My Lord Rogue (2 page)

Had Marquess Stanton received her message? Was he waiting for her in box three? What if he’d never gotten her communiqué? What if he refused to meet her? Lucien had taught her to employ her machinations to a good end. She wasn’t the same woman Simon remembered; timid, shy, willingly cast aside or forced to choose another. But maturation wouldn’t enable her to get within five feet of Nelson without an introduction.

Stay calm. You can save Nelson.

She wasn’t a novice, but for some terrible reason, she was acting like one. Lucien —
God rest his soul
— had sent her there because he believed she could stop Nelson’s assassination. And Gillian meant to do whatever it took to fulfill her promise to see it done.
So help me God.

“
They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts—

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant…
”

~William Shakespeare’s
All The World
’
s a Stage

The woman glided
across the dais, drawing Lord Simon Danbury like the promise of a rich glass of port after a decadent meal. To his recollection, only one woman moved the way that one did — a woman with purpose — a woman likely never to be purged from his soul. He froze.

Gillian Chauncey.

Coincidence? No. Simon didn’t believe in coincidences. He prided himself on measuring reality with sound judgment and maintaining a stoic appearance to those around him, giving nothing away, holding nothing back. He relied on maps, communiqués, and infiltration methods to get what he wanted. Happenstance never entered the equation. And yet the possibility the mysterious female was Gillian gutted him for everything he was worth, stealing his breath, taking him back in time to the moment he’d fought hard to f
orget — the day she’d told him
goodbye
.

Lucifer take it! He didn’t want to remember, to tap into his soul, to
feel
the emotions Gillian had siphoned from his unwilling body.

His fingers twitched then tightened around the silver handle of his cane. Bloody hell! He’d put Gillian behind him and successfully so. He’d relegated himself to focusing on the task at hand, living, if one could call it living, and sacrificing every ounce of his strength to serving the greater good. He’d done a decent job of it for five years, hadn’t he?

“Why? Why are you being so stubborn?” her voice pleaded faintly in the distance.

No no n
o, you fool. Don’t remember.

But it was no use. The floodgates had opened. He could no sooner fight the images of Gillian clinging to his gloved hands, tears tumbling down her rosy cheeks, then prevent Lucien from taking her away from him forever…

~~~~

January 25
^th
,
1796

“Stubborn? I should
ask you the same question.”

“I am only stubborn in one regard — you.”

“You are young. Turn your attentions on someone who can reciprocate.”

Unshed tears gathered in her chocolate brown eyes. “Reciprocate? I love you, Simon. How can I change the way I feel?”

“It would serve you better not to love me. We will be each other’s ruin, Gillian. You know this as well as I.”

“You may deny me your love, but nothing will ever change the way I feel. I will love you forever, no matter how far you send me away, no matter—”

“Don’t speak,” he said, touching her mouth lightly. “Go. Live. Be happy.” He nodded to Lucien then, fighting the urge to rip the man apart as he came forward to grab Gillian by her elbow and lead her away, successfully hammering the final blow to the self-inflicted dagger Simon had shoved in his own heart. Nothing had hurt more deeply than knowing he was deliberately sending the woman he loved to another man’s bed. But Lucien could give her what Simon could not; respectability, a ring, a life free of suspicion and disdain.

~~~~

November 5
^th
,
1801

Blast his pride!
The damage to his soul had been so palpable then, he leaned on his cane for balance now. A hedonistic man, he was a cad for loving another man’s wife when his own lay bedridden, a fact that damned Simon’s conscious to eternity.

Orchestra strings and public banter ushered Simon back to the present. He inhaled a stabilizing breath, and the prospective scent of lavender and rose combined with intrigue, excitement, and hope filled his senses. He closed his eyes to regain some semblance of control and opened them again. No. Not a dream at all. Like a goddess assuming human flesh, she ascended the staircase before him. Baroness Chauncey.

But how could that be? Gillian was happily married to a man he’d grown to greatly admire, the disenfranchised Frenchman, Lucien
Corbet
whom he’d persuaded Prinny to hand a barony so Lucien could live without fear of revolutionary reprisals. His ulterior motive that Lucien could provide for Gillian the way he couldn’t. For these reasons, she wouldn’t dare come to London unless something was wrong, terribly wrong. Was Gillian in trouble? Was Lucien in danger?

Bloody hell!
The baroness was a most unwelcome distraction, prickling senses that had taken sabbatical but were now on full alert. Prinny was in his box. Nelson would be arriving soon. And yet, something about her beckoned him to follow. Whatever Gillian’s ruse — destitute widow needing solace at the theater to ease her troubles or spy dressed to kill, utilizing feminine wiles to bemuse guards stationed throughout the theater to protect Prinny — she was up to no good. And Simon prided himself on being a man who wasn’t easily fooled.

