Page 61 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
No, not a threat. But perhaps a warning.
Chapter Eighteen
As a youngman, Finn had learned to follow his gut. Despite Macie’s protests to the contrary, he didn’t trust the miserable bloke she’d encountered by the old mansion. Why in blazes did Hiram Neville have an interest in her grandfather’s house—and with it, a library full of scholarly books?
His gut warned something was afoot. The trespasser Macie had found in the library had not searched for valuable antiquities. Instead, he’d rummaged through thick, dusty tomes. Could he be connected with Neville?Bloody peculiar. Damned if he wasn’t going to find out what the cantankerous old goat was after.
As he sat at the reins of his carriage, transporting Macie and Nell to their townhouse, he could not help but overhear Nell’s excited chatter about the upcoming ball. For the life of him, he could not understand her anticipation of an event that involved traipsing about in a blasted costume, hobnobbing with preening socialites and whey-faced lords. He had no bloody choice but to honor his agreement with Macie and suffer through the night.
Truth be told, he would’ve been there watching over her, blasted deal or not. Nothing and no one would keep him from her side. In the beginning, he’d expected to shield her from money-hungry jackals who might seek to coerce a beautiful heiress into a lucrative marriage. But now, he needed to protect her from a far greater menace than penniless lords seeking to marry into a fortune.
On the surface, Macie’s response to her encounter with Hiram Neville had been calm and dismissive of any threat the old man might pose. But he’d seen a different response in her eyes. He’d detected a quiet alarm in their depths, an instinctive reaction she couldn’t entirely hide.
The rumble of the carriage over the pavement helped him focus his thoughts away from Nell’s eager expectations for the night ahead to his next course of action. By the time he arrived at the townhouse, he’d decided on his next steps.
“You’re leaving now?” Macie’s brows quirked after he escorted them inside and informed the ladies he’d be heading to the Rogue’s Lair until later in the evening. “You’ll regret missing Mrs. Tuttle’s supper.”
“It’s a sacrifice I’m prepared to make.” He kept his tone light. “I need to shore up my strength before tomorrow’s ordeal.”
“Lady Fenwick’s parties are quite well done. You might be a grouch, but I fully intend to enjoy myself.” She flashed a little frown. “You’re looking for information about Mr. Neville from Logan’s contacts, aren’t you?”
“While I’m fortifying myself with a pint or two, I’ll see what I can draw out of his regulars.”
Her mouth curved at the corners. “You are dedicated to your duty, aren’t you?”
“My duty?”
Her smile was soft and genuine. “You’re quite the efficient bodyguard.”
“Trust me when I say this, Macie—my interest in keeping you safe has nothing to do with any blasted duty.”
*
In Finn’s experience,a drinking hole was the best place to dig outthe skeletons in the closets of so-called gentlemen, down-on-their luck gamblers, and buttoned-up pillars of the community with something to hide. In the years since Logan MacLain had offered his first round of whisky at the Rogue’s Lair, the tavern had become a popular destination for moneyed blokes and down-on-their-luck lords, the best place in London for a man to put his ear to the ground for news that would never make it into the morning edition.
As Finn maneuvered around the patrons gathered around the billiard table, gaslight cast a glow over the polished wood tables at the Rogue’s Lair. He headed straight to the spot where the barkeep stood, polishing a silver stein. Murray set down the stein, turned to him, and passed him a mug filled with his favorite ale.
“I saw you come in, Caldwell,” he said. “You looking for Logan?”
“He’s here tonight?”
Murray nodded. “In the back. Knowing him, he already aware you’re here.”
“He doesn’t miss much,” Finn agreed, offered thanks for the drink, and headed back to Logan’s office.
Seated at a massive oak desk, Logan looked up from the paperwork he’d been reviewing. His brows quirked in surprise.
“I hadn’t expected to see ye tonight. I thought ye’d be hard at work trying on the hose for the ball tomorrow night.”
“Bloody hell, MacLain. I will not be wearing blasted tights, or any such nonsense. Where would ye get a notion like that?”
“Amelia informed me that there’s a rumor ye’re dressing as some medieval archer who shall remain nameless.”
“Not a chance in Hades. Your dear wife has been misinformed.”
Logan motioned for him to take a seat. “In that case, have ye come seeking advice on your costume? Amelia dragged me to one of those torturous affairs last winter.”
“Blasted shame I wasn’t there to see that.”
