Page 3 of Bond Street Bachelor (The Rakes of Rotten Row #5)

THE LADY

C aught for a moment by those sapphire eyes, Leopold marveled that he’d failed to remember how stunning she was. But only for a moment.

Her looks were irrelevant—although damned near impossible to ignore. That normally shining golden hair had darkened with the rain, though the damp strands still managed to hang prettily around her face. She flinched as a single droplet landed on her cheek.

Everything had gone according to his plan, and hopefully this storm wouldn’t slow them down too much. So far, the entire mission had gone off without a hitch.

He glanced up, displeased to see the already overcast sky darkening further. Where was that damned coach?

He’d chosen the perfect place to carry out the rescue, a desolate road only half a day’s drive from Foxbourne’s estate, and when Foxbourne’s carriage had turned the corner, he and his team had been swift in overtaking it.

Foxbourne had been in possession of a firearm, like most nobs, but he’d been easily relieved of it.

He’d expected more screeching from the man’s daughter.

More desperation.

More tears.

Instead, she stood tall, her shoulders back and chin high as she unapologetically studied him, even as the wind swirled around them and the rain picked up in intensity. Her strangely serene demeanor was, honestly, a tad unsettling.

She hadn’t swooned, nor was she wailing or complaining. But she was asking questions. Questions he wouldn’t answer until he was good and ready.

Leopold remained equally calm, not allowing himself to imagine what those yellow-gold strands of hair would feel like threaded between his fingers. He flexed his hand, made a fist, and then flexed it again.

Why take her instead of the money? Because the money didn’t matter.

But, according to Malum and Winterhope, according to all the Rotten Rakes, she did.

“At least let me know where you are taking me.” She’d apparently given up on getting an answer to her first question, but still, she held his gaze steadily. With the way the dim light reflected in her eyes, they almost looked silver, like the scales of a fish flickering beneath the surface of a lake.

Damn it. She was utterly enchanting. Her cheeks were flushed pink from her brief time spent inverted over his shoulder; the color complemented her milk and honey complexion.

He had noticed her beauty from a distance, but he’d never heard her voice. And unlike the high-pitched, gushing sounds he’d heard from many young debutantes, Lady Amelia’s voice was low and velvety. It stirred unexpected heat in his core.

Leopold tightened his jaw.

“Somewhere safe.”

“For me or for you?” She was scowling now, and two lines appeared between her mesmerizing eyes.

Or grayish blue, rather. To call them mesmerizing made Leopold sound too much like some blathering poet.

“Both of us, I hope.” But he had a few questions of his own. “You’re surprisingly calm for a lady in your position.” Aside from her little stunt with that knitting stick. “Why is that?”

“What does it matter to you? Isn’t your job easier if I’m not screaming and crying and carrying on?” She didn’t raise her voice, and the tears she’d nearly shed earlier had already dried up. Then she tilted her head. “Or was that what you wanted?”

“God, no.” he answered. Was that fear in her eyes? Some degree of wariness would be expected, sensible, but her expression remained mostly placid. Normally, he had no problem reading people. But this woman… “You believed me, didn’t you? When I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.” It would be incredibly na?ve of her but was possibly the best explanation for her composure. Had Foxbourne believed him as well? Was the entire family oblivious to the dangers of this world?

That might explain why Foxbourne was messing around with Crossings.

“You told my father you were going to let me go soon. Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

Good God. She really was that na?ve. He shook his head. He might not pose a threat to her, but others did, and she’d be wise to exhibit caution. “I didn’t offer any timeline. Besides, I could have lied.” He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, sending her a look that terrified some of the toughest men on the docks.

She blinked. “Did you?”

Leopold exhaled. “No.”

“Would it have made a difference?” she asked. “If I had fought harder?”

“No. But you’d do well not to be so trusting—especially where men are concerned.” It was a fair warning.

She sent him a brittle smile. “My entire life has been decided by men—my father and brother. After I marry, every important decision will be made by my husband. I find I’m much happier if I can convince myself to trust that they will act in my best interest.”

The second the words left her mouth, Lady Amelia’s expression seemed to crumple for just a second.

