A Rogue by Any Other Name (26 page)

“Is that so bad?” Tommy asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “What of our friendship? What of
our
past? What of me?”

She did not pretend to misunderstand the words and the ultimatum in them, born of distress. He was asking her to make a choice. Her longest-standing friend—the one who had never left, or her husband, her family, her life. It was no choice. Not really. “He’s my husband!” she said. “Perhaps I would not have written this tale, but this is the tale, nonetheless.”

She stopped, irritation and frustration taking her breath. Tommy watched her for a long moment, her words hanging between them. “And that is that.” He smiled, sad. “I confess, I am not surprised. You always liked him best.”

She shook her head. “That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. One day, you’ll realize it.” He lifted one hand to her chin in a brotherly gesture. That was the problem, of course, Tommy had always been more brother than beau. Not like Michael. There was nothing brotherly about Michael.

There was nothing kind about him, either. And while she might have chosen him in this strange, sad war, she would not stand by as he tore down Tommy. “I shan’t let him ruin you,” she vowed. “I swear it.”

Tommy sliced one hand through the air, his disbelief palpable. “Oh, Penny . . . as though you could stop it.”

The words should have made her sad. She should have heard the truth in them.

But instead, they made her angry.

Michael had taken her from her family, changed her life in a hundred ways, forced this farce upon her, and threatened her dearest friend. And he’d done it all while keeping her at a safe distance, as though she were an insignificant thing about which he need not worry.

Well, he had better begin to worry.

She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. “He is not God,” she said, her voice firm. “He does not have the right to toy with us like little tin soldiers.”

Tommy recognized her ire. He smiled, sad. “Don’t do this, Pen. I’m not worth it.”

She raised a brow. “I disagree. And even if you weren’t, I am. And I am through with him.”

“He will hurt you.”

One side of her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “He’ll likely hurt me anyway. All the more reason to face him.” She headed for the door to the receiving room, pulling it open to let him exit. As he neared, his shining black Hessians soft on the lush carpet, sadness twisted through her. “I am sorry, Tommy.”

He took her shoulders in his and pressed a warm kiss to her forehead, before he said, “I do want your happiness, Pen, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“You’ll let me know if you change your mind?”

She nodded. “I will.”

He stared at her for a long time before turning away, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “I shall wait for you. Until I can wait no more.”

She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to tell him to stay. But whether from sadness or fear or a keen knowledge that her husband was a ship that would not be turned, instead she said, “Good night, Tommy.”

He turned and walked through the open door into the foyer, and Penelope followed the line of his shoulders as he made his way to the exit to Hell House. The door closed behind him and she heard the clatter of carriage wheels in the silent space, punctuating her solitude. She was alone.

Alone in this mausoleum of a house, filled with things that were not hers and people she did not know. Alone in this quiet world.

There was a movement in the shadows at the far side of the foyer, and Penelope knew immediately that it was Mrs. Worth. She knew, as well, where the housekeeper’s loyalties lay.

Penelope spoke in the darkness, “How long before he hears that I had a gentleman caller at eleven o’clock?”

The housekeeper came into the light but did not speak for a long moment. When she did, it was with all calm. “I sent word to the club upon Mr. Alles’s arrival.”

Penelope watched the beautiful woman, the betrayal—however expected—washing through her, stoking the fires of her ire. “You wasted your paper.”

She headed for the central staircase of Hell House and began to climb. Halfway up, she turned back to face the housekeeper, standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect eyes, as though if she stood sentry, she could prevent Penelope from doing anything else that might irritate her master.

And that only served to make Penelope more angry.

Suddenly, she was feeling quite reckless indeed.

“Where is the club?”

The housekeeper’s eyes went wide. “I am sure I do not know.”

“Funny, because I am sure that you do.” She did not lower her voice, letting it call down to the other woman without remorse. “I am sure you know everything that goes on in this house. All the comings and goings. And I am sure that you know that my husband spends his evenings at his club instead of here.”

