A Rogue’s Pleasure (11 page)

He took it from her and quickly perused it. He looked up, eyes dark. “I knew you must be in some sort of trouble, but I never suspected anything like this.”

She slipped the well-worn paper into her pocket. “Well, now you know. Robert has been kidnapped and I have fewer than three weeks to raise the rest of his ransom.”

His eyes widened. “So you plan to continue burgling houses until you get it?”

She stiffened. That was precisely her
plan,
if one could call it that. Being confronted with the obvious truth that it didn't amount to much rankled. “Perhaps to you, Lord Montrose, with a title and fortune at your disposal, my actions do seem laughably absurd, but we humble folk must live by our wits.”

He spread his hands. “Why didn't you just bring this before your magistrate?”

She couldn't resist a soft snort. “He and my father were political rivals, polite enemies if you will. I doubt he'd go out of his way to help me and, even if he did, he's…well, he's an idiot.”

“I see. If you are determined to pay the ransom, why not take out a bank loan? Or are such conventional means of acquiring funds too lackluster for your tastes?”

He might be only trying to understand, to help, but his clipped tone and disdainful attitude grated.

“A loan, how very clever of you,” she flung back. “As a matter of fact, the possibility did occur to me, but the tiresome requirement to guarantee it caused me to abandon the notion.”

Expression skeptical, he said, “But your family owns a sizable portion of prime farmland.”

“
Owned
. What isn't tied up in entail is mortgaged to the hilt.”

“Surely you have some relations who could advance you the sum?”

She'd hoped for advice, perhaps even sympathy. Instead, she'd received skepticism and reproach and this pointless, tiresome interrogation.

She tapped a foot. “Only an aunt in Kent, and I can't imagine her widow's portion would come close to the three hundred pounds that remains to be raised. Even if it did, I couldn't ask. It's all she has to live on.”

“A neighbor, then?”

Dumfreys
. The despicable memories pushed to the forefront of her mind. She shivered.

“There was a neighbor, one of the local squires, who was willing to make me a loan, but I found his terms for repayment…unacceptable.” She glared at him, daring him to press her.

He didn't. “I see.” His features relaxed. “Then you'll just have to take the money from
me.” She tried to gainsay him, but he held up a hand. “To a spoiled, debauched aristocrat like me a few hundred pounds is a pittance. I won't miss it.”

She was sure he wouldn't. But, if she accepted, she'd miss so many things—independence, self-respect, the ability to meet her own eyes in a mirror. No, she'd strip the houses of the
ton
bare before she'd let Lord Montrose take those priceless commodities from her.

“I love my brother dearly, Lord Montrose. He's all I have left.” She squared her shoulders. “I may have turned thief to save him, but I'll not turn whore as well.”

His mouth thinned into a grim line. “Your gratitude is touching to behold, but I assure you that my assistance is not contingent on your becoming my mistress.”

Flustered, she sputtered, “Naturally, I thought that since you had only just…well, what I mean to say is that…”

His face registered disappointment and something else. Hurt, perhaps?

“'Tis settled.” He dismissed her attempts at apology. “But you should know that delivering the ransom provides no guarantee that your brother will be returned. You must prepare yourself for the possibility that he may already be dead.”

She'd acknowledged that horrifying prospect but, to maintain her sanity, she'd swept it to the recesses of her mind. Now the effort to hold back her tears was making the back of her throat burn. Robert was the only family she had left unless one counted an aunt whom she'd met only twice.

“Are you certain you don't want to take this to the authorities? The Bow Street magistrate is a friend of my late uncle. He might be prevailed upon to—”

Her vigorous headshake cut him off. She fitted a hand over her pounding brow. “Other than the letter, I have no proof that Robert has been kidnapped. For all intents and purposes, he is fighting under General Campbell on the Peninsula. I went to the War Office the day I arrived, but the clerk told me it would take at least a month to verify his location. By then it will be too late.”

“I have a friend at Whitehall. Let me see what I can do to hurry things along. In the interim, if I cannot dissuade you from ransoming your brother, at least accept the money from me and allow me to deliver it when the time comes.”

She shook her head in despair and frustration. Didn't he understand that there was no other way? “You read the kidnapper's instructions. If anyone other than me makes the delivery, he will kill Robert.”

“Not if we find him first.”

She started. “We?” Shock rolled over her.

He nodded. “Keeping your secret is one thing, allowing you to continue risking your life is quite another. You are bound to get caught sooner or later.” She was about to protest when he added, “You can hardly deliver the ransom from behind prison bars, now can you?”

