As Rich as a Rogue (31 page)

And don't miss the second book in the Rakes and Rogues series!

Bramwell Wesley Hallowsby missed the great love of his life because he was listening to the tale of his first kill. She was right in front of the inn in a blue dress and a bonnet with a matching ribbon. But his attention was on the inside as Dicky spoke of his Brave Deed. Not Bram's assassinations of vicious men and once of a woman spy, but his very first kill at the age of twelve.

It had been a rabid bear, according to Dicky, escaped from the local fair and still wearing a bright red and green ruffle around its neck. Horribly, this only made it more terrifying to the onlookers as the young Bram stepped forward to defend a child.

“A child?” gasped Dicky's wife, Clarissa. “Boy or girl?”

“Both!” cried Dicky, gesturing with his cheroot. “Twins with kittens. One in each hand and completely defenseless!”

That part was new. Last time it had been piglets. Bram looked out the inn window, idly scanning the street. Though Dicky had easily a dozen men who'd vowed to kill him, none of them would bestir themselves this far north of London. They were in Hull now, nearly to Scotland. If it hadn't been for Clarissa's tetchy stomach, they would be there, and he could get paid. That's all he wanted. To get them to Scotland so he could get paid.

He narrowed his eyes. There was a thick brute of a man coming toward them, but then the man stopped to talk to the woman in blue. The man bowed only slightly, then spent his time ogling the woman's impressive bodice. Bram labeled him the local lecher and let his attention wander back to Dicky.

“And there he stood, one tiny boy against a rabid bear,” continued Dicky as he patted the small treasure chest on his lap. The heavy thing must have flattened even Dicky's massive thighs, but the man would not give up his gold even to sit in an inn with his sick wife.

“Terrifying!” gasped Clarissa. She always gasped whenever she spoke. “Did it attack? Did it hurt you? Are there scars?”

Bram barely stopped himself from rubbing his forearm. He knew the shape and the texture of the scars there from memory. The origin of the bizarre tale that had become his legend.

“Horribly disfigured, my dear,” Dicky said, clearly gleeful at the thought. “You shan't see it, of course. He keeps it well covered.”

“Oh my!” Clarissa's eyes grew sultry. Then she pressed her sapphire necklace to her lips at such an angle that her husband wouldn't see her lick it. But Bram saw—as she had intended—and he idly wondered if he would take advantage of what was offered tonight. It wouldn't be the first time he had used his own mystique to open a woman's bedroom door. And Clarissa was stunningly beautiful, as was her husband. Of course, they were both rotten to the core.

As the bastard son of a duke, Bram had to make his own way through the world. Thanks to the connections of an elite education, he'd been able to hang on the outskirts of the moneyed
ton
, but it had cost him. Humiliation was the smallest price he'd had to pay as he played bodyguard and general strong arm for the peerage. He'd also had to split his mind into two pieces. One half hoped for goodness and beauty in the world. He couldn't shut it up no matter how he tried. The other half saw with clear, bitter eyes what went on and hated the world for the disappointment.

Meanwhile, Dicky continued the tale. “People were running about screaming, you understand. Everywhere was chaos as grown men dropped to their knees in terror. But not Bram. At the tender age of ten, he stood up for those poor children.”

“Ten? I thought you said he was twelve.”

Both husband and wife looked to Bram, and he knew they would stay like that until he answered. “Eleven,” he said, choosing to split the difference.

“Eleven then. But you'd just had the birthday, right?” Dicky asked.

“Right.” Wrong, but who was he to argue? Dicky was paying him to be mythic.

Something jerked in the window, and he glanced quickly back. It was the woman in blue as she'd twitched away from a grinning man. Oh. Likely she'd been pinched as she'd passed the thick-jowled man.

“The beast gave out a tremendous roar!” Dicky bellowed as he leaped to his feet, one arm holding his gold, the other waving about while his wife squealed in mock terror.

“Uh, Dicky, you really shouldn't be so loud…” began Bram, but he needn't have bothered.

The door to their private room burst open as the innkeeper rushed in. “My lords! My lady! What is amiss?”

Dicky let his arm drop, not even embarrassed. “I was being a bear, sir.”

The innkeeper was understandably flustered, and though Bram enjoyed a flustered innkeeper as much as the next man, he hardly thought it fair. But rather than point out Dicky's error—a sin for any paid servant—he redirected the man. “Have you got the posset yet? For my lady's stomach?”

“Oh, sir, not yet. But I've sent my son to find her—the woman I told you about—and not return until such time—”

“Oh, but I am so wretched!” gasped Clarissa as she pressed a limp hand to her brow, her sapphire earbobs waving wildly on their gold chains.

“A hot towel, milady? Perhaps a blanket?” Not much of the peerage traveled through here, and he was making the most of these two.

“I won't put you to the bother,” she said, her voice fading.

“But milady, if it would ease your suffering—”

“Tut tut,” Dicky interrupted, oblivious to his wife's need to be cosseted. “She said no. Get on with you. I was in the middle of my story.” Bram sighed. “Bring her hot stew.”

“I couldn't eat a thing,” Clarissa protested.

“You will,” he said, keeping his voice stern. She liked it when he was bold. Yes, her legs shifted restlessly, and she shot him another coy glance that made him vaguely nauseous.

The innkeeper's head bobbled yes as he rushed out the door in search of stew. Meanwhile, Dicky was annoyed that the attention had shifted off him. “Pay attention,” he ordered. “I was about to get to the good part.”

Pay attention to his own tale of derring-do? “Please, I adore this part,” he lied as he looked back out the window.

