The Rogue (18 page)

Phillipa
sighed. "The story just gets longer and longer." Ethan
grinned. "It's one I'd love to hear someday." Collis kicked
him under the table. Ethan sent him an exasperated glare. "What?
That wasn't flirting, that was just talking!"

Phillipa
only looked amused. "You could flirt all day and likely I'd
never notice. That was one social skill I never mastered."

Out
of sheer habit, Ethan leered. "I would be happy to teach
you—ow!" He rubbed his shin. "Yes, well, that time I
was flirting. Old habits die hard."

Collis
snorted. "Not as hard as you will if you don't stop."

"All
right, then, if Jackham is off limits, tell me about this Denny
bloke?"

Collis
held up a hand. "He worked for me as valet."

Phillipa
nodded. "And before that, he worked for James."

"And
before that, for Sir Simon last spring!" Fisher put in.

Ethan
blinked. "Three employers in one year? Good God, what did you
lot do to the poor wretch? Can you imagine being shuffled around like
that, unwanted and unappreciated? Was he that bad a valet?"

Collis
looked uneasy. "Well, no. He was quite good actually. Everything
was always done to perfection."

Phillipa
had to agree. "I didn't like him, but James always looked very
dashing—which isn't easy for James. He tends more toward the
rumpled-farmer air."

"He
was quite clever as well," added Fisher. "If I recall
correctly, he came up with some of the more original nicknames in the
club."

"Nicknames?"
Ethan looked around the table. No one had said anything about a
nickname. "Do you all have one?"

They
nodded, even Robbie.

"I'm
the Phoenix," Collis said.

"I'm
Gemini," added Phillipa.

Ethan
blinked. "You're a twin?"

She
shook her head. "It's a—"

"Long
story," Ethan finished for her. "Right." He turned to
Robbie. "And you?"

"I'm
the son of the Griffin," Robbie explained. "So I'm the
Cub." He looked a bit peevish. "Da said that might change
someday."

"Let
us hope," Ethan agreed. He looked at Fisher. "What about
you?"

Fisher
gazed back at him. "Why, Fisher, of course."

Ethan
blinked. "Oh. I thought that was your surname."

Fisher
nodded happily. "It is. Didn't that work out nicely?"

"And
Kurt is…?"

"The
Cook. No better knife man in all the world." Coins grinned. "I
wouldn't think too long on that if I were you. You'll have
nightmares."

Ethan
leaned back. "True." He was beginning to have a few
already. "So do I have a nickname as well?"

They
all looked a bit uncomfortable. Collis shrugged and grimaced. "Well…
it doesn't really work that way. One day someone will simply start
calling you a name…"

Robbie
nodded. "And then it will stick."

Fisher
agreed. "The way Denny named that Chimera bloke, just before you
all took off on that trip down the Thames."

Collis
looked surprised. "Oh, is that where that came from? I'd
wondered." He turned back to Ethan. "We don't usually
nickname the enemy, but we needed something to call the rotter aside
from 'the enemy mastermind.' That was a bit of a mouthful."

They
were back to Denny, which was fine because Ethan was beginning to
want a nickname and he didn't like that. He'd never been much of a
joiner. "So you lot mistreated and disrespected a servant who
worked hard for you?" Ethan shook his head. "No wonder he
turned on you."

Collis
frowned at his
coq
au vin
.
"I never saw it from that perspective."

"A
valet depends on the master for everything." Ethan rolled his
eyes. "That's why they call them 'dependents.' " He pointed
his fork at Collis. "You're lucky all he did was carry tales. I
would have come up with something much more fitting."

"As
in?"

"As
in red pepper in your drawers, or thistle spines in your stockings,
or—"

Collis
held up both hands in defense, laughing. "Hold on there, evil
one! You have a mind like a villain!" He looked over at Kurt,
who was working more magic on the giant cooker. "Kurt, aren't
you still looking for an apprentice? I think I have a candidate for
you."

Kurt
raised his leonine head to consider Ethan without expression. "Not
much of a fighter." Then he grunted. "But fast," he
said wistfully.

Suddenly
feeling a bit chilled, Ethan leaned over to Robbie. "What does
Kurt do around here besides train fighters and cook?" he
whispered.

Robbie
grinned evilly and drew his finger across his throat, accompanied by
a wet slicing noise made in his mouth. "Assassin!" he
whispered back, with rather more relish than Ethan thought was
precisely healthy.

"Er,
right." Nightmares indeed. Ethan looked back up at Kurt. "Thank
you, sir, but no, thank you."

Kurt
gave a shrug that reminded Ethan of mountains moving and turned back
to his bubbling pots.

After
excusing himself from the luncheon, Ethan decided to get back to the
real world. He was expected at Lord Maywell's tonight. As he was
about to leave, he realized that he'd left his walking stick in the
cellar.

He
trotted quickly down the stairs and spotted the stick
immediately—then just as promptly forgot it again.

Clad
in nothing but close-fitting trousers and a tight weskit, Rose
Tremayne was performing some complicated exercise on the great mat.
She moved slowly and gracefully, as if in a dance, her arms and legs
seeming to take precise patterns in the air.

