All Men Are Rogues (7 page)

J
ustin ran the hard-bristled brush down Cheshire’s flanks and followed it with the soft sweep of his hand. The golden-brown coat gleamed in the lamplight. The stallion neighed softly with pleasure and shifted, rustling the hay beneath his hooves. All was quiet in the stable; the laborers knew when to leave their employer to his solitude.

Cheshire turned his head and watched his master with his large golden orbs. Then, obviously bored with the distraction, he turned back to chewing lazily on his oats.

Justin squatted and rubbed his hands up and down the stallion’s legs, feeling the corded muscles underneath his palms. Nothing settled him and allowed him an opportunity to reflect like grooming his horse. He knew every cleft in Cheshire’s back and hindquarter, better almost than he knew his own body. He inhaled the comforting scents of horse and hay and leather and manure, trying to purge the uneasiness plaguing him.

He stood and rubbed his palm on the soft, short hairs between Cheshire’s eyes, seeking solace.

“Why can’t I seem to think with a clear head where Evelyn is concerned?” he asked his beloved mount. “Is she a siren, intent on enslaving me?” Recalling her loving charm with Jane, her easy smile, and her quick wit, his heart warmed. Her compassion reached so far as to include a destitute street urchin. None in his family, himself included, would have deigned to assist such as he. Picturing his mother’s manner with the lower-level servants made him grimace. Consideration was certainly not her long suit. “Or am I drawn to her simply because I’ve finally found someone who is the exact opposite of my mother?” Attracting him to her like a moth to flame.

His position was becoming precarious. His assignment was to get Evelyn to spill her father’s secrets, and possibly her own. Yet it was he who was opening up. He was the one disclosing potentially dangerous truths better left undiscovered. And he had yet to procure a shred of information from Evelyn.

He pursed his lips, considering. It had been two weeks already, and still he felt as if she were very much a mystery yet to be solved. It was decidedly odd how little she divulged about herself. Indignation pricked at him. Why had she shared so little of herself when he had ostensibly coughed up his life? Did she not trust him? He laughed aloud, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Of course she could not trust him. It was his job to bring her down.

Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead on Cheshire’s shoulder. Inhaling his mount’s rich scent, he tried placing Evelyn in a category in his mind that was distinct from his feelings. He tried imagining that he was Colonel Wheaton but could not quite conceive of himself in the ruthless spymaster’s shoes. Instead, he pretended he did not care for her one whit, and perused their discussions as if reading from a book. Detached, clearheaded, with everything defined in black or white.

He read through the meeting at the quay, the ride in the carriage, the walk in the park, the various visits at his aunt’s, the evening she visited her solicitor, the Coventry Ball. Every time the thought of her lips, her touch, or her scent invaded his mind, he quickly flipped the page to the next discussion. Finally he came to today’s chapter, the fair in the park. His mind froze above the page, seeking something but not knowing what. He breathed deeply; doubt nagged at him. Out of focus, yet somewhere on the page, was the key, just waiting for him to see it.

The boy. If he did not pick Evelyn’s pocket, then why had he stepped so close? Justin had seen his hand brush against her skirts. What had she said? “
He did not pick my pocket, as there
was
nothing therein to steal.”
Was? He hammered his palm into his forehead, damning himself for being so stupid. He had been so caught up in his own pitiful saga that he had missed the exchange. Anote, most likely. He ground his teeth in frustration. He had missed the opportunity to catch Sullivan when time was critical. He had been distracted from his duty—the worst mistake an intelligence regular could make.

What was the note’s purpose? To set a meeting? To arrange for passage? Perhaps to gain her some help with her funds? To solicit her aid with the plot? He had to find out Sullivan’s plans. He had to stop Napoleon’s scheme from proceeding. And the linchpin to all of these tasks was Evelyn.

