A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)
Page 1
The London League
Book Two
by
Rebecca Connolly
Also by
Rebecca Connolly
The Arrangements:
An Arrangement of Sorts
Married to the Marquess
Secrets of a Spinster
The Dangers of Doing Good
The Burdens of a Bachelor
A Bride Worth Taking
A Wager Worth Making
A Gerrard Family Christmas
The London League:
The Lady and the Gent
Coming Soon:
A T ip of the Cap
The Spinster Chronicles:
The Merry Lives of Spinsters
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Text copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art by Tugboat Design
http://www.tugboatdesign.net
All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Phase Publishing, LLC first ebook edition
August 2018
ISBN 978-1-943048-58-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018951689
Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
Acknowledgements
To the incomparable and marvelous Jeremy Irons, whose voice, talents, and brilliant depth inspired the mentor of all my spies, and whose magnificence in representation is a glorious addition to the cast of this book.
And to my bed, who has never once let me down, is always there for me, and knows exactly what I need. This is truly an affair of the heart.
Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?
Sign up for the monthly Wit and Whimsy at:
www.rebeccaconnolly.com
Index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Chapter One
London, 1824
"Thank you so much, Rogue. You don’t know how much it means to me.”
Gabriel Statler barely avoided snorting as he tipped his hat to the teary woman whose name he couldn’t actually remember and tried to get away as fast as he could.
“Fank you, Wogue!” called the little boy whose stupid folly had caused Gabe this trouble in the first place.
Gabe glanced back at them, nodding once more, then striding away before a crowd could gather. It wasn’t the time of day for people to mill about this part of London, but stranger things had happened, and crowds had formed for him for less.
He’d never had this trouble before last month, and he would have vanished underground for a few months to escape his newfound fame, but Cap, Eagle, and the Shopkeepers thought his exposure could help their work for the Crown. After all, Gent was a popular fellow, and he accomplished a great deal because of it.
Gabe had never found the need to point out that Gent was actually a congenial chap, whereas he would rather eat glass than socialize with anyone at all, but now it was something that ought to be mentioned.
It made no difference. Apparently, Gabe’s reticence was perceived as a hindrance to his performance, and an area upon which he needed to improve.
Also, as Cap pointed out none-too-gently, his popularity had been his own fault, and he could be the one to deal with the fallout.
There was really no arguing with that. Not that he generally argued with Cap anyway, being his superior and a coldly terrifying man, but he had been mightily tempted.
Even Weaver had something to say on the subject. The second-in-command for all the spies in England was a former operative that had accomplished an unbelievable amount in his prime. He now served as a diplomat to various nations on the Crown’s business, while still serving in her covert operations.
He also happened to be an old friend of Gabe’s.
Being one of the Shopkeepers earned him a certain level of respect and authority, in theory, though Gabe found that level of respect waning as the years went on. He listened to Weaver’s opinions and jabs, promptly ignored every single one of them, and moved on with his life. Unfortunately, Weaver was his superior, higher even than Cap, and therefore he had enough power to affect them all. He liked that power, and it was more of an affliction for Gabe than anything else.
Particularly with Gabe’s recent misfortune.
He hadn’t meant to start a fire. He was generally a very careful operative and would never do anything so drastic as to set fire to an entire building. But the meeting with Gaspar had not gone according to plan, and when the idiot had tried to kill Gabe rather than deliver the information he had been paid for, Gabe had no recourse but to respond in kind. And after he’d finished with him, as Gaspar was no fighter, there wasn’t much to do with the body. It wasn’t going to work to drag him down three flights of stairs to toss him in the river, and he couldn’t move the large man by himself anyway. He could not leave the corpse for Gaspar’s associates to discover, as they might make connections. Therefore, the body needed to disappear.
So, Gabe had put out his cheroot cigar in the pile of papers the abandoned building had collected as various vagrants had used it for housing over the years. The lack of rain lately had aided the fire by keeping the wood of the building dry, as had the flask of alcohol that Gaspar had kept on his person.
No one would miss the building, and none of London’s fire brigades would rush to its aid. He’d have to write it up in the report, but given the situation, there would be no repercussions from his actions.
He’d been out of the stairwell and headed back into the shadows of the night when he’d heard the only thing that could have stopped him in his tracks.
A woman’s scream.
