The Millionaire Rogue

by Jessica Peterson

  With trembling hands she jabbed the pistol into his ribs, but he merely smiled down at her, tightening his grip on her throat.

  “Do it,” he hissed. “I remember your shot, it is not very good. I was there, remember, when you could not shoot me?”

  Sophia swallowed. Of course she remembered. If only she had remembered to have Thomas teach her how to properly fire a pistol in the meantime. Damn him, she’d been too distracted by his body, his hands, specifically, to waste what precious time they had on so mundane a thing as shooting.

  Still. Such knowledge would’ve come in handy at a moment like this.

  Sophia fingered the trigger. Dear God, was the gun even loaded? She’d snatched it as an afterthought from a drawer in Uncle Rutledge’s dressing room. For all she knew it could be a prop from Drury Lane, an ancient heirloom that hadn’t been fired in two hundred years.

  Well.

  Whatever it was, Sophia was about to find out.

  Screwing shut her eyes, she gritted her teeth in anticipation of the discharge and pulled the stiff trigger.

  There was a great rushing sound in her ears as her heart leapt to her throat. She opened her eyes, and Cassin was staring at her, his dark eyes inscrutable.

  And then his face creased and the gruesome seam of his mouth opened and he laughed, a loud, triumphant sound. He let loose her throat and wrenched the pistol from her hands, tossing it to the floor where it landed with a decidedly hollow clunk.

  Sophia glanced at Hope, eyes widening with panic.

  This was bad.

  He sat very still in his chair. Behind him La Reinette dropped his bound hands—blast, his hands were still tied—and slowly rose, her doe eyes brimming with triumph.

  “I gave you the chance,” she said, grinning. “I gave you the chance to go but you do not take it. So now, we will have the two bodies.”

  Sophia glanced at Hope, feeling the heat drain from her face. His blue eyes sparked; her heart skipped a beat.

  Before she knew what he was about, he reached out and with his foot kicked the rapier up into the air. With bated breath Sophia watched it arc through the room; reflexively she reached up and managed to catch it, thoughtlessly, by the blade.

  Ignoring the searing burn that burst across her palm, she took the sword by its rather ridiculous handle. This time she did not hesitate; she whirled about and, praying she was better with a rapier than she was with a pistol, slashed the weapon in the general direction of Cassin.

  She sensed the blade finding purchase in the hardened flesh of his arm. He cried out, more a girlish scream than a shout, and fell back. She slashed again and again, so many times until she was breathless and sure Cassin would stay put crumpled there in the corner.

  From behind her she heard a scuffle and a decidedly female groan. Sophia turned just in time to see Hope take La Reinette’s legs between his own and haul her to the floor.

  La Reinette screamed, No, no!; her head came down on the floor with a liquid thud; she was silent, suddenly.

  A strange, heady sort of quiet descended upon the room as Sophia met Thomas’s eyes. He was breathing hard, the muscled expanse of his chest straining against his shirt, stained with blood and sweat.

  Sophia dropped the rapier.

  It was just the two of them. The only ones left standing. Or sitting, in Thomas’s case.

  She began to shake, her eyes warming with tears.

  “Thomas,” she breathed, throat so tight with relief she could hardly breathe.

  His blue eyes were soft as he spoke. “Don’t cry, Sophia. You know how I feel about you crying. Untie me, and I shall see to the rest.”

  * * *

  They remained in the shadows, stalking through the darkened streets of Mayfair much like they had done that first night those weeks and weeks ago.

  Only this time, Thomas held Sophia’s hand firmly in the warmth of his own, their arms brushing as they walked the familiar route side by side.

  She felt as if she were walking on a cloud, or perhaps among the stars. Everything felt different; everything looked and smelled and was different with Thomas moving quietly beside her. He swallowed her whole in the great bulk of his shadow. Sophia felt safe here, warm, as if nothing and no one could touch her. Nothing and no one mattered, not when she was with Thomas.

