The Rogue and the Rival (23 page)

Authors: Maya Rodale

BOOK: The Rogue and the Rival

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“Are you going to say anything?” she asked.

He looked into her clear blue eyes and saw his future, his best chance at happiness; he saw her love for him and his own love for her.

“Marry me, Angela.”

Her lips parted softly in what he guessed was surprise. That, he supposed, was fair. What was certainly not fair was that she had suddenly become speechless, leaving him standing there, with a marriage proposal unanswered.

“Are you going to answer?” he prompted her, because he was starting to get nervous now. His heart was thudding heavily and quickly.

“
Ask
me,” she said with a hint of a smile at her lips.

Right. Asking, not commanding. Not very well done of him. Even
he
knew the proper way to issue a marriage proposal. And though dropping to one knee was incredibly painful after his injury, he did it anyway. Phillip took her hand in his and looked into her eyes again.

“Angela, will you please marry me?”

“Yes,” she said with a laugh and a smile. “Yes.”

He stood quickly and took her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. He hadn’t realized they had an audience until the shouts and calls of the other workers intruded. He had just compromised them both. Did it even count as a compromising position if it was after a proposal? For all his experience in the realm of being caught in compromising positions, he did not know the answer. But that didn’t matter, because he was going to be with Angela forever.

And for the first time in the longest while, Phillip felt happy. Content. Proud. For once he had done something right.

“Well done, man!” William said, patting him on the back.

“Congratulations,” Johnnie said.

“Thanks.”

“Now I know why you weren’t too keen on our advice about the local girls. Understandable,” Johnnie added.

Phillip grinned and shrugged, which was as much confirmation as he would give them. The boys seemed to understand and went back to work, while continuing the argument they had been having all day, something about who had downed more tankards of ale the other night. Phillip didn’t listen, so distracted by one thought: he was getting married. And oddly enough, he was excited about it.

Phillip was measuring and sawing planks of wood when he had the feeling of being watched again. He looked around, expecting to see Angela, but she was nowhere to be found. Probably still with the abbess, telling her the news.

Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw two men he didn’t recognize. They weren’t working but hanging around in the thicket, sharing a cigar. They looked like rather unsavory people, even from a distance. Certainly they could have no business with the abbey or anyone in it.

“Who are they?” Phillip asked William, nodding in the direction of the two men.

“Friends of yours, aren’t they? That’s what they said.”

“I don’t believe I am acquainted with them,” Phillip said, although the sickening feeling in his stomach suggested that he was. Still, he did not know how.

“Oh, the one on the left is Pierre, and on the right is François. French blokes, they are. Not as forthcoming about the Parisian ladies as you were. Surly fellows, actually.”

“Seem like it. How do you know them?” Phillip inquired.

“They’ve been staying at the tavern for a few weeks now. Said they were friends of yours and that they were waiting till you got better, since they said the three of you were returning to France. I reckon that might have changed, now that you’re getting married. Or are you taking Angela to France with you?”

Phillip didn’t answer at first. His brain was arriving at a very unwanted conclusion. He knew exactly who they were and, unfortunately, he was indeed acquainted with them.

“Angela and I are not going to France.” He wasn’t going without her, either. He caught the eye of the one William said was Pierre. There was no going back now. And so Phillip walked over to them.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Phillip,” Pierre said with a revolting smirk that revealed the loss of more than one tooth. They pronounced his name the French way,
Fee-leep
. He did not correct him.

“I can’t imagine why. You took all my money—all that I owed. And left me for dead. I should think we are even,” Phillip said firmly.

“But you did not uphold your end of the bargain. For one thing, you are not dead,” Pierre said. He was a short, stocky man with a full beard. A hat jammed onto his head hid his eyes.

“Easily remedied,” the other one, François, added. He pounded his fist into his palm. A very big, fat fist, which belonged to a very big, fat man. He was easily twice the size of his companion . . . and Phillip, too.

“But first, you still owe us money,” Pierre insisted, pushing his hat farther back on his head, revealing his eyes. They were bloodshot.

“No, I do not.”

“But you do. We took your purse, and counted it—”

“Twice,” François growled.

“And found it one thousand seventy-four pounds short,” Pierre finished.

“How the hell do you figure that?” Phillip challenged. The seventy-four pounds, he knew, could be accounted for by his travel expenses back to England. He could make that up. But a thousand pounds? Impossible. And he knew he had won exactly as much as he had borrowed, and they surely had taken that.

“Interest, monsieur,” François growled.

“Interest. I don’t recall that being part of the deal I made with DeRue.” Granted, Phillip couldn’t remember much of the encounter. He had been drinking and needed funds to enter a high-stakes game of vingt-et-un at a gaming hall and brothel. Then he had requested another few thousand for wagering. Claude DeRue’s offices were conveniently located in an alley a block away.

“Here is a copy. All the way from France. Maybe this time you’ll notice the fine print at the bottom,” Pierre said haughtily. He stroked his beard, and Phillip noticed bits of food stuck in it. Disgusted, he looked away and took the document offered to him.

For the one thing, the writing was in French. The words he knew in French were the kind used in the bedroom. Not in the dark, dank den of a moneylender in a seedier neighborhood. That was all irrelevant, because even if it had been in English, or even if he had been fluent in French, Phillip would not have taken the time to read it.

