A Rogue’s Pleasure (17 page)

“Uh!”

A fruit seller's stand broke her fall. Arms flailing, she grabbed at the mounds of neatly stacked fruit. Oranges and apples scattered to the four winds.

“Sorry,” she shouted over her shoulder, grapes squashing beneath the soles of her shoes.

“Sorry, my arse.” The costermonger tore off his apron and scrambled after her. “You're payin' for this.”

She ran on. Her lungs burned, a stitch scored her side, and her knees throbbed as though someone had struck them with a hammer. But still she ran, one thought racing through her mind.
Anthony, where are you?

 

Anthony glanced at the small gold wedding band, closed the box, and slipped it inside his pocket. “And the other commission. I trust it is ready as well?”

“Of course, milord.” The jeweler, Gray, bent to unlock a drawer beneath the glass counter. Straightening, he presented Anthony with a long velvet case. He opened it and laid the contents on a swatch of midnight-blue velvet.

The triple rope of pearls was striking in its simplicity, except for the clasp, an intricate confection of diamonds and emeralds. An
A
and
C
were entwined in the delicate filigree.

Anthony lifted the necklace with reverent care. “May I?”

“Of course, milord.” Gray handed him the loupe.

Peering through the magnifier, Anthony examined each pearl. They were flawless, nearly as smooth and creamy as Chelsea's skin. He couldn't wait to see her wearing the necklace—and nothing else. But first he had to persuade her to speak to him again.

She'd obviously left his house while his dinner party was still in session. None of the servants he'd questioned the night before remembered seeing her—him—past nine o'clock. He'd been tempted to rush to Mount Street—where else would she go?—to plead his case. But he was due to take over the watch at midnight, which was all to the good. If womanizing had taught him anything it was that an irate female should always be given a full night to cool her temper.

Chelsea might be the least materialistic woman he'd ever known, but she was still a woman. Surely such a costly gift accompanied by his most charming apology would quell any doubts she still harbored about the genuineness of his promise to rescue Robert.

Smiling, he put down the loupe and handed back the necklace. “You've outdone yourself, Gray.”

Gray bowed his head. “Your sketch of the clasp was most explicit, milord.” Replacing the necklace in its box, he added, “Even so, 'twas something of a feat to fashion a piece so intricate in little more than a week.”

Anthony hid a smile at the less than subtle hint. Despite his gentlemanly affectations, the jeweler was a tradesman at heart and adept at haggling. No matter. He fully intended to reward Gray for his diligence.

Anthony reached inside his coat and withdrew his purse. “Add both pieces to my account. And, Gray?”

“Yes, milord?”

Anthony pulled out five ten-pound notes. “I trust this will suffice as a token of my appreciation for a job admirably done?”

He dropped the stack of bills on the counter and picked up the necklace case.

“Very handsomely, milord.”

Sweat pearled on the jeweler's brow. He pocketed the money and hurried to the front of the counter to open the shop door for Anthony. “Good day, milord.”

“Good day, Gray.”

Angry shouting—and one particularly piercing cry—drowned the soft tinkle of the shop's bell as the door closed softly behind him. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Anthony frowned. Such raucous activity was to be expected in Billingsgate Market but not in Mayfair's exclusive shopping district. It made no sense, and yet he recognized the clamoring of a mob when he heard it.

And then a slim figure in brown and gold flashed by.

Good God, Chelsea!
Her pursuers, nearly ten of them, represented a variety of social stations, but they were united in one thing—their livid faces, fixed on Chelsea's retreating back, radiated malice. Had Chelsea taken to picking pockets in broad daylight?

But now was not the time to contemplate that question. Anthony cut across the street, legs devouring the pavement. Throwing himself dead center of Chelsea's path, he caught her in his arms. The force rocked them both, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“A-An-thon-y.”

She threw her arms about his neck and collapsed against him.

 

Across the street a lone man, dressed all in black, observed the spectacle from the outdoor table of a tea shop. The girl was her own worst enemy. Were it not for Montrose, it would be child's play to pluck her off the streets. As it was, she'd been holed up in his lordship's town house for more than a week. The chaos unfolding before him was his first chance to get close to her. Until Montrose, damn him to hell, interfered once again. The man was becoming a problem.

Still, a notorious libertine like the viscount must soon tire of the game he'd been playing and relax his guard.

