As Rich as a Rogue (30 page)

Mr. Camden glared at the newsprint and thought very unhappy thoughts. There in bold black and white was the announcement of the marriage between Lord Whitly and Miss Powel. According to the article, the couple were besotted with one another and were likely to have a glorious future, given that the Prince Regent himself had attended the festivities.

Some people were born lucky, he decided. Some people could defy custom and still succeed. She'd been labeled wayward, and had somehow become celebrated for it. He'd offended all decent thought by having his own father arrested for thievery, and emerged as a friend of the prince and a champion of justice. Even more lucky, Mr. Powel had tripled her dowry, thereby wiping out any financial concerns.

Of all the damned luck.

And to think it could have been his if only he'd been born lucky.

Mr. Camden reached for the gin bottle, only to remember that he no longer drank. He might be unlucky, but he'd learned from his mistakes, and a taste for gin was one of his biggest errors in judgment. Kissing her when he was three sheets to the wind ranked as his second stupidest mistake.

But without any gin to drink, he could only stare at the newspaper and hate his life. Which was when his door was unceremoniously opened by Ashley Tucker, Lord Rimbury.

“Capital day, isn't it?”

Mr. Camden blinked at the man. “It's raining.”

“I know,” Lord Rimbury said with a grin. “It's always dank in London, and I love it. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm—”

“I know who you are. How did you get in here?” Why the bloody hell did they pay the gents to mind the front door when they never bloody minded the front door?

“Don't blame them. I told them I was expected.”

Mr. Camden pushed to his feet. The last thing he wanted was another bleeding nob in obviously new togs messing about in his office. He simply wasn't in the mood. “Well, you weren't expected. And you aren't—”

“I understand from the new Lady Whitly that you're an honest man of sterling reputation and learned political opinion. That with the right opportunity, you could have a very bright political future. And that, most important, your sentiments on a variety of issues exactly coincide with my own.”

Mr. Camden frowned at the man, his hostility starting to fade beneath the glimmer of a possibly lucky star. “That all depends on what you want me to do in return for this opportunity.”

“I wish you to be honest. If you think Lord Whitly was extreme in gaoling his own father, I assure you that I would do nothing so public, but three times as deadly should I find you to be less than a sterling man of honor.”

Camden swallowed, knowing from the pressures of the last few months that any man could crumble in his ideals. Truthfully, in his more honest moments with himself, he wondered exactly what he would have done at Rossgrove's behest. If things had gone differently with Miss Powel, would he right now be feeling caught between his patron and his morals?

“I find, my lord, that like any man, my feet are made of clay, but that I endeavor daily to ennoble them.”

“Hmmm, now that was an honest answer. Rather refreshing, I might add.” Lord Rimbury dislodged a stack of papers and settled into a seat. “Now, let us see if we do, in fact, align on salient matters. Shall we start with tariffs? What is your opinion on them?”

Mr. Camden leaned back in his chair and began to speak. He began with the most simplistic of statements, but soon discovered that Lord Rimbury had a sharp mind and was impatient with simple answers. What he loved most was learning something new, especially when statements were supported with fact, and seeing if Mr. Camden ever wavered in his thoughts.

Which meant that their discussion begun in the early afternoon soon became a lively debate that wound into a very exciting opportunity under the light of some very lucky stars.

Perhaps, he thought, he might not be born lucky, but between Miss Powel and Lord Rimbury, he might just have found his way there. Except for one very simple, very obvious fact.

“All this is very exciting,” he said over the plain fish dinner they'd shared at the nearest tavern. “But it also requires blunt.”

“And I don't have any?” Lord Rimbury challenged.

Mr. Camden shrugged. “Your new clothes are nice, but that won't hide what everybody knows: Your purse is near empty.”

“Very true. It was.”

Mr. Camden perked up. “Was?” he asked.

“I've recently accepted a job, you see. One that has already turned lucrative.” His voice trailed away suggestively.

“You have the blunt for this?”

“Not me. Not exactly.” He leaned forward. “But my employer does. And together we have some very exciting ideas that can include you.”

“And who, exactly, is your employer?”

Lord Rimbury grinned. “You haven't guessed? It's Mr. Powel.”

Of course it was. And right there was when Camden understood his largest and most obvious mistake. He'd been courting the girl, looking to advance the old way: through marriage and patronage. But with the way things were swinging in the world, there was a new order coming. And that was by way of new money, new jobs, and new lucky stars.

