The Millionaire Rogue (16 page)

“Would you care for some champagne? An excellent vintage from his lordship's cellars.”

“Oh, yes please.” She took a coupe and smiled tightly. “Don't go too far.”

Drinking deeply, Sophia let out a long breath. She squared her shoulders in a failed attempt to gather her wits, knowing she had to face Thomas whether or not she possessed the power of speech.

She turned, expecting Mr. Hope's fine form to be revealed to her in new detail, but met instead with her mother's round, radish-red face. Lady Blaise's eyes slid from Sophia to Hope and back again, lips pursed. Her gaze settled on Sophia, displeasure evident in the sharp, single swivel of her head.

No
.

Lady Blaise blinked, a smile appearing as if by magic on her lips. She turned to the woman at her elbow, who wore her exotic looks—tall, taller than Sophia by a head or two, and very thin—as one would a tiara of diamonds: elegantly, confidently, as if she owned them and not the other way around.

Mama introduced her as Lady Caroline, the Dowager Countess of Berry and the Earl of Harclay's elder sister.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Blaise.” Lady Caroline returned her bow, nearly mauling the champagne-bearing footman as she tripped over the hem of her gown.

Sophia grabbed Lady Caroline by the arm, catching her just in time before Lord Harclay's excellent vintage ended up on the rug.

“Oh, goodness, how clumsy of me! I wish I could say it was the first mishap of the day. My brother, the dear, wouldn't even let me dance after my coming out. He was worried I'd kill someone. Can't say that I blame him—I'm all thumbs, you see, and I can hardly walk without slaying either myself or my neighbor.”

Sophia smiled. Lady Caroline certainly
looked
elegant, but was, apparently, anything but.

She liked her straightaway.

“I'm afraid I can relate.” Sophia sipped her champagne. “I'm not much of a dancer myself. I dare not imagine how many poor gentlemen's toes I've broken this week alone. It's a wonder Almack's hasn't banned me for life.”

“Oh, but Sophia, she is good at other things.” Lady Blaise cast a warning glance her way. “Like. Er. Conversation! Yes. She's very good at that.”

“Splendid!” Lady Caroline clapped her hands together. “I made your cousin's acquaintance the morning after Mr. Hope's ball. That Lady Violet, she's got pluck! And a rather wicked way about her. Perhaps the three of us might take tea together? I'm just out of mourning, you see, and would love the company.”

The dinner gong sounded, and Mr. Avery stood by the door as he made his announcement. With a bow he motioned for the guests to follow him to the dining room.

Mr. Lake's hulking figure suddenly appeared at Lady Caroline's side. While he was smoothly sinister as always, more so, perhaps, dressed in fine eveningwear, an uncertain softness took captive his features as he looked upon her.

Sophia watched the working of Lady Caroline's throat as he grazed the bare skin of her arm with his fingers. Sophia looked away, face burning. She didn't know what she just saw, but she certainly knew she wasn't supposed to have seen it.

Wordlessly Lake moved past them, holding his arm out to Cousin Violet.

Sophia blinked, running through the calculation in her head. If Lake escorted Violet to dinner, and Lord Harclay his sister the dowager countess, that left Mr. Hope for Sophia and Lady Blaise.

That also meant she and Mama would be seated on either side of Mr. Hope at the dinner table. The three of them, stuck together for the length of the meal.

Thank God the earl had a well-stocked cellar.

She felt the heat of Hope's gaze as he moved across the room toward her. Anticipation, prickly and fast, shot up her spine, and for a moment she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation as much as it pained her.

And then Thomas was at her side, bowing his greeting before holding an elbow out to Lady Blaise. She shot Sophia another look of warning over her shoulder—as if one were not enough—and took Hope's arm with a lukewarm smile.

“Miss Blaise.” His eyes swept the length of her pale lavender gown, the strands of tiny pearls that hung from her neck. Even as she looked away, a grin rose unbidden to her lips. “You look lovely.”

“And you.” She took his arm. “You look like you haven't slept since we saw you last.”

He scoffed as he led them down the corridor, the sounds of swishing skirts and murmured conversation echoing around them.

