The Millionaire Rogue (10 page)

Sophia looked levelly at Hope, her lips curling into a grin. “Please, my lord, go find your refreshment. It won't do to have you parched.”

Hope shoved the marquess off the ballroom floor as gently as could be managed, tucking the wig and cane into his hands as he went. “If you don't mind giving these to a footman, I'd be much obliged.”

He turned back to Sophia.

Dear God she was beautiful.

And now, finally, she was his. At least for a little while.

“Well then, now that that's all sorted out—shall we dance?”

Sophia stepped forward. “Yes. Though you may regret asking me—I'm not very good at it.”

“So I noticed.”

Hope turned at the sound of commotion near the orchestra. That cad the Earl of Harclay—really, the man was far more trouble than he was worth—was tossing a reticule heavy with coin into the lap of the first-chair violinist. Hope couldn't make out what he was saying, but suddenly the ballroom was erupting with gasps and shouts as the master of the dance called for a waltz.

Hope looked at Sophia. They both rushed to speak at once. “A waltz?”

“That's impossible!” Sophia's eyes were wide. “A debutante can't be seen
dancing
the
waltz
! I don't even think I know how.”

But the music was already starting; despite the risks to Hope's sanity and Sophia's reputation, he wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her to him. With his other hand he drew out her opposite arm and together they moved—or, rather, stumbled—through the first steps of the waltz.

“Let me go!” she hissed. “I'll dance the next set with you.”

Hope looked down at her with a smile. “Too late, Miss Blaise. Follow my steps—yes, that's—no, no, the
other
foot—no, the other
other
foot!”

He tripped over her misplaced foot and together they lurched forward, nearly toppling Lord Harclay and Lady Violet before Hope in his terror turned and righted his and Sophia's bodies.

“Dear God,” Hope gasped. “If I'd been wearing my wig I daresay we'd both be dead!”

To his very great pleasure he watched as, despite her protests, Sophia dissolved into breathless laughter, closing her eyes against the force of it.

When she opened them she met his gaze, a small smile lingering on her lips as her steps, praise heaven, fell in time with his. He held her to him and they danced together, the music so loud, so insistent in its rhythm, Hope lost himself for a moment. He had cognac in his blood and the most beautiful woman at the ball in his arms; the plot was in play and business could only get better.

But something was not quite right. That fearful gleam had returned to Sophia's green eyes, and a shallow crease now appeared between her brows—though, to be fair, it
did
seem to require enormous concentration on her part to land the three steps of the waltz.

“What is it?” He turned, pulling her close enough so that he might murmur in her ear. “My promise remains the same, Sophia. I gave you my word then, the same as I give it to you now. Anything you say shall remain between us.”

Beneath his hand on her back she stiffened. As they turned once, twice, three times, she glanced over her shoulder, watching with wide eyes the couples that twirled around them.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “I will know what it is that's bothering you. Tell me, Sophia, so that I might help you. You've my word.”

“That's just it, Thomas.” She looked up at him. “You may have given me your word, but someone knows. Knows about
us
. About what happened that night.”

A clammy sweat broke out along his collar as he pulled her close, imploring her with his eyes. Just as he'd suspected. “Who threatened you?”

“I don't know. It—it was a letter. I didn't recognize the seal, or the script. It said something—” She paused, eyes wet. “Something like, ‘two queens, the ace of diamonds, soon you will have a royal flush.' I've got it in my glove; it arrived this evening, just as we were leaving to come here.”

“Well.” Hope's throat tightened ominously. “Whoever wrote it has a terrible sense of humor.”

He turned course sharply, making for the gallery at the far side of the ballroom. He saw nothing, felt nothing save the desire to get Sophia alone, to make sure she was safe, to talk and together tease out the source of these threats.

As he sped through the tangle of couples, Hope cursed himself for ever allowing her to join them in the first place. Yes, it had been mostly Lake's doing, but in his lust-filled haze Hope had done little to stop it. Sophia was intelligent, certainly, but she was also innocent. She hadn't a clue about the enormity and depth of the cesspool into which she'd dipped her pretty toe.

