Not Quite A Rogue (Ladies Who Dare Book 1)

by Tanya Wilde

  Something on his face must have revealed his inner uproar, because Saville whistled. “Is she the reason you are not interacting with the five heiresses on your mother’s list?”

  “Not exactly, no,” Harry hedged, slapping his hand against his leg. “And I believe there are six.”

  “Selena is out of bounds to you and your destitute ass.”

  “Believe me,” Harry drawled, “not even the devil offering me all the riches in the world could coax me to marry your sister.”

  “Why the hell not? What is wrong with my sister?”

  Harry arched a brow.

  “It’s Selena’s greatest flaw, isn’t it? That she is more like me in character than any man would like?” Saville grunted. “Well then, who is the woman? I did not recognize her.”

  Harry was deuced thankful for that. To Saville, she must have looked like a blur of womanly curves in a shirt and breeches. Harry doubted Saville even spared a glance at her face.

  “No one that would interest you.”

  “Oh, I am interested.”

  “Pity that.” Harry smirked. “To your earlier question, I’m not rushing to marry because, as you know, I’m searching for my father’s art.”

  “Ah, yes, the lost treasure,” Saville said, flopping down into a chair. He arched a brow at the chaos on the floor. “Got a new maid, heh?”

  Harry pulled a face.

  “Whatever do you think happened to them? The paintings, not your work papers.”

  “I’m not sure. I’m having detailed accounts drawn up of every last piece of silver in our possession. If we cannot find my father’s purchases, it might be that we are overlooking them.”

  “Meaning you believe they are hiding in plain sight?”

  “It’s the hiding part that I cannot grasp.” Harry shook his head. “It means there was—or is—something to hide.”

  “A treasure of treachery, then.” Saville clapped his hands. “Much more intriguing than simply lost treasure.”

  “What brings you here at this hour?” Harry asked. “Usually you only crawl out of bed at midnight.”

  “Yes, well.” Saville leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “I was awakened by Warrick.”

  “Warrick?”

  Saville nodded. “I charged him to keep track of all the wagers that the list produces. Anyone who wagers on Selena collects a visit from me.”

  Harry’s heart stalled. If Warrick had called on Saville . . .

  “The betting book is missing.”

  “What?” Harry said slowly, careful of his reaction.

  Saville’s eyes lifted to Harry’s. “Gone. Missing. Nowhere to be found.”

  “Perhaps it was merely misplaced?”

  Saville shook his head, unconvinced. “The entire club is in an uproar. They are offering a fortune for anyone who finds the book.”

  Harry thought his expression faltered, but Saville’s hawkish eyes weren’t on him; they were shut as he dragged his fingers over his face.

  Dear Lord, this might turn into a bigger mess than even he or Ophelia could have anticipated. In all of the excitement, neither Harry, Rochester, nor Nash had grasped that the book was filled with a heavy pound’s worth of wagers—wagers entirely unrelated to the list. Members would want it back for the revenue alone.

  Harry scratched his head. “I don’t know what to bloody say.”

  He truly didn’t.

  “Neither do I.” Saville’s lips thinned. “We need to find that book, Avondale.”

  “Do you think it’s about the list?” Harry asked.

  “The list gets attached to that book, and days later it disappears,” Saville’s piercing features met his. “You think that a coincidence?”

  “No, I do not,” Harry said truthfully. He knew it was no coincidence.

  “What a bloody mess. If my sister discovers my role in that bloody list, hell is going to rain down on London.”

  Harry grimaced. He couldn’t deny that truth. Lady Selena was a force to be reckoned with—such a force, in fact, that Saville had never dared marry her off.

  “There is no way to tie it back to us.”

  Saville laughed, the sound laced with irony and disagreement. “The truth always comes to light, Avondale. Even if it gets swept into your house on the back of a leaf.”

  The memory of Ophelia’s determined face flashed through his mind. “I might have to agree with you there.”

