The Rogue Steals a Bride Read online

  A prick of envy washed over Sophia, but she quickly brushed it away. She had settled in her mind years ago that there was nothing to be done about her red hair, white skin, and freckles.

  Miss Craftsman immediately turned the back of her shoulder toward Sophia and said to Mr. Brentwood, “I hope we didn’t interrupt a private conversation.”

  “Not at all, Miss Craftsman. We were just getting to know each other. Isn’t that right, Miss Hart?”

  “Yes,” Sophia said, keeping a smile on her face. “And we found we have many things in common, didn’t we, Mr. Brentwood?”

  “More than we could imagine.”

  “But now I must get back to my aunts,” Sophia said, making sure she made eye contact with the ladies before settling her attention on Mr. Brentwood again. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Brentwood. You will let me know if you hear anything about the lad we were discussing, won’t you?”

  “You can depend on that, Miss Hart.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Brentwood, Miss Craftsman, Miss Slant.”

  Sophia turned and headed down the corridor. She heard Miss Craftsman ask about the lad she had mentioned, but she didn’t hear Mr. Brentwood’s response.

  Sophia wondered how her apology to Mr. Brentwood ended up with them quarreling about Sir Randolph and the swirling rumor of the twins’ birth. She squeezed her hands into fists. Why couldn’t she have just been nice and batted her eyelashes at Mr. Brentwood the way Miss Craftsman and Miss Slant had?

  But she knew the answer to that.

  Four

  Man is only miserable so far as he thinks himself so.

  —Jacopo Sannazaro

  “Damnation,” Matson murmured under his breath after nicking his chin with his razor.

  He leaned in closer to the mirror and splashed water on the cut. It was hell shaving every morning now that he’d grown the fine, half-inch line of beard along the edges of his chin and jaw, but he just couldn’t abide the thought of letting his valet shave him. Now that he was back in England, it was the gentlemanly thing to do, but Matson had lived in America too long to return to all of the rules and traditions of his birth land.

  It took a steady hand, but with concentration he closely trimmed the blasted beard. He would keep the offending facial hair because it pleased him that he no longer looked exactly like his twin brother, and he was damned pleased he no longer resembled a much younger Sir Randolph Gibson.

  Matson shook his head and sighed as he stared at himself in the mirror and asked, “Did you really kiss that man’s ward last night?”

  He nodded to his reflection and added more soapy lather to his neck. That wasn’t his smartest move, but how was he to know who she was?

  It irritated the devil out of him that Miss Sophia Hart knew there had been an affair between his mother and Sir Randolph. Most Londoners suspected it but had no way of knowing for sure. Sophia had heard the story from the man himself.

  And by eavesdropping.

  He couldn’t hold that against her, though he would like to. It was human nature to be curious, and most children deliberately listened to their parents’ conversations at some point during their childhood. If fate had been only a little kinder to him and allowed him to be the one who had overheard his parents discuss that bit of useful news, he’d be a much happier man today. He needed to see Sophia and find out what else she knew about his life that he didn’t know.

  His stomach convulsed every time he thought about the lovely and intriguing Miss Hart being connected to Sir Randolph in any way. At the time, he thought a taste of her sweet lips on his would be worth the risk of getting caught, but not anymore. So why was he letting her get under his skin like a burr under a saddle blanket?

  Because something about her appealed to him.

  “Something?” he looked in the mirror and asked himself. “Everything,” he answered.

  From the moment he saw her walking toward him, she radiated confidence, and he found that extremely attractive.

  “Damn fate,” he whispered and dipped his blade into the bowl of foamy water.

  Years ago his father had sent him and his brother to America, expecting them to make their home there and never return to claim the heritage they’d been born to. He and Iverson didn’t know why their father had insisted they start Brentwood’s Sea Coast Ship Building Company. In England it was unheard of for sons of a titled man to manage a business, but no one gave such a task a second thought in Baltimore. For most men in America, it was the way things were done. You made your own way in life, and you didn’t live a life of leisure because you had a generous allowance from your father’s entailed estates.

  At first, he and Iverson had felt as if their father had placed them in exile. Even though they had been given the money to start the company, it hadn’t been easy to accomplish anything in the new country. Because of continued tensions between the Americans and the British Crown, Iverson and Matson did their best to hide their aristocratic British roots. But they were Englishmen through and through, and over time, the new country couldn’t compete with their homeland. Their parents had died, and the twins had gotten older. Moving their business to London seemed to be the right thing to do, since it was past time they settled down and started looking to make a match.

  Only after they had decided to come back did their older brother tell them the truth behind the reason they had been sent to America in the first place. When they grew up looking exactly like Sir Randolph Gibson, their mother had been forced to admit to an affair with the man. Matson’s parents’ hope was that the twins would stay in the new land and never return to learn of their mother’s betrayal of their father.

  Matson hadn’t believed the story himself until he saw Sir Randolph for the first time last autumn. Hence the recent closely trimmed facial hair that took an enormous amount of time in the mornings. He didn’t actually like the attempt at hiding his looks, but he would do anything to help Londoners forget that he was Sir Randolph’s by-blow.

