Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed

by Anna Campbell

  Unsuitable thoughts for church. Her grip tightened on Roberta’s slender arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” Her sister’s fading tones reflected extended laudanum use rather than sorrow, although today she’d done a marvelous job of playing the shocked, bereaved wife. “I’m glad that man didn’t have the gall to come.”

  Sidonie didn’t need to ask who that man was. Jonas’s gallantry in coming to Roberta’s rescue hadn’t softened her attitude. “You’re cursed ungrateful,” Sidonie hissed, then forced her expression into neutrality as she nodded at a neighbor who was casting them a curious glance.

  Roberta didn’t hear. Deliberately, Sidonie suspected.

  Jonas’s absence stabbed her like a knife. She’d hoped to encounter him today, if only as a silent presence at the back of the church, but he’d stayed away. He was no hypocrite. He wouldn’t pay public respects to a man he despised.

  Mercifully over the past days, Roberta’s brief surge of concern for her sister had subsided. She’d been in no state to inquire too carefully into what had happened in Devon. Anyway, what could Sidonie say? I thought to give myself to a monster but instead lost my heart to an enchanted prince?

  An enchanted prince who was unquestionably the new Viscount Hillbrook. The letter confirming the identity of the clergyman officiating at his parents’ wedding had arrived while she was at Castle Craven.

  Outside the church, sunlight dazzled Sidonie. As her vision cleared, she noted a strange hush in the crowd, different from the respectful silence appropriate to a funeral. Puzzled, she saw a commanding man in black marching with unhesitating purpose toward Roberta. She had no idea who he was but immediately recognized his aura of power. It was a quality Jonas shared. With a sudden lurch of fear, she ushered the boys toward Barstowe Hall’s housekeeper.

  “Lady Hillbrook?” The stranger performed a cursory bow. “I am Sir Pelham George from London. May I have a private word? I apologize for intruding upon this sad day, but my time in Wiltshire is limited.”

  Perhaps he was a creditor. Sidonie was surprised William’s debtors hadn’t already descended like vultures. This man didn’t look like a creditor. He looked like someone who ruled a small kingdom by personal edict.

  “I’m not myself, Sir Pelham,” Roberta said in the breathy tone she’d adopted since William’s death. Raising her veils, she fixed her tragic blue gaze upon the gentleman. “I beg your indulgence. Please call at Barstowe Hall tomorrow when I may feel stronger.”

  Sidonie shouldn’t resent her sister’s dramatics. After all, she’d convinced everyone that she genuinely mourned her husband, making her an unlikely murderer. Sidonie waited for this stranger to fall victim to Roberta’s blond beauty. Instead his expression remained stern as he extended his arm. “My lady?”

  The crowd’s avid curiosity buzzed around them. Dread coiled inside Sidonie. Dear God, was Sir Pelham here to arrest Roberta? But his manner was solicitous rather than threatening—and nobody but Roberta, Sidonie, and Jonas knew the truth behind William’s death.

  “If you insist.” Sulkiness pierced Roberta’s pretense at the pliable, pitiable widow. Her lips thinned as she accepted his escort. “My sister will accompany us.”

  Without speaking, Sir Pelham bowed to Sidonie. He drew Roberta aside while Sidonie followed. “My lady, this news may prove distressing.”

  Cold sweat prickled across Sidonie’s skin as she frantically wondered what she’d do if this stranger took Roberta into custody. Roberta’s eyes widened with immediate panic and her delicate throat moved as she swallowed. “Sir, I cannot imagine what more could distress me, given I’ve just lost my husband.”

  The man’s expression became impossibly severe. Something in Sidonie guessed what he planned to say before he spoke. Heaven lend her strength, she’d feared for the wrong person. Roberta wasn’t under threat.

  Across a long distance, she heard the deep rumble of Sir Pelham George’s voice, every word clear as a bell. “After evidence laid with the local magistrate, Jonas Merrick has been arrested for the murder of his cousin, Viscount Hillbrook.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sidonie clutched her shabby brown cloak around her and shifted on the wooden chair to relieve her numb backside. The fear that beat like a drum beneath every breath almost distracted her from her discomfort. Around her, austere Roman faces glowered down as if to insist that she had no right to be here, in the foyer of Rothermere House, the Duke of Sedgemoor’s extravagant London mansion.

