The Redemption of a Rogue Read online

  There was a flicker over his face. Almost a smile, but not quite. The comparison pleased him, it seemed. Then he was serious again. “Huxley,” he said. “Third son of the Earl of Briarstone. He died last year.”

  Her eyes widened. “You recall that in an instant? Without reference?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I make it my business to know all my members. And so you are Mrs. Huxley.”

  “Imogen,” she said, for it seemed almost obscene to go by her married name when this man had found her in the alleyway of a brothel. “My name is Imogen.”

  He nodded once and then looked toward the window again. “We are arriving at my home now. You’ll come in and we can discuss this further.”

  She should have refused him. Should have asked him, once again, to simply allow her to go home. She wanted so desperately to pretend that what she’d experienced and seen tonight wasn’t real.

  But how could she?

  Even if he let her go, the image of that body down on the filthy ground was seared in her mind. And now that the shock of what had happened was wearing off, the heartbreak of it became sharper. It sank past her defenses, the ones meant to protect her and keep her running despite the devastation, and her whole body shuddered at the memory.

  “Mrs. Huxley,” he said softly as the carriage stopped at last. He reached out as if he would touch her, and she almost wanted him to, just to know that he was real. That she was real. Just to have the comfort of physical contact, even from this stranger who felt dangerous but not sinister.

  “I-I—” she stammered, uncertain what she wished to say next.

  “Come inside,” he repeated, firm but gentle as he yanked his hand back and offered no comfort.

  She nodded as the carriage door opened. He stepped out first, saying something to his driver that she couldn’t hear, and then he turned back. That same powerful hand extended out to help her and she caught it, clinging to him as she staggered down the little set of steps. He cupped her elbow, holding her steady as she swayed.

  He was very tall. She hadn’t fully marked it in that terrifying moment when she careened into him. But he was at least a head taller than she was. She looked up and up, into those dark eyes. They bore down into her, almost like he could see into her very soul. A terrifying thought, and she took a long step away and turned her face so she was no longer pinned by his regard.

  “Lead the way, Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  If only her voice didn’t shake. If only her entire being didn’t shake.

  He did as she requested in silence, leading her up a short staircase into the townhouse. The night had a damp chill to it that she hadn’t fully noticed until she moved into the warm, bright foyer. A butler was there, speaking to Fitzhugh already. She blushed as he glanced over his master’s shoulder at her. His gaze flitted over her from head to toe, then he looked away and nodded.

  “It shall be done, sir,” he said, and stepped away, leaving them alone again.

  Fitzhugh motioned her to follow, and she staggered after him down a long hallway. They entered a parlor with a black leather settee and matching chairs. A bright fire burned in the tall fireplace, and she found herself moving toward it and lowering her suddenly frigid fingers before the flames.

  “Brandy?” he asked.

  She jolted and looked back at him. He had already poured her a glass and was holding it out. So she took it, for what else could she do?

  “Give me a moment,” he said softly. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  He left her then, and she sank into the settee before the fire. She noticed now it had gold plated fish as feet and absently wondered how much those must have cost him. Comfortable, he had said. Dear God, how could she be that? Now or perhaps ever again?

  Her brain dragged her backward, to earlier in the night. To looking down over the rusty metal railing to see that woman’s broken body. To the cruelty of her killers’ words as they spoke about her. To the horrible moments when Imogen had been forced to run for her own life. With every heavy step, she had believed, utterly and completely, that she would die in a bawdy house and be thrown into the river like trash.

  Her hand was wet. She glanced down and saw that she was shaking now. Brandy had sloshed onto her thumb and the top of her hand. She set it down on the table beside the settee and sank her head into her hands.

  The collapse happened swiftly as all that had transpired that night washed over her, on a hideous repeat. She shook as hot tears streamed down her face, bitter bile rising to her throat. It was only the sound of another throat clearing that jolted her from the hysteria. She jerked her face toward the door and found Fitzhugh standing there.

  He looked uncomfortable, and she rose to her feet as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “My apologies. It’s been a very long night,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “It’s understandable. I must ask you a question, though.”

  She swallowed, trying to gather herself. “What is it?”

  “Do they know your name?”

  Her brow wrinkled as she stared at him. “My—my name?”

  “Yes.” His frown deepened. “Did you give anyone at the Cat’s Companion your real name?”

  “I’d given it at a few other brothels in the past,” she said. “So, yes, they…they know my name.”

  He bent his head, and she thought he swore beneath his breath. Then he sighed. “Then you cannot go home. You’ll stay here.”

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him “What? No, please!”

  He moved into the room toward her, and she should have backed away, but how could she when he held her in place with one pointed look? “Mrs. Huxley, you have been shocked by your experience and are in no shape to have a discussion with me about what you saw tonight. I can see that now. But I cannot let you go home because if you saw what you think you saw—and judging how those men chased you, I have to believe you did—then they will hunt you. If they know your name, it will be too easy for them to do that at your own home. I might as well have abandoned you in the alley if I’m just going to push you back into their arms.”

