The League of Rogues

1 League Rule Number 8: As a man’s independence is inextricably tied to his wealth, it is vital that no woman should be allowed to meddle with it, no matter how fine her eyes might be. Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, May 29, 1821, the Lady Society column: Lady Society is issuing a challenge to Lord Lennox. She can’t help but think he is afraid of a certain lady who is in direct competition with him. Come now, Lord Lennox, what holds you in such fear and trepidation that you cannot be seen with her in public? At Lady Jacintha’s ball you turned tail and fled when the cunning lady stepped out onto the dance floor. You cannot hide forever behind your fleet of ships, nor can you call upon your friends for support. The League of Rogues are fast succumbing to the charms of Eros and taking wives. Perhaps they know something you choose to remain ignorant of? For a man of such intellect and acumen, surely you cannot let that stand. I challenge you, my cool, collected baron, to spend one night with the lady and be on your best behavior. Wedding bells, dare I say, shall ring shortly thereafter. “You want me to do what, my lord?” Ashton Lennox stared at the gray-haired banker sitting across from him in the offices of Drummond’s Bank. He knew what he was asking of the other man was daring—and quite possibly illegal. Nonetheless, retaliation was required against certain players in his field of business. That didn’t mean his demands wouldn’t frighten any banker with good sense. “It’s as simple as I said, Mr. Reed. I want you to deny Lady Melbourne gold credit if she should come to you seeking a loan.” As he spoke, he let his words come out in that cold, smooth voice that brooked no argument, and he finished by brushing his fingertips over his trousers, smoothing them out. By the age of thirty-three, Ashton had learned how to make men do his bidding with a cool stare and an imperious tone. Those who crossed him or dared to go against his wishes often ended up suffering a blow to their financial positions. “But, my lord,” Mr. Reed said, his eyes as wide as teacup saucers, “she’s always been a valued client here—” “I’ve no doubt of it, but you and I have an understanding, do we not?” Despite his tone, it was not a question. Ashton met Reed’s now frightened gaze. “It was I, as you’ll recall, who assisted you in selecting the consols to invest in last year. You were able to buy a country house in Sussex with the profits you made, were you not? I would think you’d like to keep my counsel on future matters.” The old banker’s throat worked, and he managed a shaky nod. “I am grateful, of course, but with regard to the lady in question, she is…” He struggled for words. “Troublesome?” Ashton supplied, the word escaping on a growl as his cool demeanor threatened to unravel whenever he thought of her. Lady Rosalind Melbourne was more than just troublesome. As owner of Melbourne, Shelly & Company, she’d spent the last several months stealing bids on shipping lines and purchasing other companies by underbidding him. The woman was a menace. He’d done everything a reasonable man could do by offering to buy out her shares and attempting to go about his own business, but she’d undermined his every effort—or more to the point, every legal effort. Had she been a man, he would have admired her tactics, the way she outflanked him, outmaneuvered him at every turn. But she wasn’t a man, she was a woman—an intoxicating, beautiful, infuriating menace of a woman, with a fiery Scottish temper that pushed him out of his own control. The situation was not acceptable. Control was his foremost weapon and his first line of defense. Where other men lost their bodies to passions, their minds to obsessions and their hearts to love, he always stayed in control of himself. Except when it came to Rosalind. If she hadn’t been a woman, he would have called her out long ago and settled their differences on a field at dawn. It took a moment for him to regain his focus on the matter at hand. “Are we in agreement, Mr. Reed? You will do as I’ve asked?” Ashton rose from his chair and towered over the banker. Swallowing hard, the older man nodded. “We will, Lord Lennox. Lady Melbourne will find her requests for credit denied until you direct me to do otherwise.” Ashton inclined his head in approval and left Reed’s office. He straightened his cravat and retrieved his hat from the rack in the corner outside the office. Once at the front entrance of Drummond’s, he hailed a hackney. “Where to, my lord?” the driver asked. “Berkley’s Club.” Ashton climbed inside the coach and leaned back with a sigh. “Very good, my lord.” After this morning, an afternoon at Berkley’s was exactly what was needed. He didn’t enjoy using such drastic measures, but there was more at stake here than professional pride. Lady Melbourne’s companies were being used by the only man in England who worried Ashton enough to make him lose sleep at night. Sir Hugo Waverly had been seen visiting with the captains of Lady Melbourne’s ships, and his men, or men whom Ashton suspected worked for Waverly, had been on her passenger lists more and more frequently. He suspected Waverly was using Rosalind’s companies somehow. It was unclear what Waverly was up to, but Ashton believed it wasn’t good. There was a secret war going on, one fought not with guns or swords but with eyes and words, and not on open plains but in the shadows. Hugo had declared this war some time ago, and Ashton had been mustering a defense in his own silent way. It was in the best interest of the League to take control of the situation, which at the moment meant taking control of Lady Melbourne’s companies so that he could analyze her business activities and see how Waverly might be linked to them. Ashton had visited five banks in the city this morning and had secured promises from each