“That bad, eh? I was hoping my youthful good looks might compensate for the hell I've put myself through these past days—begging your pardon, Lady Blaise.” Thomas sighed. “I suppose I'm not as youthful as I once was.”

“Or good-looking.”

Mr. Hope smiled. “Yes, that, too.”

Lord Harclay's dining room was lit to full splendor, great chandeliers sparkling upon an enormous table set with the earl's family silver, the century-old gilt china. Sophia was relieved to see several footmen hovering in the perimeter of the room, each man wielding an uncorked bottle of wine.

Settling Lady Blaise in her seat, Hope turned to Sophia. He pinned her in place with those deucedly blue eyes of his, offering his hand as a footman shuffled her chair into place.

She took it so that she might steady herself, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fine kidskin of her glove. She inhaled sharply at the firmness of his touch, the familiarity of it. Desire sliced through her.

Mr. Hope took his seat beside her, the heat between them so palpable Sophia was surprised the table linens didn't catch fire.

The food was splendid, the wine, delicious. Sophia spent the better part of the meal chatting with Lady Caroline, who sat at the head of the table to her left, while Mr. Lake sat in uncharacteristic silence across from them.

It pleased Sophia to hear her mother's laugh as Mr. Hope shared some jest or another. He
was
charming, and even in the midst of all his troubles appeared to be in good spirits. While he and Sophia did not so much as meet eyes during the meal, Sophia was aware of his every movement, every word, hypnotized from the corner of her eye by his handsomeness, the beauty of his manners, and his happy way with the other guests.

He was putting on a show, certainly; testing out Cousin Violet's theory that Lord Harclay was the thief. From what little she knew of the earl, Sophia had no doubt he was guilty. A more notorious rake in all England there was not; he was a gambler and a drinker besides, and it was rumored he'd fought more duels than could be counted on hands
and
toes.

It was obvious the man was far too intelligent for his own good, and doubtless at the age of one-and-thirty he'd drunk London dry of its every amusement and vice. Perhaps he'd thieved the diamond out of boredom, perhaps for a thrill. No matter his motive, Sophia was convinced he'd done it.

But Mr. Hope, she knew, must proceed with great care; he stood to lose everything on such an accusation. Violet had explained that Lord Harclay was Hope's wealthiest client, with well over a hundred thousand pounds in deposits at Hope & Co. The loss of such a client would be nothing short of catastrophic.

While the proceedings at dinner were delicate, the amount of wine consumed at the table was not. Each course brought with it its own French varietal, and by the end of dinner Sophia's head was swimming, her awareness of and desire for Thomas scorching through her unimpeded.

She was at once disappointed and relieved when Lady Caroline stood and invited the ladies to retire. The gentlemen rose to their feet, chairs scraping hoarsely across the floor. Sophia followed, determined not to look in Mr. Hope's direction lest he deliver the knockout blow.

Too late.

She met his eyes, which flicked for a moment to her lips before settling on her own. Sophia sensed the energy coiling inside him. He was struggling not to reach out, pull her to him, finish what he'd started in the room where Mars and Venus lay.

Head swimming, Sophia abruptly turned, catching her hip on the edge of the table. A beautiful cut-glass pitcher of lemonade—full, because no one had touched it—tumbled off the table and landed with a terrific clatter on the floor.

“Oh dear.” Sophia's hand went to her throat. “I'm terribly sorry, Lord Harclay, I don't know what happened—how terribly embarrassing—”

Harclay waved away her words. “Think nothing of it, my dear.”

Face burning, Sophia made for the door, followed by her mother.

“No more wine for you!” Lady Blaise hissed.

Violet swooped to the rescue, looping her arm through Sophia's as they scurried through the gallery. “We're all foxed, no shame in admitting it.”

Sophia managed to smile in thanks, her thoughts a riot as Lady Caroline led them to a drawing room done up in bottle green velvet. She took a deep breath, trying with all her might to think of anything,
anything
but Mr. Hope, his blue eyes, the desire that simmered between their bodies.

