A Rogue’s Pleasure Read online

  The last time she lost control was the morning of Robert’s departure for London. She’d known it would likely be a year or more before she saw her brother again, assuming he survived the French soldiers’ bullets and the malaria sweeping through Wellington’s Peninsular Army. Yet she’d wasted their last precious moments together upbraiding him for his past irresponsible behavior. Now guilt stabbed at her.

  Unless she could raise the ransom, she would never be able to retract those scathing reproaches. Never have the chance to put her arms around Robert and tell him that, in spite of everything, she loved him. Choking back tears, she slipped the folded message into her pocket. Her baby brother was in grave danger, and she would do everything in her power to save him.

  “Chelsea, my dear, come in.” Squire Dumfreys rose from the desk and hurried to where Chelsea stood in the study doorway.

  She bit her lower lip. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Nonsense. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  The squire was tall and distinguished, his dark hair shot with silver at the temples. In his early fifties, he still attracted his fair share of admiration from matrons and maids alike. Ordinarily, expert tailoring disguised his tendency toward portliness, but the afternoon was warm, and he had removed his jacket. The bulge at his midriff strained the buttons of his embroidered waistcoat.

  His hand slid to her shoulder as he guided her to the camelback sofa. His eyes, however, slid a good deal farther until she felt as though she stood before him stripped to her shift.

  “How charming you look. You’ve blossomed into a woman this twenty-first year, and a beautiful one at that.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Fighting the urge to flee, she sat and untied her bonnet strings.

  “May I offer you some refreshment? A glass of ratafia, perhaps?”

  Chelsea set the bonnet aside and smoothed her hair. “No thank you. I do not care for anything.” Heart hammering, she watched him pour himself a glass of port. “I’m afraid I’ve come to ask a favor.”

  He strolled toward her, glass in hand. “My dear child, I’ve always told you that if I can ever be of any assistance, you have only to ask.”

  “Perhaps you had better hear me out first.”

  Bypassing a pair of leather chairs, he sat next to her, his shoulder brushing hers. Fear frissoned through her.

  He leaned closer and patted the top of her hand. “Nonsense. Now tell me, how can I help?”

  “I need to borrow—” she drew a bracing breath, “—five hundred pounds.”

  His smile slipped. “That is a great deal of money.” He cleared his throat. “May I ask why you require such a sum?”

  She hesitated, twisting her hands in her lap.

  “You aren’t in some sort of trouble, I trust?”

  “I—I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” Realizing how rude she must sound, she rushed on. “It would only be a loan. I promise to repay you with interest after the next harvest.”

  “This loan…it wouldn’t happen to be for that young scamp Robert, now would it?”

  She studied his face, wondering how she had betrayed herself. “How did you know?”

  He chuckled, once more the indulgent uncle figure of her childhood. “Robert would not be the first young man to be lured into deep play by an experienced cardsharp.”

  Chelsea exhaled in relief. Praying she could carry off the deception, she bowed her head. “Robert is having, er…difficulties, I’m afraid.” It was, after all, the truth.

  His smile was sage. “Young men will sow their wild oats. ’Tis inevitable. You must not be too harsh with Robert for a first offense.”

  Her throat tightened. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Very well, my dear, you shall have your five hundred pounds.” His tone was beneficent, his smile benign. “I shall contact my solicitor directly. It should take only a few days for him to remand the sum.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes. “Oh, thank you. Thank you, sir. You shan’t regret it, I promise.”

  “I’m sure I shan’t. But not another word about repayment. All this sordid talk of loans and interest dishonors me. I fully intend on making you a present of it.”

  She turned to him, shamefaced in the presence of such generosity. “Oh, no, you are too good to us. I couldn’t possibly accept.”

  “But you must.” He raised a hand to stem her protests. “It gives me great pleasure to assist you.” He drained his glass, then set it aside. “In fact, Chelsea, you have always given me the greatest pleasure.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Sir?”

