"It Happened One Night Anthology" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laurens Stephanie, Balogh Mary, D’Alessandro Jacquie, Hern Candice)

The Fall of Rogue Gerrard / Stephanie Laurens

Chapter One

It was a dark, stormy, and utterly miserable night. Rain fell from the sky in unrelenting sheets; whenever Robert “Rogue” Gerrard, fifth Viscount Gerrard, managed to squint through long lashes weighed down by icy droplets all he saw was more rain.

Hunched in his greatcoat on the box of his traveling carriage, he held the reins loosely in one long-fingered hand; he’d stripped off his sodden gloves miles ago. There was no risk of the horses bolting.

“Just a little further,” he crooned, urging them on. He doubted they could hear over the drumming downpour, but the coaxing croon was ingrained habit. If one wanted females or animals to do what one wanted, one crooned; in Ro’s experience, it usually worked.

The powerful pair, normally arrogantly high-stepping, were disdainfully lifting first one hoof, then the other, free of sucking mud. Their pace was down to a crawl.

Inwardly cursing, Ro peered through the water coursing down his face, trying through the darkness to make out some-any-landmark. It was February. His mother always maintained one should never travel in February; as with many things, she was proving to be correct. But business had called, so Ro had dutifully left the luxurious warmth of the hearth at his principal estate, Gerrard Park, near Waltham on the Wolds, summoned his trusty coachman, Willis, and set out that afternoon for town.

He’d imagined putting up for the night along the way, possibly at the Kings Bells in St. Neots.

As usual, they’d joined the Great North Road near Colsterworth. It was only after they’d swept past Stamford that Willis, glancing idly back, had seen the massive storm clouds rushing down on them from the north. The turnoff to Peterborough had already been behind them; when applied to for orders, Ro had decreed they’d press on with all speed, hoping to reach Brampton. They’d just raced through the hamlet of Norman Cross when the heavens had opened with a ferocity that had instantly made traveling, even on England’s most major highway, a nightmare.

They’d limped toward Sawtry, but with the smaller, slighter Willis all but drowned on the box, having increasing difficulty managing the reins, Ro had insisted on trading places. His drenched coachman was now a shivering lump inside the coach, while Ro, also drenched to the skin, but courtesy of his size and constitution better able to withstand the apocalyptic downpour, squinted through the torrent.

They’d reached Sawtry over an hour ago, only to find every possible habitation packed to the rafters with travelers seeking shelter. The Great North Road was the country’s busiest highway; mail coaches, post coaches, and private coaches, let alone wagons and carts, had been stranded and deserted all around Sawtry.

No shelter of any sort was to be had, but the deluge had shown no signs of abating; if anything, as the hours dragged on, the downpour had only increased.

That was when Ro had remembered the small but tidy inn in Coppingford. The lane along which it lay met the highway about a mile south of Sawtry. With no real option, Ro had accepted the risk, not just of that extra mile on the highway, but of what he’d estimated as two miles of country lane.

Now, with the night an icy, wet, close to impenetrable shroud around him, with the horses slowing even more with every step, with the deluge rapidly converting the lane into a quagmire, he was seriously wondering if he’d judged aright. Yet quite aside from its seclusion tucked away through woods two miles from the highway, given the sudden onset of the storm and its dramatic impact, he doubted the Coppingford Arms would be full.

Gaining shelter for him, Willis, and his horses was currently his only objective, and both instinct and intellect told him shelter awaited at the Coppingford Arms.

He was debating whether to get down and lead the horses when he caught a glimmer through the dripping trees. Leaden branches drooped and bobbed in the downpour; he blinked, shook his head, sending droplets flying in a vain attempt to clear his eyes, and stared again. A small, weak lamp glowed through the curtain of rain.

It grew larger, its light stronger, as the horses inched along. Through the drowned night the outline of a low, solid, two-story building in gray stone took shape. As well as the single lamp by the main door, flickering light at one window bore testimony to a fire within. The sight made Ro realize just how chilled he was; he quelled a shiver.

A stone archway beside the inn gave access to the stable yard. He turned the flagging horses under it. “Willis! Wake up, man-we’re here.”

“I’m awake.” Willis was out of the carriage before it had rocked to a halt. “Ostler! Get yourself out here! His lordship’s horses need tending before they get washed away.”

Swinging down from the box seat, Ro saw an ostler come rushing from the stable.

Wide-eyed, he grabbed hold of the leader’s bridle. “We can walk them into the stable and unharness there. No need to get washed away ourselves.”

Ro nodded to Willis when Willis looked back at him. “Go on. I’ll get my bag and bespeak rooms-come in when you’re done.”