It would not do; no, it would not do at
all
. If Sophia wanted to make it out of Lord Harclay's house alive, she would have to focus her attention on something else.

Like the marquess.

Yes. Yes, Lord Withington would do. They had arranged to meet up in his box at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, and Cousin Violet caught wind the marquess spoke of nothing but their port tasting.

Port
. That bottle she and Hope had shared beneath Venus's benevolent gaze, the sweetness of his lips as they'd plundered her own. Had it really been only a week since he'd kissed her? It felt like an eternity. No, longer than that . . .

Sophia jumped at the pinch on her arm, turning to see her mother glowering at her side.

She swallowed for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

And knew that whatever trouble she'd already caused tonight, there would be more of it.

Much, much more.

H
aving lit his cigar, Hope waved the match between his thumb and forefinger and took a long pull. Smoke whirled over his head, the earthy reek of tobacco filling Lord Harclay's dining room.

“So.” The earl's eyes glittered through the haze. “Lady Violet tells me you've made progress in your search for the diamond.”

Hope exchanged a glance with Mr. Lake, who sat brooding at the far corner of the table, his face obscured by smoke. What in hell was wrong with
him
? He hadn't been himself all evening.

No matter. Hope had bigger problems, one of which was sitting just to his right, chomping merrily on his cigar.

Man had a set of stones on him, Hope would give him that. The earl, he knew, was baiting him, testing Hope's limits. It was all part of his deception, a deception that, judging from the smug look on his face, he was enjoying immensely.

Hope gulped what little brandy was left in his balloon and flopped further into his chair, running a hand through his hair so that it hung haphazardly across his face.

Two could play this game.

“Great progress, yes.” Hope pulled on his cigar. “Lady Violet has proven quite wily, though I cannot say I condone her methods. Alas, I think you'll agree”—he winked—“ladies often have the upper hand in these sorts of . . . What shall we call them?
Situations
.”

Hope bit back his smile as Lord Harclay's face darkened. The earl took one, two long pulls on his cigar, narrowing his eyes against the column of smoke that rose from his lips.

“Now now, Mr. Hope. I agree we must give credit where credit is due. But we must also acknowledge the fact that Lady Violet could run circles around any of us, even on the best of days. She is”—he paused, a small, secret smile unfurling across his lips—“most unusual and invigorating company.”

Ah. So Hope's suspicion that Violet was—er,
fraternizing
, to put it kindly—with the enemy proved true. While she was indeed more intelligent, and more daring, than most anyone he'd known, could Hope trust her to choose the diamond and their livelihoods over her affection, whatever its nature, for the Earl of Harclay?

Hope brought his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and examined it, smoke curling languidly into the air. “Make no mistake, my lord, I'll find the French Blue—and our thief. And when I do, I have no doubt he'll be very,
very
sorry he ever crossed me.”

Lord Harclay's lips twitched, but he had the grace not to scoff. “My offer of aid stands, Hope. The news bodes ill for my fortunes as it does for yours. I've men and money at my disposal. You need only ask.”

“We've men and money of our own.” Lake pounded his cigar into the ashtray, making what was left of the silver and the crystal jump on the table. “Besides. I rather enjoy the hunt. Not as much as I enjoy the kill, of course. The kill is my true skill.”

Hope grinned tightly. Whatever was wrong with Lake, he was going to get to the bottom of it. “Let us hope more so than your poetry, Mr. Lake.”

“Ah! My poetry.” Lake smiled at him from across the table, a mirthless thing. “
That
I learned from you, old friend.”

Hope tugged a hand through his hair to keep from reaching for Lake's neck.

The earl, eyes glittering with triumph, put out his cigar and stood. “Let's join the ladies, shall we? My new billiards table has just arrived. It's proven quite amusing; even Caroline likes to play. Perhaps we might teach Lady Violet and Miss Blaise? If Miss Blaise is anything alike to Violet, I daresay it shall make for great sport.”

