“Found something else, milord? You usually do.” Matthews grinned, his straight white teeth bright against his umber skin. The shopkeeper tallied the total, and Ethan paid on the spot, as he always did.
“This store never fails tae hold something I have tae bring home. How’s the missus? An’ your daughters? I’ve no’ seen them in the store the last few times I’ve come in.”
Mr. Matthews had a special smile reserved for the mention of his family. The man exuded sheer joy, and damned if it wasn’t impossible to not envy him a little. “Oh, the missus keeps me on my toes, but she’s a gift. The girls are both married now, one just last month, and the other is making me a grandfather in the new year. I’m a blessed man, milord,” the bookseller said.
“Sounds like it. Congratulations. Please pass along my best wishes tae your family.” Ethan gathered the two wrapped parcels and donned his hat again. “Until next time, Mr. Matthews. Be well.”
Outside, he paused to let a hackney pass before he dodged across the road. Only a couple blocks to the south stood Cal’s Bond Street tailor, where Ethan had left his horse. He stole a glance at his pocket watch. He was due to meet Mr. Macdonell at a nearby coffeehouse in an hour.
A little girl selling violets at the corner turned her large eyes on him. With a little juggle, he tucked the books under his arm and tossed a coin to the girl. He had grossly overpaid but didn’t care a whit when her smile stretched to show the gaps in her teeth. Crouching low, he let her pin the blooms to his lapel. With a tip of his hat, he swept a bow as she giggled.
Rather than fight the congestion of the shopping district all the way to the end of the street, where Cal’s tailor had been in business for decades, he ducked into the newly opened Burlington Arcade. With some of the shops standing vacant, there were fewer people in the covered shopping area. The riffraff tended to avoid the area, as the arcade’s beadles were most enthusiastic about their job. Passing the shop windows with their frills and high-priced wares, he wove through the shoppers to where the arcade opened on Piccadilly.
The tailor shop had the kind of air to it that said, Yes, we’ve been here longer than the king has been alive. Wipe your bloody feet. Ethan did just that, then looked over to see one of the tailors watching him. He recognized that scrawny face. This man, back when he was a lowly assistant, had refused to wait on Ethan the first time he’d met Cal here years ago. When Cal had explained that this was the newly titled viscount and a dear friend, the disbelieving stare would have been comical if directed at someone else. For a brief time, the assistant had thought to transform Ethan from bumpkin to fashion plate. Once the man had realized the new Viscount Amesbury didn’t care if his cravat was pressed, much less tied in a perfect waterfall knot, they’d each retreated to their respective corners, and now they eyed one another like wary ex-combatants.
Ethan followed the sounds of his friend’s voice to a lush carpeted salon, where Cal stood with another tailor’s assistant kneeling before him. Thank God everyone concerned wore clothes, otherwise this might have been awkward.
“No, sir. I always hang left. If you kink my cock with a misplaced seam, we shall have words, you and I,” Cal said.
Never mind. Still awkward.
“The poor lad’s ears are bright red, Cal. Apologize for embarrassing him,” Ethan commented, taking a seat and resting an ankle on his knee.
Cal glanced down at the man who held a measuring tape snug against what one would assume to be the left-dangling member in question. “Do conversations about cocks embarrass you? So sorry to offend. You might be in the wrong business, though. I imagine there are a great many cocks in your line of work.”
Ethan muffled his laugh with a hand and shook his head. The tailor’s assistant stammered something that seemed to appease Cal, then went back to making notes and taking measurements.
“Don’ they already have your measurements on file? You’ve been coming here since you were in nappies.”
“These will be Cossack trousers in the new style. Looser fit for my fencing bouts with the Puppy,” Cal said.
“You’ll look utterly ridiculous and probably still lose. You know that, right?”
“They’re the height of fashion,” Cal said.
“Right, as you said. If nothing else, they’ll allow plenty of room tae dangle left while your young friend runs circles around you.”
