The Millionaire Rogue (9 page)

Sophia blinked, the pleasant reverie of Hope's voice and his lips and the rain dropping from the tip of his nose disappearing in the space of half a heartbeat.

“You know his name, Violet.” She sighed. “Withington
is
handsome, isn't he?”

Violet wrinkled her nose. “If fops are your type, then yes, he's very handsome indeed. You always were ambitious, cousin.”

“It's no surprise, considering I was raised on Debrett's.” She scoffed, but in the mirror her eyes were serious. “I understand that marrying a marquess with ten thousand a year isn't the only dream there is. But my world is very small, Violet.
Our
world is small. What else am I to do? How else can I improve my lot, raise myself, than to marry a man like the marquess? I couldn't very well start a bank, or run a business, like Th—like Mr. Hope. There
is
no other dream for a girl like me, poor and nameless, than to seek a title and live in a great house. A house that doesn't leak when it rains.”

Violet rolled her eyes.

“What?” Sophia pouted. “I thought that was a very good speech.”

“The house doesn't leak
that
much.” Violet playfully tugged on a loose curl at Sophia's ear. “Besides, you're young. Perhaps it's a blessing your first season is . . .” She paused, searching for the right word. “Off to a slow start. Perhaps it's a sign you should take the time to discover what other dreams, as you call them, exist. There's got to be others besides marrying that marquess of yours.”

Sophia placed her hands on the vanity and rose, sighing. “You're an heiress with a fondness for books and brandy. Not all of us are so inclined to ignore the opposite sex.”

Especially, Sophia thought, when said opposite sex kissed one as if the world were about to end.

Violet took one last look in the mirror, patting her hair. “I don't ignore them, cousin, I mock them. And you forget whatever meager fortune I am meant to inherit is in peril.” She turned and looped her arm through Sophia's. “But enough of this boring talk of our troubles. Hope asked we arrive early—”

“He did?”

Violet paused, eyeing her cousin. “Yes. Though I haven't a clue why. Do you?”

Sophia's shoulders shot to her ears. “Why would I know? He's your acquaintance, Violet. Not mine.”

But even as she said the words, a new wave of excitement rippled through her. They were to be guests of honor, then. Perhaps Hope
did
remember.

“Hm. A mystery, then. How so like him! Clever man.”

Violet led Sophia down to the front hall, where Mr. Freeman, the butler, waited with a letter on a small tray.

“For you, Miss Blaise.”

Sophia furrowed her brow. “For me? That's silly. A letter, and at this hour? No one ever writes to me.”

It was addressed simply as
M. Blaise
in a gnarled, unfamiliar script. She freed her arm from Violet's grasp and opened the letter somewhat clumsily with her gloved fingers.

“What is it?” Violet asked casually as she straightened the embroidered edge of her own glove.

Sophia inhaled sharply as she read for a second time the letter's three uneven lines. Her heart began to pound thickly in her chest, a rush of panic prickling at her temples.

For a moment she froze, throat closing with fear.

“Sophia?” Violet was looking at her now. “Is everything all right?”

With hands that trembled, Sophia folded the letter. “Do you know who sent this, Mr. Freeman?”

“I'm afraid I do not, Miss. Found it tucked into the kitchen door. I asked the maids, but they did not see or hear any visitors. Curious.”

Sophia swallowed. “Curious, yes.”

“What does it say?” Violet asked.

“Nothing important.” Sophia managed a tight smile.

Lady Blaise scurried into the hall then, her face and gown a matching shade of pink as she struggled to catch her breath.

Sophia had never in all her years been so relieved to see her mother. She slipped the note into the elbow of her glove and turned to greet her.

“Good heavens, Mama, whatever is the matter?”

“My,” she huffed, “gown. It's a bit.
Tighter
than I remember.”

Violet raised a brow. “A bit?”