Now, it ought to be stated that Gabe was no Gent. He did not grow anxious at the thought of a woman’s tears or swoons, and he saw no reason to incorporate polite manners into his everyday life. He did not open carriage doors, aid women crossing the streets, or dance with wallflowers. He found most women to be ridiculous, ignorant, and altogether useless.
But he did draw the line at having them die by fire, especially when he had caused it.
So, he’d done an uncharacteristically heroic thing, and gone back into the burning building to save the woman, who happened to have a small child. When they had been seen to safety, he’d vanished.
If only he’d never told the woman his name was Rogue when she’d asked.
If only that damned reporter Emmett Barnes hadn’t somehow gotten wind of the rescue associated with an abandoned building burning to the ground in the Seven Dials an
d managed to track down that woman and get the details.
If only the account given, published, and circulated throughout all of London’s papers hadn’t made him seem so heroic.
He was still bristling that someone had told Barnes that he was an investigator of sorts, and strongly suspected Rook was part of that. Rook was an insufferable peacock and enjoyed causing mischief for his colleagues. Gabe had been strongly tempted to put in a request for Rook’s demotion back to his simple Foreign Office position, but they were short-staffed with the League, and Rook was a damned good operative.
Plus, Gent had up and married the only worthwhile woman of their generation Gabe had ever met. He was currently taking an unprecedented leave to romance her into oblivion, or whatever it was that one did on a marriage trip. So, they really did need the help.
It was an irritating turn of events in his life to suddenly be sought after. Gossip on the streets carried well, and various rumors about the Rogue and his associates grew like wildfire. Their office was not easy to find, but enough managed that they’d hired a maid and an extra clerk to give the place a better feel.
Granted, the maid was a spy-in-training, and the clerk was another clueless candidate from the Home Office who would never be suited for fieldwork, but since they provided another set of hands for their previously lone clerk to work with, no one was about to complain.
The tasks they brought to Rogue were simple enough.
“Find my husband.” He was being unfaithful with her sister.
“I’ve lost my mother’s jewels.” Her husband had a gambling problem.
“I think the King is my father!” He wasn’t.
And the task he had finished just now. “I can’t find my son! He’s been gone for two days, and I’ve looked everywhere!”
This one Gabe had begged to push off on someone else. Children made him uneasy. Even Gent’s minion children left him at ends with himself, and they were some of their most useful informants. In fact, he’d used them to track down the wayward child when he’d been told that he had to take the case.
It had all worked out well enough, as the child had been hiding out in the back of a local bakery for two days eating all the scraps. He had not been pleased to have Gabe discover him there, but after a stern lecture that was probably not best suited for a lad of such a young age, he was rather keen to return to his mother. The tearful reunion would have made several hearts warm.
Not Gabe’s, but several others.
He lowered his cap over his eyes as he passed a few other people, cursing the fact that now his face had also been too accurately sketched and published, which wreaked havoc with his precious anonymity. He was going to have to resort to better disguises when he went out. Gent managed it, and Tilda was always willing to offer assistance.
He didn’t trust Tilda not to make him genuinely ridiculous, but she was talented in the art of costuming and prosthetics, and her actresses were often unrecognizable after she was done with them. He could do worse for an ally.
Plus, Tilda never asked questions. Well, rarely anyway.
Once, he would have had some concern for his personal safety at being so easily recognized. The idea of people wanting to harm him, or kill him, was not a new one. He’d developed that particularly regrettable tendency long before he had willfully engaged in spycraft. His temperament, mingled with his unfortunate past, and his penchant for gambling, had often put him into situations that had flirted on the border of villainy. He’d been ruined so many times it had become a habit, and, title or no title, he had thrived in not thriving.
He hated being titled. Everybody knew that Lord Wharton was a rapscallion and worthless card sharp, or had been, and if he ever went out in society, he was avoided as much as Lord Blackmoor ever was, if not more. It seemed that a ruthless gambler with a skewed sense of morality was just as wicked as a suspected murderer, and everyone knew that gossip was truth in the eyes of the highly-opinionated.
And yet, he was still pursued by matchmaking mothers for his title, lowly as it was, and worthless as he was.
What did that say of the value of London’s daughters?
