Lady Rogue (13 page)

“Evening, Wenton.” She grinned as the butler pulled the door open to admit her. “Alex is out, I suppose?”

Solemnly the butler accepted her hat and gloves and splendid new greatcoat. “Lord Everton is in his study, and does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll just be in the library, if he needs me.”

All day long she’d been thinking of that poem he’d quoted her, and she wished to read it for herself—until
she heard two male voices coming from behind his door. With a glance back at Wenton she dragged one foot behind her, bunching up the Persian carpet on the edge, then stumbled over the mound she’d created. Letting herself lose her balance, she lurched against the study door. It was unlocked, and seemingly of its own accord the handle turned and the door fell open with her attached to it.

Kit stumbled into the study and grabbed the back of the nearest chair to catch her balance. “Apologies. I—”

Alex had been facing the fireplace, but at her entrance he whipped around to face her. His eyes were angry and distant, and they stopped her apology in her throat. A moment later he turned his back and accepted an emptied snifter of brandy from the man who stood by the window. “Thank you for your help,” he said curtly.

“My pleasure, milord, as always.” The visitor, sandy-haired with wind-burned cheeks and a rough-spun, dark overcoat, glanced at Kit and then leaned over to pick up a hat and gloves from the chair she still clutched. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

“I would appreciate it.” Alex motioned his guest toward the door, and followed him into the hallway. “Don’t move,” he warned Kit out of the side of his mouth as he passed by. He never looked in her direction.

Kit stayed where she was. It abruptly occurred to her that she had never seen Alex angry before. And she wondered what, exactly, his visitor was supposed to find out for him. Her entrance had stopped the conversation cold, and though she was, of course, less than intimate with his personal affairs, she was certain they hadn’t been discussing hay rakes.

A moment later he stepped back into the room, where she stood facing away from him. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

Behind her the door shut, and Everton brushed her shoulder as he returned to pick up the brandy he had set down. He lifted it to his lips and took a swallow, pushing the window curtains aside a little with his other hand
and glancing out into the darkness of his garden and the street beyond.

“I was heading for the library,” she continued, disliking the silence, “and I tripped. I didn’t mean—”

“That’s rather unimaginative,” he interrupted, letting the curtain slide back through his fingers. “Why don’t you try another?”

She scowled and released the back of the chair. “I tripped. You’re the one who left your bloody door unlocked, so don’t blame me.” When caught in a lie, attack. Throw the enemy off balance. Kit watched his profile, for he still wouldn’t look at her, and tried to decide whether he was the enemy.

“Where were you this evening?”

“Winning five pounds off Reg at hazard,” she replied shortly, deflating the figure in case he attempted to relieve her of her funds again. “Why do you let strangers share brandy with you when you won’t drink it with me?”

Finally he looked at her. “He’s not a stranger. And chits don’t drink brandy.”

Kit frowned. “I—”

He raised a hand. “Beg pardon. You’re not a chit, are you? Very well. Have a seat.” He gestured at the open door on the far side of the room.

With a suspicious glance at him she turned and walked into the billiards room. She already knew the layout. In addition to the table, a liquor tray sat on one side beneath the window, a folded gaming table and two worn, comfortable-looking chairs close by it. She glanced over her shoulder to see that Everton followed her, and took a seat before the mahogany gaming table.

Alex leaned over and flipped it open, his motions crisp and angry, then walked to the mantel and pulled out a deck of cards from the small chest perched there. He tossed the deck onto the table, then moved on to the liquor tray and lifted two glasses and an unopened bottle of brandy. “Your father encourages you to drink brandy, then?” he finally said, taking the seat opposite her.

“He doesn’t care,” Kit answered defiantly, still trying
to interpret his mood. She guessed it had little to do with her supposed clumsiness, and wondered again what the man who wasn’t a stranger to Everton had been telling him. “I can drink any man under the table, anyway.”

“Splendid.” He deftly uncorked the bottle and poured a measure of the amber liquid into each glass. He slid hers across the table toward her, then sat back, obviously waiting for her to proceed.

