One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  Elisabeth’s grabbed her wrist. “You knew?”

  Jocelyn made a guilty expression and nodded to the bench. They sat beneath the drooping willow. “Well, some of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Has Emmaline suggested that she is unhappy? God forbid, is she frightened of his advances?”

  “No. If she is unhappy, it is not from his advances, more like his . . . withdrawals.”

  Elisabeth slapped her hands on her knees. “Of course she is.” She shook her head. “Beau Courtland cannot meet a woman without charming her, bewitching her, and then deserting her to moon over him for a year. I’ve asked Bryson about it, and he refuses to discuss it.” She shoved up from the bench. “ ‘Let nature take its course,’ he said. He seems to have every belief that his brother will behave honorably with her. Ha. Where he got this notion, I have no idea. Bryson is too blinded by the love of his brother to see the risk to Emmaline’s heart.”

  “Or,” countered Jocelyn, “Mr. Courtland loves his brother enough to see the potential.”

  “You believe Bryson has been matchmaking?”

  “They have been very much thrown together, I’m afraid. The rescue of Teddy. The lessons . . . ”

  “What lessons?”

  “Perhaps that is a better question for Mr. Courtland.”

  “That jackal,” Elisabeth said on a breath. “He’s been playing Cupid all along and failed to inform me.”

  “Well, you work very closely with his lordship and Her Grace at the foundation,” said Jocelyn. “The contrivance might have been too great—if you knew of his plan, that is.”

  “Regardless, he should have told me.”

  “And what would you have done?”

  “Well, forbidden it, for one.” Elisabeth returned to the bench. “I . . . I will be so angry if he breaks her heart.”

  “Is it possible Mr. Courtland designed it the other way around?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Instead of breaking the duchess’s heart, is it possible that she will mend the viscount’s?”

  There was a pause. “Ohhh. But could it be? To be honest, it makes perfect sense. How exactly like Bryson in every way.” She thought a moment more. “No wonder he sent me in with the dog. He was afraid of what he might find.”

  “Oh yes, the dog. She told me.”

  “I embarrassed her with my intrusion. I did try gainfully to put her at ease, but . . . they were rather preoccupied.”

  “He’s told her they should not really see each other again after today.”

  “What? He kissed her as if they could not bear to be apart.”

  “Of this I have no doubt. And yet he is very determined to stay away. He threatened to leave the country.”

  “Good God, not this again. He cannot go now. I need him for at least two more raids before Stoker and Joseph return to school. I’ve yet to find a replacement for him.” She paused again. “I never thought I would say this, but . . . I worry we may need to help them along.”

  “You’re joking,” said Jocelyn, laughing now. “These are rare words, coming from you. You mean ‘help them,’ as your aunt helped you with your husband? If only Lady Banning could hear you say it.”

  “Perhaps Lady Banning should have thought of this before she moved to a tropical island halfway around the world. But let us think. What would Aunt Lillian do if she were here?”

  “She would fall in love with the gardener,” said a voice behind them, “and we’d be left with no one to care for the greenhouse through winter.”

  The women spun to see Lady Frinfrock rounding the corner, with cane and pruning shears. Behind her, a footman carried a bundle of dead trimmings.

  “Lady Frinfrock,” said Jocelyn, jumping up. “We didn’t hear you there.”

  “Well, I’ve heard you, plainly as day. ’Tis my garden, after all.”

  “Quite so,” Jocelyn chuckled. “Elisabeth just caught me as I returned home from the Duchess of Ticking’s dower house.”

  “Oh, yes, the dowager duchess,” said the marchioness. “I’ve had an earful about her, haven’t I? Cannot say I’m surprised, to be honest. Common girl, really. Married above her reach. Carrying on in the ballroom and God knows where else. Really, Miss Breedlowe, I expect more from you.”

  “Emmaline is lovely,” Miss Breedlowe scolded. “You’ve said so yourself. And anyway, I have not been charged with chaperoning her. ’Tis her brother I look after.”