If Hope didn't put a stop to her adventuring, it would swallow Miss Sophia Blaise whole.

The music was reaching a crescendo, the ballroom a whirl of white satin and kerseymere coattails. There was laughter and whispered conversation, couples flush-faced from the heady thrill of such unexpected privacy in the midst of an epic crush.

Surely, Hope reasoned, no one would notice if he whisked Sophia away for a few moments? And even if someone did, he could pass it off as business—

His heart went to his throat at the enormous, shimmering crash that sounded just above their heads. In one swift, sure movement, he tucked Sophia into his chest, covering her head as shards of glass rained down on them.

He watched in mute horror as three lithe, shadowy figures catapulted through the gallery windows into the ballroom. They swung through the air and landed on the trio of enormous chandeliers that illuminated the crush. Handling the daggers held fast in their teeth, the intruders began sawing at the silken ropes from which the crystal monstrosities hung.

Panic, wild and hot, pounded through Hope.
My God, my God, what the devil is happening?

The music came to a jarring halt as stunned silence settled over the ballroom. A beat later the crowd erupted in screams, shouts, swoons. Hope watched, trembling with fury, as the sinister-looking men he'd hired to guard the French Blue suddenly turned on his guests, waving their pistols as if they'd very much like to use them.

Traitors.

He'd been betrayed. The
why
was obvious enough: King Louis XIV's plum-sized diamond was no small prize.

But the
who
was more difficult. Had Napoleon's men foiled their plan? Was it one of Lake's own, working against his master? Or was it a band of ambitious petty bandits, hoping to make the theft of a lifetime?

A shot sounded; more screams. Against his chest Sophia was shaking. He did not answer her whispered questions.

“Who is it? Are you all right? What's happening, Thomas, please!”

He held her fast against him, pressing his back against the gallery wall. The crush roiled with chaos, bodies climbing over one another in attempts at escape.

From above came an ominous groan. The first chandelier now hung from a thread, the bandit hard at work severing the last bit of rope.

“Move aside!” he screamed, gesturing wildly with his free arm. “Move, quickly, everyone must
move
!”

With a thrumming
snap
the chandelier broke free. The thief somersaulted away, landing with inhuman lightness in a far corner.

The chandelier landed with a piercing crash, sending shards of crystal and gilt across the ballroom. People dashed about, streaming out of windows and doors like water in a flood.

Thomas, please, I must find my mother, and Violet—

“Not yet.” It was all he could manage. He held her fast; in his confusion, his terror and his rage, she kept his head—just barely—above the water.

The second chandelier came thundering down, followed in quick succession by the third. Plunged into darkness, the ballroom descended into a pit of writhing shadows. The roar of panic was unbearable.

Under cover of blackness, Hope began to move, Sophia held close in the crook of his arm. Against his ribs he felt the furious working of her heart, her breath hot and fast on his collar.

Together they waded into the dark, Hope offering a hand to those he could reach. To his very great relief it appeared no one was seriously injured.

Across the ballroom came another shot, more screams; running footsteps.

The thieves. It would only be a matter of time before they found the diamond, and then, he knew, all hell would break loose; no doubt they'd shoot anyone who blocked their path to escape.

She couldn't stay, not with everything at stake. Her life most of all.

And Hope. He couldn't leave for the same reason.

He released Sophia, grasping her by the shoulders so that he might see her face. Pale, eyes wide and wet. No tears, but she did not meet his gaze. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he shook his head, bending his neck so that their noses nearly brushed.

“Look at me, Sophia.
Look at me
. Go find your mother and get out of here. Do you understand? If you stay you'll end up hurt or worse. There's a hidden door the servants use toward the front of the ballroom. Use that, it will take you out to the street.”

She swallowed, searching his eyes. “And what will you do?”

“Don't worry about me. Go. Now. Watch you don't trip over the chandeliers!”

Taking her by the arm, he pushed her toward the door, watching as she haltingly made her way across the ballroom. A strange twist in his chest left him momentarily breathless.

But he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Her reputation—never mind her life—was now in peril after she'd played a role in their plot. He would not stoke that fire by courting her involvement once more.