  It would hurt to let him go; she was no fool, and knew that despite their victory over La Reinette and Guillaume Cassin, the matter of the missing French Blue still remained. Thomas belonged to Hope & Co. He would need to see the matter through to its bitter end, and she knew there was not time enough in his days for her.

  Still.

  Still her heart hoped.

  She squeezed his hand.

  I love you.

  Sophia waited for him to squeeze back, but he did not.

  Her throat tightened with disappointment as they turned into the familiar alley that led to the lane on which her family resided. A chill ran up her spine at the memory of the kiss she shared with Thomas; yes, it was this very spot where he turned . . .

  Sophia nearly tripped over his boots as Thomas drew to a sudden stop. With his body he pressed her, hard, against the wall, the scrape of the brick against her bare neck a welcome foil to her pounding heart.

  She sucked in a breath as he pulled her against him, his touch rough and riotous and urgent. In the space of a single heartbeat her body went up in flames, the blood rushing hot and wild beneath her skin as he cupped her face in his hands.

  And then he was kissing her, his lips gentle as they pulled and teased and stroked her own. His hands were in her hair and his nose was brushing hers and she surrendered to the inescapable tug between their hearts. He surrounded her, her legs nestled between the hardened mass of his thighs, his arms brushing her shoulders as with his hands he moved her face in time to his lips.

  Sophia let out a moan; whether it was pleasure or distress, she could not say; but Thomas pulled away, his breath hot on her cheek as he touched his forehead to her own. His eyes were closed.

  “Sophia,” he breathed. “Sophia, I love you.”

  Despite herself, she felt the corners of her mouth edging up into a grin.

  “What?” he whispered. “What’s so amusing?”

  “I thought I’d never hear you say it.”

  He pulled back, looking into her eyes. “And do you have anything to say in reply?”

  “Perhaps,” she teased. “Perhaps not.”

  “The anticipation is killing me.”

  Sophia glanced down to where their hips were pressed snugly against each other. “I know.”

  “Well?”

  She looked up and met his eyes, face creasing with happiness. “You fool. Of course I love y—”

  He captured the words with his mouth, his kiss in his excitement, his relief, adorably clumsy. Her heart turned over in her chest.

  Lovers, let them love.

  Thomas pulled back, his eyes serious. “Don’t marry the marquess, Sophia. I beg you, don’t do it.”

  “You don’t have to beg.” Her grin faded. “I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t? Couldn’t do what?”

  She looked down at her hands. “Withington is a fine fellow. Better than that. He is kind and generous, and deserving of greatness. I desire for him the love that I know for you. I refused his proposal. I gave back his ring.”

  “You did.” Hope let out another breath. “But he’s the season’s greatest catch! Everyone wants to marry the marquess, including your mother.”

  Sophia scoffed. “Everyone, it seems, but me.”

  Hope couldn’t help himself; he smiled. “Marry me, then. I don’t have a title, nor do I have a castle; and my fortune—well, I don’t have much of that left, either. But I love you. By God, Sophia, I love you more than is proper, more than I should. I love you, and I want you with me a
ll the days of my life.”

  Sophia swallowed the ominous tightening in her throat even as her heart leapt. “But the bank—the diamond . . .”

  Hope shook his head, brushing back a handful of rogue curls. “I was blinded by my grief. My greed. But I don’t want to be blind anymore, Sophia. You’ve opened my eyes to a kind of happiness I never thought I deserved. That I never thought I’d know. And now that I know it, I cannot live without it. I want to do right by my brothers, and by you. Marry me, Sophia. Please do me the great honor of becoming my wife.”

  The tears were warm as they streamed from the corners of her eyes. “Yes,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the lapels of his jacket. “Yes!”

  Thomas kissed her long and hard after that, the sort of kiss that left her breathless, lips throbbing, her body alive with the desire for more, more. She tangled her hands in the wilds of his hair, pulling him closer; he could never be close enough.

  “We’re going to have to tell my mother, you know,” Sophia said, when at last Thomas had released her, draping an arm about her shoulders as they strolled bonelessly toward the house.

