A Rogue by Any Other Name

“Perhaps they decided it was you who was without honor.”

One of Langford’s brows rose. “You continue to blame me?”

“You continue to deserve it.”

“Come now,” Langford scoffed. “Look around you. You built this place; you rebuilt your life, your fortunes. What would you do if you were forced to give them away? To pass them off to someone who’d never had a hand in their growth? In their success? Are you saying you would not do the very same thing I did?” The older man set the paper to the table. “It would be a lie. You have as little conscience as I, and there’s the proof.”

He leaned back in his chair. “It’s a shame I was saddled with Tommy and not you; you would have made me a fine son, with how well you learned the lessons I taught you.”

Michael resisted the urge to recoil at the words, at the implication that he and Langford were similar, even as he recognized their truth. And loathed it.

His gaze flickered to the note on the table, its weight at once immense and nothing at all. There was a roar in his ears as he registered the importance of what he had done. Of what he was doing.

Unaware of Michael’s thoughts, Langford said, “Let us come down to business. I still have the rest—everything your father passed to you. Your entire past. You think I didn’t expect you to do something like this?” He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I.” He set the stack on the table. “Is vingt-et-un still your game? My legacy against yours.”

And when Michael saw it there, laid out on the green baize in calculated clarity, understanding rocketed through him. He’d replayed that fateful night hundreds of times—thousands of them—watching the cards flip over and slide across the baize into their seats, counting the ten, fourteen, twenty-two that had marked the end of his inheritance and his youth.

And he’d always thought it was the moment that marked the end of everything that was good about him.

It wasn’t.

But this would be.

He thought of Penelope in his arms, her lips soft against his, the hitch in her breath as she begged him not to come here. Not to do this. The way she’d looked him straight in the eye and asked him not to give away his final chance at good—the last vestige of his decency.

Not to let revenge overshadow love.

He reached for the stack of deeds on the table, sifting through them, spreading them across the felt. Wales, Scotland, Newcastle, Devon—a collection of houses amassed by generations of marquesses—once so vitally important to him . . . now a collection of brick and mortar.

Only the past. Not the future.

Nothing without Penelope.

What had he done?

Dear God. He loved her.

The realization struck him like a blow, utterly out of place, and more powerful than anything else. And he hated himself for not having had the chance to tell her.

And, as though he’d conjured her up, suddenly she was there, her voice rising from outside the door. “You may attempt to stop me with your silence and your . . . enormity . . . but make no mistake about it, I will enter that room!”

Michael stood to watch the door of the room spring open, revealing a confused Bruno and, just behind him, an irate Penelope. The guard lifted his hands in a helpless expression that would have amused Michael if they were in a different time and place. Bruno did not seem to understand what to do with this small, strange woman who had the strength of ten men. Of twenty.

She pushed past him and into the room, chin up, shoulders square, anger and frustration and determination on her lovely face.

And he’d never wanted her so much in his life.

But he did not want her anywhere near Langford. He approached her, pulling her aside, and saying quietly, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

He turned to Cross, who had appeared in the doorway next to Bruno. “You were to take her home.”

Cross lifted a shoulder in a lanky shrug. “The lady is rather . . . unbiddable.”

Penelope turned a smile on the tall, ginger-haired man. “Thank you. That might well be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

Michael had the distinct impression that this entire evening was about to get out of hand. Before he could say any more, Penelope moved past him, farther into the room. “Lord Langford,” she acknowledged, looking right down her nose at the man.

“Penelope,” the older man said, unable to keep the surprise from his gaze.

“It’s Lady Bourne to you.” The words were cool and cutting, and Michael was sure she’d never been more beautiful. “Come to think of it, it was always lady to you. And you never referred to me as such.”

The older man’s gaze narrowed in irritation, and Michael had an intense urge to put a fist into the viscount’s face for the look.

It was not necessary. His wife was more than able to care for herself. “You don’t like that, I see. Well, let me tell you what I don’t like. I don’t like insolence. And I don’t like cruelty. And I most definitely don’t like you. It is time you and I have it out, Langford, because while you might have stolen my husband’s lands and funds and reputation, and you might have been a truly horrendous father to my friend, I absolutely refuse to have you take another thing from me, you despicable old man.”

Michael’s brows went up at the words. He should stop her, he knew.

Except, he found he didn’t want to.

“I do not have to listen to this.” Langford turned a mottled, unpleasant shade of red and shot up from his chair in irate disbelief. He looked to Michael. “Control your female before I am forced to do it for you.”