Just as Sophia was fading into black, he saw her loop her arm through that of a portly woman wearing a drooping feather headdress.

Her mother. Thank God, she'd found her mother. He watched as, making for the servants' entrance, they disintegrated into the darkened chaos of the ballroom.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the impulse to follow them out, to see to their safety.

The diamond, he reminded himself. He had to secure the diamond, or all would be lost.

Hope turned to the ballroom, screams and shouts echoing off its tall-coffered ceiling.

And then there was a scream—well, a voice, really—that he recognized.

Lady Violet.

The French Blue.

He took off at a sprint, dodging his way to the center of the ballroom. From a knot of heads and legs Violet rose, the Earl of Harclay holding her by the elbow. Beyond came the sound of running footsteps—the thieves, Hope knew, making a run for it.

Violet's hand was at her neck.

A neck that was bare.

“The diamond! Lord Harclay, the diamond—it's gone!” Violet shouted, before promptly turning to the earl and vomiting on his very fine shoes.

Serves him right, Hope thought, for all the trouble he's caused tonight.

Hope turned, waving his arms in the direction of the intruders' fading footsteps. “Stop them! They're making off with the French Blue! Wait, you bastards, I'll have you hanged!”

But even as the words left his lips, Hope knew it was too late.

The French Blue was gone.

S
ophia swung through the kitchen door into the stable yard, her mother huffing two steps behind. Above them they heard the cacophony of Hope's ballroom: muffled shouts, the crack of pistols, shattering glass.

“Sophia,” she panted. “What in. God's name. Happened up. There?”

“I don't know,” Sophia replied, before saying, more softly, “but I do mean to find out.”

Across the yard, the mews were just as dark and disordered as the ballroom. Guests flung themselves into any carriage they could find; grooms scurried about helplessly as a great knot of traffic blocked the lane that led out into the street.

Sophia scanned the mess but, praise heaven, did not see the Rutledge family's dusty old coach among those vehicles trapped by the crush.

“Come, Mama, this way. Only a bit longer, I promise.”

She tugged her mother around toward the street, Lady Blaise all the while moaning in staccato sentences about her poor nerves, and poor Hope, and where in God's name was Violet? They'd all better hope she was not with that handsome libertine the Earl of Harclay, or they would be ruined, the whole family . . .

Sophia tugged harder, mind racing all the while. The French Blue had been stolen, that much she knew, and by thieves with a flair for acrobatics. Whoever plotted the theft was no tenderfoot; he was one to make an entrance, and did not shy away from drama.

Then there was the mysterious note tucked into the crook of her glove.

Sophia's life, up until now a dull study in decorum and Debrett's, was suddenly full of excitement.

Not that a heady dose of fear didn't accompany said excitement. It was with shaking hands that Sophia led her mother round the dark corner and out onto the graveled half-crescent drive in front of Thomas's house.

There were people everywhere, crisscrossing the drive with cries for the constable, the mayor, smelling salts. Her mother was beginning to limp with the effort of keeping pace. Sophia had no doubt whatsoever that Lady Blaise would topple to the ground in an appropriately dramatic swoon if they didn't find shelter, and quick.

Over the din Sophia heard her name. She turned.

Relief flooded through her at the sight of her family's scuffed-up old carriage, the scuffed-up old coachman waving to her from the street.

As they sidled up to the vehicle, Sophia told him the story in so many breathless words. Together she and the coachman lifted Lady Blaise into the carriage, where at last she succumbed to that swoon she'd been saving all night.

Sophia collapsed against the coach, drawing deep, hungry breaths of the cool evening air.

The coachman held out his hand. “Best be goin', miss, before the real trouble begins.”

Sophia looked at the man, swung her head to look back at the house. It was ablaze with light and life, guests still pouring out the front door. She wondered where Thomas was, and if he'd managed to stop the thieves before they could escape with the diamond.

The diamond that she'd helped him win from Princess Caroline. Her chest swelled with pride and something else—something softer—as she remembered how well they'd played that game together, she and Thomas. He never wanted to involve her in his plotting, she knew that, but she knew also that he was grateful for her presence, and that she played no small part in the success of his scheme.