  Harry knew the whereabouts of the book, but could he impart that to Saville? He trusted Saville with his life. But Saville, if aware of the book’s exact location, would quickly ascertain that it could potentially make its way to his sister’s hands. That was, if Ophelia gathered all the women on the list to form a mob of angry ladies that would descend on White’s. Unlikely—the last part—but not entirely out of the realm of possibilities.

  Pondering that, Saville might stop at nothing to get the book back. Harry didn’t want Ophelia to get into trouble because of something that was, ultimately, their fault.

  “Do they have any suspects in mind?”

  “They are looking at who was last seen with the book.”

  A bitter taste coated Harry’s mouth. “And?”

  “No one can bloody say.”

  Harry nearly sagged in relief.

  “I reckon an enraged brother or father of one of the women.”

  Harry arched a brow.

  “Not. Me.”

  Harry lifted his hands. “Never said so, but you did just point yourself out as a suspect.”

  “I was not at White’s. You?”

  “I don’t have a sister on the list,” Harry countered.

  “You have the most to lose.”

  “A matter for debate.”

  “Your chances of securing a rich wife might be ruined if the truth came out.”

  “I did not take the book, Saville.” Not out of White’s, at least.

  “Then I suggest you find your father’s art or secure a wife before this blows up in all of our faces.”

  Harry agreed. Had to find those blasted purchases and he needed to determine Lady Ophelia’s intent with the book. He hadn’t asked her about her objectives as he had intended. He’d gotten somewhat distracted instead.

  Harry weighed the sensible options. Would Lady Ophelia consider returning the book before this got out of hand? Harry didn’t think so. Perhaps he could convince her to keep the pages from the list and everything after it? Somehow, Harry didn’t envision her doing that either. From what he could tell, Lady Ophelia was out for blood.

  And he wondered exactly how she intended to get it.

  Chapter 13

  Ophelia jumped from Newington’s carriage, saluted him and his skewed hat, and bounded up the stairs to her residence. She hadn’t wanted to accept his offer to go for a ride, her mind too preoccupied with that damn book and a certain roguish earl, but she’d become too anxious waiting for Avondale to show up. A distraction had been in order.

  Ophelia hated waiting.

  She wished Avondale would put her out of her misery already. What were his plans? Would he demand marriage? Had Saville recognized her? Would they come for the book? Would the earl inform her father of her criminal behavior?

  It was hard to tell with that man.

  More annoyingly, she wasted a perfectly splendid morning thinning the carpet’s threads by pacing, waiting for Charles to announce Avondale. As the morning had worn on, and Avondale had not shown, Ophelia had begun to wonder what the man was about.

  Rochester and Nash had claimed Avondale harmless. The fact that he had not appeared requesting an audience with her father after such a grand opportunity suggested Rochester was correct in that claim. Even so, she had at least expected him to show up and demand the book back. After all, he had gone through the effort of pinching it from her.

  And the more time passed and the longer he didn’t call, the more restless Ophelia became. Which was the only reason she had suffered through Newington’s ride. He, at least, wa
s better sports than Hanover. And less vocal, though the lines in his face creased deeper.

  “Do all gentlemen who come courting allow you to drive their horses?”

  Ophelia jumped at the sudden impact of his voice even as she processed that Avondale stood before her. She blinked up at him, so preoccupied with her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed him leaning against the door of her residence, blocking her entrance. She came to a stop at the top step.

  “Drat, Avondale! Is it necessary to give me such a fright? And just what are you doing lurking outside my house?”

  “Your butler—Charles, I believe?—wouldn’t grant me access.”

  “We employ him for a reason,” Ophelia replied.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “I can think of at least three topics.”

  Ophelia ground her teeth for a moment. “And what three are those?”

  “Reassurance.”

  She arched a brow, not expecting that answer. “Reassurance?”

  “Yes, that whatever happened between us stays between us.”