It
was one of the loveliest things he'd ever seen. She was grace and
perfection with her bare arms sweeping slowly through the air in a
great arc—

Ethan
picked up his stick and went slowly back up the stairs. Rose was a
lovely thing indeed.

I
wonder what Lady Jane would look like in trousers?

«
^
»

As
Ethan left the club and strolled to the corner to catch a hack, he
looked about him with new eyes. He was a Liar now, one of them,
inside—perhaps for the first time in his life.

He
smiled to himself as he passed a school. His eyes barely took in the
sign over the gate. "The Lillian Raines School for the Less
Fortunate." Now why did that sound familiar?

Well,
that wasn't him, was it? He was feeling quite fortunate indeed. Then
his shoulder throbbed where Kurt had landed that single massive blow.
Painful, but all in all, well worth it. He was a Liar now.

Ethan
was so wrapped in the warm glow of camaraderie that he had no idea
how closely he was being watched.

Jane
opened the door to the second parlor with a polite smile pasted on
her face. Simms had told her that a gentleman caller awaited her
there. It was probably just Billingsly—not worth disturbing her
aunt for chaperonage. She'd simply pop in and tell the fellow that
she was terribly busy doing… something.

There
was no one to be seen, only a gaily colored hat-box on the table. She
stepped closer to look for a delivery tag.

"For
Lady Jane Pennington. In apology for a regrettable misunderstanding."

Oh,
no. It couldn't be. Jane lifted the lid of the hatbox.

It
was. The garish bonnet lay tenderly wrapped in tissue, in all its
awful glory. "Oh, dear," Jane murmured as she lifted it
out. "It's even uglier than I remembered."

"Thank
heaven," drawled a deep voice behind her. "I thought it was
just me."

Jane
whirled to see Mr. Damont lurking behind the parlor door. "What
are you doing here?"

He
bowed. "It is lovely to see you again as well, my lady."

Jane
blushed angrily, then pushed the bonnet back into its box and thrust
it out to him. "Take your gift. I want nothing to do with it."

He
peered down at the crushed straw. "You broke it!" he
accused.

Jane
looked down. She had indeed. Now doubly embarrassed, she glared up at
Mr. Damont. "Look what you made me do!"

He
scoffed at her. "I did not!"

"Oh!"
A gentleman would never refute a lady! "Yes you did!"

He
folded his arms. "Did not."

She
plunked the box back onto the table and planted her fists on her
hips. "Did too!"

He
grinned. "Did not." His tone was high and childish.

She
snickered, then bit her lip. "Did too!"

He
stamped his foot. "Did not."

She
laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "I hate
you," she mumbled.

He
tilted his head. "Do not."

She
took a deep breath, then gave it up. Throwing her arms out, she shook
her head with a smile. "You're right. I don't hate you."

He
smiled rather sweetly. It left deep creases in his cheeks. Her breath
left her at the sight. She sometimes forgot how very handsome he was.
Recovering, she blinked. "So that was a misunderstanding this
afternoon?"

He
held up one hand in a vow. "Absolutely. I wished to solicit a
female perspective on something I have at home, that is all."

The
blush returned. Jane pressed both hands to her cheeks. "I
thought—"

He
nodded. "I know, but I promise, I have no etchings."

Chuckling,
Jane shook her head. "You can always make me laugh, even when I
really don't want to."

"Am
I forgiven, then? You don't think I'm a cad who would proposition a
respectable woman?"

She
looked up at him teasingly. "Well, I wouldn't go that far…"

Something
crossed his expression and he made a small movement, almost a flinch.
Jane hesitated. He really meant it—he really cared what she
thought. She shook her head quickly. "I don't think that at
all," she said honestly. "I was mostly embarrassed at—"
At
being caught staring at your trousers
.
Well, perhaps honesty had its limits.

She
clasped her hands before her. "I don't think ill of you at all.
You've been very kind to me, and Serena. I think you are a very nice
man."

He
blinked. "That is going a bit far."

She
nodded. "I agree. I take it back."

This
time he was the one to laugh involuntarily. He shook his head. "Who
are you, Lady Jane? Where in the world did you come from and are
there more of you there?"

Jane
paused. Mother had told her not to reveal too much about herself. "I
have been living in Northumbria for several years. And no, I don't
believe there are many girls there like me."

She
hadn't meant to let that tiny stream of loneliness leak into her
voice. Perhaps he hadn't noticed. She looked into his eyes and saw
that he had. Moreover, he'd understood. Jane looked away.

This
was more than she was prepared for. She suddenly wasn't sure how she
felt about being alone in here with this man—who had already
kissed her once, and now showed an unfortunate ability to sympathize
with her. Of all the men in London, why a lowborn gambler?

It
must end now, before this attraction—or affinity, or whatever
it was—became something more. That would not be beneficial, for
either of them. "Mr. Damont, I think you should go now."

He
drew back. "What? I thought—"

Jane
took a deep breath. "Whatever you thought, you were mistaken. I
don't wish to continue this conversation. Please leave."

He
gaped, then threw out his hands. "You run hot, then you run
cold. You are the most confusing, mystifying, bloody-minded female I
have ever met!"