And then he winked.
And Lord help her, she grinned back.
“Margaret, what would you think about an Austrian for your husband, hmm?” her mother suddenly mused, paying her no mind as she fussed with her lace gloves. “Austrians are so elegant.”
“Yes, Mama,” she replied automatically, brought back to her present. “Very elegant.”
But hardly so enticing.
“Stop smiling, Gent. You look like a cat.”
Rafe Thornton only grinned more broadly as he walked into the small, incongruous office in the quietest section of Cheapside that was ever known to man. Only the washer women, the thatcher brothers, and the seven children of the half lame baker ever traversed this particular alley regularly.
Rumors of smallpox infestations tended to keep people at bay.
Rafe tossed his old cap at the clerk in the corner, a wiry bespectacled chap who had answered to every name they called him from Simon to Rufus, leaving his real name as unknown as anyone else in the building’s was. The lad caught it deftly, raised a brow at the cloud of dust from it, and hung it alongside the several others on the wall, in varying states, fashions, and sizes.
“Alley cats always smile, Rogue,” Rafe replied cheekily, now addressing his grumbling colleague and turning to face him. “Don’t you notice?”
The equally grumbling face glowered deeply, the lines forming resembling the tattered curls on its owner’s head so perfectly that he nearly laughed. “I tend to kick the cats that cross my path. Something about their screeching rings rather pleasantly to my ears.”
Rafe winced and turned down the hall. “Charming. Are we talking about felines or females? You hate so many creatures, and speak so abstractly, I struggle to follow.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot.”
“Avoiding the question.”
“Felines and females are all the same to me,” Rogue quipped with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Too much trouble and never worth the effort.”
“Why do we call you Rogue again?” Rafe asked as they sank into chairs in the quiet room at the back of the building, propping their feet up on desks in a mirrored fashion.
Rogue shrugged and smirked. “It suits me.”
That drew a snort from him. “The term ‘rogue’ seems to indicate a certain level of charm. You have none.”
“I have.”
He barked a laugh and folded his hands behind his head. “Charm is a quality of attractiveness, Rogue, not a quantity of coin. Didn’t they teach you that in your vast university education?”
Rogue’s dark brows snapped down over his eerily blue eyes. “You have no idea what sort of education I have, Gent.”
He shrugged casually. “That’s what you think.”
The room was silent for a moment. “You saw her again, didn’t you?”
Rafe glanced over at him in surprise. “Who?”
The look of derision was both poignant and effective, and he grinned at the sight. “Now you insult me. Your addictive little bit of skirt.”
“She’s not my anything,” Rafe informed him, not willing to rise to the baiting.
“That she knows of.”
That, at least, was true.
“I’m not an idiot, despite your opinions,” Rogue stated, folding his arms and watching him steadily. “Once you were content when you saw her just once a week. Now you are seeing her almost daily, and more, if I’m not mistaken. Tell me, how does this rearrangement of your assignment work for you?”
Rafe shrugged. “Rather well. I see her, I get my information, I remain innocuous and blend in…”
Rogue made a noise of disbelief. “With the way you gawk at her, you blend in as well as a cat in a henhouse.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Again with the cat references. Is there something you need to get off of your chest, Rogue? Is your aunt bothering you again?”
“Leave your lover out of this,” Rogue snapped, smiling at Rafe’s squawk of a laugh at that implication. He sobered and tilted his head at him. “You do realize this isn’t going to proceed well, right? You have to speak with the girl before you can properly court her. This doesn’t count as courting, though it has extended these many months.”
“It’s not courting,” he protested, dropping his arms awkwardly, drumming his fingers on his desk. “It’s… It’s…”
“Seduction by flirtation,” Rogue stated rather simply.
Rafe frowned. He didn’t think his behavior with the incomparable, sweet, surprisingly bold Margaret Easton was anything of the sort. He didn’t know anything about her, but what his sources could provide. Which was actually a great deal as far as facts went, but it was nothing at all that meant anything to him. She had a fortune, her parents preferred the Continent, and she had never had a suitor worth any kind of salt.
She was innocent, she was sheltered, and she was eager. He could see it in her eyes, she enjoyed the excitement he provided. She craved something she did not even comprehend, some adventure just lurking beyond the horizon.
She was the very picture of his most secret fantasies.
And she was his.
But Rogue wouldn’t know any of that.
“I will have you know that I am a gentleman,” Rafe informed his colleague with the dismissive sniff of Society he had perfected so well. “By pedigree and by behavior. And by my name, as you well know. The Gentleman of the Streets, thank you very much.”
Rogue snorted and rolled his eyes. “The beauty of being a spy, Gent, is you don’t have to be a gentleman.”
They’d had this argument too many times, and it never got old. “The beauty of being a spy, Rogue, is that I can be whomever I want.”
“A dandy.”
“A nice man,” he said with a shake of his head.
Rogue wrinkled up his nose. “Ugh. I’m talking to the Eagle, you need a holiday. You’re losing your touch.”
“You never had touch.”
