A Rogue’s Pleasure (5 page)

Chelsea flagged him to a chair. “You should sit first.”

Jack seated, Chelsea lost no time in telling him what had transpired at the vicarage.

He shook his head dolefully. “I knew it. I just knew it. 'Twas only a matter o' time.”

Chelsea drummed impatient fingers on the desk. “Knowing the particulars, I'm certain we could elude their stupid trap. Even so, now that the word is out, it's unlikely that we shall be able to filch anything that even comes close to the value of that pearl necklace. Even if we did, where would we find a purchaser of purloined valuables in this backwater.”
But, in London
…

Jack discharged a heavy sigh. “Thank the good Lord, ye've finally come to yer senses.”

“Indeed,” Chelsea murmured even as a new plan began taking shape in her mind.

Whitehall—and the War Office—were in London as well. She'd not yet received a reply to the letter of inquiry she'd posted five days before. But, if she were to arrive in person, she'd not be so easy to dismiss.

And, secreted in a dark hollow of her mind, a far less noble motive rattled. Lord Montrose was in London. The possibility of bearding the lion in his own den held an undeniable appeal, not to mention that the man was rich as Croesus. His abode must be chock-full of riches. Why, in one night alone, she could probably nick five hundred pounds' worth—and then some.

“Woolgathering, Miss Chelsea?”

“Hem?” She looked up to find Jack's one-eyed gaze boring through her. “Oh, I was just thinking that a change in plans might be in order.”

A worried frown stitched his brow. “What kind o' change?”

Painting a mental portrait of Montrose's face when he stepped inside his spacious—and empty—London residence, she found herself smiling. “While I had hoped to stay long enough to supervise the planting, I see now that we must away from here posthaste. Move our base of operations to somewhere where one more thief—or even two—won't raise an eyebrow.”

Jack's weary gaze followed her as she rounded the desk. “And where might that be?” he asked, although she felt certain he'd surmised her answer.

Just the same, she wasn't eager to witness his stricken face. She dashed toward the dining room. “Why, London, of course.”

 

London
. Anthony lifted the curtain and stared out the carriage window to the Thames. Black, sluggish, and swathed in gray mist, the river might have been a metaphor for his soul.

He'd hoped that being back in London would rouse his spirits but, like the country, the city failed to move him. Dr. Samuel Johnson had said that a man who was tired of London was tired of life. Well, perhaps Johnson had a point. Anthony thought back to his first visit as a boy of twelve. The
tonnish
men and women with their rouged cheeks, ornamental patches, and powdered hair; the monumental buildings and expansive pleasure gardens; the equestrian acrobats at Astley's Amphitheatre—all had seemed part of a dazzling fairyland. He sank back against the leather seat. What he wouldn't give to feel a modicum of that magic now.

Feelings, magical or otherwise, eluded him these days. He felt passionate about nothing and no one, least of all Phoebe. He'd just escorted her home from Drury Lane where a young actor named Edmund Kean had delivered a brilliant performance as Shakespeare's Romeo. Attendance of the premier was by invitation only; His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, had headed the distinguished guest list. But neither the tragedy enfolding on stage nor the steady stream of glittering personages filing in and out of the royal box had held Anthony's attention. Craving solitude, he'd begged off the postplay reception in the theater's Green Room, much to Phoebe's chagrin.

Alone at last, his thoughts returned to the robbery the week before. He'd felt something then. Anger, of course, but also curiosity and the vague stirring of lust.

One-Eye, you'd better be a woman.

According to the local authorities, there had been no reports of a one-eyed highwayman—male or female—in nearly thirty years. The trail, such as it was, had gone cold.

Jack or Jacqueline, where are you?
Once more he stared into the night, half expecting the spritelike footpad to materialize at the foot of Westminster Bridge. Instead, in the hazy light of the streetlamp, he saw two silhouettes—one tall and gangly, the other squat and broad—dragging a blond-haired man down the stone steps to the towpath. Not caring for the odds, Anthony tapped his cane on the roof, and Masters halted a yard or so from the bridge.

The smacking sound of flesh meeting flesh pierced the quiet.

A desperate voice choked out, “
Please,
I haven't got it.”

Pistol in hand, Anthony opened the door and leapt out, landing on his good leg.

“Milord?”

