When Tempting a Rogue (4 page)

Vienne smiled at him, rather like she would smile at anyone who made such a request. “Of course you do, and I look forward to hearing them, but I cannot take the suggestions of one investor over all others, Lord Trystan. It wouldn’t be good business.”

He met her gaze calmly, so calmly that it immediately set off warning bells in Vienne’s head. “But I’m not simply one investor, Vienne.”

It was the first time he’d called her by her Christian name since his return to London. “Perhaps you should explain to me just what you believe your role to be,” she suggested. Surely he wasn’t about to throw their past in her face? “I don’t believe a what—twenty-two-percent share—guarantees you a say in design.”

A ghost of a smile curved his lips, forming a cold knot between Vienne’s shoulder blades. “I have
more
than twenty-two percent interest in this scheme.”

Vienne quickly redid the math in her head. She knew how much of an investment he’d bought. She’d seen the papers. “How much do you believe you own?”

“With the two percent you just gave me? Half.”

She laughed around the lump in her stomach. “Impossible! No one investor was sold such a large sum.”

“No, they weren’t. You were very careful about that. I had to buy Jack Friday—Farrington’s—shares from him, and I had to buy the rest through various other concerns I own. The last bit came from Angelwood, and now you yourself. I have all the papers to back up my claim. Believe me when I tell you that I do indeed own a fifty-percent share in this scheme.”

No.
The blood rushed from Vienne’s head in one hot surge that left her dizzy and swaying on her feet. “Why?” Such a helpless lament, but she couldn’t seem to stop it from falling from her lips.
Was it revenge?
Why would he go to such lengths, through such deceit?

All traces of humor vanished from his handsome face—a face she could cheerfully claw the eyes out of. “Your scheme is a brilliant one, which I have no doubt will be a huge success. Why wouldn’t I want a chunk of it?”

She shook her head, holding on to her control by some small thread of determination. “I will not let you destroy what I’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

“Destroy? Why the devil would I want to destroy it?” He looked as though he thought her daft to even suggest it. “No, I want to help you make it the greatest thing London has ever seen.”

“I don’t want or need your help.”

His expression was far from contrite; his brilliant eyes bright. “Then that’s unfortunate, because we’re partners, Vienne. Whether you like it or not.”

Chapter 3

O
bviously she had shot the wrong man.

Immediately after discovering Trystan’s machinations, Vienne climbed into her carriage and instructed her driver to take her to Lord Angelwood’s home. She had time to stew during her journey, and her earlier outrage strengthened. So, on the heels of Angelwood’s wary butler, she stormed into the earl’s study.

His Lordship, at his desk and teacup in hand, looked up with a resigned expression on his handsome face. “I thought I might have a visit from you today.”

“What the devil were you thinking?” she demanded as soon as the door closed behind the departing butler. “You gave Trystan Kane my marker!”

“I didn’t
give
it to the man. He asked for it as payment. I had to consent; it was a matter of honor.”

Vienne snorted. “
Your
honor—at the expense of mine.” She dropped into a chair, slumping as much as her corset would allow. “What were you thinking,
mon ami
? You know the boy and I have history.”

Angelwood rose from behind the desk, crossing the Axminster carpet to pour a generous measure of bourbon into two glasses. He gave one of the glasses to Vienne when he returned. “He assured me he meant you no harm. Are you here to tell me he lied to me?”

“I don’t know.” She took a slow sip, and the liquor burned all the way down. “He claims to want to make the venture a success, but I cannot believe that—not completely. He has the look of a man with something to prove, and my business will suffer for it.”

“Perhaps he wants to prove himself to you,” the older man suggested, leaning against the edge of his desk rather than sitting behind it once again. “Perhaps he wants the venture to be every bit as successful as you wish it to be. Perhaps having his input will prove a good thing.”

She shot him a disbelieving glance. “Of course, you would be on his side. You are both men.”

“Yes. Trystan Kane is a man, my dear friend. That is a fact you would do well to remember when next you have dealings with him.”

She shrugged off the suggestion, though his words burrowed into her brain like a worm in an apple. Years had passed since she and Trystan had their affair. He wasn’t that boy anymore, but a man. He was older, as was she. And the progression of time was not nearly as kind to a woman as to a man. He increased in social value with age—like fine wine. But a woman began to lose worth after twenty, socially souring like vinegar.

She was on her way to bitterness while Trystan Kane had yet to reach his full potency, and there wasn’t even five years difference in their ages—but those years might as well have been fifteen for all the differences between them.

