One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  DEDICATION

  For my husband, with gratitude and love, for the old house and the new house and the real Rossmore Court.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Charis Michaels

  An Excerpt from Along Came Love by Tracey Livesay

  An Excerpt from When a Marquess Loves a Woman by Vivienne Lorret

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  This is the tale of two brothers.

  No, allow me to go back. This is the tale of two half brothers, a distinction that does not affect the brothers as much as it creates a place for the story to begin.

  They were born deep in Wiltshire’s Deverill Valley, less than a mile from the River Wylye, in a crumbling manor house called Rossmore Court.

  Although the Rainsleigh title was ancient and the family lands entailed, the boys’ parents, Lord Franklin “Frankie” Courtland, the Viscount Rainsleigh, and his lady wife, Este, were not held in high esteem—not by their neighbors in Wiltshire nor by members of London’s haute ton. Instead, they were known mostly for their predilections: recklessness, coarseness, drunkenness, irresponsibility, and deep debt.

  Their notoriety did not curtail their fun, however, and they carried on exactly as they pleased. In 1779, the viscountess became pregnant, and Lord and Lady Rainsleigh added “woefully unfit parents” to their list of indiscretions. Their firstborn was called Bryson—the future viscount, Lord Rainsleigh’s heir. Young Bryson was somber and curious, stormy and willful, but also inexplicably just and kind.

  In 1785, Este and Frankie welcomed a second son, favored almost immediately by his mother for his sweet nature and easy manner, his angelic face and smiling blue eyes. The viscountess named him Beauregard, known as “Beau.”

  On the whole, the boys’ childhood was not a happy one. Lord Rainsleigh was rarely at home, and when he was, he was rarely sober. He managed the boys with equal parts mockery and scorn. Lady Rainsleigh, in turn, was chronically unhappy, petulant, and needy, and she suffered an insatiable appetite for strapping young men, with a particular preference for broad-shouldered members of staff.

  Money was scarce in those years, and schooling was catch-as-catch-can. The brothers relied on each other to get along.

  Bryson’s hard work and good sense earned them money for new coats and boots each year, for books, and for an old horse that they shared.

  Beau employed his good looks and charm to earn them credit in the village shops, to convince foremen to hire them young, and to persuade servants and tenants to stay on when there was no money for salaries or repairs.

  And so it went, each of the boys contributing whatever he could to get by, until the summer of 1807, when the old viscount’s recklessness caught up with him, and he tripped on a root in a riverbed and died.

  With Frankie’s death, Bryson, the new viscount, set out to right all the wrongs of his father and cancel the family’s debts. He moved to London, where he worked hard, built and sold a boat, and then another, and then another—and then five. And then fifteen. Eventually, he owned a shipyard and became wealthier than his wildest dreams.

  Beau, on the other hand . . .

  Well, Beau had no interest in righting wrongs or realizing moneyed dreams—he wasn’t the Rainsleigh heir, thank God. His only wish was to take his handsome face and winning charm and discover the delights of London and the world beyond.

  For a time, he sailed the world as an officer of the Royal Navy. For another time, he imported exotic birds and fish. He spent more than a year with the East India Company, training native soldiers to protect British trade. His life was adventurous and rambling, sunny if he could manage it, and (perhaps most important) entirely on his own terms.

  Until, that is, the day the Courtland brothers received, quite unexpectedly, a bit of shocking news that changed both of their lives.

  The news, which they learned from a stranger, was this: the boys did not share the same father.

  The horrible old viscount—the man who had beaten them and mocked them, who had driven them into debt and allowed their boyhood home to fall into ruin—was not, in fact, Bryson’s father after all. Bryson’s father was another man—a blacksmith’s son from the local village with whom their mother had had a heated affair.

  Beau, as it turned out, was the only natural-born son of Franklin Courtland.

  Beau was the heir.

  And just like that, Beauregard Courtland became the Viscount Rainsleigh, the conservator and executor of all his brother had toiled over a great many years to restore and attain.

  It made no difference that Beau had no desire to be viscount, that he was repelled by the notion, that the idea of becoming viscount made him a little ill.

  In protest, Beau threatened to leave the country; he threatened to change his name; he threatened to commit a crime and endure prison to avoid the bloody title—all to no avail.

  He was the rightful Viscount Rainsleigh, whether he liked it or not.

  His brother, now simply Mr. Bryson Courtland, shipbuilder and merchant, set out on a new quest: to train, coach, and cajole Beau into becoming the responsible, noble, respected viscount that he himself would never be again.

  To answer that, Beau seized his own quest: resist. He could not prevent his brother from dropping the bloody title in his lap, but he could refuse to dance to the tune the title played.

  He would carry on, he vowed, exactly as he had always done—until . . . well . . .

  “Until” is where this tale begins.

  But perhaps this is not a tale of two brothers or even the tale of two half brothers.

