“Ha!” Lake snorted. “I may be ginger-haired, old friend, but the ladies certainly don’t seem to mind.” He leaned over the desk, eyes narrowed, nose in the air. He was a bully, yes, but Lake was no fool. If Hope did not stop him, he would sniff out Sophia. And when he discovered her pink-cheeked, her costume in telling shreds, she would surely die of shame and embarrassment.
And, lest Hope ever forget, there was Lake’s wrath to consider. There was no telling what the man would do once he discovered Hope was further jeopardizing an already complicated plot.
“Well, then,” Hope said briskly. He took Lake by the shoulder and turned him away from the desk. “Remember the coffee. And have those little bastards brought down to the kitchens; I don’t need to tell you that no one must know they are in my house.” Lake opened his mouth, but Hope pushed him out the door before he could speak. “Oh, and send for Lady Violet. What with the diamond being stolen from about her neck, she might shed some light on our proceedings. I shall join you directly, old friend.”
Hope shut the door and leaned against it, clamping his fist around the knob. He waited, heart thudding, until he heard Lake’s staccato shuffling down the stair.
He let out a long breath. “The coast is clear,” he called out softly, making his way to Sophia. “You may come out now.”
Hope helped her to her feet, trying all the while not to stare at her adorably disheveled appearance. Her hair was askew, lips bright red. Attempting to straighten her costume, Sophia only made the damage worse and revealed, to Hope’s delight, far more bosom than was polite.
“That was close,” she said, stepping into her slippers. “We’re off to your house, then?”
Hope looked at her. She blushed. Adorably, of course.
His shoulders sagged. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to end our adventure here, could I?”
She leaned in, a small, suggestive smile on those damnably alluring lips. “Not if you want to keep that garter as a souvenir. Besides, we’ve already come this far. The more ears you have to the ground, the better chance you have of recovering the French Blue.”
Hope sighed. He couldn’t say no, not when she stood before him in the gown he’d torn to shreds. Not when she smiled at him like that.
“All right. I’ve got to write a few letters to my friends at the papers. Buy us some time before word gets out of the theft. Once my clients hear of it—those who weren’t at the ball, anyway—they’ll panic. Then we’ll send for your mother and meet at my house.”
Only as he sat down to pen said letters did Hope realize he’d said us—“Buy us time”—as if he and Sophia were true partners in crime.
It seemed Sophia was now an integral part of the plot, whether Hope wished it or not.
* * *
Despite Lake’s supposed expertise in such matters, the interrogation of the acrobats proved a failure.
Until, that is, Lady Violet strutted into the room. A fuming Lord Harclay—what was he doing here?—at her side, she trailed perfume and the promise of forbidden things in her wake. The baby-faced men, their hands bound behind their backs, sat up straight in their chairs. With a strategic batting of the eyes, Violet squeezed the story out of them in five minutes flat.
Interestingly, while the acrobats admitted to crashing Hope’s ball, they knew nothing about the French Blue.
“We was down the pub, yeah?, when a man wiv a fake-like beard, teeth rottin’ out ov his head, yeah?, sat down,” the lead man said. “Said he’d give fi’ty pounds to the each ov us for making a right nice mess of your fancy-pants party. Twen’y-five before, twen’y-five after.”
“And what of the other twenty-five pounds the man owes you?” Violet asked. “Have you received it yet?”
The acrobat shook his head. “Nah. Seein’ as we been caught, we ain’t expectin’ to see the rest. Though that ain’t exactly fair now, is it?”
But when Violet asked them about the diamond, the man responded to her question with a blank stare; his companions, impossibly, appeared even more puzzled. And unless they were better actors than they were acrobats, Hope could tell they spoke the truth.
Across the room he met Lake’s gaze.
So now they were looking for a man disguised in a strap-on beard and, from the sound of it, ill-fitting wooden dentures.
A description that encompassed a solid half of the inhabitants of London during the bustling months of the season.
Splendid.
