The Rogue Is Back in Town

by Anna Bennett

  “Thank you. But in the event that I cannot prove my uncle has a superior right to occupy the house, I need to know your brother’s selling price.”

  “There’s one way to find out,” he said philosophically.

  “Yes.” She bit her lip. “Will you ask him?”

  “I will,” he said, thoughtful. “But my involvement ends there. I want to help you, but Nigel is my brother, and I owe him my allegiance. I don’t wish to be in the middle of any negotiations.”

  “Fair enough.” Although, in truth, Sam was already in the middle. Julie didn’t doubt he was loyal to his brother … but he also seemed to care about her.

  As more than a potential conquest. For she could not imagine that he routinely befriended the uncles of his paramours or lowered himself to cleaning bookshelves stuffed with nausea-inducing relics.

  “Aren’t you going to read your letters?” he asked.

  Julie had planned to read them in the privacy of her bedchamber, but she supposed it couldn’t hurt. “I do hope it’s good news from Meg,” she said, sighing softly at the comforting sight of her sister’s fine, even handwriting. She unfolded the letter and read it quickly, her heart sinking with each paragraph.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. “Is your sister unwell?”

  Julie nodded. “The midwife is concerned the baby will come too early, and she’s advised Meg to remain in bed for the next two months.”

  “Should you go to her?” Before she could respond, he added, “I could keep an eye on your uncle for you.”

  Sam’s offer, given so sincerely and naturally, warmed her to the core. “That’s generous of you, but Meg wouldn’t want me to leave him, and she cannot know that you’re here. Besides, she says she is well cared for. Her husband, Will, dotes on her constantly—bringing her books, sweet treats … tokens of his affection.” She sighed, wistful.

  “Would you like me to spoil you, vixen? I cannot afford expensive gifts, but there are other ways I could indulge you.”

  “And I’m certain they are all improper.” She arched a brow and ignored the delicious shiver that ran through her limbs.

  He chuckled. “Absolutely. The sweetest things in life are necessarily improper. Running barefoot through the fields … swimming naked in the river … lounging on the grass as the sun kisses your skin…”

  “You are the undisputed expert of improper pleasures,” she conceded. She could easily imagine him doing all those things. And it wasn’t difficult to imagine herself doing those things with him.

  He grinned, clearly pleased. “I might have to add that title to my calling card.”

  Julie’s face heated, but she pressed on. “Meg also writes that Beth, my other sister, has decided to extend her honeymoon for a few weeks … and Meg doesn’t want to worry her with the news about the baby. So she forbids me to tell anyone else, lest Beth find out.”

  “I promise not to breathe a word of it,” Sam said solemnly … but then he cracked a smile.

  “What is so funny?” Julie demanded.

  “For sisters as close as you three are, you certainly keep a lot of secrets from each other.”

  “With good reason,” she said, her hackles up. But blast it all, he was correct.

  “Perhaps the other letter will contain better news.” He pointed at the unopened envelope next to her plate.

  “Let us hope so,” she said, pulling out a card. But as she scanned the details, her fingers tingled and went numb. “It’s an invitation to a dinner party.”

  “From whom?” he said, wary.

  “Your brother. He’s hosting a small gathering tomorrow night. He regrets that the numbers don’t allow him to extend the invitation to Uncle Alistair, but he’d be delighted if I would attend.”

  Sam scowled. “He expects you to attend his little dinner party unchaperoned?”

  “What’s this? All of the sudden you’re concerned about my reputation?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I find the circumstances odd. Suspicious.”

  Tamping down her own niggling sense of unease, Julie smiled brightly. “I’m certain your brother’s dinner party will be perfectly respectable.”

  “And boring,” he added pointedly.

  “You were the one who encouraged me to speak to the marquess directly,” she reminded him. “Tomorrow night could present the ideal opportunity for me to discuss the house with him. I’m going to accept his invitation.”

