A Rogue of My Own Page 10

  Getting to Rebecca seemed to be his only problem now. She seemed to be keeping herself barricaded in the duchess’s chambers all morning. It had been much easier to encounter the other maids of honor as they’d been sneaking down to the kitchens, walking in the garden, enjoying the art gallery, and running Sarah’s numerous errands. Waiting outside the door to the duchess’s chambers as he’d done yesterday just wasn’t a good idea. He’d been lucky that Rebecca had been the first to come out, but that wasn’t likely to happen again. She might be wary of departing alone if she expected him to be waiting for her. He definitely didn’t regret his attempt to intercept her though. He had even gone to bed last night smiling, remembering their encounter.

  She’d melted in his arms. No surprise there. But he’d found himself enjoying that kiss too much. When his desire had abruptly shown up in full bloom, he’d been incredulous. He had been working her! He never lost control like that with a mark. So the advice he’d given her about not letting her emotions get involved while kissing had been as much a reminder for himself as it had been the perfect excuse to allow her to continue. Yet she’d taken it as an insult instead. How amusing! She had probably wished she’d had something more damaging to throw at him other than that envelope containing a piece of paper hawking a new tailor on Bond Street. And what the deuce had she been doing with that in her pocket?

  He found himself eager to see her again and annoyed that it wouldn’t be soon enough to suit him. But the evening entertainments seemed to be the only opportunities he would have to see her. And his impatience was entirely personal, since Nigel wasn’t around to prod him to finish his task anytime soon. Nigel had had to make an unexpected trip to the Netherlands. One of his contacts had warned that war was being discussed again in secret there.

  The Netherlands had never been happy with Belgium asserting its independence, and this wouldn’t be the first time that country had invaded Belgium to get it back. The treaty that had finally been signed was only a few years old! And Queen Victoria was personally involved since her dear uncle Leopold had become the king of Belgium when it gained its independence. Nigel was hoping to calm the waters, as it were, before the treaty was broken. That could take weeks, even months.

  With Nigel gone from the palace and Rebecca no doubt beyond his reach for most of the day, Rupert had decided to visit his family that morning. Since they lived with him, they noticed his absences, and his mother wouldn’t refrain from demanding to know where he’d been. But it would be easy enough to allude to being holed up with his current mistress. It was the one excuse his mother never doubted.

  But as Rupert exited the palace, he wasn’t expecting to see Rebecca climbing into a coach. He didn’t hail her. He ran to the stables, where earlier he’d sent a footman to get his horse. He was in luck. Mounted, he had no trouble catching up with Rebecca’s rented hack and following it at a discreet distance. When it turned onto Old Bond Street, he grinned. No errand for Sarah after all. A shopping trip, obviously, and a lady shopping could take all day! What a prime opportunity to spend the day with her.

  He no sooner concluded that than he castigated himself for being as bad as Rebecca at making assumptions. Her coach didn’t stop as he’d thought it would. It continued past Old Bond Street onto New Bond Street and kept going past the shops. A few blocks later it turned onto Wigmore, a street he’d never had occasion to navigate before. Halfway down the street, the coach stopped at the curb.

  Rupert moved his horse behind a carriage parked at the curb a few houses away; not as much concealment as he would have liked, but unless Rebecca actually glanced in his direction, she wouldn’t notice him. He wasn’t going to guess what she was doing here given the assortment of reasons that had nothing to do with Sarah. Her family might even own the town house she’d stopped in front of. Or she could merely be visiting a friend.

  But Rebecca wasn’t alone as he’d thought, and she wasn’t the one who got out of the coach and knocked on the door. It was the maid he’d found in her and Elizabeth’s room yesterday when he’d kept Elizabeth waiting in the garden so he could search their room. He hadn’t been all that disappointed that he’d lost the chance for a thorough search because he hadn’t really expected to find anything revealing.

  He still wasn’t jumping to conclusions. The maid could have been sent to the door merely to find out if a friend was at home.

