The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  That is, until the indiscretion was her own.

  It has been revealed by Mr. C. that a certain debutante S. has been ghostwriting the memoirs of a royal more accustomed to the company of men.

  Fear bolted through her, clouding her belly with dread. Sophia understood the entry for what it was: a threat. While readers would glance over the lines, thinking them nothing short of a riddle, Sophia knew that the advertisement was the first of many. Doubtless more would be revealed with each new entry—S. would become Miss Sophia Blaise of No. 8 Grosvenor Square; royal La Reinette, notorious madam of The Glossy in Mayfair.

  The clock was ticking. Sophia did not know how much time she had, or who this Mr. C. was, but she would try her damnedest to stop him.

  Besides. The devil hadn’t a clue whom he’d crossed. The indiscretions that made Sophia the target of his wrath also worked to her advantage. She hadn’t outrun caped assassins and outwitted a Princess of Wales on accident. If anything, her adventures at Mr. Hope’s side had taught her she had more to offer than her pretty manners and mediocre dancing.

  Courage. Cunning. A way with strategically timed sobs.

  Oh yes. Mr. C. would be sorry he ever threatened Miss Sophia Blaise.

  Still, that did not mean the burden of discovery weighed upon her any less. The threat of losing everything that mattered was greater than ever. Her reputation, the glamorous match, the brilliant life she’d wanted for as long as she could remember—if she didn’t move quickly, it would all be lost.

  “The marquess.” Sophia looked to her mother. “I believe we should accept the invitation to his box at Drury Lane. This evening, perhaps?”

  * * *

  Later that evening, Mr. Hope was at his desk at Hope & Co., when a breathless groom delivered the note.

  Found thief. At Duchess Street, come as soon as you get this.

  It was unsigned, but Hope recognized the wild scrawl of Violet’s hand. He leapt to his feet, nearly toppling the chair as he grabbed his coat and raced down the stairs.

  “To my house,” he called to the coachman, “and quickly!”

  Hope stared unseeing out the carriage window, his only awareness of the Friday evening traffic outside an occasional jerk this way and that as the driver careened onto backstreets.

  His mind raced. Violet had found the thief. How? Who was he? What evidence did she have? A confession, perhaps. Or, even better, the diamond itself.

  But Hope knew better. Violet would have mentioned such a thing in her note. And besides, it was too easy; he had the distinct feeling this chase would be long and messy. A fitting end, as it were, to his History of the French Blue.

  The carriage had hardly come to a stop before Hope leapt onto the drive and up the wide stone steps of his house.

  Mr. Daltrey, his butler, greeted him at the door. “In the library, sir.”

  Hope darted down the hall. “We shall require shackles, Daltrey, and a bottle of champagne!” he called over his shoulder.

  Charging through the library’s mahogany doors, Hope stared in dismay. Lady Violet was pacing before the fire, hands clasped at the small of her back. Mr. Lake, wet hair plastered to his skull, sat nearby, his bare shoulders wrapped in the thick folds of a blanket.

  There was no one else in the room.

  Violet raised her head at the sound of his entry. “You may cut the acrobats free. For I’ve reason to believe I’ve found our thief.”

  Hope removed his hat and watched Lake and Violet exchange glances.

  “Pour us a drink, Hope,” Lake said, nodding at the sideboard.

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Yes”—Lake looked him in the eye—“you do.”

  Hope sighed in exasperation. Truth be told, he was still recovering from last night’s port, and needed a nip like he needed a hole in his head.

  Nevertheless. Something was afoot, and the dull gleam in Lake’s eye told Hope he wasn’t going to like it. Not one bit.

  “What the devil happened to you, Lake?” he asked over his shoulder as he poured three glasses of American whiskey. “You look like you fell—well, like you fell into a lake.”

  “Very funny.” Lake took his glass. “As a matter of fact, it was the Serpentine.”

  Violet laughed. “And at the fashionable hour, too. Poor Lady Caroline, I don’t know if she’ll ever recover!”

  “Lady Caroline.” Hope thought for a moment. “Lord Harclay’s sister?”

