Rogue Be A Lady Page 3

  Harriet rolled her eyes. “You are one of the most famous people in Europe. My reputation shall only be increased if I can secure you for a party.”

  Emmaline stared then laughed. “You are serious?”

  “I am.” Harriet’s brows rose as if to emphasize her sincerity. “It seems you have become much sought after. Besides, Garret’s brother has been singing your praises at every turn. It is hard to argue with a duke.”

  Emmaline groaned and took a long swallow. “James?”

  Harriet nodded, her lips twitching. “Oh, yes.”

  Emmaline rubbed her temple. “He did keep writing me to return.”

  “I think everyone knows that if they say an ill word against you they shall face his wrath,” Harriet said simply.

  “How odd that the man who essentially ruined me is now my greatest protector.”

  The mirth died from Harriet’s face. “Slandering you in error nearly destroyed him.”

  It was on the tip of Emmaline’s tongue to reply good, but to do such a thing would give James power that she had no wish for him to have. It would be acknowledging how profoundly he had affected her. Nor was she so cruel as to wish pain on others.

  “Yes, well.” Emmaline looked way and said quickly, “We’ve all learned not to be quite so naive, now, haven’t we?”

  Harriet paused. “Edward, I think most of all.”

  Emmaline whipped back to her cousin and laughed at the absurdity of her cousin’s comment. “More than me?”

  Harriet frowned. “Do you know so little about him?”

  “I have deliberately ignored him and his doings.”

  “He went through quite a dark period—”

  Emmaline stood. “Harriet, I don’t wish to know.”

  Blinking, Harriet looked down at her glass. “I see.”

  Wincing, Emmaline cursed herself for letting her pain unleash upon her cousin. Harriet had never done her ill. Her cousin had supported her in everything. How could she be so unkind to the woman?

  Gathering herself, Emmaline sat again and said calmly, “He owns a club now.”

  “Not just a club,” Harriet countered. She arched a brow. “The club. For gentlemen and a certain sort of gambling lady, that is.”

  Emmaline’s brows rose and she was unable to hide her surprise. Edward had always walked such a straight and narrow path. She could hardly countenance Harriet’s words. “Courtesans, too?”

  “While I do think people get up to quite a lot at his establishment,” Harriet began, “there is nothing of that kind as I comprehend it. He and John won’t stand for the use of women like that. Blood spilling seems to be a different matter.”

  Emmaline struggled to make sense of Harriet’s words. Edward had always been so. . . Well, staid. So good-natured. He’d never stepped a toe out of line. He’d been the perfect son, soldier, and gentleman. It was why the idea that she’d been unfaithful to him had been so horrifying to him.

  He’d thought she would be as angelic as he. And she had been.

  Emmaline cleared her throat and looked away, desperately hoping Harriet would believe her to be disinterested. “Well, I’m glad he has a hobby.”

  “I don’t think I’d call it that,” observed Harriet. “He’s a different person now, Emmaline.”

  Emmaline fiddled with her glass. “Oh?”

  “He’s dangerous.”

  Emmaline laughed. “Edward?”

  Harriet leveled her with a serious stare. “Proximity to pain is the only thing that has kept him afloat over these years.”

  She could hardly countenance it. Edward had been almost puppyish in his enthusiasm for life. A liking for pain? Surely, that was impossible. “I would have thought he’d have married, settled in the country, and had a host of children.”

  Harriet shook her head firmly. “Far from it.”

  Emmaline blanched, hating the thought of him with another even if he had ruined her life. She’d loved him. “A host of mistresses then?”

  Harriet eyed her then asked carefully, “Do you care?”

  “No, not a whit.” She swallowed the last of her champagne. “We should speak of something else.”

  Taking Emmaline’s suggested direction, Harriet suddenly smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Such as your opening night?”

  Emmaline grinned, relieved Harriet would not press onward with such a painful conversation. “It will be marvelous.”