Hope tensed at the sound of Sophia's name on Lord Harclay's lips. While the earl did not insult her—his words were, Hope knew, meant as a compliment—Hope was overwhelmed by the fierce urge to protect her. Possess her, even; Hope longed for nothing more than to take the earl by the throat and tell him in no uncertain terms that Sophia was his, damn it, and that a thieving prick like him had no right to even think her name, much less speak it.

Biting the inside of his lip, Hope took a deep breath through his nose.
Tread lightly. Harclay is your largest depositor. Think of the bank, all you've dreamed and accomplished in its name.

“Let's do.” Hope set down his cigar and rose. “I've yet to see one of these new-fashioned tables. Is it still lined with felt? And the pockets, I've heard they're all the rage now.”

Lake slid to his feet with the speed and grace of a tiger on the prowl—had he always moved like this, like a healthy man, a whole man not crippled by injury?—and together with Hope followed the earl out of the room, Hope all the while resisting the urge to slip the pocketknife from his waistcoat and sink it between Harclay's proud, well-formed shoulders.

The earl's billiards room was as tastefully appointed as the rest of his home. Nearly as long and wide as a town coach, the billiards table occupied the majority of the space, while an equally enormous brandy board took up the rest.

Across the room, Lady Violet was arm in arm with Harclay's windswept sister, Lady Caroline, their heads bent in deep conversation. As soon as he entered, Violet halted midstride and met his eyes. He replied with a quick, grim shake of his head.

Nothing. The earl revealed nothing.

Though that didn't mean Hope absolved Harclay of all guilt. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact: Harclay's assiduous hospitality, his offer of aid, and his fawning over the ladies present were suspicious for a selfish man such as he. In all their years as banker and client, the earl had never extended Hope an invitation to his home in Hanover Square. Until now, of course.

Hope had yet to untangle the intricacies of Lord Harclay's plot; but a plot there certainly was, Hope had no doubt. He merely needed proof, and then he would be free to make his move.

Violet nodded, slipping her arm from Lady Caroline's and making to walk toward him, when the earl stopped her in her tracks. He murmured something in her ear; she flushed pink.

Dear God. If Hope didn't know any better, he would say they were well acquainted indeed. Perhaps even more than that.

He resisted the urge to separate them, to warn Lady Violet off lest the earl do her irreparable harm. But if anyone could snare Harclay at his own game, it was Violet; she was smart and witty and could hold her liquor better than any man this side of the Channel.

Besides, Hope knew the lady would take offense at the intrusion. Violet wanted to prove she was capable of remedying the mess she believed she'd caused. And while Hope knew she was not guilty in the slightest, she
did
stand to lose everything on the outcome of their hunt for the jewel. Who was Hope to question her methods, or dictate instruction? He would have to trust her, whether or not he understood what in
hell
she was doing.

He balled his fingers into fists.

Tread lightly.

He turned, his pulse leaping at the knowledge that she would be there.
She
. The one he'd wanted to claim. Still wanted.

The one for whom he'd nearly thrown it all away.

Sophia sat on a far settee, color high as her mother sat purse-lipped beside her. Lady Blaise had two eyes and a brain; doubtless she'd witnessed Hope's interlude with Sophia in the drawing room earlier, their shameless ogling of one another. And doubtless she was displeased. For what lady in her right mind wanted a man like Hope—tradesman, orphan, foreigner—for her only daughter?

He felt her disappointment as his own. He knew it; Lady Blaise did, too: Sophia deserved better.

And yet he couldn't stay away from her.

In the golden light of the candelabra, Sophia looked lovely. Her lips were stained plum from French wine; the long strands of pearls at her neck gleamed a shade paler than her cheeks. Her eyes, wide and wet, reflected the fire's flame. When she turned them to him, his blood rushed with heat.

“Ladies.” He nodded his head in greeting. “I hope I did not bore you overmuch with my company at dinner.”

Sophia grinned. “No more than usual, Mr. Hope. Oh, look, Violet and Lord Harclay are pairing up for a go at this billiards nonsense. Shall we join them?”

Without waiting for a response she held out her hand. He took it, ignoring Lady Blaise's bland smile of dismay, and tucked her arm into the crook of his own.