  The marchioness waved the notion away. “Who can keep up with your myriad occupations, Miss Breedlowe, I ask you? No, no, do not answer. And you”—she turned to Elisabeth—“what is it about that house of yours? It veritably begs for inappropriate behavior; nay, it breeds it.”

  Elisabeth made a scoffing noise. “Beau requires no special setting in which to behave inappropriately. He’s shameless, and you know it. And now”—she rubbed two fingers over her forehead—“and now my friend has fallen prey.”

  “Now she’s fallen?” the marchioness spat. “Well, you’re blind, if this is what you think. Their affection was plainly obvious at the tea when you announced your baby. Their prolonged gazes very nearly scorched the drapes from the windows.”

  There was a time when Jocelyn had trembled at the very sound of the old woman’s voice, but she was braver now. Her time spent in the company of Piety Falcondale and Elisabeth Courtland taught her gumption. Now she could ignore the marchioness’s bluster and listen for what she really meant.

  “My lady,” Jocelyn began curiously, “do you believe Her Grace to be a good match for Lord Rainsleigh?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Breedlowe,” said the marchioness. “I haven’t the time or inclination to consider such things. A good match. What care have I if they suit or if they do not, so long as they aren’t permitted to carry on indecorously in my street.”

  Jocelyn nodded thoughtfully and looked at her boots. “Pity, that, because Elisabeth and I were hopeful for them. But now Lord Rainsleigh refuses to see her . . . ”

  She allowed the sentence to trail off. Thunder clapped in the distance, and the footman standing stoically behind the marchioness coughed.

  Lady Frinfrock raised her cane at him.

  “But of course he refuses to see her,” Lady Frinfrock said after a moment. “She’s made herself too available. Summoning him to rescue her brother, and I can only guess how she’s conveyed her gratefulness.” The marchioness huffed. “As if there was any doubt that Rainsleigh could locate the boy.”

  Jocelyn hid a smile. “Quite. But how would you achieve it, my lady, if you wished to nudge them together? That is, without causing the duchess to appear ‘too available’?”

  “Well, I should think it would be very obvious. I would host a ball.”

  Elisabeth made a face. “A ball?”

  “But of course. It worked in my day, and for good reason. The duchess is a pretty little thing, despite her horrible gray dresses. Pretty enough to invite the interest of other men, certainly. If the viscount could be made to attend, his reaction to her popularity would be very telling indeed. Either he will declare himself or he will not.”

  Elisabeth was shaking her head. “I hardly think anything as frivolous as a ball would—”

  “Better than what’s been achieved so far,” cut in Lady Frinfrock, “rescuing brothers and learning manners or whatever schemes the lot of you has concocted.”

  Jocelyn crinkled up her nose, “Who told you about—”

  In the same moment Elisabeth exclaimed, “You also knew?”

  Lady Frinfrock continued, talking over them. “At least a proper ball is decent. With appropriate chaperones—watchful ladies and gentleman of a certain age. It may take some contrivance to ensure she attends. She is in mourning, for God’s sake. Let me think on this. And the viscount will resist it, naturally, but if bad comes to worse, then I will speak to him.”

  Elisabeth raised a hand. “Wait, wait. Who among us is meant to host a ball? I don’t know the first thing about it, nor do I wish to.�
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  Lady Frinfrock turned and thrust the pruning shears at the footman behind her. “The Countess of Falcondale will do it. She’s been pining to host a ball for an age, and her house is finally complete. The timing is perfect.”

  “I’m not sure,” hedged Elisabeth. “It seems too simple. There is no guarantee that Beau would attend. He hardly responds well to a summons.”

  “Leave the guest list to me,” said the marchioness, already stumping away. “Of course you haven’t bothered to learn this about me, but I was born on the eve of the New Year nearly a hundred years ago. Perhaps this year, I am in the mood to celebrate.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After he was discovered in the ballroom with Emmaline, Beau made a point to stay away for a week. The first of many weeks away, he told himself. Christmas came and went, and Beau passed it alone on the canal with his dog. For the first time, he considered the irony that people made one lonesome, not the lack thereof.