Leopold frowned. He would never put his future in another person’s hands. When he did Malum’s bidding, it was because he chose to do so.

And yet, he recognized some wisdom in her thinking, even if it made her seem foolish.

Regardless, she needed to understand the gravity of her situation.

“Don’t imagine you’ll see your family anytime soon.” If Foxbourne wasn’t careful, it was possible she’d never see them again.

Most humans, he realized, would feel some sympathy for the Foxbournes.

But not Leo. Since he knew little to nothing of his own parents, sympathy wasn’t something that ever touched him.

This woman had lived her life in luxury—with a maid, cooks, and drivers. She’d never had to sleep with an empty belly, huddled with other foul-smelling orphans to keep warm, or fear she’d be stabbed before waking.

He’d be a fool to waste his sympathies on the likes of her.

“How long, then?” she demanded in a cultured voice, not yet prepared to relinquish her dignity.

Leopold watched her carefully. “Weeks—perhaps months. I expect you’ll miss most of your precious Season.”

Leopold waited for the tears that would surely come now.

“That’s fine with me.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “I didn’t want to go anyway.”

Few people had the ability to surprise Leopold; he hadn’t expected Lady Amelia to be one of them.

“Why not?”

She lifted one shoulder and then dropped it. “Where do I start?” She was being flippant. He’d just kidnapped the woman at gunpoint, by God, and she seemed almost… relieved.

She must be in shock.

“Oh, I don’t know. The truth?” He didn’t like playing games.

She scrunched up her nose—which was, of course, as cute as a button…

“Maybe I’m just tired of society.” Her tone was meant to be glib, but it wavered. When Leopold didn’t accept that for an answer, she sighed.

“I was recently jilted by a marquess. Members of The ton look down on that sort of thing, you know, and I wasn’t looking forward to clawing my way back into their graces. On top of that, my parents?—”

“Winterhope,” he said. But she hadn’t been jilted. Winterhope himself claimed not to have actually asked for her hand.

“I don’t see myself coming back from that—not when everyone knows. Even you know about it.”

Leopold frowned. The ton played by their own set of ridiculous rules, rules Leopold didn’t even bother trying to understand. But she had more to say on the matter.

“I thought Lord Winterhope was a decent person, but he seduced my cousin the same week he promised to propose to me—and then they stole Margie.”

“Who is Margie?”

“My cat.”

“Why would Winterhope steal your cat?”

Her cheeks were wet now, the rain falling in a steady drizzle.

“My cat, my fiancé. What’s the difference?” But then she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters, really, does it?”

Her gaze locked with his and he still couldn’t read her thoughts.

Likely, Lady Amelia knew the rules of the ton better than Leopold did. If she thought Society wouldn’t welcome her, who was he to challenge that?

Still… She was a beautiful woman. If he was one of those lords, he’d not dismiss her so easily. How could any male dismiss a mouth like hers? Heart-shaped, as tempting as a ripe strawberry.

Just then, the carriage Leopold had hired and kept hidden until now drew up beside them. With the rain picking up, it wasn’t a moment too soon. They would travel to Smuggler’s Manor, the estate he’d purchased six years prior, and keep her there until the Foxbourne situation was resolved. The journey would take two or three days.

His estate’s name still made him chuckle to himself. Nearly a thousand years old, the main residence had been renovated in the sixteenth century. Situated on a hill overlooking the craggy cliffs near the village of Fisherman’s Bottom, the location, condition, and price had all been perfect. Ultimately, however, it had been the name that sealed the deal for him. How could he resist?

“Your chariot, my lady,” Leopold said.

“Are you mocking me?” She crossed her arms in front of her.

Instead of answering, he merely opened the door and pulled out the step. When he offered his hand, she stared at his black glove but then deliberately placed her much smaller hand in his. Her fingernails were neatly trimmed and polished, her skin the color of cream.

Leopold couldn’t remember ever seeing a proper lady in public without gloves, and she must have read his expression.

“I take them off when I crochet.” She dropped her gaze to the step. She was embarrassed. For not wearing gloves.

He would never understand these people.