The colonel was right. Justin had allowed her appeal to get to him, to make him lose sight of his purpose. He needed to apply more pressure. Shake her confidence, make her turn to him, put her completely in his power. He picked up the large comb and tugged at the knots in Cheshire’s mane. The horse snorted, protesting loudly, and Justin realized that he was being too rough. Disgusted with himself, he threw the comb into the bucket, reset the gate, and strode from the stables. The gloves were off. He no longer had the option of being the refined gentleman. He was the colonel’s man and it was time to start acting like it. Or he could close the book entirely on thwarting the French conspiracy. Something he was not about to do.

“S
o you see, Miss Amherst, you must consider your future,” intoned Lord Fontaine. He craned his neck and adjusted his head in the overlarge neckpiece. Evelyn wondered how he could breathe in the contraption. Turning to his wife, he said, “Leonore will gladly help you in moving about in Society. And even though it is not an enormous settlement, with our connections, you can surely secure a match.”

Not enormous? It was pitiful. But that did not matter, since she would not use it.

He droned on, “You are quite pretty, if a bit old. You will do well under Leonore’s fine tutelage.”

Uncomfortable silence enveloped the room.

He raised his quizzing glass to his eye. “Haven’t you anything to say?”

The man obviously expected her undying gratitude. Well, he was providing the roof over her head, for the moment.

Evelyn picked an imaginary piece of lint off her black skirts. “I find it interesting that the root of the word ‘wedding’ means ‘to gamble’ or ‘wager.’”

The balding man blinked. “What’s that, you say?”

She stared him square in the eye. “I will not gamble my future away simply to have a man’s name attached to mine. I am perfectly content with my own name, thank you.”

“You know that you are welcome to stay with us as long as you like, my dear.” Aunt Leonore patted her green silk turban and smiled reassuringly. “Jane will be thrilled, and so would I, to have you remain.”

“Remain? We are talking about her finding a husband, Leonore.” Lord Fontaine sniffed disapprovingly. “I do wish you would stay with the conversation, you have the most irritating habit of losing sight of the topic before you.”

She placed her hand over her husband’s. “Evelyn does not seem interested in considering marriage at this time, darling. Her father only recently passed…”

“Not interested,” he sputtered. “But she’s two and twenty. And it is almost the end of her period of mourning. What will she do then?”

The man was probably terrified by the thought of having a poor relation living off him for the rest of his days.

Evelyn stated quietly, “I assure you that I will not remain indefinitely.”

Lord Fontaine nodded approvingly. “Of course you won’t. We will find you a match, don’t you worry.”

“If that is all, my lord?”

“Yes, well.” He stood and held out a note. “You received this letter from your solicitor.”

Evelyn knew that she should read it in private, but she was too anxious to receive news, especially after listening to the well-intentioned Lord Fontaine. She opened the note and read the lines that were barely more than a scrawl. Her heart sank.

Miss Amherst,

 

Regretfully, we have no progress to report other than, at a minimum, the matter will be tied up for at least another six to eight months.

Yours, Mr. Tuttle,
Writing on behalf of Mr. Marlboro

 

The frump had not even had the decency to scratch out the foul letter himself. She shoved the parchment into her pocket. She was finished with the ineffectual Mr. Marlboro.

Lord Fontaine clapped his hands together. “I will make a list of potential husbands, and we will all review it together. Can’t say that I haven’t learned anything being the father of four daughters. They always seem to have an opinion about everything.”

Evelyn scrunched her face into a fake smile and stood. “I am going riding this afternoon, so please excuse me.”

As she glided up the steps, she wondered just how much longer she would have to impose on her distant cousins. She ran into Shah in the upstairs hall.

The stout woman was wringing her hands with worry. “Arife, it is terrible.”

“What is it, Shah?”

Evelyn’s heart fluttered with fear as together they headed toward her chamber. What now? They entered her room, and it was immediately apparent that someone had searched the apartment. Her books were scattered on the floor, her wardrobe doors hung open, and the drawers of her secretary yawned wide. Even her papers lay spread like a fan on the wooden desktop.