Willis saluted and rushed to help the ostler manage the heavy, drooping horses. Ro stepped to the back of the carriage, opened the boot, and hauled his portmanteau up and out just as the carriage started moving, then strode up the steps to the inn’s side door.

He opened it and squelched inside. The sound made him wince; Hoby wouldn’t be impressed. “Innkeep!”

“Right here, sir.”

Ro looked up. The innkeeper-the same mild-mannered man Ro remembered from years ago-was standing behind a short counter by the stairs, watching the puddle forming about Ro’s large booted feet with resignation.

The man sighed, then ran his gaze up Ro’s long frame, animation increasing as he took in the quality of the greatcoat hanging from Ro’s shoulders and the elegant coat and waistcoat beneath, equally sodden. “A dreadful night, sir. You’ll be wanting a nice dry room, I’ve no doubt.”

“One with a fire, and a room for my coachman as well. He’ll be in shortly.”

Ro’s voice brought the man’s gaze to his face.

The man blinked. “Why…bless me! It’s Ro-” He corrected himself. “Lord Gerrard, isn’t it? We haven’t seen you in quite some years, my lord.”

Everyone remembered Rogue Gerrard. Ro managed to summon the charming smile that rarely failed to get him what he wanted. “Indeed. Bilt, isn’t it?”

Bilt was flattered to have been remembered; he came around his counter. “A right beastly night, my lord. Never seen anything like it-all this rain. A night for Noah, it is. We’ve one of our front rooms vacant. I’ll just nip up and get the fire roaring, and have the missus turn down the bed.” Eager to please, he reached for Ro’s bag. “If you’d like to sit in the tap for a moment, catch your breath, I’ll take your bag up and make sure all’s ready.”

Ro surrendered his bag. He was tired and sodden and wanted nothing more than to get dry. Getting warm would hopefully follow.

Using both hands, Bilt hefted the portmanteau and hurried to the stairs. “You’ll remember the tap from before, I’ll warrant.”

Ro did. He turned to the archway that gave on to the tap, a decent-sized room with a bar along one wall.

The room lay in chilly darkness. It wasn’t the room in which the firelight had flickered.

Ro swung his gaze to the door opposite the archway. If memory served, it gave on to a parlor. Crossing to the door, he opened it. Warmth and golden light rolled over him.

“My lord! Ah…”

Already over the threshold, Ro leaned back through the door to look up at Bilt, on the landing wrestling with the unwieldy portmanteau.

Bilt looked down at him, expression aghast.

Ro raised a brow. “What is it?”

Bilt swallowed. “If you don’t mind, my lord, someone’s hired the parlor.”

Ro glanced into the room, then looked back at Bilt. “Whoever they are, they’re not here, most probably because it’s the dead of night. There is, however, a fire still burning. I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that I’m drenched, Bilt. To the skin. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to catch a chill while waiting for my room to be made ready-especially as this fire is burning so well and otherwise going to waste.”

He smiled at Bilt, but this time the smile held an edge, one mirrored in his silver-gray eyes. “I’ll wait here by the fire.”

Very few people forgot Rogue Gerrard.

Entering the parlor, Ro closed the door and walked across to the hearth. With every step he could feel the welcome warmth reaching for him, engulfing him…but only on his face and hands, his exposed skin. The rest of him remained literally chilled to the bone, and that rest was rather a lot.

Halting before the fire, he shrugged out of his greatcoat and draped it over the back of a wooden chair beside the hearth, then mentally shrugging-there was no one around to see-he fought his way out of his coat, not an easy task given the lengths to which Shultz had gone to tailor the garment to his shoulders and back. The waistcoat was easier to strip off, but even his cravat and shirt were more wet than not. He couldn’t recall ever being so drenched. The cravat was a yard of limp, creased linen; he laid it over his coat on the chair. His buckskin breeches-thank God he hadn’t changed into trousers before setting out-had largely repelled the rain; they were already giving off steam.

He paused, considering his shirt, but was too desperate to feel heat on his iced skin to wait. Pulling the tails free of his breeches, he tugged and wriggled and managed to haul the damp linen off over his head. On the way, his dripping hair wet the fabric even more, but the heat of the flames caressing his chilled chest and arms brought instant relief.

He sighed, closed his eyes. Rubbing his hair with the bunched shirt, he gradually felt the worst of his inner shivering subside. Muscles tight with cold started to ease, to relax. He was still chilled, but no longer frozen.

His marrow might even be thawing.