  “I know.” Thomas pressed a kiss into her forehead. “I’m decently handsome, or so I’ve been told. Perhaps I might use my masculine charms to woo from her a blessing?”

  “You’re not that handsome,” Sophia teased.

  They turned out onto the lane, and Sophia looked up from the scuffed tips of Hope’s boots—her betrothed’s boots!—to see her family’s ramshackle house ablaze with light.

  “What the devil?” Sophia quickened her pace, Thomas trotting in time beside her. “I hope everything’s all right.”

  “Perhaps Lady Violet has returned?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Together Thomas and Sophia flew through the front door. The hall was empty; the quiet was punctured by a distant chiming, or was that laughter she heard, a vaguely familiar trill?

  Sophia tugged Thomas through a pair of French doors at the back of the house that opened onto a derelict rose garden. There, on the crumbling stoop, sat Lady Blaise and Uncle Rutledge, each of them puffing on the most enormous cigars Sophia had ever seen.

  “Mama!” she gasped, blinking in disbelief. “What’s happened?”

  Lady Blaise waved away Sophia’s words, chewing thoughtfully on her cigar.

  “Your cousin,” she said, releasing a plume of smoke from between her lips. “She’s run off with the Earl of Harclay. Gretna Green, she told us. Can you imagine?”

  Sophia glanced at Hope. “Oh, dear, Mama, I am so very sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Uncle Rutledge’s hairy white brows shot up. “What’s there to be sorry for, dear girl? We’re celebrating!”

  “Celebrating?”

  “Yes,” Lady Blaise said. “The circumstances of the marriage are not ideal, of course, but neither of us thought Violet would ever be wed, much less to the Earl of Harclay! Ha! To think she would be the one to tame that wicked rogue.”

  Lady Blaise turned to Thomas and started, as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh! Before I forget. Violet left something for you, Mr. Hope. The box is on the table inside, in the drawing room.”

  Thomas and Sophia exchanged a glance. A beat of breathless silence passed between them.

  Then, without further ado, they skidded into the house and through the hall, their footfalls giddy as they echoed through the empty rooms.

  There, on the round pedestal table in the center of the drawing room, rested a plain wooden box. It was small and square, its hinges oiled bronze.

  “Dear God,” Sophia breathed, eyes glued to Hope’s fingers as they feathered across the lid, at last lifting it open. “Is it—”

  “Yes.” Thomas held the French Blue between his thumb and forefinger. It glinted in the light of the chandelier above, sparkling wildly as he turned it over in his hand. “Yes, Sophia, it is.”

  “Well.” She took a step forward. “Perhaps you might woo mother dearest, after all.”

  Thomas lobbed the stone into the air and caught it in his palm. He met her gaze, his eyes alight with mischief as he took her hand, turning it over in his. Carefully he set the diamond in the middle of her palm, curling her fingers around it.

  “It’s for you. A necklace, perhaps. We’ll call it the Hope Diamond.” He traced his fingers lightly over the edges of her collarbones, his thumb grazing the edge of her bodice.

  Sophia gaped. “But Thomas, I couldn’t possibly . . . it’s far too large, and precious . . .”

  “What was it I said in Princess Caroline’s drawing room? Oh yes: ‘Only such a stone would be worthy of your beauty.’ I meant what I said then, and I mean what I say now. It’s yours.”

  Sophia blinked at the sudden prick of tears. Really, the weeping was getting a bit excessive; but she couldn’t help it. This kind of happiness, it was unspeakably wonderful.

  “What is it?” he said, brow furrowed with concern as he looked at her. “I know my poetry’s terrible, but it’s the thought that signifies, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, burying her head in his chest. “Yes, Thomas, it is. Thank you.”

  Beneath her ear his heart beat a steady rhythm, strong and assured. “But we are going to have to work on your poetry.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned. “Might I inquire after your services? I’ve a memoir—well, a history, really—that needs. Er. Your professional touch. I have nary a penny to my name, you see, but I am able to pay you in diamonds.”