Yet she would always remember that he was the only male to ever say he loved her. No women forgot such a gift, no matter how old or bitter she was. Foolish romanticism remained despite a woman’s experience and knowledge, no matter how clear was her vision of the world. Concerning her time with Trystan, there was still a tint of rosiness. But that fondness had been directly related to his youth. Now that he was older and better acquainted with the world, he had, no doubt, lost that sweetness.

Yes, Trystan was a man, and therefore she would treat him as one when next she saw him. After all, Vienne knew how to “handle” men.

“I don’t have any recourse, do I?” she asked after another sip.

Angelwood shook his head. “I don’t believe so. Kane didn’t break any laws or oaths by buying up interest in your scheme. His behavior might not have been completely honest, but he’s done nothing criminal. You have all the capital you need, Vienne, and a partner who has made a reputation and a fortune in commerce. I understand being upset over losing complete control, but the situation could have been far worse.”

He was right, of course. Angelwood usually was, but that didn’t make hearing it any easier. Vienne was unused to depending on anyone else. She was not good at sharing and trusted in her own instincts above all others.

And her instincts told her to get as far away from her new partner as possible. There was nothing for it. She was going to have to show Trystan Kane who was in charge.

W
hen a note from Vienne, saying that she wanted to get together to discuss their collective “vision” of the emporium, arrived later that day, Trystan was not surprised. Vienne had time to think about the situation, and now she would have come up with a strategy to either get rid of him or manipulate him.

Obviously she was intelligent enough to know getting rid of him was not an option—especially not with the amount of money he’d already invested in the scheme—so this meant that she was going to sally forth with manipulation. She wanted to meet him for drinks at Saint’s Row later that evening. Was he available?

Smiling, Trystan set the note aside and leaned back in his padded leather chair, propping his feet on the polished walnut top of his desk. He would make himself available
—of course!—
if for no other reason than to discover exactly what she had in mind.

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. He had an appointment he needed to get to.

He swung his feet to the floor, stood, and swept his jacket from the brass rack in the corner, slipping his arms into the sleeves as he left the room. He almost forgot his hat, whirling abruptly to snatch it up. He neatly tucked the key to his apartments into his pocket after he locked the door. His rooms took up half of this floor; Jack Friday’s took the rest. If Jack and Sadie renewed their relationship when Jack returned to London, they could offer up his rooms as a luxury suite for wealthy visitors.

Trystan paused on the threshold of the lift, his hand braced against the gate.
Luxury suites!
Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? So much of Grosvenor Square and Mayfair land was tied up in leases. He might be able to acquire a large house or a parcel with smaller buildings nearby, or he could build a series of opulent accommodations—all for those who traveled to the city not in need of an entire house, such as bachelors or ladies without husbands or children. A home, albeit smaller, for when you’re away from home.
Brilliant!

The boy who operated the lift looked at him. “Are you all right, sir?”

Trystan’s head jerked up and he grinned at the boy. His embarrassment at being caught dreaming paled in comparison to his enthusiasm for the new idea. “I’m more than all right, Jones. In fact, I think I might be something of a genius.”

A wide smile claimed Jones’s young face. “Won’t argue with you there, Mr. Kane. Down, sir?”

With an enthusiastic yes, Trystan stepped into the cagelike box and rode it down to the foyer. The marble floor gleamed, the windows shone, and everything smelled clean and fresh. He took a moment to stand there and glance around. Perfectly groomed and uniformed employees smiled and waited on guests from Britain and the Continent, all of whom were there because the Barrington was not only the finest London had to offer, but one of the best in all of Europe.

And it was his. Most men would be pleased with this accomplishment—satisfied even—but not him. He was proud of everything he had achieved since setting out on his own, but none of it was enough. He still felt like the Duke of Ryeton’s youngest brother—constantly held up against the flaws and virtues of Grey and Archer. He still felt like that boy who foolishly fell in love with the wrong woman only to be rejected just when his heart was fully engaged.

Trystan knew himself enough to have long ago realized that proving himself to Vienne would ease that need inside him. Why else go through so much trouble to force her to work with him? He could have built his own emporium and made himself her competition if all he wanted to do was make her squirm. He didn’t want to be her enemy— Actually, he didn’t know
what
he wanted to be where she was concerned. But what he did know was that he wanted to go more than a handful of days without thoughts of her taunting him.

