The Millionaire Rogue (5 page)

At last the sound of their pursuer's horse grew distant, and then disappeared altogether. She dared sit straight, her person once again in the line of fire, only when the carriage drew to a halt.

Hope let out a long, hot sigh. Sophia, however, was too shaken to feel any sense of relief. Or, perhaps, too enthralled.

She looked out the broken window and started, a now-familiar panic tingling to life in her chest.

“Where are we?” Her voice was tight. “We haven't left London, have we?”

Mr. Hope stuck his head out the broken window and considered their surroundings. The night was ravenous here, swallowing everything in its path. New grass and open space filled the air. It was damp; the rain would come any minute now.

“Well. I cannot be sure. But I've never known London to smell like
this
.” Mr. Hope ducked back into the carriage, his smile fading as his eyes fell on her face. “You needn't worry, Miss Blaise, I'll have you back—”

The carriage door swung open, revealing a tall, sinister shadow with pale hair that gleamed blue in the faint light of the clouds above. Sophia jumped, nearly landing in Mr. Hope's lap.

“Terrifying, I know,” Hope said.

“Terrifyingly handsome, you mean,” the shadow said. He raised a lantern, illuminating his face, one side of his mouth kicked up in a devilish smirk. Sophia practically clawed Mr. Hope at the sight of the black patch covering one of the man's eyes, the sinister intent glittering in the other.

Dear God, pirates really
did
exist, despite her mother's assurances to the contrary!

“I thought you said you didn't like women,” the shadow said, his eyes—his one eye—never leaving Sophia.

She leaned further into the solid warmth of Hope's chest. It was obvious this man was no coachman.

Mr. Hope tucked back the curls from his forehead and sighed. “I said that I
avoided
women, not that I didn't
like
them. Besides, it isn't what you think.”

“Who is she? One of La Reinette's girls?”

“No,” Hope replied. He rose to his feet and pushed the shadow from the threshold. Leaping to the ground, Mr. Hope turned and held up his hands.

“Who is she?” the shadow asked again.

Hope put his hands to Sophia's ribs, grazing the underside of her breasts with his thumbs.

She couldn't help it. She had to sigh as he lifted her to the ground. In the dark his hands lingered on her body a beat longer than was necessary.

Her heart hiccupped in her chest.

Too soon, he pulled away.

“I'm not above leaving her here if you don't tell me who she is.”

Mr. Hope looked from Sophia to Lake and back again. He ran a hand through the tangle of his curls and sighed.

“If I vouch for each of you,” he said, “might I make the introduction? You've my word as a banker and a friend, anything that happens this night shall remain between the three of us.”

The shadow harrumphed. “Your word as a banker? Best run for the hills, then.”

Sophia swallowed. He was even more enormous up close. His neck appeared to be as big around as her leg.

She glanced at her surroundings. They were stopped on the edge of a poorly tended road, a copse of trees to their left, a fallow field to their right. She hadn't a clue where they were, or why, or if the Frenchman would return to slit their throats.

Sophia looked back to the shadow. She risked everything by revealing herself to him. But she risked even more doing nothing.

There was something dangerous about this man. A character straight out of La Reinette's tales, he stank of intrigue and adventure. She had no doubt she would experience both in spades if she followed him, and Mr. Hope, into the night.

Dropping into a curtsy, she bowed her head and spoke before Hope could stop her. “Sophia Blaise. I am your servant.”

To her surprise the shadow sketched an elegant bow. Just low enough, no groveling for him; he was, she realized, a gentleman.

“Well now, that wasn't so difficult! I am Henry Beaton Lake. Tell me, Miss Blaise, since we are on the subject of service; how do you feel about aiding in the fight against those nasty libertines the French? King and country, my dear. Tonight they require your aid.”

Severed from rational thought, the word escaped her lips in a rush. “Yes.”

“No,” Hope said. “You'll not involve her in this.”