  Violet ignored Lake’s glower. “She was chaperoning Lord Harclay and me as we took our turn about Hyde Park this afternoon. Halfway through our stroll, Mr. Lake mysteriously appeared from behind a tree, and next thing I knew Lady Caroline was careening into the Serpentine. The two of them get on splendidly. If I didn’t know any better, I would think they were very old friends indeed.”

  Hope glanced at Lake. Good God, was the man actually blushing? “You forget, Lady Violet, that Mr. Lake doesn’t have any friends. Especially friends of the female variety.”

  “My friends are none of your business,” Lake suddenly snarled. “Lady Caroline had the misfortune to fall into the river; I jumped in after her. No one was harmed. End of story.”

  Hope bit back his laughter; he’d never seen Lake so uncomfortable. Clearly that was not the end of the story.

  “I am sorry to have missed this stroll of yours,” Hope said with a grin. “Apparently it was quite eventful. You didn’t find our thief, too, in the midst of all your adventures?”

  Lady Violet took a deep breath. She met Lake’s eyes one last time before settling her gaze on Hope. “Actually—”

  “You did?” He wrinkled his brow. “You did.”

  “I did indeed. You see, Mr. Hope, I’ve good reason to believe that William Townshend, the Earl of Harclay, stole your diamond.”

  Mr. Hope choked on his brandy. “Really, Lady Violet, now is not the time to jest. Why, Harclay is not only an earl, and one of the most powerful peers at that; he is also one of my largest and most faithful clients. Tread carefully.”

  Violet resumed her pacing. “I would not dare make such an accusation if I wasn’t convinced it were true. Just as you would not dare forget my entire inheritance is invested in Hope and Company stock. I understand, Mr. Hope, how much you have at stake; I, too, risk everything in this.”

  “But how?” Hope gulped at his whiskey. “And, more importantly, why? I know for a fact the man’s got more money than all the pharaohs of Egypt. Combined.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Violet replied. “Only a man of Lord Harclay’s hubris is bold and brash enough to thieve a diamond in the midst of a ball. Don’t you see? The man is desperate for a thrill. Look at how he gambles, wagering small fortunes on this trifle and that. It’s only money to him; he’s got plenty of it, and is willing to spend thousands in the pursuit of excitement. Harclay is rich, he is clever, and he is bored. A more potent combination for a crime such as this does not exist.”

  Hope stared down into his empty glass. Bloody hell, she was right; it did make perfect sense.

  A gentleman jewel thief, moving in plain sight for all the world to see, risking the gallows in his search for a thrill.

  Hope remembered the earl ogling Lady Violet at the ball, the French Blue glittering invitingly from her breast. Arm in arm, the two of them had waded through the crush, bodies pressed close as Harclay called for that fateful waltz.

  And then all hell had broken loose, the ballroom plunged into darkness as the acrobats and Hope’s traitorous guards harassed the perfumed masses.

  It was genius, really. In the midst of the chaos, the earl could’ve easily swiped the diamond from Lady Violet’s neck, and her none the wiser.

  That bastard.

  Hope resisted the urge to hurl his glass across the room. He would have to take his own advice and tread carefully. As yet there was no proof; and besides, Ho
pe couldn’t risk running off yet another client, never mind the infamously rakish Earl of Harclay.

  “I pray you’re wrong, Lady Violet.” Hope leaned against the mantel and looked into the fire, draining the last drop of his whiskey. “But if Lord Harclay is indeed our man, we need to find out where he’s hiding the diamond. And we mustn’t forget the diamond collar; I borrowed it from a . . . friend who misses it very much.”

  Indeed, a cousin of the Tsar’s had loaned Hope the collar; and the last thing he needed was batty old Alexander coming after him with all the might of the Russian army.

  Lake nodded his agreement. “There’s no negotiating with a man who wants for nothing. If what you’re saying is true, Lady Violet, the only way to get back the French Blue is to take it. I can canvass his house; and Hope, you might search his records for any mention of a recent acquisition . . .”

