Rogue Be A Lady Read online

  “It’s been painted shut,” Garret informed as he leaned against the fireplace mantel.

  Edward threw up his hands in frustration. “I am not interested in a family reunion—”

  James cleared his throat. “I must point out that it wouldn’t be a family reunion without—”

  “Me!” crowed John as he strode through the door.

  Edward let out a disgusted sigh and drove his hand through his hair. Again. He would be fortunate if he were not bald in a fortnight.

  “Now, you know I don’t need an invitation,” John pointed out blithely. “I’m a co-owner of this club.”

  “I’m leaving,” Edward said, feeling deeply annoyed that his brothers had all come at once and clearly by design.

  John grinned. “Surely not. The entertainment is just beginning.”

  “It’s not entertainment,” gritted James who, at best, got on with John but never really understood him.

  “Oh, it is,” countered John.

  Edward looked between his eldest brother and the man who had completely altered their lives. John did love to drive James mad and James would allow him to do it. As much as James had changed over the years, he still was a duke and had a certain certainty that was difficult to shake. Even now. Even after the mistakes they had made. Still, James was not as heavy-handed as he had been.

  Edward stopped, suddenly aware that something was amiss. He glanced from brother to brother to brother then back again. They had all decided that John was truly a brother long ago and called him such. “What is it?”

  John’s eyes positively danced. “His Grace here thinks that we, as brothers, should prostrate ourselves before the wronged party.”

  James’ face tightened with strained patience. “I did not say that, John.”

  John patted, yes patted, James on the shoulder. “Near enough, brother dear.”

  Edward swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

  Garret cleared his throat. “James thinks that we should visit Emmaline and apologize personally.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Edward said, the idea of such a moment all but crushing the air out of his chest.

  “You know, old boy, apologize. You look her in the face,” John began. “And you—”

  James closed his eyes. “You’re not putting this well at all, John.”

  “Is there a better way?” John queried.

  “She won’t see me,” Edward pointed out. “She made that very clear in Paris.” Edward shook his head. “How many letters did you write her asking her to let you make amends, James?”

  James frowned.

  “How many?” Edward demanded.

  “Five and twenty,” James admitted. “But I cannot bear that I have still not made things right.”

  “I do not know that they shall ever be. Not to your way of thinking,” Edward said with as much kindness as he could muster. In the end, the only one to blame for his misery was himself. So, he continued, “Emmaline has no wish to see us. She hates us. Despises us. No doubt, she’d burn her theater down before letting us step into it.”

  “Post, my lord,” one of the club’s footmen said at the still-open door.

  Perhaps he should consider nailing it closed.

  At last, Edward nodded towards his desk and the young man quickly deposited the letters. The footman, sensing the power and tension in the room, exited as quickly as a mouse upon sensing a cat.

  John began to sift through the letters as Edward continued, “So, you must understand that this debate is pointless.”

  John began to laugh.

  “None of this is funny, John,” James gritted.

  “Oh, it is.” John coughed, then laughed again.

  “How exactly?” Edward scowled. “I do feel I’m about to remember why I should despise you.”

  “Oh, you’ve never forgotten. You’ve just learned to appreciate my fine qualities.” John held up a card. “This is what has amused me.”

  Edward shook his head. “What is it?”

  John licked his lips and paused. “An invitation.”

  Edward’s guts tightened with dread. It couldn’t be possible.

  “Lord Edward Hart is most cordially invited to the opening of the Rivals Theater to see Miss Emmaline Trent in her London debut in William Shakespeare’s comedy, Much Ado About Nothing.”

  “You were saying?” James drawled, far too pleased with himself.

  “She will poison our champagne,” Edward declared, even as his heart began to pound. He would be in the same room as her. Sharing the same air. The same candlelight. . .

  “It is a chance we shall have to take,” Garret said, his amber eyes shimmering with interest.

  “I will not attend,” Edward growled.