“Oh, hush, you. I can't wait until you get old; we'll see who is laughing then.” She padded to the front door, waving her fan. “Come along, we mustn't keep Mr. Hope waiting. I hear from Lady Dubblestone that Withington is to attend. Oh! And rumor has it that wastrel Beau Brummell is to make an appearance, though everyone knows he is falling out of favor with the regent, and did you know he soiled himself at the race this past week . . .”

Sophia settled stiffly into the carriage beside Violet, who, as annoyed as she was at Mama's endless tittering, seemed to have all but forgotten about the mysterious letter.

Good. This sort of trouble was above and beyond even Violet's expertise. The sort of trouble that Sophia had hoped to avoid all along.

“I
look ridiculous.”

Mr. Lake shrugged at Hope's grimace. “But I thought you liked costumes? In France you were all too eager to don a disguise. Remember the time you played a one-armed butcher—”

“
This
,” Hope pointed to the towering wig of black curls that wobbled on his head, “is a rather different scenario, don't you think? The wig, the shoes—it's a bit much, even for me. And dear
God
my head hurts.”

Lake waved away his words. “Small price to pay for king and country, my friend. Though it does make you wonder how old Louis managed it. Fellow must've been bald as a bat to want to wear a wig like that.”

“He was a glutton for punishment, no two ways about it.” Hope took a deep breath, resisting the urge to itch his head. “Actually, I'm beginning to think we have quite a lot in common.”

They were on the terrace, an open bottle of French cognac, smuggled into London not two days ago, resting on the stone balustrade between them. Over the tops of neighboring houses a cloudless sky faded to dusk, the edges of the horizon glowing faintly with the last of the day's sun. A curving peel of moon swam noiselessly through the blue above their heads.

Sounds of last-minute preparations floated through the open ballroom doors. The hurried steps of a dozen footmen; the famous opera soprano he'd hired, practicing her aria; the clink of crystal; the murmuring of kitchen maids as they laid out the refreshment tables.

The sounds pleased him. Nearly five years ago to the day he'd hosted his first costumed ball with the intention of attracting wealthy—and well-known—clientele. A generation before, the Hopes were among the most prominent families in Amsterdam, bankers to and social equals of princes, dukes, even sultans. Their home in Groenendaal Park was one of the finest in the city, its rooms alive with a never-ending progression of teas, soirees, balls, and exhibitions.

It had all ended abruptly, one tragedy after the next. But the memory of his family, their home, and the people whom they had welcomed and entertained there, had kept Hope warm throughout the years of misadventure that followed. When he at last landed on his feet in London, he set about resurrecting the glamorous heyday of the family he so sorely missed.

The ball was an absolute triumph. By the third year, Hope counted among his clients the greatest and wealthiest titles of the
ton.
Though some of the more stalwart members of society refused to socialize with one who (God forbid)
worked
for a living, an invitation to Hope's costumed soirees was nonetheless a coveted one.

This year was no different; he'd done everything in his power to ensure its success. Hell, Hope had even convinced that infamously slippery rake the Earl of Harclay to attend. Tonight's ball was, Hope knew, going to be the biggest and best he'd ever hosted.

Surely there was no greater stage on which to play out Lake's plot to snare Napoleon with the French Blue.

Lake lifted the bottle of cognac to his lips and took a short, ruthless swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, as if reading Hope's thoughts, said, “When Bonaparte's men make contact, send for me straightaway. And don't lose sight of that diamond.”

Hope reached out and swiped the bottle from Lake's hand. “And you. Don't drink all my cognac. It's bloody impossible to get these days.” He took a pull and, retrieving the cork from his waistcoat pocket, pounded it back into place with the heel of his hand. “Who do you think is going to steal the French Blue, anyway? Everyone who's coming tonight can buy their own damned jewels. If I were to peg anyone, it'd be you. Besides, I hired twenty extra men to patrol the ballroom, just in case. Trust me, Lake.
Nothing
is going to happen.”

“I don't have to remind you there are no more famous last words than those.”