Opening his eyes, reaching behind him, he mopped his back with the shirt, then dried his arms, rubbing briskly to get the blood flowing. Then he tried to dry his chest; given the state of his shirt, his skin remained damp. Standing before the fire, he let the flames warm him while passing the crumpled linen back and forth across the band of crinkly hair adorning the heavy muscles.

His mood was almost mellow when the door opened. Expecting Bilt, he turned-

And froze.

Across the room, a lady whisked into the parlor, turned and shut the door. Swinging back into the room, looking down, shaking rain from an umbrella, she walked a few paces, then halted.

She was swathed in a heavy cloak, the lower foot of which was wet through and muddy, but she’d pushed back the hood, revealing hair the color of burnished walnut neatly secured in a chignon, and a small oval face with delicate features.

Features Ro recognized, that still held the power to stop the breath in his chest.

She hadn’t seen him; she was patently unaware he was there.

He frowned. “What the devil are you doing here?”

She jumped. Smothered a small shriek that died away as her gaze rose, locked, and she stared.

Not at his face.

Her gaze had risen only as far as his chest. His naked chest.

He knew perfectly well what it looked like, knew precisely why women, ladies especially, stared at him in that way, but this was Lydia, and her staring at him in that way was definitely not going to help.

Somewhere in the inn, a clock chimed. Twelve bongs; midnight.

His only option was to ignore his half-naked state. It could have been worse; he might have changed into trousers before he’d left home, and then she’d have swooned.

“Lydia-cut line! What the devil are you doing here? More to the point, where the devil have you been-in a torrential downpour in the dead of night?” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended, a reaction to the unwelcome realization that ten years had clearly been insufficient time to mute the effect she had on him. And all that flowed from that.

An impulse to shake her, given she’d clearly been doing something witlessly dangerous, being just one of his reactions.

She blinked. Her gaze slowly rose over his chest to his shoulders, then up the line of his throat to his face.

Her lips parted even further; her eyes widened even more. “Ro?”

Pressing his lips tight, he hung on to his temper. What the devil did she mean by staring at his chest when she hadn’t even known it was he? “As you see. Now, if you please-where the deuce have you been, and why?”

Mouth agape, Lydia Makepeace stared, for quite the first time in her life fully comprehending the meaning of the word “dumbstruck,” at the gentleman-gentleman rake, gamester, dissolute womanizer, and acknowledged libertine-displayed so delectably before her, all that damp skin just begging to be touched…and valiantly tried to harry her wits back into working order. The flickering firelight caressing his chest-that amazingly sculpted muscled expanse-lovingly outlining each ridge of his abdomen, each heavy curve of shoulder and arm in golden light, didn’t help.

Her mouth was dry; swallowing, she forced herself to focus on his eyes, on the irritation clear in the silvery gray.

Even as the most elementary ability to think re-formed in her mind, she saw her plans, her carefully calculated, absolutely vital plans, unraveling. “No.”

His eyes narrowed.

She narrowed hers back, tipped up her chin “What I do is no concern of yours, my lord.”

He growled, literally growled. “Ro-remember? And for your information-”

Breaking off, he looked past her. The door opened.

Glancing around, she saw the innkeeper. He stood as if poleaxed in the doorway, the smile on his face melting away-he plainly had no idea what expression to replace it with. As she had done, he was staring at Ro, at his naked chest; unlike her, the innkeeper’s expression was horrified.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Ro shook out the shirt he carried in one fist, but one glance was enough to confirm for them all that it was so wet, he’d never succeed in pulling it on again.

Looking up, he pinned her with a rapier-sharp gaze. “Wait here while I go up and change. Do not leave this room.”

If you do, I’ll come after you.

She heard the unvoiced warning clearly. She set her jaw; wild visions of having him taken up by a constable, or at least being thrown out into the night, drifted temptingly across her mind…but it was raining cats and dogs-and sheep and goats and horses-out there, and who would do the throwing? The innkeeper and what army?

Lips as thin as his, eyes every bit as narrow, she folded her arms, watched him scoop up his sodden clothes. “I’ll wait here.”

She knew better than to try to deny him; never in her life had she managed that, and it didn’t seem that anything had changed between them.

He nodded curtly and stalked past her to the door. The innkeeper-still gawping-hurriedly stepped back and Ro went out.

The instant he was out of her sight, some measure of her accustomed acuity returned; her mind literally cleared. Just as well. If she knew Ro, and she did, she was going to need every wit she possessed.

The innkeeper coughed, then whispered, “Miss-if you want to slip away to your room, I’ll escort you up. There’s a sound bolt on the door. You could move the little chest across it, too.”

