Rogue for Hire Read online

  ROGUE FOR HIRE

  SASHA COTTMAN

  Copyright © 2020 by Sasha Cottman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Also by Sasha Cottman

  *AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  The Duke of Strathmore

  Letter from a Rake *

  An Unsuitable Match *

  The Duke’s Daughter *

  A Scottish Duke for Christmas

  My Gentleman Spy *

  Lord of Mischief *

  The Ice Queen *

  Two of a Kind *

  Mistletoe and Kisses

  Regency Rockstars

  Reid *

  Owen

  Callum

  Kendal

  Regency Rockstars Book Collection

  London Lords

  Promised to the Swedish Prince

  An Italian Count for Christmas

  Devoted to the Spanish Duke

  Wedded to the Welsh Baron- Mistletoe and Mayhem Set

  Rogues of the Road

  Rogue for Hire

  Stolen by the Rogue (Feb 2021)

  When a Rogue Falls (Hello Rogue) (May 2021)

  The Rogue and the Jewel (June 2021)

  King of Rogues (July 2021)

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  To Dean and Laura

  PROLOGUE

  LORD HARRY STEELE hauled his trunk into the stable yard of the coaching company, and with a tired sigh, dumped it against the nearest wall. He had managed to get it this far without breaking his back, but every muscle in his body was screaming—not to mention the sweat and stench of stale booze which oozed from his every pore.

  His coat was dirty and torn. The whereabouts of his best hat a mystery for the ages. He looked more like a rag-and-bone man than the son of the Duke of Redditch.

  Why do dukes have to be so bloody stubborn? He could have at least offered me the use of the coach.

  Slowly catching his breath, he took the time to survey his surroundings. The view pained his already disappointed heart. Grimy, dull, grey brick walls rose on all sides of the square. The only coach in the yard had two wheels missing and looked like it had seen better days. There was a noticeable lack of clean hay and stable staff. If the place had once been well-maintained, it wasn’t any time this century.

  Please lord, don’t let this be where the last of my pennies have gone.

  Harry pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked the address.

  82 Gracechurch Street, London

  He sighed. Miracles were definitely in short supply this morning.

  A quick check of the stables revealed three horses, but again, no hay or stable hands. The only positive thing was that the mounts meant that some of his fellow RR Coaching Company investors had arrived.

  “Well, I hope one of them has deep pockets, because this is going to be a black hole of money,” he muttered.

  He made his way out to the yard once more, regretting yet again his decision to give the whisky a serious nudge the previous evening. It was bad enough to be penniless and homeless; a hangover just added insult to injury.

  “Harry, get your useless arse upstairs. We are waiting for you,” cried a voice.

  Lifting his head, his gaze settled on a tall figure at the top of a nearby set of wooden steps. He gave a tired wave. Lord Andrew McNeal, the Duke of Monsale; stood with hands on hips glaring at him from his lofty perch.

  “Coming,” said Harry, and he headed toward the stairs. When his tired legs finally got him to the landing, Harry offered a bow. “Your grace.”

  Monsale sniffed, then pointed at Harry’s trunk abandoned in the yard. “I take it the old man made good on his threat.”

  “Two days out from Christmas Eve, and he tosses me into the street. What sort of father does that, I ask you?” replied Harry.

  “One whom you have pushed to the limits of his good humor from the day you first drew breath?” offered Monsale.

  He couldn’t expect sympathy from his friends. They knew all the wicked things Harry had got up to over the years, including the ones which had escaped his father’s notice.

  “I know, but this is Christmas. I didn’t think he would do it, let alone during the festive season,” said Harry.

  And who is going to get all that lovely pork crackling and roast beef on Christmas Eve? Not to mention the sweet Brussels sprouts. Not me.

  Being excluded from the grand family dinner was the biggest blow of them all. He could just taste the thick, rich gravy as it drowned his peas and carrots.

  “It is done, and no amount of grizzling will do you any good. Come on. We have work to do,” said Monsale. He put a comforting arm around Harry’s shoulder and ushered him through a nearby door.

  “Good Prince Hal!” came the cry.

  Harry chuckled. If he had a penny for every time Shakespeare had been quoted at him, he wouldn’t be in this mess. As it was, he was closer to a pauper than a prince this morning, but it was still comforting to know that his friends considered him worthy of their jests.

  Seated at a long, grime-covered table were three other men. Sir Stephen Moore, Augustus Trajan Jones, and The Honorable George Hawkins. None of them seemed the least fazed by Harry’s disheveled appearance.

  Monsale walked over to Augustus Jones and held out his hand. “Pay up, Gus. The old man finally did it.”