Gabe was under no illusions about himself. He was not handsome, and he was not charming. He had nothing to recommend him except a temper and tenacity, and when he felt like using it, a bit of cleverness. He had done well in school without much effort, and he had caused enough trouble to warrant several harsh punishments, none of which had taught him any sort of lesson. Gabe had also evaded a good deal of trouble by sheer wit and stratagem, and if his current employers knew half of what he had done, or nearly done, they might have placed him on the other side of the spectrum.
Of course, knowing the Shopkeepers, and Eagle, they might already know.
He’d never quite figured out why exactly he’d been brought into the London League. He had no honor, so they could not appeal to his sense of king and country or any sort of positive views on humanity. Oh, he liked England well enough and would sing “God Save The King” when he had to, and he’d endured his usual responsibilities with Parliament, but he was not naïve enough to believe England’s emerald shores were as pure as everyone else seemed to think. He had no family, except for his aunt, so they could not ask him to consider them and their safety. He was not a sportsman, gentleman, noble man, or nice man.
Yet they had convinced him. To risk his life for something worthwhile rather than for nothing in particular. To claim a cause as his own and give over to it wholeheartedly. To have the world never know what deeds he had done and how many times he had saved them. To never be truly seen.
They’d appealed to his recklessness and his desire to be withdrawn. He’d only considered it for a few hours before reporting in, and he had not looked back since.
Nobody knew what he really did, and nobody cared.
His aunt, however, was one of the most tenacious women on the planet, and she, unfortunately, did not fit with that previous statement. She cared. And she wanted to bestow her inheritance on him.
The trouble with that was that he was not exactly worthy of it, and he did not meet the qualifications necessary to do so. Only one thing held him back.
Bachelorhood.
He shuddered. Much as Aunt Geraldine had helped him over the years, her focus on his marital state drove him to the edge of his sanity. Against any sort of precedent, she claimed to love him and to wish for his happiness.
Only his mother had ever claimed the same, and as he’d not had her since he was eight, he could not be sure his memories were not tinted with the rosy color of the past. His father had died shortly after his birth, due to the same recklessness that ran through Gabe’s blood. Left to his own devices, Gabe had formed his own moral compass.
It didn’t work, but it was there all the same.
So, how he had become a valued spy in the highest realms of England’s ranks was beyond him. But it was better than wasting away in the Seven Dials drowning in debt and running from death threats.
Part of his terms for entering this world had been for his prior debts to be satisfied, and they had been so. At the time, he’d thought that condition would be rejected, and he could go back to putting himself into an early grave. When Eagle hadn’t blinked at the suggestion, even when Gabe had emphasized the astonishing amount, he’d sensed there was something particular they wanted him for.
As of yet, he hadn’t figured it out, but having a purpose for his life had changed him. Now, he only risked himself when he had to, and his gambling had much improved, as had his ability to fight. He thrived on having a focus, and the thrill of adventure had never gotten old.
Being a strange sort of sideshow for the lower classes of London was not exactly giving him that thrill. It made him want to strangle something on occasion, and it was not the satisfying work he had been used to.
He nodded at one of Gent’s older minions, a boy of thirteen or so, who pulled at his ear nonchalantly as if to scratch. Gabe knew better. The boy had information.
“People askin’ about ye, Rogue,” the lad said with a brush of a sleeve across his nose.
Gabe snorted. “That’s not unusual, give me something I can work with.”
“People willing to pay.”
That sparked his interest. Most of the people who sought him out were of such low means that he could maybe earn bread or some intangible IOU that was unlikely to ever be paid, but money was never heard of.
“How do you know they are willing to pay?” he asked, folding his arms.
The lad shrugged and nudged the ground with his filthy boot. “They said so. Made no secret of looking for you or that there would be money.”
Gabe shook his head, restraining a sigh. That was a sure way to get false information and be played for a fool. London’s lower classes had no qualms about dishonesty, nor of taking advantage of naïveté when there was money involved.
“Probably idiots looking for lost trinkets,” Gabe muttered, wondering how long his superiors would make him live out this farce.
“Don’t think so,” came the thoughtful reply.
Gabe looked at the young man with a raised brow. “No?”
He shook his head pursing his lips. “They got cheated about information once… just once, and now the blighter’s missing.”
Gabe whistled low, shaking his head. That was most certainly not normal. “All to find me?”