The Ruin Of A Rogue (4 page)

She trembled in his arms. “That man nearly hit me,” she said. “I could have been killed.”

“I trust it wouldn’t have come to that.” He held her closer, discovering a slender waist under the sensible cloth of her winter redingote. Very nice. He stroked her back to soothe her, barely resisting the temptation to explore the curves of her hips and behind.

“Thank you for saving me.”

The driver of the cart, hired in advance and alerted by Frogsham’s errand boy, had performed his task with impeccable timing. She clung to him and he made no effort to relinquish her. One object of the charade had been to get this skittish virgin accustomed to his touch.

Yet along with satisfaction at the success of the ruse came the thought that if he should, by a miracle, succeed in winning Miss Brotherton’s hand, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He didn’t want to let her go. Along with the promised half crown, that coal hauler was going to win a rebuke for doing his job too well. Any closer and Marcus would have been too late. Anne Brotherton could have been badly hurt, and the notion annoyed him far beyond the threat to his plans.

Silky hair, revealed by a bonnet knocked askew, tickled his face, and a clean lemon scent filled his nostrils. Virtue and innocence were qualities he rarely encountered, and he had the absurd urge to protect them. To protect her. Absurd because he himself posed the greatest threat. He strengthened his embrace.

She was the one to break away. “My parcel!” she cried. It lay in a pool in the gutter.

With considerable damage to his boots, Marcus waded into the muddy swill and retrieved the sodden package.

“I don’t think you want to carry this,” he said. “My gloves are already ruined so save yours.” Gingerly he lowered his nose. “And it smells. We’d better return to Frogsham and have it repacked.”

“My book!” she wailed. “It will be all wet.”

“Don’t despair. It’ll dry off and be readable, if not beautiful.”

“I hope so. I am so eager to read it so we can talk about our impressions.”

His poise restored after the ridiculous attack of sentiment, he smiled winningly. He trusted that when she struggled through Mr. Warner’s dry prose she’d think of Marcus sacrificing his boots so she could enjoy it.

Chapter 4

L
ord Algernon Tiverton took his punctilious leave from Lady Windermere’s drawing room, allowing Anne and Cynthia to succumb to the giggles they’d repressed during an endless fifteen-minute morning call. The younger son of a marquess, he’d been introduced to Anne by his aunt Lady Ashfield.

“He can barely restrain his passion,” Cynthia cried dramatically.

“Hah! His only passion is for his own ancestry. Like every other man in London he looks at me and sees gold, and not interesting Roman gold artifacts. Just piles of dull modern guineas.”

“The man’s a fool if he fails to see what you are really like.”

Anne looked affectionately at her loyal—and deluded—friend. Cynthia was a pretty woman with delicate features in a heart-shaped face. Fair hair fell in a cascade of curls from a deceptively casual knot. Without extraordinary elegance, she made the most of her small, rounded figure. Even in a morning dress of light worsted over an impeccable pleated chemisette and ruffled collar, Anne judged her alluring. Her own appearance was much less satisfactory. Clad in a heavy gray twill, designed for winter in the freezing corridors of Camber, she looked dowdy. There was nothing she could do about an angular body and a small bosom, but a skilled dressmaker could work wonders.

“Do you want to go shopping?” she said.

“If you mean Hatchard’s,” Cynthia said warily, “I’ll let you go alone and visit the furniture warehouse instead.” Cynthia spent an inordinate amount of time and money on both furnishings and her wardrobe.

“I need a new gown or two, for the winter.”

“My dearest Anne! What has brought about this miraculous reversal of habit? No, don’t tell me. I can guess. You have fallen in love with Lord Algernon! Fear not. Clinging skirts and a revealing bodice will penetrate his aloofness and he will sweep you into his arms and carry you off to whatever country fastness he occupies to live happily ever after.”

“A garment such as you describe would more likely send him scurrying out of town, alone.”

“An excellent result, but I don’t think that’s the real reason for your unprecedented interest in fashion.” Cynthia gave her a hard look. Further interrogation was forestalled by the appearance of servants delivering the post.

Anne tore open a missive from the Duchess of Castleton. Cynthia, evincing little interest in her own correspondence, fiddled with the arrangement of white hothouse roses that filled a large Meissen vase on the mantelpiece. “What do you think, Anne? Do they look better this way?”

Anne glanced over the top of the letter. “Yes.”

“Or maybe with less of the maidenhair. I’m not sure I like it.”

“Definitely.”

“You aren’t paying attention.”