It took little sense to know that she should not be drinking with him in this hidden room by themselves. “Alex,” she finally said, reaching out to fiddle with the glass, “if you wish me to apologize again, I will. The dratted rug was turned up on one side, and I fell.”

“How very clumsy of you,” he noted.

“That’s not very nice,” she retorted.

“Well, I’m a bit angry. Drink.”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because I don’t like you any longer, and I don’t wish to drink your brandy.” She stood and turned for the door.

Everton reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Sit down,” he hissed.

Surprised at the contact, she jerked free and took a further step away from him. “No. If you wish to drink with someone, go find your mysterious friend.”

Alex pushed to his feet, his eyes snapping with fury. “Down!”

She put her hands on her hips, not wanting him to see that he was making her uneasy. “What the deuce are you so angry about, Everton?” she demanded.

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and slowly retook his seat. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to having everyone around me do as I tell them. You are more…independent than I am used to.”

At least he was speaking in complete sentences again. “Now who’s being unimaginative?” she prodded, still irritated at the implication that she had been lying, whether she had been or not.

He scowled. “All right, you annoyed the bloody hell
out of me, and you being a female, I can do nothing but beat my chest and bellow at you.” He gestured at her to resume her seat. “Please. Come drink me under the table, chit.”

There was still something remote in his eyes, but being in his company was even more inviting than the idea of finally beating him at something. Perhaps a few glasses of brandy would return him to his cynically amused self. “All right, but don’t blame me for the aching head you’ll have tomorrow.”

“I’ll risk it.”

Kit sat again and lifted her glass. Eyeing him over the rim, she took a swallow, then another. “It’s very good brandy,” she offered with a tentative smile.

Alex returned the expression briefly and drank as well. “Brandy’s actually a bit too dry for me. I prefer port, but as you are obsessed, we’ll drink brandy.”

He refilled the glasses, then opened the pack of cards and began shuffling them. “Commerce?” he asked, glancing at her.

“All right,” she agreed. “If we play for brandy. Loser takes a drink.” Though it was not her best game, she played fairly well, and if she could get him drunk enough, she might actually be able to obtain some information from him.

He eyed her for a moment, then nodded. “And winner gets to ask a question.”

Apparently he was seeking information, as well. “What sort of question?”

“Any sort at all. We’ve been together for a week, and know little of one another. Whatever comes to mind.”

It felt like a trap, but it could close on him just as well as on her. “Agreed.”

He dealt them three cards apiece, and set the deck at his elbow while he examined his hand. She did the same, and then looked up at his questioning expression. “One,” she said, discarding the diamond and hoping for a flush of spades.

Alex slid the card over to her and took one himself. “Well, chit?”

She sighed. “Queen point.”

“Pair of threes,” he said, displaying them for her. “Drink up.”

Kit took a swallow. The liquid burned as it traveled down her throat. “And your question?”

“Why did you go out again last night after we said good night?”

For a moment her heart stopped. Swiftly she set an affronted look on her face. “How did you know that?” she demanded.

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” he reminded her.

“I’d…spied Thadius Naring drinking earlier, and thought he’d be an easy mark,” she said slowly, watching his expression to see if she’d given away more than she should have.

“You might have told me,” he said after a moment. “We could have fleeced a few coins out of him together.”

“Seeing you at the Traveller’s would have had him pissing in his breeches. And I need the coin. You don’t.”

He nodded. “True enough.” Alex slid the deck over to her for the deal.

This time she ended up with a flush to his pair of sevens. She gestured at his glass, and he took a long swallow, as though taunting her. “How did you know I went out again?” she asked.

“I ran across Naring this morning. He wanted a chance to recoup his losses.”

Alex won the next hand, and looked at her for a heartbeat after she took the obligatory drink. “How long have you spoken French?”

At least these first questions seemed to be ones she could answer without too much difficulty. Perhaps it was simple curiosity that motivated him, after all. “I’m not certain. For a time after we left England I didn’t understand a word of it, and then I did.”