She glanced at the man, had to search her memory, seesawing wildly between the past and the present, for his name. She considered, then spoke, her voice cool, calm, faintly imperious. “That’s entirely unnecessary, Bilt. You need have no fear. I have more than sufficient years in my dish to deal with his lordship.”

She hoped. She most definitely prayed.

A suspicious look entered Bilt’s eyes. “You and his lordship know each other?”

She could imagine what tack his mind had taken, what meaning his “know” was intended to imply. “Indeed,” she replied repressively. “Childhood friends.” When Bilt’s suspicions didn’t immediately evaporate, she added somewhat waspishly, “Oh, do use your wits, man! If our relationship were any other we’d be meeting upstairs, not in your parlor.”

It took a minute for Bilt to accept that not even Rogue Gerrard would be likely to prefer a parlor over a comfortable bed. Given Ro’s reputation, Lydia couldn’t blame Bilt for the hesitation, or his earlier suspicions.

Brusquely handing him her umbrella, she turned back into the room. “Now.” Her mind was functioning again. “Lord Gerrard has clearly just arrived, and equally clearly he can’t have dined. I regret the lateness of the hour, but if Mrs. Bilt could assemble a meal, both his lordship and I would be grateful.” Shrugging off her cloak, she draped it over the chair, then fixed Bilt with a commanding stare. “His temper is always improved by a good meal.”

And setting a table and feeding him would keep Bilt about, at the same time assuaging his unfounded fears.

Bilt blinked, then bowed. “Yes, of course, miss. An excellent notion.”

The more she thought of it, the more she felt it was; dealing with Ro was going to be difficult, but perhaps there was some way in which she could turn his unexpected arrival to her advantage.

Setting her mind to that task would keep it focused on her goal-her purpose in being there-and away from what had happened the last time they’d met.

She definitely couldn’t afford to think about that.

The sodden hem of her dress-only an inch or so; she’d left her pattens by the inn’s door-dripped onto her shoes. Noticing, she placed herself before the fire and lifted the hem to the blaze.

And thought about how to conscript Ro to her cause.

He’d always been something of a protector. A white knight riding to her aid whenever she’d needed him. Admittedly that had been more than a decade ago, yet despite the reputation he’d gained over the intervening years, she suspected something of that white knight remained, concealed beneath his glib, sophisticated exterior.

Gentleman rake, gamester, dissolute womanizer, and gazetted libertine-all were labels she’d heard applied to him, all, as she understood it, with good cause. The entire ton knew of his countless affairs, of the wild gambling, the incredible wagers won and lost, the licentious dinners and parties that, if the gossipmongers were to be believed, were one step away from outright orgies.

Recollections of tales of some of his more outrageous exploits drifted through her mind; most such tales hailed from more than six years ago, but the perceived wisdom was that with maturity, he’d grown more discreet. Despite all, he’d remained a darling of the ton-Gerrard of Gerrard Park, as wealthy as he was handsome-but unfortunately for the matchmakers, his reputation was sufficiently enshrined in the ton’s collective psyche to render him ineligible as a candidate for their delicate daughters’ hands.

The Bilts arrived with plates, cutlery, napkins, and platters. She nodded encouragingly, then left them to set the small round table they pulled to the center of the room.

Standing before the fire, waving her gown’s hem in the warmth of the flames, she frowned. When, over the years, she’d imagined meeting Rogue Gerrard face-to-face again, she’d thought she’d see a different man, one on whom a licentious, hedonistic life had left its mark. Instead…when she’d looked at him, all she’d seen was the same man, just ten years older. He’d been striking as a younger man; now he was impressive-larger, harder, with a none-too-subtle edge that only underscored his innate strength.

As a young man, he’d made her heart race.

Now he set it pounding.

She heard his step on the stair. Turning, she discovered the Bilts had withdrawn, leaving all in readiness on the table. They’d laid two places although she’d already dined. Perhaps she’d have some fruit, just to keep Ro company. She crossed to one chair, looking up as the door opened.

Ro filled the doorway.

Not the Ro who had left, but one infinitely more intimidating. He was impeccably turned out, from the shining chestnut hair clustering in damp waves about his head, to the pristine, intricately tied cravat anchored with a simple gold pin, to the severe, almost austere lines of coat and waistcoat.

Dark trousers cloaked his long legs, making him appear even taller. The aristocratic planes of his face somehow appeared harder, cleaner, more sharply delineated.

He looked at her, then at the table. Then his gaze rose to her face. Arching a brow, he entered and shut the door.

Before he could speak, she gestured to the platters. “We thought you might be hungry.”

