The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Sophia swallowed. “Curious, yes.”

  “What does it say?” Violet asked.

  “Nothing important.” Sophia managed a tight smile.

  Lady Blaise scurried into the hall then, her face and gown a matching shade of pink as she struggled to catch her breath.

  Sophia had never in all her years been so relieved to see her mother. She slipped the note into the elbow of her glove and turned to greet her.

  “Good heavens, Mama, whatever is the matter?”

  “My,” she huffed, “gown. It’s a bit. Tighter than I remember.”

  Violet raised a brow. “A bit?”

  “Oh, hush, you. I can’t wait until you get old; we’ll see who is laughing then.” She padded to the front door, waving her fan. “Come along, we mustn’t keep Mr. Hope waiting. I hear from Lady Dubblestone that Withington is to attend. Oh! And rumor has it that wastrel Beau Brummell is to make an appearance, though everyone knows he is falling out of favor with the regent, and did you know he soiled himself at the race this past week . . .”

  Sophia settled stiffly into the carriage beside Violet, who, as annoyed as she was at Mama’s endless tittering, seemed to have all but forgotten about the mysterious letter.

  Good. This sort of trouble was above and beyond even Violet’s expertise. The sort of trouble that Sophia had hoped to avoid all along.

  Nine

  “I look ridiculous.”

  Mr. Lake shrugged at Hope’s grimace. “But I thought you liked costumes? In France you were all too eager to don a disguise. Remember the time you played a one-armed butcher—”

  “This,” Hope pointed to the towering wig of black curls that wobbled on his head, “is a rather different scenario, don’t you think? The wig, the shoes—it’s a bit much, even for me. And dear God my head hurts.”

  Lake waved away his words. “Small price to pay for king and country, my friend. Though it does make you wonder how old Louis managed it. Fellow must’ve been bald as a bat to want to wear a wig like that.”

  “He was a glutton for punishment, no two ways about it.” Hope took a deep breath, resisting the urge to itch his head. “Actually, I’m beginning to think we have quite a lot in common.”

  They were on the terrace, an open bottle of French cognac, smuggled into London not two days ago, resting on the stone balustrade between them. Over the tops of neighboring houses a cloudless sky faded to dusk, the edges of the horizon glowing faintly with the last of the day’s sun. A curving peel of moon swam noiselessly through the blue above their heads.

  Sounds of last-minute preparations floated through the open ballroom doors. The hurried steps of a dozen footmen; the famous opera soprano he’d hired, practicing her aria; the clink of crystal; the murmuring of kitchen maids as they laid out the refreshment tables.

  The sounds pleased him. Nearly five years ago to the day he’d hosted his first costumed ball with the intention of attracting wealthy—and well-known—clientele. A generation before, the Hopes were among the most prominent families in Amsterdam, bankers to and social equals of princes, dukes, even sultans. Their home in Groenendaal Park was one of the finest in the city, its rooms alive with a never-ending progression of teas, soirees, balls, and exhibitions.

  It had all ended abruptly, one tragedy after the next. But the memory of his family, their home, and the people whom they had welcomed and entertained there, had kept Hope warm throughout the years of misadventure that followed. When he at last landed on his feet in London, he set about resurrecting the glamorous heyday of the family he so sorely missed.

  The ball was an absolute triumph. By the third year, Hope counted among his clients the greatest and wealthiest titles of the ton. Though some of the more stalwart members of society refused to socialize with one who (God forbid) worked for a living, an invitation to Hope’s costumed soirees was nonetheless a coveted one.

  This year was no different; he’d done everything in his power to ensure its success. Hell, Hope had even convinced that infamously slippery rake the Earl of Harclay to attend. Tonight’s ball was, Hope knew, going to be the biggest and best he’d ever hosted.

  Surely there was no greater stage on which to play out Lake’s plot to snare Napoleon with the French Blue.

  Lake lifted the bottle of cognac to his lips and took a short, ruthless swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, as if reading Hope’s thoughts, said, “When Bonaparte’s men make contact, send for me straightaway. And don’t lose sight of that diamond.”

