Dancing with a Rogue

by Potter, Patricia;

  They made love. Frantically and passionately and as if it were the last time they would see each other. He barely managed to withdraw before spilling his seed.

  He held her in his arms. He memorized the feel of her, the taste of her. He treasured the slight aroma of flowers and the way her dark hair framed her face.

  “Will you come with me tonight?” he said.

  “Can you leave now?”

  “Yes. I did not think I could,” he said. “But you are more important to me than Stanhope.”

  The day was fading, but he saw the question in her eyes. “And in years to come, will you hate me for it?”

  “I could never hate you.”

  “You do not know very much about me.”

  “I know everything I need to know,” he said.

  “No.”

  He stopped her protest with a kiss. His hands reassured her. He pulled her against him.

  “I love you, Monique Fremont, or Merry.…” He stopped. “Merry what?”

  “Anders,” she said in a low voice.

  “Merry Anders. I like that. But then I like everything about you.”

  “I have the contract,” she said. “I have never broken one before. It is one of the things you do not do in the theater.” She paused, then pleaded, “Will you go without me if I swear I will not see Stanhope, that I will end my part in this. I will meet you in Boston when I finish the play. I swear it.”

  He understood commitments. He’d known when he accepted a command of a ship he could not just walk away.

  But this was something else. He saw it in her face. In her eyes.

  Did she intend to go after Stanhope? Or was it something else holding her back? Like Pamela.

  “I gave some information to a man who knew my father,” he said slowly. “He will see that it gets to someone untainted by Stanhope. I also asked him to look after Pamela. To see that she reached that young man of hers.”

  “That was very kind,” she said.

  “I trust him to do what he said. He feels an obligation to this matter.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but now there was a reserve in her eyes that had not been there before. She was holding something back. “I cannot break the contract,” she said again, stubbornly.

  He released her and stood, unaware of the chill in the room.

  “Please go tonight,” she said. “My contract is complete in another month, and Mr. Lynch will have his license. I will have fulfilled my end of the bargain.” Her face was pinched; her eyes, however, were unfathomable.

  She still did not trust him. She did not trust him with whatever truth she was withholding. She did not trust him with Pamela’s safety. Stanhope was still more important to her than him.

  Disappointment was like a sword in his gut. He had been ready to let go for her. His boyish vow. His honor.

  She was not.

  He found his breeches in the dimming light and pulled them on, tucking his shirt inside them. Then he located his waistcoat on the floor. It was in sad shape, but then so was he. He put it on, tied the cravat loosely around his neck.

  He looked back at her. She sat on the bed, legs tucked under her. Her face looked anguished.

  But not anguished enough to leave with him. To make the choice between hate and love, between the past and the future.

  She said nothing.

  “I will be back tonight to see whether you’ve changed your mind,” he said.

  “You are going then?”

  Only God knew at that moment what he would do. He shrugged.

  Would they ever be honest with each other? He’d tried. God knew he had tried.

  She was silent, but he felt her eyes on him even as he avoided them.

  He wanted to lean over and kiss her. Pride and pain stopped him. He wanted her above all things, and he wanted her to want him that much. But she did not. His declaration of love, so difficult to make, had gone unanswered and unacknowledged.

  Perhaps he had been wrong all along.

  Still he had to take her out of harm’s way. If she hated him all her days, then so be it. Her life was more important than his future.

  He gave her a long, piercing look, then left without another word.

  Monique’s heart crumbled as he left. She had to force herself to ring for Dani.

  She still had to ready herself for the performance tonight. Perhaps the routine of doing so would diminish the pain she still felt at seeing the disillusionment in his eyes. Pain. Disappointment.

  I love you.

  She wanted to say the words back to him. She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to tell him that she was the daughter of his bitterest enemy and that Pamela was her sister. But the words wouldn’t come.

  They just wouldn’t come. How do you say you are the daughter of a monster?

  How could she leave now without knowing his fate? Or Pamela’s. She had started something that could not be stopped. Stanhope had already killed once because of her actions. What if he tried again? What if she was responsible for her sister’s death?

  Then she would be as bad as her father.

  A knock at the door. Dani entered. Her face looked more alive than ever.

  “Are we going to America?”

  Monique’s stomach tightened. Dani was obviously in love, and her face radiated happiness for the first time since Monique had met her. Monique vowed then that Dani would have her chance at happiness. Even if she had to drug her wine as well.

  “I told Lord Manchester I would meet him there when I finished my engagement. I want you to go and find us lodgings,” Monique said.

  “I will stay with you,” Dani said. “A few weeks …”

  “No,” Monique said sharply. Too sharply. She saw the hurt in Dani’s face. Even shock. “Please,” she said in a softer voice.

  “Is it because Lord Stanhope is …”

  Monique shuddered. “He is responsible for Manchester’s father’s death.” She had not told Dani that before, though she knew Dani realized Manchester had some reason for joining with them.

  “Tell him,” Dani urged. “He will understand.”

