When Tempting a Rogue

When Tempting a Rogue

Kathryn Smith

Dedication

This one’s just for Steve. Who loves you, baby?

Contents

Chapter 1

Saint’s Row, early August 1876

T
rystan Kane wasn’t entirely certain what he’d done to deserve it, but one thing was certain—falling in love with Vienne La Rieux had been God’s way of punishing him for his sins.

This unfortunate, though significant, event had taken place almost seven years ago and he still had the scars on his heart—and pride—to prove it. It had been the kick in the arse that made him take the path that led him to the precipice he now teetered on.

Of course, he’d fallen out of love with the virago, the viper, the
vicious vixen
as quickly as a young man could shuck off the humiliation of pain and rejection. Now all he wanted was for her to recognize the man he had become. It was that simple. And to know for himself that when she looked at him, she saw a grown man and not a foolish, love-struck boy.

Certainly, as he watched her from across the crowded floor of the gaming room at Saint’s Row—her club—he looked upon her in a manner much different from any prior. She was on the arm of some lord who looked vaguely familiar—a man old enough to be his father, and perhaps Vienne’s as well. At one time Trystan would have viewed the man with jealousy, and peevishness would be nipping at his soul. Now he could see the scene for what it was: Vienne La Rieux’s damnable need to be in control of every aspect of her life, especially her heart.

There was no doubt she liked the old lord well enough. She smiled prettily when he spoke to her, and laughed—he supposed—at all the appropriate
bons mots
. But even though their arms were linked, Vienne held herself away from the older man; and when he wasn’t looking at her, her cool green gaze surveyed the room, taking note of who was winning and who was losing. She did not, he noticed, glance in
his
direction, which gave him some bizarre sense of satisfaction. By pretending to be so blatantly unaware of him, Madame La Rieux proved just how very much she was not.

Everything was in place. All he had to do was make the decision, yea or nay, to pursue a plan that now, when he thought about it, seemed a little dodgy. It had taken so many covert transactions, so many carefully planned strategic moves, to bring him to this place.

Did he strike now . . . or walk away?

Really, what was he trying to achieve? Success, or a petty triumph over a woman who probably didn’t care if he lived or died.

She glanced at him—a discrete sweep of the room with her glittering gaze, which held just a half-second too long with his own. He didn’t have a chance to react, not to raise his glass in a mocking salute nor to flash a sardonic smile before the connection was broken. It left him feeling like a dolt.

“You’re going to stare a hole through her,” came a voice at his elbow.

Trystan closed his eyes in silent prayer:
Dear God, why have you forsaken me
?

“You cannot wish me away, brat.”

Sighing, Trystan opened his eyes and turned to face his elder brother, Archer—a master of the mocking smile. Archer would have given La Rieux a look to either freeze or melt her drawers. He wouldn’t have just stood there like an idiot.

But then, Archer could be a pain in anyone’s arse once he put his mind to it. “What do you want?” Trystan demanded churlishly.

Archer held out his hand. “Lend me five quid. I lost a wager and I’m tapped at the moment.”

Trystan arched a brow. “You’re tapped over five quid?”

“No, I’m tapped over the other ninety-five attached to it. Look, I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

Shaking his head, Trystan pulled his billfold from inside his coat and peeled off a couple of notes. “Here’s ten. Now, go bother someone else.”

His brother took the money with a quirk of his lips. It was almost impossible to make Archer feel unwanted or bothersome—a trait Trystan rather admired even though at the moment it annoyed him.

“Don’t get all hoity with me, my son. I’m not what’s put an itch up your nethers.”

Archer also had a gift for the strangest turns of phrase. “
What
the”—Trystan scowled—“devil are you talking about?”

“Her.” His brother tilted his head in La Rieux’s direction. “If you want her, go get her. If you want to be rid of her, don’t come here. But don’t stand there like a git and pine after her. It’s unbecoming.”

No. Archer couldn’t possibly presume to lecture
him
on what was unbecoming behavior, could he? Even Arch couldn’t be
that
barking mad. Then again, he was stupid enough to nod at Vienne with the subtlety of a stallion tossing its mane.

“I’m not pining, but if I were, I’d prefer my brand to yours.” It was no secret that his brother was still mourning the loss of the Countess Monteforte, the lady having left the country to pursue dreams that did not include Archer.

“That was rather low,” his brother remarked without a hint of injury as he wavered slightly.

“Indeed,” Trystan agreed solemnly. “Apologies, old man.”

“Accepted. My thanks for the blunt. Will I see you at Chez Cherie’s later?”

Trystan thought about it. Normally he’d be up for a little female company, but not tonight. “No. But come by the Barrington for breakfast in the morning.” He kept a set of rooms at the hotel he owned with his partner, Jack Friday, recently the Earl of Garret.

“Suit yourself. Make sure there’s coffee.” With that last edict, Archer sauntered off, notes in his fist. Absently, Trystan wondered just how much more gambling, whoring, and drinking his brother could take before he grew sick of all of it as well as himself. It was not going to be a pretty sight when it happened, of that he was certain. It disturbed him to see his brother acting this way—much like their eldest brother, Greyden, the Duke of Ryeton, used to. Grey had paid for his debauched ways and literally had the scar to prove it. “Ruined Ryeton” society used to call him. Trystan would hate to see Archer go down a similar path. Grey’s attackers had meant to kill him but were frightened off. Archer might not be so fortunate.

But Archer had been right about one thing—he was paying far too much attention to Vienne. That had to stop. He didn’t want her thinking he still cared about her, even though such a notion might, for the moment, distract her from his real intentions—which had more to do with the man who just appeared at Vienne’s side, taking her away from her previous companion.