Alone, at last! If they weren't in polite company he would've danced a jig. Hope was not prepared for the force of his happiness at having Sophia by his side; he'd missed her more than was proper or good. Much more, indeed, than he cared to admit.

He had told himself to keep his distance. It would not do to further embroil her in the worsening crises that now dominated his every waking hour. While the matter of the jewel thief was being resolved, that of Sophia's mysterious note and the bastard who threatened her and her family was not.

Still. To draw her to him was akin to the beating of his heart: an impulse, an inexplicable necessity over which he had no control.

There were four, maybe five steps from the settee to the billiards table. Hope had no time to waste.

“Sophia.” God, what to say to her? There was so much, he felt about to burst. “I. Er. I want you to know that just because I haven't—haven't been in contact doesn't mean I don't think of you. Often.”
All the time
.

He watched the working of her throat. “That is kind of you to say, Thomas. And how goes the hunt for the French Blue?”

“Fine. Awful. I don't want to talk about that bloody diamond anymore. Not when I'm with you.”

Sophia turned to him, bottom lip between her teeth. “So what
do
you want to talk about?”

Hope swallowed. Truth be told, what he wanted had nothing at all to do with talking.

He lowered his voice. “What I'm doing—I do to protect you, Sophia. Every time I enter your life I make a mess of things. If I'm not careful I could very well ruin that brilliant match you've always wanted. I hear”—he swallowed again—“your courtship with the Marquess of Withington progresses apace.”

Her eyes snapped to meet his. “Where did you hear that?”

“I am banker to the most prominent arbiters of the fashionable world, Sophia. That you have captured the attention of this season's most eligible bachelor has not gone unnoticed. I daresay you've sent every debutante and her mama into fits of rage and jealousy. The marquess is no small prize—as his banker, I would know.”

Sophia drew to a stop, pulling Hope to her side. She looked at him, eyes narrowing as if she fought back tears. She opened her mouth, but thought better of it; quickly she looked away and resumed their stroll.

“Any word from La Reinette?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Whomever is after me tightens the noose; there was a short but direct attack printed in the gossip pages a few days ago. It's only a matter of time before he reveals that I am the author of a courtesan's salacious memoirs.”

Hope's grip on Sophia tightened. “I'll get to the bottom of this, Sophia, you have my word. If you should come to any harm on my account—” He looked at her. “I won't let them touch you.”

She returned his gaze levelly. “Then let me help you. We can smoke these men out together, you and I—”

Sophia jumped at a sudden, deafening
thud
. Hope turned just in time to see Lady Caroline, cue poised above the billiards table, launch a cue ball smack-dab into the middle of Lady Blaise's forehead. With a strangled cry, Lady Blaise toppled over on the settee; her arms flailed as she landed none too gently on the floor, and was inundated in the foaming lace of her petticoats.

It all happened so quickly Hope could hardly keep pace. The earl, that son of a bitch, was at Lady Blaise's side in an instant, cradling her head in his hands as he cooed soothing words.

“Bring water,” he called to the footmen, “and smelling salts. Lots of smelling salts!”

Across the room, Hope met Mr. Lake's gaze. Was Harclay's sudden tenderness all part of the act? Over brandy and cigars the man was rotten, callous, vainglorious in the extreme. And yet here he was, gently whispering sweet nothings into a wounded old woman's ear.

The man was a paradox.

Sophia, her attempts to help having been shooed away by the gentleman, watched the proceedings in mute horror, letting out a small sigh of relief only when the earl helped Lady Blaise to sit upright. Her gaze landed on Hope and Sophia, still arm in arm before her. While her eyes rolled a bit in her head, her mouth settled into a tight, colorless line.

Waving away Harclay's offer of a bed and rest, she allowed him to haul her to her feet. “That is most kind of you, Lord Harclay, most kind indeed, but I would hate to put you out. No, I believe I'll be quite all right, if you'll just help me to my carriage. Come, Sophia, it's time to leave.”

Hope reached out to help one second too late. As if he were King Arthur and she the Lady Guinevere, Harclay swooped Lady Blaise into his arms and without so much as a grunt carried her from the room.