  “How can he when I do not?” Monique said. “I am plotting a man’s ruin. I am responsible for a man’s death. I am a liar and a thief. How am I that different from my father? I have his blood.”

  “You also have your mother’s blood,” Dani said. “You are fine and decent and good.”

  Monique shook her head. “I can never be Merry again. Or my mother’s daughter.”

  Dani’s eyes were filled with empathy. “I don’t think Lord Manchester wants Merry or someone else. He wants who you are today just as Sydney wants me.” She took a deep breath. “I told him what I used to be. He says it doesn’t matter. And he believes you are quite wonderful. Because of you, I will not die in prison or on a rope or beaten to death.”

  “But you are not the daughter of his worst enemy.”

  “Neither are you. He was never your father. You may have his blood but you also have kindness.”

  Monique stared at her maid. Could she possibly be right?

  Perhaps she would tell Manchester about Stanhope tonight. Then, at least, he could make a choice. Would that not be preferable to living out a lonely life without ever knowing?

  He said he would be back.

  “Help me get ready for tonight,” she said with new courage. “It could be my last performance.”

  “Oui,” Dani said. “I will make you très belle.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Stanhope looked at his watch. Three hours before the theater, and he was to meet with Daven at his club prior to attending the play. He’d had the devil’s own time securing tickets. Apparently all of London wanted them. He was determined, however, to see her home tonight.

  Manchester had said he would call on Pamela this afternoon. Stanhope wanted the betrothal announced before his son-in-law-to-be went to sea. Especially now that the damnable rumors were circulating through London. Manchester’s death m
ust be considered an accident.

  Which evoked another vexing problem. Stanhope had called on several acquaintances today. None were in.

  He had left his card. There had been no answers. For the first time he feared that the new rumors could be ruinous. His first instinct had been to ignore them. He had survived rumors for years. Without proof, he’d been able to counteract them with charges of jealousy. Every successful man had enemies who wanted to bring him down.

  And he’d had protection in high places. Some high government officials had invested in his business ventures and reaped high profits. Others had personal eccentricities they’d rather not come to light. They had always stopped queries before, but he’d had no word from them today.

  Had he been too confident about explaining away Stammel’s death?

  Or perhaps everyone was too busy to see him?

  Daven had said he would try to discover where the rumors started. A guest at his country home? The actress? Even Manchester. The thought continued to haunt him. Had he underestimated the man?

  He considered Monique Fremont. She was a woman. An actress. French. She had no reason to hurt him and every reason to please him. She had been teasing him to up the stakes. Nothing more.

  Still there was something about her, something that tickled at his memory. Perhaps that was why he had been more patient with her than he usually was with a woman. It had not only been the contest with Stammel and Daven. She intrigued him.

  He’d dismissed those odd flashes of familiarity. He’d not allowed a woman to affect him since he was not more than a lad, not since …

  He saw her then in his mind’s eye. A brown haired girl with blue eyes that had made his heart beat fast. But she had died before giving birth. His father had said …

  It must have been that resemblance that had weakened him momentarily. But then everyone had doubles. He forced his thoughts away from her to the next potential source of trouble.

  Manchester. The oaf had reason to hate him. Blazes, but he wished he had some kind of report back on the man’s activities in America. His mind returned to the times he had seen Manchester with Monique Fremont. Had he seduced the woman under Stanhope’s own nose and used her?

  Could he really be that wily?

  He wished now that he had hired a man to watch Manchester. He had grown careless during these last fat years. He had lived on proceeds from earlier illegal transactions and some more recent legal ones.

  Perhaps he should not have targeted Manchester. Yet he had every appearance of being a fool. And his father certainly was gullible. There had been no reason to think the son was any more. Pickwick had confirmed his opinion, and certainly so had Stammel.

  Yet he always appeared at the side of Monique.

  Stanhope cursed himself for not exercising his usual caution.

  Perhaps he could discover something more about the man today. Bait him a bit. Stanhope prized himself at being a judge of character, particularly avarice and greed. Manchester had certainly displayed those characteristics.

  Too obviously?

  He was beginning to get a very sick feeling at the pit of his stomach.

  He made a trip up to his room and unlocked the safe. It was as it had been after he discovered the missing money. Nothing else had been moved.

  His desk. Manchester had been alone there.

  But he kept nothing important in his desk. He had given Manchester the manifest he intended to give the authorities. Nothing dangerous there.

  But Manchester had been insistent.

  He was doubting himself now. That solved nothing.

  He had to know.

  Pamela had been with Manchaster. His daughter was not very smart, but perhaps she had picked up something along the way.

  He called Ames, his valet. “Tell Pamela I want to see her immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He bowed his way out, and Stanhope waited impatiently. Seconds later Ames returned. “She is not in her room, my lord.”

  “Search the house, damn it.”

  Ames left hastily as Stanhope paced the room, his anger and frustration growing. His daughter had been told to stay in the house. Where would she have gone?

