One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  How could she not put the otherwise inane knowledge to good use?

  And so she had laughingly, gratefully agreed.

  So what if the offer, such that it was, came off as casual and undefined? So what if she hadn’t realized the extreme challenge that the new viscount posed? In theory, it had been a conceivably attainable means to an end.

  “You might be my only hope,” Mr. Courtland had said.

  In fact, the opposite was true. If he could convey Emmaline and Teddy and two hundred crates of books to New York City, he was her only hope.

  But how to relate that to Mr. Courtland as they traversed his great hall in strained silence?

  Truthfully and earnestly, Emmaline thought.

  And then apologize profusely, and flee.

  But first, she would congratulate him on his impending fatherhood. She had opened her mouth to say this when Bryson Courtland turned to her and said, “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” Emmaline stammered. She missed a step.

  “Obviously, you took our discussion about my brother and his abominable manners to heart.”

  “Obviously,” she managed, her heart pounding.

  “I hope you’ll believe me when I say”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“that never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d agree to such an arrangement. And certainly not that you would track him down yourself. I shudder to think what you’ve witnessed in Paddington. Even I have not called to the canal.”

  “I believe you,” she said, hoping it was the right thing to say.

  “Please tell me that my brother has not offended or inconvenienced you.” He looked earnestly concerned.

  An image flashed in her mind of the viscount bent over her, and she felt her traitorous cheeks go pink. “I am unharmed,” she said.

  “Taking him in hand is hardly the work of a duchess. I . . . I am shocked but undyingly grateful.”

  With this, Emmaline felt herself breathe for the first time since the viscount had strolled into the drawing room.

  Mr. Courtland was grateful.

  She was doing him an earnest favor.

  The plan was working.

  The bloody plan just might work.

  In consideration of his candor, Emmaline followed suit. “I am undyingly motivated to see my father’s books sold to Americans,” she said. “But I can only pay you for the shipping after I’ve made the sales in New York. Until then, this work with your brother is quite literally the only thing I have to offer.”

  Bryson was shaking his head. “Please do not concern yourself with the shipment. Elisabeth would garrote me if she knew I demanded anything in trade to transport your books. I will be happy to convey the crates to New York, even without attention to my brother. You need only ask.”

  “Oh, but I would never—”

  He held up a hand. “Consider it done. We sail to America every month at least. It is my pleasure to assist you. But this other . . . ” Again, he let the sentence trail off.

  “Consider it done,” she repeated. “It is my pleasure to assist you.” She gave a small smile.

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose and then looked in the direction of the drawing room where the ladies were taking tea. “There is a chance that Elisabeth will garrote me anyway,” he admitted. “She values your friendship, and this is no small thing to ask a friend. Still, if anyone loves my brother as much as I do, it is she. We both want him to succeed.”

  “She speaks very highly of him.”

  They resumed their walk down the hall, and Emmaline asked, “Is there anything in particular I should tell Lord Rainsleigh about my role in the, er, lessons? Clearly, he is opposed to the very idea. Doubtless, he told you this.”

  Bryson glanced at the library and then back at her. “But this is why I confide in you, don’t you see?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “My brother has complained about me. He doesn’t enjoy my talking about him when he isn’t present to defend himself. And he’s complained about your badgering him. And he’s questioned your motivation. But he has not asked for you to stop.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Emmaline blinked. Something light and ticklish flipped in her belly. She worked to control her expression. “Very good, then,” she said.

  “Repeat whatever you already told him about your reasons,” he went on. “Paint me the villain. If he was really opposed to your presence, he would have told me, in no uncertain terms, and left London on the next boat. Instead, he simply protested, albeit a bit too much. He is typically full of conditions or ultimatums. In this, there was none.” He glanced behind them. “Ah, and will you look at that? I’ve just caught him watching us from my library door.”

  This bit of news brought on another stomach flip, and Emmaline glanced behind her. The doorway was empty.

  “To that end,” said Bryson, his tone becoming formal and detached, “I am wondering if you would excuse me? I worry that Elisabeth is in need of me.”

  “Oh, but do you think that she is—”

  “Just a calculated guess.” He winked. “If you don’t mind, I should like to have my brother see you out in my stead.”

  Before she could answer, he looked over her shoulder and called, “Beau?” He beckoned with his hand.

  To Emmaline, he whispered, “I pray you will tell me if I take advantage by pressing for this . . . this . . . arrangement. Or if my brother becomes too difficult. I know it to be a very odd and likely taxing thing for woman of your station.”

  It’ll be worth it, she thought, but she said, “It’s the least I can do.”

  “It’s a generosity I won’t soon forget,” he said, and she thought, I’m counting on it.

  But now she heard footsteps, and the viscount was beside her.

  “What’s happened?” Lord Rainsleigh asked cautiously.

  “Elisabeth requires my attention,” said Bryson.

  “She’s not unwell, I hope.”

  “Only fatigued, I’m sure,” said Bryson. “She has limited reserves of energy where Lady Frinfrock is concerned. This was true even before she became pregnant.”

  “Lady Frinfrock has that effect on all of us,” said the viscount. “Should I offer to see the marchioness home?”

