A Rogue’s Pleasure

by Hope Tarr

  She slipped into the hallway. At one end was Jack’s unmistakable silhouette, carved in torchlight, along with the overturned barrel at his feet. A black cape obscured all but the head and shoulders of the man trapped beneath, but she knew it was the squire.

  Sickened, she took off in the opposite direction until the hallway ended in a set of rough wooden stairs. Knees shaking, she grabbed the banister and climbed.

  She gained the top step. Opening the door, she found herself in the kitchen. An iron poker lay in the center of the cobbled floor. Nearby Luke was curled on his side, powerful limbs trussed. He looked so peaceful that, were it not for the pool of blood beneath his head and the ugly gash above his left eye, Chelsea might have thought he slept.

  Stenton, tied to a nearby chair, lifted his chin from his bony chest and glared. “So, it was you, Ginger.”

  She shivered and hurried into the public room. What she needed was air, a great deal of it.

  She yanked open the heavy front door and stepped outside. A fall breeze nipped her cheeks. Throughout the city, fireplaces burned, and chimneys pumped coal dust into the chalky sky. She closed her eyes and took several deep, calming breaths, imagining that the air was clean and fresh like that of home.

  “Chelsea.”

  Her eyes snapped open. She peered down the street and sighted Robert, rising from a bench set beneath a streetlamp. And, with him, Anthony’s fiancée.

  Blast. She’d walk home before she’d face either of them. Seeing Robert so emaciated and filthy wrenched her, but not half as much as the disgusted look he’d lanced her when he’d found her in Anthony’s arms. Being on the receiving end of her sibling’s wrath would be a new, character-building experience. And one she was determined to avoid at all costs.

  She directed her shaking steps to the opposite end of the street, praying she’d find her horse before Robert intercepted her.

  Her brother’s hand clamped down on her shoulder like a nutcracker. Double blast. Caught, she turned to him.

  “Christ, Chels, it’s good to see you.” His tentative smile dissolved her dread. He held out his arms, and she walked into them.

  “Don’t blaspheme,” she reproved, straining to see him through happy tears.

  Giving up, she squeezed her eyes closed and returned the hug. Sharp ribs sliced through his shirt.

  She stepped back and surveyed him. He’d definitely grown up over the past month. Gone was any hint of boyish mischief. In its place was an adult seriousness she wasn’t certain she was ready to deal with.

  “You feel as though you’ve lost two stone,” she managed at length, “but we’ll remedy that when we get you home. I’ll have Cook prepare nothing but your favorites.” She touched his chin and frowned. “Provided you shave off this monstrosity.”

  “No argument there. It’s likely as lice-riddled as the rest of me.”

  She looked beyond Robert to Phoebe, who had risen and was silently observing their reunion. The girl looked genuinely miserable. Even at this distance, Chelsea could see that her light blue eyes were red-rimmed and swimming in tears.

  What have I done?

  These past few weeks, she’d been absorbed with Anthony and her deepening feelings for him. It had been easy, too easy, to forget that another person was involved. One who, like her, had feelings and hopes and dreams.

  Guilt flailed her. With it came the need to be punished. At minimum, she shouldn’t deny Phoebe the chance to spit in her face.

  Girding herself, she turned to Robert, who appeared to be studying Anthony’s fiancée just as closely as she was. “Perhaps you should introduce us?”

  Robert turned a telltale red, a family trait they shared. “All right.” Taking Chelsea’s hand, he led her back to the bench. “This is Phoebe.” The blush deepened and his grip on her hand tightened until she thought the bones would snap. “I mean, Lady Phoebe.” He inclined his head toward Chelsea. “My sister, Chelsea.”

  Chelsea tensed. Any second now, vile accusations, perhaps even gouging fingernails, would fall on her like pelting rain.

  “Miss Bellamy.” Phoebe regarded her. Her expression was cool and openly curious but by no means vicious. “I’ve the strangest feeling we’ve met before. Before today, that is. We have, haven’t we?”

  With one word, Chelsea could destroy every girlish, romantic fantasy that Phoebe had ever entertained about her intended. A few more well-chosen words would ensure that there would be no wedding on Thursday.

