Page 3 of Lady Isla and the Lord of Rogue (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #6)

Chapter Two

“My dear,” Algie said heavily. “Your cold and dead corpse seems to have taken flight. I may be mistaken, but to my knowledge, men don’t commonly walk after they’re dead. I must say, I am not pleased.”

Isla’s scanned the room hectically. “It is rather puzzling. He definitely was dead, you know.” Isla interrupted herself with a frown as the impact of his words sank in. “Algie. Don’t tell me you’d have preferred there was a dead man on my bed than a live one?”

Algie polished his monocle and set it on his nose again with a frown and surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes.

“Given the circumstances, yes. If, that is, you ever happened to find yourself in such a situation. Knowing you, if you had killed a man, it would more than likely be inadvertent.” He began pacing the room, gesturing with one hand, as if holding a speech to a room full of MPs.

“Let me guess. In the search for Jem Fawe, you entered the rookery with your maid. You attracted all manner of unsavoury attention, a cad singles you out to be fleeced, because, why not? When there is such a delicious lamb presenting herself for the offering. He probably wanted to steal a kiss, too. Because believe it or not, you are rather pretty. You pull out your umbrella which you always carry with you, jam it into his stomach, he stumbles backwards and hits his head on the stair or wall. There is blood. You think he’s dead.

Maybe he passed out for a while. You bring him home.

You come to inform me. In the meantime, he gets up, cheerfully loots the room and jumps out of the window.

He led you on. Inspect the room for any missing articles.

This is a very typical sort of thing for you to do, Isla, for murder in cold blood isn’t something my sister is capable of, as much as she likes to think she is.

And even if you had killed him, it would have been a case of a man killed in self-defence.

Even if it had not been self-defence, if you ever happened to commit a cold-blooded crime for whatever addle-brained reason, I would of course help untangle you from that situation, because I’m always on your side.

But that point is moot since that scenario will never happen.

But a live, breathing man in your bed? One you put there willingly?

” He pursed his lips and shook his head with disapproval.

“My hands would be tied. There is nothing whatsoever I could do about that. Not to mention that it is not something I could ever countenance. Think of the scandal,” he huffed. He considered the matter settled.

Isla stared at him. Her brother had told her in so many words that even if she were a criminal, he would help her. Because he was always on her side. She felt tears well up .

“Algie.” She sniffed, swallowed, and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Have I told you lately that you’re the absolutely best brother in the entire world?”

“Not nearly often enough, Pixiekins. Not nearly often enough.” He grunted.

“Now where was I? I was doing something important. Ah yes. I must return to my oranges.” He stopped at the door.

“Why not let the maids clean up the mess while you continue reading to me from that new novel? What was it called again?” He snapped his fingers.

“ Persuasion . I have had a terrible day at work and must find out whether the heroine finally works up her courage to confess her feelings to the hero. There is something about the story I seem to identify with.”

“Gladly,” Isla said as she wiped her nose with her handkerchief.

Isla had read aloud for an hour from Persuasion until Algie started to nod off in his armchair.

She looked at the sleeping figure fondly, got up and picked up the plaid that had covered his knees but had fallen to the floor.

She shook it out and out fluttered a piece of paper—a despatch that Algie had been studying and that must have been entangled within the folds of the plaid.

She picked it up. Just as she was about to place it on his desk, she paused.

It was a letter written in cramped handwriting, interrupted by a fleeting sketch.

Isla couldn’t resist. Her gaze swept over the lines.

My lord,

The wolf insignia has been appearing with increasing frequency throughout town, marked upon windowsills and doors of private residences, business establishments, and public houses alike.

There can be no doubt: it is the emblem of Lucian Night, the notorious head of the largest criminal enterprise this country has ever known.

I await Your Lordship’s instructions as to what is to be done next.

Your Lordship’s most obedient servant,

Etc etc

The signature was a scrawl she couldn’t identify.

Isla brought the paper close to her eyes and squinted at it.

There was no doubt, the sketch was that of a wolf; a shaggy one with his teeth bared in a snarl. Ferocious and terrifying.

She studied the drawing uneasily. It wasn’t the ferociousness which bothered her, but the familiarity of it.

Where had she seen it before?

Twice, to be exact.