  Gus’s mouth opened as wide as a trout caught on a hook. “Oh well, it’s taken ten long years for me to have to pay out the bet, so I consider it money well spent.”

  With a flourish, he handed over a pound note, which Monsale quickly perused before putting into his own pocket. No one remarked over the sight of a duke checking his friend’s money for any possible signs of forgery. Only a fool took a banknote on face value.

  Sir Stephen Moore waved a hip flask in Harry’s direction, and Harry took it without hesitation. This morning called for the hair of the dog.

  Harry dropped into the empty, dusty chair between Stephen and George, and downed a large mouthful of whisky.

  “Right, now that we are all here, let’s get the inaugural meeting of the RR Coaching Company underway,” said Monsale.

  “RR Coaching Company?” replied Gus.

  Harry grinned. It had been his idea to call their new and barely legal endeavor after an old moniker which his father had attached to him and his friends.

  “We could hardly openly call ourselves the Rogues of the Road Coaching Company,” said Monsale.

  The tatty old stables and grounds of what had once been a successful coaching business would be the perfect front for their new enterprise.

  Monsale nodded. “Harry?”

  Harry put down the hip flask and got to his feet. He might well be th
e one with the least amount of money in his pocket, but this plan had been spinning around in his head for several years.

  He cleared his throat. “If this was a formal company meeting, someone would be taking minutes, but I expect none of us want anything we discuss to be put in writing. Firstly, may I thank you all for investing your hard-earned blunt in this venture. I know most of us don’t have more than one or two pennies to rub together.”

  He gave a quick sideways glance at Monsale. The Duke of Monsale was wealthy, but also tightfisted with his coin. His parsimonious nature was evident in the state of the premises he had secured for the group’s new venture.

  “And while the current state of this place is not going to give Carlton House a run for its money, it will, however, furnish us with a front for our less reputable activities until we can get the coaching service properly established.”

  While Monsale helped to provide a respectable façade to the fledgling coaching business, the rest of the group would continue to fund its development by way of their secret business dealings. Gus smuggled goods into Britain on board his yacht, the Night Wind. George helped to find new homes for items of dubious ownership. And Stephen had dealings in the murky world of revenge and personal vendettas.

  He didn’t need to give voice to what they all were likely thinking. At some point in the future, a crisis would occur, and they would have to find a respectable way to earn money. But that day was not today. The RR Coaching Company was their safe retreat for the time being.

  Harry dusted the front of his coat but didn’t bother making too much of an effort. There was every chance he would be sleeping on the floor of this place tonight, or in the stables.

  “And what will be my contribution to the RR Coaching Company, you quietly ask yourself? Well, London society thinks it knows everything about my scandalous lifestyle, but in truth, I have only ever allowed a tiny portion of it to become public. I pride myself on being able to manage my image. So, I have decided that instead of creating scandals, I am going to get other people to pay me in order to make theirs go away.”

  He was going into the dirty-deeds business.

  Monsale clapped his hands. “Lord Harry Steele, the man who knows scandals better than anyone. I shall personally recommend you to all my friends who need their naughty secrets kept.”

  Harry would maintain his personae of ‘society wild boy,’ while at the same time taking on clients who had got themselves into a spot of serious trouble and who would gladly pay for his expertise. Who better to keep a lid on the bubbling scandals of the ton than someone who not only understood London society, but who had seen its wicked, sinful underbelly?

  His other friends joined in the applause.

  Stephen patted him on the back. “Harry, you are a genius.”

  Harry grinned. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  CHAPTER 1

  Eleven months later

  ALICE NORTH STOOD out the front of number 16 Grosvenor Street, London, and quietly swore under her breath. “How the bloody hell has it come to this?”

  In her hand, she held a small card. She glanced at it, still uncertain as to whether she was doing the right thing.

  Scandals managed. Secrets kept. Cash retainer required. Instalments as per contract.

  16 Grosvenor Street, London

  What kind of man would run a business which specialized in such matters? If the twenty-page nondisclosure agreement she had been made to sign before receiving the business card was any indication, more than likely, he was the wrong sort.

  She turned, mind half made up to get back into the carriage and head home, but the thought of her sister stopped her. Alice was fast running out of options, and if she didn’t do something soon, all could be lost.

  “Come on. Let’s have you,” she muttered.

  She let out a long, slow breath, and considered the front of the house once more. It was an elegant, cream-fronted Georgian-period establishment. The generous width of the house afforded it five window bays and . . .

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop worrying about the architecture, and go knock on the door!”

  A hurried glance around showed no one to be within hearing distance of her, but the fact that she was talking to herself had Alice fearing for her sanity.