“Quiet.” He motioned Masters back to the box and crept forward.

Hand braced on the iron rail, Anthony peered down. Moonlight glinted on metal.

“You might as well 'and it o'er.” The lanky footpad waved the knife in front of the young man's frightened face. “We'll get it soon enough when your brain's turned to mash.”

The handsome visage crumpled. “I'll get it. I swear I will.” He swiped at his swollen mouth. “Only I need more time.”

“Time's run out, ducks.” The thug turned to his bullnecked accomplice. “Go to, Luke. Just see you save me enough o' 'im to gut.”

“Aye, enough to gut.” The second man raised his bat.

With nowhere to run, the victim sank to his knees, arms raised to shield his head.

Anthony aimed his pistol skyward and fired. The two attackers froze.

The bat lowered. “Gorm! What was that?”

“A gunshot, you idiot,” snarled the man with the knife. “Let's get out o' 'ere.” He rushed the stairs.

Anthony ducked behind a post just as he gained the bridge.

“But I b'aint finished.” The remaining ruffian turned back to the huddled figure and hefted the club.

Christ, it would have to be the large one who stayed behind.
With no time to reload, Anthony tossed the pistol and ran down the stairs, heels skittering on the slimy stone. Reaching the path, he launched himself forward.

The bully gasped. Turning, he swung blindly at Anthony's head. Anthony darted to the side. The weapon swished past his left ear. Unbalanced, the big man careened forward. The bat thudded to the ground. Seizing his chance, Anthony smashed his knuckles into the flaccid belly.
He took a bruising punch on his upper arm before landing a blow to his opponent's jaw. Blood and saliva sloshed from the footpad's slack mouth. He toppled backward into the black water, raising a fountain. Anthony waited. A low gurgling sound and the sluggish movement of heavy arms confirmed that he was progressing toward the opposite bank. Anthony hauled the young dandy to his feet.

“Christ, Reggie, can't you be trusted to steer clear of trouble for a fortnight?”

The Honorable Reginald Tremont—known as Reggie to his family, friends, and creditors—grinned through his bruises.

“G-guess I should have g-gone with you to Sussex after all. Would have s-saved a perfectly good pair of t-trousers.” He cast a mournful glance downward to the muddied knees of his silk striped pantaloons.

“Not to mention saving me from nearly having my head bashed in.”

Stale alcohol oozed from Reggie's pores much like the blood oozing from his split lip. Bending, Anthony hooked his future brother-in-law's arm over his neck and helped him to the carriage.

Masters, face white, opened the door to the compartment.

“Milord, are you all right? And the young master…?”

“We're both fine, Masters. Just lend me a hand, will you? Tremont is drunk as David's sow.”

“I'm not s-so very d-drunk.” Reggie allowed himself to be helped inside.

Anthony settled into the opposite seat and passed Reggie his handkerchief. “In that case, I'll see you home.”

“Home!” Reggie paused in wiping away the blood, alarm cutting through his stupor. “If Mama were to see me like this, she'd…Well, I'd rather not think about what she'd do. Please, Anthony.”

Deciding that young Reggie had suffered enough for one night, Anthony relented.

Stripping off his torn glove, Anthony sucked his bloodied knuckles. “Very well. I'll take you to White's, but only if you promise to behave. One bout of fisticuffs an evening is all I can manage.”

“Your club?” Reggie brightened. “Capital plan!”

“On the way, you can explain what the devil that was about, and spare me your lies. Those two were professional bullies, and I gather they were hired by someone to whom you owe money.”

Reggie's sheepish expression made him look even younger than his two-and-twenty years. The previous London Season had been his first, and he had delved into the epicurean indulgences of wine, women—and gaming—with the unbridled zest of a sheltered young man tasting freedom for the first time.

“The proprietor of that new gaming hell in Jermyn Street,” Reggie admitted after an awkward pause.

“I suspected as much.”
How he reminds me of myself at his age
. It was a herculean effort, but Anthony managed to compose his features into a stern mask. “Confess. How much are you in for?”

This time Reggie had the grace to hang his head. “Two hundred pounds, give or take a few quid.”

“Two hundred, hem. And I suppose you expect me to make you a loan?”

“Just until the next installment of my allowance.” Reggie looked up, blue-gray eyes beseeching. “I swear, I've learned my lesson. No more gaming. This time—definitely the last.”

