Page 15 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
Ada paced back and forth in her small bedroom. Her room at Cavendish Manor was much bigger, but this room boasted a coziness only found in more narrow spaces. With her books lining one wall, she almost felt at home.
When she was not feeling conflicted. So many emotions for such a short epistle to provoke—curiosity, frustration, amusement. She frowned at the letter then read it again. It proved similarly uneventful, boring even, with the second read through as with the first. Except, of course, for the final, hastily scrawled line. That bit—about the chamber pot—made her flush and laugh, a heady mixture.
But the rest of it… Viscount Albee wanted her help with organizing his notes! And he desired lectures on values such as temperance and tranquility! No, hedemandedthem. A man in such need of help should not be so high-handed. Must be the villain in him.
She should have expected demands for lectures. He’d told her he wanted to reform. But Nora’s warnings about the man had left Ada in sizzling anticipation of something, oh, shocking at the very least. More in line with the chamber pot bit. He’d questioned her own moral footing there. She grinned. As he well should.
Perhaps Nora had confused this Lord Albee with another man entirely, for how could Lord Multiple Mistresses and Lord Organize My Notebook be one and the same?
She tapped her foot on the floor and drummed her fingers on the desk. How could she run a little wild organizing notes? She couldn’t. This would never work. Besides, a man as staid as he clearly didnotneed her help.
She plopped into the chair at her writing desk and bent over the paper as she picked up her pen. Surely a better way existed to help him achieve his goals and to make the most of this potential adventure. Hmm. Perhaps she should approach it as she did problems with the children. If she waited for them to do the work, it never got done. They would just run about doing as they pleased instead of, say, helping tidy the nursery.
Rogues must be the same.
* * *
Hughes handed Cass the note, the second in as many hours. Cass ignored the man’s critical gaze and strode to the window. The note tore under his quick movements. “Damn.” He slowed his hands and opened it more gently, then read each word with purpose.
Lord A,
I am fresh out of lectures on those particular virtues. I find my lectures are always situation specific. When Pansy ruins her dress, for example, or when one of the twins brings an animal into the house.
Let us try a new plan—you tell me something bad you’ve done, and I’ll explain why you should not have done it.
—AC
Cass’s heart dropped. She requested a list of his sins. He preferred to hide the old him. He had not been kind in the past. He’d been selfish and angry and, in the end, dangerous to himself and others he should have protected.
He leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane. “One.” He’d let his estate crumble. On purpose. “Two.” He’d mocked his brother for things he cared about, for, even, being a good man. He’d torn apart and laughed at who his brother was, and all because he had been afraid he’d never be as good as him. “Child.” No. He hadn’t been a child. As a child, he’d known better. Only later had the sludgy shadows of jealousy swallowed his soul. “Three.” He’d cursed (frequently) in front of his mother, saying things he did not mean but that he knew would shock her, upset her. What the hell had he been trying to prove, anyway? “Fool. Four.” He’d taken money from Bax’s father-in-law, a mean man who liked to hurt. And he’d done so in agreement to hurt others for him.
His heart felt like it might cleave in two. Hell, but he hurt. Breath itself was too good for him and would not fill his lungs.
“Five.” He struggled to say the word out loud through a lack of air, through a crying heart. “Five.” He’d kissed his brother’s fiancée, the woman Bax loved. And she hadn’t wanted him to. He’d done it to force her hand, to trap her into marriage to himself. Then when that hadn’t worked, he’d kidnapped her. He’d meant to cart her to France, using her father’s money.
When his brother had showed up, an army of seafaring friends behind him to save the day and rescue the woman, Cass had felt spitting anger at his brother. Once again, the man was the hero, and Cass the villain. Once again, he’d thought, Bax had shoved his superiority in Cass’s face.
Only when he’d woken up hungover and ill in France had he realized he wasn’t angry at what Bax was, but at the fear, the near certainty, that he would never be like his brother—a hero.
He pushed off the window and pulled air into his lungs.
So much old, fetid anger. So many regrets. What if the old anger returned as he lived out his past deeds? “No. I can’t. I will not.”
If she would not play his way, and he would not play hers, they were at an impasse. He let the note flutter to the wide windowsill and strode from the room, right into Lola.
She smiled broadly. “Hello! I’ve come to see if I can tempt you to take a walk. It’s not good for the constitution to stay cooped up as you have.”
“I have already been for a walk.” In the early hours when darkness hid him from the world. “I would have been able to walk about more freely if I’d stayed in the country. Perhaps I’ll return.”
“You’ll be lonely.”
He shoved trembling hands through his hair.
Lola laid a hand on his arm. “You are not well today. Join Nathan in the greenhouse. Or perhaps write a letter to your father. Those give you hope.”
“Letters?”
Lola nodded. “Whatever it is the two of you discuss, it does you a world of good.” She grasped his upper arms and spun him back around toward his bedroom, then gave him a light shove. He stumbled into the room. “Now pour your heart onto paper and find your grit, Lord Albee! I’ll expect to see you for dinner at the very least.” The door slammed behind him.
