Free All Men Are Rogues by Sari Robins Page A

to tell me, Father?” she whispered to the starless night.
    The crackling fire answered her with a resounding hiss.
    She rubbed her weary eyes and resolutely closed the curtains. No one needed to know that she was still awake at, what was it? She last recalled the hall clock tolling the hour of three. She turned and lifted a basket and gathered up the scattered papers strewn around the room. Once the floor was cleared, she crouched before the fire and tossed each paper in and watched it burn, ensuring that nothing legible of her scribblings was left. Just as she had been taught.
    Once her task was done she closed her father’s black leather-bound journal and removed it from her secretary. She sat before the fire with the book in her lap. Slowly, she lay down, resting her head against the soft animal skin and inhaling the comforting scent of leather. It made her feel close to her father. This was her legacy just as much as any money. His handwriting, his words, his thoughts. She lay on the thick carpeting before the fire and stared unseeingly at the dancing flames.
    She forced herself to remember the great diplomat and intelligence regular her father had been. Her earliest memories were of him overseeing the clearing of the house in Madrid. Or had it been Paris? No, it must have been Madrid, because she’d been about two. She had fallen climbing on one of the trunks, and she’d split her chin. She remembered the blood and crying and being lifted into his arms. He had carried her into the nursery. White linens. Bloodstains. Many servants running with wet cloths. He had held her and made her feel safe.
    With her finger, she traced the scar on her chin, feeling the jagged slash. Odd. She could not recall the pain or the treatment, only the comfort he’d given. Where had Mother been at the time? Probably already in Paris, their next assignment. Mother had had a difficult time with the nomadic life. Even at a young age Evelyn had sensed the discord between her parents. Her father had been a thinker, a doer, and a man of action. Mother had been more of an amorphous being of beauty. She had loved to sing, paint, and play the harp. Evelyn could not recall her face very clearly. Angelic, beautiful. Long golden hair, blue eyes. The scent of roses. The sound of rustling silk when she’d moved with such grace. It had been only ten years since her mother’s death, but it seemed to Evelyn she could only recall the earliest memories. She seemed to have a clearer recall of her nurse. Her nanny. Her governess. And Sully. There was always Sully.
    Evelyn sent a prayer out to the man who had been so loyal to her family; so much so that he’d had to leave her. A tear slid from her eye and dripped into her ear. She rubbed the sleeve of her dressing gown across her eyes. What was happening to her? She never cried. And now twice in one night? Not even when she had held her long cold father in her arms. Not when she had closed up the last house and packed up her father’s belongings. She sniffed. She was just feeling so dreadfully alone . She needed help. No. She just needed some companionship, a reprieve from worrying about spies, the future, money and death. If father were here he would be taking her out for a ride in the countryside to slough off her melancholy. It was an exercise for mind, body, and sagging spirit.
    But no joyful afternoons appeared in sight. On the contrary, it looked as if she had an uphill battle ahead of her to counteract the malicious campaign against her father’s name and her fortune. She was without friends, without resources, and so desperately lonely. She rolled her face onto the cover of the journal and sobbed. She did not care that her hot tears soaked the leather. Or that wracking howls broke free from her scratchy throat. Except for the fleeting pleasure of a few kisses, she did not relish her new role as self-sustaining adult. She sniffed.
    Even if these tears meant she was weak, she was going to cry