The Rogue (13 page)

She
nodded shortly and turned to go.

His
voice stopped her before she'd taken five steps. When had his very
voice become like a leash to her will?

"Lady
Jane, I believe there is something you should know about me."

She
took a deep breath and turned, but a small polite smile was the best
she could do. "And what is that, Mr. Damont?"

"I
haven't a sou. Not really." He waved a hand over his own rumpled
but fine attire. "All flash, no substance—just as you
said."

That
confession was the last thing she'd expected. If one could say
nothing else about Mr. Ethan Damont, one could say he was very
honest—for a card cheat.

The
stories she'd heard about him—well, yes, she'd asked about him,
just out of curiosity—had that his father was a wealthy
clothmaker who had disowned Ethan when he'd proved ungrateful.

"What
happened with your father?" Goodness, had she just blurted that
question out like that? Curiosity was one thing, but now she was
embarrassing them both!

He
didn't seem embarrassed, however. He tilted his head, gazing at her
calmly. "I was disowned, tossed out, etcetera."

"But
why? What did you—" She stopped and bit her lip. "This
is none of my affair. My apologies."

He
shrugged. "I think it's best if you know. What did I do?"
He shook his head. "What didn't I do? I was not only a
disappointment, I was a grand failure. I should know. I worked very
hard at it."

He
didn't sound particularly sorry, but Jane had the feeling he wasn't
really telling her everything. He went on.

"I
had my share of fine feeling and disappointment, as does any young
man. After one particularly wrenching drama, I spent several weeks
staying as drunk as possible. That bit of wallowing was the final
straw for my father. He tossed me out on my sodden arse and told me
never to return."

How
terrible for him. Jane missed her own gentle father dreadfully. She
could not have borne such disapproval from him, she was sure. "Did
you ever return?"

"No."
Ethan looked away. "He took ill soon after. I didn't hear about
it in time—probably because I was still very drunk—so I
never saw him again. My mother retired to the country and some
distant cousin took over the factories."

"But
aren't they yours?"

"Oh,
no. My father did live long enough to write me out of everything. It
isn't like it is in your world, my lady. The common man chooses
precisely who inherits his wealth. Leaving it all to the eldest son
is still the usual, of course, but it is by no means the law. If a
man takes a particular dislike to his own offspring, he may leave his
accumulated blunt to anyone he likes." He took a long breath. "I
assure you, a rat in the attic stood a better chance of inheriting
than I. And likely deserved it more."

Jane
frowned. "But did you actually want to inherit the factories?"

He
grinned wryly at her tone. "What, can you not imagine me as a
merchant? Can't you see me keeping my books with my ink guards about
my sleeves while working my poor employees into their early graves?"
He shook his head, laughing slightly. "No, I can't picture it
either."

Jane
took a breath, "Thank you for telling me all this, Mr. Damont. I
ought not to have asked."

He
shook his head, chuckling. "My dear Lady Jane, give me this
much—you did not bring it up. I did."

She
pursed her lips. "That is true. Why did you think this should
concern me?"

"You
are on the hunt for a rich husband, are you not?"

Hunt
?
Jane blinked, then recovered. That was her express purpose in this
house, after all. "Yes, I suppose I am on the hunt for a rich,
titled
husband, since you insist on putting it so bluntly." She raised
her chin. "Do you mean to take yourself out of the running with
this confession of alleged poverty?"

"I
only wish to warn you against becoming attached." His eyes were
shadowed. She could not see if he was in his teasing mode. By the
sobriety of his tone, she feared he was quite serious.

The
arrogance of his assumption was more than enough to return her
equilibrium. She tilted her head, clasping her now dead-steady hands
before her. "Mr. Damont, I assure you, becoming attached to you
would require lengths of strong rope and quantities of glue."

She
whirled and went on her way, pausing only to look back over her
shoulder at him. "And even then, sir, I would not wager on it."

The
quiet rumble of his laughter followed her down the hall like a
friendly dog, at once comforting and annoying. Still, she was glad
they were back on familiar, maddening ground.

That
meant she could put thoughts of that disturbing kiss behind her. And
she would. Soon.

It
was a pity that she must, however. It had been a very nice kiss.

Moreover,
it had been her first.

Ethan
arrived home early, unannounced and in a shabby hack.

It
did him no good. Jeeves was waiting on the front steps to take his
hat and stick.

"You
exhaust me, Jeeves," Ethan said to the butler as he alighted
from the cab.

"Yes,
sir," Jeeves replied evenly. "Will you be going back out,
sir?"

"No,
Jeeves. You can relax now." Ethan entered his house and headed
for a brandy. He was halfway across his study before he remembered
that his brandy had taken up residence in his chambers.

"Never
mind," he muttered to himself. The fire was mesmerizing enough
and his chair had been pulled invitingly close to the hearth. Rubbing
his brow against the tension that tightened there, he flung himself
into his chair without looking.

Only
to jump up with a shout when something small and squirmy shot out
from behind him with a strangled squeak.

Ethan
swept up the poker and brandished it in the direction the nasty thing
had gone. His study door opened.

"Is
there a problem, sir?"

"Jeeves,
there's a rat in here!"

"Yes,
sir. What color is it, sir?"

