Never Trust a Rogue (2 page)

Thane delivered the drink, then took up a stance by the fire, resting his forearm on the oak mantelpiece. He had no wish to turn this into a social visit, yet the politeness drilled into him by a long-ago governess induced him to say, “You’re looking well, Uncle. How have you been?”

“I suffer from gout and rheumatism, as you’d know if ever you’d bothered to send me a note of inquiry. All these years, and nary a word from you. Why, I never had even a notion of where you were garrisoned.”

Surely, Hugo hadn’t expected him to write as if they were loving relatives. The thought startled Thane for a moment before he rejected it as ludicrous.

He took a sip, letting the whiskey burn down his throat. His uncle still wielded complaints like a broadsword. He’d had no real interest in hearing from the nephew who had been a thorn in his side. If Hugo truly had wanted to keep in touch, he could have tracked Thane down through the Home Office.

He’d certainly had no trouble nosing out the news of Thane’s return—and the circumstances surrounding it.

“Do forgive me,” Thane said with a touch of irony. “But I was busy serving the king.”

“It is not the role of a peer to fight wars. You shirked your duties by running off to follow the drum. The proper place for a man of your rank is here in this country, watching over your estates and taking your rightful seat in Parliament.”

The military had been a hard life, surviving cold and mud and limited supplies, enduring the fall of comrades on the battlefield, yet Thane had no regrets. To have chosen the safe, boring existence would have been anathema to his temperament. “I didn’t come today to quarrel about the past. Rather, I felt you deserved an explanation in regard to my ward.”

“Indeed I do. Your behavior has been a disgrace.” Hugo slapped his palm on the arm of the chair. “As head of this family, I must chastise you for harboring an innocent young lady in your household. Have you no sense of decency at all?”

In spite of his resolve to stay calm, Thane felt a hot jab of anger. Since reaching his majority,
he
was now the head of the family, not his uncle. And after years abroad as the commander of a cavalry brigade, Thane didn’t appreciate being dressed down like a lowly recruit. “I can assure you, there’s been no hint of impropriety. Miss Jocelyn Nevingford does not reside in my town house, but rather, in the one beside mine.”

“But there
is
a connecting door.” Malice in his rheumy gaze, Hugo shook a knobby finger at Thane. “You needn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I wrote to Fisk, and she has sent me a full report.”

Mrs. Fisk had once been a nursemaid in this house. When Thane had come here as an orphaned boy of five, the widow had taken him under her wing, crooning him to sleep at bedtime and providing comfort in times of
distress. She was one of the few people he trusted, which was why he’d asked her to come out of retirement and take on the role of companion to Jocelyn.

Thane couldn’t blame Fisk for supplying information; she was a kindly old soul who saw only the best in people. And she could scarcely have written of anything indecorous when nothing had occurred. The nasty details had been supplied solely by his uncle’s caustic imagination.

Gripping his glass, Thane stared down at Hugo. “A full report, do you say?” he said coolly. “Then I’m sure you’ll know Jocelyn is fifteen years of age. That her parents died last autumn when their carriage overturned during a rainstorm near Brussels. That she was riding with them and only by a miracle of God survived the accident herself. I hardly think those facts are the fodder of scandal.”

“It most certainly
is
a scandal for a bachelor to adopt a girl not of his own family,” his uncle stated. “There must be someone else who can take her in. It’s more fitting she go to a blood relative.”

Jocelyn had one elderly great-aunt in Lancashire who had exhibited such horror at the prospect of taking in a crippled girl that Thane had invented another relative so he wouldn’t be forced to abandon Jocelyn with the inhospitable old woman. Besides, there was the vow he’d made to her father, James, Thane’s best friend. Before the battle of Waterloo, James had wrested Thane’s promise to watch over Jocelyn in the event of his death. Ironically, James had survived a hail of bullets that day, only to lose his life a few months later in a carriage mishap.

