The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  Thomas at last looked up to meet her eyes. “I came to London for them, you know,” he said. “For my family. So that their dreams might not die with them.”

  “You’ve done well by them, Thomas.”

  He scoffed. “Hardly. They deserve better.”

  “And you. You deserve to be happy. Your parents, your family—they would want you to be happy.”

  “What does my happiness matter, when they will never know life, how it is to breathe summer’s fine air? And my brothers!” Thomas harrumphed, though she saw his eyes flash with hurt. “It’s a miracle their debauchery hasn’t led them to an early grave.”

  “They are grown men, Thomas. Adrian and Henry can look after themselves.”

  “That’s just the thing.” He turned to look at her. “They can’t. All things aside, they are my blood. My responsibility. Without me they would be out on the street.”

  Sophia looked away. She understood the heavy burden of his guilt, and why Hope cared as much as he did for the bank. It was not a matter of fortune, or prestige; for Thomas, it was a matter of family. He worked so long and so hard out of love for those he’d lost.

  At heart, she realized, Thomas was a family man. Which was a tragedy, in a way, because in his dedication to the bank, the family he left behind, the brothers from whom he was estranged, he would never start one of his own. Looking at him, Sophia knew he would make a wonderful father, fiercely loving, patient, kind.

  She ached for him in ways she didn’t know she could ache. This struggle of his, it was no small thing. And his story, the past he’d longed to forget—it was bloody, full of heartbreak and loss.

  “You’ve done well by them,” she repeated. “Better than I’ve done by my family. All my life I wanted to escape them, to leave. Leave behind the terrible mess of our lives and start over.”

  He released her hand. “You’ll get your chance, Sophia.”

  Sophia shifted in her seat, clasping and unclasping her hands before finally clasping them again, squeezing her fingers so tightly it hurt.

  “It’s probably best if you leave London, too,” Hope said at last. “It’s not safe for you, either, now that Cassin has connected you to me and knows who you are.”

  Sophia was glad for the change of subject. She swallowed and her throat loosened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I cannot leave London, not in the middle of the season. And besides, Violet won’t let us go anywhere before we find the French Blue.”

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about Lady Violet and your mother. Well, then.” Hope ran a hand through his hair, the curls falling rakishly across his forehead, and sighed. “You must take extra precautions. I’ll send men to your house.”

  She looked up to meet his eyes. They glimmered preternaturally in the low light of the vehicle; the skin around them crinkled, as if Hope was holding something in, keeping whatever it was he felt to himself.

  “You don’t need to do that, Thomas—”

  “Of course I do.” Thomas said briskly. He sat up, straightening his jacket, and gave his cravat a vicious tug. “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  Again they met eyes. Again that same, guarded expression of his. He could reach out, shove the door open, tell her to leave and never come back; he could reach out and take her face in his hands and ravage her lips until they bled.

  Sophia held her breath and waited.

  Twenty

  Hope couldn’t stop staring. With her dark hair loose about her shoulders, the gentle curves of her body just visible beneath the flowing mass of her cloak, Sophia was unbearably lovely. She appeared as he imagined she would after a long, ardent tumble between the sheets of his bed.

  Good Lord.

  He swallowed the impulse to invite her back to Duchess Street to enjoy exactly that.

  Hope shifted in his seat, tugging discreetly at his breeches lest she be exposed to his indecency.

  He’d just told her what he never meant to tell anyone. He should run for the hills—or she should, now that he thought about it—especially after that confessional bit about not deserving much besides success at Hope & Co., the regret that plagued him over his strained relationship with Adrian and Henry.

  Telling her all he had was a confession in itself. Sophia deserved to know; as La Reinette said, it was pompous of Hope to think he could keep Sophia safe by hoarding his secrets.

  But more than that, he told her because he wanted to. Because, despite his every effort to focus on the bank, the missing diamond, his falling fortunes, it was Sophia who occupied his thoughts day and night.

  In confessing his past, he’d also confessed his affection for her.

  They rode the few blocks to her house in silence. He did not dare touch her again—if he did, that tumble between the sheets would occur in no uncertain terms—though he was acutely aware of her presence, the scent of her skin, as she swayed in time to the carriage beside him.

  Exhaustion weighed him down besides. In the space of a single night, Hope had experienced every emotion under the sun and then some. He remembered the biting anger that washed through him over port with Lord Harclay; the despair that plagued him as he told Sophia of his past; the desire that tugged between their bodies in Harclay’s billiards room.

  It was enough to drive a man mad.

  The coach stopped a block from the house. Hope helped Sophia to the ground and walked beside her the rest of the way, until they reached the familiar stoop at the back kitchen door.

  Hope tapped the stoop with the toe of his boot as Sophia stepped up, turning to face him as she had the night they’d coaxed the French Blue from Princess Caroline’s grasp.

  “And so we find ourselves here yet again,” he said, eyes trained on his boot.

  “Doesn’t feel at all the same, does it?”

  He met her eyes. “No. It feels—” He paused, searching for the right word. At last he spread his arms. “It feels more. Everything we—I—felt then, but more of it. Good God if I don’t burst.”

