Rules for a Rogue Page 2

  As he reached the inconspicuous door that led to the back corridor, a man called his name.

  “Mr. Ruthven? Christopher Leopold Ruthven?”

  Two gentlemen approached, both tall, black-suited, and dour. Debt collectors? The instinct to bolt dissipated when the two made it impossible, crowding him on either side of the narrow passageway.

  “I’m Ruthven.” Taller than both men and broader by half, Kit still braced himself for whatever might come. “What do you want?”

  The one who’d yet to say anything took a step closer, and Kit recognized his wrinkled face.

  “Mr. Sheridan? What brings you to Merrick’s?” Kit never imagined the Ruthven family solicitor would venture to a London theater under any circumstances.

  “Ill tidings, I regret to say.” Sheridan reached into his coat and withdrew an envelope blacked with ink around the edges. “Your father is dead, Mr. Ruthven. I’m sorry. Our letter to you was returned. My messenger visited your address twice and could not locate you. I thought we might find you here.”

  “Moved lodgings.” Kit took the letter, willing his hand not to tremble. “Weeks ago.”

  “Your sister has made arrangements for a ceremony in Briar Heath.” Sheridan lifted a card from his pocket and handed it to Kit. “Visit my office before you depart, and I can provide you with details of your father’s will.”

  The men watched him a moment, waiting for a reaction. When none came, Sheridan muttered condolences before they departed.

  Kit lost track of time. He shoved Sheridan’s card into his coat pocket to join Fleet’s, crushed the unread solicitor’s letter in his hand, and stood rooted to the spot where they’d left him. Father. Dead. The two words refused to congeal in his mind. So many of the choices Kit made in his twenty-eight years had been driven by his father’s wrath, attempts to escape his stifling control.

  Now Kit could think only of what he should do. Must do. Look after his sisters. Return to Briar Heath.

  He’d leave after speaking to Merrick. Any work on a play to impress Fleet would have to be undertaken while he was back home.

  Home. The countryside, the village, the oversized house his father built with profits from his publishing enterprise—none of it had been home for such a very long time. It was a place he’d felt shunned and loathed most of his life. He’d never visited in four years. Never dared set foot in his father’s house after his flamboyant departure.

  As he headed toward Merrick’s office to tell the man his news, worry for his sisters tightened Kit’s jaw until it ached. Then another thought struck.

  After all these years, night after night of futile searching, he would finally see Ophelia Marsden again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “A true lady confines herself to all that is decorative in society and especially at home, for this is her rightful domain.”

  —THE RUTHVEN RULES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  “Ladies, put down your feathers, ribbons, and rouge, and leave outward decoration aside! Let all thoughtful young ladies attend first to their inner enrichment and festooning the chambers of their mind.”

  —MISS GILROY’S GUIDELINES FOR YOUNG LADIES

  London unsettled Ophelia Marsden.

  Buzzing energy bubbled up as the train puffed to a stop at Paddington Station. She arrived full of purpose, armed with lists and schedules and appointments, but the metropolis swept away her best intentions the second her foot touched pavement outside the station. Brimming with people and color and noise, London moved too fast for her to take it all in, but that didn’t stop her from trying. A country girl at heart, who’d only visited the capital a handful of times, Ophelia cast a wide-eyed gaze about like a child in a sweet shop.

  “A wee lil’ penny for hours of fright!” Across from the train station a young boy stood hawking magazines and penny dreadfuls.

  Unable to resist the prospect of fresh reading material, she approached to buy a copy, then dodged back. An overflowing omnibus careened across her path, reminding her that London could be dangerous too, especially for young women susceptible to distraction.

  A few startled pigeons rose from the cobblestones into flight, and their fluttering gray drew her gaze to a coffeehouse. The aroma of fresh-baked bread set her stomach rumbling. She’d been too nervous before her journey to manage more than a scant breakfast.

  No. Concentrate. There was no time for gaping or filling her belly. London’s attractions drew her away from her purpose, and that was something she couldn’t afford. She had an appointment and couldn’t be late.