His throat thick, Thane finished off his whiskey and set down the glass on a table. “There’s no one,” he said flatly. “Believe me, I’ve searched.”

“Then send her away to a cottage in the country. You’ve the means to hire all manner of servants to watch over the chit. That’s what any decent gentleman would have done.”
Hugo’s suspicious gaze raked him up and down. “But since your return, you’ve no doubt become one of the fast crowd, the gamblers and the rakes. It would not surprise me to learn you have wicked designs on her person.”

Thane’s irritation took a sharp upward spike. “For God’s sake, she’s suffered a traumatic injury. Do you think so little of me that I would force myself on a mere girl, let alone a crippled one?”

Uncle Hugo looked unmoved. He nursed his whiskey and glowered over the rim of the glass. “I do indeed. You were always the wild one, a ne’er-do-well devil just like your father.”

Thane could see the tentacles of envy that had squeezed any benevolence out his uncle’s nature. Nevertheless, those words stirred an echo of the inadequacy Thane had fought against as a youth.

Abandoning his cool, he snapped, “So you still resent my father for being born three minutes ahead of you. If not for a quirk of fate,
you
would be the Earl of Mansfield.”

An angry flush darkened Hugo’s face. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. “By gad, you’re as disrespectful as ever. I don’t know why you can’t be more like Edward. He’s been married these past eight years. And
he
has sired two sons.”

Thane hadn’t known. But the news came as no great revelation. His cousin had always been a dull dog who followed convention. “Then you should rejoice,” Thane said. “If I die without issue, the title will go to you and then to Edward and his eldest. In truth, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you’d prayed for my demise on the battlefield.”

Something flickered in Uncle Hugo’s eyes, something like shock. One of the logs popped, then fell in a shower of sparks. Thane had the discomfitting sense that he’d stepped over a line.

Hugo gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Think what you will. I summoned you here to warn you not to ruin that girl’s reputation. If you insist upon this foolish course, at least find yourself a wife, someone of suitably high birth who will lend you respectability. For once in your life, boy, do your duty.”

The disappointment in his uncle’s tone stung Thane worse than the blow of a willow switch. It was ridiculous to care what the man thought of him. This conversation had gone on long enough.

He made a stiff bow. “I’ll take your advice under consideration. Good day, Uncle.”

Pivoting, he strode out of the library. Find a wife? He’d sooner roast in Hell than conform to his uncle’s demands. He had far more important tasks to accomplish than to make idle chitchat with giggly debutantes in the ballrooms of London. Most pressing of all was his appointment with the chief magistrate at Bow Street.

Thane turned his mind to his secret mission. If all went as expected, in the coming weeks he would be very busy indeed.

Most genteel young ladies counted sewing or singing among their greatest accomplishments. But not Miss Lindsey Crompton. If there was one skill at which she excelled, it was spying.

After a quick glance up and down the deserted corridor, she closed the door of the study. Luckily, no other guests from the ball had wandered into this wing of the house. She held up a candle to view a rather shabby room with a threadbare Persian rug on the floor and a pair of wingback chairs by the unlit hearth. Shadows flickered over shelves of musty volumes that looked as if they hadn’t been cracked open in years.

Her pale green gown rustling, Lindsey hastened toward the mahogany desk that dominated the room. The distant sound of musicians tuning their instruments warned her there was little time to waste. If she failed to return to the ballroom for the next dance, Mama would be livid. Mrs. Edith Crompton had arranged for a string of eligible noblemen to partner her middle daughter in every set.

Her mother didn’t know it, but Lindsey was equally determined to remain a spinster. She had no interest in marrying any of the toadying gentlemen who coveted her enormous dowry. Having an aristocratic husband would
hinder her plans for her life. For that reason, she intended to find a means to rebuff each and every one of the fools.