“Never underestimate the importance of the dangle. And I long ago gave up any hope of you understanding fashionable dress.”
“About damn time. Are we done here, or will you be a while yet?” Ethan exchanged a look with the tailor’s assistant, who scuttled back so Cal could step down from the dais. “I need tae get tae my meeting with Macdonell and don’ want tae be late.”
“I’m famished, so I’ll come with you. You’re meeting at the coffeehouse, right?” Cal asked, accepting the tailor’s assistant’s help shrugging back into his coat and boots.
“Aye. A kidney pie sounds perfect. I’ve spent the last week asking around, and Lady Charlotte didn’t exaggerate. The brew he made in Westmorland is spoken of very highly, but from what I’ve heard, his methods differ from the gentleman we met in Warwickshire. I’d like your read of him. I’ll have tae work with the man, after all, and we both know I’m getting desperate tae fill the position.” Ethan gathered the small bundle from the bookstore. “Maybe after a pint I can convince you tae rethink those trousers.”
Chapter Eleven
Lady Agatha stood before the window, tapping her cane on the floor in an agitated rhythm. The sun backlit her silver hair and black dress, giving her the look of an elderly avenging angel. The way she twisted the brass knob of her cane, it wouldn’t surprise Lottie to discover a sword stashed inside, ready to burst into flames, channeling the vengeance of God.
Heavenly vengeance would be useful right about now. She’d been expecting fallout since leaving Montague by that pond and borrowing his phaeton—fine, she’d stolen it. But she’d given it back. With his wounded pride, and possibly broken nose, she’d known he wouldn’t let the situation stand, even though she’d hoped he would choose discretion and slither back under whatever rock he’d come from. Even so, she hadn’t expected blackmail. At the window, she swung back to traverse the room again until she reached the sofa.
“I should have listened to my gut. I knew something felt off about him. But no, for Father’s sake, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Agatha, you told me he wasn’t suitable. Darling—hell, even Lord Amesbury—warned me off the man. Montague is nothing but a low-life, scummy, awful pile of excrement. Bastard.” Clutching the letter she’d received in one hand, she nibbled at her other thumbnail—an anxious habit from her childhood she’d thought eradicated.
“I should chastise the language, but frankly, my dear, you understate the matter,” Agatha said.
Waving the letter in the air, Lottie wailed, “What am I going to do? He’s sending an engagement notice to the Times. I won’t marry that man, and I told him as much. But Father gave his blessing, in writing. Father is drawing up contracts, and that house Rogers wrote about must be part of it. Montague and Father have me cornered. He wants to call on me and discuss wedding details, as if Dawson hasn’t already turned him away several times.”
“I would never ask you to let him call. I do not know what happened between you, and I do not need to. If you cut ties and he is responding with this blatant manipulation, I know you are in the right,” Agatha said.
Lottie slumped onto the sofa, resting her forehead in her palm, and tried to think through the situation. Hard to do when all she wanted to do was rage and cry. Father appeared to be ignoring her wishes by going forward with the engagement. Montague was more wily than expected, and she had no idea how to get out of this. She’d dispatched a messenger as soon as the letter arrived, but she didn’t have much faith that it would do any good. Even riding hell-for-leather, the messenger would take several days to reach Stanwick Manor, and the engagement notice would be in Friday
’s Times.
A tap on the door interrupted her downward spiral. Dawson entered. “Pardon me, milady. Lord Amesbury is here. Would you like him to return at a later date?”
Before Agatha could reply, Lottie said, “Send him in, Dawson.”
Aunt Agatha gave her a concerned look, and Lottie shrugged. “I don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. Maybe Amesbury will have an idea.”
“Since when are you two friends?”
“It’s a recent development. I feel like I can use all the friends I can get right now, don’t you?” She didn’t regret her offer of friendship, although thinking of Amesbury as a friend didn’t feel natural yet.
