A Rogue’s Pleasure (15 page)

“Don't be silly.” She pushed open the door and his heart plummeted. “Tonight is my first dinner party as your footman. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 

The dinner bell clanged. Chambers, Anthony's ancient butler, limped toward the parlor to announce that dinner was served. Alone for the first time in hours, Chelsea looked about the chandelier-lit dining room. The last time she'd been in this room, she'd ended the evening by nearly surrendering her virtue—and her heart. She took a deep breath. Just thinking about that night made her knees tremble and her heart skip.

She forced her thoughts to the present. The sideboard was crowded with covered dishes as was the linen-draped table. No simple family meal, but a feast. Did the Grenville clan always dine so lavishly or was tonight a special occasion?

The rustle of skirts and a girlish giggle interrupted Chelsea's thoughts. Anthony's mother? Surely not? Chelsea folded her hands behind her and waited for the door to the adjoining parlor to open.

Anthony, restored to his customary elegance in starched white neckwear, russet jacket, and nankeen breeches, stepped inside. Even though they'd been living in each other's pockets for more than a week, she still couldn't control the tiny thrill that tripped down her spine every time he entered a room. For a few precious seconds their gazes met. He looked quickly away. Then she noticed the pale, elegant blonde on his arm. And the pearl necklace hanging from the girl's slender white throat.

The fiancée
. Chelsea's heart slammed into her stomach.
Just family,
Anthony had said. Seething, Chelsea watched the girl's high forehead for the telltale flicker of recognition.

There was none, and she relaxed fractionally. Telling herself that no one would recognize her—as One-Eyed Jack or Chelsea Bellamy—in her livery and wig, she studied her rival.

Lady Phoebe's porcelain complexion was tinted with pink, not ashen as it had been when Chelsea had sighted her down the barrel of a pistol. Almond-shaped slate-blue eyes, a delicately molded nose, and small rosebud mouth testified to centuries of breeding. And beauty.

She's everything you're not,
heckled the voice inside Chelsea's head.

“Oh, milord, you are wickedly droll,” the girl drawled, slipping into the chair that Anthony held out.

Chelsea suppressed the urge to retch. She turned her attention to the two middle-aged couples completing the party. A fortyish, fair-haired woman disengaged her arm from that of a
stout, balding gentleman and slipped into her seat. She might have been Anthony's fiancée twenty years hence, so close was the resemblance. The second pair was a petite woman with Anthony's brown eyes and aquiline nose and a florid-featured man in an ill-fitting frock coat.

When they were all seated, Chambers plucked an uncorked champagne bottle from a bucket of shaved ice and began making the rounds.

The stout gentleman—Lady Phoebe's father?—grinned and lifted his glass. “To the betrotheds. May this blasted wedding business be over with as quickly as possible so that you two can get on with the business of married life.”

“Huzzah, well-spoken, Tremont.”

Around the table, glasses clinked. Chelsea's heart sank.
They're celebrating Anthony's wedding
. No wonder he'd tried to discourage her from serving. She'd known he was to marry, but somehow she'd relegated that event to the shadowy—and distant—future. Tonight's celebration brought home that it was not only inevitable but imminent. Numb, Chelsea couldn't seem to move. She stood, stiff and still, as though the soles of her buckled leather shoes were rooted to the floor.

“Serve the vichyssoise,” Chambers hissed, nudging her toward an unwieldy china tureen.

She hefted the tray and started toward the table. Hovering, she dipped the silver ladle. The tureen was full and soup splashed over the sides. Fortunately the guests were too absorbed in their conversation to take notice.

“I say, did you know that Lord Ambrose returned from his expedition to Greece last week?” ventured the florid-featured man—Lord Grenville? “He and Elgin brought back enough artifacts to fill the British Museum's coffers and make themselves richer than Croesus.”

Around a mouthful of champagne, Lord Tremont replied, “Yes, and word has it he's keeping a king's ransom in Greek and Roman coins in his house.”

Ransom
. Chelsea's ears pricked. She held her breath. A moment later she released it, reminding herself that she no longer needed to steal. Anthony would pay Robert's ransom as well as deliver it should their rescue attempt fail.