Since assuming the role of reprobate guardian angel to Phoebe's rakehell older brother, Anthony had learned that Reggie's promises were well-intentioned but short-lived. Even so, saving the young rascal from himself provided Anthony with a welcome distraction from his own dark thoughts.

Looking into his young friend's earnest face, Anthony could no longer stifle his chuckle. “It had better be. Given Father's robust health, it looks as though I'll have to make do with one fortune for quite some time.”

“Now that the Season's over, London's no bloody fun,” Reggie lamented an hour later. Ensconced in White's coveted bow window alcove, sprawled in a leather wing chair, he surveyed the sparsely populated club room. “Ever since parliament adjourned, everyone's gone north for grouse season.” Expression morose, he lifted his coffee cup. “And with you rusticating in the country to play the dutiful son-in-law, there's been no one to go about with.”

Anthony sipped his port. “I believe your parents are decamping to Scotland after the wedding. Perhaps you should join them?”

Reggie scowled. “I'd sooner rot in hell than spend four bloody months listening to Papa complain about his gout.”

Anthony reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “There are worse fates.”

Worse fates indeed.

He swished the liquid about the rim of the glass. Peter and Steven had been like Reggie once—young and handsome and greedy for all that life offered. But then so had he. The trio had been inseparable ever since Eton, more like brothers than schoolmates. When Anthony had announced that he was joining up, his friends had purchased commissions in the same regiment. Sailing for Lisbon, salt spray stinging their freshly sunburnt faces, they'd hardly been able to wait for the glorious adventure to begin.

If only I'd known
. He drained his glass. Alcohol blazed through his throat. How he wished the spirit might score his brain as well, burn away the painful memories. The guilt.

Reggie eyed the port bottle. “How was the journey from Sussex? With Mama along, I'll warrant it was bloody dull.”

Grateful to return to the present, Anthony smiled. “Not as dull as you might expect.”

Reggie pressed, and Anthony recounted the robbery. When he came to the part about the pistol lowered over his manhood, Reggie howled.

“So, if it weren't for my sister handing over her pearls, you'd be a bloody eunuch right now.” Reggie's eyes glinted. “I'd say that you, not to mention half the whores in London, owe Phoebe a debt of gratitude.”

Reminded of Phoebe's grudging compliance, Anthony scowled. “She took her sweet time about it.”

“Perhaps she thought you might make a more devoted husband
sans
manhood,” Reggie suggested gamely.

Anthony flagged a waiter circulating with a box of cigars. “You may have a point.”

Given Phoebe's passionless nature, she probably would be perfectly content if they never consummated their marriage. But she'd not get off that easily. Later, after she'd given him a son or two, he'd gladly slake his desires elsewhere.

Reggie leaned back and yawned. “Tell me more about this One-Eyed Jack fellow. Great big lug like the one tonight, I collect?”

“Hardly.” Anthony dreaded having to admit that he'd been bested by a slip of a boy.
Or, worse still, by a girl
.

The waiter standing table side afforded him a reprieve. Anthony took his time in selecting his smoke, hoping that Reggie would forget his question.

No such luck.

“So what was he like?”

Anthony trimmed the end of his cigar. “Who?”

“Dammit, Anthony, you know very well who I mean. The highwayman.”

“Yes, of course.” Anthony leaned forward and touched the tip of the cigar to the candle flame. “The fellow was not your typical footpad.”

Reggie's pale brows drifted upward. “Meaning?”

Anthony sat back and inhaled. How could he articulate what he felt in his gut? “He was younger than one would expect…and delicate. I vow he scarcely weighed eight stone. When I pinned him, I was half-afraid I might break him.”

“When you pinned him?” Reggie fixed Anthony with a lopsided grin. “You've not gone to buggering boys, I hope.”

Reggie's teasing hit too close to the truth. When Anthony had looked into the highwayman's turquoise eye, he'd definitely felt…
something
.

He glared at his friend over the burning embers of his cigar. “If you were anyone else, I'd call you out for even suggesting it. The truth is, I'm not at all convinced that One-Eyed Jack was male.”

Reggie's brow beetled. “What makes you think that?”

“His mannerisms seemed studied. His walk, even his voice, belonged more to a woman pretending to be male.”

“Are you quite certain?”