  Bryson shook his head. “I will go to Elisabeth. But please, escort the Duchess to the door.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The duchess held her arm out to him, and Beau stared at it. Everything about this moment felt like a trap. Her presence in his brother’s house. His brother’s denial of an arrangement with her. Her necessity for an escort down a perfectly safe and comfortable hallway.

  Beau knew when he was being managed, and he didn’t like it. He wondered what would happen if he left her standing with her graceful, gray-sheathed wing outstretched.

  But he would not leave her, of course. Bryson had begun to back away, and Beau took her arm.

  “Lose your way to the door, did you?” he asked, gesturing to the very obvious door. Her brother and Miss Breedlowe could be seen ahead, watching maids string a doorway with evergreen garland.

  “Hello again to you too,” she said, falling into step beside him. “I might add that ‘hello’ would be one of many polite greetings you could extend to a lady when you are burdened with her company.”

  “Back to this, are we?” he said.

  “But of course. I’ve just assured your brother that our lessons have commenced. We need only set up a time and place. Surely you’re not surprised at this.”

  “I am surprised, in fact. Why would you tell him this, if it is not true?”

  “Well, it could be true.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “You could make it true.”

  “I could also marry Lady Frinfrock and be knighted for courage and sacrifice, but this also will not happen.” He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Why did you pretend to have an arrangement with my brother? He’s told me what actually happened, obviously.”


  She chewed her bottom lip. His concentration slipped, just a notch. He heard himself ask another question: “What happened to the widow’s weeds?”

  “I am in half mourning now,” she said. “My husband has been dead for a year and a half. On Wednesday.”

  “May God rest him,” he said sardonically, although he had no idea why. For all he knew, the late Duke of Ticking may have been the great love of her life. Her mourning might be entirely authentic. The thought irritated him for some reason, and he pulled her along again.

  He asked a third question, “Do you miss the veil?”

  She shook her head. “It would be difficult to miss something less. I wonder, Lord Rainsleigh . . . as I see it, you suffer from only one true obstacle to propriety.”

  “Please don’t call me that. And while you’re at it, please don’t elaborate on my obstacles.”

  “It’s your forthrightness. You say whatever you think. You pay no mind to whether you will shock, or offend, or insult someone. You don’t care if you make people uncomfortable.”

  He dipped his head closer and said in a low voice, “Do I make you uncomfortable, Your Grace?”

  She missed a step. He hustled her closer on his arm.

  “You’ve just said my name properly, Lord Rainsleigh.”

  “Oh, would that you could do the same,” he said. They were nearing the door, and he stopped again. “But I digress. Bryson has told me that he never asked you to . . . educate me.”

  She nodded, seemingly more to herself than him. “Well, perhaps he did not in as many words. He is a gentleman, so of course he would never ask this outright.”

  “Because gentlemen operate on vague innuendo, do they?”

  “Because, as a lady, I’m sure he never thought I would consider such a thing.”

  “But you have and with an unladylike tenacity. Why?”

  She opened her mouth to answer him, and he said, “And don’t say you owe him for rescuing your brother, because I, madam, rescued your brother. When I saw him, I was reminded that Teddy and I originally met on the pier outside of a brothel in Southwark. If it hadn’t been for me, he might still be there, feeding the seagulls.” He watched her reaction and then added, “If he was very lucky.”

  She blinked up at him. Her hand slid from his sleeve. “So it was you?” she whispered.

  “Yes, it was me, and please don’t change the subject. Just bear in mind that if you owe anyone for your brother’s safekeeping, ’tis me.”

  “Elisabeth didn’t say exactly how Teddy came to be discovered,” she said. Her face took on a faraway expression, and she glanced at her brother beneath the garland and then back at him. Beau saw a glimpse of the fear and worry she must have felt when he’d gone missing.

  “Thank you,” she said with great feeling. “Thank you so very much.”

  Now her expression was grateful, and he wished he hadn’t told her. In his experience, gratefulness was one step away from expectation. “It was nothing,” he said.

  “You rescue all of the girls who come to the foundation, don’t you? That’s how they are delivered to Elisabeth—by you?”

  And there it was: expectation. Next came disappointment.

  He said, “At the moment.” Before he could stop himself, he reached out and replaced her hand on his arm.

  “Are you afraid that you cannot carry on as a proper viscount in the light of day if you rescue these girls in the night?” she asked. “Because I believe that you can.”

  “What I’m afraid of,” he said, speaking low, “is that you care too much about my future as a proper viscount and for no good reason. You still haven’t told me why you’ve misrepresented the alleged arrangement with my brother.”

  Sewell chose that moment to sweep in with her belongings, and she smiled and presented her back to the butler so that he could whirl a gray cloak around her shoulders.

  “I bade the grooms to summon your carriage, Your Grace,” Sewell said, “but they tell me you arrived on foot.”

  She smiled at the butler. “That is correct, Sewell. We will walk, but thank you.”

  Beau furrowed his brow. “Arrived on foot? In this weather? Where do you live?”

  “Portman Square. My dower house is behind the duke’s townhome.”