“Discover any further information about this man,” Hope said, knowing all the while his offer would come to naught, “and I will gladly pay you the twenty-five guineas he still owes you.”
Head throbbing and heart sunk, Hope charged from the room.
“Keep them in your custody,” he growled over his shoulder as Lake followed him out into the servants’ hall. “In the extreme unlikelihood that we find this bearded, gap-toothed son of a bitch, those acrobats of yours might help us untangle his plot.”
Without waiting for a reply, he mounted the stairs two at a time. He needed more coffee and a bath; as it was Friday, a goodly amount of paperwork awaited him at the bank before the start of the weekend.
Mr. Hope sighed. He wasn’t used to dreading the day like this. His work was difficult and often frustrating, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. It was what he did, and who he was. He rarely, if ever, desired to be anywhere but the offices of Hope & Co. on Fleet Street.
And so the tug to remain at his house, and take his coffee in the upstairs drawing room where Sophia now waited, shocked him.
That he imagined taking more than his coffee, even with her mother there in the room—well, it quite frankly petrified him.
In his rational mind he knew there was no time for such things, and besides, his relationship with Sophia had progressed far enough. Too far, even.
As much as Hope loathed Lake’s habit of barging in uninvited, thank God he interrupted Hope’s interlude with Sophia before they’d done something they would both regret. Hope knew he would have done it, and done it again and again and again. And where would that leave the two of them today?
He dare not imagine the possibilities.
And so off to his study he went, nodding at a footman along the way for a pot—no, make it two pots of coffee and whatever potion Cook had on hand for a headache.
Slipping into the quiet, tobacco-scented calm of his study, Hope was about to close the door behind him when a sudden, inelegant movement at the desk caught his eye.
The Marquess of Withington sprang to his feet and dipped his dark head in a single, elbowy jolt. He held his hat in his hands.
Hope’s mouth went dry as he ran a hand through his curls. A visit from one of his largest investors and clients before nine o’clock on a Friday morning was not a good sign.
That said client was also courting Miss Sophia Blaise, procurer of impeccably timed sobs, temptress of Hope’s restless dreams, had nothing to do with Hope’s rising ire.
No, absolutely nothing at all.
At least that was what Hope told himself as he attempted a smile.
“My lord! Welcome. What an—unexpected pleasure. You must forgive my mess; it’s been a busy morning, as you might imagine.” Hope made for his desk. “Please, do sit.”
Withington nervously eyed the leather-backed chair, but did not move. “My apologies for visiting you unannounced, and at so ungodly an hour. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hope. I shall make quick work of the business I have come to discuss, though I confess it—well, I’m afraid it’s rather. Um. Unpleasant.”
“Rather the opposite of capital, then?”
Missing the jibe, Withington furrowed his brow. “Capital? Heavens, no.”
“Go on, then.”
Withington jerked his cravat into disarray; his face burned pink. “The events of last night were. Um. Rather terrifying, actually. My mother lost her w
ig and her dignity and was up half the night howling like a madwoman because of it.”
Good Lord. As if Hope didn’t feel bad enough. “I do apologize for any grief her ladyship has suffered on my behalf. I understand it is no comfort, but I take full responsibility for last night’s events. My clients—” He swallowed. “My clients are very important to me, my lord. You’ve my word I will do everything in my power to see that justice is done, and her ladyship compensated for any trouble I may have caused.”
Withington passed his hat from one hand to the other. He looked as if he would burst into tears at any moment. “You don’t know my mother, Mr. Hope. There is no compensating her. Not when she’s. Er. In this sort of state.”
Hope stood awkwardly beside his desk and cast a longing glance toward the sideboard. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been on the hunt for the stolen jewel since the moment it was taken from me. Make no mistake, Lord Withington, I will find the French Blue. It’s only a matter of time now. And you will be glad to know this whole—er, series of unfortunate events will have no impact on your funds.”
