Victoria and the Rogue

by Meggin Cabot

  “Oh, Jacob,” Victoria began, tears filling her eyes exactly as they’d done in Rebecca’s bedroom earlier that evening. “I never—”

  “No, I had a better idea,” Jacob said. “I went to Lord Malfrey and made him—and his mother—an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “An offer?” Victoria stared up at him, puzzled. “What kind of offer?”

  “Well,” Jacob said amiably, “I told them I’d give them free crossing to France on one of my ships, if they promised never again to set foot in London.”

  Victoria blinked, forgetting about the tears beneath her eyelids. One drop slid out, and fell, unheeded, down her cheek.

  “Why,” she heard herself asking, “should they accept such an offer? Oh, Jacob, I hope you didn’t tell them that if they didn’t, you’d go to the magistrates. I don’t want anyone to know what happened to me! And if it should get out—”

  “No, no, have no fear for your precious Mr. Abbott. I said nothing like that.” Jacob reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a handkerchief, which he handed to her as matter-of-factly as if he were handing her a cup of tea. “I told you I had a very busy day. Before paying my call on the Rothschilds, you see, I paid a visit first to the consistory courts.”

  “The consistory courts?” Victoria shook her head. “But what—”

  “Oh, they keep records there,” Jacob informed her conversationally. “In Doctors’ Commons. Quite remarkable, really. Anyone can stroll in and look at them. Takes some doing, and it’s quite dusty work, but do you know my persistence paid off? I came across the most curious fact about your Lord Malfrey.”

  “He isn’t my Lord Malfrey,” Victoria snapped.

  “He most certainly isn’t. He belongs—or should I say belonged—to one Mary Gilbreath.”

  Victoria forgot her annoyance over his having called Lord Malfrey her Lord Malfrey and asked curiously, “Who is that?”

  “Don’t you know? I’m rather surprised you don’t. But then, India is a large country, and you might not have happened to run into her. Mary Gilbreath is—or rather was—the first Lady Malfrey.”

  Victoria knitted her brows. “You mean… the dowager was the eighth earl’s second wife?”

  “Not at all,” Jacob said. “Mary Gilbreath was Hugo Rothschild’s first wife.”

  “Wife?” Victoria was so shocked she had to grab hold of the velvet portieres to keep from falling over, as there was no chair nearby to sit upon. “Hugo has been married before?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jacob said, clearly enjoying himself. “Shipboard wedding, don’t you know. Not on one of my ships, of course, or I should have been aware of it. No, but he did do it on his way out to India, after throwing over my sister. Miss Mary Gilbreath was an heiress, rather like… well, you… who was on her way to visit relatives in Bombay. She became the first Lady Malfrey en route.”

  Victoria said, “But then… then Lord Malfrey is a widower? How did she die?” She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Lord, Jacob! He didn’t kill her, did he?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Jacob said. “You really do have a morbid imagination, Victoria; has anyone ever told you that? Malfrey’s a rogue, but he isn’t a murderer….”

  “Well,” Victoria said, feeling a bit nettled by his teasing. Then again, what else was new? “What happened to her, then?”

  “Nothing happened to her, least as far as I know,” Jacob said. “I suppose Malfrey ran through all her money—he would. He had his mother to support, too, don’t forget, back in England. And then he left her.”

  “His mother?”

  “No, Victoria. Mary Gilbreath.”

  “Left her? Left his wife?” Victoria, startled, cried, “Then he’s a bigamist?”

  “Nothing quite that dramatic, I’m afraid,” Jacob said with a grin. “They’re divorced.”

  “Divorced?” Victoria felt as if she’d been struck. “Lord Malfrey… divorced?”

  “Yes,” Jacob said, appearing to take pity on her. “They keep divorce records at the consistory courts, Victoria. That’s why I went there. I had a sneaking suspicion about your Lord Malfrey. And I’ll admit… I’d heard rumors.”

  “That he’d divorced his first wife?”

