The Rogue (5 page)

Ethan
loved London, every sooty, grimy, shady bit of it. He despised having
to leave it. He'd been dragged off to house parties on country
estates a few times, where he had established a reputation as a
hunter and rider, and had spent the rest of his time fighting off
complete boredom by charming many a lady of the house directly out of
her knickers.

Then
of course there had been those memorable occasions when his boredom
had been alleviated by fleeing a jealous husband or six… ah,
well, those were fine times.

Nevertheless,
breathtaking run-for-one's-life excitement aside, he'd always been
glad to come home to the city. When he was here, the invisible lines
between people blurred a bit, doors opened a crack, and he was able
to pass back and forth between who he was and who they all thought
him to be without much effort.

He
caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window. Never averse to
admiring a job well done, he paused to congratulate himself on
presenting every evidence of being a gentleman. The hat, expensive
sleek beaver with the latest narrower brim—tipped at precisely
the right careless angle, of course—the frock coat and weskit,
cut in the latest highly fitted manner, all in the finest fabrics.
Gray kidskin gloves made just for him, grasping a walking stick he
neither liked nor needed.

He
fancied boots over stockings and slippers, himself, although he could
claim a decent pair of calves all on his own.

Yes,
from head to toe, he was quite the picture of the gentleman about
town. Everything in place, not a single clue of his real origins
apparent to remind those around him that he didn't—not
quite—belong.

Of
course, everyone knew. He'd decided long ago it was better to reveal
the matter early on, and then work like the devil to make them forget
it.

Why?

To
be truthful, he didn't even know anymore. He'd been trained from
birth to pass in Society, immersed in lessons from the early years
on, governesses chosen from the penniless gentry, tutors as well, no
expense spared to teach him riding and shooting and all the varied
amusements of the class that did little but amuse themselves.

Looking
at his own reflection now, Ethan had to admit that his father had
done one hell of a job of it. Ethan Damont, born of a clothmaker
father and a seamstress mother, looked every inch the aristocrat his
father had wanted him to be.

Of
course, his father's goal had been to raise the entire family to a
higher level of society. Pity the old man hadn't realized that by
making sure his son was a true aristocrat, i.e., to-the-bone lazy and
useless, he'd virtually guaranteed that Ethan would have little or no
interest in the design and production of mattress ticking.

Or
in becoming the stepping-stone in his father's social-climbing
ambitions.

The
old fellow hadn't taken that one well at all. Nine years ago the
elder Mr. Damont had cast his only son from the house, proclaiming
him worthless and unbearable. Remembering what a devilish sot he'd
been at twenty, Ethan had to admit his father had likely been
correct.

Well,
one would never know it now. A fine house in Mayfair, servants who
looked as though they might actually stick around for a while, and
every appearance of gentle indolence—at the moment, the
worthless and unbearable part was entirely invisible to the naked
eye.

A
pair of ladies passed behind his reflections, accompanied by a
heavily laden footman. Two bonnets turned his way, then back toward
each other. Scandalized giggles emerged from both. Ethan became aware
that he was gazing thoughtfully into the window of an establishment
that sold ladies' unmentionables.

Chuckling
at his own gaffe, Ethan was about to continue on his way when another
motion behind him caught his eye in the reflection. A small, tattered
man was scuttling down the street, his back to Ethan.

Ethan
blinked, then shook his head. The city was full of shabby people of
the streets, many of them small, many of them tattered. There was no
reason to think…

He
turned and went on his way, leaving with only a glance at the pretty
items discreetly displayed. Only swatches of fabrics and lengths of
lace were visible, as if the materials only became unmentionable—and
unviewable—after they were cut and sewn.

Lace
spread over creamy satin jogged Ethan's memory, bringing last night's
adventure to mind. As he walked on, he allowed himself a moment to
warm himself on the memory of long lovely legs…

He
hadn't seen her face. Ah, it was just as well. Not just any face
could have lived up to the promise of those silken thighs. A woman
would have to be entirely stunning to merit those limbs. Her hair
would have to be golden—or raven black, like Rose Tremayne's
hair. Exceptional hair.

Last
night's lady had a mass of hair all right, but Ethan couldn't recall
the color precisely. Not golden, not dark. Something in between, no
doubt. In between and entirely ordinary.

Except
that it had reminded him of firelight on creamy silken sheets…

Her
figure in general had been adequate, if he recalled the dimensions
correctly from his elusive moment of handling her down from the tree.
Trim waist with acceptable amount of bosom, if not generous. She'd
reacted to his fresh behavior with distaste and sarcasm, but with an
added patina of innocence she was likely not even aware of.
Unmarried? A virgin?

Well,
there was no point in wondering. He hadn't seen her face and she'd
made sure of it. Obviously, she wanted no one to know of her
predicament.

Curiosity
nagged at him. In his urgent desire to flee the scene of his cheat,
he'd not lingered to learn how she'd managed to get herself into such
an unlikely position. Or her name, or her family.

No
point, old man. She was at Lord Maywell's ball. She was aristocracy
and therefore out of his reach. He'd always been most circumspect
about that particular infringement. Dallying with a bored wife would
merely get him beaten and evicted from the estate. Toying with a
virtuous daughter of Society would get him shot at dawn—at
least, it would if he were a gentleman. A man such as himself
wouldn't be afforded such a dignified end. More likely he'd simply be
found dead in a ditch. Of course, if he were a gentleman, such
actions would more likely get him married.