  “You were such a delightful child. I can see you even now. Such a pretty little thing. Those big, turquoise eyes of yours, so innocent looking up into mine.” Laying a hand on each of her shoulders, he drew her closer before she could move away. “Your child’s hands, so soft, so small, reaching up for me to take you in my arms.”

  The benevolent mask fell away, revealing the stark desire beneath. His hand slid down her arm, enfolding her cold fingers in his clammy grasp.

  “Do you remember how you used to perch on my lap, letting me stroke your hair while I read to you?” He carried their linked hands to his face, stroking her knuckles down his smoothly shaven jaw. “Oh, Chelsea, it’s been an eternity since I’ve felt your hands on me, since I’ve been able to kiss and fondle you as I once did.”

  A sense of unreality descended, as though Chelsea’s true self had separated from her body and stood watching from the safety of a shadowed corner. This can’t be happening. This must be a dream, a nightmare.

  His glassy-eyed gaze fell to her breasts. “Even in that hideous riding habit, your beauty shines forth like a beacon to rescue a drowning man at sea. Only you can save me, Chelsea. Save me!”

  Turning over her hand, he pressed his wet lips to her palm. The touch of his mouth returned her to reality. Fright churned her stomach in queasy waves.

  “Squire Dumfreys…please.” She struggled to pull free. “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “Oh, but I must. If I keep the words locked inside me any longer, I shall burst. Chelsea, you must know how I feel about you. How I burn for you.”

  Perspiration gathered between her shoulder blades. She edged to the back of the sofa. “Please, release me.”

  His eyes hardened. “I’ve waited a long time for you, Chelsea, but I’ve done with waiting.”

  He shoved her down onto the cushions and hurled himself on top of her. Trapped between the sofa and his sprawling weight, panic paralyzed her. For a terrifying moment, she thought she would suffocate.

  “Stop!” In vain, she pushed at his solid mass. “You were Father’s friend. This isn’t right.”

  “Not right?” His eyes narrowed. “Not right? ’Twas I who taught you the steps to the country dances so you’d not shame yourself at your first assembly. To ride astride even though your mama forbade it. ’Tis only right that I be the one to teach you…this.”

  His mouth sought hers. She turned her head, and his slathering kiss fell on her cheek. Bile rose in her throat.

  He covered her ear with his mouth, his tongue filling the canal. “No one need ever know. It would be our secret. You used to like secrets when you were little. Do you remember how you used to reach into my pockets to fish for sweetmeats? Reach inside now and feel what I have for you.”

  He dragged her hand down to his trouser front and pressed her palm against the hard bulge. Shaking, she tried to yank free, but he held her. Helpless, she searched his face. Froth filmed his upper lip, and a stream of perspiration edged its way from forehead to temple. Obviously he was too much a prisoner of lust to respond to reason. Reason.

  Cogito, ergo sum.

  From the back of her brain, her father’s voice urged her to chart a different course.

  “Very well, then.” She grabbed the vulnerable flesh through the breeches and squeezed. Hard.

  He howled. Chelsea sprang off the sofa and ran to the door. The knob slipped in her damp
grasp.

  “Fancy it rough, do you?”

  He caught her from behind and slammed her against the paneling. Her forehead hit with a heavy thud. Black, spidery shapes darted before her eyes. She screamed.

  “Let me go!”

  He wrenched her arms behind her and clasped a hand about her joined wrists.

  “You’ll not be sorry, my girl, I promise you. Five hundred pounds is a pittance compared to all that shall be yours. Fine gowns, jewels, you shall have them all.” His grip slackened, and he shaped her buttocks with his free hand. “Now turn around and kiss me.”

  No!” She whirled to face him. God help me, not even to save Robert.

  She lifted her knee and drove it between his thighs.

  Dumfreys’s legs buckled, and he sank to the floor. Cupping his groin, he rocked back and forth.

  He looked up at her, his face contorted. “Bitch!”

  Wrenching open the door, Chelsea fled down the corridor, through the foyer, and out the columned entrance. Dulcinea was tethered to a post in the front yard. Gasping, Chelsea untied her mare’s reins and scrambled into the saddle.

  The squire limped onto the portico.

