Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)

The moment Gideon Myles left, Rhys ceased caring about him. As if he’d allow some petty smuggler to dictate where and when he could be on his own land. What a joke.

He strolled over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. He watched as Meredith tapped a fresh cask of wine. The defined muscles in her arms made a stark contrast with her delicate features and small frame.

“Don’t you have a girl to help you in the evenings?” he asked, looking about the room. “A barmaid?”

She shook her head as she poured. “Not at the moment. My regular girl gave birth not a few weeks ago. Don’t know yet whether she’ll come back.”

“When does the post come through next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Might I beg a few sheets of paper and some ink?”

She didn’t answer him, just shrugged as she left to deliver the glasses of wine. But a few minutes later, two leaves of heavy, cream-colored paper materialized on the bar before him, along with a quill and a small pot of ink.

“Who are you writing?” she asked, leaning both elbows on the bar. “A friend?”

“Not exactly.” In fact, Julian Bellamy might very well be an enemy.

Along with Rhys and the Duke of Morland, Bellamy was one of the three surviving members of the Stud Club. He’d been the closest to Leo, and, by all appearances, had been devastated by his friend’s tragic death. Since the murder, Bellamy had seemed a man possessed, determined to hunt down Leo’s killers and bring them to justice.

In recent weeks, however, a new witness had surfaced. If the whore who witnessed Leo’s killing could be believed, Bellamy might have had something to do with the death.

Rhys would have preferred to ask Morland to send his belongings out to Devonshire. He and Rhys had exchanged more punches than words as schoolboys, but he now counted the man as a friend, of sorts. But the duke was currently honeymooning at his Cambridgeshire estate, leaving Rhys no choice but to write Bellamy. Murderer or not, there was no one else in London he could ask.

He worked slowly; with his stiff fingers, he had to take care if he wanted his penmanship to be legible at all. After half a page, he dropped the quill and paused to shake out his hand.

“Why don’t you switch to your left?”

He looked up to see Meredith back at the bar.

She nodded at his gnarled right hand. “Why do you still try to write with it? You favor your left, anyhow.”

How did she know that? It was true, Rhys had favored his left hand from his youth. But he’d been beaten for attempting to write with it. So he’d switched to his right, and then he’d been beaten for his poor penmanship. So he’d practiced in secret, spent painstaking hours laboring over a paper and quill, until his awkward scratchings became effortless, flowing script.

And then he’d just been beaten for something else.

“Care for gin?” Meredith held the bottle poised above an empty glass.

“Thank you, no.”

With a little shrug, she tipped the bottle and poured anyway. After filling the glass to halfway, she put aside the bottle and raised the glass to her own lips.

“Does it bother you much?” she asked from behind the glass, casting a pointed look toward the room behind him.

Rhys threw a casual glance over his shoulder, having formed a good expectation of what he’d see. He was right. Everyone in the room was staring at him. Their eyes were filled with hatred, fascination, fear, or all three. He recognized more than a few men from the torch-bearing mob that morning. Over by the hearth, Harold and Laurence Symmonds glared at him over tankards of ale.

“Are they brothers or cousins?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate the bull-headed, beak-nosed pair.

“Yes.” At his obvious confusion, she explained, “Their mother took up with a pair of brothers. No one was ever able to sort out who belonged to whom. But yes, they’re brothers or cousins.”

“Explains a few things,” Rhys muttered. He turned back to Meredith and shrugged. “The staring doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. They’ll come around, in time.”

She didn’t agree or disagree, just sipped her drink.

“When we announce our engagement,” he said, “they’ll come around that much faster.”

She sputtered into the glass.

Rhys resumed writing his letter. “Still so surprised? I told you, it’s fate. As suitors go, I know I haven’t much to offer you at the moment, but that’s why I’ve started the cottage. Made good progress on the foundation today. It should be large enough for all three of us, if I build two stories.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’ll take some time, though, collecting that much stone.”

“What do you mean?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve a great pile of stone, just sitting there atop the hill.”