The Rogue (11 page)

There
was safety in numbers, after all. Ethan was feeling the need for a
bit of safety from the audacious Lady Jane Pennington.

He'd
wriggle his way out of this "mission" later.

Jane
knew her uncle would be occupied with his card game after supper. All
the men had left and the women—mostly Lady Maywell and the Mob,
since inviting women to supper would only defeat the purpose—had
retired to the drawing room and were listening to each other play and
sing, or perhaps playing a few hands of cards themselves.

Jane
begged off, claiming the headache—which wasn't far from the
truth. Something was pounding indeed.

Mr.
Damont had run from her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns, leaving
her standing oddly bereft and slightly chilled in the hall.

What
a strange, tense moment that had been. She'd never been so close to a
man, standing chest to breast that way…

She
pressed a hand to her flushed face. She should be very much shamed by
her own behavior. She wasn't. Stimulated, perhaps, and a good bit
disturbed, but there didn't seem be a hit of shame in the mix. It
seemed she had little of that organ left.

Her
obvious flush helped her case, fortunately. Her harried aunt only
nodded assent, looking slightly envious as she did so. Jane tried to
cover her story as well as possible when she went to her room, even
by sending the maid for a cool cloth and then telling her she didn't
want to be disturbed.

She
mussed the bed artistically and even donned her own night rail and
wrapper, so that if she was caught she could say she was looking for
something to read herself to sleep.

Then,
when she was sure that the entire household was occupied elsewhere,
Jane made her way to the seldom-used wing of the house. The room
where she'd seen the glimmer of candlelight was here.

One
by one, she entered each south-facing room and counted the windows.
This wing was not kept well heated and Jane was glad for her thick
brocade wrapper. The first room was an unused chamber that looked as
though it had been meant for a music room. The second was smaller and
more charming, reminding Jane of her mother's morning room where her
mother had done the menus and her correspondence. Each of these had
two tall windows to the south, so the next room must be the one, just
as she'd thought.

The
door to the next room was locked. Jane pondered the lock for a long
moment. She'd heard of picking a lock with a hairpin, but that was a
skill she'd never acquired.

Lady
Maywell kept a key ring, as did the housekeeper and the butler. Jane
dared not venture belowstairs for fear of being caught far out of her
place, but Lady Maywell's bedchamber was not far from her own.
Padding as swiftly and silently through the halls as she could, Jane
paused outside her aunt's door. If her aunt's maid was present, Jane
would have to come up with some pretense for entering, a pretense
that might come unraveled later.

Still,
faint heart never won piddle-squat. Taking a deep breath, Jane
pressed open her aunt's door.

There
was no one within. If she hurried, she ought to be able to use the
key and get the key ring back to her aunt before anyone saw it was
missing.

Jane
turned and left the room, forcing herself to walk sedately, and
perhaps even a bit weakly, until she reached a hall where she knew no
one would be about. Then she ran, her slippers making a sound like
bird wings on the runner.

Jane
hurriedly tried the first five keys at random, until her nervous
fingers dropped the ring to the carpet and caused her to lose all
track of what she had tried.

"Oh,
horse apples!" she hissed to herself. Then she forced herself to
slow her frenzy. Methodically using one key, then the next, then the
next, she worked her way around the key ring until only two remained.

The
second-to-last key slid easily into the keyhole and she heard the
tumblers within give a well-oiled turn. The door was open.

Quickly
she picked up her candle and slipped within.

Lord
Maywell's house was very fine, although Ethan had detected a bit of
crumbling about the edges, but one could tell that it was in his
lordship's card room where truly no expense was spared. The fine
plush chairs, the deep emerald felt on the card table—even the
chandelier was one especially commissioned to shine downward onto the
cards without creating a glare for the players. Ethan knew this
because he'd fancied installing one just like it someday.

It
was clear that his lordship took his card playing most seriously.

Ethan
seated himself at the remaining empty chair with a nod of apology to
Lord Maywell. "I beg your pardon, my lord."

Maywell
stared at him for a moment, obviously waiting for an explanation, but
Ethan had none to give. He could hardly tell the man he'd been
rubbing body parts with Lady Jane, could he?

The
cards were dealt and Ethan began to get down to the business of
playing. He'd no backup cards on him tonight, for he'd sworn he
wasn't coming here. He was reduced to using the basics—observation,
distraction, bluff—to create just the right environment for
Lord Maywell to begin to win.

Surely
if his lordship beat Ethan Damont at cards, he'd lose interest in
extending any more such invitations. Without such invitations, the
Liar's Club couldn't very well expect Ethan to continue with this
madness?

Except
Maywell wasn't winning.

Ethan
watched the cards and the other players carefully. The fellows at the
table were all cut from the same cloth. They played with careless
panache, the way gentlemen were supposed to play. One didn't quibble
over the loss of a few or twenty pounds at the tables. To even
consider such a trivial loss would imply that one wasn't entirely
flush—a deadly fate in Society.

No,
it couldn't be that one of them was interfering with his control of
the game. That only left himself—and while his heart wasn't
truly into it, he was still capable of manipulating such an easy
table—and Lord Maywell. Finally, Ethan gave in and allowed his
lordship to lose. As the pot was gathered, the vowels totaled, and
the cards shuffled, Ethan sat back and contemplated Lord Maywell
through the wafting tobacco smoke.