  Violet swallowed her whiskey in two long gulps and winced. “No. I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Hope turned to face her. “You just said you’ve got quite a bit at stake here.”

  “I said I’ll do it. Lord Harclay and I—” She stopped and looked away. “Trust me. I’ve a much better chance of finding the French Blue than the two of you.”

  “Are you and—” Hope cleared his throat. “The earl—er—fond of each other, or courting, perh—”

  “No.”

  The vehemence of her reply startled Hope. He met Lake’s gaze. This was a bad idea and they both knew it, but what else could they do?

  “Very well,” Lake said, rising. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you. The earl is a dangerous man, my lady, and you could very well be harmed—or worse—on the hunt for the jewel.”

  Violet looked at Hope levelly. “I’m the one who lost the French Blue. And I’m the one who’s going to get it back.”

  Fifteen

  Sophia smoothed the pale silk of her skirts and wondered how much earsplitting opera, exactly, one could endure without losing one’s hearing.

  The marquess’s box, while of prime location and excellent prominence, only made matters worse; they were so close to the stage Sophia heard every footstep, every murmured endearment, and, of course, every agonizing aria.

  Beside her, the marquess raised his glass of claret and tried not to wince as the prima donna screeched a crescendo. “Capital, isn’t it?”

  Sophia nodded enthusiastically, unsure whether he was referring to the opera or the claret. “The best I’ve had—seen! Do you come often to Drury Lane?”

  “Oh, yes,” the marquess shouted above the din. “I am rather fond of Shakespeare’s comedies. The operas—they are good, too. And you, Miss Blaise. Do you enjoy the theater?”

  Sophia sighed, realizing they’d had this exact conversation in her uncle’s drawing room some weeks ago. “Yes. Yes I do.”

  Even with actors yelling declarations of love at one another on the stage, the silence that settled between Sophia and the marquess was painful. A pulse of longing shot through her at the memory of her conversations with Mr. Hope; how easily words and thoughts flowed between them. There was no pretense, no desire to impress. She could be honest with him, and much to her surprise, she was fond of her honest self; Hope’s, too.

  Sophia wished, for a moment, that Hope were her escort tonight.

  And felt ashamed as soon as the wish was made. She shouldn’t feel this way about a man like Thomas Hope. She didn’t want to want him like this, especially when the season’s greatest catch sat in a chair mere inches from her own.

  The marquess had kindly invited her to his box so that they might become acquainted—and, with any luck, more than that. It was an invitation for which her fellow debutantes would gladly sell their souls, surely. And the marquess—he wasn’t such bad company. Not as bad, at least, as tonight’s opera.

  Sophia turned and caught Withington looking at her, a soft gleam in his dark eyes she recognized but could not place. His gaze was not lascivious or lustful, though she could tell the poor chap struggled not to look at her breasts. Rather she saw in his eyes curiosity, a steady declaration of interest that belied his boyish exclamations.

  Understanding rolled through her, swift and startling.

  He liked her!

  The Marquess of Withington actually liked her.

  All along, Sophia assumed the marquess hunted her for the same reasons she hunted him; practical, if not cynical, reasons. After all, what sort of fool believed affection, much less love, had anything at all to do with marriage?

  While she claimed no great fortune, her uncle was a duke, and she supposed her face qualified as passably pretty. Withington would bring his fortune, and she would bring her hazel eyes and that greatest inheritance of all, her goodly-sized bosom.

  But to her very great surprise, the marquess was proving far more honorable in his courtship. He called on Sophia, and strolled with Sophia, and invited Sophia because he genuinely enjoyed Sophia, no matter the subject of their conversation.

  Withington looked away, blushing as he sipped nervously at his claret. His movements were ungainly, severe, as if he were a puppet and his strings were jerked too taught by an overeager master. While certainly odd, his lordship’s awkwardness was also endearing; proof, perhaps, of the goodness of the heart that beat beneath his expensively clothed breast.

  Sophia sipped her own claret, though it was shame, rather than embarrassment, that flushed her cheeks.