For a long moment, Mrs. Worth did not speak, and Penelope wondered, fleetingly, if she had the authority to dismiss the insolent, beautiful woman. Finally, she waved one hand and began her climb once more. “Tell me or don’t. If I must, I shall hire myself a hack and go looking for it.”

“He would not like that.” The housekeeper was following her now, down the long upper corridor to Penelope’s bedchamber.

“No. He wouldn’t. But I find I have little interest in his likes or dislikes.” Indeed, her lack of interest in those things was rather freeing, she was discovering. She opened the door to her chamber and crossed the room to her wardrobe, from which she extracted a large cloak. Turning back, she met the lovely housekeeper’s wide-eyed gaze.

And paused. Perhaps
this
was Michael’s raven-haired goddess. Perhaps it was Mrs. Worth who held his heart and his mind and his evenings. And as she studied the housekeeper’s porcelain face, measuring the woman’s height, the way she would fit against Michael, the way she would suit him so much better than Penelope suited him, Mrs. Worth smiled. Not just a smile, really. A wide, welcoming grin. “Mr. Alles. He is not your lover.”

The idea that a servant would say something so utterly inappropriate set Penelope back for a moment before she answered, in all honesty. “No. He is not.” And, as the gloves were off, “And you are not Michael’s mistress.”

Surprise had the housekeeper speaking without thought. “Dear God, no. I wouldn’t have him if he begged.” She paused. “That is . . . I didn’t mean . . . he’s a good man, my lady.”

Penelope exchanged her white kidskin gloves for navy blue suede. As she fitted the fingers to her hand, she spoke honestly. “He’s a horse’s bottom. And I am not entirely certain I would have him if he begged either. Except for the fact that I am married to him.”

“Well, if you’ll beg my pardon, you should absolutely
not
have him until he begs. He shouldn’t be leaving you so . . .”

“Regularly?” Penelope filled in the gap, deciding that perhaps she had misjudged the housekeeper. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Worth, I do not believe that begging is in my husband’s repertoire.”

The housekeeper smiled. “You are welcome to call me Worth. It’s what all the others call me.”

“The others?”

“The other partners in The Angel.”

Penelope’s brows snapped together. “How do you know my husband’s partners?”

“I used to work at The Angel, scrubbing pots, plucking chickens, whatever needed to be done.”

Curiosity flared. “How did you end up here?”

A cloud passed over the other woman’s face. “I aged into my body. People began to notice.”

“Men?” It didn’t have to be a question. Penelope knew the answer. A face like Worth’s could not hide for long even in the kitchens of a gaming hell.

“The employees did everything they could to keep the members from getting too close—not just to me—to all the girls.” Penelope leaned forward, knowing what was coming. Loathing it. Wishing she could erase the words before they were spoken. “But I was careless. Powerful men can be persistent. Wealthy men can be a temptation. And the entire sex are pretty liars when they want to be.”

Penelope knew it. Her husband was as silver-tongued as they came.

Worth’s smile was sad. “Bourne found us.”

Penelope watched as the other woman ran a finger across the gilded frame of a large oil painting on the wall. “He was furious,” she said, knowing instinctively that—whatever his faults—her husband would never have stood for such behavior.

“He nearly killed the man.” Penelope felt a surge of pride as Worth continued. “For all his darkness . . . for all his selfishness . . . he’s a good man.” She stepped back, assessing Penelope’s garments. “If you’re going to march into The Angel, you’re going to have to enter through the owner’s entrance. It’s the only way you’ll get onto the main floor. And you’ll need a cloak with a larger hood if you’re going to keep your face covered.”

Penelope hadn’t thought of that. She crossed the room, passing into the dimly lit hallway beyond. “Thank you.”

“He’ll be furious when you get there,” Worth added. “My note will not have helped.” She paused. “I am sorry about that.”

Penelope cut Worth a look as they reached the foot of the stairs. “I shall collect on that debt,” Penelope said, “but not tonight. Tonight, I shall simply tell you that your message was incomplete. And I intend to deliver the rest of it in person.”