  He’d spent countless Christmases alone without a care in the world, but now that he knew Emmaline and was at odds with his brother, loneliness threatened to overwhelm him.

  But he would not allow himself to see Emmaline because he could not give her the devotion she deserved. And he would not see his brother because he did want to tell him why he would never be viscount. Beau could not feign laziness or invoke his hatred of establishment forever. Not after he’d essentially played along with the title in front of the Duke of Ticking. Bryson would never allow him to go back.

  So Beau had stayed away, miserable on his boat with Peach, with the occasional visit from Benjamin and Jason.

  Finally, on Boxing Day, Beau decided to embark on the final brothel raid before Stoker and Joseph returned to school.

  He’d never intended to raid brothels indefinitely, but he could finish what he began with their current target, the truly abhorrent brothel he’d been scouting for months. He could enjoy the boys’ cocksure, youthful competence and set up Elisabeth with at least a dozen girls before he decided what he would do and where he would go next.

  They devoted two more days to surveillance and then set upon the brothel in the early morning hours. The night was cold and clear, with a bright moon that illuminated the patches of ice on the roads. He ambled casually inside as a customer, one of his favorite ruses. Meanwhile, the raiding team disarmed guards and slipped into back doors and windows. Twenty minutes later, they hustled out with fifteen girls, a deaf stable boy, and a forty-year-old woman who wished to consider a new life.

  The thrill of success never failed to exhilarate him, but when the raid had come and gone, he could see nothing for his current misery but to make some real plan to go away. All the way away. Farther than Paddington or Essex or even Europe. She was going to America, he knew, so the most prudent thing to do was to go in exactly the opposite way.

  He was studying a map of the world when the invitation came. A ball, hosted by Lord and Lady Falcondale, to celebrate New Year’s Eve.

  He tossed it into the fire.

  He did not think of the invitation again until the personal entreaties began. First, Bryson, who sought him out in his favorite pub in Southwark. His brother actually ordered a drink and hunched over the bar. He ate chestnuts. After five minutes of meaningless chatter, he got to the heart of the matter.

  “You’ve called to Falcondale’s home on numerous occasions,” Bryson said. “You like the man. Don’t you see? This ball is the rare opportunity to turn up at an elevated function as a proper member of society and be comfortable, all at the same time. And why not mark the coming of the New Year at a gay party? Be a civilized member of this family for once in your life.”

  Beau had chuckled sadly, paid for his drink, inquired after Elisabeth’s health, and said no.

  Next, Elisabeth had approached him at the foundation. Her request had been a subtler, more casual, oh-what-could-it-hurt sort of thing, but then she’d made the mistake of suggesting he do it as a favor to Bryson. Beau said no.

  Finally, Lady Frinfrock had come. All the way to Paddington. Her carriage had trundled off the road and rolled nearly to the bank of the canal. Her footmen and a very concerned-looking Miss Breedlowe had handed her down to the very water’s edge.

  “Beauregard Courtland,” she had called, shading her eyes with her hand, “you cannot mean to have abandoned Henrietta Place to take up residence in this sewer.”

  “Good morning, Lady Frinfrock,” he’d said. “In fact, I have done.” He’d been untangling rigging on the deck—strenuous, dirty work—and he’d stood in buckskins, tall boots, and an open shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and a coil of rope over his left shoulder. He hadn’t bothered with a hat, and the cold December wind had whipped his hair wildly away from his face. Despite the physical nature of this task, experience suggested this was not an altogether unappealing picture for her ladyship. He’d affected a mock bow.

  “But just look at the sight of you!” she had called. “Have you no servants to do the work of restoring this . . . this vessel?”

  “ ’Tis only me, my lady—and you, if you’ve finally consented to steal away with me.”

  “Clever as always, despite your inhuman dwelling. But where do you take your meals or wash?”

  “I’ve a cook stove in the cabin. It lacks only your loving care to provide nightly hot meals of porridge or gruel for us. And I bathe in the canal, obviously.” This reference had been made with a discreet wink at Miss Breedlowe.

