The Rogue (4 page)

"No,
sir, indeed I did not."

"Well,
then. I like calling you Jeeves. It's easy to remember when I'm tired
or drunk, or tired and drunk, and I like it. I feel most lordly when
I say it. Say it with me, Jeeves."

The
butler—damned if Ethan hadn't forgotten his real name
already—serenely repeated it with him. "
Jeeves
."

"So,
Jeeves, the reason I called you in here is that my brandy is
missing."

"Yes,
sir, it is."

Ethan
took a sigh. It seemed he was going to pay for the Jeeves thing. "Did
you put my brandy somewhere else?"

"Yes,
sir, I did."

"And
this somewhere else is… ?"

"In
your sitting room, sir, just off your bedchamber."

Ethan
waited, but Jeeves won. With his knees weak with surrender, Ethan
folded. "Why did you put it in my sitting room as opposed to my
study, Jeeves?"

"Why,
so when you drink yourself into a useless stupor, I may only have to
carry you the distance of one room, as opposed to two flights of
stairs, sir." Jeeves gazed at him with no sign of unease or
distress at such flagrant insubordination. "If you refuse to
allow me to hire the staff that this house requires, I must find
other ways to do my duties to your expectation."

Ethan
gazed back at him in shock. Then a short laugh burst from him without
his consent. "Jeeves, you're a man of good sense. I'll take my
brandy in my sitting room from now on. Point for point, wouldn't you
agree?"

"Indeed,
sir. It will interest me who wins the day, sir."

Ethan
laughed again and turned toward the stairs and the sitting room where
his brandy awaited. Then he stopped. "If you could hire one
person, who would it be?"

"A
cook, sir," Jeeves said promptly.

"I
have a cook."

"You
have a tattooed sailor who spits in your soup, sir. You rarely eat at
home, sir, but I do."

The
man had a point. "Very well, then. You may choose a new cook."

Ethan
continued up the stairs, then stopped again. "Jeeves, what sort
of tattoo?"

"Twins,
sir. Voluptuous ones, in the altogether. Apparently, it was a memory
worth preserving forever."

Ethan
whistled. "I'll say. I'd like to see that."

"He's
very proud of it. He would be more than willing to show it to you on
request, sir, but I'd advise against it."

"Why
is that?"

Jeeves
looked up at him with ancient eyes. "The young ladies in
question reside on each of Cook's buttocks, sir. Your food will never
taste the same, I promise you."

Ethan
was still laughing as he poured himself a drink. Sitting by the fire
with his brandy, he had to admit that Jeeves was the first sign of
life his house had seen in a very long while.

The
glints of firelight in the brandy reminded Ethan of the faint light
glinting from the tangled hair of the girl in the garden. He absently
rubbed the ribs where she had sent her elbow into them. She had an
admirable swing, he had to give her that.

As
he tipped back his glass, he wondered how she had explained her state
of dishevelment to her companions. He took out the leaf that still
lay tucked into his weskit pocket and slid the cool red and orange
slickness between his fingers.

He
hadn't asked her for her name, which was probably for the best. He
hadn't behaved very well. Of course, neither had she.

Who
was she and what in the world had she been doing up a tree? The
questions so possessed him that he quite forgot to pour himself
another brandy.

He
wondered if she had a beau.

"Eeny
meeny miney mo, which of these will be my beau?"

The
many and varied daughters of Lord Maywell shrieked with laughter at
the saucy rhyme and crowded forward to see which sketch of the
current crop of bachelors that Augusta, the eldest, had landed her
finger upon.

Lady
Jane Pennington flopped back on the counterpane of the bed she shared
with her youngest cousin, Serena, and tried mightily to suppress her
boredom. She'd not returned to the festivities after her mishap, for
there was no chance that she could remove all the damage from her
dress and person in order to prevent comment. She'd been quite
prepared to plead headache or some such when the rest of the girls
came upstairs.

It
turned out that no one had missed her.

Well,
the girls had been entirely overstimulated by the evening, and her
aunt had had all she could bear keeping an eye on them. It was a
statement of faith and high esteem that her relations hadn't had to
monitor her every move this evening.

As
it turned out, it had been a blessing as well, considering the events
in the garden. Jane put that from her mind. It was too embarrassing
and… well, somewhat stirring.

The
giggles swelled to scandalized shrieks. Jane winced.

The
Maywell Mob, as they were known in less reverent circles, were
generally rather dear girls but exhaustively focused on one single
group goal. Marriage, for all five of them, as soon as possible.

Of
course, if Jane had grown up sharing beds and hairbrushes and a
single harried ladies' maid with five sisters, she might be in a bit
more hurry to leave home. As it was, however, Jane had no home to
speak of. Her father's estate had gone to his brother Christoph, who
had become the new Marquis of Wyndham. Fourteen-year-old Jane and her
mother had been whisked off to Northumbria to the "Dowager
House" on the lesser estate.

Jane
shook off those thoughts as well. A sheltered young heiress ought not
to bother herself with such things, much less brood over them.
Instead, she ought to be playing silly girlish games. She took a deep
breath and shut off darker memories, turning a tolerant smile upon
her cousins' antics.

They
were all intent upon their game. The pity of it was, this game of
marriage was a deadly serious one for them.

