The Rogue (21 page)

"Mr.
Damont, I have no wish to put you on the spot. Let me tell you all
about your friends." He raised one finger. "One, they
operate from behind the smokescreen of a gentlemen's club. Two, they
recruit from all levels of Society, for which I commend them. Three,
they know about me, as I know about them."

Ethan
swallowed. Maywell definitely looked like the Chimera to him. On one
hand, he'd found out what the Liars wanted to know. On the other, he
was probably going to die before he got to tell them. "A pretty
tale," he said, striving to keep his tone mild. "I only
wish I knew what you were talking about."

Maywell
nodded. "You may continue to pretend if it helps you to do so. I
wouldn't want you to betray your comrades—"

Something
must have slipped past Ethan's guard and crossed his expression, for
Maywell's eyes narrowed.

"Ah.
They are not your comrades yet, then. Interesting. Could it be that I
have found a man who does not exhibit the loyalty of a hound to his
master? If you do not love your master… then he must keep you
on a very tight leash." Maywell gave Ethan a kind smile. "I
could cut that leash for you."

Ethan
remained as still as possible. He'd underestimated Lord Maywell, he
could see that now. Dalton had done so as well. Maywell's offer made
every rebellious strand of Ethan's personality tighten with longing.
He hated being dangled on a string, no matter for what cause he was
hung.

"I
have no master," was all he could force from his tight throat.

Maywell
regarded him with a raised brow. "No, not since you escaped your
father."

Ethan
jerked slightly at that, a tiny motion that Maywell did not miss. The
man's expression went kindly and he leaned forward, placing his hands
flat on the desk.

"Damont,
you think us worlds apart, you and I—but I tell you that we are
the same beneath the labels the world has pasted upon us. I was the
third son, the spare for the spare. I grew up knowing that there was
no chance for me to be the man I could be. No true title, no
substantial inheritance, no lands I could husband into any real
power. An empty title, a tag given to any son of a duke, that left me
dangling between worlds. I could not even turn my hand to business,
for to do so would bring the scorn of my kind." He grunted. "My
kind… a more worthless lot I've never encountered."

Hearing
his own feelings echoed by Maywell made Ethan feel strange, as though
he'd thought he was staring a hobgoblin in the eyes, only to have it
turn into his own reflection in a mirror. He blinked to break the
spell of Maywell's words.

"I'm
sure your lordship's life has been very difficult," he said
blandly. "I'm sure I cannot imagine." Although he could.
"
Dangling
between worlds
."

He
himself had been dangling so long he couldn't remember what it felt
like to have the earth beneath his feet. He hadn't belonged, truly
belonged, since he could recall. He'd been plucked from the society
of his own kind by the time he could talk. "I don't want him to
sound like a street urchin," his father had said often enough.
"He ought to sound like a lord."

He'd
been caged by tutors and dancing masters and fencing masters and fed
only the manners that his father selected for him. A gentleman's
diet—a rarefied menu indeed.

Yet
even the lowliest gentleman tutor had been superior to him in caste,
and had never let him forget it. For the coin his father paid into
their poor gentility, they would teach him what he needed to know—but
the one thing they all made sure to educate him in was that no matter
how hard he worked, no matter how long he studied and practiced and
performed, he could
never
be one of them.

Maywell
had continued speaking. Ethan pulled his mind back from old hollow
thoughts to reorient himself on the man who held Ethan's life in his
hands.

"Does
that sound like sense to you, Damont? Empty-headed lords running
England's greatest asset, her fertile lands, into ash and sand.
Courtiers plying an even more empty-headed prince with women and
favors, while men with sense watch this country get further and
further indebted and depleted fighting Bonaparte!"

His
first goal was to live. His second was to find out as much as he
could for the Liars. Ethan spread his hands in a world-weary gesture.
"What else are we to do? It has always been this way. It always
will be."

Maywell
narrowed his eyes and leaned forward again. "It does not have to
be, Damont. Do you think that if Napoleon wins, he will keep this
current power structure in place? He is a self-made man. He believes
that a man's mettle is shown by what he does, not his name or title.
Do you think that he'd tolerate these soft-handed, brainless
layabouts as
his
Imperial aristocracy for one single moment?"

Ethan
leaned back and crossed his own hands lazily over his middle. "An
intriguing notion, to be sure. But does not Paris still hold lords
and ladies galore? He has yet to do away with them."

Maywell
waved a derisive hand. "Bah. They are ornaments, left in place
to please Josephine. All the men who matter, all the ones with real
power, are men that Bonaparte has brought up through his ranks, men
that have proven their grit on the field and in the halls of power."
Maywell sat back, mimicking Ethan's unconcerned pose. "Men like
us, Damont. Men with sense, who see the world clearly—who see
how ridiculous the social order is and how it depletes us."

Becoming
interested in spite of himself, Ethan tilted his head. "Yet you,
my lord, are exactly who would lose by such a revolution. I find it
hard to believe you would really give all this up." He waved his
hands to indicate his surroundings.

Maywell
let out a bray of actual laughter. "All this? All this crumbling
house and this back-bending debt and this fight to marry off five
girls before anyone discovers that even the dresses on their backs
are borrowed?"