  “By all means, go.” Sam stood, rounded the table, and leaned close to her ear. “Go to your fancy balls and elegant dinners, temptress. Dance with dukes and mingle with the finest ladies. But when you grow weary of their endless rules and insipid chatter, remember I’ll be here at home … waiting for you.”

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Sam decided to clean Alistair’s bookcase the next afternoon. He’d hoped the task would prove absorbing enough that he’d forget about Nigel’s dinner party and the fact that Juliette would be spending the entire evening with his brother.

  But as he moved about the study, dusting jars, organizing books, and sorting years’ worth of notes, he could think of little else.

  He shook his head—as if it were just that easy to erase the image of Nigel and Juliette, together, from his mind—and turned his attention to the bookcase. “These shelves are much deeper than they look.” Sam removed two more jars of water from the top shelf, hopped off the stool, and set them on the desk in front of Alistair.

  The old man examined the label on one with a magnifying glass. “August, 1798.” He checked the other label. “And this one is January, 1801.”

  Sam scooped both jars off the desk and placed them in the long line of jars along the floor beneath the window, which he’d arranged in chronological order. “It’s a wonder there’s any water left in the Thames,” he teased. “Surely boats are running aground and fish are flapping on the dry riverbed.”

  “Tis merely a thimbleful out of a bathtub,” Alistair replied. “But I do wonder what moved me to collect samples month after month for twenty years. Habit, I suppose.”

  Habit … madness … it was a rather thin line as far as Sam was concerned. He’d convinced Alistair to dispose of several of the jars he’d pulled off the shelves. After some negotiation, they’d agreed that if a jar was cracked or its contents unidentifiable, it had little scientific value.

  But Alistair did seem inexplicably attached to the jars of river water, and Sam had to give him credit for collecting them so meticulously, over such a long period.

  “There are only two months missing.” Sam stood with his hands on hips, surveying the line of jars winding around the room. “And those jars may be hidden toward the back of that top shelf.”

  “They’re somewhere in here,” Alistair said confidently. “I never skipped a month. Even in the winter of 1814 when the river froze over, I took my jar to the Frost Fair and filled it with ice.”

  “Your dedication is commendable,” Sam said. “All I did at the Frost Fair was stuff myself with gingerbread and sip gin.”

  “Oh, I might have partaken of gingerbread and gin too.” Alistair chuckled softly. “One must balance work and pleasure, you know. Without a bit of fun, life is far too tedious.”

  Sam grinned in agreement. “Wise words. I may have them engraved on my headstone.” But it occurred to him that the reverse was also true—that without work or a commitment to anything worthwhile, the most decadent pleasures could seem … empty.

  In short, it had been too long since he’d given a damn. About anything.

  “I heard someone mention a headstone.” Juliette breezed into the study, a breath of fresh air in her yellow dress. “Should I be alarmed?”

  “Not at all, my dear. We were only speaking in matadors.” Alistair waved an arm around the room. “Look at all the progress Samuel has made.”

  “I didn’t manage it alone,” Sam said. “Your uncle and I make a good team.”

  Juliette beamed at him like he’d just slay
ed a dragon. “I am impressed.” Turning to Alistair, she said, “Once all your findings are catalogued, you’ll think of something brilliant to present to the Royal Society—I’m certain of it.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve accomplished more than enough cataloguing for today, I fear. But as you can see, I am adhering to my end of our bargain. Do not forget that you promised me something in return.” Alistair waggled his bushy eyebrows.

  Juliette busied herself with a stack of papers, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed with the task. “I haven’t forgotten, Uncle. You do look rather weary. Would you like to rest in the parlor? Perhaps take a nap in your favorite chair?”

  Sam recognized a dodging question when he heard one. He’d perfected it to an art form himself. And he wasn’t letting Juliette sidestep Alistair so easily. “What did you promise your uncle?” he interjected.

  “It’s a personal matter,” she replied, not meeting his gaze.

  “Nonsense.” Alistair pushed himself out of his desk chair and ambled toward Juliette. “Samuel is family. We needn’t keep secrets from him. He might even be able to help.”