  Ophelia blinked up at him, taken aback. “You are not here for an audience with my father?”

  He straightened. “Why would I call on your father?”

  Ophelia bit her lip, considering Avondale. “No reason. What are the other two topics?”

  “Reassurance.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You stated that already.”

  He nodded. “I need reassurance from you, as well.” He leaned in to whisper in a low, raspy voice. “That you will not seek an audience with my mother.”

  “Why would I—” Ophelia abruptly stopped when he arched a brow of his own. Heat raced up her neck. She could not believe she’d spent the morning pining, no, restlessly pacing, over this man. She almost swatted him. “Rest assured, my lord, I have no intention of seeking out your mother.”

  “Good, now that we have determined that neither of us plans to disgrace the other, let’s move onto the final topic: intentions.”

  Ophelia’s heart fluttered. She hadn’t expected that either.

  Intentions?

  Had she gotten this man all wrong? If he wasn’t here for duty or for fortune, could he be here for something else—like proper courtship? She stared into his eyes, at a loss for words. Well, not at a complete loss. Her head had plenty of words to toss his way. If only her lips would form them.

  “The book.”

  Book?

  Oh, the book. The betting book.

  Ophelia scowled, her hopefulness immediately dissipating. “You mean the one you stole from me?”

  “Is there another?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not giving it back.”

  “I didn’t ask for it back. I am merely here to establish your intentions with it.”

  Ophelia narrowed her eyes. “Why do you care?”

  “White’s is searching for the book, Ophelia. They have offered a handsome sum for its return.”

  “Well, if you do not tell them, they will never find out where it is,” she smirked, “unless you were hoping to collect the sum?”

  “This is no light matter.”

  “It has never been a light matter to me.”

  He nodded. “The list of heiresses.”

  “Then you are aware.”

  “All of White’s is aware.”

  “Nevertheless, as the book is of no direct concern to you, you must want to barter. Why else haunt my doorway? So, tell me, what will it take for you to keep my secret?”

  He seemed surprised by her direct question, and Ophelia wondered if she had missed something, perhaps glossed over a pertinent wager.

  “I merely wish to know your intent, what I am protecting you for.” He suddenly grinned. “But since you asked, I suppose a kiss will do.”

  Ophelia sucked in a breath, the hiss loud in her ears. How had this event turned from blackmail to flirtation in a manner of a second?

  Another kiss.

  Her pulse leaped in response.

  “You must be mad!” Ophelia exploded. Good heavens, the man was nothing short of insufferable—or simply, a lunatic. Had he lost his mind? She could not keep kissing him! No matter how thrilling she found the prospect.

  “I’m certainly that,” Avondale drawled. “For why else am I here?”

  “You already stole a kiss. Two, as a matter of fact,” she reminded him. “Rather incorrigible of you. Now, as you are not here to cause in my ruination or to blackmail me, I must insist that you leave!”

  “Tsk. Tsk. Such temper for a lady.”

  She strove for an air of nonchalance. Perhaps then he might give up this . . . this . . . whatever he was striving for.

  “My lord,” Ophelia murmured, the title gliding smooth as silk past her lips. “We are standing outside, unchaperoned, where anyone can happen past us and form a conclusion we both don’t want. Will you please take your leave?”

  “I’m reading violence in your eyes, Ophelia.”

  “Stop calling me by my name, and whatever violence you read is because I wish to stab you in the belly with a pitchfork!”

  “You have a lovely name.” He laughed at her look. “Whatever did I do to deserve the tines of a pitchfork?”

  She craned her neck up to lock her eyes with his more sternly. “You could have utterly ruined me!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you and your untimely friend, if you recall.”

  “You came to my home, unchaperoned, if you recall.”

  “Do not remind me,” Ophelia bit out. She could not deny some fault lay with her. But she had not been the one to plaster her lips on his! “I merely called to collect the book.”