A pit of anger roiled in her stomach. They had not even tried to be unobtrusive, as if there couldn’t possibly be anything to fear from an unprotected, destitute young lady. Well, if she got her hands on the offensive beasts, then she would give them reason to fear her. She realized that her hands were fisted so tightly that her nails were biting into her palms. She purposefully unfurled her fingers and straightened her back.

“I am so sorry, Arife,” Shah wailed. “I was told you needed me downstairs. When I went, I could not find you.”

Evelyn shook her head. “This is not your fault.” Thank heavens she had burned Sully’s note. She walked over to the hearth and examined the grate. No trace.

Your friends are your enemies. Be wary.

Be wary.

Tell her something she didn’t already know. She shook her head. At least she knew Sully was in London. Nearby. Just the thought of him being close was a comfort.

Anger gripped her in what felt like a vice of iron. “Father’s journal!”

“I go check.” Shah ran to her room next door.

Evelyn held her breath. She could not lose her father’s diary; it would be too awful. He had been so confoundedly insistent that she keep it safe.

“It is here,” Shah proclaimed triumphantly, holding the black-wrapped package high in her hand.

Evelyn let out a thankful sigh. “They probably didn’t think to search your chamber.”

“Or no time. I was only gone a small bit.”

Evelyn put her head in her hands. What to do next? She looked up. “Keep it, Shah. Protect Father’s book. I hate to have to ask you, but if you can, please stay in the rooms.” She could not quantify the worth of her father’s journal.

Shah clutched the package to her middle. “I don’t like going below. Ismet brings my food.” She nodded vigorously. “I stay.”

“Thank you, Shah.”

Evelyn closed the door firmly and examined her dressing table. Her jewelry was all in order. Apparently they had no interest in the meager possessions that meant the world to her. She sighed and began gathering the books up off the floor. At Shah’s miserable expression she admonished softly, “Stop fretting, Shah. You did not make this mess, and there seems to have been little damage done.”

A knock resounded at the door. Evelyn sent a warning look to Shah, and the maid scurried next door with the journal.

“Come.”

Miss Myrtle entered. “Lord Barclay is here to see you, Miss Amherst.” She looked around the room. “I will order the upstairs maid to clean your room at once.”

She glared at the lanky woman and rose. “Do not be presumptuous.” She brushed her black skirts. “Please tell Lord Barclay I will be down in a thrice.”

Miss Myrtle stared at her a long moment and then curtseyed. “Yes, my lady.”

Evelyn watched her go, suspicion haunting her mind. Miss Myrtle? Or that footman who always seemed to be watching her? There was no point in guessing. It could have been anyone. There was little harm they could do at the moment. She shook her head. She had to somehow collect her fortune and leave. To come out from the shadow of her father’s business.

“Shah, help me dress, please. I’m going riding.”

“You go with the handsome prens?”

“I told you, Shah, he is not a prince.” Shah had taken a liking to Barclay.

“He is…” Shah slipped into her native tongue, “
erkek
,
comert
…”

“Yes, he is manly.”

“So why do you not go to him for help?”

Evelyn looked at her beloved servant and observed that her maid’s black hair held more traces of gray than she last recalled. Was she expecting too much of Shah? The woman was not as young as she used to be. Evelyn tried to figure how old Shah might be. She had begun working for the Amhersts when Evelyn was twelve. That was ten years ago. The Turkish woman had not been young even then, but with her dark skin and solid figure, it was hard to tell.

“I will not let anything happen to us, Shah.”

“But you need a man. A sahip.”

Evelyn blew out a long breath and squeezed the older woman’s arm. “We have been over this before, Shah. I do not need a man to take care of me. We’ll be alright.” She heard the quiver in her voice and prayed that her claims were more than whispering protests amidst the howling wind of peril. If anything, Father had taught her that self-reliance was the only saving grace. But then again, where had that led him?

A
s the horses meandered down the lane, slipping into the alleyway behind long rows of fashionable houses, the sun dipped below the rooftops, cloaking them in afternoon shadow.