“I'm listening,” Mr. Camden said. “What do you have in mind?”

An hour later, he knew the truth. It had been the luckiest day in his life when he'd set out to court Miss Mari Powel. He just hadn't expected that she would be the smallest part of his bright new future.

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Make a plan, be sure of it, and do not deviate.

There are certain things a woman knows. She knows what the weather will be based on how easily her hair settles into the pins. She knows when the cook has quarreled with the butler by the taste of the morning eggs. And she knows when a man will completely upset her day.

And right now, that man was walking up her front drive as easy as if he expected to be welcomed.

Melinda Smithson bolted out of her bedroom where she'd been fighting with her curls—again—and rushed downstairs. “I'm just going for a quick walk!” she said much too brightly to their butler as she made it to the front door. Rowe hadn't even the time to reach for her gloves when she snatched her gardening bonnet off the table and headed outside. She had to get to the odious man before he rounded the rock and came into view from her father's laboratory. If her papa saw him, she would be done for. So she ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

She rounded the bend at the same moment he arrived at the rock. One step more, and she was doomed.

“Oh no, Mr. Anaedsley. Not today. You cannot come here today.” She said the words breathlessly, but she punctuated with a severe tug on her bonnet. So hard, in fact, that three pins dug painfully into her scalp.

Mr. Anaedsley had been whistling, but now he drew up short. “You've punched your thumb through your bonnet.” He spoke with a charming smile that made her grind her teeth in frustration. Everything about the man was charming, from his reddish-brown hair to the freckles that dotted his cheeks to the rich green of his eyes. An annoyance dressed as a prince of the realm, for all that he had no courtesy title. He was the son and heir of the Duke of Timby, and she hated him with a passion that bordered on insanity.

Unfortunately, he was right. She'd punched her thumb clean through the straw brim of her bonnet.

“Yes, I have,” she said as she stepped directly in front of him. He would not pass around the rock. He simply wouldn't. “And that is one more crime I lay at your feet.”

“A crime?” he replied. “To poke a hole in that ugly thing? Really, Miss Smithson, I call it more a mercy. The sun should not shine on something that hideous.”

It was hideous, which was why it was her gardening bonnet. “The sun is not supposed to shine on my face either, so it is this ugly thing or stay inside.”

“Come now, Miss Smithson,” he said as he held out his arm to escort her. “I am well aware that you have dozens of fetching bonnets—”

“But this was the one at hand.” She ignored his arm and stared intimidatingly at him. Or at least she tried to. But he was a good six inches taller than her. Average for a man, but for her he was quite the perfect height. Not too tall as to dwarf her, but large enough to be handsome in his coat of bottle-green superfine. It brought out his eyes, which were made all the more stunning by the sunlight that shone full on his face.

“Shall we amble up your beautiful drive and fetch you a pretty bonnet?”

“No, Mr. Anaedsley, we shall not. Because you shall not come to the house today. Any other day, you will be very welcome. But not today.”

His brows drew together in worry. “Is your father ill? Is there something amiss? Tell me, Miss Smithson. What can I do to help?”

It was the right thing to say. Of course it was because he
always
knew the right thing to say. Her father's health was precarious these days, a cough plaguing him despite all attempts to physic him. She might have ignored his words as simple politeness, but she saw genuine worry in his eyes. She couldn't help but soften toward him.

“Papa is the same as before. It's worst at night—”

“The gypsy tincture didn't help then.” He took her arm and gently eased her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her fingers were placed there before she even realized it. “I'll ask a doctor friend I know as soon as I return to London. He may—”

She dug in her feet, tugging backward on his arm. He raised a perfect eyebrow in query, but she flashed him a warm smile. “An excellent idea. You should go there right now. In fact, pray fetch the doctor here.”

His eyebrows rose in alarm. “I shall write down the man's direction and a message. You can send a footman—”

“No, sir. You must go yourself. Right now. It is most urgent.”

He flashed her his dimple. Damn him for having such a very attractive dimple. “Now why do I get the feeling that you're trying to rush me away?”

“Because the first thing I said to you was go away!”

He cocked his head, and his expression grew even more delightful. She would swear she saw a twinkle in his eyes. “Miss Smithson, I thought you were a scientist. The first thing you said to me was, ‘Oh no, Mr. Anaedsley, not today.'”

