Rejecting the Rogue

by Riley Cole

  But she didn’t wish to attack.

  When she searched her soul, she realized she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t hurt or resentful or bitter. She, too, was sorry.

  She plucked at the coverlet. “I played my part as well.”

  At her words, his head lifted. He waited, his body still.

  “I was sure you were going to stray.” She shrugged. “I believed that’s what men did. What men do. I convinced myself you were going to stray the minute we became engaged.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s poorly done of me, but whether you strayed or not, I would have believed you guilty.”

  It seemed forever before Spencer turned back toward her. The hope, written so clearly on his face, fanned that dying spark straight into an open flame.

  Meena caught her breath, trying to tamp down the hope, trying to hold onto reason. Perhaps all he’d wanted was absolution.

  No sense flinging herself off a cliff before she was certain what lay below.

  Spencer balled his fingers into fists and strode toward her. He knelt at her feet and took her hands in his. His fingers were stiff and cold. And trembling.

  That, more than anything, made her heart soar.

  He looked her in the eye. “It’s been pointed out that I did this rather poorly last night.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I’d like to have another go.” He cleared his throat.

  Meena watched his chest rise and fall as he took a long, deep breath. “I know we don’t…”

  He shook his head and squeezed her fingers tight. Then he nodded, as if to himself. “I know you don’t believe we suit, but I say, being suitable has nothing whatsoever—”

  “Yes,” she cut in, and pulled his hands to her chest, wanting him to feel the love, the hope, pounding in her heart.

  “Yes?”

  “You are asking me to marry you, aren’t you, Mr. Crane?”

  “Yes. Most assuredly, yes.”

  He rose over her, pressing her back into the mattress until his hips were cradled between her thighs. And then he kissed her. A soft, sweet, tender kiss that promised his heart.

  His whole, unguarded heart.

  “Blazing hell,” he whispered between kisses. “Yes.”

  23

  Spencer stared at the cherub clock in the study for what must have been the tenth time. “We need to hurry, my love.”

  Meena ignored him and went back to positioning her new bonnet. The red and black stripped ribbon had draped so perfectly around the dried chrysanthemums when she’d tried it on in the shop, but now the entire effect was more confusion than sophistication.

  How did Briar and Alicia make the blasted things look so good?

  “Leave it.” Spencer came up behind her. He circled her waist and turned her toward him. “You won’t need a bonnet.”

  Meena stilled, not wanting to poke him with the long pin poised to secure her new purchase at exactly the right angle. She laughed at his eagerness. “If you hadn’t insisted that we… delay things, I’d be ready now.”

  He toyed with the pearl buttons running down the front of her new purple walking gown. “That was your fault. You are damnably tempting, Mrs. Crane.”

  Meena blushed and slapped his hand away. “If you wish me to hurry, you must keep your hands off me.”

  His fingers crept back to the neckline of her dress. “And if I don’t wish to hurry?” He brushed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck and ran the tip of a finger along the seam of her lips.

  Mesmerized by his touch, Meena sighed and swayed toward him. His mouth met hers, hot and so very hungry. She tossed the hatpin aside, and reached her arms around his neck, urging him on as she parted her lips for his kiss.

  Behind him, the clock gonged stiffly. Meena glared over his shoulder at the ugly old thing. As always, the cherubs stared back, their hard mouths ever disapproving.

  Not wanting to break the kiss, she groped behind her for the shawl she’d discarded that morning. A quick toss sent the fabric sailing across the desk to drape the crabby seraphs in paisley broadcloth.

  Now, free from the clock’s disapproval, she allowed herself to relish her husband’s advances.

  Too soon, Spencer groaned and set her away from him. “You will be the death of me.” Regret turned his beautiful lips up in a slight smile. “We really do have an appointment. A fascinating new client. It won’t do to be late.”

  As she allowed Spencer to hustle her out of the study, it occurred to her that the house was oddly silent. No explosions from Edison’s workroom, no clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, no thumps or crashes from Briar’s room overhead. She shrugged. It seemed today was a busy day for all involved.

  As the Hapgoods had taken the carriage, Spencer hurried her out the front door and hailed the first hansom he saw. “Burberry Lane.” He called up to the driver, once they were settled.

  “Edison’s flat? Why meet there?” Meena’s new bonnet fell forward over her eyes. She shoved it back, cringing at the sound of dried flowers crumbling. “I thought we were seeing a new client.”

  Spencer smiled mysteriously. “We are. It seemed a more central location.”

  Rather odd. But not entirely without precedent.

  They’d meet clients in many out of the way places. She supposed Edison’s new workshop was as good as anywhere. If he had seen fit to tidy up. It wouldn’t do to alarm a new client with a misplaced disodorizer, or one of his new talking mechanicals. They did screech so.

  Clearly, Spencer had no intention of providing any further information. Meena settled back in her seat, brushing stray chrysanthemum leaves from her lap as she considered the crazed path her life had taken.

  Crazed, but astoundingly delightful.

  Never would she have guessed she and Spencer would suit. Suit wonderfully, in every way that mattered, and many that might not.