  “You’ll pay Chelsea!” He shook a clenched fist. “I’ll have you yet, and the next time I’ll not be so gentle.”

  Chelsea had no intention of giving him a chance to make good on his chilling promise. She urged Dulcinea into a full gallop and flew through the hedgerow-bordered lanes. Her loosened hair lashed at her face, but she didn’t slow her pace until she passed through her own entrance gate and Oatlands’s red brick facade came into view.

  Riding into the stable, she dismounted on wobbly legs. Marcus, the stable boy, emerged from the tack room.

  “Gooday, miss.”

  Not trusting her voice, Chelsea responded with a nod. Limbs weak, she handed over the reins and stepped away from the horse.

  He stroked the side of Dulcinea’s lathered neck. “Ye’ve ridden ’er ’ard, I see. Cain’t say as I blame ye. ’Tis a glorious day for it.”

  Can it be that I don’t look any different? “Yes, well…please see that she gets water, a walk, and a rub down before you feed her.”

  Chelsea caught the boy’s puzzled stare and flushed. Ordinarily she cared for Dulcinea herself, but today was no ordinary day. Feeling as transparent as glass, she hurried from the stable. Outside, birds sang and sunshine warmed her face, but all she wanted was to be inside where it was silent and cool. And safe.

  She ran across the lawn to the path. Tall grass and weeds had overtaken the stones, and she hiked her skirts to keep from tripping. Ahead lay the house. With its fanlight-surmounted doorway, ionic columns, and fleet of symmetrically arranged sash windows, Oatlands had been the envy of the neighborhood when her great-grandfather had built it fewer than a hundred years before. It was as one drew near that the signs of neglect—cracked stone facings, a broken windowpane stuffed with a cloth, a column missing its capital—became apparent. But it was still home. Her home. The one place where she felt truly safe.

  She gained the portico, turned the brass doorknob, and stepped inside. Teeth gritted against the yawning creak, she gently released the handle. The front hall was deserted, as she’d hoped it would be. She tiptoed toward the back of the house, the heels of her half-boots nearly soundless on the threadbare carpet.

  The library had been her father’s sanctuary. Now it was hers. Crossing its threshold, the scent of sandalwood—her father’s scent—enveloped her like a hug. Throat knotted, she closed the oak door and moved to the mahogany desk. She could almost see her father seated behind it, head bent, spectacles slipping toward the tip of his nose, big hands cradling one of his precious books. Tears misting her eyes, she touched the back of the cracked leather chair. It looked so big, so empty.

  Papa, what shall I do? Her gaze fell on the brandy decanter. Denuded of its silver tray and crystal goblets, it set at one lonely corner of the desk along with a single chipped glass. Hands shaking, she lifted the stopper and poured out three fingers’ worth of brandy. Her father had permitted her the occasional “nip,” reasoning that, in these modern times, a young woman should learn to hold her drink in case some young man attempted to ply her with it. “But ’tis our little secret,” he’d say with a wink and a significant look toward the closed door, a reminder that what Mama didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Papa had been full of such delightfully liberal notions, including disengaging Chelsea’s governess—a tight-lipped scold whom she’d detested—and taking over her education himself.

  To the best of fathers. Facing his empty chair, Chelsea raised her glass and downed the drink. Eyes watering—this time from the brandy, she told herself—she set the glass aside, stepped behind the desk, and settled into the sheltering depths of the chair. Leaning back, she felt the knot in her stomach start to unfurl. Later she’d take a bath—a scalding one—to wash away Dumfreys’s cologne and ease the achiness creeping into her upper arms and wrists. For the present, all she wanted was to pretend that the afternoon—the nightmare—had never happened. Closing her eyes and tucking her feet beneath her, she could almost believe.

  She must have slept. The hallway clock struck a second chord, then a third. She sat up and stretched. The inside of her mouth felt fuzzy from the brandy and her head still ached, yet she felt better. More in control. A bath would be perfect.

  She started up, but the brisk knock stayed her. Her heart caromed. The squire? No, it must be Jack, punctilious as ever, with her tea. Chelsea sucked in her breath, marshaled her calm, and gave the call to enter.