Maywell
was contemplating him right back.

Well,
this wasn't going quite as planned. Ethan would have to come up with
another way to never be invited back. "Your niece seems a fine
young lady," he said conversationally.

Maywell
nodded. "We've grown very fond of Jane," he said
tonelessly.

Ethan
raised a brow. "Grown? Were you not fond of her before?"

The
other blokes froze at that impertinence, sliding their wary gaze
between Ethan and Maywell, who both sat cool and relaxed, leaning
back in their chairs in an open manner.

Maywell
only grunted. "Never knew her before this Season. She's my
wife's sister's daughter. They'd not talked for years. Then one day
here comes Jane with a carriage full of trunks, to stay with us for
the summer."

Ethan
could tell the others were fascinated with any tidbit about Jane.
That bothered him a bit. He ignored it. "That must be very nice
for you all," he said, in a voice implying he could not care
less. "She's not much to look at though, is she?"

The
others began to protest avidly. Lady Jane was the loveliest,
brightest, most delightful—blah, blah, blah. None of them had
actually spoken to the acerbic, opinionated Jane, that was obvious.
For a moment, Ethan almost felt sorry for the girl. He knew what it
was like to walk around with a sticky label on one's forehead,
telling the world in precisely which slot they were to fit one. Of
course, Lady Jane's slot was velvet-lined and diamond-studded, so
Ethan didn't bother feeling sorry for long.

Maywell
didn't change expression. "We've had no complaints," he
said calmly.

Ethan
shrugged carelessly. "It matters not a jot to me, of course."

One
of the others laughed disbelievingly at that. "Well, of course
it wouldn't, Damont! I mean, really!"

Ethan
slid an even glance the speaker's way. "Right. Thank you so much
for reminding me."

"No
thanks needed, old man," the speaker said earnestly.

Ethan
was barely able to refrain from rolling his eyes. Maywell only looked
amused. "What good company we have tonight," he said in a
lazily jolly tone.

The
other blokes—Ethan was just going to think of them as the
Suitors from now on—the Suitors all looked very pleased with
themselves. Ethan hoped Jane did pick one of these idiots. He'd like
to watch her trample such a husband all the rest of their days.

Except
that she really was too good for this lot. Even with her odd ways and
cruel reputation, Lady Jane Pennington was of a higher order
altogether. These half-wits hadn't a chance in hell of winning such a
prize.

Maywell
didn't think so either, Ethan could tell. Why did his lordship
surround himself with such trivial young men? Didn't the fellow have
anyone his own size to pick on?

Ah,
yes. Enter himself.

The
discussion turned political. Only Lord Maywell himself kept silent on
the subject, surprisingly.

All
Ethan had to do was to endure the rest of this evening, then he could
go back to the Liars and tell them they were wrong about Lord Harold
Maywell.

But
what if they aren't?

Well,
that wasn't his headache, was it? If the Liars wanted to believe the
word of a halfhearted gambler they'd indentured into their little
ring, then that was their complaint, wasn't it? After all, they were
idiots to be trusting someone like him—he was a
cheat
,
for God's sake!

Can
you really let Maywell go free without knowing for sure?

"Just
watch me," Ethan muttered under his breath.

"What
was that, Damont?" Maywell blew out a smoke ring.

Ethan
patted his pockets idly and took out one of his own special cheroots.
One of the Suitors had evidently heard of this particular habit of
Ethan's, for he protested immediately. "Not that, Damont, I beg
of you!"

Ethan
blinked innocently. "I say, do you blokes object if I smoke this
in here?"

The
Suitors objected. Strenuously. Ethan didn't blame them, for his
cheroots were the foulest creations under the sun. It was a tobacco
blend of his own invention, one he kept for just such occasions.

He
had yet to meet another player who could bear the smell of it, and
pulling one from his jacket pocket never failed to elicit a unanimous
call for a break and a polite request that Ethan take himself and his
cheroot elsewhere. Ethan usually only used it when he thought he
might be losing. It gave him a chance to replace any necessary toys
of the trade, not to mention the chance to sneak a peek at his fellow
players' cards when leaving and reentering the room.

Ethan
bowed to the other players. "My lord, sirs—if you
gentlemen will excuse me for a moment?"

Maywell
narrowed his eyes, but nodded shortly. The man obviously disliked any
interruption of his gaming.

"Don't
get lost this time, Damont," Lord Maywell growled around his
cheroot. "I'll be wanting to win a bit of that back."

Ethan
was only winning because Maywell was arranging it, but still Ethan
delivered a fairly respectful nod. He couldn't toady very well, but
that only seemed to make Maywell regard him all the more highly.

Once
outside on the terrace, Ethan drew out his cheroot again and lit it,
drawing only lightly on the bitter smoke. He needed to make this
last, by God. He needed time to think.

As
he pondered his lordship's behavior, Ethan narrowed his eyes against
his own smoke. God, these things were foul.

Perhaps
it was not so surprising… if his lordship was conducting some
sort of test.

"
Charm
him
,"
the Liars had said. "
Get
him to let you in
."

It
was a gamble, trying to make a guess as to what Lord Maywell wanted
to hear. Choose rightly, and he'd find himself drawn into his worst
nightmare—responsibility. Chose wrongly, and he wouldn't be
invited back.