The Last Wicked Rogue

by Lauren Smith

  “And you.” He growled the words so darkly that blood pounded in her ears. “You still have to return to your first duty.”

  Lily nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to the bed where she’d left a pile of valet clothes and a wig. “We cannot let him suspect anything is amiss. Can we, Mr. Linley?”

  Without another word, Sir Hugo Waverly slammed the door behind him as he left.

  3

  Tom Linley.

  It was the name she’d assumed over a year ago when she’d been sent to Berkley’s club to gain Charles’s trust. The thin, scrappy lad known as Tom Linley did not exist; she was Lily Linley, daughter of a country gentleman and mother to a little girl she had to pretend was her baby sister. And she would protect that child at any cost, even if she had to destroy a good man to do so. She had no choice.

  As much as she wished she could refuse, she couldn’t. Nor could she confess to Charles. He could not protect her, even if he wished to. He did not understand how much of his life and those of his friends Hugo had infiltrated. Even she did not know the full extent, just enough to realize there was no escape from him. She could not win his game; she could only hope to survive it.

  Lily sagged against the wall once Hugo had left. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees. A sob escaped her, and the torrent of emotions she’d been holding back tore through her like a raging fire. When she had no tears left, she stood and began to strip out of her rain-soaked gown. She wore dresses that discreetly buttoned up the front, specially made so she could dress and undress without assistance.

  The red satin gown hit the floor with a soft smack. Her skin was chilled, and she knelt by the fire in her damp underclothes. She rubbed her arms for warmth and retrieved a blanket from her bed, wrapping it around her as she huddled by the tiny hearth. The fire restored some life to her cold body. When she was warm enough to dress, she removed the wet underclothes and put on a fresh set of gentleman’s smallclothes and picked up cloth to bind her breasts.

  The wig beneath the cap she usually wore concealed her tightly bound and pinned hair, and the breeches showed off her lean figure. She’d always been tall for a woman, and her legs were leaner than those of most ladies. Binding her breasts made her chest appear more masculine—well, enough to pass for a young lad. But she took the ruse even further and retrieved a small pot of colored face cream and applied it to her cheekbones, sculpting a more bony look, making her appear far more boyish. A false moustache had been considered early on, but ultimately rejected. It presented too many opportunities for accidental discovery.

  Hugo’s people had spent months coaching her in the arts of deception and combat. She’d trained with some of England’s finest spies and had learned about boxing, street fighting, and fencing, the principals of which could still be applied to improvised weapons such as sticks or pokers. She had also mastered the use of poisons and drugs. She could write messages in a dozen secret ways and use codes to deliver them.

  Despite Hugo’s proclamations to the contrary, her job was not a noble one. She no longer served her king or her country. She served Hugo’s own need for revenge. To bring down the Earl of Lonsdale and his friends, the League of Rogues.

  A wave of self-loathing struck her, but she soon fought it back. She retrieved a small silver star pin and nestled it in her cravat, her symbol to Hugo’s other spies that she was one of them, and left. She had only one or two nights a week to be her true self, assuming that Hugo did not call upon her for other tasks like he had tonight.

  She left her room above the gambling hell and walked through the city unafraid. She could travel unseen in the shadows and knew how to avoid the dangers of London’s streets. When one worked for Hugo as long as she had, all other fears became trivial.

  By the time she reached Charles’s townhouse, she was ready to collapse in her small bed in the attic. She entered the house through the alley door and came into the kitchens. The Lonsdale house cook, Mrs. Farrow, saw her and grinned.

  “Tom! You’re late tonight.”

  “Evening, Mrs. Farrow.” She used Tom’s slightly deeper tone, though not so deep as to sound forced. She reached for a plate of scones freshly removed from the ovens. The cook let her take one, having stated more than once that she was far too skinny for a young man of twenty.

  “Is Katherine in bed yet?”

  The Irish cook nodded. “Aye. The wee lamb went to sleep easily tonight. Go on up and get some rest yourself.”

