A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  The modiste’s scowl dissolved into a smile. “Le vicomte! But of course.” She waved a hand to indicate Chelsea’s livery. “Tu portes ses couleurs.” She smoothed a hand over the chignon at her nape. “Such un gentilhomme, le vicomte. Si beau, si charmant, si…”

  Riche, Chelsea added to herself. An inveterate womanizer with a bottomless purse, Anthony would be a dressmaker’s dream come true. Her hunch that he would be one of the shop’s best customers had proven founded. And, judging by Madame’s animated face as she rounded the counter, a personal favorite.

  “How may I be of service to le vicomte?”

  How indeed? Chelsea forced down her rising jealousy. “He bade me fetch a ball gown he bespoke for a lady.” She winked. “A very special lady, if you take me meaning.”

  “A ball gown?” Madame’s high forehead furrowed. A moment later, she wrung her hands. “I know nothing of a ball gown.”

  She beckoned to a dark-haired shop girl across the floor.

  “Nicole, vite, vite. C’est le garçon de Montrose.”

  Around a mouthful of pins, the girl squealed, “Le vicomte! He is here?” She dropped the bolt of fabric she’d been carrying and hurried forward, dark eyes bright and face flushed.

  Chelsea gritted her teeth. “No, he sent me.”

  Really, the silly women were behaving as though Anthony were the only man alive and making royal fools of themselves into the bargain. He must have half the women in London eating out of his hand…and the other half waiting in line for the privilege. Including…her.

  Madame Valen sobered. “Nicole, do you know of a ball gown bespoken by Lord Montrose?”

  The girl shook her head. “We have received no commissions from his lordship in these many months, Madame.”

  Eyes pleading, the modiste turned to Chelsea. “There must be some mistake? Perhaps another shop?”

  Chelsea folded her arms across her chest. “All I knows is what ’e told me. ‘You goes to Madame Valen’s,’ he says, ‘and bring me back that frock straightaway.’ If I goes back empty handed, ’e’ll flay me backside, ’e will.”

  “Lord Montrose?” The two women’s faces registered shock, a refreshing change from the moon-calf expressions they’d worn only moments before. “He beats you?” they asked in unison.

  “Black and blue.” Chelsea leaned closer and whispered, “Last time, they had to call for a surgeon.”

  “Vraiment!”

  “Aye, ’is lordship can be a proper brute when ’e feels ’e’s been ill-served. Quick to anger, slow to forgive, that’s me master. What ’e’ll do to you when I tells ’im you’ve lost his ladybird’s frock is anyone’s guess.”

  The modiste pressed a fist to her mouth. “Mon Dieu, I’ll be ruined. Ruined!”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Chelsea crooked a finger, beckoning them closer. “Maybe we could ’elp each other?”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ll warrant ’is lordship don’t even remember what he ordered.” She almost added, You know how men are, but stopped herself in time. Instead, she pointed to the window platform.

  “That green ’un’ll do.”

  “Oh, no, not that one. That is for une autre cliente.”

  But Chelsea had set her heart on the green gown. For once, this once, she wasn’t going to settle.

  She dug in her heels. “Then why is it still ’ere?”

  The modiste lifted her thin shoulders in an utterly Gallic shrug. Lowering her voice, she confided, “Wealthy women. They love to shop, but they do not always have the money to pay. I promise I keep for her another week, until she receives her next allowance. We have many beautiful gowns. Can you not choose another?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “Unless the gown—that gown—is delivered this evenin’, I doubt ’e’ll darken your doorstep again. And once ’e puts the word out to his fancy friends, they’re certain to do the same.”

  The modiste paled. She hesitated as though weighing Anthony’s wrath against that of her other patron. She looked so distraught that Chelsea almost took pity on her. Almost.

  Madame’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Do you perhaps know the lady’s measurements?”

  Chelsea smiled. “As a matter o’ fact, I knows ’em like they was me very own.”

  Chelsea’s final triumph was to have the gown, slippers, and sundry matching accoutrements charged to Anthony’s account. The lot would be delivered to her Mount Street town house early that evening, in plenty of time for her to change and find her way to Vauxhall.