  Her lips parted, her eyes suddenly serious. “Yes,” she said quietly. “That’s exactly it. I feel as if I might burst.”

  Her bottom lip trembled, and for a moment Hope feared she might weep again. How he longed to fold her in his arms and comfort her, tell her it would be all right.

  “Sophia—”

  Before he could say anything further, she pressed a kiss into his cheek. “Good night, Mr. Hope.”

  She pulled back, meeting his eyes one last time.

  Turning, she was about to open the door, when he grabbed her by the wrist.

  “I’m not that man anymore, Sophia,” he said quietly, impulsively. “That man I told you about, back in France. That isn’t who I am.”

  She looked at him, her face inscrutable. “Thank you, Thomas. For telling me your story.”

  And then, as she had that night those weeks and weeks ago, she turned and disappeared into the house.

  And just as he had that night, Hope reached for the doorknob. Only this time he stopped short of grasping it.

  The memory of her touch—it was too much to bear.

  * * *

  Mr. Daltrey poked his head through the breakfast room door the next morning, eyes wide as saucers.

  “Is something amiss, sir? I just heard—well, I dare not repeat what I heard, but it sounded like someone was shouting.”

  Hope clutched the paper in his hands as if he might tear it in two. “My apologies, Mr. Daltrey, but I couldn’t help shouting after reading this.”

  He tossed the wrinkled paper across the table and pulled his spectacles from his ears, clutching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

  “‘Rare jewel snatched at banking scion’s ball,’” Daltrey read, his voice as chipper as a springtime swallow’s.

  And then, upon having considered the words: “Begging
your pardon, sir, but Holy Christ in heaven! The news—it’s made its way to the papers, then!”

  “Yes,” Hope said without looking up. “The news has made it to the papers. I held them off for as long as I could. But a story this juicy couldn’t be kept secret forever.”

  “Begging your pardon again, sir, but what the devil do you suppose you’ll do now that everyone knows? Can’t be good for the bank.”

  Hope met the man’s gray eyes at last, a tight smile on his lips. “I suppose we’ll just have to hunt down the thief, won’t we?”

  He sighed. “And no. The news is certainly not good for the bank. In fact”—Hope sighed again—“it’s entirely possible there will be a run on Hope and Company this very morning. Once my clients—those who don’t already know, that is—discover I cannot safeguard my own fortune, I daresay they won’t trust me to safeguard theirs.”

  Mr. Daltrey went pale as a sheet, and seemed to waver a bit on his feet before straightening. “Will the bank fail, sir?”

  Hope threw back what was left of his coffee and stood. “Let’s hope not, old man, or the both of us will be out of a job. Have my horse saddled—I haven’t the time to wait for the coach.”

  He stalked across the room, and was about to make his exit when he stopped suddenly, turning to Mr. Daltrey. “One more thing. If I happen to make it back alive tonight, please have my best cognac decanted. The ’73, I think it is. In the off chance my clients don’t beat me to a pulp, I’ve a mind to do it myself.”

  * * *

  Collapsing into one of a pair of wingback leather chairs before the fire in his study, Hope gulped all four fingers of his cognac in a single swig.

  On the mantel, the clock struck half past three in the morning. He’d been at Hope & Co. all day, putting out fires when he could, solemnly watching them burn when he couldn’t.

  By his last calculation (somewhere around one o’clock, after the last investor left carrying a two-stone sack of guineas), Hope & Co. had suffered losses in the hundreds of thousands of pounds.

  Another week like this one and Hope would be bankrupt. The run on Hope & Co. was coming—it was, at this point, only a matter of time.

  He let his head fall back on the chair, the cognac setting alight the tightness in his throat.

  This was bad. Worse than he thought it’d be. If he didn’t find the French Blue, and soon, he could lose everything—

  “That’s dashed good, old man, very good indeed!”

  Hope leapt from his chair, his gaze landing on the enormous shadow that lurked just beyond the brandy board.

  Mr. Lake stood with a balloon in his hand, swirling the priceless cognac as he held it up to his nose. “What is it, an ’87?”

  “God damn you, Lake! Really, I don’t understand your aversion to the front door. My reputation’s already in shreds—” Hope threw up his arms in defeat. “Bah! Never mind.”

  “So it’s not an ’87, then?”

  Hope glared at him. “No. ’73.”

  “’73! Good God, man, who’d you have to kill to get your hands on such a treasure?” Lake took a pull, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Going out with a bang, eh?”

  Hope refilled his glass, then turned and slumped back into his chair with a sigh. After a long pause, during which he drained said glass, he said, “Today was a bloodbath. All but a handful of my investors pulled out their money; the deposits fared better, but not by much. D’you happen to have an extra hammock on your pirate ship? I might need a place to sleep.”

  Lake stepped into the light of the fire, taking a seat in the chair opposite Hope’s. “We’re all of the same mind, old friend, that the Earl of Harclay is our man. Violet’s getting close now; it will only be a matter of time before she digs up the diamond from wherever that bastard is hiding it.”

  “Even so.” Hope brought the empty balloon to his lips and tilted it back, draining the last drop. “There’s a very real chance my reputation never recovers from this debacle.”