  Ophelia lifted the fob watch pinned to her bodice to check the hour.

  Time wasn’t on her side when she visited the city. London minutes rushed by as quick as omnibuses, and she struggled to tick every item off her list.

  Retrieving a rectangle of paper from her pocket, she double-checked to make sure she’d remembered to include a stop at the stationers.

  Papa had often called her a worrier. Phee preferred to think of herself as a planner.

  Still, all she planned to accomplish in the city vied with what required her attention back home. Now that their parents were gone, leaving her sister Juliet in the care of their elderly aunt weighed on Ophelia’s mind whenever she left Briar Heath. Aunt Rose was too sweet to complain, insisting her nieces were consolation for never marrying and having children of her own, but Phee still felt responsible for Juliet. She’d been caring for her sister since their mother’s death shortly after Juliet’s birth.

  But family worries and London’s bustle weren’t her only distractions when visiting the city.

  Kit Ruthven lived here, and she had good cause to hate the metropolis for that reason alone. He’d chosen a life in London over a future with her. There was no denying the city’s seductive power, but Ophelia hadn’t quite forgiven Kit for breaking all the youthful promises they’d made to each other. She hadn’t forgiven herself for believing those promises either. If the four years since their parting had taught her anything, it was to choose more often with her head than with her heart.

  She avoided Kit during her visits, taking care to steer clear of the part of town where he’d taken residence. But keeping out of the man’s path was far easier than banishing him from her thoughts. He was stamped on every site that caught her eye. Had he walked down this patch of pavement? Visited that bookshop? What if she turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with the only man she’d ever kissed?

  He’d tower above her, blocking out the sun with those broad shoulders of his. Tip his head until his dark-as-treacle hair slid across his brow. She’d imagined such an encounter countless times. On past visits she’d even sensed him, as if they were knotted together on the same filament of thread. At times she felt a strange prickling sensation and convinced herself that wherever he was, his movements rippled across her skin.

  Fanciful nonsense. As whimsical as the idea that he’d come back to her. It was long past time to put whimsy and fancies aside.

  Practicality and prudence. Those were her watchwords now.

  Wellbeck Publishing’s office was on the other side of Hyde Park, on a row off the Brompton Road. Phee chose a quiet path through the green, hoping to avoid the crush on the main thoroughfares. But she found it difficult to enter the park without wishing to linger. Sunlight warmed her skin, a cool breeze rustled the leaves above her head, and she cast one longing gaze toward the sparkling surface of the Serpentine before picking up her pace.

  Her editor’s letter had been vague as to the purpose of his summons, and Phee pressed a hand to her middle and drew in a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. She still couldn’t quite believe he’d agreed to publish her book. Over the course of the previous year, four editors had rejected her manuscript, denouncing the very notion of an etiquette book that dared to challenge others in the genre. But Mr. Talbot saw merit in Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies. His belief in her work had given Ophelia a taste of success, confidence in what she could accomplish when she se
t her mind to a task. Most of all, she hoped publication might provide her with a bit of income. With their family home in need of repairs and no other funds than what she could earn, income was what she needed most.

  Wellbeck’s wasn’t the only publishing office situated along Somerset Row. As she approached, Ophelia allowed herself a single gaze at a sign down the lane—Ruthven Publishers. A vivid image of the long, stern face of Kit’s father arose in her mind. If she wished to avoid the son, she wouldn’t find a safer spot in London than outside the father’s offices. As far as she knew, Kit hadn’t spoken to his father since the day he’d left.

  “Do come in, Miss Marsden.” Mr. Talbot ushered her into his cluttered office the minute she crossed the building’s threshold. “Take a seat wherever you can find one. Here, let me move those.”

  The bespectacled older gentleman reached behind her to settle a box of books on the floor next to a chair, and Ophelia navigated around another tower of crates to take the seat he offered.