  Hope reached out and swiped the bottle from Lake’s hand. “And you. Don’t drink all my cognac. It’s bloody impossible to get these days.” He took a pull and, retrieving the cork from his waistcoat pocket, pounded it back into place with the heel of his hand. “Who do you think is going to steal the French Blue, anyway? Everyone who’s coming tonight can buy their own damned jewels. If I were to peg anyone, it’d be you. Besides, I hired twenty extra men to patrol the ballroom, just in case. Trust me, Lake. Nothing is going to happen.”

  “I don’t have to remind you there are no more famous last words than those.”

  Hope rolled his eyes, deciding a change of subject would best keep him from throttling his unwelcome guest. “Speaking of words. Any word on our leak?”

  “No. But I can’t shake th—”

  They both turned at the sound of female voices coming from inside the ballroom.

  “Ah,” Lake said softly. “Appears your first guests have arrived.”

  “Indeed.” Hope strained for a look inside, but straightened before the weight of his wig toppled him to the ground.

  “Be careful, Hope. And good luck.”

  “Same to you. I’ll be in touch in the morn—”

  Turning back, the words caught in his throat. Lake was gone, nothing but the cool evening air in his place.

  Hope peered over the edge of the balustrade and sighed. “One of these days you’re going to hurt yourself, old man,” he murmured.

  Taking the bottle in his hand, he turned and made his way through the doors into a gallery, narrowly avoiding disaster when with his gilt-tipped walking stick he tripped a footman carrying a tray of petit fours. Hope apologized profusely, rolling his eyes in the direction of his wig as if that should explain everything.

  He handed off the cognac to another passing footman with instructions to decant it so that Hope and his most important clients might enjoy it later that evening. Straightening his person as best he could with a two-stone wig on his head, Hope strode into the ballroom to welcome his first guests.

  Three ladies stood in the center of the room, heads tilted back as they admired the spectacle of his very own Versailles. Lady Blaise, behind whose ample figure her wards were hidden, took a step forward, revealing a young woman with elegant posture, her gown a diaphanous creation of ivory gauze. Pale rosebuds, the same blush that now rose on her cheeks, were tucked into the swirl of her dark hair.

  For a moment he stood watching, wonderstruck at her beauty, her daring.

  So she did remember.

  You are as a nymph, Sophia. So lovely. So tempting.

  Did she think of that night as often as did he? These past weeks had been an exercise in frustration; without fail, his thoughts would wander from rents and markets to the slope of Sophia’s cheek, the curious innocence of her touch. In the midst of appointments—important appointments, during which the fate of hundreds of thousands of pounds was decided—Hope would miss entire swaths of debate, enraptured as he was by the memory of their time together, the tantalizing possibility there would be more to come.

  And now here she was, more lovely, impossibly, than he remembered. His heart tightened in his chest; his pulse took off at a gallop.

  From across the ballroom she turned her wide hazel eyes to him. He saw his own anticipation mirrored in their gleam; but there was something else there, a wo
rry, a fear.

  A desire to know what troubled her overwhelmed him. He crossed the ballroom in three long, purposeful strides, a smile on his lips as he welcomed them to his ball.

  Their conversation was brief but merry. Hope’s admittedly excessive praise of Sophia’s costume—“A nymph, I presume? What a marvelous conceit. A goddess of the wood, and of the hunt. The Sun King was a great hunter, and would have delighted in such a creature. We go together, you and I”—drew a look of consternation from Lady Violet, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Sophia said very little but kept her gaze trained on Mr. Hope, as if she were trying to tell him something. He nodded in reply. When the crowd thickened, it would be easy enough to pull her aside without being seen.

  The ladies continued to gawk; when Hope waved over the men he’d hired as guards, one of them bearing Princess Caroline’s black lacquered box, he thought Violet’s eyes might pop out of her head.