  Well-pleased with herself, Chelsea walked out of the shop. As soon as she cleared the door, her pent-up laughter erupted. Further efforts to contain it only brought the tears streaming. Hugging her sides, she started across the street—and strode straight into a pudding-bag form.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she apologized, stepping back from the sagging bosom.

  “Mind where you’re going, you stupid oaf.”

  That voice. Chelsea slowly looked up. Hard, angry eyes glared down at her from a familiar fleshy face.

  Abigail Pettigrew.

  For a second, Chelsea and the vicar’s wife stared at each other. Shock, then fear, entwined Chelsea in a paralyzing grip.

  Mrs. Pettigrew was the first to recover. “It is…you.”

  Denial was probably pointless, but Chelsea shook her head anyway. She backed up, Mrs. Pettigrew advancing on her. Rosamund, standing behind her mother, came into view.

  She set down her shopping bag and pointed. “Oh, Mama. You’re right. ’Tis him.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew grabbed the sleeve of a passerby. “It’s him!” she shrieked to the startled gentleman.

  He tried to shake her off as though she were an annoying insect that had landed on him. “Unhand me, madam.”

  “But it’s him. The blackguard who robbed me!”

  “Robbed you!” He frowned at Chelsea from beneath shaggy gray brows. “By God, we can’t have that.”

  For an agonizing second, Chelsea stood still as though the soles of her shoes were nailed to the ground. Then the blood pumping from her frantic heart galvanized her leaden limbs. She turned and ran.

  “Stop! Thief!”

  Mrs. Pettigrew repeated the shrill exclamation. Chelsea stole a glance over her shoulder. The gentleman was running after her, trailed by a red-faced Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund.

  Holding on to her wig, Chelsea fled toward Bond Street. She found herself pitted against the pedestrian stream, which seemed to be uniformly flowing in the opposite direction.

  A stout, bearded man with a tray of Italian ices strapped to his chest stepped in her path. They collided, the tray upturning. Cursing in Italian, he stared down at the rainbow spread across the front of his white shirt. Chelsea sputtered an apology and kept running, dimly aware when he tore off the tray and started after her.

  None of her pursuers were particularly nimble, but having to weave through the strolling shoppers was slowing her down as well. She needed to find a way off the main street and fast. She sighted a side alley. Perfect. She could hide there, then sneak back to Anthony’s carriage after Mrs. Pettigrew and the others tired of the chase.

  She darted across the street.

  “Hey, look out, you!”

  The horse reared. Chelsea screamed as front hooves bore down on her. She jumped back, and the horse bucked again, dumping its rider into a rubbish bin. Groaning, the young dandy climbed out and brushed garbage from his pants seat.

  Chelsea handed him his crushed top hat and sped away.

  “Why, you little…I just bought this.”

  The alley would never do now, for he’d seen where she was headed and was sure to tell the others. Another shout of “Stop, thief!” had her looking back over her shoulder. Dear Lord, there were five of them now and the horseman, despite his limp, was gaining on her.

  She didn’t see the tree root buckling the sidewalk until it was too late. Feet slipping in her oversize shoes, she tripped and fell.

  “Uh!”

  A fruit sel
ler’s stand broke her fall. Arms flailing, she grabbed at the mounds of neatly stacked fruit. Oranges and apples scattered to the four winds.

  “Sorry,” she shouted over her shoulder, grapes squashing beneath the soles of her shoes.

  “Sorry, my arse.” The costermonger tore off his apron and scrambled after her. “You’re payin’ for this.”

  She ran on. Her lungs burned, a stitch scored her side, and her knees throbbed as though someone had struck them with a hammer. But still she ran, one thought racing through her mind. Anthony, where are you?

  Anthony glanced at the small gold wedding band, closed the box, and slipped it inside his pocket. “And the other commission. I trust it is ready as well?”

  “Of course, milord.” The jeweler, Gray, bent to unlock a drawer beneath the glass counter. Straightening, he presented Anthony with a long velvet case. He opened it and laid the contents on a swatch of midnight-blue velvet.

  The triple rope of pearls was striking in its simplicity, except for the clasp, an intricate confection of diamonds and emeralds. An A and C were entwined in the delicate filigree.