  “Forgive the mess,” he said as he settled behind his desk. “We’re expanding into a larger space in a few weeks.” For a man whose letters always exuded calm, Mr. Talbot seemed frazzled in person. A sheen of perspiration on his forehead received a quick mop from his handkerchief, disheveling his fringe of thinning gray hair. “Now, where were we?”

  “We had not yet begun, sir. I’ve just arrived.”

  “Ah, yes!” After pointing an index finger in the air, he ducked his head to scratch around for something in his top drawer. He pulled out a slip of paper and covered it with his palms flat on the desk’s blotter. “I have good news, and some you may deem less so. Which would you prefer first?”

  “Bad news first, if you please.” Phee didn’t consider herself a pessimist, but experience had taught her to prepare for the worst.

  “Your book has exceeded our expectations. As you know, Mr. Wellbeck approved a modest initial printing, but booksellers are reporting steady sales.”

  Ophelia let out the breath she’d been holding and arched an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously like excellent news.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Talbot’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and she spied a grin under the man’s neatly trimmed mustache. “One comes with the other, doesn’t it? Your book is selling well enough to attract attention from critics.”

  Oh no. Her stomach began to rumble, and this time it had nothing to do with the scent of roasted coffee or freshly baked bread. Maybe she wasn’t keen for bad news after all.

  “Critics’ judgements are decidedly mixed, Miss Marsden. Some have embraced Miss Gilroy’s Guidelines.” His buoyant tone ebbed down, along with the edges of his mouth. “Of course, those who reject your book’s forward-thinking tenets are the loudest of the bunch. Some have written directly to Mr. Wellbeck, insisting that he halt publication.”

  “Is he breaking our agreement?” Ophelia’s little taste of success began to sour.

  “Not at all, Miss Marsden.” Mr. Talbot leaned forward and cast her a sympathetic gaze. “Your book is quite modern, your ideas provocative. We always knew it would stir a reaction.” He ducked his head. “But in addition to those decrying its tenets, Guidelines has drawn the notice of Ruthven Publishing. We did anticipate this possibility too.”

  They had. In her first letter to Wellbeck’s, she’d cited the renowned Ruthven Rules series of etiquette guides as her inspiration. While she’d made no direct mention of Kit’s father’s famous rule books in her manuscript, she couldn’t deny that the small-minded strictures outlined in The Ruthven Rules had incensed her. In particular, the recently published edition for young ladies had made her seethe. She’d hoped too much, expected something new, or at least sensible. Instead, she’d found outdated ideas that ignited her so thoroughly she’d found herself driven to write in stolen moments between pupils, or late at night after Juliet had gone to sleep.

  “We’ve had a request to meet with a representative from Ruthven’s next week.” Mr. Wellbeck lifted a letter from a pile of correspondence on his desk and laid it at the front edge for her perusal. “As you can see, they are concerned about similarities between your etiquette book and theirs. But worry not, Miss Marsden. There can be no question of literary theft. I know you took great care to avoid reference to Ruthven or his books.”

  Heart in her throat, Ophelia bent forward as far as her corset would allow. Beat by slowing beat, her pulse thumped a steadier rhythm. The note on Ruthven letterhead made reference to Miss Gilroy. She hadn’t chosen her former governess’s maiden name as a nom de plume in order to hide from Leopold Ruthven or his son specifically. She’d intended to conceal her identity from any who might read the book.

  All that she’d written came from the heart, and she was prepared to stand by every word. But she couldn’t do so as Ophelia Marsden.

  After her father’s death, she’d taken on students, teaching the decorum she’d learned from her mother and art and music skills she’d been taught by her father to young ladies from some of the wealthier families in Briar Heath. A few readers might embrace her guidebook, but her pupils’ upstanding parents would not, and she desperately needed their patronage. Royalties from her book would never provide enough to keep Longacre, the country house she and Juliet had inherited from their father, afloat.

  Why deceive myself? Longacre is already crumbling.

  It was why Ophelia was giving serious consideration to the only offer of marriage she’d ever received. A local baron’s proposal a few months after her father’s death had come without affection or any prospect of passion. Lord Dunstan agreed to await an answer until the end of her mourning period, but Phee hadn’t yet convinced herself to be quite practical enough to accept.