  Lily enjoyed the scone as she climbed the three flights of stairs to her room above the main living quarters. Her little bedroom was at the end of the hall. Most servants shared rooms, but because of Katherine she’d been given a single room and a cradle made by Davis, one of the footmen, who had a natural talent for woodworking.

  Davis had lost his wife the year before and was raising his own son, Oliver, who was four years old. He was one of Charles’s unconventional staffing choices, but Lily loved that Charles had taken a wounded, married soldier into his home as a footman. She and Davis had spent many nights talking about the rearing of children alone. It helped beyond measure in that part of her life. She was alone and trapped in all other ways.

  As Lily entered, she noticed someone had lit a fire in the small stove in a corner near the crib. She tiptoed over and peered down at the babe asleep beneath the hand-stitched blankets Lily had made herself.

  Katherine was the only bright star in an endless night of deception. Katherine’s father’s sins were not her own. She was an innocent, and Lily would do anything to protect her. Lily loved her more than her own life.

  The babe’s golden hair was getting long now, curling into gleaming gold ringlets. Her third birthday wasn’t far away. Lily would have to think of something special to do for her. Perhaps Mrs. Farrow could make her a sweet tea cake and there would be a few presents. A doll perhaps. Maybe Davis could build her a small rocking horse?

  The sudden tinkle of a bell by her door made her jump. The bell was connected to Charles’s room. He wasn’t in bed yet? She cursed under her breath, but at least the bell hadn’t woken the baby. Lily exited her chamber and headed down the stairs, then across the hall and entered Charles’s bedchamber. He stood by his bed, facing a full-length mirror, a frown tugging his lips down.

  “Tom, there you are. Sorry to disturb you on your night off, but I’m in a deuced black mood.”

  “Oh?” Lily studied his fine profile in the firelight, remembering how it had felt to kiss those perfect lips. Charles was quite simply the most handsome man she’d ever seen. There was no weak chin, no pale face, no watery eyes, and no temperamental nature like many of the young aristocrats she’d come across in the last few years while training with Hugo.

  Charles was quite simply a god among men. His skin was always sun-kissed, his burnished gold hair always looked as though a lover had run her hands through it, and his features were carved to perfection. It was as though the heavens had thought it would be amusing to create the most beautiful man on earth and drop him in front of her.

  Gaze upon this icon of beauty, and despair.

  But there was so much more to him. Despite the occasional immaturity of his actions or black clouds that at times hung over him, there was a kindness in his words, a gentleness with his staff, a loyalty in his heart to his family and friends that could not be matched. He was the most wonderful man she’d ever met…

  And one day she was going to help Hugo kill him.

  Charles saw her and nodded toward his boots, which were set by the foot of the bed.

  “Yes, I went boxing at Lewis Street. The usual—”

  Lily froze as she bent to pick up the boots he’d discarded. He considered that evening usual?

  “And I met the most enchanting woman. A true angel.”

  She was glad of the makeup she wore and the dim light of the candlelit chamber. They would conceal her blush.

  “I rescued her. Somehow she got nabbed by a few brutes.”

  Lily wrinkled h
er nose. Those men had been incompetent. She’d practically had to throw herself at them to get caught.

  “Rescued, you say? That was chivalrous of you, my lord.” She straightened, boots in her arms, and headed for the door, hoping that was all he needed.

  His deep chuckle sent a shiver through her. “Well, I suppose. But it wasn’t as though I could leave her there with them. There was something in her eyes. She was so afraid, so vulnerable. It made me feel…mad with a need to protect her.”

  Lily almost laughed. That look he’d seen had been one of disbelief and fear that he was going to ruin everything, which he had.

  “Perhaps it was simple chivalry, but when I looked at her…” He shrugged, a wry smile enhancing his painfully good looks. For a moment she remembered that kiss…

  His gray eyes were like mirrors to her soul whenever she met his gaze. He was tall, six foot two, with a boxer’s form and an angel’s face. A woman could get lost daydreaming about what it would be like to… Lily gave herself a little shake. Even if the circumstances had been different, she was done with men. They’d only ever hurt her or threatened her; they could not be trusted. Yet part of her longed to trust Charles.