  A wall of sound fashioned of happy, jubilant voices, greeted her the instant Spencer opened the door to Edison’s flat. Sound, and the sweet smell of fresh flowers. Roses. Carnations. Sweet Peas as well if she had to guess.

  Mrs. Hapgood bustled toward her, eyes twinkling above a broad smile. “Welcome!”

  Briar followed at her elbow, beaming widely. “Welcome to the new offices! What do you think?”

  Before Meena could untie the ribbons securing her bonnet, she was deluged with greetings from every side. Mr. Hapgood’s smile could have illuminated the space all on its own. Even Edison—Edison—was laughing, his eyes bright with merriment. Alicia was there, and Spencer’s aunt Emmeline on the arm of a rather stout older fellow.

  Behind them all, Detective Burke loomed, tall and ever serious, surveying the group.

  Spencer stood at her side, watching her take it all in.

  With all the greeting and the jostling, it took a moment to unknot the sash of her bonnet. Finally free, she pressed it into Spencer’s hands. “What is all this about? It’s not my birthday.”

  “It should be.” He tossed the silly thing behind him and took her hands in his. “It’s a birthday of a different sort.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She took a moment to process all the faces. All the flowers. Hundreds of flowers. Vases of every description covered broad walnut desks. They filled the window sills, and crowded every other vertical surface, tabletops, countertops, and cabinets.

  A small, pale young woman appeared from behind a large vase of roses. Not as tall, and not quite as old as Alicia, but somehow familiar.

  “Hello, Mrs. Crane.” The girl curtsied. Her plain, dark skirt looked expensive. Paired with a crisp white shirtwaist, the effect was rather professional, as if she were one of that new breed of women who worked in business.

  Meena knew her face, but she couldn’t recall her name. She knew her. She was—

  “It’s Nelly, ma’am. Nelly Tremaine. I used to be a maid. We met—”

  “In your employer’s kitchen. Of course.” Meena took the girl’s hand. “I never got to thank
you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Spencer put a hand on the girl’s in shoulder. “Nelly’s been taking lessons on a mechanical typing machine.”

  “A typewriter, they calls ‘em,” Nelly interjected. “I’m studying to be what you call a typist.”

  Spencer nodded, acknowledging her correction. “She’s quite fast already. Works for us now.”

  Meena looked from the girl to Spencer to her cousins. “Works for us how?”

  “At the agency.” Briar frowned at Spencer. “You haven’t told her.”

  He shook his head, grinning like a small boy. “I have not. Thought it would be better to show her.”

  Edison grunted. He adjusted the goggles he’d shoved up toward his hairline. “Exactly what I would’ve done.”

  The deserted space had been transformed.

  She would never have recognized it. Beyond the flowers—the great mountains of flowers—squatted desks and filing cabinets. A typing machine gleamed in the center of the desk closest to the door. Far from a vacant storefront, the space looked like a brand new office, the sort of space that housed barristers or insurance men or bankers.

  “Will someone please explain?”

  Edison gestured to Mr. Hapgood, who held a paper-wrapped parcel in his hands. The houseman handed it to Meena. “This should do it.”

  The parcel was thin and hard and sturdy, as if it might be a painting, or a square plate of glass. Intrigued by Mr. H’s giddy smile, she tore open the wrapper.

  It took a moment for her brain to register the words etched into the shiny brass plaque.

  The Restitution League

  All Enquiries Considered

  Est. 1881

  Spencer lifted the heavy plaque from her fingers. “If we’re going to do this, it’s best we do it right, don’t you think?”

  Overwhelmed, she could only nod.

  “Now you’ve got a real office.

  “And a real type-writer girl,” Briar added, over Nelly’s head.

  “And that.” Spencer smiled. “And room to keep files and information and such.”

  Edison pointed above him. “I’ve got the upstairs for my laboratory.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Mrs. Hapgood muttered. She gestured toward the table behind her. “We’ve got cake. Just like a proper business opening. And champagne.”

  “I’m… I’m…” Meena could only stare. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Spencer traced a finger down her cheek. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Looking enormously pleased with himself, he gestured toward the back of the space. New walls had been constructed, dividing the vast space into smaller, more useful offices. Walnut wainscoting lent a rich air. “Like to see your office?”

  “I have an office?”

  “You’re the head of the league. Of course you have an office.” He bent close, until his mouth met her ear. “Though I do plan on sharing it. Frequently.”

  The heat in his tone belayed the mild words. Meena ducked her head, hiding crimson cheeks.

  Still reeling, she allowed him to tow her toward the back of the building. The whole space was so new, so bright and shiny. It smelled of lacquer and wood polish and hope.

  Spencer opened the door and stood aside to let her enter. It was an office like she would’ve never imagined. The desk was beautiful. Feminine, yet businesslike. She wondered where he’d found it. Facing it were two comfortable chairs for clients.

  She hardly dared blink for fear she’d find it was just a dream.

  Then she recalled his earlier words. “Shouldn’t this client be coming soon?” She crossed to the door to look out. “With all the confusion, we should keep an eye out.”

  Spencer urged her back, away from the entrance, and drew her into his embrace. “He’s already here.”

  She studied his face, trying to puzzle out his meaning.

