Page 1 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
Chapter One
London, 1894
Heiress hunters area maddeningly persistent lot, my dear Macie. You must lead them on a merry chase. Leave them with empty hands. And empty coffers.
Smiling as her grandmother’s words played in her thoughts, Mary Catherine Mason surveyed the veritable parade of London’s posh elites gathered in Lady Lucretia Drayton’s opulent ballroom. Debutantes decked out in their finery pranced about, the vibrant hues of their flowing silk gowns displaying their beauty to perfection, all the better to be seen by a potential husband or two. Dapper gentlemen strutted like peacocks, flaunting their wealth—or in its absence, the status bestowed by their noble birth. At times, Macie felt a twinge of pity for the penniless lords driven to barter a title for a fortune. Perhaps they felt as trapped as she had all those years ago, before her beloved Grandmama had shared the secrets few wanted her to know.
But now, as she stood in a shadowed corner of the ballroom, away from the crush, was not one of those times. Even while lingering in the shadows, Macie sensed an heiress hunter’s eagle-eyed gaze hone in. Quite a nuisance, really. She allowed herself a little sigh. She’d hoped to enjoy the notes of the orchestra in peace and relative solitude. Were the fortune seekers conditioned from their first breath to find brides whose fathers possessed an abundance of funds?
Boldly, she met the man’s intent gaze. His piercing eyes flashed with recognition, followed by a glimmer of opportunity that brightened his otherwise sallow features. Evidently, this one had yet to learn the word about town—Macie Mason did not intend to be caught. Much less by a greedy snob who hungered not for a taste of her lips, but for a smidgen of her father’s fortune. He would not be the first to learn that lesson. And sadly, he would not be the last.
When would the entitled Lord Nobs realize it was a losing battle?
Seven years earlier, moments before Macie’s debut at another crowded, equally lavish ballroom, Grandmama had clasped Macie’s hands in hers and offered words of hard-won wisdom. Since that evening, which now seemed a lifetime ago, Macie had cherished the memory of her grandmother’s heartfelt observation. Outsmarting the fops and ne’er-do-wells had become something of a game. Truth be told, she rather enjoyed devising schemes and scandals that would set fortune hunters running. Let them set their sights on more docile prey. She did not intend to be ensnared. Much less by the likes of them.
Looking past the beady-eyed baron—or was the fortune hunter a marquess?—she spotted her brother.Drat the luck. Jon was cutting a direct path toward her. Was he actually scowling? Why, he wasn’t even trying to hide his exasperation. One would think he would be accustomed to her efforts to deter the most recent crop of money-hungry lords. Still, his look of horror as he took in her ensemble was more than a wee bit amusing.
“Good God, Macie.” Still frowning, Jon met her gaze. “Tell me my eyes are deceiving me.”
She feigned a look of bemusement. “Why would you want me to say something silly? We both know your eyes are functioning precisely as they should, even without your spectacles.” She bit back a grin. “Is something wrong?”
A deep line formed between his brows, punctuating his exasperation. “Why in blazes are you wearing that... thatthing?”
“The word isdress,dear brother.” She pursed her lips in mock concern. “Have you suffered a recent blow to the head?”
“I might ask you the same question. You seem to have forgotten we are attending a ball tonight.” He swept his hand toward the dancers gliding oh-so-gracefully across the ballroom floor. “Not a lecture by some rationally dressed suffragette. Where is the gown Madame Lorette designed for you?”
“Her name is Madame Delphine,” Macie corrected, if only to stall for time.
“Whatever that pretentious woman is calling herself now is of no importance to me. We both know she’s about as French as tea and crumpets.” His scowl deepened. “She was paid to design a gown for you. Not this... atrocity.”
Macie took a small step back, retreating into the shadows along the periphery of the ballroom. “To be quite honest, she did sketch a gown that might have earned your approval. But I asked her to make a few changes.”
“A few changes?” Jon sounded as if he’d knotted his tie too snugly about his neck.
“She’d planned to use emerald-green silk. But that particular shade did not suit my coloring.”
The crinkle between her brother’s brows deepened to a crater. “I see. So you opted for the color of the mud caked on my boots after a heavy rain?”
“Really, Jon, you are going to worry yourself into wrinkles, and well before your time.”
“We both know who I will have to thank.”
Macie struggled to hold back a smile. Her older brother had always been so very responsible. So very dedicated to upholding the family name. And now, with their father putting it into Jon’shead that the family’s fine reputation rested on his ability to keep her out of trouble, he had grown far too serious. Far too staid.
Just like Papa.
“My, I had no idea my brother had become an expert on women’s couture. When I asked Madame Delphine to design a more demure gown, she assured me this color was all the rage in Paris.”
He rubbed the back of his neck as if it ached. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Not really.” She smiled, if only to vex him. “But I can’t say as I care.”
Jon slowly shook his head. “You do know how to sabotage the best laid plans.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear brother. This dress is perfectly suitable.” Macie tried her best to appear innocent, but her facade wasn’t working. She hadn’t believed it possible, but Jon’s scowl deepened. Much more of this, and he’d be fearsome enough to give the gargoyles atop the stairs outside their hosts’ palatial home a fright.
“Suitable, perhaps, for one of your excursions to those blasted houses where you chase ghosts.” His eyes narrowed as he slowly shook his head. “You look more like some blue-blooded matron’s companion than an...”
