Free Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle

me,” he murmured. “I will keep her safe from him. You may depend upon that much.”
    The strain fell from Tufton’s face. “Thank you, my lord.” He tucked the card away and hastened back up the steps.
    Rothewell looked up at his coachman. He was gravely reluctant to do what he knew he must, but his impetuous decision left him little choice. “To Hanover Street,” he ordered.
    â€œTo Hanover Street?” echoed the coachman.
    â€œYes, to Sharpe’s,” he said. “And be quick about it.”
    The trip through London’s darkened streets was a relatively short one. At Lord Sharpe’s imposing town house, they were let in by the same cowering footman who had chased Rothewell down Hanover Street over a week earlier. They had obviously roused him from his cot, for his hair was badly askew and his shirttail half-out.
    Rothewell made no explanation, but merely ordered the footman to put Mademoiselle Marchand and her maid in one of the guest rooms. He was not about to wake Pamela at such an hour. That done, he went into the front parlor, tossed his coat across the tea table, and glanced at the longcase clock by the door.
    Half past three. Good Lord. He had lived an eternity in the last two hours. Accustomed to surviving on little sleep, Rothewell flung himself down in a nearby chair, threw his feet up onto his coat, and slipped into a state of numbness which was not quite sleep and not quite wakefulness. He did not rouse until the rattle of a servant cleaning a grate bestirred him sometime near dawn. He rose surprisingly free of the nausea and pain he had come to expect.
    â€œOh, dear!” said Pamela two hours later. She had come down wearing a loose-fitting morning dress striped with pink and cream, and was pacing before the hearth, her hem furling out with every turn. “Upstairs? The daughter of the Comte de Valigny, you say?”
    â€œA rotter through and through, I know,” said Rothewell.
    Pamela stopped and frowned. “Lie down with dogs, Kieran, get up with fleas!” An overused proverb was as close to criticism as the countess ever came.
    He lifted both hands. “I am not fooling myself, Pamela,” he replied. “I know what is said of me. Valigny and I have been drinking and gambling and whor—well, other unmentionable things—together for months now. None of this looks good for her.”
    Pamela crossed the room, and sat down in the chair adjacent. “We mustn’t judge the girl by her relations, for none of us, I think, would wish to suffer that, ” she said dryly, bending forward to refresh his coffee. “Nor perhaps should we judge you from your friends.”
    â€œValigny has never been a friend,” he said tightly. “As to being judged, we both know that it is done. That’s why I brought her here.”
    â€œAnd not to Xanthia?” murmured Lady Sharpe. “I did wonder at it.”
    Rothewell flashed a wry smile. He did not like asking favors. “You are like the driven snow in this town, my dear,” he said. “And Mademoiselle Marchand can ill afford to rub elbows with anything less. Of course her name will be irreparably blackened if I put her up in Berkeley Square.”
    â€œQuite so, quite so!” she agreed, springing from her chair again. “Well! What can be done? One must hope her mother has been forgotten.”
    Rothewell laughed harshly. “What, by the ton ?” he asked. “They love gossip rather too well for that, my dear.”
    â€œYes, I daresay you are right.” She had set a finger to her cheek and was tapping it thoughtfully. “And this card game business, Kieran. Really, it is beyond the pale.”
    He set his jaw grimly. “Do you think I don’t know that, Pamela?” he answered. “Seen in the light of day, yes, I regret it. If I had it to do over again, I would put a stop to the whole business.”
    Lady Sharpe’s