Read Online The Ruin Of A Rogue by Miranda Neville - Free Book Online
Authors: Miranda Neville
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the bars to make out Lithgow’s pleasant baritone. She wanted to hear about Lithgow’s travel plans. After all, they might very well include her.
“The French have inconvenienced those of us who find the shores of England limiting.”
“Lord, Julian. How excited we were in ’89. Being able to see the Revolution at first hand was well worth getting kicked out of Oxford. What a time the four of us had in Paris. And now Robert is dead and Damian is God knows where.”
“Persia, I believe.”
“Exactly. Do you remember how wooden-faced the respectable English became over the whole affair?” Anne smiled to herself, remembering her grandfather expressing himself strongly on the subject. “Afraid the infection of liberty and equality would spread here. As though the fat, stolid English would ever take to the streets. I miss Paris. Pity things got out of hand.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“You were the last of us to leave. You witnessed what happened in the Terror.”
“Some of it,” Denford answered curtly. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You never did. Was it a woman?”
“It was long ago and I never think of it.”
The men fell silent for a minute or two and the scent of tobacco grew stronger. Fearing the smoke might set off a cough, Anne inched back and waited.
The duke broke the silence. “And what are you up to, Marcus? My spies tell me you haven’t been gracing the gaming hells of London with your presence.”
“I’m a reformed character. My valet undresses me and puts me to bed early, then I rise with the dawn and fill my days with useful study.” Although he spoke carelessly, Anne was pleased by evidence of Marcus’s sincerity. Soundlessly she mouthed the word. Marcus. She liked it. A noble Roman name.
Denford emitted a short, derisive laugh. “I’d like to see that. Almost I am tempted to invite you to live at Denford House. Almost. And only for the cigars.”
“Thank you, Julian, but I’m quite content in my own rooms.”
“I’d believe you if I hadn’t seen them. Your lodging is a slum.”
“In St. James’s? I don’t think so. As Lewis always said, the address itself is what matters.”
“A slum is in the eye of the beholder, and to this beholder you live in a pigsty.”
“You insult my servant. Travis would be desolated to hear you say so. Or he might agree.” She could hear his smile.
Boots crunched on gravel and the voices grew faint so she could barely make out their idle banter. She’d heard nothing she shouldn’t. Huddling in her cloak, she was about to leave when the volume rose and Marcus’s words became clear again. “Your house is conveniently placed. Think how much beauty resides beyond that fine wall.”
“And how much wealth.”
“I wondered if your ultimate aim was to win the heiress,” Marcus said with a short laugh. “Flirting with her hostess is a clever stratagem to get close to a girl who strikes me as excessively reserved. Toying with Damian’s bride may amuse you, but I doubt you will succeed there and I’m sure you know it. Lady Windermere strikes me as a proper chit under the veneer of worldliness.”
“You underestimate me.”
“Never that. But judging by the state of your house you could use a fortune, and marriage is the easiest way to get one. I’d expect you to take advantage of Miss Brotherton’s proximity.”
“I make it a point never to do the expected. The Brotherton lucre is yours. If you can bring it home, which I doubt. How goes your pursuit of the lady?”
T he sixth sense that had kept him alive and relatively prosperous in an occupation fraught with hazards told Marcus not to answer, to deny mercenary motives toward Anne Brotherton. Yet his instincts hadn’t been much use to him lately and might be as flawed as his luck. Julian wouldn’t betray him. He might try to outwit him. He might be in pursuit of the same end, no matter what he claimed. But there was truth to the adage about honor among
“The French have inconvenienced those of us who find the shores of England limiting.”
“Lord, Julian. How excited we were in ’89. Being able to see the Revolution at first hand was well worth getting kicked out of Oxford. What a time the four of us had in Paris. And now Robert is dead and Damian is God knows where.”
“Persia, I believe.”
“Exactly. Do you remember how wooden-faced the respectable English became over the whole affair?” Anne smiled to herself, remembering her grandfather expressing himself strongly on the subject. “Afraid the infection of liberty and equality would spread here. As though the fat, stolid English would ever take to the streets. I miss Paris. Pity things got out of hand.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“You were the last of us to leave. You witnessed what happened in the Terror.”
“Some of it,” Denford answered curtly. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You never did. Was it a woman?”
“It was long ago and I never think of it.”
The men fell silent for a minute or two and the scent of tobacco grew stronger. Fearing the smoke might set off a cough, Anne inched back and waited.
The duke broke the silence. “And what are you up to, Marcus? My spies tell me you haven’t been gracing the gaming hells of London with your presence.”
“I’m a reformed character. My valet undresses me and puts me to bed early, then I rise with the dawn and fill my days with useful study.” Although he spoke carelessly, Anne was pleased by evidence of Marcus’s sincerity. Soundlessly she mouthed the word. Marcus. She liked it. A noble Roman name.
Denford emitted a short, derisive laugh. “I’d like to see that. Almost I am tempted to invite you to live at Denford House. Almost. And only for the cigars.”
“Thank you, Julian, but I’m quite content in my own rooms.”
“I’d believe you if I hadn’t seen them. Your lodging is a slum.”
“In St. James’s? I don’t think so. As Lewis always said, the address itself is what matters.”
“A slum is in the eye of the beholder, and to this beholder you live in a pigsty.”
“You insult my servant. Travis would be desolated to hear you say so. Or he might agree.” She could hear his smile.
Boots crunched on gravel and the voices grew faint so she could barely make out their idle banter. She’d heard nothing she shouldn’t. Huddling in her cloak, she was about to leave when the volume rose and Marcus’s words became clear again. “Your house is conveniently placed. Think how much beauty resides beyond that fine wall.”
“And how much wealth.”
“I wondered if your ultimate aim was to win the heiress,” Marcus said with a short laugh. “Flirting with her hostess is a clever stratagem to get close to a girl who strikes me as excessively reserved. Toying with Damian’s bride may amuse you, but I doubt you will succeed there and I’m sure you know it. Lady Windermere strikes me as a proper chit under the veneer of worldliness.”
“You underestimate me.”
“Never that. But judging by the state of your house you could use a fortune, and marriage is the easiest way to get one. I’d expect you to take advantage of Miss Brotherton’s proximity.”
“I make it a point never to do the expected. The Brotherton lucre is yours. If you can bring it home, which I doubt. How goes your pursuit of the lady?”
T he sixth sense that had kept him alive and relatively prosperous in an occupation fraught with hazards told Marcus not to answer, to deny mercenary motives toward Anne Brotherton. Yet his instincts hadn’t been much use to him lately and might be as flawed as his luck. Julian wouldn’t betray him. He might try to outwit him. He might be in pursuit of the same end, no matter what he claimed. But there was truth to the adage about honor among
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