“Where are we going, my lord?” Evelyn asked. “We did not pass this way before.”

“To my stables. I wish to show you something,” Justin replied over his shoulder. His stallion swooshed his tail at a nagging horsefly and increased his pace, nearing home.

Despite her growing reservations about time running away from her, Evelyn allowed her horse to be led to a small clearing, where she accepted the stable hand’s assistance in dismounting. She straightened her black habit and adjusted the brim of her black hat, waiting while Justin conferred with his stable master. She inhaled a deep breath of air, attempting to cool her trepidation over taking so long to get back to Belfont House.

She felt vulnerable being out and about while her enemies plotted against her. She kept staring into the shadows, foolishly expecting danger to jump out at her. Her heart leapt when a pigeon swept overhead. Swallowing, she raised her hand to her chest, trying to slow the hammering of her heart. Coolheadedness in the face of adversity kept one alive, Sully had always advised her. She forced herself to calm.

Luckily they were only a few blocks away from Lord and Lady Fontaine’s residence. She tried to focus on the comforting scents of horse and leather and ignore the sickly sweet odor of the stable hands as they labored proficiently around her. But uneasiness made her shift in her boots. Again, she felt herself in a pool of her own seclusion, wondering just what she was doing at Justin’s stables. The real issue, however, was what she was
not
doing: finding a way out of the labyrinth of securing her fortune and leaving England for safer shores.

The ride had been pleasant enough but had not erased the worry that plagued her. She needed to figure the best means of freeing her legacy, but to do so, she had to face the fact that someone was tormenting her and she did not understand why. What had Father been embroiled in that had ended his life so abruptly and placed her future in jeopardy?

She pulled herself back to the moment as Justin strode toward her and proffered his arm. He looked elegantly handsome in his brown doeskin breeches and shiny black riding boots. Even his coat was cut to enhance his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was
comert
, manly, just as Shah had proclaimed.

Moreover, he was the kindest of gentlemen. She wished she could have met him under better circumstances. She would have liked to enjoy his splendid company without always looking over her shoulder. He deserved better, and so did she.

They walked along in silence, Ismet trailing behind. The Turk seemed to have worn a constant glower ever since Evelyn had told him about the search of her rooms. He was on edge, and she could not blame him. Yet he held no words of criticism for her conduct thus far. Instead, he asked her once again to carry a knife on her person and cautioned her to be wary. Father had always liked Ismet for his focus on action above all else. She had ignored her trusty servant’s advice regarding the knife, however, believing that she ought to be safe in broad daylight with Justin. Whoever was plaguing her seemed devious but not intent on harming her person, just rattling her confidence. She pictured her nemesis as a shriveled-up rat dressing in a dark men’s suit with an intricately tied, constrictive neck cloth, sitting behind a large black desk rubbing his spiky claws together in glee as he plotted mischief. Cowardly, underhanded, and afraid of being seen in the light of day—that was her enemy.

In the shade of the buildings they came upon an odd structure pocketed inside a narrow alleyway between two tall houses. The edifice was squat and square in the midst of rows of lofty, rectangular buildings. It had stubby windows and a covered entrance, shrouded in gloom.

“What is this place?” she asked warily.

Justin took out a key and approached the stubby wooden entry. He unlocked it and pushed it open. It squeaked noisily.

Frowning at the hinges, he commented, “I will have someone oil that straightaway.”

He turned to her and extended his hand. She watched him a long moment. He had been remote, aloof, and a bit cool this afternoon. Evelyn had assumed that her mood clouded her perceptions, but suddenly suspicion reared in her mind.

“What place is this, Justin?”

Still holding his hand out to her, he let out a long breath. “It is my brother’s private place. Was. Was his private place.”

She blinked. She had been so caught up in her own worries that she had not realized that Justin was battling demons of his own. That he was reaching out to her and she was simply too preoccupied with herself to recognize his unseen struggle. She bit her lip. She was going to have to do better being a friend to this man who had opened himself to her. She recognized that his admission the prior afternoon had been some sort of breakthrough for him. That he had shared a painful family secret that tore at his gut and that he was treading on unfamiliar ground.

