A Rogue by Any Other Name_The First Rule of Scoundrels Read online

  A Rogue by Any Other Name

  Sarah MacLean

  Dedication

  For Meghan,

  sister where it counts.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Bourne

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Romances by Sarah MacLean

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Bourne

  London

  Winter 1821

  The eight of diamonds ruined him.

  If it had been the six, he might have saved himself. If it had been the seven, he would have walked away with triple his holdings.

  But it was the eight.

  The young Marquess of Bourne watched the card fly across the lush green baize and slide into place next to the seven of clubs that lay face up on the table, teasing him. His eyes were already closing, the air was already leaving the room in a single, unbearable rush.

  Vingt et deux.

  One more than the vingt et un on which he had wagered.

  On which he had wagered everything.

  There was a collective gasp in the room as he stayed the movement of the card with the tip of one finger—as bystanders watched the horror unfold with the keen pleasure of those who had narrowly escaped their own demise.

  The chatter started then.

  “He wagered it all?”

  “Everything that wasn’t entailed.”

  “Too young to know better.”

  “Old enough now; nothing makes a man faster than this.”

  “He’s really lost all of it?”

  “Everything.”

  His eyes opened, focusing on the man across the table, meeting the cold grey gaze he had known his whole life. Viscount Langford had been a friend and neighbor to his father, handpicked by the former Marquess of Bourne as guardian to his only son and heir. After Bourne’s parents’ death, it had been Langford who had protected the Marquessate of Bourne, who had increased its holdings tenfold, ensured its prosperity.

  And then taken it.

  Neighbor, perhaps. Never friend.

  Betrayal scorched through the young marquess. “You did this on purpose.” For the first time in his twenty-one years, he heard the youth in his voice. Hated it.

  There was no emotion on his opponent’s face as he lifted the mark from the center of the table. Bourne resisted the urge to wince at the arrogant scrawl of his signature across the white page—proof that he’d lost everything.

  “It was your choice. Your choice to wager more than you were willing to lose.”

  He’d been fleeced. Langford had pressed him again and again, pushing him farther and farther, letting him win until he couldn’t imagine losing. It was an age-old ploy, and Bourne had been too young to see it. Too eager. Bourne lifted his gaze, anger and frustration choking the words. “And your choice to win it.”

  “Without me, there would have been nothing to win,” the older man said.

  “Father.” Thomas Alles, the viscount’s son and Bourne’s closest friend, stepped forward, his voice shaking. “Don’t do this.”

  Langford took his time folding the mark and rising from the table, ignoring his son. Instead, he leveled Bourne with a cool look. “You should thank me for teaching you such a valuable lesson at such a young age. Unfortunately, now you’ve nothing but the clothes on your back and a manor house empty of its contents.”

  The viscount cast a glance at the pile of coins on the table—the remainder of his winnings from the evening. “I shall leave you the money, how’s that? A parting gift, if you will. After all, what would your father say if I left you with nothing?”

  Bourne shot up from his chair, knocking it back from the table. “You aren’t fit to speak of my father.”

  Langford raised an eyebrow at the uncontrolled display, and he let silence reign for a long moment. “You know, I believe I shall take the money after all. And your membership to this club. It is time for you to leave.”

  Bourne’s cheeks flamed as the words washed over him. His club membership. His land, servants, horses, clothes, everything. Everything but a house, a few acres of land, and a title.

  A title now in disgrace.

  The viscount lifted one side of his mouth in a mocking smile and flipped a guinea through the air toward Bourne who instinctively reached out, catching the gold coin as it glinted in the bright lights of White’s card room. “Spend it wisely, boy. It’s the last you’ll have from me.”

  “Father,” Tommy tried again.

  Langford turned on him. “Not another word. I won’t have you begging for him.”

  Bourne’s oldest friend turned sad eyes on him, lifting his hands in a sign of helplessness. Tommy needed his father. Needed his money. His support.

  Things Bourne no longer had himself.

  Hatred flared hot and bright for the briefest of moments, before it was gone, extinguished by cold resolve, and Bourne placed the coin in his pocket and turned his back on his peers, his club, his world, and the life he had always known.

  Vowing revenge.

  Chapter One

  Early January 1831

  He did not move when he heard the door to the private room open and close quietly.

  He stood in the darkness, silhouetted by the painted window overlooking the main room of London’s most exclusive gaming hell. From the club floor, the window appeared as nothing but a stunning work of art—a massive piece of stained glass depicting the fall of Lucifer. In brilliant hues, the enormous angel—six times the size of the average man—tumbled toward the pit floor, cast into London’s dark corners by Heaven’s Army.