  “So a lovely lady has put you in a black mood?” Lily asked, keeping her back turned as she set his boots outside the bedroom door. A footman would collect them later to polish them for her since it was still technically her night off. “How unlike you. I believe only Audrey Sheridan ever had that effect before, whenever she roped you into one of her schemes.”

  “Well no, not like that…but yes. I mean…I don’t know.” Charles growled. “I wanted to escort her home, perhaps pay a call on her later, bring her flowers… Bloody hell, I don’t even know what a gentleman ought to do with someone like her. But she vanished on me before I could—”

  “Seduce her?” Lily offered, unable to keep the cheek out of her tone. Hearing Charles talk about her, the real her, was both exciting and frustrating. Was it possible to be jealous of oneself?

  “You jest, but I’m certain I could have managed a decent seduction if she’d only given me time. As it was, we only shared one kiss.” Charles tugged on his cravat and removed it, tossing the bit of white cloth onto his bed before he unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid it off.

  “If you had just rescued her, then I suspect a seduction of any kind would not have been appropriate.”

  “So you say, but I’ll have you know that she kissed me.” He took his shirt out of his trousers and lifted it off his head.

  “Out of gratitude, one would assume, not…seduction.” Lily swallowed hard at the sight of his muscular chest, the way he looked strong and utterly perfect.

  “True enough, but you should have heard the way she spoke. It had a breathy quality to it, the kind I only ever hear in the ton when a woman is in search of a suitor.”

  Lily thought back. Had she? True, she had used a different tone to reduce the chances of being recognized, but…

  “Lad, stop pouting and come help me,” Charles muttered as he unfastened his trousers. Lily caught an all too tempting glimpse of the two muscled indentations that formed a V in his pelvis, and she had to fight the urge to bolt from the room.

  Charles headed to the dressing room, where a large copper tub was steaming with hot water. “I’ve got a neck ache. Come rub it for me.”

  Oh Lord…

  She had seen him bathe a number of times since she’d become his valet, and rather than become accustomed to the sight, it was getting harder and harder to ignore how it made her feel. He wasn’t just an employer, and he also wasn’t just a man. He was a rogue, a scoundrel, a charmer, a deeply loyal soul, someone who showed her time and again that he took care of those he loved, no matter who they were.

  Every person who worked for Charles was well paid, but almost all of them would’ve worked for half their wage just to serve a man like him. He’d taken in those less fortunate and gave them their lives back, like Davis, who’d lost the use of one hand in service to the king’s infantry. He’d even helped Davis acquire a specially crafted wooden hand that enabled him to perform the duties which required the use of two hands. The cook, Mrs. Farrow, had been trapped in a debtors’ prison after her husband ran off with another woman and she couldn’t pay his debts. Charles had bought her out, and then all he asked was if she could make a decent figgy pudding. In some way or another, Charles had rescued every soul under his roof, and he’d only asked for honest work in return.

  And it was that trait which Hugo had exploited, allowing him to position her directly in his path.

  Charles had learned her story and taken her in. He hadn’t even batted an eye at the news that she had a little sister, providing for her as well. For a wicked rogue, he was quite an expert when it came to children, having carried the baby himself more than once and gotten her to sleep when she’d been fussy. And damned if that didn’t make her body burn with forbidden hunger for him.

  “Tom, quit woolgathering,” Charles called from the bath. “I need you.”

  “C-coming.” She cleared her throat and entered his dressing room. He was thankfully already undressed and in the large tub. She’d been so lost in thought she’d saved herself the embarrassment of seeing him remove his trousers. Whenever she was around him, she was drawn in by an undeniable animal magnetism she had to fight to hide.

  He dipped his head beneath the water. His gold hair was dripping with water, which sluiced down his back. He shifted to rest his arms on the edges of the copper tub, muscles taut and firm like those of a marble statue.

