  In that moment, Ford decided that he would do everything in his power to help Lady Beatrice keep this property, achieve her goals, and thereby ruin his grandfather’s plans.

  “You haven’t thought this through, Lady Beatrice,” said Foxton. “You’re only a girl. You must think of your reputation, of your mother. Please be rational.”

  Now he’d done it.

  Lady Beatrice advanced on Foxton. “Only a girl, did you say?”

  “Well, that is, you’re very young . . .” Foxton mumbled.

  “Mr. Foxton,” said Lady Beatrice, pronouncing the name as if it meant putrid pestilence. “I have reached the age of majority and I’m fully capable of administering my own fortune. I’m not helpless, brainless chattel with no will of my own.”

  She truly was a splendid sight when she was reprimanding a man. Her eyes became crystallized amber, and she held her neck at such a proud angle she appeared much taller than she was.

  “Apologies, Lady Beatrice. I never meant to suggest such a thing.”

  “You didn’t have to. It was evident in your tone of voice.”

  “I’m merely relaying what was told to me by your brother’s solicitor.”

  “And I’m telling you that I was not consulted on the matter.”

  “If I may, Mr. Foxton,” Ford interjected, “don’t tell the lady what she can and can’t do. It never ends well.”

  “The building is not for sale, Mr. Foxton,” said Lady Beatrice.

  “Then I must inform you that I own the properties on either side.”

  Damn his hide. “Then you want to own the block. What are you planning to build? A hotel, or a factory?”

  “Not one of those foul, polluting factories that employs children I hope,” said Lady Beatrice. “I read a report of a boot blacking factory near here and it was most inhumane.”

  “A shirting manufactory. I need this building for its access to the steps leading to the Thames. I assure you, Lady Beatrice, that any workers I employ will be treated fairly.”

  “Ha.” Ford laughed bitterly. “That’s a lie. I know all about your gunpowder mills in Leigh and your other moneymaking ventures. You don’t care about poisoning the water or protecting your workers from harm.”

  “Hearsay, Mr. Wright,” replied Foxton with a small shake of his walking stick. “Slanderous hearsay.”

  “You won’t be purchasing this property, Mr. Foxton.” Lady Beatrice squared her shoulders. “Good day.”

  Foxton
was not a man who was accustomed to being dismissed by a woman, even if she was sister to a duke. His expression went from sour to vengeful. “Unfortunately, you’ll never find a carpenter willing to perform the repairs necessary to transform this into a clubhouse, Lady Beatrice.”

  Ford raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat, Foxton?”

  “I could easily use my connections to have this building declared a public safety hazard. Instead, I’ve made the lady an extremely generous offer, one which I’ll only extend for the next week.”

  This man had cast Ford’s mother out of his life like soiled laundry and run her, and Ford’s father, out of London.

  Foxton thought he could buy or control everyone and everything. He didn’t control Ford, and he had no business attempting to control Lady Beatrice.

  Ford would do everything in his power to help her win this battle.

  Although he was probably going to regret it.

  He felt the warning in his bones, like the ache in his old elbow injury when there was a storm brewing on the horizon. He didn’t stop to consider impossibilities or timelines. “As it happens, Mr. Foxton, the lady has already hired a carpenter.”

  “I have?” asked Lady Beatrice.

  “She has?” Foxton echoed.

  “Yes.” Ford moved to stand next to Lady Beatrice. “Me.”

  Beatrice gaped at Mr. Wright. What on earth was he saying? He couldn’t be her carpenter. He was leaving England. He must leave England so that she would cease having these maddening urges to kiss him.

  He truly was a breathtaking sight standing with his muscular arms crossed and boots planted firmly on the floor, skewering Foxton with a thunderous glower.

  Standing up for her—for her dreams.

  He may as well have come galloping into the room on a spirited stallion and swept her up onto the saddle in front of him.

  Beatrice, you ninny. You don’t require rescuing.

  But there was no point in contradicting him in front of Foxton. “Indeed. I’ve hired Mr. Wright. All of the arrangements have been made.”

  Foxton glared at Wright. “You obviously have no idea who I am, or the influence I possess in this city, Mr. Wright.”

  “I know exactly who you are.”

  Foxton looked him up and down. “I don’t know you. Never seen you before.”

  “You’ll just have to build your factory elsewhere, Mr. Foxton.” Beatrice struggled to keep her voice calm and even. She drew courage from Wright’s imposing presence at her side. “The lady knitters are moving in and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind or wrest this property away from me.”

  “We’ll see about that, Lady Beatrice.” Foxton headed for the door. “Come along, Brown. Your services won’t be required until later.”

  Mr. Brown trailed after him, looking confused, hat in hand.

  At the door, Foxton turned back. “I trust you’ll reconsider this rash decision upon submission of further evidence and discussion between our solicitors. I would hate to have to take this matter to the courts. Good day, Lady Beatrice.” He bowed and left.

  Wright closed the door behind him and locked it.

  “Cozening fox,” Beatrice muttered. “Jeering goosecap.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Wright.

  “He can’t take my bookshop!”

  “We won’t let him.”

  Mrs. Kettle popped her head around the doorframe. “Well done, Lady Beatrice and Mr. Wright. Well done, indeed! You were both magnificent.”

  Wright had been rather magnificent, thought Beatrice.

  “Wait until Mr. Coggins hears about this. He’ll be so pleased that you’re keeping the bookshop. He’s a little gloomy, Mr. Coggins, but he has a most noble heart.”