  Anthony lifted the necklace with reverent care. “May I?”

  “Of course, milord.” Gray handed him the loupe.

  Peering through the magnifier, Anthony examined each pearl. They were flawless, nearly as smooth and creamy as Chelsea’s skin. He couldn’t wait to see her wearing the necklace—and nothing else. But first he had to persuade her to speak to him again.

  She’d obviously left his house while his dinner party was still in session. None of the servants he’d questioned the night before remembered seeing her—him—past nine o’clock. He’d been tempted to rush to Mount Street—where else would she go?—to plead his case. But he was due to take over the watch at midnight, which was all to the good. If womanizing had taught him anything it was that an irate female should always be given a full night to cool her temper.

  Chelsea might be the least materialistic woman he’d ever known, but she was still a woman. Surely such a costly gift accompanied by his most charming apology would quell any doubts she still harbored about the genuineness of his promise to rescue Robert.

  Smiling, he put down the loupe and handed back the necklace. “You’ve outdone yourself, Gray.”

  Gray bowed his head. “Your sketch of the clasp was most explicit, milord.” Replacing the necklace in its box, he added, “Even so, ’twas something of a feat to fashion a piece so intricate in little more than a week.”

  Anthony hid a smile at the less than subtle hint. Despite his gentlemanly affectations, the jeweler was a tradesman at heart and adept at haggling. No matter. He fully intended to reward Gray for his diligence.

  Anthony reached inside his coat and withdrew his purse. “Add both pieces to my account. And, Gray?”

  “Yes, milord?”

  Anthony pulled out five ten-pound notes. “I trust this will suffice as a token of my appreciation for a job admirably done?”

  He dropped the stack of bills on the counter and picked up the necklace case.

  “Very handsomely, milord.”

  Sweat pearled on the jeweler’s brow. He pocketed the money and hurried to the front of the counter to open the shop door for Anthony. “Good day, milord.”

  “Good day, Gray.”

  Angry shouting—and one particularly piercing cry—drowned the soft tinkle of the shop’s bell as the door closed softly behind him. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Anthony frowned. Such raucous activity was to be expected in Billingsgate Market but not in Mayfair’s exclusive shopping district. It made no sense, and yet he recognized the clamoring of a mob when he heard it.

  And then a slim figure in brown and gold flashed by.

  Good God, Chelsea! Her pursuers, nearly ten of them, represented a variety of social stations, but they were united in one thing—their livid faces, fixed on Chelsea’s retreating back, radiated malice. Had Chelsea taken to picking pockets in broad daylight?

  But now was not the time to contemplate that question. Anthony cut across the street, legs devouring the pavement. Throwing himself dead center of Chelsea’s path, he caught her in his arms. The force rocked them both, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  “A-An-thon-y.”

  She threw her arms about his neck and collapsed against him.

  Across the street a lone man, dressed all in black, observed the spectacle from the outdoor table of a tea shop. The girl was her own worst enemy. Were it not for Montrose, it would be child’s play to pluck her off the streets. As it was, she’d been holed up in his lordship’s town house for more than a week. The chaos unfolding before him was his first chance to get close to her. Until Montrose, damn him to hell, interfered once again. The man was becoming a problem.

  Still, a notorious libertine like the viscount must soon tire of the game he’d been playing and relax his guard.

  When he does, the girl will be mine.

  Until then, he would wait. And watch. He could be patient when the situation warranted it. The thirtieth was but nine days away.

  He raked a trembling hand through his hair. I can wait. I must wait.

  For Chelsea Bellamy, he would wait for hell to freeze.

  Chapter Twelve

  Anthony untangled Chelsea’s arms from his neck. She looked so small, so fragile, so frightened, that he was afraid his heart would burst with the need to keep her safe. But to do so, he had to be strong.

  He took a step back, holding her away from him. “Say nothing and follow my lead,” he murmured.

  Face flushed and eyes wide, she nodded.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Anthony scanned the horde of angry, perspiring people spilling around them, voices raised in a cacophonous chorus. He sighted several raised fists and one riding crop but otherwise Chelsea’s pursuers appeared devoid of weaponry. Thank God for small favors. He signaled for silence.