Obsession wasn’t a trait he found attractive in himself.

His carriage was waiting for him on the street outside.

“Chelsea,” he instructed, giving the man the direction as he stepped into the vehicle. He set his hat on the seat beside him and raked a hand through his hair. A copy of the
Times
lay on the cushions across from him, put there by his thoughtful driver, Havers, who knew he hated being stuck in a carriage with nothing but his own company.

He read, having long ago trained himself to not get nauseous during a drive. There was another article on the shooting at Saint’s Row, and mention of an inquiry. Trystan snorted. He wisely hadn’t mentioned the incident to Vienne when they spoke—mostly because she would have taken it as an affront. Also because it would drive her to distraction if he pretended ignorance. Vienne was not a woman accustomed to indifference.

Though, if she found out what he was up to right now, she would realize just how far from indifferent he was.

Sometime later, the carriage rolled to a stop and Trystan opened the door. The metal steps were flipped down and he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of a pretty stucco house with a flower garden in front.

He offered the paper to Havers, perched atop the box. “I won’t be any longer than an hour.”

The craggy-faced driver tipped his hat. “No worries, sir. A lovely day to sit and read the rag.”

Trystan left him and took the pretty flagstone walk up to the whitewashed front door. He rapped the knocker and stood back, waiting. It hadn’t been difficult to find this place; a few succinct, discreet questions and here he was.

The door opened, revealing a thin middle-aged woman in a housekeeper’s uniform. “Yes?” Her tone was cautious, almost wary as she took in his fine dress and posture.

He removed his hat and smiled at her. “Trystan Kane to see Mr. William Jones.”

A ginger brow rose—the only discernable reaction to his request. Of course, it wasn’t well known that this was where the man had come to convalesce. The housekeeper stepped back to let Trystan cross the threshold. “Come in, sir.”

Once inside the doorway, Trystan surveyed his surroundings. It was a lovely, tidy little home—one which the lady who lived there had no doubt earned. Camilla Lake had been a successful actress in her day, and an even more successful mistress. In her prime she never took a lover who was below the rank of viscount or had an income less than thirty thousand. He admired her shrewd business sense, if not her choice in lovers.

The housekeeper led him down a corridor carpeted in a Morris print of black, peach, and green; the walls were painted a warm ivory. They stopped at the last door on the right. The woman announced him to her mistress, and Trystan was allowed inside.

Camilla Lake rose from her chair to greet him. If she was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. “Mr. Kane, what an unexpected pleasure.”

She was still a beautiful woman, with thick sable hair and eyes as gray as a thundercloud. She was fashionably dressed, but not overly so. Neither was she heavily made up. Clearly she was a woman who understood the art of subtlety. When she offered her hand, Trystan bowed over it.

“Mrs. Lake, I beg your pardon for barging in on you like this.” He glanced at the man who reclined on the sofa. The arse hadn’t so much as sat up at the arrival of company. Trystan wasn’t terribly offended. No doubt the bullet Vienne had put into Mr. Jones afforded him quite a bit of discomfort.

“No apology is necessary, I assure you,” his hostess replied. “Will you sit?”

He held up a hand. “Thank you, but I won’t stay long. I wanted to inquire after Mr. Jones’s health.”

The lady looked surprised, as did her patient. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” he replied with a smile, which faded as he turned his attention to Jones. “Winged you, did she?”

Jones scowled, but his gaze didn’t quite focus as it met Trystan’s. Laudanum,
no
doubt. “Bitch wanted to kill me.”

“William,” Mrs. Lake admonished. “Language.”

Jones swore—a foul, harsh word that brought a dark stain of humiliation to his lover’s fair skin.

Trystan’s ire rose. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”

Jones snarled at him. “I’ll speak how I goddamn well please, and I hope that slut La Rieux gets the pox.”

Trystan turned to Mrs. Lake. “My dear madam, you have my sincere condolences. I believe your generous nature has been abused in the most grievous manner.”

The lady’s blush deepened. It was obvious that she kept Jones, just as it was obvious that she could do much better.

“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Kane,” she replied in a low tone. “I will leave the two of you to your discussion. Good day.”

He bowed to her, and watched as she escaped from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. Her spine was so rigid, he thought she might never bend again.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, he approached the sofa on which Jones had himself propped up on several cushions. His right arm was in a sling. He was young—younger than Trystan by about five years at least. Vienne seemed to have a penchant for men in their early twenties.