Conspiring with a Rogue (4 page)

The woman smiled tentatively while motioning for him to lie back. He complied immediately. He had not expected to forget Whitney completely just because he was with another woman, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected thoughts of Whitney to be bombarding him once another woman was standing half-naked in front of him. But they were. The woman smelled nothing like Whitney, but the contrast only served to remind him exactly what Whitney had smelled like. He loved her lavender scent.

He clenched his teeth, forcing his mind away from her and to the curvaceous, glistening skin leaning over him. His partner for the night ran her warm hands over his bare chest, surprising him. He tensed in response. This was not an auspicious start to becoming a rake. He leaned into her deft hands and allowed her to knead his skin.

In just a minute, he was sure to become aroused. These things likely took a little time after such a long stretch of celibacy. He closed his eyes determined to enjoy the moment, but a vision of Whitney as he had last seen her, dressed in a simple white lawn dress with a pink rose tucked behind her right ear, filled his head. With a grunt, he opened his eyes and sat up. He needed to commence being a rake at once. He caught the woman’s hands in his. “Can we skip the formalities?”

She nodded, a beautiful smile turning the corners of her full mouth up. He was glad for the club’s rule of silence from the women. He had thought it barbaric when he’d first heard the rule, but at this moment he had no ability to make civil conversation. All his will was focused on trying to forget the woman he loved and enjoy the woman he was about to bed.

The woman stood and dropped her gown to reveal a body any sane man would lust for. He must be crazy. Why else would he still feel nothing? She glided to the bed, and he followed, his heart beating a slow thud. What if he couldn’t perform?
That
would be embarrassing.

The woman lay on the bed, her creamy skin a stark contrast against the crimson silk coverlet. He leaned over her as she motioned him closer with a crook of her finger. She wanted him, and he needed to want her. He willed desire to come, but it was taking its own damn time tonight. Cursing himself, he lowered himself to kiss her, but she stilled him with a hand to his chest.

Gesturing to her hair, she reached up and pulled off the dark scarf covering her locks. Waves of flaxen hair fell around her face.
Of all the cursed, bad luck
. He stared down at the woman, but all he could see was Whitney, her golden hair caressing her bare shoulders as she danced with him.

“I’m not feeling myself,” he muttered, rolling off the bed, gaining his feet and stalking toward his clothes. Forgetting Whitney and becoming a debauched rake was going to take more effort than he had estimated. He could do it, though. He’d start tomorrow after a good night’s sleep and a request that he not be paired with yellow-haired women ever again.

He jerked on his clothes and strode from the room before the gaping woman could stop him. Without a backward glance, he wound down the dark corridors toward the main dining room. He was stronger than the hurt that plagued him. Tomorrow, Whitney would become a distant memory.

He passed an open bedroom door and stopped at the lyrical laughter flowing out of the room. After turning slowly around, he peered into the door. A naked woman was dancing in front of a half-dressed man, her blond hair flowing freely in the candlelight. She turned, revealing a single pink rose tucked behind her right ear. His gut clenched as he gripped the door ledge.
What the hell?

“
Whitney
?” He lunged into the room without a single care for the consequences.

Whitney stared at the ledger in front of her and attempted to tally the figures, but Lady Audrey’s voice rose in song in the next room. The discordant sound interrupted her concentration and reminded her of the enormous problem her blurted offer of marriage—born out of sheer desperation—had landed her. A most unwelcome state she had dwelled in for two weeks now. Lady Audrey twirled past the door, her song deafening in volume.

Whitney rolled her eyes at the lustful singing,
but she couldn’t contain the smile that pulled at her lips. “The Ladies’ Case,” indeed. She knew the ballad well. She had sung it herself on several occasions. And therein lay the problem. She and Lady Audrey were too much alike. Trouble leading trouble, though she would admit it only to herself. Lady Audrey was a detriment to Whitney’s frail new world. Whatever else happened, she had to avoid adding any more complexities to her ruse and rid herself of the current, gaily singing one.