  The Fallen Angel.

  A reminder, not simply of the name of the club, but of the risk that those who entered took as they set their marks to the plush baize, as they lifted the ivory dice, as they watched the roulette wheel turn in a blur of color and temptation.

  And when The Angel won, as it always did, the glass reminded those who lost of how far they had fallen.

  Bourne’s gaze flickered to a piquet table at the far end of the pit. “Croix wants his line increased.”

  The pit manager did not move from his place just inside the door to the owners’ suite. “Yes.”

  “He owes more than he will ever be able to repay.”

  “Yes.”

  Bourne turned his head, meeting the shadowed gaze of his most trusted employee. “What is he willing to place against an extended line?”

  “Two hundred acres in Wales.”

  Bourne watched the lord in question, who
was sweating and twitching nervously as he waited for judgment to be passed.

  “Extend the line. When he loses, see him out. His membership is revoked.”

  His decisions were rarely questioned, and never by the staff of The Angel. The other man headed for the door as quietly as he had entered. Before he could leave, Bourne said, “Justin.”

  Silence.

  “The land first.”

  The soft click of door meeting jamb was the only indication that the pit manager had been there at all.

  Moments later, he came into view on the floor below and Bourne watched the signal travel from boss to dealer. He watched as the hand was dealt, as the earl lost. Again.

  And again.

  And once more.

  There were those who did not understand.

  Those who had not gambled—who had not felt the thrill of winning—who had not negotiated with themselves for one more round, one more hand, one more shot—just until he hit one hundred, one thousand, ten thousand . . .

  Those who had not known the luscious, euphoric, unparalleled feeling of knowing that a table was hot, that a night was theirs, that with a single card, everything could change.

  They would never understand what kept the Earl of Croix in his chair, betting over and over and over again, fast as lightning, until he’d lost everything. Again. As though nothing he had wagered had ever been his to begin with.

  Bourne understood.

  Justin approached Croix and spoke discreetly into the ruined man’s ear. The peer shot to his unsteady feet, outrage furrowing his brow as anger and embarrassment propelled him toward the manager.

  A mistake.

  Bourne could not hear what was said. He did not need to. He’d heard it hundreds of times before—watched as a long list of men had lost first their money, then their temper with The Angel. With him.

  He watched Justin step forward, hands raised in the universal sign of caution. Watched as the manager’s lips moved, attempting—and failing—to settle and calm. Watched as other players took note of the commotion and as Temple, Bourne’s massive partner, headed into the fray, eager for a fight.

  Bourne moved then, reaching toward the wall and pulling a switch, activating a complex combination of pulleys and levers, triggering a small bell beneath the piquet table and drawing the attention of the dealer.

  Notifying him that Temple would not have his fight that evening.

  Bourne would have it instead.

  The dealer stayed Temple’s impossible strength with a word and a nod toward the wall where Bourne and Lucifer watched, each willing to face whatever came next.

  Temple’s black gaze fell on the glass, and he nodded once before leading Croix through the throngs of people below.

  Bourne descended from the owners’ suite to meet them in a small antechamber set apart from the main floor of the club. Croix was cursing like a dockside sailor when Bourne opened the door and stepped inside. He rounded on Bourne, gaze narrowed with hatred.

  “You bastard. You can’t do this to me. Can’t take what is mine.”

  Bourne leaned back against the thick oak door, crossing his arms. “You dug your grave, Croix. Go home. Be thankful I don’t take more than my due.”

  Croix lunged across the small room before he had a chance to reconsider, and Bourne moved with an agility that few ever expected, clasping one of the earl’s arms and twisting until his face was pressed firmly against the door. Bourne shook the lean man once, twice before saying, “Think very carefully about your next action. I find I am not feeling so magnanimous as I was mere moments ago.”

  “I want to see Chase.” The words were slurred against the oak.

  “Instead, you’ll see us.”

  “I’ve been a member of The Angel since the beginning. You owe me. He owes me.”

  “On the contrary, it is you who owes us.”

  “I’ve given enough money to this place . . .”

  “How generous of you. Shall we call for the book and see how much you still owe?” Croix went still. “Ah. I see you are beginning to understand. The land is ours now. You send your solicitor round in the morning with the deed, or I come looking for you myself. Is that clear?” Bourne did not wait for an answer, instead stepping back and releasing the earl. “Get out.”

