Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Know what she’d caused.

She forced herself to stand. “What happened?”

“You gave up the right to ask that question.”

“What happened that night—”

“I wish to speak to your father.” Clayton spoke right over her, as if she hadn’t just been about to speak the words that haunted her

every thought. Influenced her every choice.

“Clayton—”

“Do not flatter yourself that I’ve spent my life dwelling on your betrayal. Or that I want to revisit it now.”

“I do.”

“You don’t always get what you want, Diamond.”

How dare he. How dare he say those things, then use that name. She’d loved it when he’d given it to her as her code name.

Sparkling. Bright. Precious. But now in his scorn it meant pampered, shallow, greedy.

She was none of those things any longer.

“Shall we go meet with your father?”

His words grounded her back in reality. “You cannot.”

“So I discovered yesterday.”

Olivia gave thanks for the discretion and stubborn loyalty of her butler. “My father isn’t a well man. He sees no one.”

“He saw the representatives from the Bank of England.”

How did Clayton know that? “That was an exceptional case.”

“Returning from the dead might also be considered rather exceptional.”

“I won’t allow it.” She would tell him what she told all the others. “Whatever you need to say to him can be said to me. I’ll relay the

information.”

“Still his loyal watchdog, I see.” His gaze was derisive.

But she would not flinch, not from his disdain. Not from his anger. While she was no longer loyal to her father, she was loyal to this

mill. “Do you have a message to relay or not?”

Clayton smiled, a slow stretch of his lips over gleaming white teeth. “Tell your father that I’m here for justice. Everything he has will

soon be in shambles at his feet.”

“This mill has crumbled over the past ten years. Isn’t that shambles enough for you?”

“Bad luck isn’t the same as justice. The mill is set to begin printing for the Bank of England again, is it not?”

She couldn’t deny it when he already knew the truth. “Yes.”

“That is what brought me back. Not you. Your father may have stopped me from speaking the truth when I was younger. But he will

not repeat his crimes.”

“He won’t.”

Clayton rested his shoulder against the door frame. His relaxed pose was completely at odds with the intensity of his gaze. “As I

recall, you were certain of his innocence last time as well. The Swift Paper Mill will never print banknotes again.”

For the first time, the real truth of this situation settled heavily on her chest. There was nothing between them now. Her memories of

him were all she’d ever have. And now even those did nothing but open her heart to allow each of his barbs deeper.

She couldn’t tell him the truth. Not when he’d use that knowledge to destroy the mill out of pure hatred. Oh, he might deny it. But ten

years ago he’d wanted to stop her father for the sake of justice. This went much deeper. “The mill is bigger than my father. Far more

lives are in the balance.”

“Then they can rebuild what they will out of the ruins.”

What had she ever seen in this man? How could she have missed this cruelty? Perhaps her father had been right about one thing in

his miserable life—Clayton hadn’t been worth her time. Or her heart. “You’ve waited all this time for revenge?”

“This isn’t revenge.”

She planted a finger on his chest. “This is exactly revenge. Otherwise, why not go to the authorities?”

Clayton knocked her hand away, and for the first time, she could see the hot anger roiling behind his gaze. “The gallows are too

good for your father.”

“In other words, you have no proof.” She stopped and took a calming breath. “Let it go, Clayton. I give you my word that the past will

not be repeated.”

“Your word?” His voice sliced like a fine-edged knife. He ran his gloved hand over his jaw. “Do you have any idea what happened to

my father after I was convicted? Did you even go look for him?”

She knew the stricken look on her face gave away her answer. “I was fifteen.” Yet she’d never checked on him in more recent years,

either, despite all her attempts to make restitution. Apparently, she hadn’t changed as much as she liked to think. “What happened?

”

But his brief flare of emotion had been extinguished. “This mill is finished.”

The whirr of machinery outside the door slowed to silence. It was only the missing rag shipments, she assured herself.

But then Clayton smiled.

No.

She’d arranged everything to perfection. Even if Clayton had attained the level of genius his youthful abilities had hinted at, he

couldn’t stop her.

He drew a stack of papers from his jacket pocket. With slow deliberation, he dragged them in a feathered caress along her cheek.

The papers were thin. Cheap. Definitely not from her mill. “Do you know what these are?” he asked.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. Or her temper.

“Every debt that you owe your creditors now belongs to me. And the first of them comes due . . .” He glanced down at the top sheet.

As if he didn’t remember every number and every word on each page. “ . . . next Tuesday. I hope you have the cash on hand to pay

it.”

She exhaled. She would. She’d made sure the shipment to Treadmine would be delivered before the debt to the coalman came

due.

The shipment that had just been canceled.

No amount of determination could hide the trembling in her voice now. “You cannot do this.”

Clayton strode to the door. “It is already done. And tell your father that from now on, I’ll deal with him and him alone. Deliver that

message.”





chapter Two

“Yes, but perhaps move the tables into the sun?” Olivia directed the men as they moved the tables out of the tavern into the crisp

autumn air.

The harvest festival. This was supposed to be a grand celebration. The first village festival in ten years. The first of many more to

come.

If Clayton had his way, it would be the last.

Children scampered around the square, chasing a metal hoop.

Women had set up tables with savory pies for sale, brooms, knitted caps, pins, and carved wooden toys.

It was all arranged to perfection.

And would never happen again if Clayton had his way.

Mrs. Wilkerson pressed a mug of warm cider into her hands.

“Thank you.” Olivia tried to hand her a penny, but the woman shook her head.

“Not after what you’ve done.”

“Please take it.” After all, Olivia might have revived the town only to let it be crushed again.

After a moment’s hesitation, the other woman pocketed the coin. “That member of Parliament, did he agree to support your idea?

The one about separate rooms in the prison for the children?”