Mr. Lake shrugged. “She's here. Nothing we can do about that now—begging your pardon, Miss Blaise. Indeed, I do believe this is a most happy surprise, for as I have looked upon your most lovely face, I've been struck by a novel idea. But first you must swear upon your very life that you shall tell no one what we share with you this night. I do so hate killing those who betray our cause.” He held aloft the lantern, its yellow light illuminating his wolfish grin.

M
ontague House was a pile of soot-blackened stones and tiny, squinting windows that lent it the appearance of an elderly fellow suffering a bout of digestive distress.

Appropriate, thought Hope, for the residence of Her Majesty the Princess of Wales.

Together with Miss Blaise he ascended the shallow front steps, her arm tucked snugly into the crook of his own. She held her shoulders square, but by the way she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, he could tell she was nervous.

Oh, that
lip
. A just-bitten shade of pink, swollen from her ministrations. For a heartbeat he imagined himself finishing the job, taking the top lip and working it between his own.

Miss Blaise looked at him from the corner of her eye and caught him staring. He snapped his eyes to Montague House's front door, painted a garish shade of red, and felt himself flush the same color.

“Keep calm.” He spoke as much to himself as he did to her. “And as I told you before, Miss Blaise, it is best not to stare.”

She arched a brow. “‘Miss Blaise'? If I am to play your betrothed, shouldn't you call me Sophia?”

The heat in his cheeks burned hotter. He cleared his throat and gave his cravat a ruthless tug. “Of course. Sophia.”

“Of course. Thomas.” Her grin was impish, her gold eyes dancing. He blinked. Hope had never seen her like this; during his visits to her family, Sophia always played the proper, if somewhat bland, young lady. But now he saw that mischief suited her. Hell, the girl had attempted to shoot a man not an hour ago. Though the attempt was unsuccessful, Sophia appeared all the more alive and eager for having done it.

Sophia
.
Thomas
. The sound of his given name on her lips. He hadn't been called Thomas in years, not since he left his family and fortune behind in Amsterdam.

And now here he was, risking all he'd earned back with a lie on his tongue and a damnably alluring debutante at his side.

There were no two ways about it. He was mad.

Together with Sophia, Hope mounted the top step and raised his hand, knocking soundly on the door. He stepped back and waited in breathless silence, the muffled sounds of the house loud in his ears. Music, laughter, the strangled barking of small dogs.

Hope swallowed his surprise when a handsomely middle-aged man opened the door and bowed them inside. The butler was exceedingly normal, charming even, for a member of Princess Caroline's entourage.

“You are just in time.” The butler took Sophia's cloak, and held out a hand for Hope's hat and coat. “Her Majesty is expecting you.”

He led them up a short, squat stair to a wide gallery decorated in the Prussian style. Heavy dark moldings enclosed the space, and enormous paintings and banners hung from the walls in an excessive and self-conscious proclamation of Princess Caroline's exalted lineage.

The music and laughter grew louder and reached a crescendo when the butler paused outside a low, wide doorway, and motioned them inside.

Sophia glanced up at Hope. He nodded and let go of her arm, trailing his hand down her side to rest on the small of her back. He felt her spine harden as she took a deep breath, the butler's voice clear and proud as he announced their presence.

Hope followed her into the small chamber, a tower room with curving walls and a tall beamed ceiling that rose to a fine point high above their heads. Sophia fell into a deep curtsy as he sketched his finest bow. They rose, and he heard Sophia's sharp intake of breath as her eyes fell upon the scene before them.

A pair of nubile young men, eyes narrowed to slits with drink, were laid out upon a sofa. Hope could tell they were Bavarians by their frilly dress and long, unkempt hair. They said nothing, but peered at Hope with a hostile glitter in their eyes, mouths agape as if waiting for an open pour of wine.

Sophia stood very still beside him. She was trying—and failing—not to stare at the figure seated across the room.

Her Majesty the Princess of Wales rose behind a gilded harpsichord, a passel of spaniels at her feet. Hope didn't know where to look first—the painted eyebrows, arching tragically over her tiny black eyes? The grotesquely huge bosom, bursting from a satin gown that Caroline's meaty girth seemed to be swallowing from the inside out? Or the enormous pearl earbobs dangling from her ears, an unfashionable foil to the fist-sized emerald slung from a diamond chain about her neck?