Placing the silver candlestick on the desk, she wrinkled her nose at the stench of stale smoke from an ashtray where Lord Wrayford had stubbed out a cheroot. Beside it, an empty crystal glass rested in the sticky residue of spilled brandy. Men and their nasty habits! How did women put up with such nonsense?

Muttering under her breath, she opened the top drawer and examined the contents. Inside lay a clutter of quill pens, a silver box of fine sand for blotting ink, assorted bits of string and sealing wax, and a stack of cream stationery embossed with a gold
W.

Nothing of interest.

She turned her attention to the next drawer. Here a jumbled heap of papers piqued her curiosity. Perching on the edge of the chair, Lindsey proceeded to sort through the mess. It was a task she relished, for there was nothing more fascinating to her than the guilty pleasure of poking through someone else’s private belongings.

The dire straits of Lord Wrayford’s finances soon became apparent. There were numerous bills from tailors, from boot makers, from jewelers and tobacconists and wine merchants. Most of the accounts were overdue, judging by the many dun notices from creditors demanding immediate payment.

No wonder Lord Wrayford was her most persistent suitor.

Or perhaps
ardent
would be a more fitting term for the way he always stared at her fashionably low-cut bodice. The thought made her skin crawl. The previous day, he had taken her on a drive through Hyde Park, turned the carriage onto a deserted path, and attempted to plant a slobbery kiss on her lips. A hard jab to the ribs had set him straight, but it hadn’t proved sufficient to discourage him
for good. This evening, he had secured more than one dance with her—as if she belonged to him already.

No matter. This ball at his house was the perfect opportunity for her to thwart him for good. It gave her the chance to find a damning piece of information that would put an end to his courtship once and for all.

Unfortunately, overdue bills would hardly be sufficient to quash her parents’ matchmaking plans. Lord Wrayford was heir to the Duke of Sylvester—a creaky old man with one foot in the grave. The mere thought of Lindsey as a duchess transported Mama into a state of rapture.

And it filled Lindsey with an equal measure of revulsion. Imagine, having to spend the rest of her life making dreary calls to gossipy old biddies, shopping for the latest fashions, and attending endless parties. Nothing could be further from her own secret ambitions.

Lud, it was such a nuisance being society’s premier heiress!

As she started to close the drawer, something caused the wood to stick. She bent down for a closer look and spied a crumpled piece of foolscap stuck in a crack. She worked it free, placed the paper on the desk, and smoothed out the wrinkles beneath the pale light of the candle.

A short message was penned in black ink, the script distinctly masculine.

This note is a certified duplicate IOU for the sum of one thousand gold guineas, duly won from Wrayford on the 25
^th
day of March 1816, and payable to me in full by 30 June 1816.

Mansfield

The name struck Lindsey with an unpleasant jolt. Mansfield . . . the Earl of Mansfield. He was that celebrated war hero, the one who was always surrounded by fawning
ladies. As the stories went, he had led a reckless charge at Waterloo that had routed the French and turned the tide of the battle from near defeat to victory.

Although Lindsey had seen Mansfield from afar a few times since her debut a fortnight ago, they had never been introduced. The earl’s considerable wealth elevated him to that echelon of blue bloods who didn’t need to marry money and therefore saw no reason to welcome commoners like her into the ton. Although the Cromptons were richer than everyone but the royal family, they were considered outsiders since Papa had earned his vast assets from trade in India.

Judging by the IOU she held in her hand, Mansfield was far from an admirable man. He was a typical upper-class rogue who frittered away his life at dice and card playing. He preferred the company of wastrels like Wrayford over that of honest, working folk. Even after nearly two years in London, Lindsey found such elitism a distasteful contrast to the relaxed standards of India. At least there she’d had the freedom to pursue her own interests, so long as she took care to do so behind Mama’s back.

Lindsey took a deep breath. She mustn’t let personal judgments overshadow her purpose here. Emotions only served to cloud the sharp intellect required by the art of detection. All that mattered was the information she held in her hand.