  Croix turned to face them, panic in his gaze. “Keep the land, Bourne. But not the membership . . . don’t take the membership. I’m a half a tick away from marrying. Her dowry will cover all my losses and more. Don’t take the membership.”

  Bourne hated the keening plea, the undercurrent of anxiety in the words. He knew that Croix couldn’t resist the urge to wager. The temptation to win.

  If Bourne had an ounce of compassion in him, he’d feel sorry for the unsuspecting girl.

  But compassion was not a trait Bourne claimed.

  Croix turned wide eyes on Temple. “Temple. Please.”

  One of Temple’s black brows rose as he crossed his massive arms across his wide chest. “With such a generous dowry, I’m sure one of the lower hells will welcome you.”

  Of course they would. The lower hells—filled with murderers and cheats—would welcome this insect of a man and his terrible luck with open arms.

  “Bollocks the lower hells,” Croix spat. “What will people think? What will it take? I’ll pay double . . . triple. She’s plenty of money.”

  Bourne was nothing if not a businessman. “You marry the girl and pay your debts, with interest, and we shall reinstate your membership.”

  “What do I do until then?” The sound of the earl’s whine was unpleasant.

  “You might try temperance,” Temple offered, casually.

  Relief made Croix stupid. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows what you did.”

  Temple stilled, his voice filled with menace. “And what was that?”

  Terror removed the minimal intelligence from the earl’s instincts, and he threw a punch at Temple, who caught the blow in one enormous fist and pulled the smaller man toward him with wicked intent.

  “What was that?” he repeated.

  The earl began to mewl like a babe. “N-nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll leave. Now. I swear. Please . . . d-don’t hurt me.”

  Temple sighed. “You’re not worth my energy.” He released the earl.

  “Get out,” Bourne said, “before I decide that you are worth mine.”

  The earl fled the room.

  Bourne watched him go before adjusting the line of his waistcoat and straightening his frock coat. “I thought he might soil himself when you took hold of him.”

  “He would not be the first.” Temple sat in a low chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

  Bourne brushed a hand across the half-inch linen cuff that peeked out from underneath his coat, making certain the swath of white fabric was even before returning his attention to Temple and pretending not to understand the question. “To do what?”

  “To restore your clothing to perfection.” One side of Temple’s mouth curled in a mocking smile. “You’re like a woman.”

  Bourne leveled the enormous man with a look. “A woman with an extraordinary right hook.”

  The smile became a grin, the expression showing off Temple’s nose, broken and healed in three places. “You aren’t honestly suggesting that you could beat me in battle, are you?”

  Bourne was assessing the condition of his cravat in a nearby mirror. “I’m suggesting precisely that.”

  “May I invite you into the ring?”

  “Anytime.”

  “No one is getting into the ring. Certainly not with Temple.” Bourne and Temple turned toward the words, spoken from a hidden door at the far end of the room, where Chase,
the third partner in The Fallen Angel, watched them.

  Temple laughed at the words and turned to face Bourne. “You see? Chase knows enough to admit that you’re no match for me.”

  Chase poured a glass of scotch from a decanter on a nearby sideboard. “It has nothing to do with Bourne. You’re built like a stone fortress. No one is a match for you.” The words turned wry. “No one but me, that is.”

  Temple leaned back in his chair. “Anytime you’d like to meet me in the ring, Chase, I shall clear my schedule.”

  Chase turned to Bourne. “You’ve paupered Croix.”

  He stalked the perimeter of the room. “Like sweets from a babe.”

  “Five years in business, and I remain surprised by these men and their weakness.”

  “Not weakness. Illness. The desire to win is a fever.”

  Chase’s brows rose at the metaphor. “Temple is right. You are a woman.”

  Temple barked in laughter and stood, all six and a half feet of him. “I have to get back to the floor.”

  Chase watched Temple cross the room, headed for the door. “Haven’t had your brawl tonight?”

  He shook his head. “Bourne snatched it out from under me.”

  “There’s still time.”

  “A man can hope.” Temple left the room, the door closing firmly behind him, and Chase moved to pour another glass of scotch, walking it to where Bourne stood staring intently into the fireplace. He accepted the offering, taking a large swallow of the golden liquor, enjoying the way it burned his throat.

  “I have news for you.” Bourne turned his head, waiting. “News of Langford.”

  The words washed over him. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this precise moment, for whatever it was that would come spilling from Chase’s mouth next. For nine years, he’d been waiting for news of this man who had stripped him of his past, his birthright.