  Sophia smiled. “In that case, let us begin straightaway. I’ve a desk in my room, right beside the bed . . .”

  Thomas swung Sophia into his arms, pressing his lips playfully to her throat as he carried her up the stairs.

  Historical Note

  The French Blue vanished from historical record following its theft in Paris from the Royal Warehouse in autumn 1792. It reappeared some two decades later in 1812 London, in association with French émigré and jeweler John Françillon; in his papers, Françillon described an enormous, and enormously unique, blue diamond that was at the time in the possession of another jeweler (you may recognize his name from the dockyard scene!)—Daniel Eliason.

  There are a variety of scenarios that point to the French Blue’s whereabouts between 1792 and 1812; according to Richard Kurin’s excellent Hope Diamond: The Legendary History of a Cursed Gem, it’s possible Caroline, Princess of Wales, inherited the stone from her father, the Duke of Brunswick. If this had indeed been the case, Kurin posits the duke—under duress while at war with Napoleon—had the stone recut sometime around 1805, before sending it to his daughter in London for safekeeping.

  While it’s impossible to know, exactly, how the French Blue crossed the Channel, I’d like to think this the most likely scenario. It was also a fabulous opportunity to incorporate Caroline into the story—she’s an incredibly divisive, fascinating figure (if you haven’t noticed yet, I adore having real-life historical giants make cameos in my books!).

  That Thomas Hope and his paramour, Lady Sophia Blaise, purchased the French Blue from Princess Caroline under false pretenses—well, that was a delicious twist provided by my imagination.

  The diamond disappeared again, mysteriously, for another two decades. It resurfaced in 1839, when it was recorded as being part of Henry Philip Hope’s impressive collection of gems. The Hope who is the hero of this book is Thomas Hope, Henry’s elder brother.

  So why not Henry? For starters, I found Thomas a more compelling historical figure; as you learned reading this book, he was an intriguing, well-traveled member of London society, and an author in his own right.

  I’d like to imagine that, as heirs to the immense Hope & Company banking empire and expatriates marooned together in London, Thomas and his brother Henry worked together to build their collections—art, books, jewels. Perhaps they even comingled their possessions; in Hope: Advent
ures of a Diamond, Marian Fowler suggests that Thomas’s wife wore the French Blue to a ball in 1824.

  Thomas was well-connected in royal circles and would likely be among the first to know when such a unique stone came up for sale. While no written records exist, it’s possible Thomas was involved in the purchase, and perhaps at some point even the ownership, of the stone—after all, Thomas’s sons would go on to inherit it.

  The theft of the French Blue by a daring—and daringly handsome—earl, however, is entirely the product of my imagination (well, my agent’s, too, but that’s neither here nor there).

  It is true King Louis XVIII and his brother, the Comte d’Artois, lived in exile in London following the Revolution. They would return to France in 1814 during the Bourbon Restoration. That they frequented White’s—and had a penchant for nubile women—is, as far as my research tells me, purely fiction.

  For more on the Hope Diamond, check out Richard Kurin’s Hope Diamond: The Legendary History of a Cursed Gem and Ms. Fowler’s Hope: Adventures of a Diamond, both of which proved indispensible to my research for this trilogy.

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book in Jessica Peterson’s Hope Diamond Trilogy

  The Undercover Scoundrel

  Coming in June 2015 from Berkley Sensation!

  Oxfordshire

  Summer 1800

  Their vows echoed off the chapel’s mottled ceiling, rising and swooping like birds to surround the couple in soft whispers of faith and hope and love.

  “Rings?” the Vicar said, arching a brow.

  For a moment the groom’s eyes went wide; and then he plucked the pale green ribbon from his queue, releasing a curtain of red hair about his shoulders. He used his teeth to cut the ribbon in two. Tying one length into a small circlet, he slid it onto the bride’s fourth finger.

  A sea of flickering candles held the darkness at bay as Lady Caroline Townshend was kissed for the first time by her husband. Joy welled up inside her and she smiled against the warm press of Henry Beaton Lake’s lips.