  “Rather the other way around, I’d wager,” Jacob said. “But that’s the way the records read, anyway. Lord Malfrey divorced his wife, undoubtedly collecting a tidy sum from her relations, who surely paid for the proceedings, as divorce is expensive, as you know. But the poor girl’s family probably would have paid anything to be rid of the blighter. I know I would have, if it had been my sister.”

  “But…”Victoria murmured. Divorces, she knew, were not awarded lightly in the British courts, and were expensive and rare for that reason. “But… why on earth did he come back to England? He had to have known someone would find him out….”

  “I suppose he ran out of money,” Jacob said. “He must have gotten a bundle from the Gilbreaths, but he squandered it. I know he was in Lisbon to buy a horse—”

  “A horse!” Victoria shouted. “He told me he went there to buy back some family portraits!”

  “Well, he didn’t,” Jacob said dryly. “You’ve got to admire the man, in a way. He was running low on funds, and was surely worried that once he was back in England his secret might get out. The girl’s family must have paid handsomely to keep news of the divorce from leaking into the papers. It helped, of course, that they lived abroad. Still, anyone might learn of it, if they bothered to look the way I did. The earl had to marry quickly—for once they were wed, of course, there’d be nothing his bride could do, short of divorcing him herself—before someone found out about Mary. It was quite a stroke of luck for him, running into you on the Harmony.”

  “Oh, yes,” Victoria said bitterly. “Lucky for him.” She kept her gaze on the toes of her slippers. She could still not quite believe what she’d heard. Divorced! The Earl of Malfrey! The man she’d come so close to marrying!

  And that Jacob Carstairs, of all people, should have been the one to have found it out. It was too much. Really, it was all too much for her.

  “Well, to make a long story short,” Jacob went on, “I paid a call to the earl a little while ago and informed him that unless he wanted his secret to be made public knowledge—which would, as you know, ruin him for this season’s crop of heiresses, as there isn’t a sane mama in the world who would allow her young daughter to marry a man who’d been divorced in such a manner—he and his mother had better decamp for the continent. They were both only too willing to oblige. I suppose they’ll make haste for the Riviera. There are probably quite a few wealthy widows there who wouldn’t mind marrying a younger man—even one with such a past.”

  Victoria, still staring at her feet, felt a tear slide from the corner of her eye, slip down her nose, then drop to the floor. Perfect. She was crying again. Why? There wasn’t anything to cry about. Lord Malfrey was gone, and good riddance to him. So why on earth…

  “Here, here,” Jacob said, reaching out suddenly and lifting her chin, so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “What’s this? What are you crying for? Don’t tell me—Victoria, you can’t still be in love with that conniving ass, can you?”

  She sniffled woefully. “No,” she said.

  He took the handkerchief from her fingers and dabbed her cheeks with it. “Well, what is it, then, Miss Bee?”

  Miss Bee! He had called her Miss Bee! Perhaps all was not lost….

  “It’s just…” Victoria said, with another sniff. “The only reason I agreed to marry him in the first place was because I… I… was so angry with you for… well, you know. Calling me M-Miss Bee instead of—”

  “Flattering you and murmuring tender words of love in your ear, the way Malfrey did?” Jacob finished for her. “But Victoria, I knew perfectly well you’d never fall for that sort of thing. Not for long. Look how long you and Malfrey lasted. And I wanted you for keeps.”

  Victoria sniffed some more, despite the fact that her heart was suddenl
y soaring. “But… ” she said. “But you were so nasty!”

  “So were you,” he reminded her.

  “Only because you would never do as I said. And you know, aside from this thing with Lord Malfrey, I am right, Jacob, most of the time, about most things. You must admit, the food at the Gardiners’ table has improved since I took over planning the menus. And Becky is engaged. And my uncle is more talkative. If more people would simply do as I tell them, their lives would be a thousand times nicer.”

  “Yes,” Jacob said solemnly. “I’m certain that’s true. And you’re welcome, Victoria, to manage as many people’s lives as you like. But not mine, thank you very much.”

