A Rogue About Town (London League, Book 2)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Geraldine lifted her chin with a sniff and shifted her legs beneath her green skirts. “I will not say anything of the kind, Gabriel. I am above that.”

  Gabe tossed his head back and hooted a laugh. “Since when?”

  “Oh, really,” Geraldine protested, coloring slightly, “you will make me sound quite odious. As if I would ever admit to anything less than perfectly ladylike behavior.”

  He snorted and took another biscuit.

  His aunt observed him carefully, then gradually leaned back against her chair in an uncharacteristic lapse of propriety, her eyes still on him.

  Gabe raised his brows but said nothing.

  Then Geraldine smirked a smug little smirk.

  Gabe’s stomach dropped, and his eyes widened. “You did something.”

  His maddening aunt only sipped her tea again.

  He set both feet firmly on the floor and leaned forward, no longer amused. “Geraldine, what did you do?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured behind her teacup, her smile just barely visible.

  “I have ceased to find this funny, Aunt,” he growled.

  Geraldine set her cup back on its saucer. “I haven’t.”

  If his aunt had ever peeved him more in his life, he couldn’t recall the instance. “What did you do?” he asked again, keeping his voice controlled.

  “What was necessary,” she replied.

  “Meaning…?”

  “You refuse to do what you must to meet the qualifications for legally inheriting what is mine, so I am taking the choice away from you.” She straightened up and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “You will attend a ball in two weeks that is being held for the express purpose of finding you a bride.”

  His jaw dropped. “The hell I will!”

  “Once you have found a woman to your tastes,” she continued as if he had not protested, “we will proceed with your courtship, which I will, of course, assist you with. I know your limits. But you know that I have the authority to disinherit you, and you know that you need my money.”

  “But…”

  “You do not have a say in this matter,” Geraldine snapped, somehow still smiling. “Lord Wharton needs a wife, and if he waits too long, he will not have the means to restore his family’s heritage.”

  Gabe sat back roughly. “You assume that Lord Wharton wishes for such a thing.”

  Geraldine raised a brow, her smile just as maddening as before. “What Lord Wharton wants is mattering less and less to this particularly benevolent aunt who wishes to give him patronage.”

  He knew that tone, and he knew it all too well. She was not going to be moved, and he was not going to get his way.

  There was nothing else to do.

  “Fine,” he muttered grudgingly. “We’ll have the ball.”

  “I do apologize,” Geraldine said with an imperious tilt of her head. “It seems I have given you the impression that you have any say in the matter.”

  Gabe stared at her for a moment, then had to laugh, and laugh heartily. He’d always wondered where his more candid nature had come from, and it seemed he finally had the answer.

  He looked over at his maddening relation and smiled. “Am I allowed a condition?”

  She folded her arms. “One. And it will depend on the condition.”

  “I only have the one,” he assured her.

  She raised a brow, which he took to be an indication to proceed.

  “A masquerade.” He spread his hands out. “That is all I ask.”

  Geraldine’s brow furrowed. “Masks will defeat the purpose. How is anyone supposed to fall in love with you that way?”

  “The way that is allegedly supposed to happen,” Gabe drawled, settling more fully into his chair. “Someone who wants me for me and not for my irresistibly attractive visage, would not that be ideal?”

  “On second thought,” she replied with a sniff, “let us cover your face. No sense in terrifying the poor, desperate creatures.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes and shook his head. “So delicate with my feelings, Aunt.”

  “You have no feelings, and you know it.” She rose and brushed off her dress. “Very well, a masquerade. And my condition for you is that I let it be known what Lord Wharton is wearing so that those with a sincere interest may seek you out.”

  “That should amount to roughly zero women,” he answered, rising himself. “I can live with that.”

  Geraldine moved to him and put a hand to his face. “Don’t underestimate your charms, my dear. You will be flocked by females eager for your attention.”

  Gabe chuckled softly, took her hand from his face, and kissed it. “I never underestimate my charms. I only have three of them, so it is quite simple to keep them where they belong.”

  She shook her head and swept past him towards the door. “I will send you an invitation to the ball when I can.”

  “What a relief,” he called after her. “I should hate to not be invited to my own ball.”

  “You are not that fortunate, Gabriel!”

  He drummed his fingers on his chair, processing the idea of a masquerade ball to help him find a wife. Find a wife… If he wanted to find a wife, he would do so. Despite what everyone, including his aunt, thought of him, he was capable of charming a woman. He was.

  That did not mean, however, that he wanted to marry one.

  And yet, he was not entirely opposed to the idea in general.

  He got to his feet quickly, the shock of that thought acting like a bucket of cold water dumped over him. Since when had he actually considered marriage?

  The masquerade was the only thing that would save him here. He could be charming and warm, or withdrawn and brooding, and no one would quite know if he really was Lord Wharton or not. The misses would come and go, try in vain to rouse his interest, and he could enjoy giving each one a very different version of himself to confuse the accounts.

  It would be the most entertainment he’d had in years. Provided none of the poor deluded females actually thought they had a chance with him.