that Lady Melbourne would not be able to obtain credit. That way, when his friends called in their notes at each bank, she would not have the means to pay for their notes in gold. It would crush her. At least temporarily. The woman would not be down for long; Ashton wasn’t foolish enough to believe he could ruin her. But a temporary blow to her income and self-sufficiency would be enough to bring her to heel. Lady Melbourne brought to heel. A delicious thought indeed. I will own you, Rosalind. Unable to stop himself, he thought back to the night when he’d caught her alone in an alcove of a theater. The intention had been to talk with her, convince her to leave his companies alone, but then he’d touched her and that plan had vanished, and something more primal had emerged. He’d tried to use her body’s response to his against her by bringing her to the brink of passion, only to let her suffer without relief as a reprimand for her unorthodox business tactics. It had been a foolish indulgence, yet in that moment he had been unable to help himself. It also hadn’t worked. Instead, she’d turned the tables on him, and he’d come undone with the tight stroke of her hands. The memory of seeing her drop one dainty white glove at his feet, in a manner befitting a challenge to a duel, still made him hard. A duel of wits fought with seductive means… It was just how he liked to play his games. And now he’d met a woman who played as wickedly as he did. Moves and countermoves, like a game of chess. Grudging admiration for her was impossible to deny, but he was determined not to let her win. The coach rattled to a stop in front of the elegant townhouse that had been the home of Berkley’s Club for more than fifty years. Berkley’s had not been the only gentlemen’s club Ashton had gained an invitation to, though it had been the only one he’d accepted. It had appealed to him, for those moments when he wanted to escape business discussions, political issues, and other things most clubs were famous for. Berkley’s was strictly a club for men who wished to escape the whirlwind of life in London. The club was also the only place where he and his closest friends—the League of Rogues, as the papers had dubbed them—could settle in comfortably, away from the scandal rags and the gossip of that damned Lady Society. Her articles in the Quizzing Glass Gazette seemed determined to out their secrets for the amusement of London’s elite. She’d been the one to make their nickname so famous over the last few years. Ashton would readily admit that the League’s title had always been an apt description of the original five members: Godric, Lucien, Cedric, Charles and himself. With the addition of Godric’s recently discovered younger brother, Jonathan, they were now six. Over the years, some of their activities had been ruthless, callous and even dangerous. But things were changing. The dark memories of the past were being buried by new ones, better ones. At least in some ways. They were settling down—a thing Ashton had never thought possible. It had all started when Godric had abducted a young woman for revenge only to fall in love with her. Now, like ivory domino tiles, they were all falling one by one for women they could not live without. Lucien, one of the more scandalous rogues, had fallen for Cedric’s sister, Horatia. And just last month Cedric had surprised everyone by proposing to Anne Chessley, the heiress. Ashton had realized with some alarm that the League now stood equally divided between free men and those leg-shackled in matrimony. Their afternoon club discussions had changed from topics of seductions and conquests to the upcoming births of babes. If we aren’t careful, the League will change from a force to be reckoned with to a laughingstock. The power we’ve collected could be squandered, and our enemies will close ranks and try again to destroy us. The thought made his blood freeze in his veins. The past year had been spent dodging one deadly event or another. The more the League let itself become divided by wives and children, the easier it would be for Waverly to harm the people the League loved the most. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish well for his friends. They were happily, madly in love with their wives. But the power they’d all worked hard to attain since leaving university could crumble. New giants would arise from the dust of their fall and new enemies as well. Ashton could not rest until he was certain they were all safe. Until then he slept with one eye open, and such a duty weighed upon him more and more each day. As the oldest of the members, he felt obligated to be the League’s protector. The cab halted at the entrance to the club. “Berkley’s Club,” the driver announced. “Thank you.” Ashton stepped out of the cab and paid the driver before walking up the steps. A young lad finely dressed in a Berkley’s uniform opened the door for him. Ashton handed the lad his coat and hat. “Looking for anyone in particular, my lord?” Ashton tugged on his waistcoat. “Essex, Rochester or Sheridan.” He waited to see if any of the titles registered with the boy. The footman’s face lit up into an almost reverent expression. “Of course. They are having drinks in the Bombay Room. Do you know the way, my lord?” “Yes, thank you.” He wandered through the club, passing tables and chairs of men drinking, talking and quietly enjoying a respite from the demands of society. The warm armchairs were welcoming by the fires burning in the hearths, and the smell of food and brandy teased his nose. Berkley’s was like a second home. The Bombay Room had Indian-themed décor and was located on an upper floor. The door was already ajar, and the sound of familiar voices inside filled him with warmth. He allowed few things to matter deeply to him, but the League, aside from his family, was the most important thing in his life.