  Harriet gave her a wicked look. “You’ve invited all the Hart brothers.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emmaline acknowledged as she stood and filled her own glass again then filled Harriet’s to the brim.

  Harriet studied her. “You think you’re going to shock them, don’t you?”

  Emmaline rolled her eyes. “No. But I do want them to see I have not been defeated.”

  Harriet eyed her up and down. “Of course, Cousin. Of course. There isn’t a hint of defeat about you. In fact, you are a returning conqueror and I hail you. I shall be delighted to witness you storm London.”

  Emmaline kneeled down before Harriet and took her hand. “I’m glad you will be my friend.”

  “Emmaline.” Harriet blinked, tears shining in her eyes. “I was always and will always be your friend.”

  Matching tears stung Emmaline’s gaze and she turned away, unable to speak. Instead, she nodded, swallowing back her grief. Despite the horde of company she’d kept over the last years, in her heart, she’d been so very alone. And now, here in London, she suddenly felt it keenly.

  But she could let no one know that.

  Oh, no. She was going to convince them all her heart was made of ice now and that no one had ever touched her, not truly, and that she would never be touched again. Certainly not by Edward.

  It didn’t matter what Harriet said. James might have suffered for his actions. Edward, too. But nothing would change what they had done. How they had cast her out so easily. . . And how she had spent the last years away from the only home she’d ever known because of the arrogance of men.

  She couldn’t wait to show them how far above them she was and always had been. And she’d do it with bells on, no matter how much it hurt her once-kind heart to do it.

  Chapter 4

  “You’ve a case of the nerves.”

  Edward shot John a ball-crushing stare as they made their way through the packed club. “Go to hell, Brother.”

  “Already been, thank you very much.”

  “Surely, they’re missing you,” Edward drawled as he flexed his hands. The energy of the gamblers usually fortified him. Tonight, it was driving him over the edge of tautly controlled emotions. When Emmaline had first left London, he’d been a wreck. A gin bottle had been as dear to him as any of his limbs. Perhaps dearer. Then he’d discovered the thrill of owning a club. . . And fighting in it. Slowly, he’d gotten himself together and he’d become the master of his emotions.

  Now, he was rattling on a course of destruction at the very idea of seeing her again. Which was damned amusing. For once, he’d have done anything to see her again. Anything.

  The last days had been hell. It had been all he could do not to go over to the theater, charge in and see her. Just so he would not have to wait. Just so that they could meet without hundreds of people watching.

  Fortunately, he was now above such things. Or so he told himself. Besides, it was fairly clear she had their meeting planned and, tempting though it was, he wasn’t about to steal that from her. She deserved to be in control of this. Any action on his part to take that from her would be selfish in the extreme.

  Even so, he found that with every hour that brought them closer to reunion, his insides twisted with self-loathing and anticipation.

  What the hell was he going to say to her? So sorry for ruining you, but I would still bring down the stars for you.

  Ha. She’d laugh in his face and rightly so. Besides, she was a different person. A woman he hardly knew now. A few years had aged them both and they’d both been forged in the fire of pain.
Gone was the innocence they’d both basked in.

  Now, they understood the vagaries of people. And he especially knew that men like he, men who threw girls into the gutter, even if he had been entirely misled to believe she’d betrayed him, deserved a special place in hell.

  It was why he’d started The Healing Home. No one knew he was the founder and keeper of it, of course. But he’d built the place, funded it, and selected the workers who took care of the women destroyed by society. He pored over the reports and did everything in his power to see it improve and expand.

  Still, no matter how many he helped, he’d never make amends or escape the sort of man he’d proven himself to be.

  That particular charitable endeavor was a far cry from the club he and John owned. Well, John was more of a silent partner now. His brother had gone off to Scotland when he wed and had seldom come back to London. The keeping of this den of iniquity had become Edward’s dearest child.

  He knew the sinners better than he knew himself and he could spot trouble at a hundred paces. Some nights he welcomed it, savoring the chance to spill a little blood. Tonight was one of those nights.