Lord Amesbury took one tentative step into the room. He’d taken care with his dress before calling, and the effort made Lottie smile, despite the events of the morning. The dark-blue coat fit him to perfection, and his cravat was simply tied but bright white and starched. The dark shadow of his beard remained, but she suspected that was because of thick facial hair, not a lack of shaving.
Agatha headed toward the door. “Welcome, Lord Amesbury. Lottie, I’ll be back shortly. I need refreshment stronger than tea, and Dawson moved my brandy decanter again.” She left the door to the hall open to observe proprieties.
Amesbury watched her go, then turned to Lottie. “Am I interrupting?” He held up a brown wrapped parcel. “I brought you something, but I can come back later.”
It seemed too great a task to sit up and play her part in drawing room etiquette, so Lottie stayed where she was, in her unladylike sprawl. She waved the letter in the air and said, “Montague played his hand, and I might be outmatched.”
Raising a brow, Amesbury took a seat beside her on the sofa, setting the parcel aside. “You, outmatched? I can’t believe that. What has he done?” He eyed the mangled paper as if it might burst into flames at any moment.
The vote of confidence soothed her emotional turmoil somewhat. “I have to figure out something, and fast.” Straightening, she smoothed her hair, tucking an escaped curl behind her ear. After pacing and ranting, she likely looked a mess. “I’ll read it aloud. Since you have made yourself unavailable—I refuse to see him, and Dawson has denied him entrance multiple times, on my orders—I must carry out our plans without your assistance. Our engagement announcement will appear in Friday’s edition of the Times. If you wish input on our nuptials, you must deign to see me in person. Your future husband—he’s signed it James, but I’ve been calling him more colorful names.”
Amesbury exhaled with a great sigh, leaning back on the sofa beside her. “You may have tae catch me up. Are you two engaged? Were you?”
“Like I told you before, his father and mine are friends. They proposed the match, and I flatly declined, back before I came to London.”
A maid arrived with a tea cart, and Amesbury waved for Lottie to sit back. Ignoring etiquette entirely, he poured her a cup, then one for himself. “Two sugars, right? That’s how you took it at the inn.”
Lottie cradled the delicate teacup and stared down at the liquid. He’d paid attention to how she liked her tea, and at the moment, that was the sweetest thing she could remember anyone doing for her. “Thank you. I can’t believe you remembered.”
Amesbury blew on his beverage and waved for her to continue her tale. “Carry on. The earl arranged the match, and you refused.”
“Yes. There was a big row until he finally agreed to let me come to London to find a husband, with one stipulation. I have until Parliament convenes in November. If I don’t find someone suitable by then, I have to accept Montague.”
He furrowed his brow and swallowed. “But Montague seems tae think there’s a different timeline.”
“Exactly. Also, I told Montague in no uncertain terms that I’d never marry him. And apparently, Father never passed along my original answer to the match. Montague is pushing forward, and Father is too far away to handle any of this in a timely manner. It’s a disaster.”
“Manipulative bastard.” Amesbury ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry for the language.”
Lottie shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Had you arrived five minutes earlier, you would have heard far worse.”
“He has the earl’s permission. Can he force you?”
“Father can certainly try to pressure me, but I’m of age. I refuse to marry Montague. Suffice it to say, he showed his true colors, and I found the shade did not suit me. My concern at this moment is more for exiting the immediate situation and then handling whatever underhanded dealings my father and his friend have been up to. We had an agreement, and by accepting the match, Father has broken that deal.”
Sighing, Amesbury shook his head. “What can I do?”
The fact that he’d offered to help in any way made her smile. “I bet you didn’t know agreeing to be my friend would involve all this, did you? I don’t know what to do. Every option I think of ends in scandal, shame, or a lifetime of dealing with that man.”
“You’re a better person than I. The plans I’ve considered in the last few minutes all end with a body disposal,” Amesbury said.
Her laugh felt wonderful after a day of darker emotions. “Do all Scotsmen have this homicidal bent?”