“He's hosting a supper party at Vauxhall to celebrate his success,” Lady Phoebe's mother trilled. Tapping her spoon against the side of her bowl, she seemed oblivious to Chelsea laboring to fill it. “I assume you've all received invitations?”

“He's let one of the pavilions.” Lady Phoebe's voice was animated. “He's even promising to have
fireworks!
”

Tracing the gold rim of his champagne flute, Anthony said, “Delightful to be sure, but I've no plans to attend.”

“Oh, Anthony.” Lady Phoebe's tone skirted a whine, and Chelsea had the unkind urge to slap her pretty, pale face. “Everyone who is still in town shall be there.”

Anthony's smile thinned. “In that case, I shan't be missed.”

“Really, Anthony, how can you be so churlish?” This time the reproach came from his mother. “To deny Phoebe this small pleasure.”

Anthony's voice hardened. “I deny her nothing. She is free to go. I am sure Reggie can be prevailed upon to escort her.”

Chelsea dunked the ladle into the thick broth once more.
He doesn't love her. She…bores him
. For the first time since supper commenced, Chelsea's spirits lifted.

Phoebe's voice trembled. “Go with my
brother!
” She turned to her mother. “I would be a laughingstock.”

“Hush, dearest,” Lady Tremont soothed. Her steely gaze locked on Anthony. “What fustian, Montrose. You simply must attend. If Phoebe were to be seen without you, the
on dit
would be you'd jilted her. The gossips would have a field day.”

“They usually do.” Anthony's laugh was tinged with bitterness. “And yet they will look mightily foolish after we are wed.”

An awkward silence descended. Chelsea finished serving and stepped back.

“'Tis such a pity that hateful Bonaparte is still at large; otherwise, you might honeymoon in Milan as Tremont and I did,” Lady Tremont lamented at length.

Lady Grenville's slow smile was reminiscent of her son's. “Indeed, Beatrice, and yet an autumn honeymoon in the English countryside can be charming as well.”

Lady Tremont sniffed. “I suppose. I trust the arrangements are all made?”

Lord Tremont lifted his empty glass. “Egads, they had better be with the thirtieth just over a fortnight away.”

The thirtieth
.

Chelsea felt an invisible fist plow into her abdomen. On her way to set down the tray, she halted midstep. The thirtieth was the day Robert's ransom was due. Anthony had promised to deliver it should they fail to foil the kidnapping. How could he possibly plan to keep that midnight appointment when the thirtieth was his…
wedding night!

The answer was simple. He couldn't. Chelsea looked to Anthony, silently beseeching him to say something. Anything. But he only stared straight ahead, a bland smile pasted onto his face. His stranger's face.

He won't even look at me
. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, clogged her throat, and weighted her chest until she could barely breathe. And then the room began to reel. And the tureen began to slip.

Phoebe shrieked. “My gown…you've ruined it!”

For a second, Chelsea just stared at the shards of pottery, potatoes, and cream covering the Aubusson carpet. Then, cheeks flaming, she fell to her knees and began scooping.

Phoebe pulled at her puffed sleeve, globby with soup. “Bother the carpet. Someone get this off me.”

Chelsea jumped to her feet, and then stood helplessly, her hands full of the muck.

Lady Tremont's eyes snapped. “Don't just stand there.
Do
something.”

“Bloody good fortune she wasn't scalded,” Lord Tremont remarked, delving into his soup, “though never did quite grasp the point of serving the stuff cold.”

His wife glared. “Really, Tremont, you do make the most irrelevant observations.”

Chambers, wrinkled face flushed, hurried forward with a wet cloth.

“My apologies, milady.” He turned anguished eyes to Anthony. “In my sixty years of service, nothing like this has ever happened.” To Chelsea, he barked, “You, get to the kitchen. Fetch water and a brush and don't dawdle.”

Chelsea didn't have to be asked a second time. She turned and fled.

 

Lady Tremont finished blotting Phoebe's sleeve and resumed her seat. “Where is that footman?”

“I have a feeling he may not return,” Anthony replied, picking up his champagne flute.