Definitely the eyebrows, Hope decided. They were painted black and far too thick for the princess's round, ruddy face.

“Your Majesty.” Hope cocked his lips into a smile. “You look ravishing, as always.”

A grin broke out on Caroline's face, the wrinkles about her eyes deepening with genuine pleasure. She smoothed the bodice of her gown with a wide, fat hand. “I am glad you have come to visit, Mr. Hope. So few friends I have now in London, and the gossip.” She sighed, looking away. “It is worse than ever. Please, do sit.”

Mr. Hope and Sophia sat on a settee across from the reclining Bavarians. One of them had fallen asleep, his head thrown back over the sofa's edge, and was snoring softly. The princess lifted a dog into the crook of her arm, cooing to it, and took a seat in a chair beside Mr. Hope with a frown.

“There, on your face.” She peered at the cut, dry now, that made his whole cheek sting. “Whatever happened?”

Hope resisted the urge to bring his fingers to his face. “An unfortunate run-in with. Ah. A fork?”

Caroline wrinkled her nose. “A fork?”

“Yes.” Hope swallowed. “A fork.”

“Indeed.” Caroline leaned forward, the chair gasping beneath its burden, to get a closer look at Sophia. “And who is this? A pretty one.”

Hope cleared his throat and glanced at Sophia. “I've some news, Majesty. Though I haven't a clue what I did to deserve her, this lovely woman has agreed to be my wife. Miss Sophia Blaise and I shall be married come June.”

Princess Caroline gasped. The dog dropped from her arm with a dissatisfied
yap
, and the princess clapped together her hands in a show of childlike joy. “Oh, lovers, let them love! How marvelous! Miss Blaise, you have my sincerest congratulations. Mr. Hope shall prove a wonderful husband.” She sighed. “There must be no greater happiness in life than making a love match.”

Sophia smiled, warmth radiating from her features. “He is very kind, and decently handsome.”

“Decently?” Hope turned his head to look at Sophia. “Not terribly? Wholly? Drop-dead?”

The little minx shrugged her shoulders. “Decently should do, don't you think, Majesty?”

Caroline tittered in a fit of giggles. “Look at the two of you, squabbling like children in the nursery. It tickles my poor old heart.” She glanced down at Sophia's hands, clasped neatly in her lap. “But you have no ring! Of all men, Mr. Hope,
you
should know better than to wed without a diamond! My jewels may be the only companions I have left in this world—aside from Gunter and Frederick there, of course—but they have never disappointed me. Nor has their beauty faded to fat, like a certain gentleman of our mutual acquaintance.”

Sophia coughed, covering her mouth with a fist to hide the smile that rose unbidden to her lips. Watching her smother her laughter made Hope want to burst with his own.

He cleared his throat. Hope moved to cover Sophia's hands with one of his in her lap. He felt her start beneath his touch but just as quickly warm to him as her laughter faded.

“That is why we have called upon you,” Hope said. “You see, Majesty, I was struck very low by Cupid's arrow the moment I laid eyes upon Miss Blaise.”

“Love at first sight.” Princess Caroline closed her eyes and, clutching a hand to her ample chest, sucked a loud breath through her nose. “Oh, it slays me, this love! I didn't think you capable of such romance, Mr. Hope, what with the bad numbers and worse news you usually bring me.”

“I wasn't. Not until I met Miss Blaise. I loved her from the moment we met, and set out to find the most perfect, most flawless gem, for only such a stone would be worthy of her beauty.”

Understanding unfurled across Princess Caroline's features. She grinned. “You have not yet found such a stone. And so you come to me.” She fingered the emerald at her neck, and batted her eyes. “Tell me what you are looking for.”