  “I’m not certain that I can keep it yet, Mrs. Kettle.”

  “Where there’s a will there’s a way, Lady Beatrice. Or, should I say, where there’s a Wright, there’s a way.” She giggled at her joke, beaming at them. “This calls for a fresh pot of tea.” She left, humming a happy tune.

  “Why did you tell Foxton that your name was John?” Beatrice asked.

  “It’s my middle name. I don’t want him knowing my full identity if I go up against him in this matter.” He removed his coat, flung it over a chair, and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s get to work. You can sort through those crates. Coggins can help once he reappears. I’ll go examine the basement. I don’t have all the tools I need but this will help.” He brought out the tool he’d used to break into the shop.

  “Mr. Wright, I think I gave you the wrong impression. I haven’t agreed to hire you.”

  “You need a builder.” He removed his waistcoat and laid it over his coat. “And as your wise friend Miss Mayberry said, I’m here and so you may as well make use of me.” He unknotted his cravat and opened the top button of his shirt.

  Make use of him. Her treacherous mind began inventing uses. Those sensual lips of his could be used for kissing. Those wide shoulders and strong arms for lifting her and carrying her up the stairs . . .

  “Mr. Wright! Do stop disrobing.”

  “Why?” He stopped midbutton. “This is my only suit of decent clothing. I’m not going to get plaster and dirt all over it.”

  “I don’t have the permission or the means to hire you at the moment.”

  “I need to speak to your brother. If I’m helping you, I’ll know instantly when he arrives.” He cocked his head. “And you’ll put in a good word for me, instead of giving him a list of everything I did to annoy you at Thornhill.”

  So that’s why he was so eager to help her with the building. “I don’t require rescuing, Wright. I’ll find a way out of this mess on my own.”

  “I think you do need a little rescuing. I think Foxton is going to make good on his threat, and you won’t be able to find another carpenter willing to help you.”

  She removed her spectacles, which had gone a little blurry, and wiped them clean. Happened every time Wright stripped to his shirtsleeves. “But your friend is waiting for you at the docks.”

  “Old Griffith? He can wait. He’s only hiring me as a favor. He can easily find someone else.”

  “The HMS Boadicea is arriving soon.”

  “I have a fortnight. It should be enough time to make decent progress on the renovations if I work night and day. You’ve already seen what I’m capable of, Lady Beatrice.” He spread his arms wide. “Make use of me. I’m yours.”

  She wished he’d stop saying things like that. It made her brain fog over just like her spectacles. He wasn’t hers and he never would be.

  “There’s the matter of the paperwork,” she said crisply, trying to keep this conversation impersonal and businesslike. “I’m not entirely certain yet of the details of my inheritance until I meet with my brother’s solicitor to review my aunt’s will and . . .” Every time you roll up those sleeves and expose your forearms, I become so flustered that I can’t even remember how to form complete sentences. “. . . I’m not ready to begin renovations. Foxton knows about the bawdy books, and he threatened obliquely to use it as leverage to force me to sell. He knows my mother would never tolerate me owning a shop with such an objectionable past.”

  “You can’t let him win. He thinks he owns everything and everyone.”

  “I agree. I want nothing more than to foil his plans for that awful factory.”

  “You could sign the property over to your society for use as a clubhouse, and that way it wouldn’t be your family name associated with any past scandals. You keep the books but the society owns the property.”

  “That’s actually a very good idea.”

  He grinned. “I have a few good ones from time to time.”

  His smile was a weapon employed to scramble the minds of sensible ladies. The teasing curve of his lips, the laughter dancing in his eyes, the way he proffered such ingenious solutions to her problems in that gruff voice of his . . . everything about him disarmed her and made her feel off-balance and not
at all like herself. “Even so, I’m not at liberty to employ you at the moment, Mr. Wright.”

  He strode toward her, throat exposed, the white of his shirt contrasting with the uneven blue of his eyes. “Could there perhaps be another reason for your reluctance to hire me?”

  She backed away from all of that too-vivid virility. “Frankly, yes.” She might as well be honest. “After what happened upstairs . . . I don’t think it’s prudent for us to be alone together. Especially in the vicinity of bedchambers.”

  “Nothing happened upstairs.”

  Something had happened. She’d progressed far beyond ninnyhood and entered wanton territory. “I can’t hire you, Wright.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you hear word from your brother contact me at St. Katharine Docks where I’ll be making repairs on the ship Angela.”

  After he left, Beatrice collapsed into a chair. She knew it was for the best. He was simply too dangerous to her good sense . . . and to her heart.

  “Has Mr. Wright gone?” asked Mrs. Kettle, returning with the tea tray and setting it on a table. “I do hope he’s coming back?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Such a shame. He seems a most capable fellow, and so handsome, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Beatrice?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Liar. It’s all she’d thought about for weeks now. He’d truly gone this time, out of her life and her thoughts. And her dreams. He wasn’t allowed to come back into those, either.

  “Sit down, dearie. Have a nice cup of tea and read Mrs. Castle’s letter.”

  The letter. Beatrice had almost forgotten about it. She allowed Mrs. Kettle to fuss over pouring her tea and bringing her a blanket for her knees to protect against drafts.

  She opened the letter.

  Dear Lady Beatrice,

  I remember the day that you visited our bookshop so clearly. I watched from behind the door, unable to reveal myself. I remember that you spoke in hushed tones, as if you were in church. I recognized a fellow bibliophile. And that’s why I’ve left you Castle’s Bookshop. These books were like our children, and I have every faith that you will treat them with respect.