As Rich as a Rogue (24 page)

Those words echoed in his mind. He could say them aloud and press the point. What decent man would have her then—heiress or not—if they knew she was no longer a virgin?

But he couldn't force her. As desperate as he was, he couldn't use what they'd shared last night to drag her into his arms. It would destroy what little affection she still had for him. So he stepped forward, and because she was sitting and staring at the floor, he dropped to his knees before her.

Never had he thought to humble himself this way before a woman, but he did it without more than a passing thought. He took her face in his hands and searched her gaze. He saw anger flashing in her eyes. Nothing so lackluster as pain from Mari Powel. It was only the exhaustion of a night spent awake that kept her from slapping his hands away.

“You love me,” he said firmly, willing it to be so. She would not have gone to his bed if she did not. “The circumstances of how and why your heart found me are of no import. You love me, and we will be happy together.”

He thought to see her heartbreak ease. Was that not what all women wanted? A sure knowledge that their future was safe? That they would have a man who cherished them and would see to their happiness? But her expression did not settle. It crumpled into dismay, while tears pooled and dropped, one by one, down her cheeks.

He drew back, confused. “Mari—” he began, but she shook her head, pulling away from his touch.

“I don't love you,” she whispered. And lest he think she was lying, the pure torment in her expression told him it was the truth. “I love what you want to accomplish. I love that I could help you. But now I don't even know who you are. Oh God, another fortune hunter!” she cried.

“Mari—”

She broke away, shoving to her feet in a clumsy display. Her sobs choked her, and she gasped even as she ran from him. He tried to catch her. He gripped her skirt as she stumbled away, but she tugged hard, and the fabric began to rip. He could not accost the woman. Not here on the floor of her father's library. He could not grab her and drag her to his rooms where he could hold her until she grew calm enough to converse.

So he let her go, though his left hand was already reaching for her even as the right released her gown.

“Mari, wait!” he repeated, but she was already fumbling with the latch. A moment later, she was gone, and two footmen were staring in at him, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.

“Well, that's a damned mess,” Mr. Powel said behind him.

Yes, it was. Peter pushed to his feet and dusted off his clothing. What more could he do, with the footmen staring and her parents looking at him with enough sympathy to make his pride churn? He was the heir to an earldom, for God's sake. How dare two well-heeled cits look at him like he stood before them begging in rags?

Meanwhile, Mrs. Powel folded her hands together in her lap and shook her head. “Lord Whitly, I cannot understand what has occurred this night, nor do I approve.”

And now he would have to make apologies, damn it. To the mother with her pursed lips and her tight fists. “Your daughter does not know her own mind,” he said curtly.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Mari has always known her own
mind
. It's all the other things she muddles up.”

His gaze jerked to her face, wondering if there was meaning in there, but he was too tired to understand it. And he kept thinking that he heard Mari. A footstep on the stairs. A thump in the room above them. Something that would tell him what she was doing. Was she calming enough to think? Was she cursing his name? Did she regret how he'd touched her last night? It distracted him and left his head thick, his chest tight.

“Lord Whitly!” Mrs. Powel's voice cut through his thoughts. He blinked and refocused, startled to realize that he'd been looking out the doorway.

“Lady Illston's ball is in two nights. No matter what else happens, Mari will not miss that night. She has spent weeks training that bird, and even in a temper, she will not cry off your wager. I suggest you resolve your difficulties.” She gestured impatiently to the rolled map of London. “Whatever it is, see it done. And then think hard what you will say to her in two nights. I will be sure that she attends.”

He looked at her, his mind churning slowly. Resolve a criminal parent. Put a thieving ring in gaol. And then find a way to woo the woman of his heart, when a month of steady courtship had yielded nothing but…

But one night when she might have conceived his child.

It was a measure of his desperation that he wanted that as a way to force her hand. “I never thought I would have to work so hard for the woman of my choosing,” he mused absently.

Mr. Powel snorted. “Not for those timid English chits. But you picked a Welsh girl with fire in her. Of course she'll lead you a merry dance.”

Peter gathered the pieces of his thoughts. “You'll still consider my hand for her? The marriage contract will be—”

“I'll set it out fairly for you. Had one drafted just yesterday.” He walked around his desk and pulled a stack of papers out of his top drawer. “I already knew you hadn't much padding in your pocket, though I don't like what I've learned about your father.”

Neither did Peter, but that was a problem left for later in the day. “I'd keep her safe from the earl.”