Determined to get at the heart of the matter, Simon lifted the handle of his cane slightly and suppressed a satisfied grin as the sound of scraping steel pierced the air and the blade slid back inside its secretive sheath. He gave the weapon a sideways glance before redirecting his gaze to Gillian’s fading bombazine skirts. Since arriving at the theater, he’d anticipated a quiet night of droll society and superfluous diplomacy. Gillian’s appearance at Drury Lane awakened his senses with unruly heat. He walked forward with an ominous smile.

At thirty-three, Simon was a man in his prime, used to long hours and a regrettably cold bed. For that reason, he hated where his thoughts led. Nothing revolted him more than a man without purpose. Even more shocking? A gentleman unwilling to serve the greater good, which made altering his tactics more perplexing. Would he be putting Prinny in more danger by chasing a woman’s skirts? And yet, he owed it to Prinny and Admiral Nelson to uncover Gillian’s deception, if one could be found.

Perhaps he was wrong. He prayed he was. But he was hardly ever wrong.

“The men are in place, my lord,” his smartly dressed head of security, John Cavendish said abruptly on his left.

Simon stopped to survey the crowd, his thoughts lingering on Gillian. “Good. See to it that no one gets near Lord Nelson until I return.”

“Are you leaving?”

The question was ridiculous. “No. There’s something I must attend to. I shall return momentarily. Until then, keep a close vigilant eye on the entrance to the theater. I want to be ready for anything when the admiral appears.”

“Yes, my lord.” Cavendish bowed then spun around briskly, revealing military training to the unsuspecting eye when the idea was to remain inconspicuous. Curse the man for neglecting to hide that small detail.

Rule number one: A man had to always be on guard. In war, at peace, the gaming tables, no one need give away
a tell unless necessary
.

Back to the activity at
hand
.
Simon moved toward the stairs. With Prinny in attendance, Admiral Nelson soon to join them, Gillian’s drab garments and activities triggered more than a reminder that death of a man’s character was never far out of reach. Black served a useful purpose — disguise. Widow’s weeds ignited a chord of suspicion from the marrow of his bones for two unequivocal reasons. One, black wasn’t fashionable in a sea of white-robed females. Two, mourning women didn’t usually attend the theater. What was Gillian up to?

Lucien’s last foray to the Theatre Royal had helped thwart an assassination attempt on King George. As far as Simon knew, Lucien hadn’t been to Drury Lane before that time or since. Had another threat been made?
Highly unlikely.
If Simon prided himself in anything, it was his vast knowledge about England’s foreign policy. He was aware of everything he needed to know, thanks to the Admiralty Board, Admiral Nelson, and Lord Melville. Had he missed crucial intelligence?

The agonizing suspense led Simon to quirk his brow as he peered into the crushing throng, determined to discover why this one woman nagged at his indomitable ego.

Bloody hell! If the baroness is here, Lucien can’t be far behind, which means…

Simon frowned. But how was that possible? Lucien’s last message indicated he’d smuggled himself into France on a mission of great importance. If the baron had returned to London without making him aware, he meant to delay the man until he was completely satisfied with any information Lucien carried about Napoleon’s invasion plans. A circumstance that didn’t allow for the baroness to leave Drury Lane before that information was in his hands.

Simon spurred into action. He ascended the stairs, desiring more than ever to lift the mysterious veil that kept her identity secret. Black fabric, ribbons and lace obscured the subtle upward turn of nose or the eyes he felt boring into him with suspicion and unrelenting emotion. She moved with a dancer’s grace, like a prowling alley cat, one he knew also had a diplomat’s wit.

Astonished that he held her talents in such high regard, Simon bristled. If any credence could be given to the renewed vigor flowing through his limbs
,
it was
this
.
H
e had an unyielding connection to the baroness
.

A storm of bitter frustration brewed within him as she cautiously regarded her surroundings before disappearing into a private box on the third level. He’d made it his own personal mission to know the owner of every box. It so happened, the particular owner of the box she’d chosen, the Duke of Bedford, was in the country
.
How would she know this? Had she rented the box from Bedford?

It was a matter of pride to always be one step ahead of friend or foe. He trusted very few men. Lucien had been one of them. He’d not failed to monitor his counterpart’s whereabouts, until a mere slip of a woman had managed to blindside him. Why?

For the life he’d assured her, she owed him gratitude. He would no sooner deny her an audience than deny himself breath. And in good conscience, he couldn’t walk away without knowing whether or not his mind had jumped to conclusions or if she was still in Lucien’s safekeeping.

Determined to get to the bottom of whatever had brought Gillian to the theater,
Simon took the curtains in hand and stepped inside Bedford’s box
.
At the very thought of being in her presence, his
heart, the damned beating entity, threatened to burst from his chest.
Irrational organ!