  After rinsing the last traces of soap from his neck and face, Matson picked up a cloth to dry his skin. He was examining his handiwork in the mirror when he remembered Miss Hart telling him that Sir Randolph had been grieved by the parody that had been written about the three of them. How gullible did she think he was? He wadded the towel and threw it on top of his shaving chest.

  Matson had to hand it to her. That young lady had more nerve and audacity than was common in most young ladies, which was another reason for him to completely dismiss her from his mind as he had Mrs. Delaney all those years ago.

  Now if he could just do that, Matson would be fine. So far, he hadn’t been able to. Both times he’d seen Sophia, Matson had the same eager sensations gnawing at him as he’d had when he’d first seen Mrs. Delaney.

  He’d met the married woman at the first party he attended in Baltimore. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. When she spoke to him, his twenty-year-old heart fell in love with her. He always sought her out for a dance or to talk to her at every event he attended. He now knew she must have suspected his feelings for her, but she never hinted that she did. Her husband wasn’t as gentle with Matson’s young feelings. Mr. Delaney wasn’t long-winded about it. He simply walked up to Matson one evening and said, “Brentwood, stay away from my wife.” It wasn’t a subtle hint, and Matson had no problem getting the message.

  Matson blew out a laugh and rocked back on his heels. The color of Mrs. Delaney’s and Sophia’s hair and eyes weren’t the only thing they had in common. They were both off limits to his primal desires and tender affections.

  Matson finished dressing and hurried down the stairs. He’d already alerted his cook that he wouldn’t be taking breakfast, and for Buford to have his carriage brought around, but things seldom went off as easily as he planned. With his hat, gloves, and coat in his hands, he opened the front door and saw the bulky Mr. Littlebury ambling u
p the footpath.

  His hope of getting to his brother’s house this morning to give him the news of Miss Hart’s arrival before he read about it in the gossip sheets was fading fast. Matson needed to hear what Mr. Littlebury had to say.

  “Ah, Mr. Brentwood, looks as if you were just going out. So glad I caught you.”

  Matson stepped back inside and held the door for his courier to enter. He laid his coat, hat, and gloves on the side table and said, “Yes, Mr. Littlebury, come in. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I hope you have good news today.”

  The short, hunch-shouldered man stepped into the vestibule and took off his hat. “Good news? I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s not what I wanted to hear,” Matson said, unable to keep irritation out of his voice.

  A wrinkle formed on the man’s brow. “I know, sir, but I couldn’t find the Duke of Windergreen. Believe me, I did my best. He wasn’t at his estate, which I went to first. I was told he would be at the Duke of Rockcliffe’s home, but by the time I arrived there, he had already departed. And, of course, they wouldn’t tell me if he had left for London or some other destination. I arrived back in Town late last night, and first thing this morning I was at his door in Mayfair, asking if he’d returned. I was told he was not in residence. I thought it best to come back and receive further instruction from you.”

  Why is the man nowhere to be found?

  If Matson didn’t know better, he’d think the Duke of Windergreen was hiding from them. But Matson couldn’t take his frustration out on Mr. Littlebury. Obviously the man was doing all he could.

  Matson and Iverson had had a hell of a time securing warehouse space for their shipbuilding company when they arrived in London late last summer. When they first tried to rent space near the docks, their oldest brother, Brent, was in deep trouble with the powerful Duke of Windergreen. The duke had let it be known throughout London that he didn’t want the brothers finding space to lease.

  The twins thought they had outfoxed the duke when they found a company that was willing to go against His Grace’s dictate not to lease to them. It was a couple of months later when they discovered they were the ones who had been outwitted. The company they were leasing from was owned by Sir Randolph Gibson. He was the last man on earth they wanted to be indebted to for space.

  Now that Matson’s older brother had married the duke’s daughter, the twins were certain His Grace would recant his edict and give the word they could lease space from another company and get out from under Sir Randolph.

  If they could find the duke!

  One of Mr. Littlebury’s eyes twitched nervously. “I’m sorry for failing you, sir.”

  “It’s not the news I wanted to hear, but it’s not your fault the man is on the move. Keep checking on him each day and, the minute you hear the duke is back in London, find me or my brother.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  A few minutes later, Matson strode past his brother’s valet and into Iverson’s house. If Iverson said he didn’t want to be disturbed, that meant something was afoot. Wallace rushed past Matson and down the corridor ahead of him, insisting that Matson stop. Matson kept going. None of the three brothers had ever stood on ceremony with one another, much to the chagrin of all their staff.

  Wallace was trying to announce Matson when he walked through the doorway of his brother’s book room and said, “What’s this trying to keep your brother out? Wallace was giving me such a hard time about seeing you, I was beginning to believe you had a woman in here with you.”

  Iverson turned from the window where he stood and grunted a laugh. “That would definitely be a reason to keep you out.”

  “But I see you have something almost as powerful as a woman. Wine when it’s hardly half past nine.”