The
girls were not likely to marry at all in this war-depleted Marriage
Mart. The shortage of eligible young men had made the infighting
fierce and the Maywell Mob were not highly ranked by the bachelors
available.

Lady
Maywell, in her infinite wisdom, had decided to launch all five girls
at once. "Best to bait all the traps straightaway," she'd
reasoned. "All the more likely that at least one of them will
marry."

The
fact that they all five sported the Maywell nose was only part of the
problem. Jane herself was more likely to be called "handsome"
or "elegant" than "beautiful" although that was
perhaps due more to her wardrobe than anything.

The
Maywell Mob, on the other hand, was near to breaking his lordship by
requiring gowns, such as they were, and entertainment to entice
eligible men. There wasn't much left with which to bestow dowries.

In
contrast, Jane's wardrobe alone could provide for several daughters.
She wore only the finest gowns, fitted to perfection, with everything
a woman needed to ride in high style into this do-or-die-unwed
battlefield.

All
a sham, of course, but for Jane a reminder of a life long ago. All
the years of stringent survival seemed to have leached all excitement
from grosgrain ribbon and batiste pantalets.

The
giggles rose in volume and velocity. Jane winced. From Augusta right
down to Serena, the cousins didn't share an ounce of sense between
them.

Still,
they were dear girls, who had welcomed their estranged cousin
cheerfully. By all rights, they ought to have envied her trunks full
of lovely things. The sisters were forced to trim and retrim the same
gowns, passing them from sister to sister in hopes they'd not be so
easily recognized.

A
veritable shell game of fashion misdirection.

Yet
despite their own lack, they had gasped and admired without
reservation when Jane had unpacked, with not the slightest hint of
resentment.

Now,
the game went on around her, reaching such levels of giggles and
squeals that Jane decided to sleep elsewhere. Rolling over, she tried
to crawl off the bed between Serena and Bedelia, who ranked fourth—or
was it third?

Bedelia
gasped. "Oh, Jane, look what you've done, you silly creature!"

Jane
blinked. That was a bit of kettle-blacking, if one were to ask her.
Then she looked down to see one of the sketches crumpled under her
elbow. Rising, she put the paper over her knee and tried to smooth it
out.

The
sketches were Serena's and were really rather good. One didn't
disrespect a talent like that, especially when poor Serena had so
little to recommend her otherwise. Not terribly clever, not notably
pretty, and as Jane could attest, she kicked horribly in her sleep.

The
drawing smoothed out to portray a face that made Jane's movements
slow and her breath quicken. High of brow and wide of cheekbone, with
his overlong hair worn loose and defiant, the man in the sketch made
Jane think of a weary medieval hero who had just removed his helm
after slaying the dragon and freeing the princess.

It
was the man from the garden. "Who is he?"

Augusta
sniffed. "Oh, him. He's naught but a place card."

"A
what?" That could not mean what it sounded like.

"A
place card is what Mama calls gentlemen that merely round out the
seating at a party," Bedelia explained. "Ethan Damont isn't
a gentleman or anything. He's just a handsome face with which to fill
the table."

"And
Papa likes to play cards with him," Serena added. "He says
he's going to keep playing him until he figures out how the Diamond
is cheating."

Invited
but unwelcome? It was actually worse than Jane had thought. She felt
rather sorry for him. Then Serena's words caught her attention. "The
Diamond?" Jane turned to her cousins. "The gambler that the
Voice of Society is always talking about?"

Augusta
rolled her eyes. "The gossip makes more of him than he is. No
name and no fortune at all. Serena only put him in the pot to make an
even dozen."

"A
place card," Serena said, giggling. "And he has pretty
eyes."

The
man on the paper gazed up at Jane. Serena was sometimes more talented
than she knew, for in her blithe hurry to provide the game pieces,
she had set down more of the man than she likely would have had she
thought more about it.

Ethan
Damont did not have "pretty" eyes. He had lost and tragic
eyes—eyes that spoke of loneliness and wry resignation. Jane
felt something twist ever so sideways in her chest.
Ethan
Damont, the Diamond
.

He'd
been shockingly forward and free with his touch. Oh, not in any truly
obscene way, but she'd been quite aware how he'd taken his time
setting her to the ground. A man of physicality, that one. Tall,
glib, and outrageously behaved—just as one would expect from an
opportunistic card player of common blood.

She
looked back down at the drawing. His eyes…

Why
did she have the feeling that there was much more to Mr. Ethan Damont
than met the eyes?

«
^
»

The
next day, Ethan was back to his usual self. He strutted down the
Strand in full rake regalia, walking stick and all. He hadn't a worry
in the world at the moment. He'd banked a pile of notes from Lord
Maywell last night, which he'd added to the reward he'd recently
received from that portly uncle of Collis Tremayne's.

Ethan
had never been told why Collis and his uncle were beaten and chained
in a dungeon-like chamber of an arms factory—but then, he'd
never asked. He'd never even asked the uncle's name, but had blithely
dubbed the fellow "the Codger" and left it at that.

There
were times when a bloke needed to know the score and there were times
when he was better off in the dark.

So
with his pockets full and his questions firmly squelched, Ethan
resolved to enjoy the new day and his fresh state of solvency. What
sort of delicious trouble could he find on this fair afternoon in the
greatest city in the world? He took a deep, satisfied breath. The
possibilities were endless.