  An extremely tall, solidly built man dressed all in black answered the door, and Alice’s heart immediately sank. Had there been a death in the family? The way her luck was running this morning, it wouldn’t surprise her in the least if she had turned up at the exact same time as the undertaker.

  “Yes.” He looked at Alice down the length of his nose as he spoke.

  She scowled. That was not the usual way for a servant to address a visitor. The man’s demeanor bordered on rude. “I. Hmm. I came about . . . oh,” she stammered.

  I knew this was a stupid idea.

  The man held out a hand, clicking his fingers impatiently at her. “Do you have a card?” he snapped.

  Without thinking, Alice offered him the simple white card she had been holding onto with grim determination since leaving home a short while earlier.

  The butler took one look at the card and loudly sighed. “I meant your card.”

  She fumbled in her reticule as heat raced to her cheeks. Where was a card case when you needed it in a hurry?

  “Ah,” she said, and pulled out her calling card.

  He took it, barely glanced at it, and with a disinterested wave, beckoned Alice into the house. She gritted her teeth, fighting the temptation to call him out on his impertinence. Her mother most certainly would have done so and then had words with his employer.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Why am I thanking this man?

  The door was closed, and without another word, the butler promptly turned on his heel and headed upstairs, abandoning Alice in the foyer.

  She softly tutted to herself. “What a morning.”

  Doing her best to calm her temper, Alice took in the downstairs area. It was nothing to write home about. Plain black and white checkered tiles. The walls were painted cream and unadorned. It could have been the entrance to any one of a hundred other homes in London. The resident of this house clearly didn’t care for adding any personal touches.

  She waited.

  The butler hadn’t even offered for her to sit somewhere.

  And she waited.

  I wonder what the cook has planned for luncheon today. I am famished.

  She was humming a tune softly to herself when the butler finally reappeared at the top of the stairs. He made his way to her in an unhurried fashion. Alice bit back a remark about his lack of manners. Now was not the time to take the man to task.

  “His lordship is ready to receive you,” he announced.

  Lordship? When did things get so bad that nobles had to take up paid employment?

  Upstairs, Alice was shown into a drawing room and finally offered a seat. With as much grace as her tired feet would permit, she settled into an overstuffed purple sofa. The cushions were so soft that she immediately sank into them, leaving her lying prone, staring at the ceiling.

  Ruddy hell, this is ridiculous. I really shouldn’t have come here.

  She waited until the butler had left the room before struggling out of her pillowed prison and getting to her feet. She gave the sofa a disapproving look then headed over to the window. The curtains were closed and the room poorly lit.

  It’s eleven o’clock. Who keeps the drapes drawn at this hour?

  How anyone expected to conduct business in such a strange room was beyond her.

  Taking one of the deep red sashes in hand, she pulled it back and hung it over a window hook. She reached for the other curtain.

  This rogue had better be worth every penny that I’ve given him. She was already regretting having bothered to wait, fearing this was not going to help her cause in the least.

  “Ow! Ow! What the devil are you doing? Are you trying to kill me?”

  She whirled round and her
gaze fell on a dark-haired man standing a yard or so away. He had moved so silently; she hadn’t heard him enter the room and come up behind her.

  His left hand was held to his face, covering his eyes. Alice suspected that the only reason he hadn’t put both hands to his face was because of the small piglet he had tucked under his right arm.

  Not for the first time this morning, Alice found herself scowling at a male of the species. A man who was adorned in a yellow-and-green-floral dressing gown. This house seemed inhabited by the most peculiar of men. And pigs.

  The piglet gave her a friendly snort, instantly winning the most-welcoming-member-of-the-household award.

  Why is he holding a pig?

  “The window. Sunlight. Woman, have you no sense of pity for a man in pain?”

  “What you do mean you are in pain?” she replied, her gaze moving from the animal to its outrageously dressed owner.

  With a huff, he pushed past her and took a hold of the drape. She sensed he was about to let it fall back and cover the window, but to her surprise, he didn’t.

  He gripped the curtain tightly in his hand, then let out a tired sigh. “You obviously have never suffered from a hangover, and therefore have no understanding of the hell that one is. I shall give you the grace of your lack of knowledge, but only this one time.”

  “Thank you. I think,” she replied.

  Why am I thanking people who are unconscionably rude to me?

  This so-called lord clearly hadn’t bothered to suffer through any sort of instruction as to how one should behave in the company of a lady. His education in that sphere was sadly lacking. Alice had a sudden inkling as to where his butler had gotten his prickly sense of self-worth from.

  Patience. This is more important than your pride. Remember what is at stake.

  There was an awkward moment of silence, during which time their gazes were locked in a silent battle. Alice determinedly stared the outrageously dressed hungover fool down. He was not going to get the better of her.