  Because unless his aunt dragged his unconscious body to a church and somehow coerced that unconscious body to agree to the insanity of the marriage vows, not even her scheme of a ball would get him to an altar.

  And yes, he did need her money to restore his family heritage, but he didn’t care about that, so he really had no incentive to act on her wishes. He was paid well enough by his superiors for what he did, and his living situation was perfect for him as it was.

  Marriage. Why was the entire world obsessed with the idea?

  He strode down the hall, and when he couldn’t find Houser, continued to the kitchen.

  A remarkably adorable child with wide, dark eyes and the hair to match sat in a dirty, worn dress on a bench, wiping the crumbs from her mouth. Mrs. Lucas, his termagant of a cook, looked almost congenial as she smiled at the little girl. That alone was enough to stop the idea of marriage and family. He did not need his cook looking like that.

  “All done, love?” Mrs. Lucas asked Daisy, still not seeing Gabe.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Daisy replied with a bare hint of a lisp.

  “Good,” Gabe grunted as he pushed further in. “Because we have to go.”

  Mrs. Lucas frowned at him, which he undoubtedly deserved due to his tone, but as it was the usual way she looked, he felt marginally better.

  Daisy, however, did not frown but beamed at him. Which showed her true naiveté and innocence and made him question her place in the harsh world they both lived in.

  She jumped off the bench and skipped to his side, taking his hand. “Off we go, then!”

  He smiled a little and shook his head, leading her out the back door. “You’re going to keep a close eye on your new mark, Daisy.”

  She looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

  He sighed heavily, looking up at the dismal grey skies. “Because I’m going to take her somewhere tomorrow, and when we get back, she might act irrationally.”

  “Whe
re are you going?” the little girl asked, almost bouncing in her excitement.

  “Surrey. To the house she once lived in.” He winced and squeezed Daisy’s hand. “And she might hate me for it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amelia was a complete bundle of nerves sitting in the carriage across from Rogue. They had left London early this morning, and he had said little about their destination. She was dressed as a proper country woman, and he was her equal in appearance. It was unsettling how normal he looked, and how attractive.

  There was that disastrous thought again!

  He was not that attractive. In fact, he was barely passable. Amelia had seen several men in her life that could be considered ridiculously attractive, and Rogue would not even be able to stand in the same room with them. Nobody would notice him while those sorts of men were around.

  But those men were not around now.

  Only Rogue was.

  And considering that she somehow found him attractive despite his lack of attractiveness, that was no comfort at all.

  It was a blessing that he was surlier than a goat with a toothache.

  They had been travelling for several hours, and his glower had been the only companion she had known as yet. He rode in complete silence. He’d not said a word about luncheon, and despite Mrs. Jenkins’ current fear of Amelia’s connections and the future of her establishment, she was adamantly unwilling to provide any sort of breakfast before her usual hours.

  Amelia was used to not having regular meals, but she had never been pleasant about it.

  And despite the fact that they had changed horses once already, Rogue had not gotten out of the carriage, so neither had she. Given his reluctance to take her anywhere, she was not about to complain, lest he toss her out and force her to walk back to London.

  It seemed rather a far-fetched worry, but considering Rogue was unpredictable, did not like her, and had no manners, it might not have been so very outlandish.

  He was currently glaring out of the window, exactly as he had been doing for hours. For all his attention, she might not have even been in the carriage with him. When it was early, she did not mind, as she was not particularly loquacious in the mornings and Rogue was not loquacious at all. Now that it was daylight and the day was surely half gone, the silence was utterly deafening.

  And it was doing nothing for her nerves.

  What if she had finally pushed Rogue too far, and he was getting rid of her?

  That seemed unlikely; he would never have done so personally. He undoubtedly had other lowlife, skulking individuals for such tasks.

  What if he had uncovered something about her past and was getting her out of London for her safety?

  She snorted aloud at that. Imagine Rogue rushing her out of London to save her. And with the horses at a trot at that. Daring rescue from a burning building or not, Rogue was no hero. Especially not for her.

  She did briefly consider the idea that it could be nothing more than an investigative venture. However, considering the length of time they had been travelling, that also seemed far-fetched.

  What sort of person got into a coach with someone they could not stand without knowing why they were doing so or where they were going?

  Apparently, Amelia Tribbett did.

  The carriage turned onto a somehow less travelled path than the jolting road they had been on, and Amelia let out a pained sound as a dip in the road led to her slamming her head against the ceiling.

  Rogue looked over at her finally, and she hated herself for making a sound at all. He seemed to consider her for a moment, then one side of his mouth quirked.

  “What?” she grumbled, rubbing her head.

  He checked a pocket watch he wore in his vest and looked back up at her. “Nearly six hours in a carriage in complete silence, and it takes you ramming your head into the ceiling for a single sound to be emitted. Well done.”

  Amelia gaped at him and barely resisted the urge to kick his shins. “You’ve been testing me?”