Once…in that narrow alley in St Giles. Didn’t the man she’d stabbed collapse against a door that bore such an emblem? It’d been painted on the wood with stark red paint. Except given the situation—Isla had been convinced she’d just killed a man—she hadn’t paid too much attention to it.

And then, she’d seen it again. More recently, afterwards .

Isla dropped the paper with a gasp as she remembered.

That man! The dead one. He’d been unshaven, his cheeks smeared with soot, hair escaping the kerchief tied around his head, with greasy strands falling into his face and over his eyes. He’d worn a loose, patched-up coat and threadbare trousers.

Isla shuddered at the memory.

The sleeve of his linen shirt had been pushed up to his elbows, and he’d had that emblem engraved on his forearm. Isla had stared at it, curious, as the man lay on her bed, before it occurred to her that she ought to speak to Algie, and she’d left the room.

So that Wolf tattoo was an emblem of the largest criminal enterprise in England.

Led by none other than Lucian Night.

Isla swallowed. Even she, Lady Isla Rothvale, who moved in a world of glittering ballrooms, charitable visits, and refined society, so far removed from the criminal underworld that she ought never to brush against it, even in conversation, had heard of this infamous figure.

He had many nicknames: The Undead, because he’d been hanged, but miraculously survived the incident.

The King of the Devil’s Drawing Room, because he controlled the most notorious gaming hells in London.

The Widowmaker—that was self-explanatory.

They said the number of corpses he left in his wake, even in passing, could stack as high as St. James’s itself.

And lastly, The Lord of Rogues, because, simply, there wasn’t a bigger rogue in all of England than Lucian Night.

The man she’d stabbed with her umbrella must have been in league with this villain. Maybe he was his understrapper or minion. Maybe he even knew him personally.

A soft shiver ran down Isla’s spine.

Not that it mattered, because the man was gone, and now she would never know whether he was, indeed, in league with the Lord of Rogues.

She placed the paper on the desk and finished covering Algie’s knees with the blanket.

He shifted and muttered in his sleep.

Isla smiled involuntarily and gently tucked a stray lock of grey hair out of his face.

Then she returned to her own room to turn in for the night.

To her great surprise, the maids reported that nothing was missing.

“All the jewellery and the coins are still here,” Meggie claimed.

They had scrubbed away all bloodstains, changed the sheets and aired the room.

Isla had had a handful of coins lying on her dressing table.

They were untouched. Her pearls were there, her diamond rings, and brooches.

Everything was meticulously counted and accounted for.

The only mystery was why Lady Isla’s hairpiece was so dishevelled.

Crafted from her own hair, it had been carefully arranged into an elegant chignon she wore to balls.

It had been placed on her dressing table.

“Well now, looks like someone’s gone and pulled out a few strands.

” Meggie scratched the back of her neck.

“How odd.” Then she shrugged and put the piece, or whatever remained thereof, away .

“Thank you, Meggie,” Isla said, now more thoughtful than ever.

Algie had ordered additional security guards stationed around the house and in the garden, and all the locks would be exchanged the following day.

Only after she’d gone to bed, struggling to fall asleep, did it occur to Isla that Algie must have been briefed on the entire incident: her expedition to St Giles and her subsequent return with a corpse—either by the coachman or the footman, or possibly even Meggie, for she knew that Algie had informers everywhere.

She wouldn’t be surprised if even her abigail had joined their ranks.

So, by the time she’d sought him out in his study, he must have already been aware of what had happened.

Hence his lack of surprise. She was annoyed that it hadn’t occurred to her earlier.

Algie had never asked outright what she’d wanted in St Giles to begin with.

But he’d been right. She’d wanted to find Jem Fawe.

They’d gone to the Angel Inn to ask whether they’d ever heard of a Jem Fawe.

“Aye,” the innkeeper had said. “I knows of at least a dozen of ’em Jems.” He’d winked at her salaciously. “Who’s ’e to you?”

“A good friend,” Isla had replied, truthfully. A childhood friend, in fact; a boy who had once been her entire world. She wouldn’t be alive today if it hadn’t been for him.

When she’d enquired further, the innkeeper had revealed that there was indeed a Jem Fawe working in a gin shop in Gin Lane .