  The statues looked sterner by the minute. But even supercilious marble patricians couldn’t match the disapproval expressed by the duke’s butler when opening the door to such a badly dressed woman. A woman purporting to be sister-in-law to the insolvent, now deceased Lord Hillbrook. A woman claiming no acquaintance with His Grace but who insisted upon seeing him on behalf of a man awaiting trial for murder.

  The butler had several times indicated that His Grace wasn’t at home. Sidonie had several times indicated with all the frosty hauteur she could muster that she’d wait. For Jonas’s sake, Sidonie endured the servant’s rudeness, just as she endured this long delay. Grim determination had got her from Barstowe Hall to London after the funeral two days ago and to Newgate Prison yesterday. Grim determination had kept her at Rothermere House all day. Tonight she’d sleep at Merrick House, William’s London property, under the careless eye of its scant staff. Tomorrow grim determination would spur her to pursue her quest to clear Jonas’s name.

  Knowing it was pointless expecting a nobleman to receive her earlier, she’d arrived at the duke’s house midmorning. Now long beams of light through the fanlight above the door showed afternoon advanced toward evening.

  She still hadn’t advanced beyond the entrance hall.

  Other people had come and gone, she assumed to see His Grace. She was familiar enough with aristocratic ways to know that “not at home” meant not at home to petitioners who arrived without appointment and with a barely concealed air of desperation. The parade of approved callers had ended about an hour ago. Bleakly Sidonie was aware that the butler would soon throw her out. She was tired, she was disheartened, she was stiff with sitting so long, and she was so thirsty she could drink the Thames dry. Unwelcome petitioners didn’t rate tea or even a glass of water.

  Her belly cramped with hunger but she disregarded it. She hadn’t eaten since last night, when she’d choked down some bread and cheese after a fruitless day fighting to convince Jonas’s jailers to allow her to see him. Naïvely she’d imagined she merely needed to request an interview with a prisoner and it would be granted. But no amount of pleading had got her beyond the gates.

  When she’d first glimpsed the prison’s dark, sinister bulk, she’d felt sick with fear and outrage. The very stones of Newgate seeped misery. Jonas didn’t belong there. Jonas belonged with her. She’d save him from hanging if it killed her.

  Biting her lip, she curled her fingers into her white muslin skirts. How Jonas would despise seeing her dressed this way. Clearly an opinion the churlish butler shared. She’d thought to borrow one of Roberta’s dresses, but her sister’s fashionable figure meant everything Sidonie tried strained across overflowing curves. Sidonie had hoped it wouldn’t matter what she wore. She’d mention Jonas’s name and the duke would see her. After all, hadn’t Camden Rothermere saved Jonas at Eton? Hadn’t he come to Castle Craven to warn Jonas of William’s erratic behavior? Her experience in the increasingly chilly hall indicated that Jonas’s churlishness to the duke in Devon had snapped any boyhood bonds between the men.

  Where did that leave her?

  Her hands clenched so hard in her meager skirts that the knuckles shone bloodless. Fierce demons of despair had snapped at her heels since she’d learned of Jonas’s arrest. She hadn’t even waited to learn what evidence had been laid against him before she’d set off for London. Anyway, she could guess. The feud was common knowledge and the duke had said at Castle Craven that William sought legal redress for the failed emerald sche
me. It would take little for suspicions to focus on William’s cousin if the authorities decided to treat Lord Hillbrook’s death as other than accidental.

  She was going to save Jonas. She wouldn’t fail. She was his only hope.

  Perhaps she should try Jonas’s other Eton friend, Richard Harmsworth. She’d assumed a duke would make an ideal champion, but today’s ordeal indicated the duke might remain beyond reach unless she waylaid him away from his watchdogs. Except her knowledge of the habits of London gentlemen was close to nonexistent. The butler was right to treat her as a country mouse. She didn’t know enough of this sophisticated world to plan an effective campaign.

  Well, you can learn.

  Perhaps she should leave and smarten her appearance. The problem was she was woefully short of money. And time. She needed to get Jonas out of Newgate, where they kept him pending his trial. She didn’t have the luxury to wait for a modiste to fashion a stylish gown. Even if she could afford such a thing. Sidonie only had what little she’d saved from Barstowe Hall’s miserly housekeeping. And the proceeds of selling her hairpins.