When he does, the girl will be mine.

Until then, he would wait. And watch. He could be patient when the situation warranted it. The thirtieth was but nine days away.

He raked a trembling hand through his hair.
I can wait. I must wait
.

For Chelsea Bellamy, he would wait for hell to freeze.

Anthony untangled Chelsea's arms from his neck. She looked so small, so fragile, so frightened, that he was afraid his heart would burst with the need to keep her safe. But to do so, he had to be strong.

He took a step back, holding her away from him. “Say nothing and follow my lead,” he murmured.

Face flushed and eyes wide, she nodded.

Then all hell broke loose.

Anthony scanned the horde of angry, perspiring people spilling around them, voices raised in a cacophonous chorus. He sighted several raised fists and one riding crop but otherwise Chelsea's pursuers appeared devoid of weaponry. Thank God for small favors. He signaled for silence.

“Quiet, all of you!” He held up a palm. “This young man is in my employ. Whatever wrongs he has committed, I assume responsibility for ensuring that you are recompensed. Now, one at a time.”

A young dandy hitched forward, his elaborately arranged neck cloth splashed with mud.

“This…rapscallion leapt out in front of me. Blasted fellow nearly lamed both me and my horse. And my hat, it will never be the same.”

Anthony eyed the hat. Made of cheap felt, it was worth no more than ten pounds. To be safe, he would offer twenty. “Allow me to express my regret.” He reached into his coat pocket for his purse.

Upper lip curled into a sneer, the dandy turned to address the gathering spectators. “Keep your money, sir,” he said in a carrying voice. “Dare you suggest I would sully my honor by accepting payment from you? No, nothing shall satisfy me but your apology and seeing this lad publicly flogged.” Turning back, he eyed Anthony's walking stick, the knob made of solid gold, and added beneath his breath, “Of course, if you were to
loan
me that stick of yours so that I might make my way back to my horse…”

Anthony pressed the cane into his hand. “Apology made.”

“In that case, I accept.” He grabbed the cane and skulked away, his hobble more pronounced than when he arrived.

“Madonna, what of me?” A bearded street vendor gestured to the array of colors staining his once-white smock. “My finest shirt, she's ruined. And,
Dio,
my ices. The entire tray,
finito!
”

Ten pounds sent the Italian on his way, a smile cracking beneath his waxed mustachio. Listening to the litany of Chelsea's other offenses, Anthony quickly determined that only a handful of her pursuers had a genuine grievance; the majority appeared to have joined the chase for sport.

He was paying off a fruit seller when a stout, ruddy-faced matron pushed her way through the dispersing crowd. Organdy flounces swayed about her thick ankles.

“I am Mrs. Josiah Pettigrew of Upper Uckfield.” She lifted a hand, the fleshy wrist weighted with packages, and pointed to Chelsea. “And I demand that you turn that felon over to the authorities at once.”

Righteous indignation mingled with the sweat streaming down her porcine countenance.
Damn
. The termagant was no disgruntled tradesman but one of One-Eyed Jack's—Chelsea's—robbery victims.

Anthony summoned the look of aristocratic hauteur he reserved for such occasions. “Felon, madam?”

She nodded briskly. “Indeed, 'tis the highwayman who waylaid my carriage a fortnight ago. The villain stole my purse and terrorized my poor daughters out of their wits.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chelsea stiffen. “I can assure you, madam, Robin here is no highwayman. Obviously you've mistaken him for another.”

Square jaw set, she turned to the flushed, pie-faced girl who had just joined them. “My daughter will bear me out. She, of all people, is qualified to identify the rogue. Rosamund, my precious, is this not the same vile creature who called himself One-Eyed Jack?”

The girl hung back, fingering a rosy pimple blossoming on her square chin.

Her mother jabbed her with her elbow. “Speak up!”

“Tell me, miss, does this pitiful stripling really resemble the brute who terrorized you?” Anthony asked gently.

The girl, Rosamund, glanced at Chelsea, then back at him. “I can't be certain, sir. I did think it looked like him at first, but now I'm not so sure.”

Relief surged through him. “Well, I can vouch that he is not your highwayman. Robin has been in my service for well nigh a year. He's a hard worker and strong for his size.”
And badly in need of being taught a lesson
. “But, in truth, he's a bit thick in the pate.”