“White roses are always pretty and I detest maidenhair. Why did you buy it?”

“Denford sent them. To celebrate becoming my next-door neighbor. He takes up residence at Fortescue House today.”

Lady Windermere’s air of disinterest was unconvincing. Anne couldn’t ignore the opening, despite an innate reluctance to interfere in the affairs of others.

“Caro isn’t pleased to hear that the duke is back in London and paying you marked attentions.”

“Pish. Caro always worries about me and Denford.”

“Listen to what she writes.
I do not trust Julian’s motives in pursuing Cynthia and I fear for her tender heart. She is less worldly than she likes to appear.
”

“I know what I’m doing.” Cynthia finished removing the despised fern and stepped back to regard the flowers with a satisfied smile. “Denford and my husband are at odds. I don’t know why and I don’t greatly care.”

“Although Lord Windermere is abroad, he may still hear gossip.”

“I hope so,” Cynthia replied with a brittle laugh. “I know quite well that Denford is using me as part of a scheme to embarrass Windermere and I intend to use
him
for the same reason.”

“I wish you would be careful.” What more could she say? Cynthia was both her hostess and her senior. It wasn’t Anne’s place to read her a lecture.

“I think the pot calls the kettle black, Miss Annabella. Admit that you have a tendre for the wicked Lord Lithgow. I knew it as soon as you mentioned new gowns.”

Anne made a play of shuffling the pages of the letter. “I don’t
think
so. I find him agreeable company. Very easy to talk to. And he is a man of substance too.”

“You find any man substantial who will talk about Roman ruins.”

Anne smiled at Cynthia’s teasing and as usual said less than she felt. There was something about Lithgow’s company that added a pleasant frisson of danger. When she tried to analyze it she could only suppose it was due to his somewhat unsavory background. Yet even when he’d embraced her to save her from the runaway cart she hadn’t felt he was taking advantage. She felt safe in his presence, safe from the pressure of courtship. He never lavished her with the overblown praise that she loathed in her suitors. Aside from that one time when, ridiculously, he’d called her elegant, he was friendly and sincere. Perhaps he meant it. Perhaps he did find her elegant.

If so, he’d find her even more so if she were more fashionably dressed.

“What else does Caro have to say?”

Anne turned over the page. “She wants us both to come to Castleton for Christmas.”

“We could do that, I suppose.” Anne feared Cynthia’s lack of enthusiasm stemmed from the fact that Denford was unlikely to be invited.

“She writes a lot about Castleton’s twin sisters.”

“I know she’s happy to have sisters. I’ve always wished I had them myself.”

“She is like a sister to me.” Though they hadn’t spent much time together, she and Caro had always been each other’s dearest friends. While she shouldn’t resent her cousin’s happiness, she felt a certain abandonment. The prospect of achieving a warm family life with a suitor of her guardian’s choosing seemed remote. A sliver of jealousy, selfish and irrational, chilled her heart. Ashamed, she shook her head, returned to the letter, and gasped.

“What?”

“Speaking of Lord Lithgow, listen to what Caro writes.
While I am on the subject of my old friends
—underlined for emphasis—
I want to counsel you to beware if you come across Marcus Lithgow. I cannot tell you what happened between us without breaking Thomas’s confidence and revealing secrets about his family, but I am quite disillusioned with him. Marcus has behaved very badly to me and Castleton, who dislikes him very much.
Do not trust a word he says.
Underlined again.
I wish I could tell you everything but it is not my secret.
”

“Goodness! How very dramatic!”

“Caro has always enjoyed a drama,” Anne said, a little sourly.

“What can he have done?”

“No doubt he did something to annoy Castleton, which wouldn’t be difficult. Since they left London every letter is ‘Thomas did this,’ ‘Thomas says that.’ Evidently he’s managed to turn her against her old friends.”

“You must be right,” Cynthia said. “I still don’t understand how Caro can be happy with Lord Stuffy. They are so different.” This was an old and oft-repeated conversation. Neither of them quite fathomed their lively friend’s attachment to the poker-backed duke. And they both missed her.

“Another thing. Lithgow hasn’t made the least effort to charm me. I’ve had what feels like every man in London making up to me and he doesn’t behave like any of them.”

“Still,” Cynthia said, “there must be something there to make her write like that.”

It was ironic, Anne thought, that Cynthia gave any credence at all to the warning against Lithgow when she refused to listen to Caro’s admonitions about Denford. “It’s unlike Caro to be cryptic. How can I find out? Could you ask Denford? Since you are so close.”