  The diamond pins had been a precious memento. She’d expected to mourn their loss. But what were pretty chips of polished stone compared to this threat to the man she loved? She’d relinquished them with no twinge of regret. What she’d regretted was how little she’d received in exchange.

  A clatter of hooves outside interrupted her gloomy meditations. The door opened wide with welcome. On a blast of cold air that sent her huddling into her cloak, a tall man swept into the hall.

  The superior butler could raise a smile. Who knew? Sourly she watched footmen dash forward to take the newcomer’s cape, gloves, hat, and cane and whisk them away.

  Sidonie had never seen a man so beautifully turned out. His garments fit like a second skin. She slid her slippered feet beneath the chair. In spite of her efforts last night, she was humiliatingly aware dirt from the streets around Newgate soiled her shoes and her hem was black with grime.

  “Sir Richard!” The warmth in the butler’s voice was in marked contrast to his greeting to Sidonie.

  Her heart kicked into a gallop. Sir Richard? Could this be Jonas’s rescuer? The man who had asked the duke to call at Castle Craven? She heard a sharp yip from outside and the elegant gentleman turned to pat a shaggy mongrel that trotted in after him. Sidonie waited for the starchy butler to expel the dog, but he merely smirked indulgently.

  “Water for Sirius, Carruthers.”

  “At once, Sir Richard.” The butler shot a peremptory glance at a footman, who disappeared in search of the hound’s refreshment. The hound clearly rated above Sidonie.

  Sirius was astoundingly ugly. Part lurcher, part whippet, part any number of breeds Sidonie couldn’t place. He was a medium-sized dog with a brindle coat and a curved, feathery tail. He made an incongruous companion for the exquisite Sir Richard. As if aware of her curiosity, the dog turned his bright black eyes in her direction and wandered across to investigate, claws clicking on the marble floor.

  “Hello, Sirius,” Sidonie said softly, standing and extending a hand for him to sniff.

  “He won’t bite,” Sir Richard said, and she realized he too had strolled closer.

  “I’m not afraid.” She scratched the animal behind his ears. His eyes shut with bliss. “I like dogs.”

  “He’s an unregenerate flirt. No pretty lady escapes his notice.”

  “Sir Richard, His Grace awaits.” Behind them, the butler sniffed with disapproval.

  “A little patience will do his ducal soul good.” Sir Richard’s blue eyes didn’t waver from Sidonie’s face.

  Sidonie mightn’t be familiar with London gentlemen, but she recognized an out-and-out rake when she met one. Sir Richard was accustomed to charming women into doing exactly what he wanted. Up close, he was as handsome as his dog was ugly. Perhaps that’s why he kept the beast, to emphasize the contrast.

  “Are you waiting to see Cam?”

  Sidonie couldn’t imagine why he wasted his considerable address on her, but if there was a chance this man—whether the Sir Richard she sought or not—could get her in to see the Duke of Sedgemoor, she wouldn’t discourage him. “Yes.”

  “Miss Forsythe arrived without appointment or introduction,” the butler said frostily.

  “I need the duke’s help,” she said, still fondling Sirius’s ears. The dog’s tail waved back and forth with lazy enjoyment.

  The man’s gaze ran over her, as if assessing her intentions. Perhaps he feared she was a discarded mistress, except surely no duke’s ladybird worth her salt would sport such a dreary outfit. “I’ll help if I can. What is your name?”

  “Sidonie Forsythe. My sister Roberta is… was married to Viscount Hillbrook.”

  Loathing swiftly darkened the man’s face under his thick golden hair before urbanity descended once more. Sidonie’s instincts, already aroused, screamed this must be the Richard Harmsworth who had saved Jonas. Hope surged, dousing the exhaustion of this long, frustrating day.

  “My condolences for your loss, Miss Forsythe.”

  Her hands fisted in Sirius’s wiry coat. Dear God, let her be right. Let this man be Jonas’s childhood ally. “Thank you. I’m here about Jonas Merrick.”

  “Jonas?” The man looked surprised. “I hear he’s been accused of Hillbrook’s murder.”

