A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  He tilted his head at her, his face suddenly filled with apparent concern. “That is your name, isn’t it? Ought I to call you something else?”

  She beamed up at him and dipped her chin. “Amelia it is, thank you, Rogue.”

  “Don’t thank me for forgoing politeness,” he replied, snorting softly, his expression returning to its normal state. “I can’t abide it myself, so it is no sacrifice on my part. And stop smiling like that, it makes you look like a child.”

  Amelia shrugged, falling into step beside him again. “I’ve gotten my way. That brings out the child in all of us.”

  “God help me,” Rogue muttered.

  “So where are we going, then?” she asked him, granting him a reprieve from her eagerness.

  He inclined his head down another side street, and she turned with him. “Do you know where we are?”

  Amelia frowned, looking around her, not seeing anything particularly distinct about the rather unremarkable street or the buildings nearby. Nothing notable that would have separated it from any other part of London’s less-than-elegant side. She thought back, mentally retracing their steps, but shook her head.

  “No, not really,” she admitted, wincing a little. “We’ve gone further east than I know. We must be nearly to Mayfair.”

  Rogue looked surprised at that. “Very good.”

  “We’re in Mayfair?” Amelia squeaked, feeling a bit slack-jawed and looking around with new appreciation. She’d never even come close to Mayfair, it was too far and too grand for her to attempt entrance, despite her excellent skills with impersonation. Besides, she’d never had a reason to.

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, we are not. Welcome to Covent Garden.”

  That surprised her as much as if he’d said Mayfair. Everybody went to Covent Garden for the theater, it was wildly popular. But when it looked like this, she wondered why.

  Rogue saw her look and smirked. “This is the back side, Amelia. You ought to know I would never take the fashionable way.”

  That made her laugh, and she followed him down another side alley. “Of course, why would anybody do that?” She shook her head, smiling. “Why are we in Covent Garden? Do you know someone here who could help us?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a sage nod that she was instantly suspicious of. “Someone here will help us a great deal.”

  Amelia narrowed her eyes. “How?” she asked slowly.

  He smiled congenially. “In many ways.”

  Now she was genuinely nervous. “Who are we seeing, Rogue?”

  “Tilda.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “As if that helped me at all. Who is Tilda?”

  Rogue opened a door that probably ought not to have been unlocked and gestured for Amelia to precede him. “Tilda is a former actress of the stage, and now a gifted costumer with her own troupe of actresses. She works with us quite frequently and has never once let me down.”

  “High praise, I am sure,” Amelia snorted softly. “Why are we seeing Tilda? Will she know something?”

  “No,” Rogue said simply, “but she can do something.”

  Do something? That didn’t make sense, how was a costumer supposed to help them with their investigation? Unless they were going in disguise, but that did not seem likely considering nobody knew Amelia, and Rogue was… well, Rogue was himself. What else could they need her for?

  Rogue was looking at her with a sneaky little smirk, and Amelia stilled. “You wouldn’t dare…” she breathed, hoping he was not suggesting what she feared he was suggesting.

  He was nodding before she finished. “Oh yes, Amelia Berger. You are going to be seeing Tilda to see what she can make of you, because I refuse to take you to any sort of modiste. Costs way too much money, and Tilda we can get for free.”

  “Oh, can you?” chimed in a dry voice from nearby.

  Amelia turned to see a tall, dark-haired woman who was dressed simply, but with an air of refinement that many women would spend their entire lives attempting to cultivate. She wasn’t looking at her, as her attention was entirely devoted to Rogue in a manner that positively begged for an explanation, her expression some mixture of derision and delight. She could only presume this was Tilda, from the measuring tape around her neck and the hint of paint on her eyelids, making her somehow exotic despite her simplicity.

  Rogue plucked Tilda’s hand from her hip and kissed it warmly. “Help me, Tilda, won’t you?”

  Tilda chuckled and patted his cheek. “You know I can’t resist you when you use manners.”

  He grinned raffishly. “You know I only use them for you.”

  “I’m feeling rather uncomfortable,” Amelia announced without ceremony, wondering with a stroke of horror if the two were lovers.

  They turned to look at her with the same assessing look, startling her.

  “Yes,” Tilda murmured, nodding slowly. “Yes, I see what you need. Easy.”

  “What?” Amelia cried, looking down at herself. “What do I need?”

  “What don’t you need would be the better question,” Rogue said with infinite patience.

  She glowered at him, making Tilda laugh again. “Why are we wasting time with this?” she demanded. Then, realizing she might offend this rather terrifying woman, she winced and looked at her. “No offense?”

  Tilda waved that off with a smile. “None taken. Follow me.” She crooked a finger as she turned to continue down the hall.

  Amelia made a face and looked back at Rogue. “Why?” she hissed.

  Rogue lifted a brow at her. “Because there is no way in hell I am going anywhere with you looking like that.”

  He put a hand on her back and pushed hard, forcing her ahead of him, and leaving absolutely no way for her to escape her fate.

  She would never forgive him for this.

  Chapter Seven

  Well, there was no hope for it now.

  He had delayed her for as long as was humanly possible.