The uncharitable thoughts disturbed her. She liked Lady Audrey and understood all too well what ailed the woman. Not having the freedom to choose one’s husband or even the course of one’s life bothered any woman of real intelligence. Lady Audrey needed an understanding husband, and Whitney supposed the task to find her one now fell in her lap since she was temporarily affianced to the woman.

Whitney shook her head and redirected her attention to the numbers. She could balance these numbers, and she could maintain her ruse as Mr. Wentworth.

All she had to do was unknot the tangled mess she had created for herself—or rather the mess Mrs. Blightson had created for her when the woman had threatened to destroy Drake.

“Drake.” Whitney sighed his name, threw her pen down and leaned back in the chair. She should not let herself think of him, but then again she knew by now she was fairly powerless to stop the thoughts from coming. The best she could do was not dissolve into a fit of melancholy over the loss of him.

Since the thoughts were there, and for the moment she was quite alone, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to picture his intense coffee-colored gaze. Was he still so driven as he had been six months ago? God, she certainly hoped so. His determination to build his shipping empire was the main reason she had not told him about Mrs. Blightson’s threats. His pride was the other factor.

Drake would have lost the company he built from scratch before taking monetary help from her or any of his friends to keep the company afloat when Mrs. Blightson made good on her threats. And Whitney didn’t doubt the crazy woman would have succeeded to do as she promised and have her husband call in the note Drake’s company owed Mr. Blightson’s bank.

Whitney opened her eyes and stared gloomily at the cream ceiling. Why was her life such a shambles? Why did she have an enemy intent on destroying her by exacting revenge on the only man Whitney had ever loved? She knew why.

Disgusted, she sat up as rage filled her. She needed something to throw, but she didn’t want Lady Audrey flouncing in here demanding to know why things were being flung about the room. Whitney snatched the ledger off her desk, judged it light enough not to make too much noise and hurled it across the room. It hit the brown chair and fell to the floor. That felt good. Now, if Mrs. Blightson had been standing there and gotten smacked in the face by the ledger, that would have felt even better.

“Crazy woman,” Whitney muttered to herself. “I may have convinced my sister to break off the betrothal to your son, but he was touched in the head trying to blackmail my sister into marriage.
He
had destroyed himself with blackmail and gambling.” She slapped her palm on the desk. “I did not destroy him.”

“Who are you talking to?” Lady Audrey asked, popping into Whitney’s office.

“No one,” Whitney hastily replied and rose from her desk to retrieve the ledger, but Lady Audrey was already bending to get it.

Lady Audrey walked toward Whitney and held out the journal. “I’ve never been good with numbers either. I completely understand your frustration.”

“Thank you.” Whitney took the ledger and forced a weak smile. She trudged back to her desk as Lady Audrey departed the room, humming to herself. An unexpected pang of jealousy gripped Whitney. Despite Lady Audrey’s circumstances, she seemed genuinely happy. Why couldn’t Whitney get to that happy place? Or at least a place where she wasn’t miserable all the time?

She had to find happiness in this new life. There was no choice. Her desperate promise to Mrs. Blightson to leave Drake and everyone she loved and disappear forever was the only thing that had stayed Mrs. Blightson from carrying out her revenge. The woman was cunning and had known very clearly just how miserable Whitney’s lonely existence would be.

Staring down at the long rows of numbers, she wrote a figure, checked the calculation and scribbled it out with a groan. The ledger wouldn’t balance, and neither would her life—without Drake. She gripped the edge of the desk until her fingers went numb. She would withstand the pain. She’d been burden enough to too many people in her life; she’d not be the weight that dragged Drake under. He’d worked too hard to make something of himself.