Well. At least he could hope there’d be no impact. But if he and Lake didn’t find the jewel, and soon, all hell would break loose—
“I’m sorry!” Withington blurted. “You have always done right by my family, Mr. Hope. If I had it my way—well, I’d have a different mother, I tell you that much. But I’m afraid I’ve no choice in the matter. I must.” Oh, God, the man was going to faint. “I must move my accounts to—er—a different bank. I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Hope, terribly sorry.”
Hope bit back his panic. At least one hundred thousand pounds were in those accounts.
This did not bode well for the hours and days ahead. At this rate, Hope & Co. would shutter its doors in a week or two, maybe less.
“I’m sorry,” Withington repeated. He looked up to the ceiling, as if trying to recall a memorized bit of Chaucer. “Everyone knows that Hope and Company is only as great—no, that’s not it. Only as good as its reputation. And I’m afraid your reputation will suffer on account of this. Um. Unfortunate incident. I cannot risk it, Mr. Hope. I’ve three sisters, you see . . . and my mother, of course, the old bat just refuses to die . . .”
Hope could hardly breathe for the sudden swelling of his throat. Those were his mother’s words, probably hurled at the poor marquess over breakfast this morning. Hope would’ve felt sorry for the fellow if Withington wasn’t pushing him to the brink of ruin.
If Withington wasn’t after the woman Hope held in his arms mere hours ago. The woman who set his mind, his body, alight with desire.
“I told you,” Hope said, trying not to grit his teeth. This jealousy, it made him feel wild, and he did not like it. “I will sort out this diamond business. Your funds shall not suffer, my lord. Do not forget how well I have safeguarded your family’s fortune for years now. I’ve made you thousands, tens of thousands—”
“I know. And I appreciate your efforts; they have not gone unnoticed. It pains me to say this.” Withington looked away; the fingers that held his hat were white. “But I must sell my Hope and Company shares and withdraw my deposits. I’ve already visited Fleet Street, and the transfer is under way as we speak.”
Hope’s breath shook as he tried to calm the panic, the rage, too, that rose in his belly. It took considerable effort not to leap across the desk and take his lordship’s close-shaven neck in his hands.
The marquess was not being rude, nor unkind; this was a matter of business, and Hope never lost his head over business. So why this sudden urge to do violence to a kind, if odd, fellow whose only crime was harboring a tendre for Miss Sophia Blaise?
Hope swallowed the answer to his question and straightened. He had to get the marquess out of here before bad things—things Hope would forever regret—happened.
“Very well. I will see to the transfer straightaway, my lord.”
Withington’s shoulders fell back from his ears, and a breath of relief escaped from his open mouth. Thanking Hope, he jammed his hat on his head and hesitated, as if he would bow; remembering himself, he thumbed his hat in that abrupt way of his and exited the room.
Standing behind his desk, Hope fingered a heavy crystal paperweight as his fury burned to new heights. The Marquess of Withington was a client, an investor, no more than that; he couldn’t possibly know of Hope’s acquaintance with Sophia.
His desire for the woman Withington courted in earnest. The woman his lordship would in all likelihood take for his wife.
Even so. His presence this morning was like salt in a wound; nothing like adding insult to injury, and at so early an hour.
He took the paperweight in his hand just as Mr. Daltrey poked his head into the room, bearing coffee and biscuits.
Hope dropped the crystal with a dull thud onto the desk. He sighed. “Your timing, Mr. Daltrey, is, as always, impeccable. Come in.”
He sat at his desk, staring out the window at a brightening day, and drained cup after cup of coffee. It was bitter and hot but slowly burned away the knot in his throat. As he drank he found himself thinking about his father, a man who’d always occupied the shadows of his thoughts but rarely appeared center stage.
The elder Hope was brilliant beyond imagination: philosopher, inventor, theologian, and collector. How he’d managed to find the time to grow the family’s smallish business into a world-renowned banking house, and be a husband and father besides, Thomas hadn’t a clue.
He remembered when he was five, his brother Henry had been born sometime in the night, and the house was in a tizzy over a beautiful new baby. Forgotten by his governess (and everyone else), Thomas had hidden behind the drapes in his nursery and cried himself into a stupor, whimpering for his mummy.