Mrs. Powel sighed. “But not the scandal. You could never keep the scandal quiet.”

No, he couldn't. But in this, Mr. Powel came to his rescue with a grumbled, “Tut tut. Wagging tongues only make a difference if you haven't the money. You've a good head. If you deal honestly with me, I'll see your coffers recover. But you have to handle your father first.” His eyes narrowed. “Will you need men for tomorrow night?”

Peter shook his head. That at least he'd figured out while talking with Tie. “I'll see to my father's affairs.”

“I'll keep Tie here and talking with no one.” He passed over the draft of the marriage contract.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter answered. Then he bowed to Mrs. Powel. “Madam.”

“My lord,” she returned, giving him her hand.

He finished the leave-taking, wondering how it was that he—the son of an earl—was grateful that two cits of heretofore questionable reputation could be so polite to him. They were treating him gently, when he had lied about his pocket and seduced their daughter after involving her in a tavern brawl.

But that was a thought for another time. First he had to find Ash and the constable, capture the thieves, and teach a damned parakeet something else to say. Something that wasn't going to get him kicked in the teeth in front of the entire
ton
. He caught a hackney and settled into it wearily. Then his gaze fell on Mr. Powel's document. He had no time to study the thing now. Mari's dowry was the smallest of his concerns, and in truth, he would take her without one, though how he would support her was another question.

And then he began to read.

Five minutes later, he was laughing hard enough to make his sides hurt. It wasn't funny. Nothing about this day was funny, but it was either that or sob like a tiny boy in leading strings. Because he finally understood just how deep he had fallen into disaster.

Mari always cried in private. It was a weakness of hers that she could never manage the tragic tears of so many stage heroines. A wilting facade or an elegant expression of dismay were beyond her.

No, when she cried, it was in a gasping, retching, oozing display. She had to muffle her voice in a pillow or alert the entire neighborhood. She had to cover that pillow with a rag to sop up the mess. And she had to wail so completely that when her body finally gave up the grief, she was head-sore and nauseated for at least a day afterward.

So she was upstairs, sobbing in a disgusting display, while the same litany of sentences whirled through her brain.

1. Lord Whitly was a fortune hunter, and she would marry no such man.

2. Peter was a liar and a fraud, and she would marry no such man.

3. He was a tender lover, who had shown her such wonderful things, and that was after her adventure by the docks. In a few short weeks, he had expanded her world a thousandfold, and the idea that she would not marry him left her gasping and retching against her pillow.

4. She might marry a man—even a fortune hunter—if she loved him. But she did not love him.

Then she'd sob again before the litany restarted. She tried to distract herself. She tried to break the endless spin of statements with questions. Why didn't she love him? Why, after all they had done, didn't she worship the ground he walked upon? Why did her heart not pound the word “love” a thousand times whenever she thought of him?

If she knew in her soul that he was the only man for her, then she could forgive the lie about his money. She could convince herself not to care that he only wanted her dowry. She could do all those things if only she could think of him and feel that wave of adoration that women had for their true love.

But what she felt now was anger, wretchedness, and of course, that burning, hateful betrayal. He had lied to her. And he had crept into her house as a thief to steal things.

“I hate him,” she said into her pillow. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”

Except that wasn't true. She didn't know how she felt about him. Which brought her back to the first statement again. Lord Whitly was a fortune hunter, and she would marry no such man.

So the cycle repeated until exhaustion claimed her and she slept.

She woke hours later. One glance outside told her it was late evening. Had she slept the day through? What of her calls and the ball tonight? What of a visit to Lady Eleanor to scream out her frustration? But she'd slept the day through. One glance at the clock told her she could manage one event if she hurried, but she had no desire to be seen tonight, much less pursue another husband candidate. Not with her eyes still burning and her mouth like foul cotton. Best to stay home and handle her correspondence. Or rewrite her lists. Or read a book.

Or stare into the coals and cry some more. Fat tears that leaked silently down her cheeks. Which was how she occupied the next hour. Heavens, what a miserable bungler she was.

Sometime around eight, Mama came to visit. She brought Mari a plate of fruit and cheese. She talked about how boring tonight's soiree would be and that Mari was smart to miss it. They didn't speak of Lord Whitly, and for that Mari was grateful. Instead, her mother picked up her rewritten requirements for a husband and shook her head.

“No fortune hunter” was underlined this time and written in all capital letters. Mama pursed her lips, then set the page back down.