  Rogue scoffed and replaced his pocket watch. “Not at all. I see no need to converse uselessly, but I did anticipate you would need to fill the silence.”

  She tilted her head a little, narrowing her eyes. “Are you admitting that you were wrong?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “Freely and without restraint.”

  That was shocking, and she did not bother hiding it. “You are?”

  “Would I admit to such if I were not?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she admitted bluntly. “You constantly surprise me.”

  He grinned outright at that, which nearly blinded her with its brilliance. “That, my dear Miss Berger, is part of my charm.”

  Her sight restored, she chortled and sat back rather inelegantly. “Is that what we are calling it?”

  “I am the Rogue, am I not?”

  “For all I know, it could be a self-proclaimed title.” She folded her arms and raised a brow. “Is it?”

  Rogue gave her a crooked, smug smirk. “It is not.”

  Amelia wasn’t sure she believed him, but she suspected that he would react more strongly to the idea of being proclaimed a liar, if for no other reason than because he had insisted on honesty from her. She could hardly call him honorable, but she could not exactly call him the opposite either. And even between villains and blackguards, there had to be some level of honesty and trust.

  For a little while, at least. While it served their purposes.

  “Where are we going, Rogue?” she asked, venturing into the anxieties that surrounded her. “If we keep driving, we’ll be in France before long.”

  “Before or after we drown in the Channel?” he replied, crossing his ankle over a knee.

  Amelia gave him a hard look, fighting the instinct to be amused at his quip.

  He sighed in response and shook his head. “Use your deductive reasoning, Amelia. You are not unintelligent and are quite capable of drawing your own conclusions. Tell me what you know.”

  She hadn’t expected that, and suddenly felt a bit ill at ease. Her few years in school had left her with a fear of sudden and direct attention in situations where she was not in possession of the necessary information. She became quite dumbfounded and on occasion even stammered like an idiot.

  It was why she avoided situations like these as often as possible.

  Still, she could not let Rogue in on a weakness of hers. He would pounce on it and exploit it whenever he fancied.

  She thought back and focused on the journey thus far. “Out of London, followed the river, turned south, a couple of turns, the sun is on you, not me… Surrey, no doubt, as we are west as well.”

  “Very good,” Rogue said with a nod, only slightly mocking.

  “Surrey is a big county,” she informed him, as she might have an irritating child. “We could be anywhere.”

  Rogue snorted. “Why would I want to be just anywhere in Surrey? I’m not asking you to draw me a bloody map, Amelia.”

  “No need to be so rude, I am not intentionally obtuse,” she snapped.

  “No, it just comes with your person.” He shook his head and looked out of the window. “And I am always rude. Nothing personal.”

  Amelia stared at him for a long moment, trying to find the meaning behind his words. “Is that your version of an apology?”

  He glanced over with a raised brow. “Not at all. An explanation. Apologies are useless when no remorse is felt.”

  She really shouldn’t have been surprised. Rogue did not have the usual spread of emotions that an ordinary human possesses, so it only followed that his awareness of his own insolence was minimal at best.

  The carriage slowed, and Amelia looked out the window.

  A small village was down the road, but they were not headed in that direction. They were stopping, pulling off onto a narrow, overgrown path, and to one side was a tiny, ramshackle cottage with an equally wild garden and a sinking roof on one side. The windows were filthy and broken, vines had almost
entirely taken over the front of the house, and the door hung askew and open. It was plain to see that nobody was inhabiting the place, and no one had for quite some time.

  But none of those things registered significantly with Amelia. She could not take her gaze off the place, and her eyes began to burn, not with tears but with fury.

  “What is this?” she managed to say through tight lips and gritted teeth.

  “Self-explanatory,” Rogue replied gruffly, exiting the carriage.

  Amelia did not move, staring at the cottage with a dozen emotions coursing through her.

  “Amelia.”

  She blinked and shifted her gaze to Rogue, standing outside the door and looking at her with a vague expression, his eyes somehow less frosty than usual.

  There was absolutely no way she could get out of this carriage and go into that place.

  “Do you know what this is?” Amelia asked, her voice breaking, embarrassing her.

  “Yes,” came the stiff response.

  She met his eyes again and saw firm resolution there, which did nothing for her own convictions, as they were currently in complete disarray. She gripped her seat with white knuckles, her nails biting into the fabric, and she felt a slight tremor coursing through her.

  This had been her house. The house that they had been forced out of because there was no more money. The only good memories she had in her life had been here.

  She barely recalled them. She’d intentionally buried them because it was just too painful to dwell on. Going back in there… That was utterly out of the question. And if the heartless man staring from outside the carriage had any sort of decency, he would never have brought her here.

  But he had. And he still stared.

  And then, to her surprise, he extended a hand to her.

  Amelia stared at it for a moment, then looked up at him again. Gone was the vacant look, and in its place was understanding, concern, encouragement… It was the look of a man whose hand one would take when it was offered.

  And despite her desire to slap it, and him, she found herself taking his hand instead and letting him help her from the carriage.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, without any hint of patronization.