  Lily drew in a steadying breath as she lifted a wooden stool and set it down at the end of the tub behind him. “Where do you need me, my lord?” she asked.

  He reached up and touched where his neck met his shoulder. “Here.” She tentatively touched him, rubbing lightly at the corded muscles of his neck.

  “I’m not going to bite, lad. Push harder. I believe I strained myself during tonight’s fight. That brute I took down was, well…quite brutish. I got him with one punch, but I swear his face was made of granite.”

  Lily dug her fingers deeper into his skin, pushing on the knot she could feel in his neck, and he let out a soft sigh.

  “Better.”

  They remained quiet while she worked on the muscles of his neck. She used to hate such silence. Silence meant fear, it meant pain. But now…silence was soft, and sometimes even sweet. Like when Charles had brought her a slice of cake at Audrey Sheridan’s wedding. They’d settled on the stairs, eating together without speaking. Strangely, she had wanted to cry because it felt so nice. He was a good man. A man she would have to betray. Her mouth filled with a bitter taste.

  Do not think of the future. Think only of now.

  “Thank you, Tom. That’s enough. Now, off to bed with you. We’ve a luncheon at the Duke of Essex’s home tomorrow, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Lily exited the bedchamber but paused just outside, listening to the water splash, and tried desperately not to picture him climbing out. She headed straight back up to her room in the attic, checked once more on Katherine, and collapsed on her bed.

  Sleep came swiftly, stealing her away into dreams of what might have happened if she’d only let Charles kiss her a little longer in the alley. But she would never know the feel of his lips on hers again. Despite Hugo’s plan for her to seduce Charles, she wasn’t going to let him kiss her. She’d let him do anything else, but if his lips touched hers and he kissed her like she mattered, she feared she would break down and confess everything to him.

  She was damned.

  Charles finally settled into his own bed. Sleep came fitfully, plaguing him with dreams, dreams he feared would turn to nightmares. The past never let him go. It kept dragging him back under, over and over.

  The Pickerel pub was full of young men fresh from dinner after their classes. Charles, for the first time in weeks, had been able to have an ale with a classmate. Being so much younger, he’d found it hard to m
ake friends.

  Peter Maltby, a student two years older than him, roomed across the hall in Magdalene College. Peter had seen Charles eating alone at dinner and had come over to invite him for a drink at the little pub just outside the college’s gates. They had quickly become good friends, and the pub had become a ritual of sorts for them.

  Tonight, they’d bid good night to the elderly porter who manned the gates and settled themselves in a corner of the booth to drink and talk.

  “Enjoying your lessons?” Peter asked, smiling broadly as he sipped his ale.

  Charles nodded. “I’m not much for studying, but I suppose I’ll make a habit of it the longer I’m here.” He curled his hands around his ale, watching the gold liquid glint in the candlelight.

  “You’ll get it sorted soon enough. You’re a Lonsdale, after all. Your father was a legend when he was here.”

  “What?” Charles blinked, startled by this. His father had never spoken of his time at Cambridge.

  “You didn’t know? He was quite the scholar, I hear,” Peter proclaimed with a wink. “You’ll be one too, I know it. Intelligence runs in the family. My family isn’t much for schooling, but I’m proving to my father that we can improve our circumstances. I’m not a lord’s son, as you know.”

  Charles listened intently as Peter spoke of his father, who was a banker at Drummonds, and how he’d grown up with a boy named Ashton, spending long summers getting into mischief while their fathers discussed investments. They’d ridden horses together with a boy named Cedric, a young man who was now a viscount.

  “I should introduce you to Ash and Cedric. They’re both here.”

  “I don’t know,” Charles said. He still felt unsure of himself in such situations. “I’m sure they’re far too busy.”

  “Nonsense. You’d fit in with them splendidly. I imagine you’d like some of my other friends as well. Have you met the Duke of Essex, by any chance? He’s rather funny, but don’t get crossways with him—he’s quite the pugilist.”