  A servant answered the knock. Rebecca’s maid wasn’t invited to wait inside the house. A few minutes later, the owner of the house came to the door, Rebecca’s maid handed him a note, then the maid hurried back to the coach—and Rupert felt as if he’d been poleaxed.

  He knew the man, not personally, but he knew him by sight, the same Lord Alberton that Nigel had investigated last year after young Edward Oxford had tried to assassinate the queen while she was riding in her carriage in London. The boy had been tried for high treason, but had been acquitted on the grounds of insanity. Nigel, with his suspicious nature, hadn’t let it go as the act of a deranged young man, and suspecting a plot, he had investigated everyone known to be acquainted with Oxford.

  One of those acquaintances was Lord Alberton, who had been seen talking to the boy. While Alberton claimed he’d been castigating Oxford because the boy had tried to block his coach, Nigel reserved his doubts, mainly because Alberton was a Tory who had disagreed with some of the queen’s policies at the time. For six months Nigel had carried out that investigation fanatically. Rupert hadn’t been asked to help, which he was glad of. He didn’t favor hard work going nowhere, which is where that investigation had gone.

  But just because Nigel had found no proof of a conspiracy against the queen, it didn’t mean there hadn’t been one, just that it hadn’t been discovered. Apparently, Sarah was involved with the man if she was having notes delivered to him. It could be no more than one of her power schemes. Or not. Alberton was a bachelor, after all, so Sarah’s interest could even be of a romantic nature. But regardless, Nigel would have to be warned as soon as he returned to the palace.

  Damn, Rupert didn’t doubt now where Rebecca’s loyalties lay. She was obviously firmly in Sarah Wheeler’s camp after all. He was surprised to find himself disappointed with that conclusion. Very disappointed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE BOOKSTORE WAS QUAINT and cluttered with a wide variety of volumes. Nonetheless, Rebecca made her selections quickly. Flora, who didn’t read as fast as Rebecca, was taking longer in deciding which book to buy. But they were in no hurry. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. They could be back at the palace in time for lunch. Or perhaps they could find a restaurant nearby instead. That might be fun. At least it would guarantee no dour Elizabeth being present to spoil one’s appetite.

  Constance wasn’t interested in books and had accepted a cup of tea from the shop’s owner, a friendly older chap who had coaxed the timid girl into a lively discussion about the palace when she had mentioned they were maids of honor there.

  Not wanting tea herself, Rebecca moved on to their next stop, the yardage store across the street. This much larger establishment was filled with all sorts of materials for clothing, and a small section of yarns. No sooner did Rebecca open the door and hear the bell above it tinkling than she was pushed farther inside.

  With an indignant gasp at such rudeness, she swung around to see Rupert’s engaging grin. She certainly hadn’t expected to see him on Bond Street. That bubbly excitement his presence generated came instantly to the fore. But at least she wasn’t utterly bedazzled this time. It was getting easier and easier to look at him and not lose all of her thoughts.

  Still, it took her a moment to notice that he was wearing a satin, burgundy coat with his black pants. The white undershirt was normal, the pants were normal, the lack of a fancy cravat was normal, and the boots were normal, but that coat stood out like a sore thumb at this time of day. She was too flustered to mention that, though.

  “Fancy finding you here,” he said jauntily.

  Nothing about it wa
s fanciful, and she suspected he might have followed her. Why else would he be there?

  “You’ve taken up knitting, have you?” she countered as she walked to the yarn section of the shop.

  “No, I’ve taken up finding you alone. Nice of you to accommodate me.”

  His answer pleased her more than she could say, but she warned him, “I’m not alone.”

  “For the moment you are.”

  She’d stopped in front of a table that was tightly packed with spools of brightly colored yarn. He leaned in close behind her to point at a pink bundle of wool yarn. “That one would suit you.”