Sipping his smuggled champagne, presiding over his plentiful table, gazing at his beautiful—if somewhat soppy—fiancée, he told himself that he had everything a man could
possibly want. So why did he feel as though his entire world had just caved in?

He'd meant to tell Chelsea about the wedding date, of course, but in his own time and in his own way.

Who do you think you're fooling? You didn't want her to find out at all.

Puffed with pride, he'd all but convinced himself there would be no need to make good on his promise to deliver the ransom. Surely the savior of Albuera could manage to rescue one hostage, guarded only by a two-bit felon and his half-wit accomplice?

It was obvious that Chelsea didn't believe so. The memory of her look of shocked betrayal would stay with him for some time.

Still flushed, Chambers started to clear away their bowls to make room for the next course.

Taking advantage of the bustle, Lady Grenville laid a hand on Anthony's arm. “Why not offer Phoebe your escort?” she whispered. “It would mean so much to her.”

“It is but one night from your life,” Lady Tremont chimed in. “Surely at your young age you can spare it.”

Around a mouthful of roll, Lord Tremont said, “Take the advice of a man with twenty-odd years of marriage under his belt and give way now. They'll only pester you 'til you do.”

This time Anthony made no attempt to smile. “No offense, sir, but I don't intend on spending my married life under the cat's paw.”

Lord Tremont guffawed. “No man does, my boy. No man ever does.”

 

Knees weak, Chelsea made it down the back stairs to the kitchen where the rest of the servants were still at dinner.

A pie-faced scullery maid popped up from her place at the end of the long pine table. “Can I 'elp ye?”

“Sit ye, Lettie.” The cook, a pig-faced matron, tugged the girl back down. “By the looks o' 'is trousers, I'd say 'e's already helped hisself.”

Raucous laughter rose. Face aflame, Chelsea followed the sea of sly gazes to her breeches. A large dollop of cream crowned the crotch. Wishing she might join the pile of ashes in the fireplace grate, she hurried to the sink.

What a bloody fool I am
. She grabbed an empty bucket and started cranking. She who had always prided herself on her level head had been deceived by a handsome face, a lying tongue, and a practiced pair of hands.

She dipped a cloth in the water and began furiously scrubbing herself. Touring East London taverns, staking out the kidnappers' lodging, arranging Robert's rescue—to Anthony, all were nothing more than components of an elaborate game. Hadn't he said as much himself? “Frankly, I'm bored,” he'd answered when she'd pressed to know why he would help her after she'd insulted and refused him.

Emotions—anger, humiliation, confusion—rushed her. She threw the balled cloth into the bucket, and water sloshed over the sides. Anthony was toying with her. He'd used her tragedy, her growing dependence on him, as a means to seduce her. What a dolt she was not to have seen through him before now. The man was a self-confessed rake. Preying on trusting women was what rakes did, after all. The past nine days, he'd worked hard to charm her, to win her trust. God help her, he'd nearly succeeded.

Nearly? Earlier in his study she'd very nearly bared her soul to him. Now she had to face the hard truth: she was perilously close to falling in love with the cad.

She thought of how he'd avoided her gaze after his future father-in-law blurted out the wedding date, and fresh anger bubbled. He wasn't just a liar; he was a coward too.

She might be a dupe, Anthony's dupe, but she was no coward.

Her chin snapped up. She must forget Anthony. Only then could she focus all her energy, all her
intellect,
on saving Robert. Somehow she had to raise the rest of the ransom money. Her time and Robert's was rapidly running out. A plan, a solid one this time, was what she needed. Not only must it be solid but foolproof.

Her thoughts flitted to the dinner conversation she'd just overheard.
A king's ransom in Greek and Roman coins…
What was it the goldsmith, Tobbitt, had said?
Everything in London has a price—and a purchaser.

Anthony was adamant about not attending the Vauxhall affair. Even so, he was invited. No doubt his invitation was lying about somewhere. Perhaps it was on his desk in the study?

She left the bucket in the sink and headed back upstairs, ignoring the curious stares that followed her.

The dining room doors were ajar, an artifact of her hasty escape. Tiptoeing past, she caught the scraping of cutlery and muted conversation. Consuming all that food would take hours more, plenty of time…