Weary, she pressed her head into her hands and flinched at the scratchy wig rubbing against her palms. How many years would it take to get used to the feel of the wig she wore to hide her long hair? She scratched her fingers against her itchy scalp. It may be infinitely safer to pretend to be a man if she was going to have to survive on her own, but it was deuced uncomfortable. Since she clearly had no head for math, being a private investigator who worked on “his” own was going to be more problematic than she had considered. How could she make money as an investigator if she could not make the blasted ledger balance?

She drummed her fingers against the desk and thought over her problem. The money she’d managed to bring with her to London was running out. If Mrs. Blightson died that would solve all Whitney’s problems. The thought was unkind, but she couldn’t help it. Horribly mean people always seemed to live the longest. Maybe Mr. Blightson would sell his bank to someone who could not be influenced by Mrs. Blightson. Whitney snorted. That was unlikely. The woman would never let her husband sell his bank to someone they couldn’t control or at least persuade to their opinion. If luck would ever swing her way perhaps Mr. Blightson would somehow lose his influence over the other banks that could loan Drake money. Since all of this was highly unlikely this was the life she was stuck with. She had to make it work.

At a soft rap against the door, Whitney looked up from the ledger. Lady Audrey breezed in and smiled sweetly. “Sweetikins, your next client is here. If you’re quite done talking to yourself maybe you can spare a minute for a paying client?”

Whitney shut the ledger. It was hopeless anyway. She was in no mood to try to suddenly become good at math. “Do not call me sweetikins. We agreed. The pet name may stand only when in need of the ruse.”

Lady Audrey plucked a pink rose from the vase on Whitney’s desk and gave her a wicked smile. “I know what we agreed upon, but it’s so amusing to see you get angry. Your eyes turn into two slits of golden daggers. I pity the man who marries you and your temper someday.”

Whitney quickly glanced down at the ledger, her cheeks burning and her eyes prickling with tears she refused to allow. It was not likely she would ever marry if she continued to pretend to be a man. And if she continued to love Drake. Her heart squeezed painfully.

“Mr. Wentworth?” Lady Audrey rapped her hand on Whitney’s desk. The pen Whitney had been using jumped and speckled dark ink across the scroll. She scrambled to clean the mess.

Once the mess was contained, she glanced at Lady Audrey. “Who awaits me?”

“Mr. Lloyd.”

“Lloyd,
did you say?”
She would have fainted dead away had she not been sitting.

“What on earth is wrong?” Lady Audrey whisked the ledger off Whitney’s desk and fanned perilously close to her nose.

She waved Lady Audrey away. “I’m all right.”

“You don’t look well. You’re sort of green.” Before Whitney could protest, Lady Audrey was around the desk, her arms encircling Whitney in a sisterly hug. “Shall I fetch you a glass of water?”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Whitney patted Lady Audrey’s arm, then gently pushed her away. “Do we know Mr. Lloyd’s Christian name?”

Lady Audrey frowned at Whitney. “Of course I do. I’m an excellent assistant. I told you a fake engagement to me would benefit us both. I daresay, I wish I had thought of it before you blurted it to Papa so I could take credit for this exquisite arrangement.”

“Lady Audrey, you digress again. Mr. Lloyd’s Christian name, please?”

“Richard.” Lady Audrey wrinkled her nose. “He smells dreadfully of coffee, and I swear his fingertips are stained black. I think he’s a
commoner
.” Lady Audrey pushed the pink rose she had been holding behind her ear. “If you ask me, you shouldn’t take the job. I doubt the man can pay your fee.”

Whitney reached over with trembling fingers and plucked the pink flower out from behind Lady Audrey’s ear. “I
didn’t
ask you. And do not speak ill of the merchant class. They are people, created by God the same as you or me. And do not,” she said, throwing the flower in the trash bin by her desk, “make me regret telling you a bit about my past.”

“I’m sorry,” Lady Audrey murmured. And she truly did look sorry, but Whitney was too worried to comfort her. Disaster waited in the next room. What in the world was Lillian Lloyd’s father doing here? Had he come because he somehow had discovered Whitney’s true identity, or had he come because there was something wrong with Lillian? Both choices were bad.