“Well, there you have it. Go away. We are not receiving callers.”

And then, just to make a liar of her, her uncle's carriage trotted up the path. Four horses—matched chestnuts—stepping smartly as they pulled her uncle's polished, gilded monstrosity. And inside waving cheerily was her cousin Ronnie. Half cousin, actually, and she waved halfheartedly at the wan fop.

“It appears, Miss Smithson, that we have been spotted. I'm afraid politeness requires that I make my bow.”

“No, we haven't!” She'd used the distraction to pull them back from the rock. They were, in fact, completely shielded from all windows of the Smithson residence including the laboratory. “Ronnie doesn't count. And he certainly doesn't care if you greet him or not. The most powerful snub only seems to inspire him to greater heights of poetry.”

“A poet is he?”

“Yes,” she groaned. “A good one too.” Which made it all the worse.

“Ah. Your suitor, I assume?”

“Suitor” was too simple a word for her relationship with Ronnie, which involved a lot of private family history. “He's my cousin. Well, half cousin, as my father and uncle had different mothers. But he has convinced himself that we are fated to be wed.”

“And as a practical woman of science, you do not believe in fate.”

She didn't believe in a lot of things, but at the top of the list was Ronnie's fantasy. He thought fate had cast them as prince and princess in a make-believe future. She thought her cousin's obsession with her silly at best, but more likely a dark and dangerous thing. “I do not wish to wed the man,” she said baldly.

“Well, the solution is obvious then, isn't it? I shall join you today as an afternoon caller, and Ronnie will not be able to press his suit upon you.”

“That would be lovely,” she said sourly, “if you actually did as you say. But we both know what will really happen.”

“We do?” he countered, all innocence.

She tossed him her most irritated, ugly, and angry look, but it did absolutely nothing to diminish his smile. “Oh leave off, Mr. Anaedsley, I haven't the time for it today.”

“But—” he began. She roughly jerked her hand from his arm and stepped away to glare at him.

“Five minutes after greeting everyone, my father will be excited to learn about your latest experiment.”

“Actually, it is your father's experiment. I only execute the task he requests—”

“Two minutes after that,” she continued as if he hadn't spoken, “the two of you will wander off to his laboratory. Uncle will follow, and I shall be left alone. With Ronnie.” She spoke her cousin's name as she might refer to one of her father's experiments gone horribly wrong.

“Perhaps your uncle will remain—”

“Uncle desires the union above all things.”

Clearly, she'd flummoxed him. He didn't even bother denying his plan to disappear with her father. And yet the more she glared at him, the more his expression shifted to one of charming apology. That was always the way with him. She'd even taken to calling him Lord Charming in her thoughts, and as she was not a woman prone to fairy tales, the name was not a positive one.

“I see your problem, Miss Smithson,” he finally said. “Unfortunately, when I said we had been spotted, I wasn't referring to your half cousin.”

She blinked. “What?”

His eyes lit up with genuine warmth as he gestured behind her. Then, before she could spin around, he opened his arms in true delight.

“Mr. Smithson, how absolutely wonderful to see you out and about. Why your daughter was just telling me that she feared for your existence. Was begging me to bring in a London physician—”

“What?” her father said as he strolled down the drive toward them. “Mellie, I've told you I'm right as rain.”

“Papa? Where did you come from?”

“Down at Mr. Wilks's barn. Been looking at the sheep to see if the lice powder worked.”

Damn it all! She should have known he'd be inspecting the neighbor's sheep. They were the subjects of his current experiment, after all. And naturally he'd be there instead of in his lab where he'd
promised
to look at what she'd done. “But you have been ill,” she said, rather than snap at him for ignoring her latest chemical experiment. “You complain of the rain. It makes your joints ache.”

“Well, that's what old men do, my dear.” Then her papa turned to Lord Charming and embraced him as if the man were a lost son. It had always been this way between them, starting from when her father had been Mr. Anaedsley's tutor more than a decade ago. The two adored each other, and it was so pure a love that she couldn't even be jealous of it.

Well, she
shouldn't
be jealous, but she was. Especially as she knew that her plans for the day were doomed. The two would go off with her uncle and leave her with Ronnie. And worse, the main purpose of the day—the sole reason she had asked for her uncle and cousin to visit this afternoon—was completely destroyed.

And it was all Mr. Anaedsley's fault.