  Rebecca barely heard him. All she could do was feel him pressed against her back and try to deal with the new excitement that caused. The clerk across the room smiled at them. Apparently, having determined they were a couple because they had come in together, the clerk considered it normal for them to be standing so close to one another while examining the goods.

  Rebecca used that excuse herself for not moving away from Rupert. It was naughty of her. She knew she should have pushed him away immediately. But she simply didn’t want to break the intimate contact, not quite yet.

  “You have exciting eyes, Becca. Too dark to read, which cloaks you in mystery. Pink would offset that, don’t you think?”

  How was she supposed to think a’tall?! Her pulse was racing out of control. She could even feel him pushing himself against her hips!

  “If we really were alone right now, I think I’d have to lift your skirt.”

  Whispered in his low, masculine voice near her ear, the outrageous remark made her draw in her breath so sharply she almost choked. It completely saved her and brought her to her senses. He’d stepped back as she coughed. She swung around, glaring at him, and was met with a cheeky grin.

  “Will you throw yarn at me if I kiss you again?” he asked with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

  She understood now. He was teasing her. Just teasing, although in the most outrageous, seductive way. But at least he hadn’t really been attempting to seduce her in a yardage shop. His approach, however, was still highly inappropriate. Was he so used to sophisticated women that he’d forgotten how to deal with young innocents who were likely to swoon over such indecent advances? Or did he just not care to make the distinction between sophisticates and innocents? More likely the latter. He was a skirt-chasing rogue, after all. But entirely without scruples? She’d have to reserve judgment on that.

  In response to his question, she warned, “There will not be any more kissing. You were an excellent teacher. I graduated from your class.”

  He laughed, though he was quick to rejoin, “How disappointing. You were supposed to claim ineptitude and ask for further guidance. I don’t offer a position in my arms to just anyone, you know.”

  She tsked. “Of course you do. That is a well-known fact.”

  She turned back to the yarn table. Staring directly at him was detrimental to clear thought. And he still hadn’t said what he was doing here.

  “So you were just passing by and noticed me?” she asked casually.

  He moved to stand next to her. Too close. Their arms were touching now. He pretended to be examining the yarns for a moment.

  Then he said in the same casual tone she had just used, “No, actually, I had to pick up a package down the street. This is my second stop for the day. I was winding my way back from the first when I saw your coach on Wigmore Street and we ended up going in the same direction, so I knew you were around here somewhere. You were visiting friends on Wigmore?”

  She knew immediately that nothing in that question was casual. Good grief, he was interrogating her again! She could have sworn they had moved beyond that. Annoyed, she decided not to satisfy his curiosity, particularly since Nigel must have told Rupert that he’d asked for her cooperation. Nigel obviously trusted her enough to do so, but Rupert didn’t?

  “I don’t have friends in London, but my maid does” was all she said.

  It wasn’t exactly a lie as she suspected his excuse for seeing her coach on Wigmore Street had been. One of Flora’s old loves had moved to London, so she could have visited someone in town. Would Rupert now claim that the house they had stopped at belonged to a lord who certainly wouldn’t be one of Flora’s more intimate friends?

  Before he could, she posed a question of her own. “What do you do for Nigel Jennings?”

  There was no pause at all. “I’m his tailor,” he answered immediately.

  “You’re nothing of the sort.”

  Rupert gave her a cheeky grin. “Meant to say, he’s my tailor.”

  She cast him a thoughtful look. “Interesting that you would lie about it.”

  “You call joking lying?”

  “Evasion is a form of deceit.”

  “Interesting that you would see it that way.” He gave her back her own words. She almost laughed.

  While he hadn’t answered her question any more truthfully than she had answered his, he surprised her by not pursuing his inquiry about why she had been on Wigmore Street. Fingering a white silk yarn within his reach, he said, “I’ll take a vest in this if you run out of ideas to ply your needle toward.”

  She couldn’t help but grin. “Will you indeed? But that implies a gift—”

  He cut in, “Consider it an early Christmas present,” and actually sounded serious.

