The Millionaire Rogue (20 page)

City of London
Fleet Street

S
tanding with both hands on the desk, Hope stared at the open ledger and swallowed the panic that threatened to choke him.

Five more investors had sold their Hope & Co. shares, causing the price to plummet; a dozen or more depositors had pulled their funds from the bank, leaving his liquid assets dangerously low.

Another week like this, and he'd be through by month's end. The bank for which he'd sacrificed everything would no longer be solvent; he'd be as poor and disheartened as he was when he first arrived in London nearly a decade ago.

Hope glanced at the pile of newspapers beside the ledger. The news certainly didn't help. No matter his entreaties, the bribes he offered, Hope's friends at the papers printed headline after headline about the disappearance of the French Blue. The public, they said, couldn't get enough of the story: a cursed jewel, thieved in the midst of the season's most lavish ball—for an editor, it was the stuff of dreams.

Hope pushed aside the papers, tugged the spectacles from his head. He had to find the diamond, now more than ever. The Earl of Harclay was the thief, of that he had no doubt; but Lake's scheme to take back the stone, whatever it was, didn't seem to be working. If only Hope could get his hands on that bastard the earl—

Hope's head snapped to attention as the doors at the far end of the room were flung open, revealing the tall, broad figure of none other than Lord William Townshend, the Earl of Harclay.

Speak of the devil, Hope thought wryly, and he doth appear.

The earl's face was hard; Hope could tell the man's immaculate sense of self-control was on the verge of breaking.

Neither man made any pretense of greeting the other; Hope did not bow, and without so much as a how do you do, Harclay began speaking.

“I need to make a withdrawal. And quickly.”

A withdrawal? For what?
Perhaps Lake's scheme
was
working.

Though that didn't make Harclay's demand sting any less.

Rage, hot and sudden, burned through Hope. He rose, his eyes never leaving the earl's. His voice, when he spoke, was deadly quiet. “I assume you've seen the papers?”

The earl's face darkened. “I don't have time for this. I don't mean to be rude, Hope—”

“Eight days. I've been in the headlines for eight days straight. Each headline worse than the last; by now all of London must think me a brainless buffoon. Never mind the success of my business before the French Blue incident. Now I am being judged on one bloody night of theatrics; a drop in the proverbial bucket, as they say. And my business—it has suffered greatly, Harclay.” Hope balled his hands into fists. “Greatly indeed.”

To Hope's very great satisfaction, he saw the earl's dark eyes flash with pain. “I understand your frustration, Hope.”

His rage pulsed hotter. “I don't think you do. You see, when Lady Violet came to me with her little theory about you being the thief, I very nearly dismissed her out of hand. Why would Lord Harclay do such a thing, I thought, and to me of all people? I've guarded his investment, shown him generous returns.”

Hope knew this was his chance; his chance to pressure the earl into giving up the diamond. If he froze Harclay's accounts at the bank—accounts that held virtually all the Townshend family fortune—perhaps the earl, unable to pay so much as the grocer's bill, might be convinced to hand over the French Blue.

It was the only card Hope had to play.

And he wasn't about to pass up his chance to play it.

“But we've no other suspects, you see,” he continued. “And as I've watched my clients vanish, scared off by my seeming incompetence, as I've watched the value of my company plummet—well, I need someone to blame. And I'm afraid that someone is you.”

Understanding, swift and terrible, raced across the earl's expression. Hope could tell the man had begun to panic.

Good. Let the son of a bitch suffer.

Now he knows how I have felt all this time.

The earl made no move to deny the accusation. Lady Violet had been right all along.

The Earl of Harclay was the thief.

“Please, Hope, listen to me. I'll give you anything, anything at all, but it is imperative that I make this withdrawal, or Vio—”

“No.”

The Earl drew back in shock. Now this—
this
was good sport. Watching Harclay flail about in distress was the best bit of theater Hope had seen in years.

“No? What do you mean,
no
? I've well over a hundred thousand at this bank, and I demand access to those funds!”

“I've frozen your accounts until the French Blue is returned to me. You'll not see a bloody penny before, mark my words. And if you did not steal my diamond yourself, as you claim, then this shall certainly prove motivation for you to help us find the man who did.”

Harclay drew back, eyes wide. For a moment Hope wondered why the earl needed the money, and what he intended to do with it; clearly the man was desperate. Had it been Violet's name on his tongue before Hope had interrupted him?

Hope shook the thoughts from his head. He had no sympathy for this miscreant or his troubles. Hope had plenty enough of his own.

The earl was shouting now, red-faced, eyes murderous. “I need that money. Seventy-five pounds, and I swear I shan't ask for more until the diamond is found. I'm in trouble, and so is Lady—”

“That's your problem.” Hope felt his limbs begin to shake with anger. “Now get out of my bank before I summon my men.”