  It was a rather clever idea if Hope didn’t say so himself. Mr. Lake was right to suggest that advertising the French Blue’s discovery would only increase its value: the greater number of people who saw it, the greater number who would want it, speak of it, inflate its size and beauty. And what better way to advertise the beauty of the jewel than to display it slung about a beautiful woman’s neck?

  Better yet that said beautiful woman did and said as she pleased without a care for what others thought. Lady Violet was certainly one of a kind; Hope had yet to meet another woman with a taste for brandy and high-stakes gambling. She’d have everyone and their mother talking of the French Blue well before the night was out.

  Hope laced the diamond onto a collar of gems he’d borrowed from a client’s wife and carefully lifted the brilliant garland onto Violet’s neck, the French Blue glittering from her breast. When he clasped the garland, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck, he felt her shiver.

  “Are you all right, Lady Violet?”

  “Yes, quite. What a thrill to wear the Sun King’s diamond, truly,” she said, and shivered again.

  Hope’s idea worked. As the ball began in earnest, dancers stomping and men laughing and women gossiping behind gossamer fans, it seemed no one spoke of anything but the Sun King’s fifty-carat blue-gray diamond. It would only be a matter of time before Napoleon would knock on his door, begging for the jewel.

  Assured the job was done and nothing, indeed, could possibly go wrong, Mr. Hope set out for Sophia. He hoped and prayed that whatever burdened her had nothing to do with their shared adventure.

  His every sense told him otherwise.

  Hope stopped once to accost the Earl of Harclay, that rakehell, who in turn was accosting Lady Violet, ogling her bosom as if he’d like to eat it. Only after Lady Violet assured Hope, in so many words, that she could look after herself, thank you very much, did he move on.

  He found Sophia at last bobbing about in a cotillion. Hope smiled at her obvious awkwardness as she twirled clumsily around the Marquess of Withington, who, in his satin breeches and azure-velvet coat, cut an annoyingly dashing figure.

  Hope’s smile faded as his head began to pound with an unfamiliar urgency. It was the wig, yes, the bloody thing; but he recognized the prick of jealousy, too. It felt at once silly and terribly serious, more serious than silly as he remembered Sophia’s halting speech about a brilliant match, Lake’s admonition that Sophia would marry a titled gentleman with ten thousand a year.

  His fingers clenched around the smooth, rounded finial of his walking stick. The metal felt hot against his skin, a welcome distraction from the entirely unwelcome feelings holding him captive. He breathed deeply, fighting back with every rational thought he could muster.

  He was a man of business, first and foremost. He could not forget the hard work that had seen him to this moment; nor could he forget the work that had yet to be done. He was the bank. The bank was his life, a living tribute to the family fate had left behind.

  And with Lake’s plot in play, Hope had more to lose than ever. These feelings, the attraction he felt for Sophia, were dangerous. He’d dedicated his life to Hope & Co.; and in that life there was no place for a lovely, witty, beautifully terrible dancer like her—

  Hope found himself at her side just as the dance was ending. When she turned to him, color high, lips parted in a half smile, he knew he’d made the right decision.

  Or perhaps the worst decision ever.

  “Miss Blaise.” He reveled in the satisfaction of knowing her eyes were upon him, taking in his bow with no little appreciation. “The next dance. Might I have it?”

  She eyed the wig towering over his person. “Are you sure you’re able to dance with that—that thing on your head? It might pose a hazard to the other guests.”

  Damn it, Hope had forgotten about the wig. It was liable to cause a good bit of damage staying right where it was; should it move, the destruction could be catastrophic.

  He pulled the monstrosity from his head, sighing with relief as he did so. “Forget about the wig. Dance with me.”

  Sophia glanced at the marquess, hovering just out of earshot. “We’re in the middle of a set, you see, and I couldn’t very well abandon his lordshi—”

  As if on cue the dashing marquess stepped forward, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He smiled ebulliently at Hope. It was all Thomas could do not to sock him in his dashing jaw.