He won the next round as well, and she would have thought he was cheating, except that she had dealt the
hand. “Have you always lived in Saint-Marcel?” he asked as she drank.

If this kept up, she wouldn’t be in a condition to ask him anything if the opportunity ever arose. “No. After Madrid and Venice we lived in Saint-Germain for a while, but we’ve lived in Saint-Marcel on and off for five years or so.”

Finally she came up with three nines, and refilled his glass to the brim before he drank. “Let me see,” she mused, while he watched her. She would have called his expression wary, but it was too aloof for that. But she knew that he had secrets, too. Everyone did. The trick was to uncover what she needed to know without him guessing what she was seeking. “Where does all your money come from, Croesus?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of question is that?”

“Ah ah,” she admonished, wagging a finger at him. “It’s my turn.”

Alex sat back. “Well, do you wish to see an estate ledger, or may I just give you a general breakdown of income?”

“A general summary will do.”

He gave a slight smile and shook his head. “The majority comes from investments. I am a shareholder in several textile, mining, and shipping companies. The rest comes from government appointments, tenant rent, and from my brickwork, and crop, wool, and stock sales at Everton, Charing, Hoaroak Abbey, Castle Gandailey, and Corredor Timederia. And a little wagering, for amusement.”

Well, he’d said it, but he’d managed to smuggle it in the middle of a breath-stealing mound of wealth. To focus on his appointments above the rest would be far too obvious. “My,” she offered, rather stunned to actually hear it all laid out before her, and he chuckled.

“You asked,” he said dryly.

In the next hour she learned that despite his reputation as a rake, he took his duties as a member of the House of Lords very seriously, and that he had sold off his
shares in a French textile company when the board had voted to support Bonaparte’s ascendancy. She’d tried to nudge her questions in the direction of his politics and his particular duties, and he’d just as skillfully misread her meanings and given answers that had little to do with what she truly wanted to know. At least, she imagined that his misdirection was on purpose. For his part, he’d won the majority of hands, and Kit was forced to acknowledge that he was better at cards than she. Of course, as the loser, she was consuming far more liquor, which wasn’t helping her game in the least.

It seemed only wise, then, when she lost a hand and Alex rose to throw another log on the dying fire, that she turn her wrist as she lifted the glass. Deftly, the swallow that was supposed to go down her throat slid wetly down her sleeve instead. She hated the idea of ruining her shirt, and quite possibly her lovely blue coat, but she hated the idea of losing to Everton, and losing her wits, even more.

“All right, chit,” he said with a half smile as he retook his seat, “how many times have you visited England since the age of six?”

His questions had been like that all evening, queries that could be interpreted as either idle curiosity, or a wish to discover something deeper. She wondered whether he had guessed anything about her true purpose for being in London, and why he would have reason to suspect her. “Oh, I don’t know,” she offered, grimacing as though trying to remember. “Three or four times. We never stayed very long.”

For the next half hour she succeeded in distracting him enough to dump nearly a full glass down her sleeve, though it didn’t make answering his increasingly complicated questions any easier. “What time is it?” Alex asked, stretching sleepily and glancing over at the mantel.

“Nearly three,” she answered quickly, grinning. “Your deal.” Slyly she tilted her glass into her sleeve again.

“I lodge a protest. That was not my ques—” Everton
lurched across the table, grabbed her arm, and yanked her over the cards toward him. Hearts and diamonds went flying as he pushed her sleeve up to reveal the brandy-soaked elbow of her shirt. “You little fraud!”

“Let me go!” she protested, flushing and trying to pull backward. She had forgotten how strong he was, for her flailing about had little effect. Instead, he hauled her around the side of the table and stood her upright.

“Strip,” he ordered.

She just stared at him. “What?” she queried, her heart thudding unevenly.

He smiled lazily. “Take off that damned coat. We’re going to finish this game, and I paid too much for this bottle for you to be dumping it down your sleeves.”

“Oh, all right,” she grumbled, and shrugged out of the coat. It was with some difficulty that she kept her balance. She looked over at Alex, to find his gaze was directed somewhat lower than her face. “Everton,” she muttered, blushing.