  In but an hour’s time, he was to head across the crowded street and sit through a performance of an exceptional play. . . With his former intended upon the boards. Everyone would be watching and speculating.

  He needed to get blind drunk and he needed to hit someone or be hit. Repeatedly. Drunkenness wasn’t truly an option. He wouldn’t do that to her. Or his family. Stumbling about and slurring hardly seemed an appropriate way to present himself.

  “Hell, has found a new prince,” John quipped.

  If he’d been talking, Edward had not heard until just now. He stopped. “You mean me.”

  John shrugged. “You do seem rather determined to live in the mire.”

  “I like the mire.” Edward narrowed his gaze, drawing in a breath thick with the smoke of candles and the fumes of liquor. “It suits me.”

  John sighed. “I suppose it’s better than the gin bottle.”

  Edward laughed dryly. “I like that, too.”

  “Edward, you need to take a moment away from all this and—”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” Edward cut in quickly as he strode down a narrow hall, determined not to allow his brother to probe an old wound too deeply.

  “You’re out for trouble tonight,” John warned.

  Perhaps he could get someone to call him out. Then he wouldn’t have to go to the damned opening night.

  John grabbed his arm. “Don’t do it.”

  Edward halted and flicked his gaze down to the strong hand resting on his sleeve. “Do what?”

  John blew out a breath. “Break someone’s skull open.”

  “I should never do such a thing.”

  John arched a brow.

  Edward cocked his head to the side and smiled coldly. “Not without cause.”

  John tsked. “What a mild fellow you used to be.”

  Edward snorted. “I was an ass.”

  “You still are.” John dropped his hand. “You’re just aware of it now and act accordingly.”

  “Damn it, John.” Edward shoved a hand through his hair. “This is insupportable.”

  “What?” John queried, shadows dancing over his face in the dark corridor.

  “I don’t wish to see her,” Edward admitted, each word like a blade in his throat. “I never want to see her again.”

  “Lies. Lies.”

  Edward ground his teeth. “Do you want me to pop you one?”

  “The wife would be most dismayed,” John replied lightly. “She thinks I’ve given such things up.”

  “Meredith knows you better than that.”

  A positively nauseating look of bliss crossed John’s face. “She does, doesn’t she?”

  Edward scowled. It amazed him that John had found love. He’d always thought his bastard brother too cynical for such a thing. But he had tossed himself off the cliff of bachelorhood and seemed to quite enjoy it.

  Once, he, too, had longed for such a thing. It had been all he’d wanted. A quiet life with a loving wife and children.

  Well, he’d thrown that away.

  Now, he knew he’d never marry. He didn’t deserve to.

  “You’re not the least bit curious about how she looks now?” John asked as they began to head down towards one of the side rooms which dealt in more illicit gambling. Edward was leading the way and he wasn’t even thinking about where his feet were taking him.

  Edward ground his teeth together then snapped, “She was always beautiful. No doubt, she’s still beautiful. My seeing her again won’t alter that. And I don’t love pain.”

  “Yes, you do,” John countered, apparently determined to be relentless in his honesty.

  “Not that sort,” Edward growled, taking in the shouting and general noise from the rooms to his left. “I nearly killed myself trying to see her in Paris. I gave up on ever seeing her again some time ago. So now?”

  John waited then prompted, “Now?”

  Edward glanced back over his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what will occur.”

  “Perhaps, she’ll give you the cut direct.”

  “One can only hope,” he drawled but that did not stop his heart from hammering against his ribs, his gut from twisting, or his whole body from humming with anticipation. What would she do? For even though he desperately tried to convince himself he did not, he desperately wished to see her again. To hear her voice. To. . . What?

  He strode into the bare-knuckle boxing room where men of all walks of life packed the space.

  Cheers and roars went up as a man suddenly landed on the ring’s rough floor, blood splattering out around him.

  The referee grabbed the winner’s ham-like fist and thrust it into the air.