  “ ’Tis no wonder your brother worries so for your future. You’ll either drown or rot, eking out a wretched existence here. I had hoped for an invitation to take tea, but I cannot risk my health to remain, even for ten minutes. I’ve come only to deliver a message, and then I will away before Miss Breedlowe and I catch our death.”

  “Message?” Beau had hopped onto the shore.

  “My neighbor, the Countess of Falcondale, will host a ball in honor of my birthday in four days hence. I would that you were there.”

  Beau had expected this, and he’d said, “You couldn’t know this, my lady, but I have sworn off balls until—”

  “I’ve not dragged myself or my vehicle to this godforsaken corner to hear excuses, Rainsleigh. To show your face, even for an hour, will not do you any great harm, despite what you think. It is my only birthday wish.”

  He’d laughed. “Now this I cannot believe.”

  “Believe? You believe that you accomplish something important by relegating yourself to this ditch, far from proper home and hearth, but I am here to inform you that you are very wrong. This canal proves nothing but your obstinacy. But you are diverting and handsome, and the ball shall be an interminable bore if you do not attend. I demand it.”

  Beau had opened his mouth to offer up yet another denial, but the marchioness had affected a small cough, then two, then four. They’d been weak, pitiful things, and even Miss Breedlowe had stared at her with incredulity.

  “Are you quite all right?” Beau had asked, hiding a smile.

  “And what if I am not? Perhaps I am old and ill and will expire in the cold, hard winter we are sure to suffer when January comes. Perhaps I will never see another springtime. Perhaps this will be my very last birthday in this earthly coil.”

  Beau had looked at Miss Breedlowe, who’d shrugged resignedly, and then back at the marchioness. “Are you suggesting I should attend your birthday celebration at the risk of your sudden death?”

  “No one knows when life’s very breath will be yanked from our lungs, my dear boy. I know this better than most people and certainly better than you. You would not risk yourself in these conditions if you understood the fleeting nature of good health. We must seize opportunities when they arise, which is why I consented to the ball in the first place, and why I have ventured into the wilds of Paddington to insist that you attend me there.”

  “Well, if you insist . . . ” Beau had said. How could he say no, when she had threatened to die to compel him? Although really, it had been the comp
liment—“diverting and handsome,” was it?—that had convinced him. He knew the old bat enjoyed him, but this was high praise indeed.

  “Very well, it’s all settled,” she had said, waving away any opportunity for him to oppose her again. And then she had turned to go, sending her footman scrambling to hoist her into her carriage while Miss Breedlowe had held her cane and the train of her skirts. “Proper dress and an attitude of openness as well, Rainsleigh!” she had called from inside the carriage. Before Beau could say, Don’t count on it, she had rolled away.

  And now here he was, trudging to Falcondale’s front stoop amid a swirl of ball-goers, his head bent behind the upturned collar of his evening jacket, his boots shined, his gold watch—which he would check repeatedly, marking sixty minutes—in his pocket.

  Falcondale’s wife had hired a butler called Bevins, and, wisely, the man had swallowed his request to announce Beau. There would be no announcement, no footman to lead him to the hosts, and Beau would not linger for the midnight buffet. The hosts would be lucky if he waved as he sailed out the door in one hour’s time.

  He clipped down the steps to the ballroom, keeping close to the wall, and veered straight for the drinks table. After he’d downed first one drink and then the next, he ordered a third and glanced around the ballroom, taking note of who had come, how reliably far they stood from him, and, most important, if anyone had noticed he’d arrived. If he was very lucky, no one would notice at all.

  Falcondale’s wealthy American wife had spared no expense in restoring the house, which she’d bought four years ago when she’d moved to London. Beau searched for her now, sipping his drink, welcoming the warm, loosening sensation the spirits released in his bloodstream. He located Lord and Lady Falcondale, standing beneath a heavy swag of garland that hung from a set of towering double doors. Lady Falcondale smiled and extended her hands to the next trussed-up couple who waited in line to greet them. Falcondale stood stoically beside her with a grim expression of measured endurance.