Ah,
finally a truth that Ethan could understand. Maywell's position,
encumbered by responsibilities of family and rank, was everything
Ethan had always abhorred. The idea of ending up this way, weighed
down, owned—the very thought nigh to made him shudder with
revulsion.

"And
you believe that if Napoleon wins the day, this would change?"

Maywell
smiled. "It will change. I have it on very good authority that
my efforts will be well rewarded. I will get everything I deserve and
more." He peered closely at Ethan. "As could you."

Ethan
smiled easily. "I already have everything I deserve."

Maywell
pursed his lips. "Do you really?" He tapped his fingertips
together. "I'd like us to conduct a little experiment. Tomorrow
morning, I want you to walk up to the gates of Carlton House and
request a private audience with the Prince Regent."

A
surprised laugh burst from Ethan's lips at such an outrageous
impossibility. "Why walk? Why not fly?"

Maywell
smiled. "I thought as much. Only trust me, Damont. Indulge me on
this whim. I assure you, it will be an illuminating experience."

Maywell
stood. Ethan followed, since it seemed the interview was over. All he
wanted to do was get out of that house. He'd not thought he would
find the whole matter so disturbing… so destabilizing to his
usual careless equilibrium.

Ethan
was nearly out of the study when Maywell called him back. "By
the way, Damont—Jane has been invited to dine with friends of
ours tomorrow night. I would appreciate it if you would escort her
there and back."

Ethan
blinked. Escorting respectable young women anywhere was not usually
something requested of him. In fact, if he recalled correctly—never.

Then
again, if he was working for Maywell now, it might be expected that
he take on some of the responsibilities of an employee—like a
steward or a man of business. After all, Maywell hadn't said he was
to accompany Jane to the dinner party as a guest, but more like a
bodyguard.

He
nodded. "Yes, my lord. It would be my pleasure."

In
fact, it would be a good opportunity to apologize to Jane. Again.

«
^
»

Lord
Harold Maywell watched Ethan Damont take his leave without escorting
him from the room. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a fine
cheroot. It was from his last case of them. Thank goodness he would
soon be rewarded for all his hard work.

The
girls were going to break him otherwise. Resentfully, Lord Maywell
thought of the money wasted into nothing by his older brother's son.
All of it gone and the lands seized for taxes—lands that had
been in the family for more generations than that callow boy had
years. Stupid young sot.

What
he himself could have done with those resources and a bit of common
sense… well, his daughters would be headed for the futures
they deserved, marrying well and happily instead of putting
themselves forward for the masculine leavings of Society.

By
the time Napoleon came sailing over the Channel, Lord Maywell planned
to have worked himself high enough up the chain of command within the
network that he would be made a marquis at the very least.

A
faint sound came from across the room. The small round-faced man
stepped out of the shadows of the curtained window embrasure and into
the circle of light thrown by the candelabra.

The
small man looked at the door. "When I told you I saw him leaving
the Liar's Club, I thought you were planning to kill him."

Lord
Maywell leaned back in his chair, smoke wreathing his already
whitened hair. "I thought about it. It did seem a waste. After
all, his talents could come in just as handy for us."

"They
got to him first."

Maywell
took the cheroot between his fingers and gazed at it with
satisfaction. "But I have something he wants."

"The
girl?" The smaller man scoffed. "No disrespect to Lady
Jane, my lord, but Damont's reputation precedes him. He has no
problem with obtaining female companionship."

"Yet
he could never lay claim to a lady—especially not with the
blessing of her family and friends." Maywell inhaled another
long draw on the cheroot. "True welcome in Society is the one
thing Damont can never have—unless I give it to him."

"You'd
do that? You'd give him your blessing and your niece and all her vast
inheritance—"

"I
might. Or I might simply let him think I will." Maywell rolled
his cheroot in the ash receptacle that his wife insisted he keep in
his study. "I think Jane likes him as well."

"Do
you really concern yourself with what a mere girl wants when the very
future of England is at stake?"

"No.
But her willingness will be a great lure for Damont. He will want to
please her."

The
small man snickered. "From what I've heard, he ought to be good
at that."

Maywell
stiffened. "Don't be crude. That is a lady you speak about."

The
small man bowed. "My apologies, of course. I forgot myself.
Allow me to change the subject. What about the larger plan?"

"We
aren't ready yet," Maywell protested. "There are still
preparations to be made."

"We
are as prepared as we are ever going to be," the small man
insisted.

Maywell
shook his head. "Let me obtain the loyalty of Damont first. I
have the feeling we're going to need him."

"Then
you took a great risk, sending him to Court. What if that secures his
loyalty to the Crown instead?"

Maywell's
lips twisted. "You don't understand Damont the way I do. What he
discovers there will send him reeling right into our grasp."

"Are
you sure?"

"Oh,
yes. If there is one thing on earth I am sure of, it is that Mr.
Ethan Damont is about to turn traitor against England forever."

Jane
pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to believe what she was hearing.
She'd heard her name as she passed the closed door of her uncle's
study and had been stunned to hear that her uncle was considering,
encouraging Ethan Damont to court her.