  She had the power to ruin two lives. Or repair them.

  Loving Anthony as she did rendered the choice both ridiculously easy and unspeakably hard.

  Chelsea sat in the middle of the bench and patted the space on either side of her. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’m afraid it’s rather a long story—and an incredulous one.”

  Breathing hard, Anthony stepped back from the undertaker’s wagon where he and Jack had just deposited Squire Dumfreys’s stiff and rather weighty remains. “By the by, thank you for keeping me from killing him.”

  Now that Chelsea was safe, and his blood had cooled, it chilled him to think of how close he’d come to doing murder.

  “Anytime, milord.” A lopsided grin split Jack’s craggy countenance.

  Anthony extended his hand. “I’d be honored if you’d call me by my Christian name—Anthony.” He winked. “Or Toeless Tony, if you’d prefer it.”

  Grinning even wider, Jack grasped Anthony’s hand in a grip that bordered on bone crushing. “Anthony’ll do just fine, mi—” Chuckling, he added, “Wants fer a bit o’ practice.”

  They stood in silence, watching until the black-draped vehicle disappeared from view. Out of the corner of his eye, Anthony spied Chelsea huddled on a bench with Robert and Phoebe. They were too far away for Anthony to overhear but, whatever it was that Chelsea was saying, she obviously held her two listeners in thrall. His heart drummed. Dare he hope she was revealing the whole, if unflattering, truth about his activities of the past weeks? If so, surely Phoebe would have no choice but to cry off their engagement? It would be a while before he found out.

  “Justice and the magistrate await,” Anthony said, gesturing toward the tavern. “Shall we?”

  Thanks to Mugglestone, Anthony’s second interview with the magistrate was blessedly brief. Although his hands were bound, the squire had managed to lift the lid off his signet ring using his teeth. An inner compartment contained the deadly poison that he carried in the event that his carefully crafted schemes should fail. According to Jack, who had watched his prisoner writhe, the end had been agonizing but brief. Everyone agreed the best course would be to record the gentleman’s death as a suicide. Stenton had been on the lamb for years now. He would be tried and hanged for his previous crimes, too copious to count. As for Luke, there was a cell in Bethlehem Royal Hospital—Bedlam—that would suit him splendidly.

  That left only the matter of Anthony’s own future to address. He came out onto the tavern steps along with Jack, Reggie, and Lord Tremont. Together, they watched Mugglestone prod his two prisoners toward the magistrate’s waiting carriage.

  “I suppose it’s over, then,” Lord Tremont said, speaking their collective thought aloud. Turning to Reggie, he added, “Time we collected your sister and were on our way.” His gaze, yet to thaw, angled toward Anthony. “Coming, Montrose?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Anthony replied, distracted by the sight of Chelsea still perched between her brother and Phoebe.

  Chelsea looked up. Their gazes met and melded. Anthony saw the yearning in her eyes and knew that it matched his own. His self-control, drawn taut as a bowstring, very nearly snapped. Leaving the others behind, he rushed toward her, his gait skirting a run.

  Phoebe, not Chelsea, rose to meet him. She flew to his side, blocking his path. He dug in his heels and prepared to be slapped or worse. And yet there Phoebe stood, smiling.

  “Oh, Anthony, Miss Bellamy has explained everything.” She launched herself into his arms.

  “She has, has
she?” His gaze fell on Chelsea, who colored and looked away.

  Phoebe nodded vigorously. “Yes, and to think these past weeks you’ve been engineering Mr. Bellamy’s rescue. Really, darling, you might have said something. I was halfway to believing that there was—” Blushing profusely, she finished in a small voice, “Well, that is to say, someone else. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Anthony couldn’t meet Phoebe’s eyes. He stared over her shoulder at Chelsea, who stood between Jack and her brother. He wanted to shrug Phoebe off and go to her, but the steely look in Chelsea’s turquoise eyes stayed him. He might have been a stranger instead of the man who only last night had shared her bed.

  “You do forgive me, don’t you?”

  He looked down at Phoebe and mumbled, “Of course.”

  Lord Tremont slapped Anthony on the back. “Seems I misjudged you, my boy.” He held out his hand. “Bygones?”