  Now he had to take Amelia out with him.

  He shook his head as he pushed back from his breakfast and headed out of the dining room. He didn’t want to go anywhere with her, let alone take time to do it, but there were no other excuses he could possibly give. He’d expected Tilda to be able to distract her sufficiently for a time, and he’d even planned on their forming some sort of friendship, much as that might plague him later. But neither had happened, and his plans were no further along than before.

  Amelia had been livid, which had surprised him, as surely all women enjoyed the opportunity to dress up and parade around in new things. Yet she had been surprisingly feral and had actually gnashed her teeth at him, though she was pleasant enough with Tilda. Tilda, shockingly enough, had found the whole thing quite amusing.

  Actually, that was not surprising at all. Tilda had an appreciation for irony and enjoyed making his life difficult.

  By the end of their interminably long interview and task, Amelia had not only met most of the actresses of Rogue’s acquaintance but had found herself stocked with several gowns much better suited for their mission. They would help her look the part far better than any of her rags might have done. It was better for his investigation, but worse for his personal preference, as he would now be forced to have her come along with him. All he’d wanted was for her to not look as though she were his servant, not to give her some sort of high hand over him.

  He should have thought this through a little more carefully.

  But at least now Tilda and her girls knew who Amelia was, and they could track her for him, should the need arise.

  And provided they would agree to it.

  He was not comfortable with this situation. Something was not right, and he could not place it. He’d spent his evenings showing Amelia’s picture around to some of his contacts, but no one seemed to recognize her. He had eyes on her at all times, but no one reported anything suspicious.

  He’d even tried to distract himself by attempting to get information about the weapons he’d h
eard the faction was trying to move, but that, too, was surprisingly silent. Nothing about guns, traitors, smuggling, or even anything that sounded remotely French. Either he was losing his touch with his craft, or there truly was nothing to report. He doubted that. There was always something to report. Which meant either he needed to dig deeper, or the silence was the telling.

  He hated silence. It was too unnerving.

  Gabe rolled his eyes and tugged at his collar, wondering why Houser had starched his cravat, knowing he was not going to wear it for long. He never did, unless he was in character, and today was not one of those days.

  “Going somewhere, sir?” Houser’s deep, gravelly voice asked.

  Gabe barely managed to avoid jumping and turned to the hulking man, who had somehow appeared without him knowing.

  If Houser ever decided to turn against him and return to a life of crime, Gabe would die a swift and silent death.

  “Yes,” Gabe told his scruffy servant, currently surveying him through expressionless eyes.

  “Your aunt is in the green room.”

  He might as well have said it was Wednesday for all the emotion those words held, and yet Gabe tensed with a hiss.

  “Aunt Geraldine?”

  Houser raised his scarred brow. “Do you have another?”

  That earned him a scowl, which, as usual, had no effect. Gabe looked towards the aforementioned room. “What does she want?”

  Houser snorted softly. “I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say.”

  Gabe pursed his lips in thought, his brow furrowing. “She didn’t send word ahead of time, and it’s early in the day… That isn’t good.”

  “Probably not.”

  Really, it was as if Houser were trying to be less help than usual.

  Gabe loved his aunt, he honestly did, though he would never admit that to anyone. But that did not mean he wanted to see her as often as she wanted to see him. She wanted him to live with her, for pity’s sake, and that was not going to happen no matter how pitifully she begged.

  But in order to keep the peace, and save her feelings, and not actually blacken his soul to the extent the world thought it, he never refused to see her.

  He sighed heavily. “Tell Daisy to eat in the kitchen and then wait for me. Aunt Geraldine would never recover if she thought I had a child in this house.”

  “Does Daisy count as a child?” Houser asked thoughtfully, though he smiled.

  Gabe could not help smiling himself. “You know better than that. What’s more, you like the child.”

  Houser grimaced. “Like is a strong word…” he muttered.

  Gabe clapped his servant on the arm. “Houser, you would deliver her a tea service on a gold tray if she asked you nicely enough.”

  “She would do it, too,” Houser said with a small chuckle, making no attempt to deny it. “She cheats at cards, though.”

  Gabe shook his head as he headed towards the green room. “So do you, my friend. She just does it better.”

  Houser’s hoarse laugh echoed in the hallway as Gabe left him.

  Gabe paused outside of the green room, steeling himself. Aunt Geraldine was a formidable opponent, and he would need all his wits to avoid being trapped into something he’d detest. Some of his associates had relations that were ridiculous and simple-minded, and they were able to outmaneuver them easily.

  He was not so fortunate.

  Aunt Geraldine was sharp and witty, not nearly as hardened as he would have been in her position, and in possession of a generous heart, which made him question their being related at all. She was the furthest person from ridiculous he had ever come across, and she would not be persuaded or distracted from her purpose. Early on in their renewed relationship, he had tried. He’d put on the most cultivated character portrayal he had ever managed in his life, and any slightly less sensible woman would have been completely swayed by it.

  Aunt Geraldine had not even batted an eyelash.

  Usually, he could anticipate her maneuvers, but this one was completely unexpected.

  And suddenly, he was terrified.