  Victoria bit her lip. “Are you certain? Because, you know, I think with very little effort you could be immeasurably improved. Your collar points, for instance.” Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs that it hurt, but she really felt she had to say it. “Why do you wear them so low? Everyone else wears theirs a good two inches higher. If you would just—”

  “Yes,” Jacob said. “But when anyone else goes to kiss the woman he intends to marry, his collar points stab her in the face. Is that what you want?”

  Victoria, remembering suddenly that kissing Lord Malfrey had been a little uncomfortable because of that very thing, began to think that Jacob might be right. She was even more convinced when he followed up this illuminating statement with a physical demonstration of his point.

  No, most decidedly, Victoria was delighted to learn when Jacob kissed her, his collar points did not get in the way in the least.

  Then, even as Jacob was making a more thorough investigation into the veracity of his theory, Victoria tore her lips from his and said in a shocked voice, “Jacob! You said… you said when a man kisses a woman he intends to marry. Does that mean that… do you intend to marry me?”

  “I most certainly do,” Jacob said in a firm voice. “What do you have to say about that, Miss Bee?”

  But Miss Bee didn’t answer, because she was entirely too busy kissing him.

  Read Meg Cabot’s other historical novel,

  Nicola and the Viscount

  An excerpt:

  Dear Nana,

  I hope you received the gifts I sent you. The shawl is pure Chinese silk, and the pipe I sent for Puddy is ivory-handled! You needn’t worry about the expense; I was able to use my monthly stipend. I am staying with the Bartholomews—I told you about them in my last letter— and they won’t let me spend a penny on myself! Lord Farelly insists on paying for everything. He is such a kind man. He is very interested in locomotives and the railway. He says that someday, all of England will be connected by rail, and that one might start out in the morning in Brighton, and at the end of the day find oneself in Edinburgh!

  I found that a bit hard to believe, as I’m certain you do, too, but that is what he says.

  Nicola paused in her letter writing to read over what she had already written. As she did so, she nibbled thoughtfully on the feathered end of her pen.

  Nana was not, of course, her real grandmother. Nicola had no real grandparents, all of them having been carried away by influenza before she was even born. Because her sole remaining relative, Lord Renshaw, had had no interest in nor knowledge of raising a little girl, Nicola had been reared, until she was old enough to go away to school, by the wife of the caretaker of her father’s estate, Beckwell Abbey. It was to this woman—and her husband, whom Nicola affectionately referred to as Puddy—that Nicola looked for grandmotherly advice and comfort. Dependent, as Nicola was, on the small income the local farmers supplied by renting the abbey’s many rolling fields for their sheep to graze upon, Nana and Puddy lived modestly, but well.

  But never so well as Nicola had been living for the past month. The Bartholomews, as it turned out, were every bit as wealthy as Phillip Sheridan had declared… perhaps even wealthier.

  But what Phillip had not mentioned, since he could not have known, was that the Bartholomews were also generous, almost to a fault. Nicola needed to express only the slightest desire, and her wish was immediately granted. She had learned to bite back exclamations over bonnets or trinkets at the many shops she and Honoria frequented, lest she find herself the owner of whatever it was she’d admired. She could not allow these kind people to keep buying gifts for her… especially as she had no way to return the favor.

  Besides which, Nicola did not really need new gowns or bonnets. Necessity, in the form of her limited income, had forced her to become a skilled and creative seamstress. She had taught herself how to alter an old gown with a new flounce or sleeves until it looked as if it had just come straight from a Parisian dress shop. And she was almost as fine a milliner as any in the city, having rendered many an out-of-fashion bonnet stylish in the extreme with an artful addition of a silk rose here, or an artificial cherry there.