It had been his father who discovered him. With a smile the elder Hope had taken his son in his arms and kissed his cheeks.
He’d clucked his tongue and said, “But my dear Thomas, surely you know by now it’s best to leave the crying to babies! Besides, they cannot eat chocolate.”
Thomas’s sobs halted at the mention of chocolate. “They can’t?”
“Absolutely not! If they do, their lips turn green and fall off. Ghastly, I know. But you and me, we can visit the chocolatier as often as we like.”
“And still keep our lips?”
His father had laughed. “Yes. And still keep our lips.”
Later that night, with a bellyache from eating far too many of Monsieur Cormier’s truffles, Thomas held his father’s hand as he met Henry for the first time. Though he wished he’d wake so that they might properly be introduced, Thomas kissed him anyway, and hugged his mummy with a smile.
“You naughty boy.” His mother grinned and wiped a smear of chocolate from his face with her thumb. She met her husband’s gaze. “Someone’s been to visit the monsieur.”
His father shrugged, then turned to wink at Thomas. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.”
Hope closed his eyes against the hot press of tears, dropping his cup onto its saucer with a clatter. God, how he missed them; how he wished his father were with him now. What would John Hope do? How would he seek out the diamond while assuring investors and keeping the bank afloat?
And what would he say to his son, still half-drunk on Miss Sophia Blaise’s touch, about the choice between duty and following one’s own desire?
Part of Hope believed his father would call him a fool. He’d remind him of all he’d sacrificed, and everything he’d been through, to make his dream come true of seeing Hope & Co. flourish once more.
But another part of Thomas, the part that recalled with startling clarity the sound of his father’s laugh, believed his answer might be more complicated than that.
Hope rose abruptly, pushing the thought from his mind. The day was in full force now; there was much work to be done.
He dressed and m
ade for Fleet Street.
Fourteen
Heart pounding, Sophia set down the paper. She reached for her cup and saucer, which—drat!—made a terrible clatter in the grip of her shaking fingers.
“Dearest,” her mother said, looking up from her needlepoint. “Are you unwell?”
Sophia set the tea back on its tray and arranged her features into what she hoped was a smile. “I am quite well, Mama, thank you. Just a bit—”
“Tired? Regretful? Plagued by guilt? Yes, well, that does tend to happen when one leaves one’s unconscious mother in a carriage to run about unchaperoned in the dead of night.”
“Mama,” Sophia sighed, too exhausted to resist the impulse to roll her eyes, “I already told you, Mr. Hope needed my help—”
“Regardless,” Lady Blaise sniffed, returning to her embroidery hoop, “that does not excuse what you have done. We had better pray the marquess makes an offer before word gets out of your nocturnal activities.”
With her bottom lip Lady Blaise blew a lock of hair from her forehead. “If I survive your first season, I daresay I shall fill the bathtub with champagne and drink it. Every”—a furious tug on the thread—“last”—another tug—“drop. No one appreciates how difficult it all is for the poor mamas. Debutantes these days! If I behaved as you did last night, my father would’ve locked me in the cellar and thrown away the key. Mark my words, it is the end—the end I say!—of my sanity and my soul. And your cousin—I cannot even begin to speak on that subject . . .”
Lost as Lady Blaise was in the heat of her diatribe, Sophia hoped she would not notice her daughter slipping the gossip sheets into the folds of her skirt. God forbid Mama discover the news. Sophia would be spending the rest of her life in that cellar of Grandfather’s.
The lines of text glared in her memory. She’d run her thumb over the words, smearing the ink as if she might erase them.
Like any debutante worth her salt, Sophia devoured the gossip pages first thing every morning, always before she tucked into breakfast but never after her first cup of tea. And like any debutante, she shamelessly enjoyed the faux pas and affaires de coeur of London’s most fashionable, if indiscreet, aristocrats.
The Millionaire Rogue Page 14