  Wishing he might sink beneath the sidewalk, Anthony took Lord Tremont’s hand. “Of course, sir.”

  Lord Tremont turned to Chelsea. “And to you, Miss Bellamy, I offer my deepest apology. Inadequate as it is, I hope you will accept it?” He elbowed his son, who mumbled his own regrets through bloodied lips.

  “You have nothing for which to apologize, your lordship.” Chelsea’s expression was funerary, her voice disconcertingly earnest.

  Trying to catch her eye, Anthony caught Robert Bellamy’s glower instead. It was obvious that Chelsea hadn’t managed to convince everyone that Anthony had spent the past weeks engaged in nothing but heroic deeds. The young man’s eyes blazed with a dislike that bordered on hatred. Then they fell on Phoebe and softened.

  Anthony looked to Phoebe, who had finally stepped out of his arms. Bedraggled and flushed, she appeared more vibrant than he’d ever seen her. Had captivity bred a tendre? The boy was obviously smitten. Dare he hope that Phoebe’s heart might be likewise engaged?

  Before he could explore that tantalizing possibility, an elegant town carriage bearing the Tremont crest drew up alongside their party.

  Lord Tremont hailed the driver. “Shall we?”

  Phoebe linked her arm through Anthony’s. She smiled up at him, and his heart plummeted. “Yes, do let’s leave this dreadful place. I want a bath and a nap and food. I’m far too ravenous to wait until tea. Perhaps afterward, you can take me for a ride in the park? I want to hear all about your exploits over the past weeks, every thrilling detail!”

  Anthony swallowed. Hard. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see.” He looked beyond Phoebe to Chelsea, who was distancing herself from them. From him. If he could prolong contact, perhaps he could contrive a moment alone with her?

  “Miss Bellamy, may we offer you and your brother a ride?”

  She flinched as though he’d struck her. “No thank you, Lord Montrose. My horse is nearby. My brother can ride pillion, and Jack has his own mount.”

  She was dismissing him. Worse, she was saying farewell.

  Desperate, he persisted. “But you’re injured. My physician really should have a look at that bump on your head.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Goodbye, Lord Montrose.”

  Their gazes met and held. The others drifted away, and it was as though Chelsea and he stood alone, facing each other across the abyss. The abyss that he’d dug a bit deeper every time he’d tried to beguile her into becoming his mistress.

  And now she was leaving him. Or rather she’d engineered events so that he had no choice but to leave her.

  I love you, Chelsea. “Good day, Miss Bellamy.”

  He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, say goodbye. But it was goodbye, and he knew it. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she worried her bottom lip.

  Phoebe looked about, face bright. “Gracious but you all sound as though this is adieu rather than au revoir.” She turned to her father and tugged his sleeve. “Certainly we’ll invite the Bellamys to the wedding, won’t we, Papa?”

  Lord Tremont began an intense examination of his shoes. “Perfectly fine by me, of course, but we’ll have to talk to your mother. Guest list all planned. Invitations already sent. Could cause quite a to-do.”

  “What fustian.” Phoebe stamped her slipper on a cobble. “Of course Mama will agree once we tell her how delightful they are.” Her gaze settled on Robert. “That is, if you and your sister are available on the thirtieth?”

  Chelsea opened her mouth, and then closed it. Anthony wondered if he was the only one to see her eyes fill with tears.

  Robert offered Phoebe a low bow. Averting his gaze from Anthony, he replied, “I’m afraid we must decline, Miss Tremont. My sister and I have been absent from our home overlong. So, we must bid you farewell and wish you happy all at once.”

  Phoebe’s face fell. “I see. Well, safe journey, then.” She gave Anthony her hand.

  He helped her up the carriage steps. A frozen feeling crept over his chest. He looked back at Chelsea, but she only shook her head and turned away. He started up the steps. The coldness spread, settling in the pit of his stomach. He stopped, right foot poised on the top step.

  Chelsea! Grief gripped him. He was about to lose her as surely as if she had died. If only she would stop being so damned noble! Frustration stabbed through the frozenness, chipping it away. Raw feelings washed over him. He wanted to shout, swear, fall to the ground, and rent his clothes.