  His head tilted to the side. After a lengthy silence, he said in a slow, rusty voice, “Fine, I shall claim responsibility for kissing you, on both occasions, and I will leave. But tell me this, why do you so ardently wish to be in possession of that book?”

  “Why are you so concerned about my intentions?” Ophelia countered. “Why is it even your concern?”

  “As a member of White’s, I will be questioned by the patrons.” He bent his head closer. “And never forget, you made it my concern, Ophelia, when you snuck into my club and stole that club’s property. And since you shall not part with a kiss, I will settle for your intentions. I deserve at least that.”

  Ophelia wanted to club him over the head with something steely. And pointy. He had somehow wiggled his way into her life, and the strangest part, for the life of her, she could not figure out his intentions. If he even possessed any. Neither could she impart with hers. For beyond acquiring the book, she had no plans. Only that the book was gone from White’s. Gone from grubby hands and filthy wagers.

  But she’d never admit that, so Ophelia looked him straight in the eye and said, “It is time for the men of London to reap what they sow.”

  His lips parted.

  “Nothing to say to that?” Ophelia demanded, never so grateful for all the playacting she’d done in her parlor. “Well, lucky for you, I didn’t find a single wager you made in the book, unlike your father, who wagered the same wager like clockwork each month. So you have nothing to worry about from me.”

  The door opened to reveal Charles.

  “Your timing was off today, Charles.” Ophelia slanted the butler a disapproving look.

  “My timing is as it always should be, my lady.”

  Hah! Ophelia wasn’t touching that line of conversation. She harrumphed and breezed past Charles, not even expressing goodbye to Avondale. Rather than taking the hint, he followed her into the entryway, close on her tail.

  “What did you say about my father?”

  Ophelia let out a shuddering breath. She was annoyed. With him. With herself. With Charles. With the entire world of men. And rattled. His mere mention of a kiss made her body respond with fire. He, on the other hand, appeared wholly unaffected.

  “Weren’t you leaving, Avondale? We have discu
ssed all that needed discussion, so there can be no further reason for you to continue to lurk here.”

  “Lurk?”

  “What would you call it?” She glanced at him. “Is there something else you wish to discuss?” Why you keep kissing me, perhaps?

  “Not exactly.”

  Ophelia pursed her lips. “Not exactly doesn’t fit into the categories of yes or no. Either you have something to discuss or you do not.”

  “You are annoyed with me,” he stated.

  Ophelia said nothing, merely tugged off her gloves and deposited them on the side table before entering the drawing room. It never once crossed her mind to ask Charles whether Rochester and Nash had come calling. She wished she had. Such was their friendship that they were practically family. As such, Charles treated the men as part of the household. Ergo, they came and went as they pleased without Ophelia being informed.

  Aware of Avondale hot on her heels, she barely cleared the threshold of the drawing room before she whirled around, arms outstretched, ready to usher Avondale away. Too late. Avondale stood frozen, jaw slack and eyes riveted on the scene behind her.

  Rochester and Nash, lips locked.

  Ophelia shut her eyes as she heard the two men jump apart, the rustling of fabric indicating that they were patting their disheveled jackets into place.

  If ever there was a reason to curse the devil, this would be the time. Ophelia didn’t much care about the various consequences her reputation would likely suffer from given all she’d done since she met the Earl of Avondale. But she would walk into the fires of perdition to keep her friends’ secret. She cursed her part for exposing it to Avondale.

  But they should have known better.

  “Rochester,” her mother’s voice chirped from the hallway. “Is that you?”

  Ophelia’s eyes snapped open.

  To her astonishment, Avondale suddenly pivoted on his heel, blocking the doorway and granting Rochester and Nash time to set themselves to rights.

  She could have kissed him.

  Yes, the irony was not lost on Ophelia.

  “Lady Rhodes,” Avondale murmured. “A pleasure.”

  “Avondale?” Ophelia heard her mother murmur uncertainly. “Have you come to call on my daughter?”