Every Rogue Has His Charm

Book 4: Love and Let Spy

by Susanna Craig

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Caroline, Marchioness of Chesleigh, has been married for six years—at least in name. In fact, Caro has hardly seen her husband since the early days of their union. Scarred and reclusive, Maxim wasn’t ready to trust his wife with his secrets—or his heart. Instead, he quickly resumed his life of espionage in France, believing Caro was better off alone. When the spy who left her returns upon inheriting the Dukedom, he finds his wife is not the girl she once was. Her heart is a little harder. She’s learned to stand on her own. Yet the desire that once ignited between them burns as hotly as ever... Now, the more Caro learns about the past Maxim tried to hide from her, the deeper their bond grows. But danger haunts her husband’s every move, jeopardizing their passionate reunion....

Release date: August 2, 2022

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

September 1802

On the rare occasions when his conscience troubled him, Maximilien Grant reminded himself that all noblemen were thieves.

A man did not become a duke or an earl without claiming a right to things that were not truly his: land, the labor of those who worked the land, even the very bodies of those who labored. Distance—a few thousand miles, a few generations—made the provenance of their extraordinary wealth murky, allowed mere bandits to call themselves gentlemen. Some, he felt certain, had even persuaded themselves that their hands truly were clean. Nevertheless, every nobleman Maxim had ever met had something in his possession he ought not to have. Including Lord Earnshaw.

Otherwise, why would the man keep his library door locked?

Maxim had tested the door whenever he passed down the corridor—a dozen times at least. Never once had it been open. Strange behavior indeed, especially when at least a few of the guests at this infernal house party must be in want of something to read. It had been raining steadily for more than three days, and surely billiards and whist and even gossip could not stretch to fill eighty-two hours and some odd minutes.

Of course, several of the guests were content to while away the time in a supine position, either asleep, or—if the groans and giggles he had heard as he’d slipped from his chamber and passed silently through the west wing were any indication—awake and with a willing partner.

He’d not graced a house party in so long, he had forgotten the favored pastime: sex.

If he had remembered it, it would have been another excuse for turning down Earnshaw’s invitation. Not that he objected to the occasional tumble, something to work off his frustrations and clear his head. But the sort of ladies one met at a house party were not his sort at all—which was to say, they were ladies, with expectations of gentlemanly behavior and the power to compel entanglements. He had no intention of being caught in either trap.

Good God, why had he listened to General Scott and come to Hertfordshire?

Two reasons, if he were honest. First, the damned Treaty of Amiens had somehow managed to bring about peace between Britain and France after nearly a decade of war, and Maxim had forgotten what to do with himself when he wasn’t on assignment for the Crown. He’d hoped the party would offer something to counter his boredom.

(It hadn’t. Perhaps because the boredom that plagued him was no ordinary sort. Perhaps it was not boredom at all, that deep pit inside him that nothing could fill. The war at least had been a distraction from it. The companionship and coziness on display at the house party had only made matters worse, providing a vivid reminder of what he lacked, of something he would never have.)

Second, he’d felt certain Scott had pressed him to accept the invitation to Earnshaw’s estate for reasons that had nothing to do with a fortnight’s leisure and everything to do with a suspicion that the earl was hiding something.

(He was. He must be. What other reason did Maxim have for being here? Why else was the damned library door always locked?)

The corridor was dim, the single sconce that had been left burning too far from the entrance to the library to provide either assistance or exposure as Maxim slipped a hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a set of lock picks in a worn leather case.

The thin metal implements had become old friends, having secured both his survival and his reputation at various points of his life. He could open a door or a drawer swifter than a rake could divest a virgin of her honor—and with fewer scruples. Other people’s secrets were never safe with him. With practiced fingers, blunt and bold, he reached out to trace the keyhole. Earnshaw would regret—

At the slightest touch, the door swung inward a few inches, the only sound the catch of shock in Maxim’s throat. Confronted with the unexpected liberty to search, he was suddenly no longer sure what he really sought. After sending a glance over his shoulder, he sidled through the narrow opening into the library and shut the door behind him.

For half a moment, he fancied he was alone in the pitch-black room.

Then he caught a whiff of smoke, the acrid hint of a recently snuffed candle.

“Who’s there?”

The voice—a young woman’s—came from across the room and to his left. He turned toward her automatically. “You’d have your answer already, ma’am, if you’d kept your candle lit.”

She laughed, a low, genuine sound he had not expected.

Over the past week and a half—eleven days, to be precise—he had become well acquainted with the species of feminine laughter known as a giggle. From what he had been able to make out, giggling was intended to attract the gentlemen’s notice, an effort in which it nominally succeeded, for such a grating noise proved difficult to ignore. A pity that no one seemed to have explained to the young women that what they really sought was a gentleman’s unwavering attention.