Lord Angelwood: tall, fit, a gentleman somewhere in his fifth decade, possessed of a strapping build attributed to his predecessors and a thick head of auburn hair only beginning to gray at the temples. He was handsome in a rugged manner, and had a confidence that could only come from having been born heir to a respected title.

Neither of these were traits to which Trystan could relate. He didn’t fancy himself particularly attractive—though he’d been told by more than one lady that he had the most astounding eyes. (Grey’s and Archer’s were very similar, if not perhaps so dark a blue as his own.) His nose was too big to be pretty, and he was damnably tanned by peerage standards. He was a third son, not the spare—and certainly not the heir. Worse, he’d gone out and made his fortune—in trade. Something that was still looked down upon despite the growing debts of the aristocracy. In short, he was Lord Trystan Kane, with nothing to recommend him except his youth, which in this particular instance was not in his favor.

He took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and discreetly watched the couple over the top of it. Angelwood, to the best of his knowledge, was happily married, so his relationship with Vienne was purely platonic. Oddly enough, that needled him far more than if he
were
her lover, because she looked upon the man with such genuine emotion. She liked him. Trusted him. This man was more to her than a brief amusement. This man was her friend.

Which was why Trystan had something of a heavy feeling in his gut. His friend Jack would have tried to talk him out of his plan, calling it folly at best. But Jack wasn’t here. He was still in Ireland working out the details of his inheritance, so there was no one to try to persuade him to a different course of action.

The next hour passed much like the two that preceded it. Trystan drank another glass of champagne as he waited, milling about the room making trite conversation with any and all who invited it. All the while, he never took his eye off the object of his current obsession.

Finally Lord Angelwood took his leave. Trystan set aside his half-empty glass and followed. He summoned his carriage, keeping a discreet distance between himself and the earl. Before settling back against the velvet padding he instructed his driver to follow Angelwood’s vehicle. He had a fairly good notion of the man’s destination.

The last earl had built the club Eden for his countess. At one time it had been mostly a social club for both men and women—segregated, of course; and it still had one of the best dining rooms in the city. But these days the club did more business in its gaming room, hosting high-stakes games, sporting events, and tournaments for charity.

Tonight was one of the rare occasions when his lordship joined in the play. It was also the night Trystan planned to sit in as well. It wasn’t a tournament or for charity, it was simple high-stakes play. Fortunately, Trystan’s business dealings had given him what some of his American chums referred to as a poker face—the ability to conceal all thought and emotion behind a blank expression and, even more importantly, behind empty eyes. He was also good at tallying odds—nothing like some of the gentlemen he’d encountered in San Francisco, but good enough.

Perhaps twenty minutes or a full half-hour later, his carriage rolled to a stop and the door was opened. He stepped out, instructed his driver to wait, and climbed the shallow steps leading to the door of the Palladian-styled building. He was greeted by a majordomo with posture so rigid he must have had a steel spine. The man took his name, hat, and greatcoat, and properly directed him. Trystan straightened his jacket lapels and cuffs and crossed the grand foyer of Eden toward a heavy door set into the walnut paneling. He knocked twice and the crystal knob turned a second later.

A footman opened the door, bowed stiffly and moved back so that he might enter. “Good evening, sir. Please come in.”

“Kane!” He was greeted as soon as he crossed the threshold. Angelwood came forward with an easy grin and a handshake. “I thought that was you at Saint’s Row. Good to see you. You know Vickery and Wolfram?”

Trystan smiled. “Of course. Good evening, gentlemen. I appreciate the invite.”

Of course.
Trystan had gone through a lot of trouble to assure an invitation to this particular evening’s entertainment; he’d also gone out of his way to make certain Wolfram, Angelwood’s boyhood friend and a notoriously cautious gambler, and Vickery, a notoriously bad one, were also on hand.

They made small talk until everyone was comfortable, and Trystan had the vague feeling that they were all “friends” now. Then they seated themselves at the table, he and Angelwood across from one another. A bottle of cognac was placed on the sideboard within easy reach, and each man was given an exquisite cigar. If not for his quest, Trystan would be quite content to simply play, smoke, and drink and say to hell with it, but he could not allow himself to be lulled. He had to make sure he won, so he would not imbibe much of the superb brandy.

His determination paid off. Three hours later, Wolfram decided he’d had enough. What the earl won was not much more than what he’d come in with. Apparently he was more about the camaraderie than the win. The three of them continued on, and almost exactly one and one half hours later, Vickery decided both Angelwood and Trystan had taken enough of his money and bowed out as well.

Trystan’s heart skipped a beat. It was all going exactly as he’d hoped. When Angelwood asked if he would like to continue, he said yes. The earl was down a thousand pounds and eager to make it back. Trystan had no intention of letting that happen. After forty-five minutes of play, when the betting cycle was about to begin, he put everything he had on the table, along with the deed for a property he owned that Angelwood had tried to buy from him several times over the years. It wouldn’t be a big loss to Trystan as he only purchased the property because he knew others would want it one day. He had a good sense about these things. Jack teased him that he could see into the future—funny, considering Jack’s disbelief in the predetermination of fate.

Angelwood’s eyes lit up at the deed. “Every instinct warns me to give up now,” he said, “but damn my eyes, man, if you don’t know how to tempt a fellow.”

Trystan smiled, and play resumed. He focused on his cards, calculated his risks and his odds. Most of all, he watched his adversary. Angelwood was a consummate gambler, but everyone had their “tell”—and in the brief time he’d been back in London, Trystan had made it his mission to discover that one little gesture that gave the earl away.

And he found it.

So, he watched, and waited, and played—his mind whirling, chest tight. And when the cards fell, he was the victor to the tune of fifty thousand pounds. A staggering amount, but one both of them could lose with a minimum amount of pain. They both knew how to make it back again.