A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  When they were all seated, Chambers plucked an uncorked champagne bottle from a bucket of shaved ice and began making the rounds.

  The stout gentleman—Lady Phoebe’s father?—grinned and lifted his glass. “To the betrotheds. May this blasted wedding business be over with as quickly as possible so that you two can get on with the business of married life.”

  “Huzzah, well-spoken, Tremont.”

  Around the table, glasses clinked. Chelsea’s heart sank. They’re celebrating Anthony’s wedding. No wonder he’d tried to discourage her from serving. She’d known he was to marry, but somehow she’d relegated that event to the shadowy—and distant—future. Tonight’s celebration brought home that it was not only inevitable but imminent. Numb, Chelsea couldn’t seem to move. She stood, stiff and still, as though the soles of her buckled leather shoes were rooted to the floor.

  “Serve the vichyssoise,” Chambers hissed, nudging her toward an unwieldy china tureen.

  She hefted the tray and started toward the table. Hovering, she dipped the silver ladle. The tureen was full and soup splashed over the sides. Fortunately the guests were too absorbed in their conversation to take notice.

  “I say, did you know that Lord Ambrose returned from his expedition to Greece last week?” ventured the florid-featured man—Lord Grenville? “He and Elgin brought back enough artifacts to fill the British Museum’s coffers and make themselves richer than Croesus.”

  Around a mouthful of champagne, Lord Tremont replied, “Yes, and word has it he’s keeping a king’s ransom in Greek and Roman coins in his house.”

  Ransom. Chelsea’s ears pricked. She held her breath. A moment later she released it, reminding herself that she no longer needed to steal. Anthony would pay Robert’s ransom as well as deliver it should their rescue attempt fail.

  “He’s hosting a supper party at Vauxhall to celebrate his success,” Lady Phoebe’s mother trilled. Tapping her spoon against the side of her bowl, she seemed oblivious to Chelsea laboring to fill it. “I assume you’ve all received invitations?”

  “He’s let one of the pavilions.” Lady Phoebe’s voice was animated. “He’s even promising to have fireworks!”

  Tracing the gold rim of his champagne flute, Anthony said, “Delightful to be sure, but I’ve no plans to attend.”

  “Oh, Anthony.” Lady Phoebe’s tone skirted a whine, and Chelsea had the unkind urge to slap her pretty, pale face. “Everyone who is still in town shall be there.”

  Anthony’s smile thinned. “In that case, I shan’t be missed.”

  “Really, Anthony, how can you be so churlish?” This time the reproach came from his mother. “To deny Phoebe this small pleasure.”

  Anthony’s voice hardened. “I deny her nothing. She is free to go. I am sure Reggie can be prevailed upon to escort her.”

  Chelsea dunked the ladle into the thick broth once more. He doesn’t love her. She…bores him. For the first time since supper commenced, Chelsea’s spirits lifted.

  Phoebe’s voice trembled. “Go with my brother!” She turned to her mother. “I would be a laughingstock.”

  “Hush, dearest,” Lady Tremont soothed. Her steely gaze locked on Anthony. “What fustian, Montrose. You simply must attend. If Phoebe were to be seen without you, the on dit would be you’d jilted her. The gossips would have a field day.”

  “They usually do.” Anthony’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. “And yet they will look mightily foolish after we are wed.”

  An awkward silence descended. Chelsea finished serving and stepped back.

  “’Tis such a pity that hateful Bonaparte is still at large; otherwise, you might honeymoon in Milan as Tremont and I did,” Lady Tremont lamented at length.

  Lady Grenville’s slow smile was reminiscent of her son’s. “Indeed, Beatrice, and yet an autumn honeymoon in the English countryside can be charming as well.”

  Lady Tremont sniffed. “I suppose. I trust the arrangements are all made?”

  Lord Tremont lifted his empty glass. “Egads, they had better be with the thirtieth just over a fortnight away.”

  The thirtieth.

  Chelsea felt an invisible fist plow into her abdomen. On her way to set down the tray, she halted midstep. The thirtieth was the day Robert’s ransom was due. Anthony had promised to deliver it should they fail to foil the kidnapping. How could he possibly plan to keep that midnight appointment when the thirtieth was his…wedding night!