"Color?"
He blinked. He'd only had the merest glimpse. "Why… sort
of orangish, I think." Which was ridiculous.

He
watched as Jeeves calmly crossed the room and reached beneath the
settee. Impressed, Ethan lowered his weapon. "Hellfire, you're
certainly a man of parts, Jeeves!"

"Indeed,
sir," Jeeves replied calmly. He serenely patted around in the
dark space for a moment, then drew out his hand. "Is this your
rat, sir?"

From
the butler's grip dangled a thin, stringy-tailed, struggling…
kitten. Ethan recoiled. "No, by God! That's worse!"

Jeeves
turned his wrist in order to gaze into the kitten's face. The little
monster batted him gently on the nose. Ethan shuddered. "Take it
away, Jeeves."

"Yes,
sir." Jeeves stuffed the thing into his pocket. The tiny tail
flipped this way and that from the top rim of the pink pocket. "Shall
I send it back to Mrs. Tremayne, sir, or merely toss it into the
alley?"

Ethan
went still. "Mrs. Tremayne? Rose brought that thing here?"

"Yes,
sir. This evening while you were gone. I assumed you wished to have a
pet cat, sir, or I would have refused it on your behalf."

The
kitten was a gift from Rose.

Now
what was he supposed to do about that? Ethan closed his eyes in
resignation and hung the poker back on its hook. He reached out his
hand. "I'll take the kitten, Jeeves."

"It
is no trouble to dispose of it, sir. I'm sure there's a rain barrel
about somewhere…"

Ethan
laughed, a soft, helpless gust. "Oh, shut it, Jeeves. You
wouldn't do such a thing and we both know it. Now give me it."

"Yes,
sir."

The
kitten was dropped into his hand. It weighed nothing at all. Ethan
closed his fingers entirely around the little creature's belly. It
didn't struggle, but simply hung there tensely in his grip, little
paws spread as if it could only prepare itself for a fall.

Taking
pity on it, for he'd felt that way a few times in his life himself,
Ethan brought it closer and put his other hand beneath it to support
its feet. The kitten went limp then, melting into his hands like warm
taffy.

Ethan
took Rose's gift back to the chair with him and sat, holding it
carefully before him as if he weren't sure it wouldn't go off. In
fact, he wasn't. Other than horses, he'd never spent much time around
animals.

There
had been no pets in the Damont household. His father had always
treated creatures as commodities, to be bought and sold, and only
valued for what work they could do.

"Don't
feel bad, little moggie," Ethan whispered to the kitten. It
blinked large sleepy green eyes at him. "He quite felt the same
way about me."

So,
he was no longer alone. A butler, a new cook, and a tiny morsel of
fur. He brought the kitten to his chest and tucked it into his
waistcoat—but only because his arms were growing tired. A loud
rattling purr erupted from the scant little thing.

"I
hope you don't expect me to give you the best pillow, or buy you
liver, or…" What else did one do to spoil a cat?

He'd
have to ask around.

«
^
»

Ethan
woke up to the smell of something heavenly beneath his nose.
Breakfast was usually not a happy event for him, so he waited for the
customary morning-after queasiness to surge.

Instead,
his stomach growled voraciously. He cracked one eye open the tiniest
possible slit. Oddly, the morning light did not slice into his brain
like a knife. Ethan raised one hand to his head, but there was no
pounding there at all.

His
stomach made another, less polite request. Damn, something smelled
good. Opening both eyes was rewarded by the sight of a tray at his
bedside, silver covers fogging slightly at the edges from the
steaming delights within.

The
kitten sat on the table beside it, stringy tail daintily curled about
its feet, wide green eyes fixed on its own image reflected in the
gleaming silver.

Ethan
sat up quickly and reached for the tray. Before he could pick it up,
Jeeves appeared in the edges of his hunger-focused vision and placed
the tray upon Ethan's lap for him. The kitten reared onto hind legs,
pawing at Jeeves's cuff links as they passed over its head.

The
lifting of the silver domes was enough to do in a lesser man. Eggs,
coddled to perfection and steaming from beneath their sheen of fine
sweet butter. Sausages posing seductively at the edge, like plump
thighs slightly parted. Caramelized pears gleamed at him from
another, smaller plate, winking shyly in their sweet glaze, and
wickedly black coffee appeared in a fine china cup to round out the
trio of tantalization.

Delighted,
Ethan grinned up at Jeeves. "Who knew breakfast could be so
provocative?"

Jeeves
raised a brow. "Everyone who stops at one brandy the night
before, sir."

Ethan
gestured with his fork at the ready. "You may have a point."
Then he hesitated. "Jeeves, who made this?"

Jeeves
folded his hands before him. "You need not worry, sir. There is
a new cook in residence." Reassured, Ethan ate.

The
food was magnificent. Ethan stopped stuffing his face long enough to
inquire, "You found someone so quickly?"

Jeeves
maintained an innocent expression. "I hired one first thing
yesterday morning."

"Appalling
efficiency, Jeeves," Ethan muttered. "I thought we talked
about that."

"Yes,
sir. I shall endeavor to improve."

"Have
you found me another tattooed sailor then, Jeeves?"

"No,
sir. The lady has no visible tattoos, nor has she shown any
propensity to swear."