A Rogue by Any Other Name_The First Rule of Scoundrels Page 2
His history.
Everything.
Langford had taken it all that night, all the lands, the funds, everything but an empty manor house and a handful of acres of land at the center of a larger estate—Falconwell. As he’d watched it all slip away, Bourne hadn’t understood the older man’s motives—hadn’t known the pleasure of turning an estate into a living, thriving thing. Hadn’t understood how much it would smart to turn it over to a mere boy.
Now, a decade later, he did not care.
He wanted his revenge.
The revenge he’d been waiting for.
It had taken nine years, but Bourne had rebuilt his fortune—doubled it. The money from the partnership in The Angel, along with several lucrative investments, had given him the opportunity to build an estate that rivaled the most extravagant in England.
But he’d never been able to reclaim what he’d lost. Langford had kept it all in a tight grip, unwilling to sell it, no matter how much he was offered, no matter how powerful the man who offered. And very powerful men had offered.
Until now.
“Tell me.”
“It is complicated.”
Bourne turned back to the fire. “It always is.” But he hadn’t worked every day to build his fortune for land in Wales and Scotland and Devonshire and London.
He’d done it for Falconwell.
One thousand acres of lush green land that had once been the pride of the Marquessate of Bourne. The land that his father and grandfather and great-grandfather had amassed around the manor house, which had been passed down from marquess to marquess.
“What?” He saw the answer in Chase’s eyes before the words came, and he swore once, long and wicked. “What has he done with it?”
Chase hesitated.
“If he’s made it impossible, I’ll kill him.”
As I should have done years ago.
“Bourne . . .”
“No.” He slashed one hand through the air. “I’ve waited for this for nine years. He took everything from me. Everything. You have no idea.”
Chase’s gaze found his. “I have every idea.”
Bourne stopped at that, at the understanding in the words. At the truth in them. It had been Chase who had pulled him from his lowest moment. Chase who had taken him in, cleaned him up, given him work. Chase who had rescued him.
Or, who had at least tried to rescue him.
“Bourne,” Chase began, the words laced with caution. “He didn’t keep it.”
A cold dread settled deep within. “What do you mean, he didn’t keep it?”
“Langford no longer owns the land in Surrey.”
He shook his head, as though he could force understanding. “Who owns it?”
“The Marquess of Needham and Dolby.”
A decades-old memory flashed at the name—a portly man, rifle in hand, marching across a muddy field in Surrey, trailed by a gaggle of girls sized small to smallest, the leader of whom had the most serious blue gaze Bourne had ever met.
His childhood neighbors, the third family in the holy trinity of the Surrey peerage.
“Needham has my land? How did he get it?”
“Ironically, in a game of cards.”
Bourne could not find the humor in the fact. Indeed, the idea that Falconwell had been casually wagered and lost in a card came—again—set him on edge.
“Get him here. Needham’s game is écarté. Falconwell will be mine.”
Chase leaned back, surprised. “You would wager for it?”
Bourne’s reply was instant. “I will do whatever is required for it.”
“Whatever is required?”
Bourne was instantly suspicious. “What do you know that I do not?”
Chase’s brows shot up. “Why would you think that?”
“You always know more than I know. You enjoy it.”
“I merely pay closer attention.”
Bourne’s teeth clenched. “Be that as it may . . .”
The founder of The Fallen Angel feigned interest in a spot on one sleeve. “The land that was once a part of Falconwell—”
“My land.”
Chase ignored the interruption. “You cannot simply retrieve it.”
“Why not?”
Chase hesitated. “It has been attached to . . . something else.”
Cold hatred coursed through Bourne. He’d waited a decade for this—for the moment when he would finally reconnect Falconwell Manor with its lands. “Attached to what?”
“To whom, more like.”
“I am in no mood for your riddles.”
“Needham has announced that the former lands of Falconwell are to be included in the dowry of his eldest daughter.”
Shock rocked Bourne back on his heels. “Penelope?”
“You know the lady?”
“It’s been years since I saw her last—nearly twenty of them.”
Sixteen. She had been there on the day he’d left Surrey for the last time, after his parents’ burial, fifteen years old and shipped back to a new world with no family. She’d watched him climb into his carriage, and her serious blue gaze had not wavered in tracking his coach down the long drive away from Falconwell.
She hadn’t looked away until he had turned onto the main road.
He knew because he’d watched her, too.
She’d been his friend.
When he had still believed in friends.
She’d also been the eldest daughter of a double marquess with more money than one man could spend in a lifetime. There was no reason for her to have remained a spinster for so long. She should be married with a brood of young aristocrats to care for.