She slipped her gloved hand into his and followed him through the threshold. She was amazed to find herself amidst rows and rows of colorful books of all shapes and sizes. They were jammed and piled in haphazard array on tall bookshelves that spanned every wall of the narrow room. A window wedged in the corner of the ceiling provided shadowed afternoon light.

“I have not touched anything, except to have it cleaned,” he commented tightly.

They stepped through a doorway and into a comfortable parlor, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. The scent of cloves hung heavily in the air. Evelyn turned about the room, noting the mismatched plaid chairs, plush oriental carpets, and long green sofa with well-worn wooden legs. The furniture was obviously for comfort, not show. The focal point of the room, however, was the hand-carved secretary that sat in the corner near the fire. From across the tiny space, one could easily see the beauty of the piece. The intricate legs were carved in the shapes of jungle animals. Monkeys wrapped their arms around tree branches that became elephant trunks that wound around and turned into tigers’ tails.

“It is magnificent,” she stated as she walked toward the desk. She pulled off her gloves and crouched. She traced her fingers down the elaborate wooden legs. “What wood is this?”

“Mahogany.”

“Beautiful,” she breathed. The delicate giraffe’s ears poked under her fingertips.

She looked up. He stood there, transfixed as stone, staring at her. Why did she suddenly feel as if she was being examined for imperfections? Was he afraid of exposing too much? Did he fear her response?

She stood. “This is a very special place.”

“I had the rooms cleaned this morning,” he stated gruffly. “They had not been used for a very long time. Almost five years.” He turned and tossed his hat onto a chair. A line of flat hair ringed his short-cropped brown mane. She longed to ruffle it out.

He grabbed a log and pitched it into the grate, and the flames jumped and crackled. “We did not know of this place until after…” His voice trailed off. He shifted his shoulders and remained crouched staring into the fire. “…until after George died.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“George was the eldest. He was the marquis of Rawlings, not me. I was never meant to be. He was brilliant. A star that shined so brightly. Mother adored him.” He looked around the room with detachment. He stood and toyed with a golden clock sitting atop the mantel. “Apparently he used to come here often, to be, when he was…not feeling himself.” He set the clock down and turned. “He must not have been feeling himself when he took a pistol and used it to shoot himself in the head.”

She let out a long, painful breath. Her heart weighed heavy with sadness for him. “I am so sorry.”

He sat on the edge of the sofa, his eyes staring unseeing into the fire. “It was at our estate in Bedford.” He shifted his shoulders. “It was a long time ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. We said it was a hunting accident. No one knows the truth, except for a handful of people. Where’s the point in saying otherwise?”

She could not imagine the anguish of living with such pain, and such secrets. She knew too well the bitter taste of both and did not wish that on anyone. The poor man was struggling mightily with his demons. Trying to exorcise the past and free himself for living. Evelyn had noticed Justin’s reserve, his apparent aversion to enjoying life too much, his reluctance to expose too much of himself in any endeavor. Did he think that he did not deserve to be happy?

He stood abruptly and held out the key. “It’s for you.”

She blinked. “What?”

“This place is for you.”

He shoved it into her hand. The heavy metal was cold in her naked palm. “I do not understand, Justin.”

“You seem in need of…an escape. You will not accept my assistance, yet you obviously have concerns that weigh heavily on your mind. I wanted to give you a place where you are free. A place all your own, where you can be yourself.”

That was what Justin needed, not her. But as she stared at the golden key in her hand, it shifted and blurred. She raised her fingers to her face. Wet, hot tears streaked her cheeks.

“I am a fool,” he said as he stepped closer and enveloped her in his arms. “I should not have done this.”

She shook her head but could not move it much, as she was pressed against the soft wool of his black riding jacket. There it was again, that woodsy, musky scent. She inhaled deeply of him and cleared her throat.