Hope rolled his eyes, deciding a change of subject would best keep him from throttling his unwelcome guest. “Speaking of words. Any word on our leak?”

“No. But I can't shake th—”

They both turned at the sound of female voices coming from inside the ballroom.

“Ah,” Lake said softly. “Appears your first guests have arrived.”

“Indeed.” Hope strained for a look inside, but straightened before the weight of his wig toppled him to the ground.

“Be careful, Hope. And good luck.”

“Same to you. I'll be in touch in the morn—”

Turning back, the words caught in his throat. Lake was gone, nothing but the cool evening air in his place.

Hope peered over the edge of the balustrade and sighed. “One of these days you're going to hurt yourself, old man,” he murmured.

Taking the bottle in his hand, he turned and made his way through the doors into a gallery, narrowly avoiding disaster when with his gilt-tipped walking stick he tripped a footman carrying a tray of petit fours. Hope apologized profusely, rolling his eyes in the direction of his wig as if that should explain everything.

He handed off the cognac to another passing footman with instructions to decant it so that Hope and his most important clients might enjoy it later that evening. Straightening his person as best he could with a two-stone wig on his head, Hope strode into the ballroom to welcome his first guests.

Three ladies stood in the center of the room, heads tilted back as they admired the spectacle of his very own Versailles. Lady Blaise, behind whose ample figure her wards were hidden, took a step forward, revealing a young woman with elegant posture, her gown a diaphanous creation of ivory gauze. Pale rosebuds, the same blush that now rose on her cheeks, were tucked into the swirl of her dark hair.

For a moment he stood watching, wonderstruck at her beauty, her daring.

So she
did
remember.

You are as a nymph, Sophia. So lovely. So tempting.

Did she think of that night as often as did he? These past weeks had been an exercise in frustration; without fail, his thoughts would wander from rents and markets to the slope of Sophia's cheek, the curious innocence of her touch. In the midst of appointments—important appointments, during which the fate of hundreds of thousands of pounds was decided—Hope would miss entire swaths of debate, enraptured as he was by the memory of their time together, the tantalizing possibility there would be more to come.

And now here she was, more lovely, impossibly, than he remembered. His heart tightened in his chest; his pulse took off at a gallop.

From across the ballroom she turned her wide hazel eyes to him. He saw his own anticipation mirrored in their gleam; but there was something else there, a worry, a fear.

A desire to know what troubled her overwhelmed him. He crossed the ballroom in three long, purposeful strides, a smile on his lips as he welcomed them to his ball.

Their conversation was brief but merry. Hope's admittedly excessive praise of Sophia's costume—“A nymph, I presume? What a marvelous conceit. A goddess of the wood, and of the hunt. The Sun King was a great hunter, and would have delighted in such a creature. We go together, you and I”—drew a look of consternation from Lady Violet, but he couldn't help himself.

Sophia said very little but kept her gaze trained on Mr. Hope, as if she were trying to tell him something. He nodded in reply. When the crowd thickened, it would be easy enough to pull her aside without being seen.

The ladies continued to gawk; when Hope waved over the men he'd hired as guards, one of them bearing Princess Caroline's black lacquered box, he thought Violet's eyes might pop out of her head.

It was a rather clever idea if Hope didn't say so himself. Mr. Lake was right to suggest that advertising the French Blue's discovery would only increase its value: the greater number of people who saw it, the greater number who would want it, speak of it, inflate its size and beauty. And what better way to advertise the beauty of the jewel than to display it slung about a beautiful woman's neck?

Better yet that said beautiful woman did and said as she pleased without a care for what others thought. Lady Violet was certainly one of a kind; Hope had yet to meet another woman with a taste for brandy and high-stakes gambling. She'd have everyone and their mother talking of the French Blue well before the night was out.

Hope laced the diamond onto a collar of gems he'd borrowed from a client's wife and carefully lifted the brilliant garland onto Violet's neck, the French Blue glittering from her breast. When he clasped the garland, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck, he felt her shiver.

“Are you all right, Lady Violet?”