  She jerked a hand up to her mouth. “My—my servants—”

  His expression softened a bit. “It credits you that you are concerned about them. I would wager you need not be. These people will likely not wish to raise a fuss. They’ll stalk your home, but won’t move unless they’re certain they can get to you. But I will have someone sent to watch your house tonight. You, however, will not return there.”

  “You can’t make me stay.”

  Something dark flared in his eyes, and he edged a fraction closer. “I don’t think you want to test that. I’m telling you that you are in danger. And you endanger anyone else you come in contact with until we can resolve this. If you care about that, as it seems you do, you will listen to me and let me do what I can to protect you. We can discuss the rest of this in the morning and I’ll get more details.”

  Her shoulders rolled forward. It would be considered wrong by most in her circles to stay the night in the house of a stranger. Especially a male stranger who possessed such…command. But then again, they would also certainly judge her for her decision to go to the brothel at all. They would judge her for all she’d lost and all she’d done to keep some sliver of her life.

  What was one night? Especially if it kept her alive and her servants unharmed. “Very well,” she whispered. “I won’t argue.”

  “Excellent,” he said, and motioned her toward him with a crook of his finger. “Let me show you to your room.”

  Oscar wasn’t exactly prepared for guests. He didn’t invite people to his home. Only Louisa had ever stayed here, and that felt like a lifetime ago. Still, as he opened the door to the guest chamber, he had to give his servants credit. They had made the room presentable in hardly any time at all. It was a comfortable room with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Not fancy, perhaps, but serviceable.

  He pivoted toward Mrs. Huxley, and his breath caught. To be fair,
it had caught each and every time he’d looked at her since they came into the bright light of his home. He assumed it was the same for most men who cast their eyes upon her. She was, after all, exquisitely lovely. Even more striking than he had judged her to be in the alleyway or in the darkened carriage.

  Dark hair, those stunning amber eyes, an expressive face that currently reflected all her fear and anxiety. Yes, she was…beautiful.

  He cleared his throat and pushed those inappropriate thoughts away. “Will you need help with your gown?” he asked as he looked over the yellow dress she was wearing. It buttoned in the front, the neckline was far too low, and looked as though it had been altered to make it thus, but the fabric flowed over her soft curves perfectly.

  “No,” she whispered, and pink filled her cheeks as she looked away. “I-I picked this one so I could manage it myself in the…in the…”

  She couldn’t finish, and he nodded so she wouldn’t have to because the subject of the brothel obviously made her uncomfortable. It made him wonder how a widow of a third son of an earl had come to such a dire place.

  But that was a question for tomorrow.

  “I understand,” he said. “Please, try to rest. It will help, though I know it doesn’t feel that way right now. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ring. My staff is at your service, as am I.”

  He executed a little bow and turned away. He had almost reached the door to the chamber when she said, “Mr. Fitzhugh?”

  He turned toward her shaking voice and found she had taken a long step toward him. Her cheeks were beyond pink now. Red flushed down her neck, over the curve of her breasts. He forced himself not to think about how much lower it might go.

  “Yes?” he asked and heard the roughness to his tone. The strain.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He inclined his head and then left her. As he closed the door, he recognized his heart was beating fast. That wasn’t something that happened all that often. After a lifetime, he had trained himself not to react to almost anything.

  But then again, this woman…Imogen… Mrs. Huxley was attached in some way to the place where Louisa had also died. That was probably what drew him to her. She was a chance to ride to the rescue in a situation where before he hadn’t been able. It made sense, really.

  And it also meant he had to carefully and calmly work this problem out. Emotion would only hurt everyone involved. Best to tamp it down. For Mrs. Huxley’s sake as much as his own.

  Chapter 3

  Imogen looked at herself in the mirror and let her breath out in a shaky sigh. She’d told herself over and again that it would be better in the morning, knowing it wasn’t true. Dawn had come and she still felt like hell. Looked like it, too, but there was little else she could do to fix herself. She’d finger combed and pinned her hopeless hair, shaken out the dirty dress she’d never look at the same way again. The dark circles beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep and crying weren’t something she could fix, nor was the pallor of her skin.

  “As if the man cares about your appearance,” she muttered as she smoothed the wrinkled gown once more and turned away from the mirror to cross to the door.

  She drew a shaky breath and walked into the hall. It was a quiet house. Only the distant click of a clock filled the air rather than a bustling set of servants.

  Of course Fitzhugh lived alone, so far as she could tell. She certainly could see no sign of a wife or children because there were no portraits hung to advertise them. No sounds of childish giggling or soft feminine whispers from behind chamber doors. She trailed down the stairs, marking the neatness of the house. There obviously were servants in his employ, even if they seemed invisible at present.

  The butler was at the bottom of the stairs, and as she reached the bottom, he turned from whatever it was he was doing and inclined his head toward her. “Good morning, Mrs. Huxley. Was your chamber comfortable?”

  Heat filled her cheeks at the fact that this man knew her name. What he must think of her after last night? How far she had fallen in such a short time.