* * *

Dear M—

My birthday has come again, and this one more troublesome than any of those prior. My mother is ready to host a coming-out ball, and I am targeted as the fatted calf (It’s not the most becoming of metaphors, is it?). At any rate, she’s already making plans for March, if you can believe it—I’m certain I shan’t last the winter.

Do promise you’ll come to the fated event . . . I know that twenty is far too young for you to be attending balls or caring a bit about the season, but it would be nice to see a friendly face.

Always—P

Needham Manor, August 1820

No reply

“You should be at home with your wife.”

Bourne did not turn away from his place at the window overlooking the pit floor of The Fallen Angel. “My wife is tucked safely in her bed, asleep.”

He knew how that would look, Penelope in her pristine, white linen nightgown, wrapped in a collection of blankets, curled on her side, her blond hair spread out like a wave behind her—sighing a sweet little sigh in her sleep, tempting him, even in fantasy.

Or, even better, in his bed, on his fur, lush and waiting to be discovered.

The days since she’d requested he not touch her had been interminable.

The night at Tottenham’s had begun with a single, achievable goal—to lay the foundation of Bourne and Penelope’s false love for the rest of society. But then she’d gone and stood strong in that viper pit of a dining room, bolstering his story, feigning fondness and devotion and, ultimately, defending him in her perfect, cultured way.

As much as he’d told himself that he had gone after her to further convince Tottenham’s guests of his fascination with his new wife, he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true. The guests had been far from his mind, and his fascination had been nothing close to fraudulent. He’d had to touch her. He’d had to be close to her.

The moment he’d kissed her, he’d lost control of the situation—gasping for breath, clutching her to him, wishing that they were anywhere but there, in that hallway, in that house, with those people. He’d wanted to murder Tottenham for interrupting them, but God knew what would have happened if the viscount hadn’t done just that, considering that Bourne had been seriously considering lifting his bride’s skirts, lowering himself to his knees, and showing her precisely where pleasure could take them both when the viscount had cleared his throat—and Bourne’s head.

She’d gone statue-still in his arms, and he’d known in that moment that she’d believed the worst of him. She’d believed it had all been concocted for Tottenham’s benefit . . . and it had—but Bourne hadn’t expected it to go so far. And he’d never admit to her that he’d been just as carried away as she was.

So he’d told her the truth about the arrangement, knowing that the words would sting. Knowing she’d hate him more for deceiving her. And when she’d pronounced, with all the poise of a queen, that he was not to touch her again, he’d known it was best for them both.

Even if he’d wanted nothing more than to take her home and make her recant the words.

Chase tried again. “You’ve been here every night since your return.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I know women. And I know they do not like to be ignored.”

Bourne did not reply.

“I hear that you’re angling for one of the Marbury girls to become Lady Tottenham.”

Bourne narrowed his gaze. “You hear.”

Chase shrugged one shoulder and smirked. “I have my sources.”

Bourne turned back to the window, watching Tottenham far below at the piquet table. “The unmarried young ladies Marbury are just today in town. That gives me a few days to secure the interest of the viscount.”

“So the dinner was a success?”

“I dream of invitations arriving in droves.”

Chase laughed. “Poor, sad Bourne. Forced to restore the only thing he doesn’t want for the only thing he does.” Bourne leveled Chase with a look, but he did not disagree. “You realize that the club has made you more money than you could ever spend, and that there’s no reason at all for you to prove yourself by exacting your revenge, do you not?”

“It’s not about the money.”

“What is it about, then, the title? The way he cheapened it?”

“I don’t care about the title.”

“Of course you do. You’re just like every other peer—consumed with the magical power of your title. Even if you resent it.” Chase paused. “Not that it matters anymore. You’ve married the girl, and you’re well down the road to revenge. Or is it resurrection?”

Bourne scowled through the red stained glass that marked a flame of hell, through which he could see the roulette wheel spinning far below. “I’ve no plans for resurrection. I shall do what is necessary to ruin Langford. And once that is done, I’m returning to my life.”