“I really don’t care,” he said. But he needed one more thing. And once she’d situated herself inside the carriage, Leopold held out his hand. “I’ll need that pendant your mother mentioned.”

She seemed confused at first, before both hands flew to her neck. “But?—”

“Hand it over.” He wouldn’t explain, but he exhaled. “You’ll get it back. Consider it… security, My Lady .” He had no problem making the last two words sound insulting.

Looking even more defeated, she reached up behind her and then dropped the gold chain and charm into his hand.

Once he had gotten her out of the rain and safely tucked away, Leopold’s most trusted employee strolled across to him. Good old Fitz was a foot shorter than Leopold, and nearly half Leopold’s weight. As usual, even with his spectacles splattered with rain and slightly lopsided on his nose, he appeared cool and calm. “Will you wish to ride outside or in the coach…?” Fitz had taken charge of Loki, Leopold’s mount, along with his own, and led them through the brush to where their gang had agreed to meet.

Across the clearing, Loki waited patiently.

Fitz’s stare shot to the sky. “It is raining.”

“I noticed.”

Fitz took as much offence at Leopold’s sarcasm as Lady Amelia had, but shot a suspicious glance around Leopold into the carriage. “Trouble?”

Leopold tugged the red mask over his head and ran a hand through his hair as they strolled away from the carriage and towards the horses.

“Not that I’m aware of.” He’d stay alert, however.

“Right.” His old friend exhaled. “I don’t know why they don’t just off the bloody duke. That would put an end to his dealings easy enough.”

Leopold grunted, bemoaning the Rotten Rakes’ commitment to trying Crossings’ crimes before Parliament.

Unfortunately, Leopold wasn’t in the majority. The group was convinced that the loss of social status, freedom, and the resulting public humiliation would sound the greater warning. Evidently, falling out of favor with one’s equals was considered a fate worse than death. The duke’s shame would prevent other lords from involving themselves in similar criminal dealings.

Though he disagreed with their priorities, Leopold nonetheless had no choice but to commit to keeping Crossings alive—unless the duke forced his hand, that was.

He smirked. He was no stranger to death, and ultimately, he’d do what was necessary.

“You know how I feel about that,” Leopold eventually answered. “We simply need more evidence. If I’m right, we’ll find something useful in the next shipment. An invoice or correspondence will eventually come to light. He’s been lucky thus far, but he’s bound to slip up soon.”

As a smuggler in his own right, Leopold corresponded quite regularly with sea captains, various port authorities, and pirates. Just last week he’d gotten word of an unmarked ship entering the waters near Smuggler’s Manor… allegedly loaded with tea.

Leopold hated tea and all that it represented. The damned beverage wasn’t worth the damage inflicted on those who ultimately died at the hand of the poppy. Innocent people.

Vulnerable people.

“We’ve men on the lookout already—lest they try landing,” Fitz said, referring to the various coves situated along his estate’s southern border. It was the true key to what had made Smuggler’s Manor such an attractive investment—one of many strategic properties in Leopold’s growing collection.

It bordered a full mile of coastline, sandy coves hidden by tall cliffs but easily accessible for small boats filled with illegal goods—or legal ones that could go untaxed.

“It shouldn’t take more than three days to get home.” Weather permitting.

Leopold ran a hand down one side of Loki’s neck. Normally, he didn’t mind riding in the rain, but if he rode inside the carriage, he might learn something new from their little prisoner.

“I’ve sent word to Mrs. Waddle at the King’s Inn,” Fitzy said. “She’ll have chambers prepared for our arrival.” He shifted a wary glance in Lady Amelia’s direction. “They’re full-up, I hope she doesn’t expect anything fancy.”

Leopold exhaled a dry laugh. But in his mind, he pictured her in her soaked gown. She hadn’t complained nearly as much as he thought she would. “Oh, hell. She can have mine. That way, we won’t have to bother taking her through the pub. Better no one sees her anyway.”

That would leave him sleeping on some lumpy cot most likely. She’d better appreciate it.

“Right.” Fitz nodded. “The carriage, then?”

“I think I’d better.”