  The answer was simple. He couldn’t. Chelsea looked to Anthony, silently beseeching him to say something. Anything. But he only stared straight ahead, a bland smile pasted onto his face. His stranger’s face.

  He won’t even look at me. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, clogged her throat, and weighted her chest until she could barely breathe. And then the room began to reel. And the tureen began to slip.

  Phoebe shrieked. “My gown…you’ve ruined it!”

  For a second, Chelsea just stared at the shards of pottery, potatoes, and cream covering the Aubusson carpet. Then, cheeks flaming, she fell to her knees and began scooping.

  Phoebe pulled at her puffed sleeve, globby with soup. “Bother the carpet. Someone get this off me.”

  Chelsea jumped to her feet, and then stood helplessly, her hands full of the muck.

  Lady Tremont’s eyes snapped. “Don’t just stand there. Do something.”

  “Bloody good fortune she wasn’t scalded,” Lord Tremont remarked, delving into his soup, “though never did quite grasp the point of serving the stuff cold.”

  His wife glared. “Really, Tremont, you do make the most irrelevant observations.”

  Chambers, wrinkled face flushed, hurried forward with a wet cloth.

  “My apologies, milady.” He turned anguished eyes to Anthony. “In my sixty years of service, nothing like this has ever happened.” To Chelsea, he barked, “You, get to the kitchen. Fetch water and a brush and don’t dawdle.”

  Chelsea didn’t have to be asked a second time. She turned and fled.

  Lady Tremont finished blotting Phoebe’s sleeve and resumed her seat. “Where is that footman?”

  “I have a feeling he may not return,” Anthony replied, picking up his champagne flute.

  Sipping his smuggled champagne, presiding over his plentiful table, gazing at his beautiful—if somewhat soppy—fiancée, he told himself that he had everything a man could possibly want. So why did he feel as though his entire world had just caved in?

  He’d meant to tell Chelsea about the wedding date, of course, but in his own time and in his own way.

  Who do you think you’re fooling? You didn’t want her to find out at all.

  Puffed with pride, he’d all but convinced himself there would be no need to make good on his promise to deliver the ransom. Surely the savior of Albuera could manage to rescue one hostage, guarded only by a two-bit felon and his half-wit accomplice?

  It was obvious that Chelsea didn’t believe so. The memory of her look of shocked betrayal would stay with him for some time.

  Still flushed, Chambers started to clear away their bowls to make room for the next course.

  Taking advantage of the bustle, Lady Grenville laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. “Why not offer Phoebe your escort?” she whispered. “It would mean so much to her.”

  “It is but one night from your life,” Lady Tremont chimed in. “Surely at your young age you can spare it.”

  Around a mouthful of roll, Lord Tremont said, “Take the advice of a man with twenty-odd years of marriage under his belt and give way now. They’ll only pester you ’til you do.”

  This time Anthony made no attempt to smile. “No offense, sir, but I don’t intend on spending my married life under the cat’s paw.”

  Lord Tremont guffawed. “No man does, my boy. No man ever does.”

  Knees weak, Chelsea made it down the back stairs to the kitchen where the rest of the servants were still at dinner.

  A pie-faced scullery maid popped up from her place at the end of the
long pine table. “Can I ’elp ye?”

  “Sit ye, Lettie.” The cook, a pig-faced matron, tugged the girl back down. “By the looks o’ ’is trousers, I’d say ’e’s already helped hisself.”

  Raucous laughter rose. Face aflame, Chelsea followed the sea of sly gazes to her breeches. A large dollop of cream crowned the crotch. Wishing she might join the pile of ashes in the fireplace grate, she hurried to the sink.

  What a bloody fool I am. She grabbed an empty bucket and started cranking. She who had always prided herself on her level head had been deceived by a handsome face, a lying tongue, and a practiced pair of hands.

  She dipped a cloth in the water and began furiously scrubbing herself. Touring East London taverns, staking out the kidnappers’ lodging, arranging Robert’s rescue—to Anthony, all were nothing more than components of an elaborate game. Hadn’t he said as much himself? “Frankly, I’m bored,” he’d answered when she’d pressed to know why he would help her after she’d insulted and refused him.