“Get some rest, darling,” she said as she patted Mari's hand. “Perhaps you will think more clearly in the morning.”

“I'm already thinking clearly,” she said, though she winced at the peevish note in her voice. “That's why I wrote out the list again.”

“Oh yes,” her mother said dryly. “Isn't it lovely how everything in life can be boiled down to a number in a column or an ordered list of requirements?”

Mari didn't bother arguing. Her mother might be able to wander easily through life without the doubts and confusion that plagued Mari. Mama always knew that Papa was her true love. Her flexibility and his business brilliance made them a perfect pair and fully capable of managing the turmoil that came their way.

But Mari was of a weaker sort. Without the black-and-white letters on a page, a steady list of what was important and what was not, she found herself wandering off into the wilds of confusion. She might, for example, end up in a bar fight or making love in a liar's bed. These lists were her touchstone, and she would not abandon them now, when she felt most at sea.

Her mother watched her face closely, clearly waiting for something. But in the end, she shook her head. “You are so much like your father.”

“You love my father,” Mari returned, the words a smidge too defensive.

“I do indeed,” Mama said as she pressed a kiss to Mari's forehead. “And I love you, my dear. I just wish that some part of you would look to your heart instead of your head.”

“My heart has ever steered me wrong.”

“That's because you're not experienced in listening to it. But practice makes perfect, you know.”

Mari smoothed out the edge of the newest list. “I shall lead with my strengths, Mama. Now is not the time to bolster a weakness.”

Her mother straightened with a sigh. “I shall never win an argument with you. You have too much logic.” Then she kissed her child good-bye before setting out. And while Mari continued to stare at the dying coals, the rest of the house settled into night.

The doors were shut, the curtains drawn. The servants who lived elsewhere gathered their coats and departed. She even heard Horace bid the cook a good night. And as the minutes ticked by, Mari began to think. Instead of worrying over her conflicted feelings and the steady path of logic, she wandered through the other things that had happened. Most important, she focused on Tie. What exactly did he know? And what had he told Peter and her father?

Once the questions hit, the answers quickly became important to her. It didn't take long for her to realize that it would be easy to learn the truth. Ten minutes later, she was dressed and headed to the kitchen for a treat. Even if Tie had been well fed this day, little boys could always be tempted with a sweet.

An hour later, she had all the information she needed. And a new plan as well.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ash's voice whispered through the shadows in the alleyway, mixing with the rustle of rats and the smell of piss.

Peter glared at the silhouette of his friend. Of course he was sure. No, he wasn't at all sure. Good God, was this the biggest mistake of his life? But it had to be done. So he put a finger to his mouth to demand silence, then he scanned the darkness wishing he could see something on this blighted foggy night.

Nothing.

He knew that somewhere the constable waited with three of his most trusted men. Also in the darkness were two of Ash's favorite “footmen.” Big men with scarred faces who were comfortable with weapons and had never, ever worn Ash's livery.

All of those men were well back from the narrow street they watched. Ash and he were the only two he'd allowed to slip close to this lonely stretch of London, if any part of the city could be called lonely.

He knew the attack would come soon. A boy had come through earlier, scampering up to extinguish the gas lamps. With the fog rolling in, the air felt like a thick pea soup that stank of fish.

That was when he heard it. A low grumble and a heavy thud like the blow of a big fist. A boy cried out, and there might have been sniffling. That told Peter that Silas was also waiting in the fog, probably farther down the street. Likely one of the boys had gotten restless and received a fist as discipline. Damnation, the waiting was interminable.

To his left, he heard Ash shuffle uncomfortably. A drip splattered across his brow, and he impatiently wiped it away.

And they waited.

Twenty minutes later came the sound of horses' hooves on cobblestones, the creak of wheels, and the groan of a harness. Turning toward the sound, Peter thought he saw the steady glow of lanterns.

“Idiot,” murmured Ash, and Peter couldn't help but agree.

Lord Mooney had chosen the dark of a foggy night to transport his chest of gold from the docks to the London bank. A few well-placed questions had told Peter that the man had convinced the banker to receive the money in the dead of night, because he thought it was safer than in the light of a busy day.

Then, to make sure he was fully intimidating, the man had chosen his own carriage—complete with insignia emblazoned on the side—and outfitted it with two sharpshooters. That might have been smart if the men could see anything in this fog. They couldn't. And then—as if to fully prove his idiocy—he'd added lanterns to the vehicle, presumably to help the sharpshooters. Instead, the lights simply marked them as targets.