He was. Ravenous, now food was set before him. Inclining his head in acknowledgment, Ro walked around the table to hold her chair.

Although he steeled himself, it didn’t help; awareness rippled through him, just because she was near.

Within arm’s reach.

She sat and he stepped away, forced his feet to the other end of the small table. He sat, helped himself to a slice of game pie, then looked across the table and fixed her with a steady stare. “So-what are you doing here?”

She’d thought about spinning him some yarn, but had-wisely-decided against it; he read as much in her serene expression, in the clarity of her fine blue eyes.

Hands folded before her, she met his gaze steadily. “I’m here to retrieve a letter of Tabitha’s that unintentionally went astray.”

He chewed a piece of pie, remarkably succulent, and studied her. She was going to make him wring the story from her, cryptic utterance by veiled truth. Tabitha was her sister, a year or so younger, a firebrand even when he’d last met her at fifteen. Now twenty-five, Tab was, so he’d heard, a bluestocking of quite amazing degree, one who controversially preached that women, ladies in particular, had little need for men-gentlemen in particular-in their lives, and should think very hard before surrendering their freedom and fortunes into said gentlemen’s hands.

Lydia, now twenty-six, six years his junior, had always been the quieter, the more reserved, the steadier and more reliable. Tab, it seemed, had become something of a female version of himself, a notorious and dangerous hellion, at least as far as the ton was concerned.

But what neither sister was, was weak.

He reached for the roast beef. “This letter-who has it, what’s in it that makes it a threat to Tab, and why are you here trying to retrieve it, rather than she?”

Lydia’s lips tightened fractionally, but she drew breath and replied, “The letter was one Tab wrote years ago, when she was seventeen.” She paused, her eyes searching his, then went on. “You remember Tab-you know what she’s like. How she throws herself into things, heart and soul, and the devil be damned?”

Reaching for his goblet, Ro nodded.

“Well, before she became a bluestocking propounding women’s rights, and especially our right not to wed…” She hesitated.

He finished for her. “She was seventeen-she fell in love.” Recalling Tabitha, nothing was more certain.

Lydia nodded. “Exactly. And she wrote to the gentleman involved, and being Tabitha, she wrote unrestrainedly. Without exercising the least discretion, and with an enthusiasm that…” She drew in a short breath. “Well, suffice it to say that if the contents of that letter became widely known now, she’d be the laughingstock of the ton.”

Ro raised his brows. “That bad?”

Lydia grimaced. “Actually, it’s worse. She’d be shunned by all her friends-the other women who think like her, and all that circle.” She paused, then added, “That’s her life now, and effectively, because of this letter, she stands on the brink of ruin.”

Ro frowned, toyed with a portion of beef. “Why, after-what, eight years?-has this letter surfaced now?”

“Because Tab remembered it, and asked for it back.”

Which suggested that the contents really were inflammatory beyond what even Tab, no wilting violet, could imagine facing down. “From the man she’d sent it to.” Ro narrowed his eyes. “And he wouldn’t give it back?”

“No-he agreed to give it back.” Lydia looked exasperated. “Of course he did. If Tab ordered him to jump through a hoop, he would.”

Ro blinked. “Who is he?”

Lydia studied him, then made up her mind. “Montague Addison.”

Ro opened his eyes wide, struggled to keep his lips straight. “Addison the spineless wonder?”

Lips tight, eyes like flint, Lydia nodded. “Yes. Him.”

“Well.” Ro pushed away his empty plate; lifting his goblet, he sipped. “That explains a number of things.” Including why Tabitha Makepeace no longer favored marriage. If as an impressionable seventeen-year-old she’d considered Montague Addison a pattern card of gentlemanly virtue, it was entirely understandable that she’d subsequently rejected wedlock. Especially to gentlemen.

“So”-Ro focused on Lydia-“Addison agreed to give the letter back. What went wrong?”

“After getting Tab’s note, Addison-the idiot-put the letter in its envelope in his coat pocket. He said he intended to find Tab at a ball and hand it over-even though, of course, Tab rarely attends balls. And it’s February, for heaven’s sake! There are hardly any balls in town, and if he’d bothered to read Tab’s direction on her note, he would have seen we were at home in Wiltshire. But Addison, being Addison, didn’t think of any of that. He went on his usual rounds to a few parties, then, not finding Tab, went on to some hell called Lucifer’s.”

Ro was starting to get a very bad feeling about what might have happened, and more specifically where Tab’s letter currently was. “I know it.”