  “That’s ten blocks from here. You cannot walk ten blocks in the snow.”

  “Oh, I have my carriage; it simply isn’t here. I’ve left the rig and grooms outside Holy Trinity Church,” she said. “It’s not far. Down the street and around the corner.”

  Beau looked out the window at the cold, heavy grayness of the afternoon. “Why not ride door to door?” She made no sense.

  “If I come and go through a church, there is less hassle at home.”

  “What kind of hassle?”

  She paused in the act of settling her cloak and looked at him. “My stepson holds a very limited view of my personal freedom.”

  “You have a son?”

  She shook her head. “The Duke of Ticking is my stepson. My late husband had several children by his first wife. His oldest son inherited the dukedom, naturally. He is twenty years older than I am, at least, but I was married to his father.”

  “Twenty years older? My God, how old was your husband?”

  “When he died?” she asked.

  “When he took a nineteen-year-old girl as his wife.”

  “How did you know I was nineteen when I married?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  She looked away. “He was sixty-four when we married.”

  Beau blinked, allowing a moment for the gross injustice of this to settle in. What a bloody waste, bridling youth and energy with decrepitude and fatigue. It also bordered on perverse. Her lithe, firm beauty offered to someone soft and sagging, doubtless with yellow teeth and hair in his ears.

  Beau could feel himself scowling down at her. “So now that he’s cocked up his toes, his son makes you trudge through the snow?”

  “His Grace has been very adamant in adhering to the appropriate mourning period, I’m afraid. I am only permitted to leave my house to attend church or call on charities. This is how I am able to see Elisabeth at the foundation. He does not know the nature of her work, obviously. My excuse for this afternoon was prayers at Holy Trinity.”

  “So how have you turned up to call on me in Paddington? Three times?” But he remembered the footsteps on the shore and her subsequent flight from the boat.

  “Oh, I have discovered ways to call on people and places, as long as the servants only see me leave the carriage and go into a church. Luckily, there are many churches in London, and a widow may come and go quite freely at all hours. Holy Trinity is particularly convenient to Henrietta Place, because it has a side door that is obscured from the street.”

  Beau glanced again out the window. “It’s snowing,” he said. “I will walk you.”

  She shook her head. “If we were seen walking together, it would make my life far more difficult than a little cold and snow could ever do.”

  Beau became vaguely aware that he was grinding his teeth. He detested petty tyranny. It was the primary reason he had no wish to be viscount. He’d rather die than join the overbred, unfeeling ranks of those who wielded arbitrary dominion because they’d been told from birth it was their God-given right. He’d seen the face of this entitlement before, and at painfully close range. He’d sworn then to never be party to the ruling class.

  He watched her fuss with her cloak, straightening the collar and buttoning four buttons beneath her chin. He wondered what else, besides restricting her movements, this new duke felt was his God-given right. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Jealous, is he? The new duke?”

  She shook her head. “No, he is piously committed to his wife. They have seventeen children.”

  “Seventeen! Bloody hell—why?”

  She shrugged, smoothing graceful fingers over skin-tight gloves. “I’ve come to believe he continues to conceive the children in order to give me something
to do.” She chuckled to herself. “His punishment for perceived indiscretions is to assign me to their care.”

  “All of them?”

  “Honestly, once there are more than four or five, it makes no difference how many there are. They are legion.”

  She drifted to the door, and Sewell materialized again, sweeping it open with a bow.

  Beau grabbed the top of the door and pushed it closed. He dismissed the butler with a jerk of his head. “So our conversation in the alley,” he said lowly, “was motivated by secrecy. You hide from this . . . person? The Duke of Ticking?”

  She looked up at him. “Our conversation in the alley was motivated by extreme necessity.” Her eyes flashed with a conviction he had not seen before. He could not look away.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Necessity, Lord Rainsleigh,” she repeated. The playful, lecturing tone was gone. Her voice was frank. “I understand why the notion confuses you. Your needs are so few, you run from the abundance. In this, we are not the same.”

  Behind them, Miss Breedlowe and Teddy began to crowd toward the door, and Emmaline waved them back to the garland. She continued. “You wanted to know why I care so much about your behavior? Well, the truth is that I don’t. For the most part, you and your habits are immaterial. I don’t care if you succeed as a viscount or fail. I don’t care if you ignore the title or become prime minister. Your brother has offered me a way to earn my own way, independent of the new duke, and I mean to seize it. My father is dead. My husband is dead. Neither of them provided for me before they left this earth, so I cannot pay Mr. Courtland for this kindness in advance. But I can offer work in trade. You, my lord, are that work, whether either of us likes it or not.”

  Beau cocked his head, considering this. If what she said was to be believed, his brother had not been desperate to see him trained. Quite the contrary, she was desperate to do his brother a favor. Perhaps this was why Bryson was so surprised.

  He opened his mouth to clarify this, but a different question came out. “So the new Duke of Ticking does not have lecherous designs on you?”

  She shook her head and gestured to Miss Breedlowe and Teddy, calling them to the door. “I don’t even think His Grace enjoys my company.”