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright lights shimmering from the stage, charging the darkness of the box with uncontrollable energy. When he could see clearly, he gave Gillian’s body a raking gaze. She stood erect with her back to the entrance, shoulders firmly set, breath shallow. His maddening arrogance faltered
at the sight of her
. It took every ounce of his strength not to rush to her and pull her close, so flustered was he by her mere nearness.

“I knew it would only be a matter of time before you came here. Still, I had hoped to fool you — of all people — the most.”

Fool him? Why? “I prefer to think you wouldn’t desire to fool me.”

His heart jolted and his pulse pounded in his ears as he waited for her to respond. She didn’t. He stepped closer, anxiously removing his gloves, tempted beyond reason to lay his hand on her shoulder and turn her around to face him.
Fool!
He wasn’t an anxious man. Eager, yes, but anxious? When had he begun to exhibit that emotion? Ah, he remembered. One other time. The day he
’d
heard Gillian say,
“I do
,”
and watched her walk away with Lucien Chauncey’s ring on her finger.

“I have ceased to care what you prefer, my lord,” she replied with admirable severity.

Ceased to care? The barb cut deep, more thoroughly than the old wound on his side. He didn’t blame her. Hating him made it easier. He couldn’t bear the thought of her pining for him all those many years, as he’d pined for her.

“Humph.” Eager and erratic like a summer storm, a vexing combination of emotions he rarely embodied, he removed his hat. Irritated
that his affections could be so easily diverted
, he brushed his hair back away from his face. What must Gillian think of him? And if she was as affected by their last parting as he expected, why had she broken her promise never to return to London? Hadn’t she known he would find her — that he would always find her? Was that what she feared? What she wanted? Inside, a small seed of hope threatened to sprout.

He cleared his throat. “I had hoped that time would heal both our wounds.”

“Some wounds never heal.”

Why wouldn’t she turn around? It was all he could do to stand four feet away from her without reaching out to turn her toward him. How foolish of him to desire her still. How ridiculously he’d labored over the choices he’d made. Aghast, he tightened his grip on his top hat to keep from acting upon the inclination to do anything untoward, even though every inch of him throbbed to grab her and kiss her soundly. In reality, the distance between them had grown exponentially.

Hypocrite! Bloody fool! You are married. She is married to someone else.

“That would depend on the injury,” he said, hoping to draw her out.

Her bitter laughter unsettled him. “What if the cut is too deep, my lord?”

Her brutal honesty tore through him. While he wanted to explain away the past, he was quite aware of the opera glasses focused on them, of the public eyes searching for a glimpse of scandal that could be bantered throughout the coming months in a season rife with communication. He was also quite aware that his ailing wife learned everything the wagging tongues, eager for a morsel of gossip, launched with the purpose of destroying often innocent lives. Never mind his wife blamed herself for the failure of their arranged marriage, for the loss of their only child, and her subsequent frailty.

Lady Edwina Danbury could never know the truth. That knowledge would surely destroy his fragile wife. And neither could Gillian.

Silence stretched
agonizingly long
between them until Gillian turned. His heartbeat quickened as she lifted her small, delicate, gloved fingers and pushed back her veil, revealing
startling fair skin and the generous lips
that had haunted his dreams. Her dark velvety brown eyes slowly rose to meet his
.
Brilliantly intelligent,
the dull light in her
gaze revealed she
had
changed — exponentially so
. Her movements precise, almost timed too perfectly, unnerved him and her practiced machinations held him enthralled. What was this power she had over him? How did she
still
manage to steal his breath?

“I thought if I ever laid eyes on you again, I’d cease to breathe.” He was thankful she hadn’t fainted dead away. She was standing too close to the edge of the box and that would have been hard to explain.

“And yet her
e you are, standing, breathing.
You give yourself little credit—”

She lifted her hand and stationed it between them like a fence rail, as if she feared he took her words as an invitation to step closer. He’d gone too far — again.
Damn!
What was it about this particular woman that unhinged him so?

Gillian was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Country life and marriage to a spy hadn’t diminished her beauty but had keenly enhanced her features. She wore her black hair parted down the middle and swept back neatly behind her ears. Her heart-shaped face led his
gaze
directly to intelligent arched brows, a pert nose, and the very same rose-tinged bow-shaped lips that had proclaimed her love. To further accentuate her delicate, aristocratic looks, pearl earrings dangled from delectable earlobes, tempting lobes he’d dreamed of kissing, suckling as he moved agonizingly lower to her nape.

“The credit, Lord Danbury, goes to my husband.”

Her brutal reminder gutted him.
“Credit? Ah, yes,” he said, remembering where his words had trailed off. He cleared his throat. “Where is the baron? I half expect him to suddenly accost me from the shadows.”

Gillian’s expression turned grim.
“I left the baron at home.” Her chin flexed strangely. Her brows lifted a notch.

At home? He’d warned the man never to let her out of his sight. Something wasn’t right. He felt it in his bones, sensed it with uncanny awareness.

“Gillian,” he said, reaching for her hand.