  Perhaps it is the story of one brother and how the past he could not change built a future that he, at long last, was willing to claim.

  CHAPTER ONE

  December 1813

  Paddington Lock, London

  Emmaline Crumbley, the Dowager Duchess of Ticking, had agreed to a great many things in life that she later lived to regret.

  She regretted leaving Liverpool to move to London.

  She regretting marrying a decrepit duke, three times her age.

  She regretted cutting her hair.

  Most recently—that is, most immediately—she regretted striding down the wet shoreline of Paddington Lock at seven o’clock in the morni
ng for the purpose of—

  Well, she couldn’t precisely say what she had agreed to do.

  Instruct a full-grown man on the finer points of eating with a fork and knife? On sitting upright? Teach him to smile and say, “How do you do?”

  Teach him to dance?

  “Good God,” she whispered, “I hope not.”

  Her tacit agreement with Mr. Bryson Courtland, the new viscount’s brother, had not been a specific checklist so much as a vague wish to refine the new lord. A wistfulness. Mr. Courtland was wistful (really, there was no other word) about how perfectly suited Emmaline was to sort out his wayward brother. About how she might, in fact, be his only hope.

  And there it was. The reason Emmaline had agreed to do it, despite her mounting regret. There was perhaps no stronger leverage than being anyone’s only hope.

  And what Emmaline needed right now—more than she needed to stop agreeing to things or even to stop regretting them—was leverage. Leverage with the wealthy, shipbuilding Bryson Courtland, no less. If Mr. Courtland wished to see his brother trained in the finer arts of being a gentleman, well, she stood ready to serve.

  The shifting gravel crunched loudly beneath her boots, and she walked faster, trying to outpace the sound. She spared another look over her shoulder. The canal was deserted at this hour, something she could not have guessed. Her plan had been to come early but not to find herself alone. In this, she was lucky for the fog. Visibility was no more than five feet. Just enough to make out the name on the last narrow boat in the row.

  Trixie’s Trove.

  A ridiculous name, painted on the hull in ridiculously overwrought script. Everything about the boat was, in fact, ridiculous, from the peeling purple paint to the viscount who lived aboard it.

  Certainly the fact that she was broaching its wobbly stern for the third time this month was ridiculous.

  Ah, but you agreed to this, she reminded herself. It is a very small means to a much larger end.

  Squaring her shoulders, Emmaline contemplated the swaying gangplank, a rickety ribbon of loosely wired boards. She’d learned to navigate the moldering plank on her two previous calls to the houseboat and could easily step aboard without snagging the silk of her skirts (even while she felt a small thrill each time the stiff black bombazine caught and tore).

  Three more days, she reminded herself, and she could trade full mourning for half. In place of black, she would be permitted to wear . . . gray. Hardly an improvement, but at least she could get rid of the detestable, vision-blocking veil. And the black. Oh, how she detested the black.

  Gulls squawked forebodingly in the distance, and she paused to scan the shoreline. The Duke of Ticking’s grooms had never trailed her this early in the morning, but their spying became more prevalent with each passing day. A quiet path was no guarantee of a safe one. At the moment, she saw only the misty shore, an empty bench, and the outline of the buildings lining New Road. Safe and clear. For the moment.

  Drawing a resigned breath, she clasped the ropes on either side of the gangplank and teetered onboard.

  The viscount’s houseboat was strewn with an indistinguishable jumble of provisions and rigging and dead chub. She knew to expect this from previous visits and now picked her way to the door. At one time, it had perhaps been painted red. Orange, maybe. Now it was a dusty, mud-smeared gray. Precisely the color, she hypothesized, of the viscount’s pickled liver. Thankful for her gloves, Emmaline took up her skirts to descend the steps that led to the door when—

  Crash!

  The door swung open and banged against the cabin wall. Emmaline skittered back, silently flailing, until she collided with an overturned barrel. She sat, swallowing a gasp and whipping around to gauge her distance to the side of the boat. Less than a foot, but she was steady, thank God, on the splintered planks of the barrel. She closed her eyes. Means to an end. A great favor for a great favor.

  Female laughter burst from the door, and she opened her eyes. Three women staggered onto the deck in a chain of wild hair and sagging silk and dragging petticoats. At their feet, a dog pranced and barked.

  “Give my regard to Fannie,” a man’s voice called after them.

  “Oh, we’ll tell ’er, lovey!” called one of the women. More laughter. The trio linked arms and tripped their way to the gangplank, working together to stay upright. The dog, meanwhile, had caught scent of Emmaline and padded over to sniff the hem of her dress. She watched the dog warily and gestured in a shooing motion to the bustle of women trailing onto the shore. The dog ignored them and plopped her shaggy front paws on Emmaline’s skirts.

  “Next time, I’ll be expecting Fannie,” the man’s voice called cheerfully again from within.