Exhaling, Anthony contemplated the curling smoke. “Not precisely and yet the more I think on it, the more convinced I become.”

Reggie chewed on his cigar. “Tits?”

Trust Reggie to cut to the core of the matter. “Not that I noticed. But then, with the jacket and waistcoat, it would be hard to tell, particularly if the lady were not well endowed. Even if she were, I suppose she could have been wearing some sort of binding.”

“You must have it wrong.” Reggie shook his head. “Everybody knows that females don't go around robbing carriages. 'Twould be against…well, against nature.” His tone held the absolute certainty of the very young.

Anthony smiled to himself. There had been a time when he, too, had faced the future with absolute certainty.

Reggie emptied the rest of the bottle of port into his coffee cup. He stamped out his half-smoked cigar, confirming Anthony's suspicion that he didn't really care for tobacco.

The port, however, he quaffed. “Let's be on our way. There's a new house on Brydges Street that specializes in blondes. A good roll in the hay's just the thing to celebrate our salvation.”

“Afraid you're on your own tonight.” Anthony rose and collected his cane. “I'm for bed, preferably one that's unoccupied and has clean sheets.”

Reggie grasped the table edge and rose. “I suppose you've decided to reform now that you're about to be leg-shackled?”

Cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth, Anthony clapped an arm around Reggie's shoulders and steered him toward the lobby. “Moderate, perhaps, but reform,
never
.”

Anthony's carriage was parked beneath the swirling light of one of the West End's new gas lamps. Watching Reggie climb awkwardly inside, Anthony surmised his young friend would not be in any condition to do the whores of Covent Garden much good that night. It was more than likely that poor Reg would end up paying the proprietress for the privilege of passing out on
some strumpet's soiled bedsheets. To each his own.

Reggie thrust his tousled head out the carriage window. “Sure you won't change your mind? Whoring isn't half as much fun when you've no one to go with.”

Anthony closed the carriage door, reminding himself that he couldn't be Phoebe's brother's keeper every night. “Quite.”

Reaching down, he massaged the cramped muscle above his right knee. The trouncing on the towpath had done his bad leg little good. Without exercise, it would be stiff as a board by morning, reducing him to a cripple.

He lifted his gaze to Masters, seated on the box. “I'm afraid you're in for a long night.”

“Don't fret about me, milord.” Grinning, the driver lifted his cloak to reveal a pewter flask tucked into his pocket. “I've Mother Geneva to keep me company while I wait for the young master. Shall I take you home first?”

Anthony shook his head. “Walking's just the thing for the leg. Only see that you bring him back in one piece.”

“I'll do my best, milord.”

The town house Anthony had inherited from Ignatius was in Berkeley Square, one of the West End's most fashionable neighborhoods. The walk took Anthony a good half hour, time enough to examine his motives for declining a foray into the Covent Garden fleshpots. The simple truth was that the painted smiles of whores and the quick physical relief they afforded no longer held any allure for him. The fog inside Anthony's soul had lifted only once since his return, and that had been during the robbery. Perhaps he should arrange to have himself fleeced every so often, just to break the monotony?

“You're a sorry son of a bitch, Montrose.” He tossed a self-mocking laugh into the inky darkness and ground his cigar stub beneath his heel.

By the time he ascended the marble steps to his town house's Palladian facade, his knee was throbbing like the devil. Even so, with half of a bottle of port warming his belly, he should have slept like the dead. But instead of the battle-maimed specters that usually greeted him as soon as he put his head on the pillow, One-Eyed Jack's delicate visage floated before his eyes. No man could possibly have eyelashes so like paintbrushes, such sensuously curved lips, nor such shapely legs. At least, he hoped not.

It was nearing midnight when, tired of thrashing, Anthony gave up on sleep. He fumbled in the dark for the tinderbox, struck flint against steel, and lit a taper. Remembering the supply of French cognac he'd laid in, he shrugged into a velvet dressing gown and headed downstairs. Tonight was as good a time as any to find out whether or not the smuggler had exaggerated its quality.

Inside the library, he lit the brace of Argand lamps flanking the mantel. The flames flickered in the balmy breeze stirring the window draperies. He put down the taper to rummage through desk drawers for the key to the liquor cabinet.
Ah, success at last
. He bent and fitted the key into the lock. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something shift in the shadows.
My insomnia is beginning to get the better of me
. He straightened, rubbing his eyes. Hairs pricked the back of his neck.
Get hold of yourself, man
.