  Emotions—anger, humiliation, confusion—rushed her. She threw the balled cloth into the bucket, and water sloshed over the sides. Anthony was toying with her. He’d used her tragedy, her growing dependence on him, as a means to seduce her. What a dolt she was not to have seen through him before now. The man was a self-confessed rake. Preying on trusting women was what rakes did, after all. The past nine days, he’d worked hard to charm her, to win her trust. God help her, he’d nearly succeeded.

  Nearly? Earlier in his study she’d very nearly bared her soul to him. Now she had to face the hard truth: she was perilously close to falling in love with the cad.

  She thought of how he’d avoided her gaze after his future father-in-law blurted out the wedding date, and fresh anger bubbled. He wasn’t just a liar; he was a coward too.

  She might be a dupe, Anthony’s dupe, but she was no coward.

  Her chin snapped up. She must forget Anthony. Only then could she focus all her energy, all her intellect, on saving Robert. Somehow she had to raise the rest of the ransom money. Her time and Robert’s was rapidly running out. A plan, a solid one this time, was what she needed. Not only must it be solid but foolproof.

  Her thoughts flitted to the dinner conversation she’d just overheard. A king’s ransom in Greek and Roman coins… What was it the goldsmith, Tobbitt, had said? Everything in London has a price—and a purchaser.

  Anthony was adamant about not attending the Vauxhall affair. Even so, he was invited. No doubt his invitation was lying about somewhere. Perhaps it was on his desk in the study?

  She left the bucket in the sink and headed back upstairs, ignoring the curious stares that followed her.

  The dining room doors were ajar, an artifact of her hasty escape. Tiptoeing past, she caught the scraping of cutlery and muted conversation. Consuming all that food would take hours more, plenty of time…

  Unlike the servants’ area, the upper floors were well-lit, and she easily found her way to the study. She cracked open the door and peaked in. Empty.

  Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her and went to the desk. The invitation must be somewhere amidst the clutter. Drawing the lamp closer, she began sifting through. Like excavated ruins, the most recent papers were closest to the top. At last she came across a likely candidate. The gold-embossed foolscap looked expensive and the scrollwork A could easily stand for Ambrose. Eureka. She broke the seal.

  Montel, fifth Marquis of Ambrose, requests the pleasure of your company at…

  She’d present the invitation and slip inside with the other guests. Somehow she’d find out where the coins were, filch one, and then leave. In a day or so, she’d take it to Tobbitt. It would be difficult—and dangerous—for him to fence, but then such a treasure was likely to be worth thousands. She’d seen the gleam of greed in his eyes. He was certain to take it from her, especially when all she required were a few hundred pounds to complete the ransom.

  It was a bold plan, a desperate plan, but what choice had she? After tonight’s revelation, she’d be a fool to place her brother’s life in his lordship’s fickle hands.

  She stuffed the note into her pocket and stepped into the hallway. Resisting the urge to look into the dining room one last time, she headed for the foyer. Her hand was on the brass doorknob when the tears started.

  Anthony Grenville, you can take all your fine promises and go straight to the devil.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dressed in Anthony’s livery, Chelsea turned the corner from Bond to Oxford Street. After one-and-twenty years spent in the country, she found London’s fashionable shopping district—with its beveled glass shop fronts, paved streets, and elegantly appareled patrons—as exotic as any foreign city. It virtually throbbed with vitality and untried pleasures.

  Robert would love this.

  The familiar dull stabbing pain landed in her chest. While she was free to roam, even to enjoy herself, her brother was still a captive. And Anthony, the man to whom she’d entrusted Robert’s rescue, his very life, had betrayed them both.

  After decamping from Anthony’s house the night before, she’d returned to Mount Street. Thankfully Jack was snoring on his cot in the pantry; otherwise, he would have taken one look at her tear-streaked face and dragged the truth from her. By the time she’d quit the house that morning, he’d already left to relieve Anthony at the Rookery.

  Dear Jack. There was one man whose good intentions were beyond suspicion. But Robert was her brother. Saving him was her responsibility.

