The Millionaire Rogue Read Free

much at stake,” he repeated. “Princess Caroline has been a client of Hope and Company for years. She is more dangerous than she appears, and wily besides. I’m sunk if she uncovers the plot. I won’t do it.”
    For a long moment Lake looked at Hope, his one pale eye unblinking. He shifted in his chair and winced, sucking in a breath as he slowly rested his weight on the bad leg.
    The leg that had saved Hope from becoming a cripple, or a corpse, himself.
    â€œNot even for me, old friend?” Lake’s face was tensed with pain, and glowing red.
    Hope shook his head. “Shameless.” He laughed, a mirthless sound. “How do you know I’m worthy of the task? I am not the nimble shadow I once was. These days, a daring evening is a few too many fingers of liquor and a long, deep sleep—alone, sadly—in my bed.”
    All traces of pain disappeared from Lake’s face as he grinned. “You are not as handsome as you once were, I’ll give you that. But I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t believe you were a capable partner in crime. We shall work together, of course.”
    â€œOf course.” Hope sighed in defeat. “So. What’s the play?”
    Lake leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and rubbed his palms together with a look of fiendish glee. “Those engagements you have—cancel them. We make our move tonight.”

Two

    London
King Street, St. James’s Square
    A debutante of small name and little fortune would, surely, commit any number of unspeakable acts in exchange for a voucher to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. For there lurked unmarried gentlemen of the rich, titled variety, the kind with palaces in the country and interests in exotic things like shiny boots and perfectly coiffed sideburns.
    So why did Miss Sophia Blaise’s pulse thump with something akin to relief, exhilaration, even, when one of said gentlemen excused himself from her company and disappeared into the crush?
    The Marquess of Withington was not the handsomest peer, but he was the richest, and quite the Corinthian besides. His sideburns were surely the most perfect and the most coiffed, and his boots very shiny indeed. Every heiress and duke’s daughter would willingly claw out the other’s eyes for a chance to be courted by the marquess; such crimes were tolerated, welcomed, even, while on the hunt for this season’s most eligible quarry.
    Even now, as Sophia teetered awkwardly on the edge of the ballroom, she felt the sting of stares from venomous female passersby. Her two-minute conversation with the marquess was apparently grounds for preemptive attack by her fellow fortune hunters.
    But Sophia was nothing if not ambitious. She took a certain pride in being the object of such naked envy. Perhaps she did have a chance at making the brilliant match to which she’d always aspired, after all. Perhaps the marquess—the filthy-rich, swoon-worthy
marquess!—
was not so far out of reach.
    The conversation itself had been a moderate success—his eyes had remained glued to her bosom, yes, but he
had
laughed at her jests—and even in the wake of her relief at his departure, Sophia felt the satisfaction of a job well done.
    Now she had only to dread their next interaction.
    â€œIt will get easier,” her mother counseled earlier that evening, swaying in time with the carriage.
    â€œYou mustn’t take it too seriously,” Cousin Violet said. She took a swig from her flask and let out a small hiss of satisfaction. “Men like Withington are in possession of little wit, and even less intelligence. You’ve nothing to fear from them.”
    It certainly
hadn’t
gotten easier, or any less serious, as the beginning weeks of the season passed with alarming speed.
    For as long as Sophia could remember, she desired two things above all else: to make a brilliant match with the season’s most eligible bachelor,