No wonder the earl felt no guilt about these thefts. He probably reasoned that a man this stupid didn't deserve to keep his gold.

Peter waited in silence, his fingers itching to do something, his toes curling and uncurling in his boots simply out of nerves. But he held himself still, and eventually the carriage made its way into the narrow gauntlet between a pair of dilapidated warehouses.

“Now,” barked Silas, his voice crystal clear through the fog.

Rocks pelted the lanterns. Two were well aimed, and the things shattered instantly. The other two had to be pelted multiple times, and at least one of the sharpshooters cursed as he no doubt got hit hard by a rock. Within moments, the last two went dark, leaving the only light from the lantern inside the carriage.

The driver cried out; then there was a strangled gasp and a heavy thud. Shots exploded from the carriage. The sharpshooters fought back, but there was little chance anything was hit beyond the cobblestones. It was just too dark.

Next came the scream of a horse and the sound of a heavy mallet hitting wood. If only he could see. Beside him, Peter felt Ash stir uncomfortably. He understood the reason. It was bad enough to wait for an idiot to get robbed, but to sit still while a driver and his horses were damaged was beyond excruciating. Fortunately, it didn't take long.

A moment later, he heard the carriage door pull open, spilling light into the fog. The angle was wrong, tilted forward and down. That heavy mallet sound must have been against the wheel, breaking it enough that the carriage lurched awkwardly forward.

Meanwhile, two shots rang out, but they must not have found their mark, because Silas's voice came loud and clear. And only a few feet in front of Peter and Ash.

“'Ey now, no cause for that. I got lots o' men willing to pepper yer insides. I can get the gold from your dead body as easily as from yer live one.”

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” squeaked a terrified man.

“I'm afraid they cain't, m'lord. I've got their guns.”

Not to mention, everyone was still standing in the dark except for the gaunt and damned young face of Lord Mooney's eldest son. The boy was crouching inside the carriage. Jesus, he couldn't be more than nineteen.

“I'll never give it up!” the boy cried as he held out a pistol in a shaking hand.

Bloody idiot! He was going to die. Peter pushed forward—Ash a bare second behind him—but they needn't have worried. Before they could go more than a step, a weathered hand pulled the boy's pistol away. It came from a man inside the carriage. He'd been sitting twisted around so he wouldn't be visible from the open door. But his words were clear enough as he spoke.

“Don't be daft. They've got us surrounded, and we're sitting here like a bloody beacon.”

Peter exhaled in relief. A voice of reason. Likely the ship's captain and a man experienced in violence. A moment later, his assessment proved correct as the man addressed Silas.

“I've got what you want right here.”

“No!” squeaked the boy.

“But I need to be sure my men and his lordship are safe.”

Silas released a dark chuckle. “Who knows? London's a dangerous city, especially at night.” Peter moved silently forward.

“I still got my pistols, and I can shoot whoever comes near.”

Silas didn't bother to answer. Instead, Peter saw the dark silhouette in front of him lift an arm. Then there was a bright flash as he fired, putting a hole straight through the side of the carriage.

That was it for Peter. Silas probably hadn't been aiming at anything in particular, but a shot from this distance could hit anyone. All he'd been waiting for was the proof of deadly intent.

And there it was.

So he sprang forward. Silas hadn't been expecting an attack, certainly not from behind. Peter tackled the villain quickly, knocking the pistol away then kicking the heavy mallet aside. But it was a
heavy
mallet, and it didn't go far. Silas wheeled around, but Peter had the upper hand. He didn't worry about other attackers. He knew from experience that Ash would keep off anyone coming to Silas's aid.

The scuffle was quick. Within moments, Peter had the bastard subdued, though cursing enough to burn his ears. Then he called out in a strong voice.

“Constable? Have you caught the others?”

“Some,” came the response as the man lit a lantern and set it on the ground. In the pool of light, Peter saw a couple of lanky adolescents struggling in the grip of larger men. “The little 'uns are quick little buggers.”

Yes, the younger boys would have melted into the fog like water. Meanwhile, Lord Mooney's boy was peering owlishly out at the darkness.

“What's happening? What's going on?”

“Just a moment, sir,” Peter said. “I'm with the constable, and we have been tracking this gang for a while now. Let us mop them up, and you'll be on your way.”

“But the carriage—” the boy squeaked.

The captain's voice interrupted. “I'm grateful, sir. We'll be quiet in here, though I wouldn't mind a word from my men.”