Her voice was muffled. “No. It’s just that, well, this is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me. To think of me and my needs so unselfishly…it is a testament to the kind of man you are.”

His arms suddenly squeezed her so hard that she found it difficult to breathe. He released her and turned away so abruptly that she almost fell, but she caught herself on the edge of the couch.

He grabbed the poker and angrily jabbed at the flames in the hearth. “You always attribute such valiant character traits to me,” he charged harshly.

“But if they suit?”

He might wish to deny it, but he was one of the most wonderfully kindhearted men she’d ever encountered.

He stabbed at the flames as if to slaughter them. “I am no hero.”

She tilted her head, considering his words. Yes, it seemed that he
was
a bit of a hero to her. A quiet hero struggling to overcome his haunted past. A civilized man in a world of lies and betrayal. A friend who offered himself and demanded nothing in return.

“I am going to miss you, Justin.”

He froze, the poker hanging motionless in his hand. “Where are you going, Evelyn?”

Had she just said that aloud?

She shook herself.

He turned to her. “When do you intend to leave, and where are you going?”

She sighed and sat on the big green sofa. “I do not know to both.”

“Do you not like England?” he asked tensely.

Folding her arms about her, she rubbed her palms up and down her arms. “I am getting the sense that England does not like me.”

He sat beside her on the edge of the couch. “Why would you say such a thing?”

She stared into the golden flames for a long moment. The fire crackled in the silent room. She realized that she did not want Justin involved in her father’s business. The world she was forced into by virtue of her birth was one of trickery and mayhem. She wanted Justin to remain free, protected, unsullied by the nasty games. She should get back to Belfont House. Back to strategizing her next move. Looking around the room, she stole a moment to imagine it just as Justin meant it to be; an escape from worries. Her eyes fixed on a closed wooden door. “What’s in there?”

When he did not answer, she turned to him. His smoky, gray-green eyes were watching her, considering. It was as if he were waiting for her to say something. She wished she had something more to give him, something more to share that would make him understand how much she cherished him. But she refused to endanger him by cluing him in on her perilous situation. She cared for him too much for that.

Finally, he looked away. “It’s nothing. A storeroom.”

“We should probably head back. I do not wish to worry your aunt.” Or Shah.

“She can wait.”

Perhaps it was to divert his mind or simply to make himself feel better, but he leaned close and kissed her full on the mouth, his soft lips crushing deliciously against hers. She sighed, parting her lips and welcoming the diversion herself. This, at least, she could give him. He slipped his tongue demandingly inside. For her, it was a welcome reprieve, a taste of what it might be like to be a normal woman. One who could enjoy the love of a man. She wanted to know what she was missing, to have her one chance at a tryst.

She relished his woodsy flavor. She could not identify it, but it pleased her. He shifted closer. His kisses were more demanding than before, more insistent. His tongue intertwined with hers, and it was as if he stroked her whole body with that single caress. Heat smoldered and burned from her toes to the tips of her fingers, making her yearn to be free of her clothes. She clutched at him and stroked his hard, muscled back with her palms, relishing the feel of soft wool under her fingertips. Pushing her back into the couch, he lay heavily on top of her. She tilted her head up, wanting more of his mouth. Pulling him down, she laughed into his parted lips.

He reared up. “Why do you laugh?”

“Because kissing you is the only escape I require.”

He stared at her another moment and then lowered his head and kissed her soundly on the lips, stealing the breath from her mouth. He took her lower lip into his mouth and sucked it lightly. She writhed beneath him, feeling like she was on fire. He ran his hands down her waist to her thighs and kneaded the soft flesh of her buttocks. Her hips rocked instinctively in response. Heat pooled between her legs, and she felt a driving need burning her, pressing her forward, and egging her on. He pulled at her skirt and inched it up. She shifted beneath him to give him more room, wanting him to touch her everywhere. She was open to him. Safe, free, and not so dreadfully alone for the moment. She was intent on enjoying it.