  The butler shambled in. Gaze fixed on her face, he set the tray in front of her.

  “Why, Miss Chelsea, ye look a fright.”

  Stooped with rheumatism, Jack sported only one working eye, but anyone could see he’d been a splendid Goliath in his day. When Chelsea was a child, he’d regaled her with tales of his bygone days as the notorious highwayman, One-Eyed Jack.

  She suspected his exploits were greatly exaggerated, but Jack had indeed been an outlaw. Fortunately her father was the magistrate when Jack was apprehended. The penalty for highway robbery was hanging, but Sir Richard argued that since Jack had never killed anyone, leniency was warranted. He presented the highwayman with a choice—he could either go into service in the Bellamy household or to prison. Jack submitted to gainful employment as the lesser of two evils. Under his watchful eye, not so much as a spoon had gone missing in well nigh thirty years.

  Until, that is, Chelsea pawned the family silver to make ends meet. Her mother’s tea service was the last to go. She’d sold it to Mrs. Pettigrew the month before for a fraction of its value.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Her father had placed his faith—and the last of the family money—in one of the hundred private banks that failed in 1810. That left only the estate, which was entailed. The adjacent properties had been parceled off one by one over the years to settle debts, and the few farms that remained were heavily mortgaged. Her eyes swept over the library. Other than the frayed furnishings and the dusty tomes lining the bookshelves, there was nothing left to sell. Nothing that would fetch anywhere near the sum she needed.

  A loan from Dumfreys had been her last—her only—hope.

  Oh, God, what am I to do?

  Chelsea lifted the earthenware pot and poured tea through the strainer. Without warning, a year’s worth of pent-up tears broke free. Suddenly she was seeing the tray of chipped and mismatched crockery through a veil of water. Her cup overflowed, splashing tea onto the saucer.

  Jack took the teapot from her and set it down. “Blue devils got ye, lass?”

  Blast, I’m crying. Head bowed, Chelsea nodded.

  “I’ll ’ave Cook make ye one o’ her possets. Ye’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  Weary, she picked up a napkin and wiped her eyes. “I’m afraid even Mrs. Potter’s expertise with herbs will not remedy this.”

  She pulled the ransom letter from her pocket and
held it out to him. Then she remembered that Jack couldn’t read. Unfolding the hated missive, she read the message aloud.

  When she looked up from the paper, Jack wore a mask of bulldog fury.

  “The filthy, yaller-bellied dog. To snaffle young Master Robin for a measly five hundred quid.”

  “Really, Jack, the amount is hardly the issue.” The blackmailer might as well have asked for the crown jewels for all the hope she had of raising the sum.

  Expression softening, he laid a gnarled paw on her shoulder. “Now, now, don’t ye worry yer pretty head, Miss Chelsea. Ole Jack’ll think o’ something. As One-Eye, I come through worse fixes than this.”

  Cogito, ergo sum. Chelsea peered over Jack’s broad, lopsided shoulders, an idea taking shape in her mind. But no, it was too fantastic, too desperate. She didn’t dare set such a scheme into motion. Or did she?

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Telling herself she was merely thinking aloud, she cleared her throat. “As it happens, a solution of sorts has just occurred to me.”

  Jack’s bushy eyebrows bolted upright. He straightened and folded his arms across his barrel chest.

  “I knowed ye since ye was born, Miss Chelsea.” He wagged a thick finger. “I seen that look enough to know it spells mischief. What kind o’ plan?”

  Her gaze floated to the ceiling. Can I really do this? “I was just thinking that perhaps the time has come to resurrect One-Eyed Jack.”

  Jack’s square jaw dropped. “Lord luv ye, Miss Chelsea, ’tis the shock. It’s addled your brain.”

  Nervous energy thrummed through her. She shot to her feet and rounded the desk. “Nonsense. With the proper clothing—and an eye patch—I think I might make for a passable One-Eyed Jack, Junior, don’t you?” Shoving her hands into her pockets, she swaggered across the room.