  “Mr. Hope! Capital ball, good man, capital ball! And your costume!”

  Hope smiled tightly. “Let me guess. Capital?”

  The marquess threw his head back and laughed as if Hope had cracked the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Capital, yes, how ever did you know?”

  “A lucky guess. Listen, my lord.” Hope pulled him close. “You must tell no one. But I’ve a stash of cognac in my study, smuggled in from France not two days ago. It’s reserved for my best clients only—you included, of course.”

  “Capital!” Again the marquess wiped his brow, looking with some reluctance at Sophia. “After Miss Blaise’s spirited dancing, I find that I am rather parched, though we’re only halfway through the set . . .”

  “Have no fear. I shall merely take your place and join you when the set is through.”

  “Are you quite sure? I wouldn’t want to take you away from your cognac. And Miss Blaise, I couldn’t very well leave her—could I, Miss Blaise?”

  Sophia looked levelly at Hope, her lips curling into a grin. “Please, my lord, go find your refreshment. It won’t do to have you parched.”

  Hope shoved the marquess off the ballroom floor as gently as could be managed, tucking the wig and cane into his hands as he went. “If you don’t mind giving these to a footman, I’d be much obliged.”

  He turned back to Sophia.

  Dear God she was beautiful.

  And now, finally, she was his. At least for a little while.

  “Well then, now that that’s all sorted out—shall we dance?”

  Sophia stepped forward. “Yes. Though you may regret asking me—I’m not very good at it.”

  “So I noticed.”

  Hope turned at the sound of commotion near the orchestra. That cad the Earl of Harclay—really, the man was far more trouble than he was worth—was tossing a reticule heavy with coin into the lap of the first-chair violinist. Hope couldn’t make out what he was saying, but suddenly the ballroom was erupting with gasps and shouts as the master of the dance called for a waltz.

  Hope looked at Sophia. They both rushed to speak at once. “A waltz?”

  “That’s impossible!” Sophia’s eyes were wide. “A debutante can’t be seen dancing the waltz! I don’t even think I know how.”

  But the music was already starting; despite the risks to Hope’s sanity and Sophia’s reputation, he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her to him. With his other hand he drew out her opposite arm and together they moved—or, rather, stumbled�
�through the first steps of the waltz.

  “Let me go!” she hissed. “I’ll dance the next set with you.”

  Hope looked down at her with a smile. “Too late, Miss Blaise. Follow my steps—yes, that’s—no, no, the other foot—no, the other other foot!”

  He tripped over her misplaced foot and together they lurched forward, nearly toppling Lord Harclay and Lady Violet before Hope in his terror turned and righted his and Sophia’s bodies.

  “Dear God,” Hope gasped. “If I’d been wearing my wig I daresay we’d both be dead!”

  To his very great pleasure he watched as, despite her protests, Sophia dissolved into breathless laughter, closing her eyes against the force of it.

  When she opened them she met his gaze, a small smile lingering on her lips as her steps, praise heaven, fell in time with his. He held her to him and they danced together, the music so loud, so insistent in its rhythm, Hope lost himself for a moment. He had cognac in his blood and the most beautiful woman at the ball in his arms; the plot was in play and business could only get better.

  But something was not quite right. That fearful gleam had returned to Sophia’s green eyes, and a shallow crease now appeared between her brows—though, to be fair, it did seem to require enormous concentration on her part to land the three steps of the waltz.

  “What is it?” He turned, pulling her close enough so that he might murmur in her ear. “My promise remains the same, Sophia. I gave you my word then, the same as I give it to you now. Anything you say shall remain between us.”

  Beneath his hand on her back she stiffened. As they turned once, twice, three times, she glanced over her shoulder, watching with wide eyes the couples that twirled around them.

  He pressed his lips to her ear. “I will know what it is that’s bothering you. Tell me, Sophia, so that I might help you. You’ve my word.”

  “That’s just it, Thomas.” She looked up at him. “You may have given me your word, but someone knows. Knows about us. About what happened that night.”