Harclay crossed the room in two impatient strides. Hope did not draw back; he met the earl face-to-face, so close he thought for a moment Harclay might butt him in the head.

“If you do this, Hope, you'll have blood on your hands.”

Hope called for his men, who materialized out of the shadows at Harclay's side. A man reached for his arm, but the earl flung him off, violence in his every movement.

He jabbed his finger into Hope's chest. “You'll regret this, Hope.”

*   *   *

T
he poet in Hope had a feeling blood would be spilled this night. Watching a yellow moon rise high over the sprawling expanse of London, that vaguely familiar spider of suspicion had crawled up his back as he stood out on his terrace.

Since that night he sent La Reinette from London, he had no word from her. Cassin, it seemed, disappeared just as quickly as he arrived; Hope wondered what that bastard was waiting for, what tricks he kept hidden up his sleeve. The thought of him ever hurting Sophia, of ruining her and her family, made Hope's blood rush with rage.

What if Cassin planned to make his move tonight?

What if that move meant taking Sophia, holding her hostage, revealing her secrets, going so far as to bodily harm her or her family?

His rage burned so hot for a moment it blinded him.

It was Wednesday, which meant that Sophia and her family would be at Almack's.

Gah, Hope hated Almack's.

But not as much as he hated Cassin; hated the thought of Sophia tangled in his web of treachery, of violence.

In a rather Shakespearean state of mind, what with the blood and the spider and the moon, Hope stalked through the French doors into his office. He slipped the bejeweled Italian dagger into his waistcoat pocket and called for his coach.

H
aving secured the affections of this season's most eligible bachelor, Sophia thought she might loathe attending Almack's a little less. Perhaps—dare she even hope such a thing!—she might even begin to
enjoy
it. The marquess, in all his sideburned, shiny-booted glory, showered her with attention, and filled her dance card with his name.

And truth be told, she did enjoy his company. He was as charming as ever, introducing her to family and friends as they trolled arm in arm through the crush. It was half past nine and already the Assembly Rooms were humid with laughter, sweat, and swearing; the marquess navigated it all with an ease peculiar to those with blessed births and noble blood.

In that moment, Sophia was possessed of everything she'd ever wanted. A marquess on her arm, a new gossamer gown on her shoulders; the promise of a glittering future and a fortune to go with it.

But the jealous stares and whispers of her fellow debutantes left her feeling hollow and vaguely embarrassed; it was not at all the satisfaction she'd been craving since she was old enough to know what a season was. And while her affection for the marquess grew, it was a companionable, rather than romantic, sort of affection. The kind she felt for Cousin Violet and Fitzhugh; the kind indulged over tea and charades and gossip.

The kind that had nothing at all to do with love.

The dancing was about to begin. Across the ballroom, Violet and that devil the earl were already paired up, her color high as he brushed his lips to her ear. A wave of longing washed through Sophia as she watched them. The earl touched Violet confidently, adoringly, as if he understood her inside and out. Violet appeared at once flattered and flabbergasted by his affection.

If Sophia didn't know any better, she would say her cousin was in love.

She bit the inside of her lip, smiling tightly as the marquess introduced her to yet another of his classmates from Oxford.

She wished Hope were here, so that he might touch her like the earl touched Violet. Because Thomas's touch was confident and adoring, too. The best kind of touch.

And then, over the Oxford classmate's spindly shoulder, Violet caught sight of a familiar head of dark, unruly curls.

It can't be, not now, not tonight.
What the devil is he doing at Almack's?

As if in answer to her wish, Thomas Hope appeared. Something unfurled inside her as she looked into those blue eyes of his. Her heart began to pound, and without willing it her smile grew.

The master of the dance was calling for a cotillion; Withington abruptly turned to Sophia, jerking out his arm.

“A cotillion!” he beamed. “Capital! This one you're rather good at, Miss Blaise.”

Sophia swallowed, eyes flicking for a moment back to Thomas. “I make no promises, my lord. How many pairs of your shoes have I ruined thus far?”

The marquess laughed good-naturedly as he led her into the ballroom. “Two. Let's make it three, just for good measure.”

“Yes, let's do.”

They elbowed their way onto the dance floor. Standing across from one another, they bowed as the master called for the music to begin. Sophia returned the marquess's grin, and almost missed the strange gleam in his gray eyes.

Almost.

She recognized that gleam. It was the same gleam in the earl's eyes as he'd looked upon Violet heartbeats before.

Sophia's pulse took off at a sprint.

The dance began. Sophia moved through the steps haltingly at first, mind racing as she whirled once, twice, clapped and clasped hands with the marquess. What did Withington mean looking at her like that? Did it mean—dear God, it couldn't, it was too soon, didn't these things take more time?—what she thought it meant?