  She had to salvage the evening. Not only because it would serve her well in obtaining that brilliant match—a match she needed to make, now more than ever—but also because Withington deserved kind company; wit, too. He was a gentle man, and right now she was making a mess of his good intentions.

  The marquess deserved better. He deserved her honest self.

  “I’ve recently acquired a predilection for port,” Sophia said, ignoring her mother’s gasp from the row behind. “Perhaps it might be amusing to arrange a tasting of sorts?”

  Withington grinned so widely Sophia thought his face might split in two. “Well, Miss Blaise, I did not know ladies drank port! Capital news, I say, capital indeed! We shall arrange the tasting straightaway. We might have it on the terrace at my house, if it please you? The weather seems to have taken a turn for the better.”

  “Yes,” Sophia said, smiling. “That would please me very much, my lord.”

  “Capital! It shall be a great pleasure to have you at my home for a change. Begging your pardon, Lady Blaise.” He winked at Sophia before turning to her mama. “Of course I find your salon a most capital affair. The tea, it is so very. Yes, so very good.”

  Sophia bit her lip to keep from laughing. She was going to like this Withington fellow; and could only hope he would like the honest Sophia in turn.

  * * *

  One week later

  Sophia tapped her slippered foot on the floor of the carriage, glancing out the window at a darkening sky.

  “Where the devil is she?”

  Lady Blaise clucked in disapproval. “Heavens, mind your tongue! I don’t know where you learn these things—”

  “Cousin Violet,” she answered matter-of-factly. “We’ve an invitation to dine at the Earl of Harclay’s house, and we’re going to miss it, all because of her. If I’ve got to wait another minute—”

  “I hardly doubt the marquess would approve, especially after that dreadful comment of yours about having a taste for port. Really, where do you—”

  “Cousin Violet,” Sophia repeated through gritted teeth. “She’s never late. Nor does she ever take such care in her toilet. Poor Fitzhugh dressed her in every gown we own between the two of us. I don’t care what Violet says about searching the earl’s house for the missing jewel. She is fond of him, I can see it in her eyes—oh, oh thank heaven, there she is!”

  Violet appeared at the front door, her satin gown shimmering in the li
ght of the gas lamps. She was coiffed and perfumed and pulled within an inch of her life, pink rose blooms tucked into the gleaming mass of her dark hair.

  She looked dazzling.

  And Violet did not dazzle for nothing.

  “Well, aren’t you coming, Violet?” Sophia poked her head out the coach window. “We’re going to be late!”

  Violet waved away Sophia’s words. “Mr. Hope always arrives at a fashionably tardy hour. You won’t miss a minute of his company, I promise.”

  Sophia resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her cousin.

  Alas, the urge proved too strong.

  “Sophia!” Lady Blaise rapped her none too gently with an ivory-handled fan.

  Sophia fell back into the coach, a familiar fire in her cheeks.

  “What’s this about Mr. Hope?”

  “Nothing.” Sophia kept her eyes trained on her lap. “He’s to be a guest of Lord Harclay’s, that’s all. Violet seems to think I’ve set my cap at him.”

  Lady Blaise tensed, her eyes widening before she could stop them. “Well. Have you?”

  “No!” The force of Sophia’s response surprised both of them. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What I meant to say is, it is a joke, mother dearest, nothing more. What foolishness! Dearest Cousin Violet has perhaps been at her flask again.” Sophia’s laugh was flat and grating. “Hope is a banker, for God’s sake.”

  Even as the words escaped her lips, she hated herself for saying them, thinking them, believing them at one point or another.

  This snobbery, this heartless betrayal of all she’d shared with Hope—these things were at odds with the woman she was now. It wasn’t her. Not anymore.

  And yet, cowed by her mother, she did not deny them.

  Lady Blaise relaxed into her seat and sighed with relief, hand on her breast. “Thank heaven, Sophia, you had me worried with all this talk of caps and tradesmen. And here you’ve managed to snare a marquess. Not just any marquess, either. The marquess. Ha! Now that is a good joke.”