  “Oh,” Iverson said, and walked over to his desk and put the glass down.

  That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter?” Matson asked, even though he was fairly certain he knew the problem was Miss Catalina Crisp. Iverson had been in a stew about the lady ever since they’d met.

  When Iverson remained thoughtful and silent for longer than he should have, Matson added, “Did you empty your pockets at the card table last night?” He asked this to give his brother an out.

  “I came close,” Iverson said.

  Matson knew Iverson too well. A card game was not the reason he had a glass in his hand so early in the day. But he also knew he wouldn’t get any information about the lady who’d stolen Iverson’s heart.

  “Now that you are here, make yourself comfortable, and tell me what you’ve heard from our courier.”

  Matson took one of the upholstered chairs, and his brother lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. Their warehouse problem wasn’t the reason he’d come over, so Matson said, “I can make that quick. I just spoke to the man. Apparently the duke is not at his estate, nor is he at any other place where Mr. Littlebury was told the duke might be. Unfortunately, it was as if the courier had been sent on one fool’s errand after another.”

  “That’s not good news, Brother.”

  “No, that’s why Mr. Littlebury came back here for further instructions. He was told the duke would be in London in time for the first party of the Season. The docking fees and all other monies are paid on our ships, so we have a little time to wait for him to return to London and hopefully get us out from under Sir Randolph.”

  “Then we’re in good shape for now.”

  “Yes, on that count, but I have more news I’m guessing you haven’t heard, since you didn’t mention it the moment I walked in.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look so cheerless. This might not be bad news.”

  “In that case, I’m all ears. What is it?” Iverson asked.

  “Sir Randolph Gibson has just become a father again.”

  “What!” Iverson jumped from his chair, knocking it backward with a loud bang.

  Matson rose too. “Well, not a father in the true sense of the word.”

  “Spill it out, Matson. Tell me what you know about this.”

  “Sir Randolph arrived at a party last night escorting Miss Sophia Hart. She is the daughter of an old friend of his who died last year. Sir Randolph is now her legal guardian and charged with the task of seeing her properly wed.”

  Iverson relaxed and looked a little more intrigued by the news. “You saw her?”

  “Yes,” Matson said, averting his eyes from Iverson’s. He liked the idea of being the one to break the news to Iverson, but he didn’t want his brother reading too much into what he was saying. It was best no one knew just how fast Miss Hart had set his heart to racing.

  “She’s lovely?” Iverson asked.

  “Mmm. She’s fair,” Matson answered, knowing the moment he uttered the lie that Iverson would know he wasn’t speaking the truth. Being twins, they had always had a special bond, and often it was as if one knew what the other was thinking. It had always been difficult to hide anything from each other.

  “Really? Just fair, you say?” Iverson asked, encouraging Matson to say more.

  “Yes,” Matson confirmed. “The good news is her arrival in London now assures us that we are old gossip. London finally has someone new to talk about. Everyone flocked around her as if she were a queen who had invited their full attention.”

  “And had she?”

  “What?”

  “Invited attention?”

  “She’s Sir Randolph’s ward. How could she not? No doubt she will be all the rage now, and I for one am happy to turn that unappealing position over to her.”

  “So you were introduced to her?” Iverson asked.

  More than once, Matson thought but said, “Yes. Actually, I’d met her before, in passing, but didn’t know who she was.”

  “Hmm, tell me exactly how one goes about meeting a young l
ady in passing.”

  Matson knew he’d said too much.

  “It’s a long story.”

  His brother smiled. “I’ve got time.”

  Matson smiled too. “But I’m not talking.”

  “At least tell me what you thought about her.”

  That’s the damned trouble. I’ve done nothing but think of her.

  “She has red hair,” Matson said, not wanting to disclose to his brother any of the feelings Sophia Hart stirred inside him.

  Iverson nodded. “Mmm. That can be harsh. Golden, brassy, or that rusty shade of red?”

  “Golden.”

  “And was her skin the color of warm alabaster?”

  “Yes, you blasted nuisance,” Matson swore as he picked up a pillow from the chair and threw it at Iverson.

  His brother dodged the pillow and laughed.

  “Next time I’ll leave it to you to find out all the latest news on your own,” Matson said before walking out the door.

  Matson shoved his hands into his gloves as he walked toward his carriage. For a twin brother, Iverson could be such an annoyance at times. Ever since Mrs. Delaney, there was nothing Iverson liked better than teasing Matson about his penchant for lovely ladies with red hair.

  “To Timsford’s Square,” he told his driver and then climbed in the coach and settled against the plush velvet seat.

  He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d been back to the square every day since the little imp had made off with his dagger and Miss Hart’s purse. He liked to tell himself the reason he was so bent on finding the lad was because he didn’t want the bugger to best him. And it was a damned expensive knife, but it was more than either of those two things. Even though it irritated the devil out of him that Miss Hart was Sir Randolph’s ward, Matson wanted to get her brooch back for her. It didn’t seem right that she had lost an item that had belonged to her mother to a street urchin who saw its value only in terms of money and not as a precious treasure.