Perhaps, she thought, eyeing her mother as she moaned softly in her stupor, she might again come to the rescue tonight. Surely Hope would need all the help he could get if those scalawags the acrobats had indeed made off with the French Blue. The more bodies involved, the more ground they could cover in their search.

La Reinette would surely dive in headfirst, wouldn't she, and seduce those she encountered along the way?

Surely indeed.

Besides. While she still trembled, heart in her throat, after so much action, the last thing Sophia desired was to go home to a quiet house for a quiet evening in. With her pulse racing as it was, she knew sleep would elude her. And there were her mother's hysterics with which to contend . . .

“Miss?”

Sophia blinked, turning to the coachman.

No. She was not ready for tonight to end just yet.

She smiled as she reached between them to gently shut the carriage door. When he tried to protest, brow furrowed with concern, she merely held a finger to her lips and shook her head.

“Very well,” he said softly. “But the scene ov a crime ain't no place for a lady. You've only to send for me, miss, and I'll come straightaway.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder in gratitude. Dipping her head, she stepped out into the fray.

It was like fighting against a monstrous tide. With no small effort she mounted the front steps, the press of the crush pushing her backward so that with every two steps she lost twice as many.

She tried slithering between bodies—she was an adventurer now, after all, and slithering seemed the adventurous thing to do—but her attempt was only met with sharp elbows and panicked feet, driving her ever backward until she stumbled down the same steps she'd spent precious minutes climbing.

Letting out a hiss of frustration, Sophia followed the crush out onto the drive. She veered to the left, retracing her steps back to the mews. If Hope and his men had made it out of the ballroom yet, they would be running for their horses to begin the chase.

A chase
. She felt ridiculous even thinking the word.

Sophia ran to the mews as fast as her feet would carry her, pushing her way into the stables, where dozens of coaches and four times as many horses and grooms were still tangled in an impossible knot.

“Thomas!” she called. She turned this way and that, narrowly avoiding a run-in with an enormous black horse and its equally enormous rider.

The rider heaved expertly at the reins, jerking the horse onto its hind legs. Sophia gasped, cowering with her hands held out above her head.

“Christ, Sophia, is that you?”

She peeked between her splayed fingers to find none other than Thomas Hope glaring down at her, blue eyes cold, nostrils flaring with anger.

“I told you to go home. This—all of this—it is none of your affair.” Though his voice was deadly calm, quiet even, she felt his simmering wrath as surely as if he'd howled the words.

She put down her hands, struggling beneath the weight of his gaze to remember why, exactly, she'd chosen to stay. Something about adventure, and what La Reinette would do, and oh, yes, the role she played in coaxing the jewel from Caroline's grasp—

“It is as much my affair as it is yours.” Sophia would win this fight, come hell or high water. She was
staying
. “I daresay without my help, none of us would be in this mess in the first place.”

Thomas peered at her, looking as though he could not decide whether her words amused or dismayed him.

She wrinkled her nose as she reconsidered the words. “Wait. No. No, that didn't come out at all right. What I meant to say is, you and I work well together, Thomas. Our success at Montague House proved that. Neither of us is nearly as good without the other. So let me help you. Whatever it is that you need, let me help you.”

Thomas put a hand on his thigh, tugging his skittish mount into stillness as he ran a hand through his tangle of curls. He sighed. “I don't have time for this, Sophia. The thieves got away. The French Blue is gone. I am out twenty thousand pounds, never mind my debt to England. I'll not ask you again.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “Go
home
.”

“And I'll not ask
you
again.” She stepped in front of his horse, hands on her hips. “Let me help. And don't think for a moment I wouldn't let you run me over. I'm not going anywhere until you accept my offer.”

“Don't you have your mother to see to? And what of your cousin?”

“You know as well as I do that Violet can take care of herself. And my mother—well, suffice it to say she won't get out of bed until day after next, at the earliest.”

Sophia watched as Hope's fingers tightened around his thigh. She bit back a smile of triumph.

She was staying.

A handful of horsemen rode up behind Thomas.

