The Rogue Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ethan.
    Ethan
blinked, then shook his head. The city was full of shabby people of
the streets, many of them small, many of them tattered. There was no
reason to think…
    He
turned and went on his way, leaving with only a glance at the pretty
items discreetly displayed. Only swatches of fabrics and lengths of
lace were visible, as if the materials only became unmentionable—and
unviewable—after they were cut and sewn.
    Lace
spread over creamy satin jogged Ethan's memory, bringing last night's
adventure to mind. As he walked on, he allowed himself a moment to
warm himself on the memory of long lovely legs…
    He
hadn't seen her face. Ah, it was just as well. Not just any face
could have lived up to the promise of those silken thighs. A woman
would have to be entirely stunning to merit those limbs. Her hair
would have to be golden—or raven black, like Rose Tremayne's
hair. Exceptional hair.
    Last
night's lady had a mass of hair all right, but Ethan couldn't recall
the color precisely. Not golden, not dark. Something in between, no
doubt. In between and entirely ordinary.
    Except
that it had reminded him of firelight on creamy silken sheets…
    Her
figure in general had been adequate, if he recalled the dimensions
correctly from his elusive moment of handling her down from the tree.
Trim waist with acceptable amount of bosom, if not generous. She'd
reacted to his fresh behavior with distaste and sarcasm, but with an
added patina of innocence she was likely not even aware of.
Unmarried? A virgin?
    Well,
there was no point in wondering. He hadn't seen her face and she'd
made sure of it. Obviously, she wanted no one to know of her
predicament.
    Curiosity
nagged at him. In his urgent desire to flee the scene of his cheat,
he'd not lingered to learn how she'd managed to get herself into such
an unlikely position. Or her name, or her family.
    No
point, old man. She was at Lord Maywell's ball. She was aristocracy
and therefore out of his reach. He'd always been most circumspect
about that particular infringement. Dallying with a bored wife would
merely get him beaten and evicted from the estate. Toying with a
virtuous daughter of Society would get him shot at dawn—at
least, it would if he were a gentleman. A man such as himself
wouldn't be afforded such a dignified end. More likely he'd simply be
found dead in a ditch. Of course, if he were a gentleman, such
actions would more likely get him married.
    Frankly,
he'd rather be shot.
    Whistling
away that particular disturbing image, and cautioning himself against
any more memories of the previous night, Ethan continued on his way.
    The
day was very fine, indeed, and he suffered no more interruptions of
his peaceful frame of mind until he neared his own street. Pausing
before crossing to allow a carriage to go by, Ethan happened to
glance back the way he had come—just in time to see a small,
tattered man duck into a doorway.
    Scowling,
Ethan strode back down the walk and plucked Mr. Feebles from his
hiding place with one hand.
    "Oy,
guv'nor!" The pickpocket Ethan had met on his previous adventure
with Collis Tremayne and that group of rabid do-gooders, the Liar's
Club, flapped both hands sheepishly. "Whot you doin' here?"
the little man said in hastily manufactured surprise.
    "Being
followed, apparently," Ethan said grimly. "Why?"
    Feebles
shrugged as well as he was able, considering Ethan's grip on his
collar. "Don't know what you mean, sor."
    Ethan
made a disgusted sound and released the little man, setting him back
into his doorway with a slight shove. "Stay away from me,"
he said. "All you lot, just stay away."
    He
strode off, his grip on his walking stick tight with fury. Those
damned Liars… getting mixed up with them had nearly got him
killed once before. Ethan wasn't fond of getting killed.
    Bloody
bastards, bloody sneaking, invisible bastards—
    Ethan
halted, then turned back. He strode to Feebles's doorway to find the
man leaning comfortably against the wall, idly