Hearing his clipped tone, Lydia looked at him, momentarily distracted from her frustration with Addison. “Yes, I daresay you might.” She blinked, then returned to Addison’s shortcomings with a frown. “Addison lost heavily, as I understand he frequently does. He needed to write an IOU to…the gentleman to whom he’d lost, and-I presume he was thoroughly foxed by then-he pulled out Tab’s letter and wrote his note of hand on the envelope, and gave it to…the gentleman.”

And with that, Ro saw it all. “The gentleman being Stephen Barham, now Lord Alconbury of Upton Grange.”

Lydia stilled. She held his gaze for a long moment, then reached, slowly, for a grape. “Why do you think that?” She plucked a grape, popped it into her mouth, and studied him, trying to look innocent while she chewed.

Ro smiled-not humorously. “Because Barham is a regular at Lucifer’s, because Addison often tries to ingratiate himself with that crowd, because Upton Grange lies across the lane and through the woods”-with one long finger he indicated the direction-“less than a mile away, and because when you came in your hems were wet.” His jaw clenched. “You’d been traipsing about the woods during a downpour of biblical proportions in the dark of night…why?”

He’d managed through an effort of quite remarkable magnitude to subdue the emotions roiling and welling inside him-roused by the realization of what she was about-enough to make his question reasonably unthreatening.

She still eyed him warily. After a moment, she licked her lips. “You do realize, Ro, that you have no grounds on which to interfere.” She tipped up her chin. “My life is my own, and I will do as I please.”

He simply looked at her and made no reply.

She drew breath, then confessed, “I arrived this afternoon, before the rain started. I need to get the letter back as soon as possible, before Barham realizes what he has. You know how fiendish he is-once he discovers the letter it’ll be all over London.” On the table, her fingers linked, twisted. “And on top of that, Tab and Barham have crossed swords before, and Barham came out of it badly. He would like nothing better than to expose Tab and bring her down in the eyes of the ton.”

She tried to read his reaction in his eyes; he gave her a blank expression, but nodded.

Heartened, she continued, “So I went to look at the house-Upton Grange. To see how big it is, how hard it might be to get inside and search it. I didn’t know if Barham would be there or not.” Her lips turned down; she met Ro’s eyes. “He is-and he’s got a houseful of guests.”

Ro nodded. “Indeed.” He hesitated, then asked, “I assume that means you’ve realized you can’t, at least at present, search Upton Grange for this letter?”

If fate was kind, all would be well, and he could see her on her way back to her home in Wiltshire, safe and sound, the instant the rain ceased and the roads cleared.

Instead, she frowned at him. “Of course not. I have to get the letter back, and sooner rather than later. Every day it remains in Barham’s clutches increases the risk of his discovering and reading it. I would have thought that was obvious.”

Ro’s jaw tightened until he thought it might crack. “Perhaps. What, however, is rather less obvious is why you believe you-specifically you-have to be the one to retrieve this letter. Why not Addison, or failing that, Tab herself?”

Lydia narrowed her eyes to slits. “That is even more obvious. It can’t be Addison because the only way he could get the letter back without raising Barham’s suspicions is to honor his IOU-and he can’t because he’s halfway up the River Tick. None of us would dream of trusting Addison to search Barham’s house and retrieve the letter by stealth-he’s a bumbling incompetent. He’d be caught, and the scandal would be even worse.”

“And what of Tabitha?”

Ro’s eyes were a hard, bleak gray, obdurate and unyielding. Lydia looked into them, then drew a deep, resolute breath, and told him the truth knowing full well he wasn’t going to like it. “It can’t be Tab because when I left her she was all but irrational. She was in one of her states-she would strangle Addison if she could lay hands on him, and as for Barham…well, if she came upon him while searching his house, she’d probably try to strangle him, too, purely on principle. You know what she’s like-the idea of her sneaking into his house and retrieving the letter without some major explosion which will result in the scandal of the year is pure fantasy.”

Ro opened his mouth; she raised a hand, silencing him. “Being quiet-getting things done without causing a stir-is not Tabitha’s strong suit.” She held his gaze. “It is, however, mine.”

Eyes like shards of flint pinned her. “And what do you imagine will happen when you’re caught, as you most likely will be? Do you think the scandal will be any less?”

Calmly confident, she let her lips curve. “Actually, I suspect the tale won’t even get an airing.”

He frowned. “Why? What difference-”

When he broke off, understanding dawning in his eyes, she let the curve of her lips deepen. “Precisely. While Tab is widely known as the firebrand of the family, the termagant, I’m equally well-known as the quiet and reserved sister, the always perfectly behaved, decorous sister. What the ton will believe of Tab, they won’t believe of me. If Barham does catch me-and he’ll be much less likely to catch me than Tab, who’s never been any good at subterfuge-even if he does, and he’s stupid enough to try to spread the tale, even and including the contents of Tab’s letter…what are the odds that anyone will believe him?”

