Excerpt
 

THE ROGUE REPORT
Barbara Dawson Smith

to be published
June 2006

Prologue

Jack William Mansfield, the Earl of Rutledge, was leaning over the billiards table, lining up a difficult shot, when he learned that his fiancée had called off the wedding.

 “Evelyn found out about your party,” Gresham announced.  “She says you’ve humilated her for the last time.”

A trim man with clean-cut features and sandy-brown hair, George Gresham was Evelyn’s cousin.  He had been observing the match between Jack and Whistler for the past ten minutes, bouncing back and forth on his heels, clearly waiting for the opportune moment to unload his shattering news.  

No wonder.  Gresham had staked ten guineas on Whistler. 

Jack concentrated on the layout of the table.  With the leather tip of the cue, he sent the ivory ball careening across the green baize to strike the edge and change direction, knocking Whistler’s ball out of play and his own into the corner pocket, where it landed with a thunk.

Gresham and Whistler groaned in unison.  “The devil’s own luck,” said Albert, Viscount Whistler, in his usual gloomy manner.  

“Not luck,” Jack said.  “Geometry.”

When both men gazed blankly, Whistler with his shaggy black hair and slumped shoulders beside finely groomed Gresham, Jack decided against explaining the practical application of scalene and isosceles triangles.  He oughtn’t have blurted out such a revealing remark, anyway.  Better to foster the myth of his pact with the devil – and to display his legendary coolness in the face of financial crisis.

Yet the prospect of losing Evelyn left him reeling.  Who had told her?  It couldn’t have been Gresham; he wouldn’t want his cousin to find out that he’d also attended the party.  Nor would any of the other gentlemen have tattled lest their wives and mothers and sisters rake them over the coals of disapproval. 

In a show of insoucience, Jack strolled to the other side of the table and contemplated his next shot.  A pair of oil lamps cast a soft yellow glow over the table.  The faint haze of tobacco smoke emanated from the cheroot that dangled between Gresham’s fingers.

Gresham planted his hands on the rosewood edge of the table and glowered at Jack.  “Good God, man!  Is that all you have to say?”

“No.”  Jack gazed pointedly at the cheroot.  “Let me add, if any ash falls onto my table we’ll be meeting at Hampstead Heath tomorrow at dawn.”

Gresham hastily retreated a step.  Tipping the column of ash into an empty brandy glass, he barked, “Blast it, old chap, what about Evelyn?  You’ve lost her – and the creditors will be swarming like vultures on your carcass.”

“Just think of that dowry,” Whistler added, driving another nail into Jack’s coffin.  “Ain’t a richer heiress in all of London.”

Or a more vain, self-important one, either.  Jack didn’t fool himself that Evelyn would be heartsick with grief.  Along with her money, she had inherited a deplorably pragmatic side from a merchant grandfather.  She and Jack had made a bargain; she would pay off his debts in exchange for becoming a countess and someday, a duchess, for he was heir to the Duke of Wycliffe.  But she had also stipulated that any further losses at gambling would put an end to their betrothal. 

He clenched his jaw.  Hell, why was he worried?  For all her practicality, Evelyn was young and beautiful – and she desired him.  He’d yet to meet a woman he couldn’t charm.

Cue stick in hand, he leaned over the table.  “So she heard a rumor.  I’ll convince her it was false.”

“Not this time.”  Gresham reached inside his tailored green coat and drew out a folded document, which he flung onto the table.  “My uncle is out for your blood – and so’s Evelyn.  Have a look.”

Unfolding the paper, Jack anchored it in place with the tip of his cue.  He cursed under his breath.  The Rogue Report was the scourge of every scapegrace in the ton.  For the past few years, the printed broadsheet had been delivered once a fortnight to the unmarried ladies of society.  It was slipped under their front doors at night, and no one knew the identity of its author. 

Thus far, Jack had escaped with only a few minor skewerings.  He had laughed at acquaintances whose profiles in the scandal sheet had caused them grief with their families.  After all, he didn’t have any female relatives to plague him – and his own father and grandfather had been featured in The Rogue Report themselves.

But Jack wasn’t laughing now.  Lips thinned, he scanned the detailed description of the party at his town house. 

By day, the drawing room of the Earl of R. is a tasteful haven decorated in blue and gold.  By night, it is a cesspit of profligate activities. Last week, the Infamous Earl hosted a private party where lightskirts entertained the gentlemen and vast sums were wagered on the turn of a card. It is said that the Earl himself lost an enormous amount . . .

The story went on, uncannily accurate, right down to the hookah pipe in the sitting room, the horde of whores, and the thousand guineas he’d lost at cards that night. 

Money he didn’t have.  Money he’d signed vowels to repay as soon as he and Evelyn walked down the aisle at St. George’s next month. 

But if there was one thing Evelyn valued above all else, it was her spotless reputation.  She would never forgive him for this public humiliation.

The truth hammered him.  There would be no wedding.

Whistler craned to see past Jack’s shoulder.  “My name ain’t mentioned, is it?  Mama nearly took the whip to me when she read that story last spring about the fire in the whorehouse.” 

“Next time,” Jack quipped, “remember to grab your clothes on the way out.”

“Enough of your jests,” Gresham spluttered.  “My father’s been like a bear with a sore tooth ever since he fell ill.  He’s cut off my allowance, and I’m short of funds.  I could use that hundred guineas you owe me.”

“Right-o,” Whistler added, drawing himself up to his full, rangy height.  “There’s your sixty to me, too.”

Jack shrugged.  “You’ll have your funds, gentlemen.  Starting with me winning this game.”

But as he lined up his next shot, he felt caught in a real life version of the nightmare he had from time to time.  He was chained in a deep black pit, slowly suffocating, a dense weight pressing down on him.  He would wake up gasping, struggling to suck air into his lungs. 

 Now, he felt the dampness of sweat beneath his coat.  It wasn’t merely the loss of money that troubled him.  Not even his friends knew that he’d wanted this marriage for more complicated reasons.  Reasons Jack didn’t entirely understand himself.  Reasons that had to do with the gnawing discontent inside him, a feeling that had begun after he’d nearly killed a man in a duel eight years ago.

Imprisoning the memory, he refolded the scandal sheet and tucked into an inner pocket of his coat.  He had no one to blame but himself for losing Evelyn.  Nevertheless, for the first time in his misbegotten life, Jack Mansfield had a mission. 

He wanted revenge.

©Barbara Dawson Smith

THE ROGUE REPORT * St. Martin's Press * ISBN 0-312-93240-5