  “It was very comfortable, thank you,” she said. “But I’m at a disadvantage. What is your name?”

  “Donovan, madam,” he said with another of those formal inclines of his head. “And I am at your service as long as you are a guest in this house.”

  She forced a smile. It was a kindness for him to act as though she were merely a houseguest. And one that would surely be gone before noon. “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Fitzhugh is waiting for you in the breakfast room. It is the third door on the left up the hall,” he said, motioning to a long corridor behind the staircase.

  She thanked him again and went on her way. Unlike upstairs, where the doors to the chambers were closed, they were open down here. She couldn’t help but peek into each one as she passed. Curtains were thrown open in them all, flooding the chambers with light for the servants who were quietly cleaning and organizing.

  It was a pretty place, indeed. Fine but understated. It certainly didn’t reveal much about the man who owned it, though. Oscar Fitzhugh. She shivered as she thought of him, handsome and impressive and more than a little intimidating. She had no idea what to think of him. Perhaps that was his intention.

  She reached the breakfast room and paused in the entryway. He was seated at the head of a small rectangular table, head bent into paperwork and an untouched plate of food at his right hand. He didn’t appear to have noticed her yet, so she took that moment to look at him.

  He really was a very handsome man. Even more so today than she had recalled. There was a little bit of a wave to his hair, even though it no longer looked like fingers had wended their way through it. His brow was furrowed in concentration and he had a hard, stern look on his face. She had no idea his age. It was hard to place, despite his salt-and-pepper beard and hair. Older than her own thirty-two years, she thought, but not fatherly. Oh no. Definitely not that.

  “How did you sleep?”

  His question jolted her out of her wicked thoughts, and she jumped in surprise as he glanced up at her, speared her with that dark and unassailable gaze. She clenched a hand against her chest and came into the room. “I…well, thank you.”

  He arched a brow as he rose to his feet. “Well. I don’t think so. You had nightmares.”

  She worried her lip. “I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep, Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  There was a flicker of something that came into his eyes. Eyes that flitted over her briefly. “Not at all. Even if you had, what right would I have to complain? I all but forced you here, didn’t I?”

  She smiled at the statement, a little teasing, she thought, though he still looked very serious, indeed. “You seemed to have the right motives at heart.”

  “Perish that thought,” he muttered.

  She shifted. “Are my servants well?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I had a man on your house within half an hour of your arriving here. He reports all is well there.” He motioned to the chair beside his. “Sit, won’t you? I wasn’t sure if you had favorites, so I had my cook make up a small spread. May I get you a plate?”

  Until that moment when Imogen looked at the sideboard, laden with delicious-looking food, she hadn’t been hungry. But now the smells and sights assaulted her senses, and she nearly went weak in the knees. “Please.”

  She sat, watching him pick through the selection and load up a plate. He set it in front of her and retook his place. She had every intention of trying to speak with him politely, but her hands had begun to shake with hunger. She dove into the food as she tried to remember the last time she’d done so. The previous morning, perhaps? Or was it even before that? Money was so tight, she tried to keep her expenses, even food, to a minimum. And when she’d known she was returning to the Cat’s Companion, she hadn’t been able to muster an appetite.

  Now, though, she shoveled food into her mouth. It was delicious, every bite. She had no idea how long she did so, but when she g
lanced up, she found Fitzhugh staring at her, those dark eyes glittering. She set her fork down and dabbed her mouth with a napkin as she shook her head. “I-I’m sorry. I’m being very rude.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said softly. “I asked you to eat and you are. Please continue. Can you talk while you do so?”

  She nodded. “Yes. If I stop heaping everything in my mouth at once, I can talk.”

  There was a twitch at the corner of his lip, almost like he was suppressing a smile. “Can you tell me in as much detail as you can what exactly happened last night?”

  “I feel this is unfair to you, Mr. Fitzhugh,” she said. “I’ve involved you in my troubles enough and—”

  “Tell me,” he interrupted, his firm voice yanking her excuses out from under her.

  She sighed and pushed the plate away, appetite gone once more. This was her private pain, her private story, and this stranger wanted to strip it from her. And yet he had earned it, hadn’t he? Certainly he had saved her life when he pulled her into his carriage. Perhaps again when he allowed her to escape to his home rather than returning to her own.

  And maybe it would just help to say it out loud. She hadn’t really done that before. Oh, yes, she’d spoken to Aurora about it, but never in full. Her friend had her own problems.

  “I-I suppose I should go back to the beginning,” she said, hating that her voice trembled when he was so stoic and calm. “You must want to know why I went there, the widow of a third son of an important family.”

  He held her stare. “If you wish to tell me. But understand I don’t judge you, whether you went to that place for gold or pleasure. Your body is your own.”

  She blinked. That would certainly not be the response of anyone else in her acquaintance. She cleared her throat nervously. “My husband left me with nothing at his death. His family has allowed me to keep the smallest of homes and two servants during my mourning, but nothing else, not even a carriage. Now that my mourning is coming to an end, they are already making noises about my needing to leave.”