  “I don’t make presents for mere acquaintances.”

  “We’re more’n that.”

  “We aren’t.”

  “Of course we are, or do you make a habit of kissing mere acquaintances?”

  She huffed. “You did the kissing, not I.”

  He was grinning again. “You fully participated, Becca. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  He’d finally managed to make her blush. She wondered if her cheeks were as bright a color as his coat. Reminded of his unusual apparel, she asked, “Do they actually have costume balls this early in the day in London?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?”

  She glanced pointedly at the sleeve of his brightly colored coat. “A satin coat during the day? Surely you do know that this dandyish fashion went out of style decades ago?”

  He chuckled at her dry tone. “Don’t use the plural, m’dear. It hasn’t been that long. But this coat is for my mother.”

  “Your mother wears men’s coats?”

  “You know, I think she would if she thought she could do it without provoking endless commentary from the ton, but no. I wear it for my mother because it irritates her more than you can imagine to see me wearing satin.”

  She raised a brow at him. “And that pleases you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He said it with a grin, so she didn’t know if he was teasing again. But she realized he must be returning home if he was going to see his mother today. For good? She was terribly disappointed. She wouldn’t see him anymore at the palace? She couldn’t imagine how boring that would be. And how was he supposed to be her go-between with Nigel if he wasn’t nearby at the palace? Surely they didn’t expect her to find him at his home in London.

  She wouldn’t usually be so bold, but she had to know, “Will I see you later at the palace?”

  “Your eagerness overwhelms me.” A corner of his mouth tipped up in a roguish smile.

  She sputtered over the conclusion he’d drawn, “I was merely curious, since it sounded like you were going home. But perhaps I drew the wrong conclusion and you aren’t actually a guest at the palace?”

  “For the moment I am, but I don’t need to be a guest to visit—and you miss me already, don’t you? Admit it.” She rolled her eyes over his continued teasing, but then he assured her in a husky tone, “You know very well you and I aren’t done, Becca.”

  He was no doubt referring to his being the go-between for her and Nigel, yet she got flustered anyway, reading more into those words than he’d intended.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE ST. JOHNS HAD always been city dwellers,
according to their long, distinguished family history. The original home of the St. Johns had been in Old London town, though it had been destroyed centuries ago by a city fire. Much later, they had acquired some property in the country outside of Plymouth that was associated with the Rochwood title that had been earned centuries ago, but it had never been developed. As London had expanded, the St. Johns had moved with it.

  The title Marquis of Rochwood had come to Rupert when his father, Paul St. John, had died. The current house, a mansion on Arlington Street built by Rupert’s paternal grandfather, was his as well. Although its façade resembled those of most other London town houses, inside it was extravagantly appointed.

  Just north of the palace and a block east of Green Park, Arlington was no longer the quiet street it used to be. When Victoria made Buckingham her official royal residence, the first monarch to do so, all of the streets near the palace, including the narrow ones, became secondary routes for city dwellers who wished to avoid the major thoroughfares congested with deliveries to the palace. Residential or commercial construction was usually going on, too, since the entire area had become much more valuable with the royal residence nearby.

  Rupert arrived home at noon, in good time to share luncheon with his mother and his two brothers if they were all available. He always missed his family when he was away too long on one of his missions, and in particular his mother’s amusing attempts to whip him into shape, since she went about it so dramatically. He’d only been gone a few days this time, but his mother would still no doubt complain.

  His brother Avery, who was two years younger than Rupert, didn’t actually live with them anymore. As soon as he’d reached his majority, he’d talked Rupert into turning over to him one of the St. Johns’ many rental properties in town, for him to transform into a bachelor flat where he could keep a mistress if he was lucky enough to find one. Rupert would have been a hypocrite to deny him that luxury, though he had never wished for such a place for himself. Too many bedroom doors were opened for him, so he didn’t really need a home away from home.