  “Oh, believe me, it will. Especially when everyone knows you as the hero who saved England and her brave soldiers from Napoleon’s clutches.”

  Hope’s eyes darted to Lake. “Old Boney’s contacted you, hasn’t he?”

  “Turns out word of your ‘Jewels of the Sun King’ soiree was slow to reach Bonaparte, on account of his location somewhere in the wilds of Russia. Which happens to work to our advantage, you see, for the little shit has yet to learn of the diamond’s disappearance.”

  Hope sat up in his chair. “What did he say? Has he offered terms in exchange for the jewel?”

  “Not yet.” Lake yawned, stretching his feet toward the fire. “I can’t share all the details. But suffice it to say I was privy to a conversation this evening, during which France’s ‘best wishes for the prince regent’s continued good health,’ and something or other about forging a friendship out of the ‘ashes of our enmity’ was discussed.”

  “So at the very least Napoleon’s willing to negotiate. Excellent news, Lake. The best news I’ve had all day. Except, of course, we don’t have the damned diamond.”

  In the light of the fire, Lake’s eye glittered. “For one whose name is Hope, you keep very little faith.”

  “The irony is not lost on me.”

  “Of course not. You’re a poet. A very bad poet; but a poet nonetheless.”

  Hope’s grip tightened on his balloon. “You’ve done something, haven’t you? What is it this time? Blackmail? Poison? Mistaken identity?”

  “Mistaken identity! Now that’s one I haven’t used in a while. No, no, a bit of blackmail, perhaps. Relatively harmless, of course, but rather effective, at least in my experience. I’ve no doubt the earl will hand over the French Blue by week’s end.”

  Hope sighed and stared into his empty glass. “Let’s pray Hope and Company can make it that long. Anything I might help with?”

  Lake shook his head. “Just trust that I know what I’m doing. And keep away from Miss Blaise. I saw the way you looked at her at Harclay’s dinner; we don’t have time for such distractions. Like I told you before, you’re only placing her in harm’s way.”

  Anger, hot and sudden, boiled in Hope’s belly. “That’s rich, coming from you! I saw the way you looked at Harclay’s sister, Lady Caroline. You were sullen all evening. What,” Hope said, mocking, “is she the one that got away?”

  Lake froze, humor draining from his features in the space of a single heartbeat.

  Christ above. Lake, in love? How had Hope not known?

  “Oh.” Hope paused. “So Lady Caroline is the one that got away. I did not mean to make light—”

  “I know what you meant.” Lake stood. “Lady Caroline is none of your concern. We are—we were—”

  “Let’s leave the ladies to one another, shall we? I shall not concern myself with Caroline if you do the same with Miss Blaise. Do we have an agreement?”

  It was Lake’s turn to glare. Hope had never seen him like this; clearly he’d struck a nerve. Lake must have known Caroline in the years before he left London and met Hope. He was intrigued—were they enemies? Lovers, betrothed even?

  Hope pushed the thoughts from his mind. Too much going on in there as it was; there wasn’t time to become involved in yet another plot, another tangle, another mystery to be solved.

  “Agreed,” Lake said darkly. And then, after a beat: “Your box at Vauxhall Gardens. Do you still keep it?”

  Hope started at the sudden change in subject. “Yes, though I can’t say I’ve had much time for amusement these past weeks. Usually I fill the seats with my more daring clients. Why do you ask?”

  “Those acrobats we captured after the theft—the ones Harclay hired to distract your guests while he thieved the French Blue? They’re performing at Vauxhall tomorrow—well, I guess now it’s this evening. Send invitations to Harclay and Lady Violet and whomever else you
see fit to attend.”

  Hope arched a brow as he put the pieces together. He recalled Lake’s interrogation of the acrobats the morning after the theft, and the troupe leader’s words about the man who hired them.

  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. We’s still waitin’ on that last payment, yeah?, if any of yous know where I can find tha bugger.

  “Ah.” Hope smiled. “So you plan to put the acrobats face-to-face with the fellow who still owes them money. But Harclay was in disguise when he went to them. How are they going to recognize him?”

  Lake winked, his good humor reappearing as if it’d never been gone. “Leave that to me, old man.”

  Hope sighed, cupping his face in his hand as if he were considering the proposal.

  Of course he’d say yes. Not only did he have next to nothing to lose at this point; he knew also that if he invited Lady Violet to his box, perhaps her cousin Miss Blaise might accompany her.

  Even in the midst of his exhaustion, Hope’s blood leapt at the prospect. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t, but dear God he longed to be near her again. Even for an hour, an evening. What harm, really, could come of that?

  “Very well. I suppose I’ll just skip bed altogether and send the invitations out first thing.” Hope yawned and ran a hand through his hair. Good Lord, even his hair felt tired.

  “We’ll find the French Blue, Hope, mark my words. And when we do I will set everything to rights. You’ll see.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  Silence settled between them. Hope yawned again, near delirious with lack of sleep. Though he longed for bed, there was one more matter to discuss with Lake.

  The matter that would sink them both if they did not address it, and soon.