Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

The old man grunted. “Urgency? There’s nothing urgent in this neighborhood, save my need to make water in the night. Furthermore, it’s not noon yet, so Mr. Faraday is not at home to callers.”


“Good Lord, man. This isn’t Mayfair. Damn your receiving hours. We’re here now, and we demand to see him. If you won’t step aside, we shall have to move you.”

With a wheeze of indignation, the old man said, “You haven’t even offered your card.”

Sighing with impatience, Bellamy reached into his breast pocket and withdrew two coins. Rhys recognized one as a brass Stud Club token.

“This is our card. Show it to your master.” In the old man’s other palm, he dropped a guinea. “This one is for you.”

The aging butler’s hoary eyebrows rose. His fingers curled over the coins. “Wait here, gentlemen, if you’d be so kind.”

Within the minute, he’d returned. He placed the brass token—only—back in Bellamy’s hand. “Mr. Faraday will see you in the drawing room.”

They followed the butler down a narrow corridor that seemed to have warped and twisted with age. The drawing room was empty, and the butler left them yet again, with no word as to when they might expect their host.

“You wait here.” Bellamy dragged an armchair to the far corner of the room and settled Cora in it, partly behind a small screen. She wouldn’t be immediately noticed there.

For his part, Rhys took a seat on a threadbare divan and propped one boot on the small, square table before him.

Bellamy did not approve. “You’ve been sitting in the carriage all day,” he said. “Do you have to sit down now? You’re supposed to hulk in the corner and look threatening. Menacing, not … cozy.”

Ignoring him, Rhys stretched his arm across the back of the divan and surveyed the meager furnishings and cobwebbed corners. “I thought this was supposed to be a well-heeled dandy we’re chasing. Perhaps all his fortune is sunk into gold embroidery. It’s certainly not poured into the furnishings.”

“He’s in hiding. Why else would any man of means live all the way out here, in such humble accommodations?”

“Perhaps because he enjoys the bracing sea breeze?” An unfamiliar, cultured voice.

Rhys’s gaze jerked to the doorway. There stood Peter Faraday, he presumed. And God, he could see what Cora meant. Faraday truly was the spitting image of Julian Bellamy. Or at least, a strikingly close resemblance. On examination, Faraday’s hair was a dark brown, not jet black. He stood an inch or two shorter than Bellamy. His complexion was notably more pale. But in a darkened alley, the two would be virtually indistinguishable from one another.

“Gentlemen,” Faraday said, leaning against the doorjamb, “to what do I owe this pleasure?” He wore a simple banyan over a shirt and loose-fitting trousers. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles. He looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed to greet them and had no intention of going anywhere, anytime soon.

From the looks of him, Rhys would wager he hadn’t been out of bed in weeks.

“Believe me, there’s no pleasure in it,” Bellamy said. “And if you’ve seen the token, you know exactly why we’re here.”

Faraday’s gaze sharpened. He remained absolutely still. “Do I?”

From his seat on the divan, Rhys shook his head. “If the two of you mean to be coy, we’ll be here all day. Faraday, it’s your house. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, I’ll stand.”

Rhys leaned forward, eyeing the man. “Not for much longer, you won’t.” Faraday looked ready to swoon. So much for any plan of pummeling the truth out of him. Rhys might be a violent brute, but it simply wasn’t in him to beat invalids. Faraday had obviously already taken his share of blows.

He said casually, “Sit down. Does that old fellow rattling his chains around know how to make tea? We’ll all gather round and talk this out.”

Bellamy shot him a look. “In case you’re wondering, that would be a complete and utter failure,” he whispered, “at being menacing.”

“Oh, come along,” Rhys said. “Look at him. The longer he stands there, the more color drains from his face. The man won’t even move, he’s so stiff.” He nodded at Faraday. “How many bones did you break, when you and Leo were attacked?”

The man paused. “My hipbone. Three ribs.”

“That all?”

“My left wrist.” Faraday raised the appendage before his eyes and peered at it. “I think there was a small fracture in one of the bones, but it seems to have knitted well on its own. Lost a few teeth. Other than that … just bruises, but they’ve long faded now.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I was the lucky one.”