Well, this young woman had his attention now. Her throaty laugh shot through him, accompanied by a bolt of lust.

“An excellent point, sir,” she conceded, her voice closer now. The room must be familiar enough to her that she could navigate around its furnishings without benefit of sight. She had the advantage of him, then; he still could make out nothing. Only a trio of tall windows on the opposite wall hinted at anything less than utter blackness. “I put out the light because I thought you were my father, come to order me back to bed.”

He’d been introduced to every one of Earnshaw’s guests. But in his mind, the half dozen or so young women were still an undifferentiated huddle of silliness. In the drawing room and at dinner, clad in pale gowns, their feathered headdresses tipped together, they reminded him of nothing so much as an unruly brood of clucking hens.

Now, he found himself wishing he had looked closer. Or listened more carefully. Then he might have been able to recognize this one, despite the darkness.

“I’m not your father.” He spoke low, his gravelly voice little more than a growl.

He bit back the temptation to make some remark about ordering her to bed anyway.

Another laugh, this one a shade less confident. Almost a giggle. Perhaps she’d begun to consider the risks of being a young woman alone, in the dark, with a stranger.

Good.

“I’ll just…go,” she whispered, brushing past him on her way to the door, close enough that he smelled her rosewater perfume. Her hand must have trembled when it at last found the doorknob. It rattled loudly in the quiet room as she fumbled to open it, not once, but three times. The final attempt was accompanied by a low moan of something very like terror. “You—you’ve locked us in, sir.”

“Nonsense.” He too reached for the doorknob and caught her hand instead. She jerked away as if scalded. Grasping the brass oval, he twisted hard—foolishly; he of all people should know that opening a lock was rarely a matter of strength—and felt the knob come loose in his hand. He swore.

She did not, as he’d half expected, suck in a sharp breath or scold him or faint. Instead, her sigh was thick with exasperation. “You’ve broken it entirely, haven’t you?” And then she swore too—a more delicate epithet, rather than an oath, but still outside the bounds of ladylike behavior. “Can I trust you not to do any further damage if I leave you and try to find the tinderbox to light another candle?”

Before he could warn her never to trust him, or any man, a whisper of fabric told him she had already walked away, presumably in the direction of the hearth. A few moments later, he heard the telltale rattle and scratch of a flame being struck, followed by a flare of light, and finally the steady glow of first one and then a pair of candles on the mantel.

She’d had to stand on tiptoe to reach them, and the long dark braid running down her back swayed gently as she dropped back onto her heels. Her feet were bare beneath a pale gown that he knew without having to investigate was her nightgown, not even a dressing gown to cover it. The thin fabric—muslin, cambric, something—did shockingly little to disguise her pleasantly round arse.

If he’d needed further proof that he was cursed, he’d found it: alone, in a locked room, with a young woman in a shocking state of dishabille. He’d be fortunate if he didn’t find himself paying for this mistake with the rest of his life. “Merde,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Slowly she turned, giving him more than a glimpse of her lush curves—thighs, belly, breasts—along with their equally tempting shadows. Above the nightgown’s high neckline, her face was that of a debutante, fresh from her first season, still youthfully round. Even her lips were plump, soft…though presently set in a prim line, an expression he suspected she’d borrowed from some matron, probably her mother.

“Lord Chesleigh,” she said, and sighed again. “I might have known it would be you.”

* * * *

Caro hadn’t schemed to get caught in a compromising position. But if she’d thought of it, she certainly would have chosen to be trapped after midnight in the library with some other of the eight eligible gentlemen in the house. Most anyone but the Marquess of Chesleigh.

A man of thirty or thereabouts, heir to a dukedom, ought to have been the party prize every marriage-minded young lady and her parents were angling to win. But not one of them had pushed their daughter in Lord Chesleigh’s direction.

The man was…well, daunting she supposed was the politest word to describe him. Six feet tall and then some, with broad shoulders. Dark hair and eyes, and a faintly Mediterranean tint to his complexion. A severe expression, even at the best of times—which this most assuredly was not.

At the moment, however, she could not see his expression. He had turned his entire attention back to the door, dropping heavily to one knee, the better to fiddle with the broken knob. She slipped back to the window seat to collect her woolen shawl, draped it around her shoulders, and then obliged him by bringing the light closer.

He grunted his acknowledgment—no one would have called it a sound of gratitude—never glancing her way. Even in profile, his scowl was ominous. “How the devil did you get in here to begin with?” he demanded as he worked. “The door’s always locked.”

“It isn’t,” she countered. “The latch sticks. I had one of the footmen show me the trick—you have to jiggle the handle just so to get it to cooperate,” she explained, miming the movement. The motion made the light dance, earning her a hard glare. She dropped her free hand to her side. “But he warned me never to shut the door once I was inside, or I’d be here until the parlor maid came—the bell pull is broken, and she only dusts the library every third day.”