  He started to climb down, but Lord Tremont was at his back. “I say, Montrose, need a hand after all that knocking about?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he lied.

  He ducked inside and collapsed against the velvet seat across from Phoebe. They were a week from marriage, and no one would have taken it amiss if he’d positioned himself more intimately beside her. As it was, Lord Tremont and Reggie had to step over him, for he wasn’t about to relinquish the window.

  It afforded him one last view of Chelsea as she turned and walked out of his life.

  Chapter Twenty

  One week later

  It had been the week from hell.

  From the window of his bedchamber, Anthony watched gray drizzle fall from chalk-white skies and wondered if it was cold enough for snow. Snow in September? Why the devil not? If London’s most renowned rogue could spend a week tearing his heart out over a woman who’d spurned him, then anything was possible.

  Turning his back on the uninspired vista, he crossed the room to his dresser. On the way, he kicked aside an overturned brandy decanter, one of several empties littering the carpet. He’d been drinking heavily every night for the past week. Brandy mostly, although the port and claret had gone down almost as smoothly. He’d finally stopped around midnight the night before after he’d acknowledged that the pain was growing sharper, not duller, with each emptied glass.

  He stared into the mirror above the bow front dresser. It was the first time he’d looked at himself, really looked, in a week. A brown beard hid most of his face, but the skin stretched over his cheekbones was sallow as a Spaniard’s. His hair, untrimmed, curled around the velvet collar of his dressing robe. And his eyes, world-weary and shot with red, belonged to a man twice his age.

  What had he expected? He’d been living on liquor and false hope for a full week. He dropped his gaze to his dresser top. Seven dead roses, one for each day, lay alongside a stack of unopened letters. His letters. Chelsea had returned them along with the flowers. Except for the seventh. That letter she’d exchanged yesterday with a note of her own. In it, she’d told him to forget her.

  Forget her. As if he ever could. Did the heartless wench think he chose to feel this dull, omnipresent ache? Did she imagine he spent his every waking moment scheming to get her back because he had no other occupation?

  Last night, after he’d emptied the liquor cabinet, he’d spent the predawn hours pacing. Self-reflection could be a heinous thing. It peeled away his pride, layer by layer, like the skin of an onion until only the inner bulb remained, shriveled and sickly. He’d finally seen what others saw—a spoiled, conceited dilettante who cared
only for pleasure no matter the toll. Such a man didn’t deserve to be happy, but Chelsea did. And so did Phoebe.

  The knock at his door jarred him. He swung around. “Enter,” he called out, remembering that he’d rung for his valet only moments before.

  “Good morning, milord.” Yawning, Tobias crossed the threshold with a steaming basin of water and a towel draped over one arm. “I didn’t expect to find you up and about for an hour or more but, like they say, ’tis the early bird that catches the worm.”

  Anthony folded his arms across his stained robe front. “Indeed? I’d only hoped to catch a shave.”

  “Coming, milord.” Oblivious to his master’s sarcasm, Tobias carried the basin to the washstand. Slanting Anthony a sidelong glance, he began laying out the shaving things. “’Tis good to see you looking so, uh…chipper.”

  Chipper. Anthony had never felt less chipper in his life, but he cracked a smile at such an early morning display of cockney optimism. “Well, it is my wedding day after all.”

  Tobias dropped the pot of shaving soap into the basin. Water lopped over the sides. He fished out the soap and glanced at Anthony over his shoulder. “Yes, well, er, looks as if you’ve come through the wedding jitters.”

  Wedding jitters. So that’s what they were calling it below stairs. Personally, he’d thought he was going mad.

  “Indeed. I feel far less jittery than I have for some time.” He came up beside Tobias and reached for the razor. “Quite calm, really.”

  Tobias snatched it away. “Allow me, milord.” He motioned Anthony to a chair. “Do sit, if you please.”

  Anthony complied, amused that his valet didn’t trust him with sharp objects. Trying not to smile, he angled his face upward and held still while Tobias draped the towel over his shoulders and used a soft-bristled brush to slather soap over his face and neck.