Ro sat perfectly still, his eyes locked with hers. Minutes ticked by, then he stirred. “You’re deliberately risking your reputation in order to save Tabitha’s.”

She let her smile fade until her resolution shone clearly. “It’s the sort of thing a sister does.”

Ro held her gaze, his expression unreadable, then he scowled. “Why the devil aren’t you married?”

He felt like running his hands through his hair. And tugging. Why wasn’t she married and safely ensconced before some gentleman’s hearth, said gentleman’s responsibility and not his, protected from all danger-protected most especially from him? He could see where this was leading, and it wasn’t good-especially for her, let alone him.

She blinked at him, then laughed-a sound he’d forgotten, had tried to forget, had almost succeeded in burying in his memories.

It shivered through him like a caress.

“Oh, Ro-surely you don’t imagine I’m risking my chance to make a good match with this?” The look she bent on him was gently patronizing. “I’m twenty-six-I’ve had my time on the marriage mart, and didn’t like any of the offerings.”

That was something he didn’t understand; although he’d kept his distance, he knew she’d been courted by numerous eligibles, gentlemen as handsome and in some cases even wealthier than he. He’d steeled himself to hear of her engagement, expected the blow to fall a number of times, but it had never happened. The most he’d heard were whispers that she was finicky; even in her rejections, Lydia had been reserved, forever discreet.

She was watching him, that same almost-smile playing about her lips. “I had my choices and I made them, and I don’t regret even one. So now I’m all but an ape leader, and thus protecting my reputation is no longer the absolute imperative it once was. If necessary, as it is in this case, I can, and will, put it at risk.”

More than anything else, her calm, even, serenely rational tone convinced him just how set on her chosen path-on retrieving Tabitha’s letter-she was. She’d thought the matter through, weighed the risks and her chances, and was convinced her course was right.

Neither she nor Tabitha was weak-because, as he knew, they were both bone-stubborn.

Arguing directly against her wasn’t going to work.

“Lydia.” He glanced down at his hands clasped on the table, marshaling his arguments, controlling his tone-hiding all evidence of the primitive response her “plan” evoked-then he looked up and met her eyes. “You cannot go waltzing into Barham’s house and search for that letter-not now, while he has guests there. After they leave…it might be possible, but you’re going to have to wait until then.”

She held his gaze; he could read very little in her eyes or expression-no hint of how she would react. But there was that same calmness, a cool, serene steadfastness that he recognized from long ago…for the first time in many years he let himself wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, when she looked at him like that.

Then the curve of her lips deepened; she looked down as she pushed back her chair. Then she looked up and met his gaze.

“Tomorrow I’m going to start searching Upton Grange for Tab’s letter.” She tilted her head, studying him still. “If you wish, you can help me.”

She rose, still holding his gaze. “But what you can’t do, Ro, is stop me.” She paused, then added, “That I won’t allow, so please don’t try.”

With a nod, she turned away.

Ro pushed back his chair and rose.

Reaching the door, she waved him back. “No-stay and have some brandy and get warm.” She paused, the door open, looking back through the wavering firelight at him. “Good night. Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stepping through the door, she shut it gently behind her.

Ro stared at the wooden panels, then dropped back into his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face, and groaned.

After a moment, he lowered his hands, sat back; spreading his arms wide, palms up, he looked up at the ceiling. “Why?”

No answer came. Disgusted, he reached for the bottle Bilt had left, poured an inch of brandy into his goblet, then pushed his chair around and leaned back, sipping, his gaze on the dying flames.

He couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing back through the years to when he and Lydia had last spoken. To that fateful summer ten years ago.

The daughters of the eccentric branch of the Wiltshire Makepeaces, their father a scholar who although born into it largely shunned the ton, their mother a well-bred matron who juggled her wifely duties with those of a mother as best she could, throughout their childhoods, Lydia and Tabitha had been sent every summer to stay with their mother’s cousin’s family, whose estate shared a boundary with Gerrard Park.

Although six years older than Lydia, he’d noticed her instantly. She’d captured his attention, his eye, his imagination, even when she’d been six years old and he a superior twelve. The difference in ages hadn’t mattered, not then, or later.

Later, when she’d been sixteen, innocent and untouched, and he’d been an already polished, already experienced twenty-two. The polish and experience hadn’t mattered either, not on that day he’d met her in the orchard, as he often had.