“Yes, quite. What a thrill to wear the Sun King's diamond, truly,” she said, and shivered again.

Hope's idea worked. As the ball began in earnest, dancers stomping and men laughing and women gossiping behind gossamer fans, it seemed no one spoke of anything but the Sun King's fifty-carat blue-gray diamond. It would only be a matter of time before Napoleon would knock on his door, begging for the jewel.

Assured the job was done and nothing, indeed, could possibly go wrong, Mr. Hope set out for Sophia. He hoped and prayed that whatever burdened her had nothing to do with their shared adventure.

His every sense told him otherwise.

Hope stopped once to accost the Earl of Harclay, that rakehell, who in turn was accosting Lady Violet, ogling her bosom as if he'd like to eat it. Only after Lady Violet assured Hope, in so many words, that she could look after herself, thank you very much, did he move on.

He found Sophia at last bobbing about in a cotillion. Hope smiled at her obvious awkwardness as she twirled clumsily around the Marquess of Withington, who, in his satin breeches and azure-velvet coat, cut an annoyingly dashing figure.

Hope's smile faded as his head began to pound with an unfamiliar urgency. It was the wig, yes, the bloody thing; but he recognized the prick of jealousy, too. It felt at once silly and terribly serious, more serious than silly as he remembered Sophia's halting speech about a brilliant match, Lake's admonition that Sophia would marry a titled gentleman with ten thousand a year.

His fingers clenched around the smooth, rounded finial of his walking stick. The metal felt hot against his skin, a welcome distraction from the entirely unwelcome feelings holding him captive. He breathed deeply, fighting back with every rational thought he could muster.

He was a man of business, first and foremost. He could not forget the hard work that had seen him to this moment; nor could he forget the work that had yet to be done. He was the bank. The bank was his life, a living tribute to the family fate had left behind.

And with Lake's plot in play, Hope had more to lose than ever. These feelings, the attraction he felt for Sophia, were dangerous. He'd dedicated his life to Hope & Co.; and in that life there was no place for a lovely, witty, beautifully terrible dancer like her—

Hope found himself at her side just as the dance was ending. When she turned to him, color high, lips parted in a half smile, he knew he'd made the right decision.

Or perhaps the worst decision ever.

“Miss Blaise.” He reveled in the satisfaction of knowing her eyes were upon him, taking in his bow with no little appreciation. “The next dance. Might I have it?”

She eyed the wig towering over his person. “Are you sure you're able to dance with that—that
thing
on your head? It might pose a hazard to the other guests.”

Damn it, Hope had forgotten about the wig. It was liable to cause a good bit of damage staying right where it was; should it move, the destruction could be catastrophic.

He pulled the monstrosity from his head, sighing with relief as he did so. “Forget about the wig. Dance with me.”

Sophia glanced at the marquess, hovering just out of earshot. “We're in the middle of a set, you see, and I couldn't very well abandon his lordshi—”

As if on cue the dashing marquess stepped forward, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He smiled ebulliently at Hope. It was all Thomas could do not to sock him in his dashing jaw.

“Mr. Hope! Capital ball, good man, capital ball! And your costume!”

Hope smiled tightly. “Let me guess. Capital?”

The marquess threw his head back and laughed as if Hope had cracked the funniest joke he'd ever heard. “Capital, yes, how ever did you know?”

“A lucky guess. Listen, my lord.” Hope pulled him close. “You must tell no one. But I've a stash of cognac in my study, smuggled in from France not two days ago. It's reserved for my best clients only—you included, of course.”

“Capital!” Again the marquess wiped his brow, looking with some reluctance at Sophia. “After Miss Blaise's spirited dancing, I find that I
am
rather parched, though we're only halfway through the set . . .”

“Have no fear. I shall merely take your place and join you when the set is through.”

“Are you quite sure? I wouldn't want to take you away from your cognac. And Miss Blaise, I couldn't very well leave her—could I, Miss Blaise?”