“Or
you
could ask Lithgow.”

W
ith mixed feelings Marcus discovered that the Duke of Denford had moved in next door to Windermere House. Julian disclaimed any interest in the Brotherton heiress. He’d spent several months making up to the wife of his former best friend, Windermere, for some unexplained and doubtless nefarious reason. But Julian was quite capable of playing more than one game at the same time, and it seemed logical that a man who found himself with a title, a couple of huge mansions, and very little ready money would solve his problem by courting the heiress next door. A friendship of more than ten years had taught Marcus that trying to outfox Julian was fruitless. One reason he never played cards with him.

When he called at Windermere House a couple of days after their Soho adventure—never appear too eager was one of his hard rules of seduction—Julian was cozily ensconced in the drawing room, amusing both ladies greatly. Anne Brotherton rose to greet him with a shy smile he found encouraging.

“Miss Brotherton.” He took her outstretched hand and held it a bare second longer than necessary. She made no effort to pull away. “I came to inquire after the health of a certain book.”

“Thank you. I am glad to report that the volume is dry, though its scent may never be suitable for polite company. Cynthia refuses to let me read it downstairs. I have to keep it in my bedchamber.”

“I trust it wasn’t so dry as to send you instantly to sleep.”

“The content is perhaps more fascinating than the prose. Nevertheless I am grateful and will think of your gallant rescue whenever I consult it.”

With a more worldly lady, Marcus would have offered a saucy double entendre. Anne Brotherton’s words were flirtatious but her expression remained grave. He wondered if she ever played games of chance. She would have the advantage of being hard to read.

“It’s a fine day,” she said. “I do believe the sun is struggling to emerge from those clouds. Would you care to see Cynthia’s garden? It’s quite fine.”

Intriguing, especially since the sun seemed likely to fail in its efforts. Following her downstairs, he listened to her observations on the history of Bath, showing she had indeed been reading the evil-smelling volume, much more carefully than he had when it was pristine. She collected her pelisse and did not flinch when he placed a careless hand on the small of her back to guide her down the steps into the garden, which was a decent size for the middle of London but not, in its early winter barrenness, of any special beauty.

In the bleak surroundings his companion seemed more animated than usual, a leftover late rose among dying leaves. Her dark hair set off delicately pink cheeks and a sweet red mouth. An invitation to a deserted garden usually presaged a kiss at the very least and Marcus was willing, even eager, to take it.

Without saying a word, he stood in the light breeze, letting her make the next move. He read hesitation in the hazel eyes, more blue than brown in the dull light. A quick nod, a deep breath, and she spoke.

“I had a letter from Caro today.”

No kiss then. How disappointing. But he had been expecting this and he was ready. “How is she?” he asked.

“She warned me against you, said I shouldn’t trust you. Because of what happened between you and Castleton.”

Tempting as it was to entirely blame the duke, he’d already planned to tell her as much of the truth as was politic, slanting it to his own advantage. That Anne had jumped to the conclusion that Caro’s grievance had something to do with her husband was an unlooked-for benefit.

“Caro is angry with me, and rightly so. Let me explain, though the story does not redound to my credit.”

She nodded and perched on a stone bench. He remained on his feet, looking down at her with his best troubled look.

“As you know, I have made my living by my skill at cards and dice, since I was sixteen years old. I had no choice. I have no fortune and it’s all my father taught me. He was a rogue. Lately I became aware that gaming was no way to spend my life. I returned to London this year, determined to find a more respectable means of support. The first thing I did was to raise some capital by collecting a few debts.”

“Caro?” She was quick.

“Robert Townsend lost a large sum to me just before his death. I didn’t want to dun Caro, and I never would have after Robert left her in such straits. Once she married a duke I thought she could afford it.”

“Did Castleton refuse to pay you?” she demanded with a convenient air of disapproval.

“He was under no obligation to pay another man’s gaming debt, and neither was she. I behaved badly.” Badly as in trying to steal Caro’s most precious possession from under Castleton’s precious nose. He saw no need to go into details.

“Did you apologize? Caro is the most forgiving person in the world. She would never hold a grudge.”

“But her husband does. He’s a distant connection of my mother’s and we had a childhood quarrel. He dislikes me.”

“This is terrible! I always thought the Duke of Castleton was a man of principle.”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise. Yet even the most upright of men can be ruled by his passions.”

“Do you know that Caro used to call him Lord Stuffy? And then she married him. I know she loves him but they are an unlikely couple. He used to disapprove of her circle of friends, but I thought he had come to accept them.”