The Rogue
Authors: Arpan B
Liar's
Club Five
Celeste
Bradley
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Epilogue
ROGUE
Copyright
© 2005 by Celeste Bradley.
All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For
information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,
NY 10010.
ISBN:
0-312-93115-8
EAN:
9780312-93115-5
Printed
in the United States of America
St.
Martin's Paperbacks edition / June 2005
St.
Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
This
book is dedicated to the first person who read
the
first words I wrote… and then asked for more.
Thank
you, Joanne.
I
would like to acknowledge all those who keep reading and reading and
reading… Keep reading!
As
always, my thanks to my friends and family, my editor and agent, and
my darling Bill. You make it work.
It
was time to come to a decision about the gambler.
The
man in the darkened room slouched in a chair placed before the
glowing coals in his hearth. His feet were up on a stool, his eyes
were closed, and he gave every appearance of relaxation. However, if
one were privileged to see the workings of his mind the view would be
a busy one indeed.
The
gambler…
The
gambler could be useful—and, indeed, had already been so. The
gambler could also be a handicap if the fellow's weaknesses overcame
him. He knew a great deal. It could be dangerous to leave such a
piece on the board. And while the gambler's loyalties had never
actually faltered, they had never truly been tested either.
A
pawn, so far, limited to moving in only one direction. Yet he was a
pawn who could be promoted to a knight—or who could cost the
match.
The
coals glowed and the house settled and creaked with the advancement
of the crisping autumn night. The clock on the mantel chimed the
third hour. The man remained sprawled comfortably in his chair,
thinking.
Yes,
the gambler could yet be useful.
One
last time.
One
E
ngland
,
1813
Lady
Jane Pennington was feeling rather hunted. The ballroom was beginning
to seem like a forest with impoverished bachelors waiting in the
blinds, and she was the doe.
Jane
propped herself up against the wall, half-hidden by a potted palm.
She didn't think her toes could bear any more dancing.
Instead,
she spent several minutes seeking out her five female cousins, the
girls commonly known in Society as the Maywell Mob. Lord Maywell was
the host of this evening's perspiration works—er, ball—and
he was also Jane's uncle.
The
gentleman was nowhere in sight, of course, being far more interested
in cards than he was in trying to further the acquaintance and
marriage possibilities of his five daughters. Jane allowed herself to
fume without betraying it in her expression.
Supplying
escort and introductions for his daughters was the least the man
could do, especially after saddling the poor things with the Maywell
nose, not to mention the Maywell propensity to overindulge.
With
only her overworked aunt, Lady Maywell, chaperoning all five
daughters, the girls had been known to get themselves into some very
silly situations.
She
spotted her youngest cousin, Serena, shyly watching the dancers. At
fifteen, Serena was far too young to be out, but that decision was
not up to Jane. Lord and Lady Maywell had thrown their daughters
wholesale at the Marriage Mart, evidently hoping that one would
stick.