Thomas held up a hand in greeting. “The lot of you head east, toward the Thames. The thieves are nimble and likely faster than we'll ever be on horseback or even on foot. Tell no one what has occurred this night. Godspeed, gentlemen.”

Sophia looked up at Hope. “And what about us? Where are we headed?”

“To where this whole mess began,” he said grimly. He reached for her and, wrapping his fingers around her right arm, pulled her none too gently onto the horse. He settled her into the saddle in front of him, turning her so that her back was to his chest.

She heard a muted tear as he pried her legs apart, pressing his body against her so that she now rode astride the horse, the backs of her thighs resting against his knees.

So much for the nymph costume. No doubt the damage was beyond repair.

Never mind her dignity. That, along with her composure, had gone out the window long ago.

It was terribly uncomfortable, not to mention awkward, to be situated upon a horse with a fuming gentleman pressed far too invitingly against one's backside. Perhaps Sophia should have thought this whole staying business through. Then there was the very real threat of injury or death or, even worse, ruin to consider. What would the Marquess of Withington think, really, if he knew she'd run off into the night with Mr. Thomas Hope—and not for the first time?

This was not the wisest decision she'd ever made.

But as Hope wordlessly urged the horse into motion, holding Sophia tight between his arms as he handled the reins, it suddenly didn't seem so terribly unwise. While her head swam with all manner of things—panic, the waltz, just where on earth were they going, and would they find the diamond there?—she felt safe pressed against the warm firmness of Hope's chest, the long, lithe muscles of his legs.

Perhaps, while not the wisest decision, it
had
been the right one.

And so Sophia held on for dear life as Hope guided them through the darkened city streets. Her heart pounded in time to the horse's forward thrust, Thomas's body colliding with hers with each giddy leap.

The night was cool and clear and wide open. Sophia saw where they were headed long before Hope reined in the horse's frantic pace. Just past a familiar facade, its blue shutters glittering in the light of a vivid moon, Thomas veered left down a shadowy pathway.

They rode into The Glossy's small but neat mews. A groom, trying very hard not to gape at the breathless couple before him, held the reins while Thomas dismounted. The horse grunted with relief.

Hope turned to Sophia, his movements precise and ruthless as he hooked his hands around her waist and brought her to the ground. Glaring at the curious groom, Thomas whipped back his shoulders and removed his jacket.

He shrouded Sophia in the fine folds of its fabric, tugging at the collar so as to hide the better half of her face. Pressing a coin into the groom's palm, Hope murmured his thanks and guided Sophia into The Glossy.

Sophia was glad to have Hope's jacket. Stepping foot into the house's palatial hall, a chill ran through her, strong and visceral, as if she'd plunged through ice into a frozen lake.

For the first time Sophia did not feel welcome here.

She had not returned since that night she ran breathless out the door, struggling to keep pace with Hope as he sprinted toward the street. Nor had she yet worked up the courage to write La Reinette who, for obvious reasons, could not send a letter to Sophia at her uncle's house.

This much Sophia knew: the events of that night forever altered the rules of their arrangement. Both she and Madame had bared parts of themselves that were very much at odds with what each wanted from the other. Could Sophia trust La Reinette to provide the discretion and safety she'd promised?

And could Madame, in turn, trust her memoirs to a debutante possessed of a real terror for her reputation while, impossibly, exhibiting a taste for less than wholesome nighttime activity?

The arrangement couldn't possibly continue. Not as it had before—well, before
this
happened.

And then there was Madame's relationship with Mr. Hope to consider. Were they in business together? Master and servant? Friends? Allies? Or were they—

No. It was none of her business. She and Thomas were on the hunt for the stolen French Blue—nothing more, nothing less—though what La Reinette had to do with any of that, Sophia hadn't a clue.

Hope charged into the madam's room without knocking.

“What do you know?”

Sophia started at Hope's growl. He stalked to the far end of the room as if it were his own, pacing behind La Reinette as she sat before her painted vanity.

With exaggerated slowness the Little Queen dabbed the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief, patting back an errant curl. In the mirror her color was high; Sophia noticed the bed was unmade, its coverlet curled invitingly around rumpled sheets.