“Why does Penelope need Falconwell for a dowry?” He paused. “Why isn’t she married already?”
Chase sighed. “It would serve me well if any one of you would take an interest in Society at large rather than our meager membership.”
“Our meager membership is more than five hundred men. Every one of them with a file thick as my thumb, filled with information, thanks to your partners.”
“Nevertheless, I have better things to do with my evenings than educating you on the world into which you were born.”
Bourne’s gaze narrowed. He’d never known Chase to spend evenings in any way other than entirely alone. “What things?”
Chase ignored the question and took another pull of scotch. “Lady Penelope made the match of the season years ago.”
“And?”
“The engagement was overshadowed by her fiancé’s love match.”
It was an old tale, one he’d heard countless times, and still Bourne felt an unfamiliar emotion at the idea that the girl he remembered might have been hurt by her broken engagement. “Love match,” he scoffed. “A prettier or wealthier prospect more like. And that was it?”
“I am told she has been pursued by several suitors in the years since. And yet, she remains unmarried.” Chase appeared to be losing interest in the tale, continuing on a bored sigh. “Though I imagine not for long, with Falconwell to sweeten the honey pot. The temptation will have suitors swarming.”
“They’ll want a chance to lord it over me.”
“Probably. You are not high on the list of favorite peers.”
“I’m nowhere on the list of favorite peers. Nevertheless, I shall have the land.”
“And you are prepared to do what it takes to get it?” Chase looked amused.
Bourne did not miss his partner’s meaning.
A vision flashed of a young, kind Penelope, the opposite of what he was. Of what he’d become.
He pushed it aside. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this moment. For the chance to restore that which had been built for him.
That which had been left to him.
That whic
h he had lost.
It was the closest he would ever get to redemption. And nothing would stand in his way.
“Anything.” Bourne stood and carefully straightened his coat. “If a wife comes with it, so be it.”
The door slammed shut after him.
Chase toasted the sound and spoke to the empty room. “Felicitations.”
Chapter Two
Dear M—
You absolutely must come home. It’s dreadfully boring without you; neither Victoria nor Valerie makes for a sound lakeside companion.
Are you very sure that you must attend school? My governess seems fairly intelligent. I’m sure she can teach you anything you need know.
Yrs—P
Needham Manor, September 1813
* * *
Dear P—
I’m afraid you’re in for dreadful boredom until Christmas. If it is any consolation, I don’t even have access to a lake. May I suggest teaching the twins to fish?
I’m sure I must attend school . . . your governess is not fond of me.
—M
Eton College, September 1813
Late January 1831
Surrey
Lady Penelope Marbury, being highborn and well-bred, knew that she should be very grateful indeed when, on a frigid January afternoon well into her twenty-eighth year, she received her fifth (and likely final) proposal of marriage.
She knew that half of London would think her not entirely out of bounds if she were to join The Honorable Mr. Thomas Alles on one knee and thank him and her maker for the very kind and exceedingly generous offer. After all, the gentleman in question was handsome, friendly, and had all his teeth and a full head of hair—a rare combination of traits for a not-so-young woman with a broken engagement and only a handful of suitors in her past.
She also knew that her father, who had no doubt blessed the match at some point prior to this moment—as she stared down at the top of Thomas’s well-appointed head—liked him. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had liked “That Tommy Alles” since the day, twenty-some-odd years ago, when the boy had rolled up his sleeves, hunkered down in the stables of her childhood home, and assisted in the whelping of one of the marquess’s favorite hunting dogs.
From that day on, Tommy was a good lad.
The kind of lad that Penelope had always thought her father would have liked for his own son. If, of course, he’d had a son, instead of five daughters.
And then there was the fact that Tommy would someday be a viscount—a wealthy one, at that. As Penelope’s mother was no doubt saying from her place beyond the drawing-room door, where she was no doubt watching the scene unfold in quiet desperation:
Beggars cannot be choosers, Penelope.
Penelope knew all this.
Which was why, when she met the warm brown gaze of this boy-turned-man she’d known all her life, this dear friend, she realized that this was absolutely the most generous offer of marriage she would ever receive, and she should say yes. Resoundingly.
Except she didn’t.
Instead, she said, “Why?”
The silence that followed the words was punctuated by a dramatic “What does she think she is doing?” from beyond the drawing-room door, and Tommy’s gaze filled with amusement and not a little bit of surprise as he came to his feet.
“Why not?” he replied, companionably, adding after a moment, “We’ve been friends for an age; we enjoy each other’s company; I’ve need of a wife; you’ve need of a husband.”