Withington set her out to the edge of the floor; she turned slowly, as if on air, and for a breathless moment her gaze landed on Thomas.

Of course. Out of all the hundreds and thousands of beautiful people pressed into Almack's, it had to be him. He had to be standing there, just so, in a place where she might find him.

Thomas was looking at her, his face tight, eyes full. Even from here she sensed the heat, the longing that radiated from him. There was a flicker in his eye, sharp and clear as glass, different somehow from Withington's; or perhaps it was Sophia's response to it, the way it made her feel, that was different.

She saw something else in Thomas. Something she recognized in her own heart.

Desire
. Regret, too.

The music moved and Sophia moved reluctantly with it. She turned to face the marquess, and he was stepping forward the same moment as she was stepping back. She lost her footing, ankles crossing at the wrong moment, and she felt herself falling.

Withington caught her just in time, his grin deepening.

“I'm sorry, my lord—”

“Enough with this ‘my lord' business.” The marquess took her hand and together they turned. For one whose movements were awkward and severe, he was a rather fine dancer, as if in the crush of the ballroom he might at last, at last, be himself. “I'd prefer it if you called me Withington, like the rest of my family.”

Sophia bit back her surprise.

It was no small thing, that she should call him so familiar a name. If their fellow dancers heard his request, they would assume the two of them were good as engaged. Only his lordship's mother—and, eventually, his
wife
—would ever refer to him as ‘Withington.'

“You don't think ‘Withington' is a bit too familiar?”

“Miss Blaise.” He pulled her close, his hand slipping to the small of her back. His touch felt foreign, firm enough but not at all electric. Not the way Hope's touch felt. “You and I, we do not have the opportunity to be alone very often. You must,” he spun her about again, “forgive me for saying these things, and at Almack's of all places.”

“What,” Sophia clapped, “things?”

They turned to face each other. Withington was blushing, bashful little lines forming around his mouth. “I hope you do not think me forward, Miss Blaise, but surely you must know by now how I—how I feel about you.”

Oh dear.

“I've very much enjoyed the time we've spent together, however brief. That idea of yours, the port tasting, it was the most capital event I've attended. Ever. I—I mean this as a compliment, I do, Miss Blaise, but I never expected to enjoy a woman's company as much as I enjoy yours.”

Sophia closed her eyes against the lump in her throat. “That is kind of you to say, my lord.”

“Withington. Please, Miss Blaise. It would mean a great deal if you'd call me Withington.”

But I shouldn't mean a great deal. Not to you.

“Of course.” She smiled tightly. “If we are to be friends, then I must be Sophia to you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sophia saw Violet twirling about the Earl of Harclay, both grinning like loons. For a brief, wild moment, she wondered what her cousin would do, what she would say to Withington's heartfelt confession.

Truth be told, Violet would likely duck and run.

But then again, Violet was not possessed of the ambition to make the match of the season. She didn't want to make
any
match, period.

“Sophia.” The marquess smiled, stepping back, then forward. “I know we've only recently become acquainted, but I—well I—I'd like to think we get on well, and enjoy each other's company.”

She glided past him, narrowly avoiding his left foot. “We get along splendidly, you and I. And I cannot deny I
do
enjoy your company, very much.”

And that was true. After showing him her honest self, Sophia
did
enjoy the time she spent with Withington, more than she enjoyed the company of her fellow debutantes, her supposed friends.

Then why did saying so feel so wrong?

Sophia turned and had her answer.

Mr. Hope's eyes were steady as he watched her. The moment their gazes met, she lost all sense of time and place. This yearning, it was unlike anything she'd ever known; strange, for as yet she didn't understand what it was, exactly, she wanted from him,
needed
as surely as the air she breathed.

With all this bosom-heaving breathlessness and longing, it was a wonder Sophia hadn't fallen flat on her face in the midst of the dance. Blessedly it drew to a close, the music climbing to a stupefying crescendo before ending on a clipped, joyful note.

Sophia let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Curtsying before the marquess, she rose to find him standing very close. His face was serious even as his color was high.

“What I meant to say, Sophia, is this.” He kept his voice low, even as the crowd around them erupted in applause. “It is my wish my intentions toward you become public. My affection for you only grows; my family, they adore you.
I
adore you. If you'll have me, I'd—”

There was a sudden, vicious tug on her arm. Sophia spun about to see Mr. Hope, his dark face completely transformed from moments ago. Her belly dropped to her knees as the hair at the back of her neck pricked to life. Something had happened.

Something was wrong.

“What?” she panted. “What is it?”

His head dipped toward her, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured a single, devastating word.

“Violet.”