Perhaps he had a point. Fear and misery had banished passion, leaving her capable of rational thought. Even with her desire in check, his strength, his
maleness,
drew her. After a year of caring for everything and everyone it would be heaven to step aside and let someone—Anthony—wrestle her problems for her.

But she still didn't trust him. “I've told you that I won't be your mistress. What do you stand to gain from helping me?”

He shrugged. “A chance to redeem my reprobate past by doing a good deed?”

She smiled. “Do you think one will suffice?”

“Probably not,” he admitted, “but we all have to start somewhere.” He collected his walking stick from the corner. “I shall call on you tomorrow morning at nine. By then I will have devised a plan for tracking down our kidnapper. In the interim, try to stay out of trouble.”

He limped into the hallway.

She followed. “You barely know me. Why would you take such a risk?”

“Frankly, I'm bored.”

“Bored.”
She gasped the word. “Do you mean that resolving my troubles means nothing more to you than a temporary refuge from boredom?” If it was true, she'd been a fool to think him kind.

He nodded. “I am to be married shortly. Until then, I have nothing to occupy my days…or nights, for that matter. That is a happy coincidence for you, Miss Bellamy, because I fully intend on locating your kidnapper and liberating your brother.” He retrieved his hat from the console table. “As for your more
personal
concerns, you have my word as a gentleman that I shall make no romantic overtures until I receive your express invitation to do so.”

She crossed her arms and glowered. “What exactly are you implying?” she demanded, although she suspected she already knew.

“Implying—nothing.” He smiled. “Put simply, Miss Bellamy, I shall bide my time until you beg me to make love to you.”

The acrid odor of death dragged Anthony back from the blackness. He opened his eyes. It was twilight. The rain had ceased, but dampness enveloped the battlefield like a funeral shroud. Gunpowder, a fine mist, hung in the heavy air, burning his eyes.

Somewhere in the distance, an English voice called out, “Frogs've turned tail. It's cost us dear, but Beresford's held the field. We've won, lads! Victory is ours!”

Victory?
His gravelly vision began to clear. At first, just shadowy shapes silhouetted in silvery light. Then…
Oh, God
. Headless trunks, severed limbs, discarded weaponry. Above him the flap of wings, dark shapes circling. Bats? He craned his neck, looking skyward. Then he saw the crows, understood their hideous cawing. More on the ground, picking their way through the carnage. Feasting.

By God, they'll have to wait a while yet for me.

To live, he needed water and soon. His canteen was shot through but, a few paces away, the French cavalryman who'd tried to trample him lay silent and still next to his downed horse. He spotted his friend Peter's sword lodged in the beast's neck. But where was Peter? Surely Pete hadn't left him for dead? Unless…Squinting, he glimpsed a pair of familiar, low-heeled boots peaking out from beneath the horse's flanks.

Peter—what was left of him—was trapped beneath. The beast's massive body sprawled across his torso and upper legs. And everywhere there was blood.

Anthony's stomach churned, and then heaved. Sourness scored his throat. Gagging, he turned his head to the side, chest heaving. He ran his tongue over his cracked lips, tasting gunpowder and vomit.

And guilt. To save him, Peter must have rushed the charging Frenchman. On foot, he'd managed to sever the horse's jugular, unseating the cuirassier. Judging by the unnatural angle of the Frenchman's head, the fall had broken his neck. But not before his dying horse had crushed Peter.

If God had any mercy, Peter was long dead. Levering himself on his forearm, Anthony inched toward his fallen friend. The least he could do was to keep Peter from falling prey to the scavengers, both the crows and the human looters who would surely follow. Eyes streaming and throat constricted, he shoved at the horse's carcass. When it wouldn't budge, he grabbed hold of Peter's arm and tried pulling him out. Twice thwarted, he ended by pummeling the ground, his smacking fists the only outlet for his grief and frustration.

Life, which had seemed so precious, now struck him as worthless…survival as the cruelest of punishments. If he lived, he'd not only lose his leg but his mind as well. It wasn't to be born.

His own rifle was long gone, but Peter kept a small pistol tucked inside his coat. Resolved, Anthony dragged himself to the other side of the horse. Panting, he shoved his hand into his friend's pocket. His sleeve caught the brim of Peter's rifleman's hat, knocking it off.

Chelsea!

He looked down. Confusion bubbled to the surface of his befuddled brain. What was Chelsea doing at Albuera, wearing Peter's bloodstained uniform?

Her lovely face was caked with gunpowder and dirt and her hair clung to her head in wet ropes. When she opened her eyes and stared up at him, apparently unharmed, he thought he'd die of gladness.