Lord Chesleigh answered with a single word, one she did not recognize and which she felt certain no lady ought. She wasn’t even sure it was English. He tossed the knob onto the carpet, where it landed with a soft thud, then pushed himself to standing. Her eyes were level with his chest. “Well, what now, Miss—?”

“C-Caro.” The polished buttons of his waistcoat shone; she fought the urge to adjust the topmost one, still caught partly in its buttonhole. Either he had dressed hurriedly, or his valet was unobservant. “Lady Caroline Brent. Lord Laughton is my father. And I suppose we might as well sit down and wait.”

He did not sit down. He strode past her, threading his way among the groupings of tables and chairs with ease, despite a noticeable limp. At the center window, he stopped. She had spent enough time in those deep window wells over the past week to know that the drop to the ground below must be nearly twenty feet. Nevertheless, he stood for some time, watching the rain lash the glass, staring out into the bleak darkness as if contemplating the leap.

At long last, he dragged a hand through his hair and turned away from the window, though not to face her.

“Have you read The Highwayman’s Hostage?” she asked. “It’s by a new author, Robin Ratliff. I must say, you bear an uncanny resemblance to one of the characters.”

It was the scars that did it, the worst of them a jagged seam down the left side of his face, running from temple to jaw, over a cheek that was slightly concave. Rumor had it, there were still more scars beneath his hair, which he let grow overlong expressly for the purpose of disguising them. But nothing could hide his nose, which no doubt had been prominent even before it had been broken, its aquiline shape rendered crooked and distinctive. He’d been injured in a brawl, a brothel, a duel—or so the rumors went.

Where Lord Chesleigh was concerned, there were no end of rumors.

One corner of his mouth lifted, though she could by no stretch of the imagination consider the expression a smile. Perhaps the injury to the opposite side of his face meant he never smiled. “The villain, I presume?”

When it had first been announced that he was to be among the guests at Lord Earnshaw’s house party, whispers had buzzed around the drawing room like so many bees. A marquess. Grandson of the Duke of Hartwell. Wealthy. And despite his evident injuries, still in possession of all his faculties and most of his limbs.

But mysterious, too. Secretive. No one had seen him for years. Rumor had it he’d run away to India. Or perhaps it was the West Indies.

Rumor had it, he’d done scandalous things.

And here she was, wearing only her nightgown, trapped alone in a room with him for heaven knew how long. The clock on the mantel chimed one. What would happen when they were found?

What might happen if they weren’t?

“I cannot say, my lord. I’m only halfway through volume one.”

Lord Chesleigh’s chest rose and fell—not a laugh, precisely, but something like it. “You’re a great reader, I take it?” He gestured her toward a chair, not waiting until she had seated herself before sprawling in the one opposite.

She perched on the edge of the seat, curling her toes into the carpet to keep herself from sliding forward, conscious of the prickle of horsehair beneath her bottom. “I am.”

“Gothic tales, romances—I daresay those are your favorites.” The words were accompanied by another smile that wasn’t. Lord Chesleigh was not a handsome man. But striking, compelling. A man obviously accustomed to being found intimidating.

Her chin popped up, almost of its own volition. “Yes.”

“Your father approves of his daughter filling her head with such notions?” He tipped his head to one side, studying her. “No. If he did, you would not be sneaking out after bedtime. Hmm.” She could not decide whether she liked the way his black eyes glittered as they swept over her. “What will he do if he catches you?”

“I am not a child, Lord Chesleigh.”

“In some ways, certainly not. But in others?” He punctuated the words with a Gallic shrug. “You are evidently child enough not to have considered the ramifications of the predicament in which you find yourself.”

“In which I—? But you—do you mean to suggest that people will think we—?” Her cheeks heated. Hadn’t she just been thinking along those same lines herself? “Well, then, why aren’t you working to get the door open?”

“Why aren’t you?” He steepled his fingers over his chest and leaned his head against the chair’s high back, as if preparing to take a nap. “Some of us haven’t a reputation left to guard.”

“How dare you—!” She jumped to her feet and hustled to the door, stooping to gather the pieces of the broken door latch and then kneeling as she tried to fit them back into their places. It was no use, of course, since her hands were trembling with fury and she had no idea what she was doing.

He left her to fuss over it for perhaps five minutes, though it felt an eternity, before striding once more across the room and thrusting out his hand. With a choked noise, she laid the assorted pieces of metal on his palm.

He tumbled them over with his thumb, then once more tossed them aside before holding out his hand to her again. It took her a long moment to realize that he meant to help her rise. As soon as she was on her feet, he ordered her to fetch a light and knelt stiffly in her place. When she returned with the candle, he was trailing a fingertip over a set of thin metal implements in a leather case, a notch of concentration in his brow. Once he’d made his choice of tools, he tucked the case into his breast pocket and set to his task.