That sickening feeling in his gut increased. He gritted his teeth and ignored it, instead squinting at the minuscule script at the bottom of the page. He could understand a few words:
argent
,
empruntez
,
dix pour cent
, and
la peine capitale
.

“You’re out of luck, gentlemen. I haven’t a halfpence to my name,” Phillip said, pocketing the sheet. He didn’t think for a second that they would believe or even accept that, but he said it anyway.

They spoke rapidly in French to each other.

“
Bon.
OK,” François growled again. It sounded like he had gravel stuck in his throat.

“Great. Glad we settled that.”

“We’re open to negotiation,” Pierre said, stroking his beard again.

“I told you, I haven’t got anything,” Phillip insisted.

“The
belle fille
. . .” Pierre started, and Phillip actually gagged, the thought sickened him so much.
No. No. No.

“She could be worth a thousand pounds on the right market,
bien sûr
,” Pierre finished thoughtfully. What a sick, vile, disgusting specimen of a human. Phillip’s hands balled into fists, and he only managed to keep them to himself because it vaguely occurred to him that throwing a punch would not keep her safe.

“Absolutely not,” Phillip said so firmly, so quickly that even François looked interested by his vehement reaction.

“But you say you have not a single halfpence. And we are not going back to DeRue empty-handed.” Phillip then saw the fear in Pierre’s eyes. DeRue would make these two revolting creatures pay, probably with their lives or some limbs, if they returned without all the money.

Phillip would have just as soon sent them back to their fate, if he could have managed it. But he knew that their fear was fueling their determination. They were just as determined to get the money as Phillip was to keep Angela safe.

“I can get the money,” Phillip said. He would have to ask to borrow it from his brother, though that thought, too, made his stomach burn. As did the knowledge that Devon most likely wouldn’t give it to him. But that burn was not as bad as the thought of what they might do to Angela.

His past certainly was catching up with him and colliding with his future. It was only now that Angela’s life was in danger, and thus his future happiness, that Phillip began to sorely regret every moment of his life until he had entered the abbey. Why did he have to borrow money from Claude DeRue? And for a stupid game of cards that he couldn’t even remember playing? And why had he been so horrible to his brother? He had never thought that it would come to this.

“Ah, much better. Money is far easier to transport than an unwilling woman.”

“When can you get it?” François demanded.

“A week,” Phillip answered. It would take him a day or two to get to Cliveden. It would allow for some time if his brother was not at the country house but in London. And if Devon refused, Phillip would still have time to gather the funds. Surely he had some friends left in London who would help him pay. If they weren’t broke themselves.

Hell and damnation.

“So where are we going to get this money?” Pierre queried.

“
We
are not—” Phillip started, and then caught himself. If these vomitous thugs traveled with him, they would be traveling away from Angela. He could endure their company if it meant keeping her safe. “We are going to call on my brother, the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Bon. Allons-y.”

“Let’s go,” Pierre translated.

“Now?”

“The longer we take to return to Claude, the angrier he gets,” Pierre said gravely.

“I just need to speak with someone. That bloke, right there,” Phillip said, pointing to William, who was watching them. “And then I’ll go with you, all right?”

“You think we are fools? Imbeciles?”

Phillip elected not to respond to that.

“You think we will let you give a message to the authorities or have help sent for you? No, you will speak to no one.”

“Except for your brother, the duke.”

“Aye, him you talk to. Beg if you have to,” François said with a revolting, toothless grin.

“I promise I will not give word to alert the authorities. I promise that I will beg for the money if I must. I promise that you will get your funds. I just need to speak to someone first. I only want to relay that I will be coming back.”

“Pfff. Who says you will return?” François said, pushing his jacket aside to reveal the butt of a pistol stuck in his waistband.

“Have you no mercy?” Phillip asked.

“You spent too much time in the abbey if you think that our kind has mercy for anyone.”

Phillip looked over to William and Johnnie, debating if he should make a run for it. But Pierre was smarter than he looked.

“One step, one word, and I’ll kill you and take the girl,” Pierre said in warning.

With one last look at the abbey and a prayer that Angela would wait for him, Phillip turned and walked away with Pierre and François.

“I’m getting married.”

Angela told the abbess first. And then she told Penelope, who squealed with excitement and gave her a crushing hug. Helena was quiet for a long moment when Angela told her, and then she slowly nodded her head, smiled, and said, “Good for you,” and gave Angela a hug. Angela was not sure if Helena was truly happy for her, but it didn’t matter, because at least their argument had been quietly put aside.

And then Angela repeated, “I’m getting married,” over and over to herself. She hummed as she walked around the abbey. She whistled as she helped prepare for dinner. Suppertime was approaching, when Johnnie and William Sloan stopped into the kitchen to say good-bye for the day.

“How did it go?” she asked. “Have you finished yet?” she teased.

“Not quite, but we’ve made some progress.”

“Not such a thrilling day for us as for you. Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you. Will Phillip be coming in soon?”

“Dunno.” The brothers exchanged awkward glances that Angela noticed but didn’t bother to wonder about.

“I’ll walk out with you then. I want to see him and make sure he doesn’t work too hard. He’s still not perfectly well, although he insists he is.”

“Uh . . . well, he, um . . .” Johnnie stuttered.

“He left,” William said softly with a pained expression.