  The viscount, Emmaline guessed. On previous visits, she had not heard him speak. Well, perhaps she had heard him speak but not actual words. He had mumbled something unintelligible. He had snorted. There may have been the occasional gurgling sound. She had come early today in hopes of discovering him in full possession of his faculties, especially speech. In this, she seemed to have succeeded, but she would never have guessed he would not be alone.

  Now she heard footsteps. Something fell over with a clatter. There was a muttered curse, more footsteps. Emmaline shoved off the barrel and stood, her eyes wide on the door. The dog dropped from her skirts but remained beside her, and she fought the impulse to sweep her up into her arms. Protection. Ransom. Courage with a wet nose and shaggy tail.

  But the dog left her when the man who matched the voice emerged to fill the doorway. Tall, rumpled, untucked, he leaned against the outside wall of the cabin and stared into the mist.

  Oh.

  She forgot the dog and took a step closer.

  Oh.

  But he was far younger than she’d thought. Not a boy, of course, but not so much older than her own twenty-three years. Twenty-seven perhaps? Twenty-eight?

  And he was so . . . fit. Well, fitter than she’d guessed he would be. Of course she’d never seen him standing upright. The doorway was small, and he was forced to angle his broad shoulders and stoop to see out. He hooked his large hands casually on the ledge above the door and rested his forehead on a thick bicep. Squinting lazily, he watched the women disappear into the fog.

  One of them called back, an unintelligible jumble of hooting laughter and retort, and he huffed, a laugh that didn’t fully form.

  Emmaline looked too, ever worried about the grooms, but the shoreline was a swirl of cottony mist.

  When she swung her gaze back to viscount, he was no longer laughing or squinting. Now, he stared—but not at the shoreline.

  The viscount was staring at her.

  Bloody, bleeding hell, the blackbird was back.

  At the damnable crack of bloody dawn.

  Beau Courtland thumbed through his mental guide to making oneself disappear. It was too late to hide or feign unconsciousness, but he could always plunge over the side and into the canal. Limited options, really, but he was highly motivated.

  “Lord Rainsleigh?” the woman called, taking a step toward him.

  Beau stared.

  “Lord Rainsleigh?” she called again, louder this time. As if once hadn’t been terrible enough.

  His eyes flicked to the side of the boat. The canal would be icy in December, but he was growing less and less particular.

  “You have the wrong boat,” he called back, beckoning his dog with a snap of his finger. Peach trotted to his side.

  “I am the Dowager Duchess of Ticking,” she went on. “How do you do?”

  Buggered, he thought, and you?

  And now they both had titles? Brilliant. This ruled out charity crusader, which had been his first guess. Or missionary, which had been his second. She wore enough black fabric to smother a horse and a stiff black veil, which obscured half her face. He couldn’t see her eyes.

  “I’ve come at the request of your brother,” she continued.

  Beau swore. The only thing more tedious than his title was his bro
ther’s ambitions for it. His mood spiraled, and he dropped his hands from the door jamb and trudged up the steps to the deck. Useless move, because he still couldn’t see her face. Although . . . nice mouth, for all that. Pink and plump and pursed into a pout.

  He knew from the lilt in her voice that she was young. And her posture. Upright and effortless. Her mouth was . . .

  It occurred to him that he’d gotten close enough. In fact, he fought the urge to take a sudden step back.

  “I’m here about the tutorials,” the veiled woman said.

  “What tutorials?”

  “Well, guidance—for you, really. As you assume your new role as viscount.” She closed the last steps between them and folded the veil back with black-gloved fingers. She turned up her face.

  Now he did take a step back.

  The face that blinked up at him seemed to burn away the morning fog. Large brown eyes, thick lashes, a dimple on one creamy cheek.

  And that mouth.

  “Comportment,” the mouth was saying, “manners, responsibilities, life at court. I am an acquaintance of your brother, Mr. Bryson Courtland. He has, er, asked me to help you settle in to the expectations of your new role as viscount.”

  And just like that, their conversation was over. “Good-bye,” he said.

  Later, he would look back and concede that his brother had played it very well. A shockingly pretty girl—a widow, no less, his favorite. Delicate. Large eyes like a baby owl. The dimple. The mouth.

  Later, he would curse his decision not to leap over the side and swim for Blackwall.

  Instead, he dismissed her. Firmly, with finality and conviction. At his feet, Peach barked once for dramatic effect.

  And then he turned on his heel and strode across the deck, clipped down the steps to the door of cabin, and was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emmaline stared at the wet spot on the deck where the viscount had been.

  A crash sounded from inside the cabin, and she looked to the open door. She picked her way across the deck to the top step. “If you please, Lord Rainsleigh?” She peered into the dim interior. “We haven’t yet—”

  “If the arrangement was with my brother,” he called from inside, “then I suggest you tutor him in manners and comportment and life at bloody court.”