Page 5 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“Perhaps we could...if the French no longer had that document to use against him. If some bold soul were to slip into the country and steal it...” Asquith paused, looking at him.

Sloane’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you suggesting I do that?”

“I suppose it would depend on how bold you are. How much you wish to save Winfield and his family from scandal...”

“You’re blackmailing me. If I get Hunter out of their clutches, then you won’t reveal what Winfield did.”

“There’d be no reason to.”

“You son of a bitch. You’re doing the same thing to me that the French did to her father.”

Asquith stood up, and for the first time his cool gray eyes glimmered with emotion. “I am an Englishman. An Englishman who will do whatever is necessary to protect my country. It doesn’t matter if you revile me, if you hate me. I will do my duty.” He paused. “What I want to know is whether you will do the same because of your love for Miss Winfield.”

“You know I will,” Sloane said. “I will retrieve the document.”

“And continue to work for your country?” Asquith added.

“Yes. But on one condition—you will make Hunter Winfield step down from his post.”

“Very good, then. I will be in touch.”

Sloane watched him leave, fury pouring through his veins. Damn Asquith and his duty. Damn Hunter Winfield for exposing Annabeth to such scandal. His dreams were crumbling before him. It wasn’t a shipping empire Sloane really wanted, nor money. It was only Annabeth.

He had known, deep down, that something like this was inevitable. That life would somehow steal her from him. Annabeth was, had always been, beyond his touch. She was a woman who deserved a gentleman and a comfortable life, not the penniless heir of a second son.

There was no way to escape this trap. He had to do this to prevent her from being tainted by her father’s treachery, scorned by everyone she knew. In order to do that, he had to become a man whom she could not marry. A rogue. A scoundrel. A criminal. The sort of man everyone had always said that he would turn out to be.

And he could not even tell her why. There was no way to explain it without revealing her beloved father’s treachery. She adored Hunter, and it would break her heart to know what he had done. And what was the point of pulling Hunter out of the fire if it meant devastating Annabeth all the same?

A cold, deep sadness filled Sloane until he felt he would drown in it. To save the woman he loved, he would have to give her up.

CHAPTER ONE

1822

SLOANE RUTHERFORD WAS not a man who hesitated. He made his decisions, for good or ill, and he lived with them. But today he sat slouched at the breakfast table, food untouched, turning a note round and round in his hand, unable to make up his mind. Should he go to the wedding or not?

Actually there was no question whether he should do it; clearly he should not. The question was whether he would. The event itself didn’t figure into his thoughts. While he was surprised and faintly pleased by the fact that Noelle had invited him, he held most of his own family in disregard...and they looked on him with even less liking. Estranged wasn’t the word for his relationship with the Rutherfords. Shunned would be more like it.

So, no, he had no interest in the wedding itself, no reason to go, and normally he would have tossed the invitation in the ash can. But what drew him almost painfully to attend was precisely the thing that set up an equal ache of reluctance inside his chest: she would be there.

“Annabeth?” Marcus said from the doorway.

Sloane glanced up, startled, and scowled at his father. “So you’re reading minds now? One would think you would have done better at the card tables.”

“Yes, wouldn’t one?” Marcus replied amicably, and strolled across the room. “Sadly, it didn’t seem to work that way. And your problem didn’t take much intuition. It’s written all over your face.”

Marcus settled into a chair across from Sloane. Clad in his dressing gown and soft slippers, Marcus looked every inch the indolent aristocrat that he was—his luxurious white mane of hair combed back stylishly, his jaw smooth from his valet’s shaving, and his dressing gown made of the richest brocade and cut to fit perfectly. Even if he looked somewhat more worn than his age from years of reckless living, he was still a handsome man.

Sloane wondered if his father might catch the eye of some wealthy widow who would take the man off his hands...but no, Marcus was equally banned from the ton—more because of Sloane’s history than his own numerous vices.

“What are you doing up so early?” Sloane asked, ignoring Marcus’s comments. “You usually don’t stir from your room until ten or eleven.”

“Unfortunately the only appointment Harriman had available was at the ungodly time of nine. It’s quite difficult to get in to see him on such short notice.”

“Ah, your tailor. That would be enough to pull you out of bed.” Sloane’s mouth quirked up. Marcus was still a peacock at his age. No doubt the bill the tailor sent Sloane would be enormous, but Sloane didn’t mind. He’d far rather spend his money on his father’s fashion than on some of Marcus’s other habits.

“But I won’t complain. I was lucky he was able to make room to see me.”