He nudged Chelsea. Glaring at him, she hunched her shoulders and adopted a slack-jawed expression.

“But he so resembles this One-Eyed Jack fellow,” the harridan persisted. Stepping closer, she raised her lorgnette and examined Chelsea's flushed face through the glass. “Perhaps if I could hear him speak?” She poked Chelsea's stomach with the tip of her closed parasol. “What, have you nothing to say in your defense?”

Despite Chelsea's fiery cheeks and glinting eyes, Anthony knew she'd hold on to her temper at least until Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund were out of earshot. But, if pressed to speak, could she summon a passable male voice, one sufficiently dissimilar from the squeaky rasp she'd affected as One-Eyed Jack?

Not inclined to find out, Anthony spoke up. “Robin cannot speak, in his own defense or otherwise. You see, he's mute.”

The shrew's brows lifted. “Really?”

“Oh, he makes a few guttural sounds now and again, but at heart he's a primitive. Mostly he uses hand gestures to communicate his basic wants.” He slid Chelsea a sideways glance. Brows crossed and jaw set, she looked as though she were biting her tongue—literally. “And his facial expressions are quite eloquent.”

Frowning, Mrs. Pettigrew circled Chelsea, examining her as though she were a museum exhibit. “Still, something about him seems disturbingly…familiar.”

“I suppose Robin just has one of those faces. I apologize if his offends.” He shrugged, turning from Chelsea to Rosamund.

Spoony-eyed, the girl was more than ready to believe anything he said. Her mother, however, would require a bit more persuasion.

Anthony shone his brightest smile on the elder Pettigrew. “It might interest you to know that my own carriage was overtaken by the very same rogue. Robin here was quaking in his boots the whole time. I fear One-Eyed Jack may have frightened him out of what few wits he possessed. Poor lad, he's not been the same since.”

The matron's mouth flew open. “Never say you were robbed too?” At Anthony's nod, she demanded, “I'll have your name, sir.”

“Of course. Montrose, at your service.” Anthony tipped his hat and swept his most courtly bow.

“Lord Montrose? Viscount Montrose!”

He inclined his head.

“Why, we are practically neighbors! My husband is the vicar. Allow me to present our eldest, Rosamund.”

The girl remained immobile, her worshipful gaze still riveted on him.

“Don't tell me you've gone mute too,” her mother snapped.

Rosamund mumbled a greeting and careened into a curtsey. Anthony caught her and carried her gloved hand to his lips. Looking down at the pudgy hand he'd just released, she sighed. “You are too kind, sir.”

“An impossibility when one finds himself in such charming company,” he countered, suspecting she'd refrain from laundering that glove for some time. “May I be so bold as to ask what brings you two lovely ladies to town?”

Frowning at her daughter, Mrs. Pettigrew replied, “Rosamund is to make her bow next Season, and we are on a shopping expedition to see that she is rigged out in style.” She paused. “She turns seventeen next month. I myself was barely out of the schoolroom when Mr. Pettigrew snatched me from the bosom of my family.”

Looking between the two, Anthony thumbed the cleft in his chin. “That explains it, then.”

“Milord?”

“Why at first I thought you two ladies were sisters.”

“Oh, Lord Montrose, really!” Mrs. Pettigrew twittered. She leaned forward. “Now there is a young woman back home, a complete hoyden. Her parents were killed last year in a carriage accident. A tragedy to be sure, but I fear they allowed her to run wild. When she isn't riding pell-mell through the countryside—
astride
—she's buried her nose in some wretched book.”

He glanced at the “hoyden.” Eyes downcast, Chelsea was occupied with toeing clods of earth from the street. He ached to remove the sting of Mrs. Pettigrew's cutting words. Later. For now logic and not sentiment must be his guide.

Shifting his gaze back to Mrs. Pettigrew, he took care to look suitably appalled. “You don't say.”

Mrs. Pettigrew nodded vigorously. “And the things she reads are—” she clucked her tongue, “—most unsuitable. Her father taught her both Greek and Latin when everyone knows 'tis bad form for a gentleman to even utter a phrase of either in a lady's presence.”

Anthony's smile thinned. “Shocking indeed,” he replied, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

The woman was not only boorish but mean-spirited. Mean-spirited enough to arrange for Robert Bellamy's abduction? Five hundred pounds would go along way in ensuring her daughter a lavish Season.