She held up the candlestick with determinedly steady hands and watched him work out of the corner of her eye. Surely he could get them free before anyone discovered her foolish mistake?

…Surely a gentleman shouldn’t know how to pick a lock?

He muttered under his breath all the while; she didn’t try to sort out the words. After a few minutes, he paused to shrug out of his coat and tossed the garment aside to join the broken pieces of the lock. If there were rumors that his tailor padded his shoulders to make them appear broader, Caro now knew enough to deny them.

At long last, she heard a soft click, and he rocked back slightly as the door sprang inward an inch or two. The breath that shuddered from her lungs nearly extinguished the candle.

He hoisted himself to his feet. “You sound relieved. Has my company grown tiresome, ma’am?”

She avoided his sardonic gaze. “I’m quite sure, my lord, that you must be equally pleased to be at liberty. You did not come to the library tonight expecting to have to break out.”

She’d spoken lightly, thoughtlessly. But hard on the heels of her words came a more somber truth, one that would have been obvious sooner if she hadn’t been so distracted. He’d come after midnight to a room he believed to be locked…prepared to break in.

Why?

Swiftly looking up, she saw the reflection of her belated realization in his eyes, and for the first time, she felt a frisson of fear. The candlestick began to slip from her suddenly sweat-dampened hand. He curled his fingers around hers to keep it from tumbling from her grasp, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, she heard footsteps in the corridor.

Without thinking, she reached out with her free hand to shut the library door again. Lord Chesleigh caught her other wrist in an implacable grip. One dark eyebrow arched skyward. “Once is enough for me, ma’am.”

“There’s a light in the library.” Oh, God. Papa’s voice. No hope of escape now.

“Caro?” Her mother that time, sounding worried.

With surprising gentleness, Lord Chesleigh nudged her toward the door as he opened it wider, so that as she stepped into the corridor, he remained invisible to the arrivals.

Among the search party were Lord and Lady Earnshaw and Miss Shelley, with whom Caro had struck up a friendship over the past week. Mama and Papa must have knocked at her door first, in hopes of finding their daughter, and gone next to alert their hosts.

“What are you doing here?” Papa demanded, leaning toward her with such a ferocious gleam in his eye that she had no choice but to take half a step backward.

“I couldn’t sleep. I came to fetch something to read, but then the d-door—” A shiver passed through her.

“I thought you told Wilson to see to that broken latch,” said Lady Earnshaw to her husband. Mama tutted and reached out to draw the woolen shawl more tightly around Caro’s shoulders.

But Papa would hear nothing of the excuse. “And what if word of this little escapade gets about?” he hissed, looking her up and down, his disgust plainly written on his face. “What will become of you—your sister—all of us—if the gossips learn you were running about Earnshaw’s house after midnight, half-naked? People will say you were meeting a lover. And who will want to marry you then?”

“Who indeed, Laughton?”

Lord Chesleigh’s voice was impossibly deep. It made her feel as tremulous as the plucked strings of a harp. And that faint accent…hadn’t someone said his mother was French? Or was that merely another rumor?

Still clad in his shirtsleeves, he stepped out of the shadows to stand close behind her, and she had the satisfaction—brief and bleak though it might be—of watching the color leach from her father’s face.

Miss Shelley, in contrast, turned brightest pink, and Lady Earnshaw laid a consoling hand on Mama’s shoulder as she sobbed a single, quiet word: “R-ruined.”

In spite of his pallor, something strange glittered in Papa’s eyes. “You’ll regret this, Chesleigh.”

“I daresay,” the marquess drawled.

And then, to Caro’s shock—she’d never before known that the word comprised such a welter of emotions: surprise, uncertainty, and a surge of anticipation—he dropped to his knee for the third time that night and, with an ironic twist to his lips, asked her to make him the happiest of men.

Chapter 2

If he lived to be one hundred years old—and he wouldn’t; thirty had been challenge enough—Maxim would never know why he’d done it. Despite his brawn, he wasn’t the protecting sort. And despite—or perhaps because of—his title, he certainly wasn’t the honorable sort.

But Lady Caroline Brent, who’d shown no fear of him, had flinched at the sound of her father’s voice, and he’d been forcibly reminded of what it was to feel helpless and to long for a way to escape.

Was it escape he’d offered her?

Perhaps there was no escape, just moving from one prison to another.

In any case, she’d accepted him, and with only a moment’s hesitation. And he had left Earnshaw’s house a few hours later, the steely dawn sky presaging another day of rain, bound for London to arrange for a special license and to meet with his solicitors.

His last night as a bachelor he spent alone in his study on Curzon Street; he’d won the house in a hand of cards fro. . .