Slowly, very slowly, Anthony turned. In the hazy light, he could just make out the sofa, a table, and several chairs. The sofa, he observed, appeared to have grown a fifth leg—a small, booted foot.

Anthony crossed the room in slow, measured steps. He braced a hand on the sofa's
serpentine back and leaned over.

Two very wide, very frightened, and very familiar eyes peered up at him.

With a startled exclamation, the housebreaker catapulted to his feet, the crown of his head clipping Anthony's chin. The man's slouched hat fell to the carpet.

Red hair flying, the thief rounded the sofa and dashed across the room to the window, a large leather bag slung over one slender shoulder. Cupping his throbbing jaw, Anthony dove forward, catching the intruder by the shirt collar.

“I've got you now, One-Eye!”

One-Eyed Jack pivoted in Anthony's arms. Anthony felt two soft mounds press against his chest just before a metal sheathed fist slammed into his solar plexus. He doubled over, bile rising in his throat. Clutching his stomach, he looked up to see his attacker reaching for the rope strung outside the casement.

Oh, no, you don't!

Anthony cinched an arm around the girl's slim waist and hauled her inside, her shapely—and unmistakably female—buttocks molded to his groin. Sidestepping the open satchel spilling his housewares onto the carpet, he dragged her over to the lamplight.

“Have done!” Hands on her shoulders, he gave her a jarring shake.

She swung at him again but this time he was prepared. He grabbed her wrist.

“Yield, or I swear I'll break it.”

“Never!”

“So be it.”

Anthony twisted the trapped arm, knowing he was providing the maximum amount of pain while falling short of doing real injury. He knew from experience that the white-hot streak shooting from shoulder to elbow would persuade her to surrender more effectively than any words he could utter.

Predictably, she went stock-still, the color ebbing from her small, heart-shaped face.

He glanced at the brass knuckles covering the top of her right hand. “If I release you, will you promise not to fight me?”

Jaw set, she nodded.

He let go, and she slumped against the mantel, breathing ragged. She didn't resist when he slipped the metal sheath over her gloved fingers and deposited the weapon in his robe pocket. Hands braced against the mantelpiece, Anthony inspected the tall young woman pinned between his arms. Relief surged through him. She'd foregone a jacket, leaving no doubt that One-Eyed Jack was all woman. The outline of her breasts—small but shapely—was visible through her white cambric shirt. As he had surmised, the eye patch had been nothing more than a prop. Her left eye, no longer hidden, burned the same brilliant blue-green as its mate. He had been right about the hair color too. The thick braid slung over her shoulder glowed like the flames of a roaring fire. Wisps of hair formed a radiant halo around her flushed face. The effect robbed him of his breath almost as effectively as her earlier blow had.

Regaining his composure, he said, “Highway robbery not proving profitable enough? Come to London to try your hand at housebreaking, I see.”

“Why I am here is none of your affair.” She glared at him, eyes blazing blue sparks of pure defiance.

“Forgive me,” he replied. “I was under the impression that this was my house.”

“Well, er…you have no right to keep me here against my will.”

“Do I not?” Amused, he shoved away from the mantel. “Unless I am mistaken, I believe this belongs to me.” He plucked a silver candlestick from the carpet. “In fact, I feel certain I saw it at dinner.”

“I take no more than I need and only from those who can afford it.” She trailed behind him. “And, though you may not believe me, my cause is just, although my actions may seem—”

“Blatantly criminal?” He set the candlestick aside.

Hands on her hips, she asked, “Tell me, milord, if you hadn't walked in just now, would you have missed those few pieces of plate or those candlesticks?”

“Whether or not I would miss them is beside the point. You'd not be the first thief who, when caught, justified his—or her—actions as stealing from the rich to give to the poor.” He tilted his head. “Care to explain?”

The look she leveled him could have melted iron. “I don't owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, no? That is where you are mistaken, my dear. In addition to an explanation, you owe me a hundred pounds, a gold watch, and my fiancée's pearls. The money and the watch you may keep, but the necklace was a family heirloom. I must insist on its return. For your sake, I hope you haven't already set about fencing it.”