As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”
Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”
She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”
When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”
Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed, Yes . . . Yes!
They were all fantasy—each more unlikely than the last—she knew. After all, a twenty-eight-year-old spinster was not exactly fighting off suitors.
But surely she was not out of line to hope for something more than, Let’s make a go of it, shall we?
She let out a little sigh, not wanting to upset Tommy, who was very clearly doing his best. But they’d been friends for an age, and Penelope wasn’t about to introduce lies to their friendship now. “You’re taking pity on me, aren’t you?”
His eyes went wide. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing?”
She smiled. “Because it’s true. You pity your poor, spinster friend. And you’re willing to sacrifice your own happiness to be certain that I marry.”
He gave her an exasperated look—the kind of look that only one very dear friend could give another—and he lifted her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Nonsense. It’s time I marry, Pen. You’re a good friend.” He paused, chagrin flashing in a friendly way that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. “I’ve made a hash of it, haven’t I?”
She couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “A bit of one, yes. You’re supposed to profess undying love.”
He looked skeptical. “Hand to brow and all that?”
The smile became a grin. “Precisely. And perhaps write me a sonnet.”
“O, fair Lady Penelop-e . . . Do please consider marrying me?”
She laughed. Tommy always made her laugh. It was a good quality, that. “A shabby attempt indeed, my lord.”
He feigned a grimace. “I don’t suppose I could breed you a new kind of dog? Name it the Lady P?”
“Romantic indeed,” she said, “but it would take rather a long time, don’t you think?”
There was a pause as they enjoyed each other’s company before he said, suddenly very serious, “Please, Pen. Let me protect you.”
It was an odd thing to say, but he’d failed at all the other parts of the marriage proposal process, so she did not linger on the words.
Instead, she considered the offer. Seriously.
He was her oldest friend. One of them, at least.
The one who hadn’t left her.
He made her laugh, and she was very, very fond of him. He was the only man who hadn’t utterly deserted her after her disastrous broken engagement. Surely that alone recommended him.
She should say yes.
Say it, Penelope.
She should become Lady Thomas Alles, twenty-eight years old and rescued, in the nick of time, from an eternity of spinsterhood.
Say it: Yes, Tommy. I’ll marry you. How lovely of you to ask.
She should.
But she didn’t.
* * *
Dear M—
My governess is not fond of eels. Surely she’s cultured enough to see that simply because you arrived bearing one does not make you a bad person. Loathe the sin, not the sinner.
&nbs
p; Yrs—P
post script—Tommy was home for a visit last week, and we went fishing. He is officially my favorite friend.
Needham Manor, September 1813
* * *
Dear P—
That sounds suspiciously like a sermon from Vicar Compton. You’ve been paying attention in church. I’m disappointed.
—M
post script—He is not.
Eton College, September 1813
The sound of the great oak door closing behind Thomas was still echoing through the entryway of Needham Manor when Penelope’s mother appeared on the first-floor landing, one flight up from where Penelope stood.
“Penelope! What have you done?” Lady Needham came tearing down the wide central staircase of the house, followed by Penelope’s sisters, Olivia and Philippa, and three of her father’s hunting dogs.
Penelope took a deep breath and turned to face her mother. “It’s been a quiet day, really,” she said, casually, heading for the dining room, knowing her mother would follow. “I did write a letter to cousin Catherine; did you know she continues to suffer from that terrible cold she developed before Christmas?”
Pippa chuckled. Lady Needham did not.
“I don’t care a bit about your cousin Catherine!” the marchioness said, the pitch of her voice rising in tune with her anxiety.
“That’s rather unkind; no one likes a cold.” Penelope pushed open the door to the dining room to discover her father already seated at the table, still wearing his hunting clothes, quietly reading the Post as he waited for the feminine contingent of the household. “Good evening, Father. Did you have a good day?”
“Deuced cold out there,” the Marquess of Needham and Dolby said, not looking up from his newspaper. “I find I’m ready for supper. Something warm.”
Penelope thought perhaps her father wasn’t at all ready for what was to come during this particular meal, but instead, she pushed a waiting beagle from her chair and assumed her appointed seat, to the left of the marquess, and across from her sisters, both wide-eyed and curious about what was to come next. She feigned innocence, unfolding her napkin.
“Penelope!” Lady Needham stood just inside the door to the dining room, stick straight, her hands clenched in little fists, confusing the footmen, frozen in uncertainty, wondering if dinner should be served or not. “Thomas proposed!”