Mrs. Pettigrew's head bobbed. “I, on the other hand, have taken great pains to provide my girls with a
suitable
education. Rosamund studies household arithmetic, needlework, drawing, and dancing, though no waltzing, of course.”

“Of course.”

“As to the pianoforte, there's not a young lady in the parish who is my Rosamund's
equal.”

“A musician as well. There's nothing more diverting of an evening than a woman…at her pianoforte.” He glanced at Rosamund, who'd resumed picking her chin. “A diamond of the first water, to be sure,” he added, wondering if the ransom might be intended to supplement the chit's dowry. Poor thing, she would require a sizable one to attract a husband. “Only do show compassion for the other young ladies, Miss Rosamund, and try not to win away all their beaux.”

A pink blotch dotted each of Rosamund's apple cheeks. She raised a hand to her mouth, muffling a giggle. He caught Chelsea rolling her eyes heavenward and shot her a scowl.

Turning back to Mrs. Pettigrew, he inquired, “May I inquire how long you will be staying in town?”

“Less than a fortnight, I'm afraid. Had we met you earlier, we might have altered our plans.”

“Less than a fortnight, you say?” What an improbable coincidence it was that the Pettigrews' London excursion should coincide with Chelsea's brother being held hostage. Although Mrs. Pettigrew didn't appear clever enough to execute a kidnapping, he shouldn't rule out the possibility until he'd questioned her at length. “I know that you will think me forward for asking but—”

“Oh, fie, your lordship.” Mrs. Pettigrew waved a dismissive hand. “Ask away.”

“The Claridge Hotel is not far, and its tearoom is London's finest. Dare I hope to persuade you and your daughter to join me for refreshments?”

Mrs. Pettigrew's piggy eyes glowed with triumph. “We did have a prior engagement, but nothing that cannot be broken.”

“Then 'tis settled.” He took their packages and handed them to Chelsea. “Here, boy, see to these.”

She lifted her face to his, and they exchanged silent glances.

Must I really,
she implored him with her eyes?

Yes, I'm afraid you must,
was his mum reply.

With a grimace, she reached out and snatched the parcels from him. Arms full and eyes snapping, she stomped toward the back of the conveyance. Anthony released the breath he'd been holding.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Pettigrew exclaimed as he handed her up onto the bench. “You really must take a firmer hand, milord.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Chelsea deposit the packages in the boot, then climb onto the footmen's rest. “I couldn't agree with you more, madam. I couldn't agree more.”

 

Stiff-kneed, Chelsea climbed down from the carriage, ignoring Anthony's outstretched hand. Of all the humiliations she'd suffered since coming to London, being forced to dance attendance on Mrs. Pettigrew and Rosamund was by far the worst and the hardest to forgive.

She turned and started limping down the street.

“Where are you going?” Anthony asked, keeping pace beside her.

“Home.” She was too proud to look at him, but she sensed he was smiling.

“It's a long walk. Why not join me in the study for a drink? Afterward, I'll drive you.”

“Die,” she hissed.

“Eventually but first we must talk.” He clasped a hand about her upper arm and
commandeered her toward the town house steps.

Inside the foyer he let her go. Marching behind him to the back of the house, one hand supporting her aching back, she thought about making a run for the door.
I'd probably fall on my face.
Besides, why turn her back on this golden opportunity to give his lordship his comeuppance?

She slammed the study door and swung around to face him. “Not overly bright, am I? A bit thick in the pate.”

Anthony lifted the stopper from a crystal brandy decanter. “Had they thought you a genius, you might very well be cooling your heels in Newgate now. Would you have preferred prison to one uncomfortable hour on the back of my carriage?”

He was right, of course. Playing the lackey for an afternoon was a small price to pay for escaping the hangman's noose. That didn't mean she had to like it, especially when a cocksure smile curved his lips.

Hands on her hips, she mimicked, “‘Oh, Lord Montrose, you are too kind.' ‘Your carriage is divine, your lordship. I've never ridden in one so well sprung.' O-ooh, I'd like to do some springing.” She pulled off her wig and slung it to the ground. A cloud of powder rose to her ankles. Stepping through it, she advanced on the desk. “It was all I could do to keep from retching.”