He saw a mob of boys—four of them—barely into their first beards. They were calling raucous comments aimed at the woman in blue. Really, why was she walking alone—moving from one house to the next to the next—seemingly unprotected by a husband, father, or brother? Didn't she know better than to tempt the locals to harangue her?

“The bear attacked!” Dicky cried dramatically. He roared again, and Clarissa squealed. “Bram pulled out his father's dueling pistol and shot it right in the muzzle! Bang!”

“Bang,” Clarissa echoed as she rubbed her thumb over and across the smallest sapphire in her necklace.

“And that, my dear, is the tale of how my dear Bram became the man he is today. And he will protect us, you see.” Dicky returned to his seat and curled his arm around the treasure chest. “If he could protect tiny children—”

“And their kittens! Don't forget the kittens!”

“And their kittens from a rabid bear, then…”

“Then we are safe with him.” Clarissa's gaze returned to him, her gaze growing more languid. “I feel so safe.”

Dicky frowned, his face turning red. On any other man, it would be a hideously florid look, but it only seemed to enhance Dicky's easy charm. “That's why I hired him, Clary. To make you feel safe.”

“You did a good job,” his wife said, her eyes not leaving Bram.

Bram pushed to his feet, needing to stretch his long legs. “You do know that story has grown over the years.”

“Tut tut,” Dicky said. “We all know it's true. Or most of it.”

Or none of it. When had his life become so absurd that he contemplated cuckolding a man—his employer—simply because he was bored? He despised himself, and by extension, he despised Dicky and Clarissa.

“There's no danger, Dicky. No one will chase you up here. They will ruin your reputation in town, destroy your financials simply because no one will do business with you, and certainly, you will never be invited to a
ton
party again. But there won't be a soul who offers you bodily harm.”

“Course not!” cried Dicky as he patted his treasure again. “That's because you're here. That's because I had the foresight to befriend you as a child. I knew then that you would protect me. I knew then that you were a man who could save me from those blackguards…”

Bram stopped listening and headed for the door. Dicky noticed about the time he stepped into the hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“To have a look about. Just in case.” It was a lie, but it was one that would satisfy Dicky, which would make sure he got paid when this was all done.

So he left the room, choosing to wander through the inn. He made it through the kitchen and out the back, to the garden behind with two lazy hounds dozing in the sun. And once outside, he took a deep breath of the summer air and a greedy look at the green land around him.

That was the life he wanted: stretched out in the sun like those hounds, with his eyes drooping shut, while a pup or three gamboled nearby. He saw no puppies, but he imagined them, and they made him smile.

Then he saw her. The woman in blue again, this time without anyone pinching or ogling her. The sight was striking enough, but then she paused under a tree, pulling off her bonnet to raise her face to what breeze could be had. Fine blond hair blew back from her cheeks, and her perfect bow of a mouth curved in delight. Beautiful. A country miss complete with a basket on her arm. Her lush, unspoiled beauty was the kind that could only grow in the wilds. In London, she would be painted and sullen, her body trussed into dresses that maximized assets and minimized flaws. But this woman had a simple gown, and while he watched, those puppies he'd imagined suddenly appeared. Four of them, barking and leaping from somewhere he couldn't see.

She smiled when she saw them, and then—to his shock—she laughed, so musical a sound that he was riveted. Bells could not have sounded so pure.

He was awed. It was his idealistic mind, he knew. The one that believed in unsullied beauty. She knelt down then, oblivious to the dirt that would coat her skirt, as she tickled the puppies, her laughter chiming in the air.

He found himself moving toward her without choosing to do so. He had no idea what to say to an innocent miss. He'd never known a woman who could be so sweet. And yet—

“Miss Bluebell! Miss Bluebell!”

A boy barely out of short pants came tearing around the corner. She looked up, her expression surprised as she held out her arms. He careened into them, so fast was he churning his short, stubby legs.

She said something too low for Bram to hear, especially as the boy kept talking right over her despite being short of breath. Rude brat.

“Da says…you come. Right away!”

At that moment, one of the puppies attacked the angel. It was nothing more than a growl and bite as it grabbed hold of her dress and shook. With a sharp word for the dog, she picked it up and took her time disentangling it from her skirt, but then the thing started licking her on the face.

He saw the wet tongue tasting her chin and neck. He heard her laugh, this time deeper—throatier—and he felt himself harden as he hadn't in years. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair now flying free as the dog laved her. His mouth was dry as he watched, and he abruptly thought of so many things, all dark and carnal.

“Miss Bluebell!” the child cried, and Bram wanted to spank the idiot child for drawing the woman's attention.
Don't look at him. Look at me!
The thought was bizarre in his mind, but it was no less loud.

The woman finally managed to pull the puppy away from her face. She must have said something because the boy nodded vigorously and pointed at the inn. At first Bram thought the child was directing her to look at him, but he soon realized the truth. Neither boy nor woman had seen him, and the disappointment of that was yet another shock. What was wrong with him?

Longtime fans will notice that the heroine of this book originally appeared in
Winning a Bride
as Megan Powel. Research after that ebook was published indicated that the name Megan didn't come into popular use until the twentieth century. Oops! So rather than perpetuate an error, I have changed her name in this book to Mari. Hopefully you can forgive me for this mistake.

USA Today
bestselling author Jade Lee has been scripting love stories since she first picked up a set of paper dolls. Ball gowns and rakish lords caught her attention early (thank you, Georgette Heyer), and her fascination with the Regency began. An author of more than fifty romance novels and winner of dozens of industry awards, Jade Lee delights readers with her vibrant, saucy Regency romances that deliver unusual stories with a lot of heart. Lee lives in Champaign, Illinois.