  John eyed him carefully, assessing him with a bold thoroughness that only he possessed. “Still a boy, then?”

  Edward looked away, his hands curling into fists. Drawing in a breath, he forced himself to return his gaze to his brothers. “Damn it, John.”

  “You owe her this, old boy,” John said softly, lifting the invitation. “You owe her the chance to make a fool of you.”

  Edward gave a tight nod. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  Crossing the room, John thrust the letter into Edward’s hands then clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

  But as Edward once again turned to the towering windows he loved and looked out to the grand theater across from his club, he could barely draw breath. He had not seen her in years. The only place he’d seen her was in his dreams. For the last time he had, indeed, laid eyes upon Emmaline Trent, he had left her sobbing on a cold, stone church floor surrounded by her horrified family. And now she was the most notorious woman in Europe.

  He leaned forward and pressed his head to the cool glass pane.

  But then again, he’d become notorious, too.

  Chapter 3

  The largest, most imposing townhouse at the edge of the ever increasing West End of London was not owned by a duke, an earl, or a prince. One would have thought that the butter-yellow stone, the Doric pillars, the lead glass glistening windows, and the elaborate gardens about it denoted a person of the highest rank of the land. An ancient title, at the very least, owned such a plot.

  If a person thought so, they’d be very much mistaken, indeed.

  Emmaline had the very good fortune to inherit hundreds of thousands of pounds. The number neared the million mark and it had turned out that she had quite a good head for investing. Some young women would have turned the business of their finances over to a man. Not she. Emmaline had come to deeply distrust men and she certainly wouldn’t put her future or her wellbeing into the hands of one. Not again. It mattered not how they bowed or scraped, flattered or seduced. She could not be taken in by the assurances of a man.

  Oh no, she’d learned her lesson some time ago. Her father had begun her vast fortune, bringing the family up from barely genteel poverty to a wealth so great that members of the East India Company eyed her with lascivious envy.

  She owned more ships than some countries had in their navies.

  She knew. She’d named several of them herself and pored over their drawings from their conception to their launch into the sea. While she preferred to spend her time at the theater, she did not shirk from the columns in ledgers which denoted what kept her from poverty and shame.

  It was her wealth that had saved her from misery, after all.

  She’d seen what became of fallen women in Paris. Her understanding of the ways of the world had been increased greatly over the last years. She knew its dangers and the ways in which women paid for daring to set a toe off the assigned path. Of one thing she was certain: such a fate would never befall her.

  No, she would not be shunted off to live in an obscure street in a lesser part of town. She would make Londoners take notice of her even if they looked with a bit of a squint.

  As it was, she had commissioned the house whilst she stilled lived in Paris and it had been built with rema
rkable speed given her willingness to sink thousands into its construction. The craftsmen who had built her house had been paid exceedingly well and promptly. Her goodwill and care of them had made the building of the establishment painless, enabling it to be occupied in a far shorter time than most of the houses being built in the area.

  Which was really quite excellent for she had no desire to rent a property.

  So now, half of the ton drove by her grand house every day, their necks craning in an attempt to get a better look. A great deal of gawking and fan fluttering did occur.

  Emmaline smiled as she sipped her delicate hibiscus tea from a cup that had traveled all the way from China. She looked down at the bustling road which led towards the center of the city.

  Gentleman in fine clothes rode their beautifully-groomed horses. Divan chairs darted here and there, the poor men who carried them, shoulders bent, footsteps quick under their loads. Street merchants hawked their wares, hoping to find last moment buyers for strawberries and flowers. It was a glorious sight. The sounds of it all drifted into her newly furnished apartments.

  The last of the workmen had only just left at the end of the week and the house had then been decorated with the items she had collected on the Continent. It was good to be away from nights at the theater. . . And him.

  Emmaline blinked. She would not think on how strange it had been to sleep but a feet away from his club.