“Anthony?” Her face crumpled. “Save me, Anthony, before it's too late. Save me!”

“Chelsea!”

Anthony bolted upright, the echo of his scream still ringing in his ears. Sweat slithered down his naked body and, for a terrifying moment, he thought he was bleeding. Then he realized he was in his bedchamber, not Albuera, and that the wetness was only perspiration.

Shivering, he reached for the tinderbox on the bedside table. Fingers clumsy, it took him several attempts before the wood splinter flared and he could light the candle. Amber sliced through the darkness, and he exhaled with foolish relief.

It had been more than a week since his last nightmare, quite an achievement. At one time, the terrifying dreams had been a nightly occurrence. Of late he'd been too preoccupied with a certain flame-haired felon to spare much thought, waking or sleeping, for demons. Until the day before when Chelsea told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted none of him. That she
loathed
him. Her scathing refusal had been humiliating enough. Now it seemed she must invade his nightmares.

He rose and put on his robe, then carried the candlestick to his armchair by the window to await the sunrise. To attempt sleep would be not only pointless but dangerous, for he often returned to the beginning of the dream. Better to use the hour or so until dawn to mull over what he'd learned so far.

The previous afternoon he'd called on Reggie, who had a civilian post at Whitehall and owed him more favors than either of them could count. By evening, Reg had sent a courier with a message confirming that Ensign Bellamy had never reported to the Horse Guards. His corps had set sail for Lisbon without him.

So, it would seem that the boy had been abducted, but by whom and to what end? Five hundred pounds was modest recompense for saddling oneself with a hostage for a month. He massaged his throbbing temples. Could it be that the kidnapper was driven by a more insidious motive than simple greed? Revenge, perhaps?

Chelsea's father had served two consecutive terms as magistrate. Perhaps it was some convicted felon, now free, who sought to wreak vengeance on the magistrate's only son and heir? Timing the kidnapping would be child's play; hamlets like Upper Uckfield were hotbeds of gossip. For the price of a few pints purchased at the local pub, anyone could have discovered the date of Robert Bellamy's departure. But why move the ransom delivery to London? And why insist that Chelsea deliver it in person?

Could Chelsea be the kidnapper's target? The more he examined the possibility, the more sense it made. He had no evidence beyond his gut intuition, and yet he hadn't felt so certain of anything since he'd urged Cole to mount the counterattack that had saved the day at Albuera. Robert Bellamy's abduction was nothing more than a ploy to lure Chelsea to London where she would be alone and friendless.

Not entirely friendless. The kidnapper hadn't counted on…him.

He must come up with some excuse to keep her close, to guard her, without her suspecting. He combed his fingers through his damp hair. She was the most intelligent woman he'd ever known—and the most stubborn. It wasn't going to be easy.

He'd have to hold himself in check. Another seduction attempt might send her fleeing from him—and into danger. He would, he
must,
control the hot flashes of desire that surged through him every time she was near. How much easier restraint would be if their tongues had never mated, if he'd no notion of how perfectly her lithe body fitted his or of how generously the
honey flowed from that hot, damp fortress between her thighs.

If nothing else, hunting down the kidnapper would provide him with an outlet for his frustration. If he succeeded, there would be no need to go through with the ransom delivery. To be required to do so would be highly inconvenient, for the thirtieth was also his wedding day. He had declined to volunteer that small detail to Chelsea. Some things were better left unsaid.

Less than three weeks to ferret out a felon, rescue a hostage, and convince an independent hoyden that she couldn't live without him. A tall order and not much time. Not much time at all.

He would be a candidate for Bedlam by then.

 

The cuckoo clock chirped its ninth and final note. Chelsea looked up from the shirred egg she'd been pushing about her plate. Where was he?

She went into the parlor, bypassing Jack on her way to the window. Wearing a calico apron and wielding a feather duster, he'd launched an all-out assault on the scarred surface of an ancient court cupboard. The cleaning rampage had begun the previous afternoon after Anthony had revealed her deception.

For the fourth time that morning, she peered outside, searching for a crimson curricle. But the street was deserted except for a tethered draft horse.

Jack came up behind her. “'E'll be here. Mark me words. Now eat your breakfast before ye turn into a scarecrow.”

Slinking back to the table, she fingered a square of cold toast. Her nervous stomach churned, but eating would give her an occupation other than pacing. And, if her mouth were full, perhaps Jack wouldn't ply her with questions.

No such luck. He stomped into the dining room. She tore off a morsel of bread and crammed it into her mouth.

Fists planted on his hips, he demanded, “Perhaps ye'd be good enough to explain where you got to two nights ago when ye was supposed to be upstairs nursing a chill?”