Frankly,
he'd rather be shot.

Whistling
away that particular disturbing image, and cautioning himself against
any more memories of the previous night, Ethan continued on his way.

The
day was very fine, indeed, and he suffered no more interruptions of
his peaceful frame of mind until he neared his own street. Pausing
before crossing to allow a carriage to go by, Ethan happened to
glance back the way he had come—just in time to see a small,
tattered man duck into a doorway.

Scowling,
Ethan strode back down the walk and plucked Mr. Feebles from his
hiding place with one hand.

"Oy,
guv'nor!" The pickpocket Ethan had met on his previous adventure
with Collis Tremayne and that group of rabid do-gooders, the Liar's
Club, flapped both hands sheepishly. "Whot you doin' here?"
the little man said in hastily manufactured surprise.

"Being
followed, apparently," Ethan said grimly. "Why?"

Feebles
shrugged as well as he was able, considering Ethan's grip on his
collar. "Don't know what you mean, sor."

Ethan
made a disgusted sound and released the little man, setting him back
into his doorway with a slight shove. "Stay away from me,"
he said. "All you lot, just stay away."

He
strode off, his grip on his walking stick tight with fury. Those
damned Liars… getting mixed up with them had nearly got him
killed once before. Ethan wasn't fond of getting killed.

Bloody
bastards, bloody sneaking, invisible bastards—

Ethan
halted, then turned back. He strode to Feebles's doorway to find the
man leaning comfortably against the wall, idly picking his teeth.
"You weren't following me, were you?"

Peebles
flicked his toothpick past Ethan into the street. "No, sor. If
I'd been followin' you, you'd never have seen me.

"You
wanted me to see you. Why?"

"Don't
know, sor. I was told to be seen around every corner, I was."
Feebles grinned. The elfin smile didn't do much to ease the
impression that he was eerily odd. "If I was you, I'd be
thinkin' someone wanted to keep an eye on me and wanted me to know
it."

"Lord
Etheridge?" The leader of the Liars wasn't someone Ethan would
have ever met under other circumstances, being far too high above him
and far too upright a fellow to invite a gamester to his home for
amusement. If Lord Etheridge wanted to see him socially—well,
he wouldn't. Which meant it had something to do with those bloody
pikers, the Liars.

Ethan
turned back to Feebles. "What—"

Feebles
was gone. Ethan was quite sure he wouldn't spot the little man again.
He was also quite sure Feebles would still be there.

Over
breakfast in Lord Maywell's chilly breakfast room, Jane toyed with
her fork as her cousins chattered endlessly about the previous
night's ball.

Even
now, Uncle Harold ignored the chatter and chaos about his breakfast
plate, instead absorbing himself with the day's news sheets. Poor
Aunt Lottie, always left to handle things on her own. Jane shot her
uncle a disapproving glance.

He
didn't see it.

She
cleared her throat.

He
turned a page.

"Uncle
Harold!" Her voice echoed through the breakfast room. She
wouldn't have believed there could be a break in the madness, but of
course, there was, right at the moment she'd chosen to speak. All
eyes turned to her, even her uncle's.

"I
say, Jane," he muttered. "You do have a set of lungs on
you."

"Tsk-tsk,
Jane." Aunt Lottie shook her head. "I know you've been
brought up in the country, dear, but there's no need to yodel
here
."

Jane
narrowed her eyes at them all. "I only meant to speak above the
noise, Aunt Lottie."

Six
pairs of female eyes regarded her with complete innocence. "What
noise, dear?" Aunt Lottie seemed seriously concerned with her
sanity.

Uncle
Harold was already diving headfirst back into his news sheets.

"I
intended to ask Uncle Harold what he thought of the young gentlemen
who attended last evening," Jane said. "I did not meet them
all to speak to, and I value his opinion."

Uncle
Harold blinked. "What? Oh, that useless lot. Bunch of simpering
second sons without a hope in hell of inheriting anything useful.
Boring too. You girls ought to be glad to see the last of those
fellows."

"The
last?" Augusta seemed horrified by the very thought. "What
do you mean, Papa?"

"No
more balls, hosting or attending," Uncle Harold said bluntly.
"Can't afford more dresses and you and your sisters won't wear
anything twice."

Such
an unjust accusation silenced all the women at the table for a long
indignant moment. Still, Jane had to admit that her uncle had a
point. Even though the girls had been the unofficial hostesses of the
evening, and therefore entitled to first pick of the gentlemen,
they'd scarcely been able to fill their dance cards.

The
man from the garden had not danced, she was sure of it. She would
have noticed someone so fine.

"That
is too bad, Uncle," she said, answering his declaration above
the wails and protests of her cousins. "You did seem to enjoy
your cards so much last night."

"Hmph!"
Her uncle grimaced over his eggs. "Only two players were any
good—and one was married and the other is ineligible."

Aunt
Lottie blinked. "Who was married? I only invited single men."

"Tremayne,"
Uncle Harold said. "Went and got himself married on the quiet."

Aunt
Lottie gasped. "Not nice Mr. Tremayne!" The wails erupted
once more. Jane thought that was a bit much, since everyone knew Mr.
Collis Tremayne had been moon-high out of her cousins' reach even
when unmarried.

"Who
did he marry, Papa?" Augusta asked tearfully.