  It was far better to contemplate the heady knowledge that she was surrounded by beauty and power here in the most exclusive part of London. Nothing could hurt her now. She’d seen to that.

  “Lady Harriet Hart, madame,” her butler, Francois, called from the arched doorway.

  Emmaline turned towards him, her rose, silk brocade skirts swishing about her silk-stockinged legs.

  She met Francois’ green eyes and could not fight back her grin. “Marvelous! Show her in.”

  Francois inclined his perfectly-coifed, blond head. The man was an absolute angel to look upon. In fact, she doubted there was a prettier man in all London. His crimson livery made him look like a treat for he filled it out in the most pleasing of ways. He was a connoisseur of all beautiful things and he ran her household to perfection.

  He also did not judge her fall, being the child of a courtesan. They had come to an early understanding and all had gone well ever since.

  Footsteps pattered outside in the hall along the checkered floor and then Harriet, Lady Hart, burst into the room, blond curls bouncing, blue eyes flashing, and her mouth curved in a delighted smile.

  Emmaline lingered back for a moment, unsure how this meeting would proceed. Her initial joy had dimmed, touched by a shocking dose of. . . Fear. They had exchanged several letters but they had not seen each other since that fatal Season.

  Harriet seemed not to notice any question in Emmaline’s countenance, for she bounded across the room with her skirts fluttering. Ignoring Emmaline’s cup of tea, Harriet swept her arms about her cousin.

  “Emmaline!” Harriet exclaimed happily, squeezing her. “How is it possible it has been so long? It is a delight to have you here again.”

  “Why, thank you, my dearest cousin. I’m glad to be returned,” Emmaline said, happily embracing her cousin in turn. For one moment, she allowed herself to press her face into Harriet’s shoulder. The scent of lavender wafted about her and she savored the feel of the cool muslin against her cheek.

  Tears stung her eyes for the briefest moment as she recalled the promise of a very different life. One in which she had known no fear or unkindness. One in which the world had seemed perfect and sublime. In that world, she and Harriet never would have needed to be separated.

  Now, she knew the world was a knife’s edge. So, one might as well dance gaily along it before one felt the sharpness beneath one’s slippered toes.

  She pulled back, a hand resting against her cousin’s beautifully dressed form. Emmaline looked her cousin up and down. Harriet had plumped just a bit and it was truly becoming. Emmaline tilted her head to the side then nodded. “You look as if marriage agrees with you.”

  “Oh, it does,” Harriet assured brightly. “Garret is always a good deal of trouble and I adore it. And our children.”

  “My goodness,” Emmaline gasped. “It is amazing to think of you with a brood. You were always such a bluestocking.”

  “I still am,” countered Harriet. She winked. “I just have little people to manage and turn into future bluestockings.”

  Emmaline laughed but then tsked. “Even the boys?”

  “Especially the boys,” Harriet enthused clapping her lace-gloved hands together.

  Emmaline took her cousin’s hands. “You haven’t changed!”

  “Not a whit,” Harriet agreed, but then she stepped back and circled Emmaline slowly. “But one cannot say the same of you.”

  “No, they can’t,” Emmaline concurred. She stretched her hands out and displayed herself playfully. “And what do you think?”

  Harriet tsked. “Get a bit of tea in me first.”

  “Tea?” Emmaline shook her head. “I think we shall require champagne.”

  “I shan’t protest.”

  Emmaline nodded again, feeling the oddest sort of girlish glee in her cousin’s company. They’d always been so close. It had been terribly painful to be parted from her for so long. Quickly, she crossed the room and pulled on the bell pull.

  Within moments, Francois, who had clearly been waiting to be summoned, returned.

  “Bubbly, my dear man,” Emmaline instructed with a dramatic flourish of her hand.

  Francois gave an equally dramatic bow of acknowledgment then made his exit.

  Harriet eyed the door. “He is. . . Positively ravishing.”

  Emmaline laughed, loving the feel of it. Once, she’d laughed so often with Harriet. “Isn’t he just?”