  He cleared his throat softly, then entered the room. His aunt turned at the opening of the door and raised a thin brow in the sort of look that seven-year-old boys receive regularly.

  “Gabriel,” she said simply.

  He bowed politely, then went to her side and kissed her hand. “Aunt. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Geraldine snorted softly. “To what do I owe your politeness?” she asked, her Northern accent ringing proudly out, as it always had done.

  “I’m not being polite,” he replied as he sank into a chair. “I speak in irony.”

  “You always speak in irony, and I never understand why,” she muttered as she also sat, her crepe skirts rustling as she did so.

  Gabe made a face and shook his head. “Why would you intentionally wear crepe, Aunt? You are not in mourning, as evidenced by that… unusual shade of green. Surely you would wish to wear something more comfortable.”

  “If I wished for your opinion on fashion, Gabriel,” Geraldine snapped with a flick of the fan in her hand, “I would have asked you for it.” Then she tilted her head, her lips spreading into a smile. “And I had no idea you knew what crepe was. Are you interested in fashion after all?”

  He shuddered and waved his hand. “Not a bit. I know what any other man knows, and what we know is that crepe is damned uncomfortable, and you shouldn’t enjoy wearing it.”

  She frowned at his choice of word but said nothing of it. “Yes, well, when you’ve had your heart broken as I have, Gabriel, you might choose to remind yourself of it by wearing the uncomfortable fabric of mourning clothes without the sacrifice of limiting one’s wardrobe to black.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes and put a hand to his brow. “Yes, yes, you’ve told me. I still don’t believe you, since you’ve never told me when or where your heart was broken, let alone by whom.”

  “And what good would that do?”

  He gave her a serious look. “It makes it rather difficult to avenge you, my dear.”

  She looked surprised for a moment, then smiled with genuine affection. “Why, that may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered, shifting his gaze to the window. “And surely whomever broke your heart said sweeter things, or else your heart would not be broken over him.”

  Geraldine laughed softly. “Oh, he did, but without your sincerity.”

  Gabe looked back at her and folded his hands. “So, tell me who he is so I might be equally sincere with him.”

  She smirked and shook her head. “No, my dear, I rather like you out of prison.”

  “You didn’t say the same ten years ago.”

  “You were a wastrel ten years ago.”

  “I’m a wastrel now,” he suggested with a nonchalant shrug. “I simply behave better.”

  Geraldine somehow managed to roll her eyes without actually rolling her eyes, then sighed softly. “Doesn’t your servant know to bring a tea service?”

  Gabe snorted and glanced towards the door. “Of course, he does. Whether he chooses to act on such proprieties is another matter entirely.”

  On cue, Houser entered with the tea tray, somehow looking the proper manservant despite scruff and lack of livery. He set the tray down, nodded to Geraldine, then to Gabe, and then exited, all without a word.

  Geraldine shook her head as she helped herself to tea. “Gabriel, how can you possibly manage a proper household with one servant and a cook? You need a housekeeper, maids…”

  “I thought you told me I could never survive a houseful of women,” Gabe interrupted smugly.

  “…footmen, a driver, a valet,” she continued smoothly, only pausing briefly during his outburst. “You are a lord, and you ought to live like one.”

  He groaned at the familiar argument and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am only technically a lord, and barely even that. There is no point in putting on a show for
people who do not care.” He gave her a dubious look. “As you well know.”

  Geraldine matched his expression nearly perfectly. “They might care if you had a bit of a show.”

  He gave a reluctant chuckle and took a biscuit from the tea tray. “Why should I care, Aunt?”

  “You know why,” she grumbled, sipping her tea.

  Gabe flashed her a grin. “No, I know why you care. Why should I?”

  Geraldine set down her tea firmly, the china clinking loudly. “Because you will never manage a wife if you cannot even be seen as a polite member of society.”

  He glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully, making a face.

  His aunt made a sound of amusement. “Are you truly considering my words, or are you planning a witty response?”

  “Neither,” he said easily. “I’m trying to decide which part of your answer requires my response first; the inane idea that I somehow want a wife or the equally ridiculous assertion that I wish to be seen as a polite member of society.”

  As he predicted, it elicited his aunt’s version of a screech, which was more of a harrumph mixed with an impatient sigh. “Gabriel, if you don’t marry, you’ll be cut off without a penny.”

  He smiled at her. “I haven’t got a penny now.”

  Now she emitted the same sort of screech anyone else would give. “Gabriel! I want to name you my heir!”

  Just to irritate her, he shrugged and folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

  Geraldine’s look was scolding. “You’ll waste it if I give it to you now.”

  He almost smiled. “I’ll waste it no matter when you give it to me,” he informed her quietly.

  She threw her hands up and picked up her tea again. “Why do I bother?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Geraldine looked at him through narrowed eyes, sipped her tea, and finally hummed softly.

  Gabe waited, smirked, rubbed his fingers together, then tilted his head. “Something else you would like to say, Aunt?”

  “So many things,” she quipped, sighing finally. “So many things.”

  He grinned and crossed a leg over his knee. “Say them, then. You’ve never exhibited restraint with me before.”