  “I’d be delighted to,” Sam said.

  “No.” Juliette rolled her eyes, appalled at the very idea. “The last thing I require is your assistance.”

  “She promised to devote herself to finding a husband,” Alistair explained. “But she spends far too much time here, with me.”

  “That’s not true. Have you forgotten that I went to a ball two nights ago and am attending a dinner party tonight?”

  “Nay, I’ve not forgotten.” Alistair patted her shoulder the way one might soothe a wild pony. “It is possible you are making as much progress toward your goal as I am toward mine. The difference is that my progress is evident on the shelves and tables around this room … while your progress is in here.” He tapped his chest, over his heart.

  Guilt sliced through Sam. While Juliette had been trying to make a decent match, he’d been trying to seduce her—and he’d come damned close to succeeding.

  “I will do my best to uphold my end of our bargain, Uncle.” She laid her hand over his, pressing it to his chest. “And I am working on it.”

  As Sam stepped onto the stool and removed a box full of envelopes, notes, and God-knew-what-else from the top shelf, he wondered if Juliette spoke the truth.

  Perhaps she’d her sights set on Nigel and would use tonight’s dinner party to advance her cause.

  Maybe tomorrow, Nigel would arrive on her doorstep and ask Alistair for her hand in marriage.

  And then Sam’s life could return to normal.

  He should have been inordinately pleased at the prospect. But the thought of Juliette with Nigel—with anyone, actually—made him want to punch something.

  “I trust you, Juliette,” Alistair said warmly. “Now, I think I will take your fine suggestion and rest in my favorite chair with my wool blanket. Meanwhile, don’t exert yourself unruly in here. We’ve accomplished enough for one day. You and Samuel should play a game of chess.”

  Sam snorted to himself. In some ways, they already were. He was the pawn to her queen.

  Alistair shuffled toward the parlor, and Juliette perused stacks of paper with renewed vigor.

  When the old man was out of earshot, Sam said, “Maybe we should play chess.”

  She glanced up at him like he’d sprouted horns. “I’ve no time for games. I need to search the study while my uncle is resting.”

  “I’ve been looking for anything resembling a lease or bill of sale all morning, but I’ve yet to find anything.”

  “Have you searched his desk?” She sat in Alistair’s desk chair and yanked open a drawer with more force than necessary.

  “No,” he said cautiously, “but I’ll be happy to help you.”

  She shot him a grateful smile as she heaped a huge stack of documents on the desktop. “This could take a while.”

  * * *

  Julie and Sam spent the next two hours painstakingly leafing through the pile, paper by paper—and found no documents related to the house.

  Every so often, however, Sam had set a letter or note aside. Julie inclined her head at the small stack. “What is in that pile?”

  He shrugged as he stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Some notes about the Thames. I wondered if they might be related to your uncle’s jars. They’re probably nothing, but some are fascinating.”

  “How so?”

  Sam picked the top paper off the stack and scanned it. “This letter from a fisherman is over thirty years old. He and his crew caught a shark near Poplar Island.”

  Julie blinked. “A shark in the Thames?”

  “A rare thing, to be sure. It was sickly, and when they cut it open they discovered a silver watch and chain in its stomach … but no trace of its owner.”

  “That’s awful.” Julie suppressed a shudder. “I trust the other papers are less tragic in nature?”

  Sam shuffled through them. “Some contain reports of whales. Others refer to the dwindling populations of plants and water creatures. A few simply contain moving descriptions of the beauty of the river at sunset. Perhaps none of this is worth saving, but your uncle is clearly passionate about the Thames—which makes it a fine subject on which to focus his research.”

  For several moments, Julie said nothing. Each time she’d thought she knew and understood Sam, he managed to somehow surprise her again. “That’s quite insightful,” she said at last. “Thank you.”

  He placed the papers on a shelf and looked away, as though embarrassed. “I wish we’d found something related to the house.”