The years fell away. She was ten years old, and Jack had caught her pilfering the gingerbread that Cook had set out to cool.

Chewing, she answered, “It's something of a long story.”

“I've plenty o' time.”

She swallowed, the toasted bread sticking to the back of her throat like glue. “Very well. Do you recall that town house we hit in Berkeley Square?”

Jack bobbed an impatient nod. “Aye.”

“It's Lord Montrose's.”

“The viscount!” Jack stormed, dashing the duster to the ground. “But we robbed 'im a'ready.”

She released a heavy sigh. “I know, I know. But, with the Season at an end, his is one of the few houses that isn't cleared out and shut up. I'd thought to take just enough to make the rest of the ransom, then retire One-Eyed Jack, Junior, for good. Unfortunately he came upon me in his study.”

“I thought 'twas the butler who found ye?”

“That was a fib I told to spare you worry.”

“Another fib.” He snorted. “Very considerate o' ye. Go on.”

“I made a run for the window, but my hat fell off and he saw that I was…that is to say,
that I am female.” She blushed, recalling just how far Anthony had gone in exploring her femininity.

“And then?”

The remainder of the toast turned to crumbs in her nervous fingers. “He swore he'd turn me over to the Watch and then hunt you unless I returned the pearl necklace. I didn't have it with me, naturally—”

“Naturally.”

“So I had to go back the next night.”
Then stay for supper and, very nearly, breakfast
. “I never expected to see him again—”
that part was true enough,
“—but he must have followed me home. I was just as surprised as you when he showed up yesterday.”

“Wi' flowers enough to fill a field,” he reminded her.

“Well, yes, er…I suppose he wished to thank me for the necklace.” Spicing the lie with a dash of authenticity, she admitted, “I did take my leave in rather a rush.”

Jack's gray brow rose. “Queer that 'e'd go outta 'is way to thank ye for a bauble ye nicked in the first place.” He shook his head. “He wants somethin', and it b'aint no pearls.”

She picked up her fork and poked at her eggs. “I'm sure I can't imagine what you're insinuating.”

Retrieving the duster, Jack shook it at her, emitting a small cloud of down. “I may 'ave but one peeper, but I b'aint blind. 'Tis plain the toff fancies ye. I saw the way 'e was sniffin' about your skirts like ye was a bitch in—”

“That will do, Jack.” She felt the telltale warmth creep into her cheeks. “I think you're forgetting that Lord Montrose is the next thing to a married man.”

His look was all-knowing. “I didn't say 'e'd come to pop the question, now did I?”

No, but there was a moment yesterday when I was foolish enough to believe so.

Face warm, she replied, “As I told you yesterday—”
and last night, and twice this morning,
“—he's offered to help us find Robert.”

He scowled. “Why should the likes o' 'im want to 'elp us?”

She pushed away from the table. “How should I know? He said something about being bored. I, for one, am not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

The door knocker clanged, signaling the arrival of the “gift horse.”

“I suppose ye want
me
to answer that?”

She shot to her feet and raced into the parlor. “Yes, Jack, and do hurry.”

Snatching a book, she curled up on the window seat, striking a casual pose. The door opened. Nose buried in the open pages, she strained to make out the low murmur of voices, Jack's hostile, Anthony's only slightly less so. Then Jack's heavy footfalls and Anthony's lighter ones were coming toward her.

Without looking up, she knew the exact moment that Anthony materialized in the doorway. A shiver of awareness shot down her spine, curling her toes.

He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Miss Bellamy.”

She closed the book and looked up, patting away a feigned yawn. “Lord Montrose.” Edging off the cushion, she struggled to smooth the nervous trill from her voice. “Can it be nine already? Faith, I lost all track of the time.”

Behind Anthony, Jack rolled his eye.

Anthony removed his hat and stepped forward into a shaft of sunlight. His face was gaunt and there were bluish smudges beneath his eyes. His red-rimmed eyes. He looked as though he'd
been up half the night and then some and it didn't take much imagination to guess what he'd been about.
Had it taken one woman or two?
she wondered, feeling ill. And stupid. What a fool she'd been to lie awake until dawn, her treacherous body aching with regret even as she'd assured herself that she'd made the right choice, the moral choice. The
lonely
choice.

Smile cool, he came to the point. “I trust you are ready to begin our venture?”

“As ready as I shall ever be,” she answered with false brightness, vowing he'd never know how close she'd come to reconsidering—and accepting—his offer. Or what it had cost her to refuse. Remembering her manners, she added, “Pray take a seat.”