  Harriet pressed her lips together then grinned. “Is he your. . . Erm. . .”

  “Lover?” Emmaline finished easily.

  Harriet’s cheeks turned crimson.

  “You are blushing, Cousin!” Emmaline gaped. “I cannot believe it.”

  When she had last been in England, before she had been cast out, it had been Harriet who was the one that loved to be naughty. Now, it seemed it was Emmaline’s turn.

  Harriet cleared her throat. “Yes, well, last I saw you, you were as innocent as a—”

  “Fool,” Emmaline interjected with a lightheartedness she did not quite feel.

  Harriet shook her head, her golden hair glowing in the light pouring through the tall windows. “I wouldn’t have said that.”

  “I would,” Emmaline countered. She drew herself up and admitted, “And do. But no, Francois is not my lover. He is merely someone beautiful to look upon and he is excellent with my guests. They will do anything he asks, male or female. He is most persuasive.”

  “I imagine.” Harriet waggled her brows. “I’m sure he knows exactly how to handle silly old trouts.”

  As if on cue, Francois returned with a silver urn filled with ice and a green bottle of the best champagne.

  He easily slipped the cork soundlessly free then poured champagne neatly into two crystal glasses.

  Offering one to Harriet, he bowed, his perfect shoulders stretching the fabric of his livery.

  Harriet’s eyes danced with amusement as she took the stem of the glass.

  Emmaline nodded at Francois as she took her own glass and her butler left them wordlessly.

  She gestured for Harriet to take one of the seats before the mammoth fireplace.

  Harriet had never been particularly graceful. She’d always been more of a plucky sort of person and the years had not changed that, given evidence by the way she quickly strode to one of the striped, pink, silk chairs and plunked herself down. Her skirts fanned about her legs and she smoothed them into a semblance of place. Harriet took a long swallow of champagne.

  “Garret did not come with you?” Emmaline inquired, sipping from her own glass, enjoying
the crisp notes of apple and the bright bubbles.

  Harriet sputtered on the champagne. “No.”

  Emmaline arched a brow. “Afraid of me, is he?”

  “I think he felt you might not wish to encounter him just yet.” Harriet leaned forward. “Besides, I wished you to myself.”

  “Does he think me a terrible sort?” Emmaline asked, her heart rate increasing in a most irritating fashion. She did not care for the considerations of others. Especially not one of the Hart brothers, even if Garret had proven himself the best of them. “I’m surprised he condones your visit.”

  Harriet snorted. “Condone? Do you think I ask his approval? Garret would never be so foolish as to approve or disapprove of my actions. We are generally in accord and we are certainly in accord on my visiting you. He always liked you. He took your part after all.”

  “Yes,” Emmaline all but whispered, her throat tightening. She forced herself to draw in a considerable breath for she would not submit to silly tears now. Not after all this time had passed.

  Harriet’s husband had more honor and intelligence than his brothers. Never, not even for a moment, had he believed Emmaline had done what she’d been accused of doing. And Garret had stood up to his own brothers, which was quite something given his elder brother was a duke.

  Emmaline gave a careless smile, though she felt a great deal of care, in truth. But she had long ago mastered the art of hiding her emotions. “I suppose Garret is a tolerable fellow.”

  “Glad you agree,” Harriet sallied before she took another drink. “I quite like him.”

  “You didn’t always,” Emmaline teased.

  “How true.” Harriet laughed. “We loathed each other for a good while, but we had our reasons and we sorted those out.”

  How lucky her cousin was to have sorted out such troubles and found love.

  That would never happen to her. The wound was far too deep. She doubted she’d ever marry or find love as true as the one her cousin had.

  Emmaline turned to the cold fireplace, collecting her thoughts. As she did so, she leaned against the mantel, enjoying the brazen behavior she could exhibit now that she was not a lady. “So, you will risk your reputation visiting me?”