  Cheers went up and pound notes fluttered. Coins chinked and bookmakers quickly rifled through the pages of their records.

  Fast calculations of winnings were made. . . And, of course, there was the cut for the club.

  Edward eyed the makeshift ring.

  “Don’t do it—”

  But Edward wasn’t listening. This was what he needed. He needed to get out of his head and away from the pain of the past. If he could but feel a fist in his gullet, he could forget the agony gnawing at his insides.

  So, he whipped off his coat. “Who wants to fight?” he bellowed.

  Several ladies in masks let up cries of delight.

  For everyone at the club knew that Edward had fists like hammers and a body that would not quit, no matter the punishment it took.

  There was a general burst of excitement in the dark, smoke-filled room.

  Torches blazed at the corners and several men eyed each other wondering who would volunteer to chance it and have his teeth knocked in.

  Edward seldom lost.

  The sudden wave of feeling that crashed down upon him sucked the air out of his lungs. He closed his eyes for a moment and immediately he was in Devon. On a spring morning. Emmaline was in the church, her eyes wide with horror and full of tears. . .

  He’d ignored her protestations of innocence and her cry of agony still rang in his soul.

  He’d done that.

  Good God.

  A cheer went up and a man stepped forward. Six foot and built like a bull, Edward knew him on sight. Tom Boyd made the rounds every few months and he knew exactly what he was about. The other man looked as if he spent his life in a forge shaping iron. Some said he’d been a blacksmith before he’d come to London to pursue fighting.

  Edward smiled grimly. This was what he needed.

  The man gave a curt nod, his curling, black hair dull in the light. Tom Boyd’s eyes stared with that unmistakable look. The look that said he’d seen death on every corner since childhood and he was not afraid.

  Forcing himself to draw in a slow breath, Edward took off his waistcoat then reached down and yanked his linen shirt from his breeches.

  With one solid tug, he pu
lled it over his head and tossed it to the crowd.

  A shriek of excitement went up from the ladies, many of whom were cooling themselves with painted and feathered fans, their jewels shimmering in the torchlight. This was the place wealthy ladies came to spend their coin at the tables and witness a bit of rough life, all with the safety of a mask.

  He didn’t judge a single one of them. They were all unhappy with the lot men had given them and sought pleasure wherever they could find it.

  Edward strode around the ring, feeling the power well up in him, the need to fight. The need to win.

  The referee called him and Tom Boyd to the center of the ring.

  They took their stances across from each other, boots to the drawn line on the floor then touched knuckles. The referee jumped back.

  Immediately, Boyd swung forward, his giant arm arcing.

  Edward darted back and danced to the side of the ring. The rough touch of the crowd brushed him. He ignored it and readjusted his position.

  He was taller than Boyd and almost as broad, but he’d learned to street fight only in the last few years. Oh, he knew boxing’s rules as well as he knew his Latin, but this? This was new and he loved it. There weren’t rules. There was just blood and flesh and bone.

  The man he was fighting? He’d breathed it, eaten it, and lived it since childhood no doubt. Life was no feathered bed for men of Boyd’s class.

  Edward kept his fists up and tucked his elbows in, looking for a way to land a blow.

  He stepped forward and hooked. Immediately, his fist landed on Boyd’s granite jaw.

  A fist slammed into Edward’s back before he could dance to the side.

  The wind rushed out of him and he saw white as he whirled away. His insides shook with the force of it and he staggered one step before he got his feet under him.

  Unshakable, Boyd followed, driving his fist into Edward’s belly.

  The pain coursed through him. Delicious agony driving any thoughts he’d entertained entirely out of his head.

  Edward grunted, ducked and jabbed. He gave a jerk of his chin, forcing his hair out of his face. Sweat slipped down his face and chest and he blinked the sting away.

  Dropping and darting fast to the left, his fist cracked against Boyd’s cheek. Blood spurted across the room as his teeth cut flesh.