“They call me Rogue, you idiot.”
“It’s ironic,” he said with a shrug. He slid his feet off of the desk and rose. “Well, as fun as bantering with you is, I have things to do.”
Rogue tried for mild surprise. “Oh, are you going to send another note about an insulted debutante? London is not safe without you protecting their reputations, you know.”
Rafe grumbled under his breath, knowing this was Rogue’s favorite jab at him. He had never understood why Rafe had taken an interest in Society, and he never would. “I’ll have you know I saved her from ruin.”
“Oh, what a hero,” he mock swooned. “She marries your friend and then she’s off your conscience, right? Or are you going to start writing for the gossip column now?”
“Cheers, Rogue. Give my best to the bottom dwellers.” He went to leave the room only to find the way blocked by a tall, middle-aged man with piercing eyes and a slow smile, which was absent today.
“Off somewhere?” he asked in his low tones.
Rafe nodded politely. “Cap. Just off to write reports.”
“It can wait.”
That brought him up short. Cap was second in command just behind the Eagle, and reports could never wait.
Rogue scrambled to his feet. “What is it?”
Cap shook his dark golden head and held out a bottle. “Trace.”
That sobered them all.
Rafe thought back quickly, dates and times having little meaning to him these days. Had it really been three years? The recollection cut across him like a knife, swift and sharp. He moved to the sideboard and pulled out three glasses, handing them to the others.
Cap silently poured for them, then capped the bottle.
As one they all raised their glasses.
“Trace,” they murmured almost reverently, mourning still their friend and colleague.
And then they drank.
“Any word on…?” Rafe prodded quietly.
Cap swallowed harshly and shook his head, his jaw tightening. “None. Weaver says the
y won’t stop looking, but…”
“There has to be something,” Rogue muttered, shaking his head, sounding more passionate about this than anything else in his life.
“Eagle thinks so too, but…” Cap shrugged, heaved a sigh that did not fit his nature and cleared his throat, then handed his glass back. “Right. As you were. Get those reports in, Gent, no more dawdling after your muslin miss until you find the gap in the money.”
Rafe groaned as Rogue laughed. “Money trails are Rogue’s business!”
Cap raised a brow. “Rogue has slippery fingers like nobody else. I wouldn’t trust him with tuppence. You do it.” A very faint smile appeared, likely the first since his wife had passed last year. “Miss Easton won’t know that we’re keeping you from her anyway.” He cocked his head knowingly and turned from the room.
Rogue’s laughs turned to full out guffaws as Rafe gaped after the man he respected so much, now joining in his torment.
It just wasn’t fair.
Some men had no idea what to do with hearts.
And some didn’t have them at all.
Chapter Two
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
It was much to her mother’s credit that she looked so composed and remarkably unaffected by Margaret’s outburst, and only calmly sipped her tea as she had been doing all afternoon.
“For heaven’s sake, child,” Aunt Ada snapped, raising an overly wrinkled hand to her powdered brow, “do moderate your tone. One would think you were raised by gypsies rather than my own nephew.”
Margaret gave her great aunt as close to a withering glance as she dared, which was not seen, as the aged woman was bemoaning her approaching megrim.
It had all happened so suddenly, everything as per their usual visits with Aunt Ada, down to the sickening potpourri and the tedious conversation that swirled the same tiresome topics. Margaret was never really invested in these outings and very rarely participated, aside from the mindless and noncommittal answers she could safely offer at any time. It had served her well the last three years, and the ability to listen without truly listening was truly a gift where Aunt Ada was concerned.
But her ears had perked up sharply when her mother had said the words “Europe” and “leaving” within a single breath of each other, and as she was brought back to the conversation at hand, she had intelligence enough to piece together the shocking truth that her parents intended to leave England for the Continent. Again.
Her mother set her cup aside and gave Margaret the smile that told her she was still a child in her eyes. “Surely it cannot be such a surprise, darling. You’ve heard your father and I suggest any number of countries from which we could secure you a husband. Only minutes ago, you and I agreed upon Austria as an option.”
Margaret gaped and shook her head. “I never agreed to anything. I only conceded that Austrians are elegant, and I could name a few that would be exceptions there. I didn’t know…”
Her mother sighed and offered a pitying look. “You’ve had three Seasons, Margaret. That is long enough for Britain’s finest bachelors to try for you. None have.”
Margaret felt her cheeks flush and she raised one of her lace-gloved hands to her face. “You needn’t make me sound so frightful.”
“You are,” Aunt Ada croaked as she rattled her teacup. “You’ve grown plump, and those eyebrows of yours are frightfully out of sorts. Too round in the face, and your lips are much too full. You must use powder to calm your complexion and a bit of lip paint to soften those monstrosities. No wonder no man can abide you, child, you hardly look the part.”
Though she was beyond accustomed to her great-aunt’s severity and criticism, this time it stung.