  Ames returned. “We cannot find her, my lord. No one saw her leave. She did not request the carriage.”

  Stanhope swore.

  Now even his daughter was out of control. At least that was one complication he could fix. The moment the betrothal was announced, she would return to the country under the sharp eyes of someone he hired. He would make sure she never disobeyed him again.

  He heard someone at the door but stayed where he was. He heard the butler open the door. Heard the cautious words. “Lady Pamela is out visiting. I will see if my lord is receiving.”

  Manchester. And his daughter had slipped away.

  He nodded to his butler, who showed Manchester in.

  The marquess bowed. “I was hoping to see Lady Pamela.”

  “She is visiting friends. I had not informed her about your earlier visit.”

  “Would you suggest I wait for her?”

  Stanhope had few choices. He wanted to meet Daven. Perhaps the man had learned something. He wanted the betrothal, but leaving Manchester alone in his home after all that had happened was not a prospect he liked either.

  Damn Pamela.

  Perhaps she would soon return. He could afford another twenty minutes, long enough to probe Manchester.

  “Yes. In the meantime, did you bring your investment?” Stanhope tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “I had it, but I wanted to go by the ship before coming here and thought better of bringing that kind of money on the waterfront,” he said. “You said the agreement will be ready tomorrow. I can meet you at Pickwick’s office and give it to you then.”

  Stanhope shrugged, disguising his sudden discomfort. “What did you think of the ship?”

  “Looked like every other ship. Can’t say I liked the accommodations.”

  “It is not a long trip.”

  “Still, I am accustomed to better. I expect you to explain that to the master.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Stanhope said. “I will meet you at Pickwick’s office at noon tomorrow. Time is getting short. He will not sail without payment.” He took two cigars from a box on his desk. “Would you care for a cigar?”

  “I would, with thanks,” Manchester said.

  Stanhope took the top from the oil lamp to light his, then passed it to Manchester. He watched the man’s movements.

  Awkward, he thought with satisfaction.

  “Did you look over the manifest?” he asked.

  “Did not make a lot of sense to me,” Manchester said.

  “Some of the abbreviations might be strange to someone unfamiliar with them,” Stanhope explained. Puzzlement was clear in the man’s eyes; so was indifference.

  “If you have it with you, I can explain them.”

  Manchester shrugged. “Left ’em in the room.”

  “You have not talked about your life in America. Do you plan to go back?”

  “I like being a lord,” Gabriel said. “There is respect with a title.”

  “That’s fine. I would not like to see my daughter go to America,” Stanhope said.

  “Of course,” Gabriel Manchester said, “we have not yet discussed a dowry. I understand that any marriage arrangement includes one.”

  Strangely enough, the request made Stanhope feel far better. Manchester was a greedy opportunist. “We will discuss that when she accepts your proposal.”

  “Perhaps a glass of brandy to seal the bargain?” Manchester said. “You will have to tell me where to buy it. It is very fine.”

  It was not fine at all. Stanhope had his own supply from which he drank. But what could you expect of a fool?

  He looked at his watch. Daven would be waiting for him, hopefully with answers.

  Stanhope rang for the butler and took one last look around. Nothing here to be
concerned about. And he would make sure his servants kept an eye on Manchester.

  He lingered to share a few sips of brandy, then he put his down.

  “You may wait here for Pamela. I hope you will have happy news for me later this evening.”

  “You can be assured of it,” Gabriel smirked.

  Deciding Manchester was not the man who started the rumors, Stanhope left for White’s. Daven would have learned something by now.

  Pamela had waited until noon, hoping Manchester would answer her message. Then she knew her father would rise shortly. She could wait no longer. She had to reach Manchester.

  She looked at her hands. They were trembling. They had been since she’d heard her father plotting with Lord Daven. She’d prayed Manchester would present himself, but he had not. Either he had not received her note or he’d had more important things to do than see her.

  She waited as long as she could, even as the overheard conversation continued running through her mind. When the front hall was empty, she slipped out the door, hoping no one had seen her.

  Apparently they did not, for no footsteps or calls followed her. She was not sure what direction to take. All she knew was New Bridge Street, and she had to stop several times to ask a Charlie, one of the watchmen employed to guard the streets, for directions. The hem of her gown quickly became soiled, and her soft slippers afforded little protection. She had no coat despite the chill in the air; she’d feared that would give her intention away.

  She looked enviously at several sedan chairs, but she had no coin, and she’d continued until she saw the street name and a row of houses. A few more questions took her to Manchester’s lodgings.

  “His lordship is out,” she was told by the middle-age woman who opened the door.

  “I … I am Lord Stanhope’s daughter,” Pamela finally found the courage to say. “I … Lord Manchester …”

  “Oh yes, my son has mentioned you.”

  She must have looked confused because the woman continued quickly. “My son, Sydney, is valet to the marquess.”

  Pamela had seen the large valet several times. She had been awed by his size. “I have seen him.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you know when Lord Manchester will return? I have some urgent business with him.”