  She’d strolled along the West End streets for more than two hours, Anthony’s invitation tucked in her pocket. Can I really do this? she’d asked herself, followed by, How can I not?

  By noon, she was resolved. She turned away from a bookseller’s that beckoned and instead headed for a cluster of clothing shops at the end of the street.

  Five well-dressed young women, bags and boxes stacked at their feet, congregated beneath a painted wooden sign that read Maison Valen. More purchases were heaped on the seat of a wrought-iron bench. Two brawny footmen, foreheads gleaming, ferried packages back and forth between the sidewalk and a gilded carriage parked across the street.

  Behind them in the shop window, several examples of the modiste’s skill hung on dressmaker’s forms. Chelsea peered through the glass, drawn to a simple green silk gown. The high waist and clean, classical lines suited her, and the rich color glittered like crushed emeralds. In the days before she’d worn mourning, she’d favored green. Studying the gown, she couldn’t help but overhear the lively conversation going on around her.

  “A new gown, shawl, bonnet, and gloves. ’Fess up, Olivia. You’ve received an invitation to Montrose’s wedding and you’ve been keeping it from us.”

  The green gown forgotten, Chelsea snapped around.

  Olivia, waxily pretty, frowned beneath the brim of her leghorn bonnet. “And what if I have? I knew you’d only be jealous, so I thought it best to keep it to myself.”

  “You can’t really mean to go?” Her friend stared at her aghast. “Not after the shameful way Montrose treated you last Season.”

  “Really, Caro, it’s mean of you to taunt her so,” chided a sloe-eyed brunette. “I’m certain everyone has quite forgotten the way his lordship raised poor Libby’s hopes…”

  Chelsea edged closer.

  “And then dropped her like a hot potato when Phoebe crooked her little finger,” put in another, her mouth curving in a nasty smile.

  A gangling, freckle-faced girl leaned forward and confided, “They say he’s positively mad for her, and who can blame him. She’s spectacular.” She sighed. “Looks just like a fairy princess with that blond hair and those blue eyes.”

  “And the intelligence of a sheep.” Olivia’s mouth quirked. She fiddled with her bonnet strings. “She’s not even that pretty.”

  “Now look who’s jealous.”

  Me, Chelsea thought, catching her own sad-eyed reflection in the shop window. She turned away and leaned against the glas
s.

  Giggles and more sly comments followed, and Chelsea reminded herself that they weren’t directed at her. The recipient was Olivia, who ducked her head and examined the toes of her slippers.

  The brunette’s expression turned dreamy. “If you ask me, ’tis his lordship who’s the spectacular one.” One gloved hand stole to her bosom, heaving beneath her high-necked calico gown. “Faith, he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  The pronouncement prompted a collective sigh.

  Chelsea had heard enough. No more weepy sentiment and schoolgirl crushes, she resolved. From now on, only action. She squared her shoulders and opened the shop door.

  Inside, the shop hummed with competing female voices. Women thronged the marble-topped counter; others draped themselves over divans and damask-covered chairs, sipping tea, gossiping, and offering advice to friends emerging from the velvet-curtained dressing rooms. Still others stood atop carpeted pedestals. Frowning into pier glasses, they beckoned imperiously to the harried seamstresses working the parquet-tiled floor.

  And then all activity, all conversation, suddenly ceased. Everyone in the shop went as still as mannequins. Following their frozen stares, Chelsea glanced behind her to the closed door.

  She turned back to confront a sea of bulging eyes and outraged faces. Good Lord, she was the only male—or so everyone thought—in the room.

  Courage, Chelsea. No turning back now.

  If they thought her a boy, she’d better act like one. Hooking her thumbs into her waistcoat, she sauntered to the front of a snaking queue of shoppers.

  She bowed to the tall, elegant woman behind the counter. “Madame Valen, I presume?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.” The modiste eyed Chelsea over the bump of her Gallic nose and frowned. “You come on behalf of your maîtresse? C’est très irregulaire. Still, you must wait your turn.” She motioned Chelsea to the back of the line.

  Confident that her breasts were securely bound, Chelsea puffed out her chest. “For me master, truth be told. Lord Montrose.”