  “As do I.” Julie sat back and rolled the tightness out of her shoulders. As Sam stood and stretched his arms, she endeavored not to stare at his broad shoulders. Or hard chest. Or taut abdomen.

  She straightened the desk pad, ink blotter, and ink well, sighing softly. “I’m going to have to ask my uncle whether he, in fact, owns this house—and hope that my questions don’t distress him.”

  “You should allow me to ask him,” Sam said. “I could inquire about it in the normal course of conversation, and it wouldn’t seem as odd.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” she said, wishing she’d thought of it first.

  “I do have them, occasionally,” he quipped. “I’ll speak with him tonight, while you’re at the dinner party.”

  “That would be wonder—” She paused and shook her head. “On second thought, let’s wait. One more day of uncertainty won’t hurt, and perhaps I’ll learn the details myself, if I’ve the opportunity to broach the subject with your brother tonight.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sam shrugged as though he were indifferent, but Julie detected a trace of irritation in his tone. He walked to the sideboard and lifted the stopper off a decanter of sherry. “Join me in a glass?”

  She shouldn’t. It was almost time to dress for dinner, and tonight more than ever, she needed to keep her wits about her. “Just one.”

  He filled two glasses and handed her the one without the chipped rim, joining her where she half-stood, half-sat on the front edge of her uncle’s desk. Clinking his goblet against hers, he said, “May your evening hold the answers you seek.”

  She sipped thoughtfully, staring at his handsome face and noting the jaded look in his eyes. “May I ask you something?”

  “Anything, spitfire.”

  “Why didn’t your brother invite you to his dinner party? Are you not close to him? That is, I realize you are very different, but I wouldn’t dream of having a dinner party and excluding my sisters.”

  “You mustn’t blame Nigel for our strained relationship. I’m a source of constant disappointment to him. He’s given me second chances. Hell, he’s given me third, fourth, and fifth chances. I always promise to do better—to refrain from gambling and womanizing—and I do. For a fortnight or so. And then, despite my best intentions, I manage to end up in the gossip papers again.”

  “Your brother wants you to be more respectable. Like him.”


  “Yes.” He slid closer, brushing his hard shoulder against hers. “Tell me something, Juliette.”

  “Of course.” She’d tried to sound breezy, but his nearness made her breathy. His thigh bumped lightly against her hip, awakening every inch of her skin.

  “If I were more like my brother—more decent and honorable—would I have a chance to win your heart?”

  Julie swallowed. She wanted to say that she couldn’t imagine Sam any other way than the way he was. And that his naughtiness and rough edges appealed to her wild side, her passionate nature. But he wasn’t husband material. What miss in her right mind would bind herself to a man who couldn’t stay out of the gossip pages?

  “My heart is not a prize to be won. Love isn’t a competition.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he countered.

  She shrugged. “It’s a moot point. You said yourself that though you’ve tried many times to change, you cannot.”

  “True.” He set his wine glass behind him on the desk and searched her face. “But I think the reason I never succeeded in changing was I never cared enough. About anything or anyone. And maybe…” Deliberately, he smoothed a tendril behind her ear and traced the shell with his fingertip. “Maybe that’s changing.”

  Her knees went a little weak. Perhaps it was due to his husky voice or his earnest expression or the slight tremor in his hand. “Everyone needs to care about something or someone,” she said. “But the change starts inside you.”

  He took her glass, set it down, and lightly ran his fingers down her arms, from her shoulders all the way to her wrists. Pulling her closer, he said, “So you’re saying there’s hope for me.”

  “Absolutely,” she whispered. Lord help her, she shouldn’t encourage him like this, not when he was so utterly wrong for her.

  He rubbed his thumb back and forth across her palm, heating her blood. “But my odds are not good?”

  “No,” she breathed. “Far less than ninety percent.”

  “I’d be happy with ten, Juliette.” He leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. “Just give me a chance.”

  She melted into him, his strength, his vulnerability, him. But just as she parted her lips to taste his, the grandfather clock down the hall chimed, and she jumped.