He grinned, and a bit of hope speared her. As allies went, this giant man was a good one, if only to lift her spirits. When his expression turned serious, she could practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“You have an idea. What is it?” She tilted her head toward him, and he met her halfway, with mere inches of sofa between them.
“How far are you willing tae go tae get rid of Montague?” he asked, and his low voice felt like a caress.
Lord, his eyes were blue. The thought distracted her for a moment, sending a fizzing sensation loose in her chest. They’d been closer than this on the balcony but not by much. Memories of their near kiss and then watching him disrobe from her window heated that fizzy feeling into a warmth settling low within her. Friends probably weren’t supposed to think of one another that way, but with the memories replaying and him so close, Lottie was having a hard time shoving the emotions back in place. “What are you thinking?”
“Montague can’t publish an engagement announcement tae you if you’re already promised tae someone else.” He grinned, bringing the dimple out.
Lottie blinked, connecting his suggestion to the situation. “You? You’re asking me to marry you?” Granted, she’d instigated friendship, and she might have just been admiring his dimple, but marrying him was a bit of a stretch. Not an abhorrent thought, oddly enough, but not the answer she’d expected either.
“You don’ need tae follow through with it, lass. When we’re ready, you end it. Quietly or publicly. I’m at your mercy. Or we can set a time limit if you like. Maybe a month? Then you will be free tae find a man the earl will accept.”
She cocked her head, resting it against the back of the sofa. “You’d do that?”
He moved first, breaking the odd tension that had risen with their noses almost touching. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he laced and unlaced his fingers over and over, as if nervous. “Aye. What better way for me tae show society how wrong I was about you than tae tell the world I want you?” His voice was rough as he stared at his hands. “Montague said he’s posting the engagement announcement in Friday’s paper, aye?”
Straightening, Lottie grappled with the details of this plan. A fake engagement might work. “I believe he is giving me time to come about to his way of thinking.”
Amesbury shot her a grin. “I might not know you well, but even I know you won’ be changing your mind on this.” He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped open the cover to check the time. “The print deadline is rapidly approaching. But our announcement doesn’ have tae be in tomorrow’s paper. We can still spike his guns if we get the news into Thursday’s edition. That gives you until this time tomorrow tae make your decision.”
It was the only choice she had, and for reasons she wasn’t willi
ng to explore now, the idea of an engagement to Amesbury wasn’t abhorrent. Yes, she’d still have to deal with Father. But she could slay only one dragon at a time, and this would neutralize Montague’s threat. “We bring our close friends in on the plan. I won’t lie to Agatha.”
He nodded.
“And even though this engagement will be temporary, this is my first proposal—”
“Montague didn’t?”
“Not in person. So since this is my first proposal, I want you to do it right. Even if it is a sham.” She primly folded her hands in her lap and waited.
His expression softened. “Well, let no one ever say I can’t fake propose with conviction.” Amesbury eased off the sofa, then took a knee at her feet and held out his hand, palm up.
As she laid the tips of her fingers across the rough pads of his, a worry niggled at the hope bursting through her. “Are you sure? By starting down this path, knowing I’ll end it, you’re opening yourself to the ridicule of the entire ton.”
“We’re friends. I don’ have many of those. I value the few I have,” he said with a shrug.
“I don’t think either of us expected this when we decided to be friends.”
His fingers wrapped around hers, anchoring them together. “We’re partners in this now.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’ raised tae be a fancy gentleman. And I’ve already failed you once. I won’ betray you again, lass.” He donned a serious expression, but the twinkle in his eye ruined the effect. “Lady Charlotte Wentworth, will you do me the honor of being my faux fiancée?”
A giggle bubbled up, even though she knew this wasn’t a real proposal. Romance and true love weren’t in her future, by choice, but this moment of friendship and having an ally was precious. “Yes, Lord Amesbury. I’d be happy to be your faux fiancée.”
Any Rogue Will Do Page 12