  Sidonie stared straight at him as the dog, sensing her tension, butted her skirts. “He’s innocent.”

  “You seem sure.”

  “I am.”

  “He’s an obvious suspect. The long-running animosity between the two men means—”

  “He didn’t kill Lord Hillbrook,” she interrupted, eliciting a soft whine from Sirius. She laid her hand on his head to soothe him.

  Her vehemence intrigued the man as, she could see, did her immediate defense of a man who was her brother-in-law’s enemy. Sir Richard’s jaw firmed in a way that made her wonder if he was quite the louche dandy he appeared. He extended his arm. “Miss Forsythe, I find you of interest. I’m sure Sedgemoor will as well. Would you care to accompany me into the duke’s library?”

  “Sir Richard, this lady is unknown to His Grace,” Carruthers bleated behind them.

  “She is, however, a great friend of mine. Pray announce us, my man.”

  “His Grace specifically said he’d see no unscheduled callers.”

  “He’ll see me. And Miss Forsythe is with me.” He paused. “And, Carruthers, take the lady’s cape. I’m surprised you’ve let her wait without the basic courtesies.”

  Sidonie’s lips twitched when ten minutes ago, she’d thought she’d never smile again. Fate had granted her a chance to save Jonas. What she made of it was up to her.

  “Sir Richard Harmsworth, Your Grace, and Miss Sidonie Forsythe,” Carruthers intoned, standing back as Sidonie and her escort entered the duke’s luxurious library. When she heard her champion’s name, fledgling hope spread its wings and prepared to soar.

  From behind a massive Boulle desk, the familiar dark-haired man rose with his hand outstretched, then paused with a frown when his attention fell upon her. His bone structure was so hard and pure, it seemed carved from the same marble as the statues outside. The assessing green eyes held no welcome. Sidonie shivered and her optimism faltered.

  With obvious familiarity, Sirius trotted to the rug before the roaring fire. He stretched out and rested his nose on his front paws.

  “Miss Forsythe, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The duke’s voice was cool but, thank goodness, not hostile.

  Sidonie curtsied and reminded herself someone with his commanding presence was exactly who she needed. Mustering courage, she raised her chin and returned his direct stare. “Your Grace, I request your aid for Jonas Merrick, wrongfully charged with the murder of my brother-in-law, Lord Hillbrook.”

  Comprehension entered the duke’s eyes, but didn’t warm his expression a single degree. “I see. I should have realized when Carruthers said Forsythe. You’re Lady Hillbrook�
�s sister. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, although I see you know Richard.”

  She saw no point in deception. “I met Sir Richard in your hall where I’ve waited all day. He helped me barge in upon you,” she said crisply. “I’m sorry for intruding, but I believe you and Mr. Merrick were once friends.”

  The duke’s eyebrows arched with a hauteur that would have daunted her had she been one whit less desperate. “Merrick and I were schoolfellows. We haven’t exactly been bosom-bows since.”

  Beside her, Sir Richard made a dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “Oh, dash it, Cam, Jonas has hoed his own row since his parents’ marriage was declared invalid. You know he’s always been a proud devil, even as a boy. He’s too stiff-necked to admit he might need friends.”

  Oh, my love, you’ve been so lonely. The reminder that she was most likely Jonas’s only ally bolstered Sidonie’s purpose. “He needs friends now.”

  “Is that what he told you?” The duke sounded bored as he gestured for her to sit.

  “He hasn’t told me anything.” As she subsided into a chair facing the desk, she swallowed to moisten her dry throat. “They won’t let me see him.”

  The duke sat and regarded her over steepled fingers. “The question arises why you want to see him at all. It’s public knowledge Hillbrook and Merrick loathed each other. Which I suspect is why he was arrested. One would assume family loyalty places you in Hillbrook’s camp.”

  Sidonie’s color rose and her eyelashes flickered with embarrassment. These men must guess her interest was more intense than a woman seeking justice for a stranger. “It’s all a terrible mistake. Lord Hillbrook committed suicide. Mr. Merrick is innocent.”

  “So why do you need to see him?”

  Because without him, I’m an empty husk. Because I need to touch him more than I need the air I breathe. “I can prove his innocence.”