  “Someone has stolen my heart.” Spencer kissed her fingers one by one, then he turned her hand over and placed a long, slow, searing kiss square in the middle of her palm. “I was hoping you might retrieve it for me.”

  Meena slid her hand from his grasp. She curled her fingers around the knot of his tie, and pulled him close, until they were knee to knee, hip to hip, chest the chest.

  Then she smiled up at the man she loved more than life itself.

  “Not a chance, Mr. Crane. Not a bleeding chance.”

  I hope you enjoyed your time with the Restitution League!

  For exclusive content and updates on the other books in the series, please join my newsletter.

  Thieves, rogues… and love await.

  Best, Riley

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  Email: riley@rileycole.com

  Saving the Scientist Extended Sample

  October 1881

  Restitution League Headquarters, London

  Being a skilled dissembler himself, Edison Sweet felt no compunction about judging the skills of others.

  Successful liars used words to confuse and misdirect. True artists seduced their marks into believing. The man fidgeting and sweating in the seat across from him accomplished neither of those things. To put it bluntly, the man had no ability to lie. None.

  It was the only thing about the unremarkable dandy that intrigued Edison.

  No one requesting the league’s assistance lied. What would be the point?

  Edison set the mechanical arm he was designing down next to the league’s new typing machine and tried not to flinch every time the man stuttered over another false claim. The half-built mechanical servant lying on his workbench upstairs needed it’s pulleys resized. The elbow joints wouldn’t bend far enough to make pouring tea a possibility, and he dearly wanted an automatic tea pouring mechanical butler, even if he had to settle for a platform and wheels in place of actual legs.

  Edison reached for the arm. He could leave the interview to his cousin, Meena, and her new husband. Between the two of them, she and Crane could steal the drawers off an archbishop and leave him bare-assed in Trafalgar Square. They were more than a match for a weasel-faced liar.

  If he hurried, he might get the arm back on before his dinner engagement. Which made him think of an entirely different sort of arm. An arm attached to the lush form of one warm, willing spitfire of an actress who might just let him polish off his dinner before she pounced.

  “…they took it all, my device and every scrap of notes.” The man’s whine buzzed in Edison’s ears, like a persistent mosquito. “I know who it did it. I can point you straight to them.”

  His words rang true. The tone did not.

  The twisting, shifting story niggled at Edison. This gent was playing at something dangerous. But dangerous for whom? Edison leaned against the doorway and folded his arms across his chest.

  His automaton could wait.

  Meena sat forward, her full attention on the slight form swallowed up by the great wing backed chair across from her. “That’s what the police are for, Mr. Templeton. Have you—?”

  “Too slow. Much too slow. Time is of the utmost importance.”

  That was the man’s first true statement. Whatever the thing was, he was desperate to have it.

  “What exactly have you discovered?” Edison probed. He couldn’t help himself. It was rather like scratching and itch.

  “It’s a... a sort of energy device.”

  Edison rubbed the back of his neck. Truly, it was like toying with an infant. “An energy device. That could be anything. Could be a bomb. A lightbulb. A turbine engine the size of a house. Really, man, you’re going to have to narrow things down.”

  Templeton nodded vigorously. “Forgive me. Whole thing’s very hush hush. Top level security if you take my meaning.”

  Edison resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We understand. National security, I’m sure. So this device, it’s—”

  The clock above the filing drawers chimed the hour, cutting him off. Edison
stared at the strange man, urging him to get on with things. His invention would wait. The hot-tempered actress he’d promised to dine with before her evening curtain call would not. And her temper—he had great cause to know—was as magnificent as her other… attributes.

  Someday soon he’d tire of both. But for now, he wasn’t willing to trade a fierce tumble for a fusillade of crockery and a tongue-lashing.

  He gestured impatiently, hoping to spur the man along.

  Templeton’s thin lips turned down, as if he disapproved of Edison’s prodding. “It’s a type of stored energy device. Damned complicated to explain the workings, but I can describe how it looks. It’s a metal cylinder about so big.” He raised his palm above the arm of the chair, indicating something about a foot tall and several inches wide.

  Edison considered for a moment. “You’ve designed a battery. A single cell battery.”

  “First of its kind.” The man’s narrow chest swelled with pride. “Certain elements close to the Crown are intrigued. National security interests, you know.”

  Edison looked at his sister, his cousin, and Crane, willing them to understand the magnitude of such a device. If his suspicions were correct, someone—certainly not this overdressed nob—had figured out how to design a closed-cell electrical device. The industrial applications—the military applications—were staggering.

  And this poor excuse for a mastermind thought they’d be stupid enough to steal it for him.

  “I’m presenting my findings to some well-positioned men in the Queen’s cabinet,” Templeton continued. “Even if I had my notes, there’s no time to build another device.”

  There it was again. The truth, at least as far as it went.

  “It’s my life’s work,” Templeton continued. “I have competitors, other scientists on the brink of discovering the same. I must deliver it to the Crown before someone else devises their own.”

  Edison was tiring of the game. “Wet cell or dry?”

  Templeton jolted forward as if he’d gotten an electrical shock of his own. He blinked and blinked and blinked.