  Eyeing her letter, Nicola wondered if she ought to add something about the God. It seemed as if it might be a good idea, since it was entirely possible that Sebastian Bartholomew was going to play an important role in all of their lives, if things kept up the way they had been. Having grown up almost completely sheltered from them, Nicola knew very little, it was true, about young men, but it did seem to her that Honoria’s brother had been most attentive since she’d come to stay. He escorted the girls nearly everywhere they went, except when he was not busy with his own friends, who were quite fond of gambling and horses, like most young men—except perhaps Nathaniel Sheridan, who was too concerned with managing his father’s many estates ever to stop for a game of whist or bagatelle.

  Even more exciting, the God was always the first to ask Nicola for a dance at whatever ball they happened to be attending. Sometimes he even secured two dances with her in a single evening. Three dances with a gentlemen to whom she was not engaged, of course, would be scandalous, so that was not even a possibility.

  On these occasions, of course, Nicola’s heart sang, and she could not believe there existed in London a happier soul than she. It seemed incredible, but it appeared she had actually accomplished what she’d set out to do, which was impress the young Viscount Farnsworth—for that was Lord Sebastian’s title, which he would hold until his father died, and he assumed the title of Earl of Farelly—with her wit and charm. How she had done it—and quite without the help of any face powder—she could not say, but she did not think she could be mistaken in the signs: the God admired her, at least a little. She supposed her hair, which she wore upswept all the time now, with Martine’s aid, had helped.

  All that Nicola needed to forever seal her happiness was for the God to propose marriage. If he did—no, when, when—she had already decided she would say yes.

  But there was, in the back of her mind, a niggling doubt that such a proposal might ever really materialize. She was, after all, not wealthy. She had nothing but her passably pretty face and keen fashion sense to recommend her. Handsome young men of wealth and importance rarely asked penniless girls like Nicola—even penniless girls of good family and excellent education—to marry them. Love matches were all well and good, but, as Madame had often reminded them, starvation is not pleasant. Young men who did not marry as their fathers instructed them often found themselves cut off without a cent. And it was perfectly untrue that one could live on love alone. Love could not, after all, put bread on the table and meat in the larder.

  But from parental objections to a match between her and the God, at least, Nicola felt she was safe. Lord and Lady Farelly seemed prodigiously fond of her. Why, in the short time since she’d come to live with them, they seemed already to think of her as a second daughter, including her in all of their family conversations, and even occasionally dropping their formal address of her as Miss Sparks, and calling her Nicola.

  No, should Lord Sebastian see fit to propose to her, she could foresee no difficulties from that quarter. But would he? Would he propose to a girl who was merely pretty but not beautiful? A girl with freckles on her nose, who had only recently been allowed to put h
er hair up? An orphan with only a bit of property in Northumberland and a vast knowledge of the romantic poets?

  He had to. He just had to! Nicola felt it as surely as she felt that the color ochre on a redheaded woman was an abomination.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to Beth Ader, Jennifer Brown,

  Michele Jaffe, Laura Langlie, and Abby McAden.

  Books by Meg Cabot

  NICOLA AND THE VISCOUNT

  VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE

  ALL-AMERICAN GIRL

  TEEN IDOL

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME II: PRINCESS IN THE SPOTLIGHT

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME III: PRINCESS IN LOVE

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV: PRINCESS IN WAITING THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME IV AND A HALF: PROJECT PRINCESS

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME V: PRINCESS IN PINK

  THE PRINCESS DIARIES, VOLUME VI: PRINCESS IN TRAINING

  THE PRINCESS PRESENT: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

  PRINCESS LESSONS: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

  PERFECT PRINCESS: A PRINCESS DIARIES BOOK

  THE MEDIATOR 1: SHADOWLAND

  THE MEDIATOR 2: NINTH KEY

  THE MEDIATOR 3: REUNION

  THE MEDIATOR 4: DARKEST HOUR

  THE MEDIATOR 5: HAUNTED

  THE MEDIATOR 6: TWILIGHT

  Credits

  Cover art © 2005 by Sydney Van Dyke

  Cover © 2005 by HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

  Cover design by Andrea Vandergrift

  VICTORIA AND THE ROGUE. Copyright © 2003 by Meggin Cabot. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.