  “Mr. Ruthven has known me since I was a child, Mr. Wellbeck. His family resides near my village.” She didn’t bother adding how much Ruthven loathed her. “The anonymity my pen name affords would be shattered if I met with him.”

  Her editor steepled his hands under his chin and stared at her. “I take it news travels rather slowly in your village.”

  “Not particularly, sir.” Between the gossipy Mrs. Hollingsworth and the talkative gent who ran the public house, word passed as quick as a wink in Briar Heath. “Why? Is there more bad news?”

  “Leopold Ruthven got a mention in the newspaper this morning.” Mr. Wellbeck rifled through another pile on his desk and handed her a folded newspaper, the pages opened to the obituary section. “The worst sort of news, I’m afraid.”

  A chill chased up her spine as she read the block letters.

  THE LATE LEOPOLD RUTHVEN.

  Pain came, tiny pinpricks of pressure at the corners of her eyes, and she sucked in a breath to keep her composure. She hadn’t shed a tear since her father’s death. Why cry for Ruthven? The man had dismissed her as an unworthy prospect for his son and heir. He’d done everything in his power to turn Kit against her.

  “So you see,” Talbot continued as she read the accolades for a man who’d banned her from his home and denounced her father as a heretic. “You needn’t worry about encountering Mr. Ruthven. I believe it will be his office manager, Mr. Adamson, who attends the meeting next week.”

  Ophelia struggled to comprehend that the steely publishing magnate was dead. He’d always been an opposing force in her life, making Kit miserable and exerting his imperious influence over Briar Heath. One determined tear escaped, but as she swiped the streak of dampness from her cheek, she knew it wasn’t for Leopold Ruthven. Her sorrow was for his daughters. She knew the grief of enduring a father’s death, discovering that the man a girl looked to for guidance was gone. If Ruthven had shown kindness to anyone, it had been to Sophia and Clarissa. Perhaps there’d been too many expectations and disappointments between Kit and his father for any tenderness to thrive.

  “Were you very close to the Ruthvens, Miss Marsden? Forgive me. If I’d known, I would have presented the news more gently.”

  Was there a gentle way to discuss a man’s end? No amoun
t of civility could to stop the Ruthvens’ settled world from tumbling.

  And what of Kit? Would he finally bow to the obligations he’d been avoiding for years? In death, would his father finally achieve the conformity he’d forever demanded of his son?

  “I shall not break, Mr. Talbot, I assure you. I’m acquainted with his daughters and feel sympathy for what they’ll face in the coming days.”

  “And the son? Are you acquainted with him? I understand he went astray and cares nothing for the family business.” Though he spoke in a measured tone, there was an avaricious gleam in her editor’s eyes. Of course he would take an interest in the fate of Wellbeck’s fiercest competitor.

  “I knew the younger Mr. Ruthven many years ago.” The stark truth rang hollow, even when her voice broke on the admission.

  Kit had been her closest childhood friend, a confidant as she grew older, and then . . . more. At a country dance, she’d watched him from across the room and seen him differently. His long, muscular body, sensual mouth, and heartbreaking dark amber eyes hadn’t been those of the boy she’d known but the features of a man she craved. Now she doubted if he’d ever felt the same.

  “I understand he’s an actor.”

  “A playwright. He always wished to write rather than perform.”

  “Then perhaps he will sell.” Talbot tipped forward in his chair, eager, almost breathless. “The end of The Ruthven Rules would bode well for you, Miss Marsden, and every other etiquette-book writer in London.”

  Ophelia nodded, though she loathed being called an etiquette-book writer. She’d never thought of herself as such. Wouldn’t that make her as pompous as Ruthven, who spent his life dictating the actions of others? She referred to her book as one of guidelines, a voice of reason for young ladies who found themselves restricted by Leopold Ruthven’s outdated rules. She advocated education, that women think for themselves.