They’d walked, talked, as they always had. She’d been full of plans for her come-out the following year, excitedly looking forward to waltzing and being courted by gentlemen-a strange species she’d had little exposure to hidden away in Wiltshire with her reclusive parents.

She’d asked him, playfully innocent, to waltz with her, there under the apple trees. He’d smiled and obliged, humming a tune with her, never dreaming…

The halcyon day had whirled about them, and something else had taken hold, and risen, softly, gently, through him.

He’d stopped humming, slowed; when he’d halted she’d been lost in his eyes, and he in hers.

He’d bent his head and kissed her. Even at twenty-two, he’d known how to steal a woman’s wits with a kiss, but that wasn’t how he’d kissed her. He’d kissed her gently, tentatively…worshipfully.

It was that last that had opened his eyes, that when he’d ended the kiss and lifted his head, had had him looking at her in a completely different light.

There’d been stars in her eyes; he’d seen them, understood-and panicked.

He’d smiled charmingly, made some excuse, left her-and run.

As fast and as far as he could. His twenty-two-year-old mind had been adamant that she hadn’t been, could not have been, his destiny.

From his earliest years he’d been set on being the rogue his nurse had named him, a hellion, a scapegrace, a gamester, a libertine. From infancy he’d been called a rogue; he’d never imagined being anything but, never imagined not living up to the expectation.

So he’d run from her, and had forced himself to never look back-never to go looking for her in the orchards again.

Staring into the flames, Ro drained the brandy, closed his eyes, and sighed. The next four or so years of his life had gone in a whirl of hedonistic dissipation that had established his reputation beyond question. A rogue he’d been named and a rogue he’d become, and had taken a wholly male, wholly unfettered delight in so doing.

But then…

Entirely unexpectedly, things had changed. Dissipation had grown boring. The diversions that previously had held his attention had palled. He’d drawn back from the crowd he’d run with, started looking for other activities-activities that could absorb him, that could occupy a mind he’d deliberately suppressed and allowed to stagnate while pursuing his misguided dream.

From behind the rogue a different man had emerged, one he’d spent the last six years learning, developing, evolving.

But he’d been such an excellent rogue, the reputation had stuck, regardless of his absence from the scene.

Even now, those who looked for him in the gaming hells and didn’t find him assumed he was at some more exclusive venue. If he no longer attended the scandalously licentious dinners and parties, everyone assumed he was engaged in some secretive affair of even more scandalous proportions.

Many continued to invite him to their country houses for orgiastic revels; when he failed to show, they were entirely convinced he was attending someone else’s more exclusive event.

He hadn’t been above using his reputation for his own ends, as a shield to repel the matchmaking mamas and their darling daughters. As a deflecting screen that often led those he dealt with in business to underestimate him, always an advantage.

Opening his eyes, Ro stared at the fire, now reduced to glowing embers. The food, the flames, and the brandy had done their work; he was warm again.

He sighed. Setting the goblet on the table, he rose, and headed for the door. As he silently climbed the stairs, he wondered what Lydia would think, how she would view him, if she knew he was now one of the major philanthropists in England.

He hadn’t intended that to be his destiny, but fate, circumstance, and coincidence had led him in that direction, and he’d discovered a real talent, a calling, and others who shared it. At first they’d eyed him askance, knowing his reputation, but he’d worked diligently on each project he’d undertaken, and gradually they’d come to accept him. To understand him.

To understand that even more than the rest of them, anonymity was vital to him.

If it ever became known that he-Rogue Gerrard-the most celebrated rogue in the ton, had reformed six years ago, he’d instantly be elevated to the very top of the matchmakers’ lists. He was thirty-two, with no close male relative, an ancient title, excellent connections, possessed of a large house and significant wealth. They’d come at him in droves.

He still wondered what Lydia would think of him now…if she knew the truth.

Reaching his room at the front of the house, glancing at its mate and wondering if Lydia was behind its closed door, he opened his and went in.

Crossing to his portmanteau, he rummaged inside and drew out the stack of invitations his scarifyingly efficient secretary, Martin Camberthorne, never let him leave his orbit without. The cards covered all the events to which Ro had been invited from yesterday through to the end of next week-the period he’d expected to spend in London, meeting with other philanthropists on a proposal to provide basic schooling around the docks.

Standing before the dressing table, using the light from the single candle left burning there, Ro flipped through the cards, searching…until he found the one he sought.

Lifting it from the pile, he checked the inscribed details. Jaw setting, he tossed the card on the dressing table; the rest of the cards in his hand, he turned away.

Fate, circumstance, and coincidence, it seemed, were once again taking a hand in his life.