  “Quiet, all of you!” He held up a palm. “This young man is in my employ. Whatever wrongs he has committed, I assume responsibility for ensuring that you are recompensed. Now, one at a time.”

  A young dandy hitched forward, his elaborately arranged neck cloth splashed with mud.

  “This…rapscallion leapt out in front of me. Blasted fellow nearly lamed both me and my horse. And my hat, it will never be the same.”

  Anthony eyed the hat. Made of cheap felt, it was worth no more than ten pounds. To be safe, he would offer twenty. “Allow me to express my regret.” He reached into his coat pocket for his purse.

  Upper lip curled into a sneer, the dandy turned to address the gathering spectators. “Keep your money, sir,” he said in a carrying voice. “Dare you suggest I would sully my honor by accepting payment from you? No, nothing shall satisfy me but your apology and seeing this lad publicly flogged.” Turning back, he eyed Anthony’s walking stick, the knob made of solid gold, and added beneath his breath, “Of course, if you were to loan me that stick of yours so that I might make my way back to my horse…”

  Anthony pressed the cane into his hand. “Apology made.”

  “In that case, I accept.” He grabbed the cane and skulked away, his hobble more pronounced than when he arrived.

  “Madonna, what of me?” A bearded street vendor gestured to the array of colors staining his once-white smock. “My finest shirt, she’s ruined. And, Dio, my ices. The entire tray, finito!”

  Ten pounds sent the Italian on his way, a smile cracking beneath his waxed mustachio. Listening to the litany of Chelsea’s other offenses, Anthony quickly determined that only a handful of her pursuers had a genuine grievance; the majority appeared to have joined the chase for sport.

  He was paying off a fruit seller when a stout, ruddy-faced matron pushed her way through the dispersing crowd. Organdy flounces swayed about her thick ankles.

  “I am Mrs. Josiah Pettigrew of Upper Uckfield.” She lifted a hand, the fleshy wrist weighted with packages, and pointed to Chelsea. “And I demand that you turn that felon over to th
e authorities at once.”

  Righteous indignation mingled with the sweat streaming down her porcine countenance. Damn. The termagant was no disgruntled tradesman but one of One-Eyed Jack’s—Chelsea’s—robbery victims.

  Anthony summoned the look of aristocratic hauteur he reserved for such occasions. “Felon, madam?”

  She nodded briskly. “Indeed, ’tis the highwayman who waylaid my carriage a fortnight ago. The villain stole my purse and terrorized my poor daughters out of their wits.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chelsea stiffen. “I can assure you, madam, Robin here is no highwayman. Obviously you’ve mistaken him for another.”

  Square jaw set, she turned to the flushed, pie-faced girl who had just joined them. “My daughter will bear me out. She, of all people, is qualified to identify the rogue. Rosamund, my precious, is this not the same vile creature who called himself One-Eyed Jack?”

  The girl hung back, fingering a rosy pimple blossoming on her square chin.

  Her mother jabbed her with her elbow. “Speak up!”

  “Tell me, miss, does this pitiful stripling really resemble the brute who terrorized you?” Anthony asked gently.

  The girl, Rosamund, glanced at Chelsea, then back at him. “I can’t be certain, sir. I did think it looked like him at first, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Relief surged through him. “Well, I can vouch that he is not your highwayman. Robin has been in my service for well nigh a year. He’s a hard worker and strong for his size.” And badly in need of being taught a lesson. “But, in truth, he’s a bit thick in the pate.”

  He nudged Chelsea. Glaring at him, she hunched her shoulders and adopted a slack-jawed expression.

  “But he so resembles this One-Eyed Jack fellow,” the harridan persisted. Stepping closer, she raised her lorgnette and examined Chelsea’s flushed face through the glass. “Perhaps if I could hear him speak?” She poked Chelsea’s stomach with the tip of her closed parasol. “What, have you nothing to say in your defense?”

  Despite Chelsea’s fiery cheeks and glinting eyes, Anthony knew she’d hold on to her temper at least until Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund were out of earshot. But, if pressed to speak, could she summon a passable male voice, one sufficiently dissimilar from the squeaky rasp she’d affected as One-Eyed Jack?