Hope settled back into the settee. For a moment he contemplated stretching out his arms and legs in a yawning show of nonchalance, but decided against it. Not only did it smack of melodrama, even in the midst of one of Lake's schemes, it would make an even bigger fool of the princess. She was strange, certainly, but kind, and her happiness for Hope and Sophia's pretend engagement was touching. He hated the idea of pulling the wool over her eyes, especially on behalf of that fat gentleman of their mutual acquaintance—the prince regent.

And so he decided on the second best option: candor.

“The French Blue,” Hope said, meeting the princess's dark eyes. “I dare not presume you are in possession of that infamous jewel, but if you are, I've twenty thousand pounds in my pocket I'd give you in exchange for that diamond.”

He reached into his jacket for said pocket and produced a fresh, if slightly wrinkled, note. He placed it on the marble-topped side table between himself and Princess Caroline.

Silence clouded the chamber as the Princess of Wales surveyed the note. Her expression was inscrutable. Hope's heart began to pound, and the room suddenly felt scorching, airless. He glanced at Sophia. She was playing with her lip again, damn her, and now the room felt
unbearably
hot, sweat breaking out under his collar and along his temples.

He squeezed her hand in his own and the lip popped free of her teeth. She glanced at him, eyes widening as they fell upon his stricken face, then turned her attention to Princess Caroline.

“I told Thomas that he needn't gift me a diamond, for his affection and attentions—” Sophia stopped as her voice tightened. He watched in fascination as she closed her eyes and cleared her throat. “Well. They have been gift enough, your Majesty.”

Sophia then proceeded to burst into sobs.

Hope froze.

What in hell
? Either he'd done something to offend Sophia, or she was a
much
better actress than she was a shot.

“Oh, my dear, dear girl.” Princess Caroline hurried to Sophia's side and nestled her head into her rather epic bosom. “There there, there there. Ah,
el amor
, it is bittersweet, no? But the lovers. We must let them love!”

She released Sophia with a kindly pat on the cheek. “Stay right here, my dear, and I shall return straightaway. No more tears, only happiness!”

The princess swept out of the room in a flash of pearlescent satin and sour perfume, the dogs' nails tinkling as they followed her out. Hope stared at Sophia, unsure what, exactly, he should do next.

Across from them on the sofa, either Gunter or Frederick snorted in his sleep, while the other drooled on a fine tasseled pillow. Whoever these men were—Caroline's lovers, her cousins, the dukes of Bavaria—they were not very good company.

Hope turned to Sophia, who was sniffling beside him. He offered her his handkerchief. “Are you all right?”

She took the handkerchief but did not use it, and instead picked at it with the fingers of one hand while she held it in the other. “Yes. Quite all right. It was your story of Cupid's arrow that got me. Laid
very
low, indeed.”

And then they were laughing, their heads bent together as they tried to suppress the sounds of their mirth. If he'd realized how ridiculous he'd sounded, Hope would never have said the words; but then again he and Miss Blaise wouldn't be laughing just now, hard, over the shared joke.

Just as
real
lovers would do.

Lovers, let them love. It did have a nice ring to it.

As Hope and Sophia were gasping for air, Princess Caroline returned, the posse of tinkling dogs at her ankles.

Her face was grave. In her portly hands she grasped a large, exquisitely carved lacquered box, black with looping curls set in silver.

Hope's heart turned over in his chest as a pulse of excitement shot through him.

The French Blue. After all this time, his misadventures, and the implausible, sometimes tragic, history of which Hope had been a part—after all that, was he at last to lay eyes upon the jewel that had fascinated first his father, then him, for years? And in the Princess of Wales's close, puce-colored drawing room, no less!

Caroline settled into her chair and unclasped the box's tiny gilt lock. With bated breath, Hope watched as she opened the lid and held out the box for Sophia and Hope to see.

“My God,” he heard Sophia murmur as they straightened in unison to get a better look.

The box was lined in finest white velvet, so fine and silken as to appear pearlescent in the molten light of the room. Against this background the diamond glittered very clear and blue, a transparent color that reminded Hope of the open-air pools in the sultan's palace in Constantinople, gleaming beneath a wide, hot sun.