Her mother sniffed softly, but made no defense for her, as usual. “There are hardly any suitable candidates for you, my love. Certainly none that your father would agree to, even if they had shown an interest. No, no, our best chances for you lie in Europe, and we are certain to find some fine man for you there. How do you feel about Prussians?”
Margaret felt her throat closing up and barely choked out, “Hairy,” which made her mother chuckle.
“Oh, they are not,” she scolded. “And even if they were, it is better for them to have hair than not.”
“Mama, please,” Margaret begged quietly, suddenly realizing that she held tea in her hands and that it was quite cold. She set it aside and folded her hands as primly as she could while they shook. “Please, let me have this Season,” she pleaded. “I’ve just spoken with Rosalind Arden this week, and we had settled ourselves with ideas for similar social gatherings, and you know how important it is to have friends in such endeavors.”
“I do indeed,” her mother said, nodding so sagely it was unsettling, “and if Rosalind Arden would pay any attention to that dashing Captain Riverton, she would have quite the match herself.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “She says he’s too confident by half.”
“And why is that to be faulted?” her mother shot back. “A man with his pedigree and history in battle has earned his confidence.”
A faint growl started in Margaret’s throat. “Captain Riverton is not the issue, Mama.”
“He ought to be,” Aunt Ada muttered as she shifted her voluminous skirts. “And if your waist were the size it ought to be, child, you might have his issue as well.”
Now Margaret’s cheeks flamed in earnest and she raised her other hand to them as well. “Aunt!”
The old woman shrugged, her gaudy jewelry jangling against her skin. “If you will not put forth the efforts to secure what Britain offers, Margaret Mary Christianne, you cannot be fastidious about the rest of the world. Your parents are quite right, Europe is the place to get you a husband.” She reached for her tea and somehow shook the cup enough to rattle it but not spill a drop. “Might be the only place at your age.”
“I am but twenty-two!” Margaret protested.
“I had three children by your age,” her great-aunt snapped. “Much good that did me. Had any been worth the effort, they would have provided me with proper heirs and then I would not have to squander my considerable fortune upon such a hopeless case as yourself.”
“Now, Ada,” her mother placated, her voice as calm as the spring morning, “Margaret is unique, but hardly hopeless.”
Well, that was a flattering description.
“Mama,” Margaret whispered, her hands falling into her lap. “Please.”
The blue eyes so similar to hers turned to meet her and she saw the concern behind the smile. “Darling, you may have your Season, of course. You are to remain with a chaperone that we will hire for you, and she will help you to make the most of this final London Season. And should you find a man suitable for you here, so be it. But should the previous patterns follow, we will have a list of eligible and willing candidates on the Continent. I’ve already written to the Contessa Olivario, and you know she has impeccable taste.”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she swallowed with difficulty. The contessa did have impeccable taste… in horses. Her taste in men ranged from the dandy to the peacock, and the variety within was only in the shade of waistcoats and lavishness of cravats. They had limited intelligence and lacked interest in anything of substance.
None of her selections would do at all.
And she highly doubted her parents’ would be any better.
“Don’t look so forlorn, dear,” her mother said with a placating smile. “It is only a preliminary trip, we will not be gone for long. Just enough to get an idea of prospects, and then, after your Season, we will take you and all go together.”
Preliminary trip or not, this was the absolute worst thing she could have heard. Her parents would be looking for husbands everywhere, and no matter what her mother said, they would return with candidates and plans for her.
“When will you depart?” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
Her mother smiled and sipped her tea again. “In a week, I believe. Pass the c
rumpets, darling, I think I will have another.”
Aunt Ada snorted and clinked her teacup and saucer once more. “Oh, really, Millicent, it’s no wonder the child is chubby, the way you carry on with your diet.”
The two traded words for a while as Margaret sat in her stupor, slowly losing feeling in her extremities.
Marriage to a European would mean leaving England, perhaps forever. She had always known her parents would prefer that, and they had certainly spoken of it before, but she’d never heard of any plans to move in that direction. It had only ever been talk, never action.
Now a course had been set. Without her knowledge or consent, but that had never been in consideration anyway. She supposed she should be grateful that an engagement was not already in place, and that she was permitted to remain while they returned to the Continent. This Season would be her only chance to stay in England.
But for the life of her, she could not think of a single gentleman that she would wish to marry.
If they took gentlemen out of the requirements, she could think of one man who might serve her well…
She closed her eyes against the flash of pain and bit her lip. Her parents would never allow that sort of union. Even if she ruined herself with him, a rather intriguing thing to imagine, they would not follow British protocol and force a marriage. No, they would have only scuttled her away to Europe faster and arranged something with a man with less moral principle than British society would have.
Would she ever be able to forget him long enough to allow another man to capture her fancy?
It was a laughable thought, as she was too wrapped up in his mystery to even consider anyone else.
She would have to let him go to save herself. Not that she ever had him or anything of the sort, and it was a silly, girlish notion to pretend otherwise. But she could not deny that he did have a hold on her, and she had gleefully let him have it. Whatever she had built up in her own mind would have to fade into the background.
Falling in love was no longer an option.
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 2
