Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Prologue

Swift Paper Mill, England, 1807

Olivia crept around to the back of the mill, the note held tightly in her hand. “Clayton?”

No answer. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to understand his code so quickly. Although he should have. The note was short. None

of his usual words of adoration. It had taken her only five minutes to figure out that he wanted to meet her at their tree behind her

father’s mill.

She leaned back against the trunk and adjusted the hem of her dress so she was quite artfully arranged. Feeling rather daring, she

edged the bodice an inch lower, too. Clayton’s birthday was next week and she had promised him a rather special present. She

saw no reason not to give him a small preview.

“Olivia?”

Her heart tangled and flopped in her chest as it always did at the sound of his voice. She was running to him before she

remembered her plan to remain by the tree. But she closed the distance anyway and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He didn’t swing her about and kiss her. Instead, he held her fiercely and buried his chin in her hair.

“Whatever is amiss, Clayton?” She drew back slightly and ran her hand along his jaw. She loved it when there was just a hint of a

beard there. None of her father’s other clerks could even grow beards yet. “If Tom has been complaining about delivering your notes

again, you can just tell him that if he wants to remain a footman—”

“This isn’t about Tom.” His dark brows drew down, making him appear far older than his seventeen years.

Heavens, but he gave her delicious shivers.

She peered up at him from under her lashes. It always made him laugh. He said it must be difficult to see anything that way. He was

looking far too serious for a tryst. “Well then, whatever could you want to see me about?”

He cupped her cheek. “I wish I’d brought you here for kisses. I wish I could just carry you away.”

Clayton was often too serious, but she’d never seen him distressed. “Your mother? Did she have the gall to come home?”

“No.” He stepped back and ran a hand through his dark hair.

He’d stepped away from her? He never wanted distance between them. He always wanted to be holding her hand, kissing her, or

stroking her hair. “Clayton?”

He reached into his plain black waistcoat and pulled out—a banknote? She couldn’t help her sigh of disappointment. If that was his

idea of a gift, he’d failed miserably. After all, the mill printed banknotes for the Bank of England. She’d seen so many she thought

she’d go cross-eyed. She much preferred her gifts to be shiny and wearable.

Clayton handed her the money. It was a fifty-pound note.

She blinked. That was far more money than he’d make in a year.

“It’s not real,” he said.

She turned it over. “Yes, it is.” She knew enough to recognize the mill’s work.

He took it back. “I need your word you’ll tell no one what I’m going to tell you.”

“Very well.”

“No. Truly, I need your solemn promise to keep this secret no matter your temptation to speak.”

Her stomach grew hollow. “I already promised, did I not?”

He closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkling in pain. “This banknote is real, but it shouldn’t exist. The mill was contracted to print a

thousand notes in this amount. Yet we printed one thousand and ten.”

“That must have been an oversight.”

“I went back over the records. This isn’t the first time Swift Mill has made more banknote paper than the number of notes we need to

print.”

She was the one who took a step back this time. “Surely, in case there are errors or . . . or . . .” But she could think of no more

reasons.

He closed the distance between them. “Listen to me carefully.” He cleared his throat. “Your father is the one who does the final count

of the banknotes. I found this and nine others in his office.”

Papa? Clayton must have made a mistake. Besides, Papa was already wealthy. He’d have no reason to steal banknotes.

He held her close when she would have jerked away.

“You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not. I’ve had my suspicions for months, and now I know your father is responsible. I have the proof I need.”

She shoved at him, but he wouldn’t let go. “The proof you need for what?”

“I have to go to the magistrate. This is theft.” His voice shook. “And treason. Listen, Olivia. I’ll do my best to shield you from this. I’ll

marry you, carry you away from the scandal.”

He’d marry her? Olivia Campbell. Olivia Campbell. She’d practiced saying it so often that the name tumbled through her head a

dozen times before the rest of his words registered.

Scandal. Her father. Magistrates.

Her hands trembled and it was suddenly difficult to swallow. To breathe.

He pressed a kiss to her lips. “I’m sorry to burden you with this. But I couldn’t stand the thought of you finding out any other way. You

must understand I have no other choice. I have to do what’s right.”

She might have said something. She might not have. She honestly had no idea as she watched him stride away.

Clayton was wrong. The foolish boy. She pressed her hands to her icy cheeks. He’d be humiliated when the magistrate uncovered

whatever the real truth of the situation was. Her father would dismiss Clayton and it would be far more difficult for him to see her.

She didn’t doubt he’d found something. Clayton was brilliant and far more clever than anyone she’d ever known. But he was

mistaken in this.

Perhaps her father had suspicions about what was going on at the mill as well. That would explain why he had the banknotes.

That made perfect sense. She’d just have to ask her father what he knew about the money in his office. He’d probably be impressed

that Clayton had such keen insight into the workings of the mill.

She ran all the way to her father’s study.





chapter One

Swift Paper Mill, 1817

Olivia Swift straightened her spine and glared down at the squinty-eyed man. As much as she rejoiced in what each new hire meant

to the success of the mill, she loathed that she had to prove herself each and every time. “My father gives his orders to me and I

bring them to the mill. If you have issue with that, you’re welcome to seek employment elsewhere.”

Grimmon’s eyes narrowed until they were mere slits in his face. “I don’t see why your father don’t hire a man to deliver the orders.

There’s better places for a woman to be.” His leer clearly demonstrated where he thought that was.

Then his face cleared, his expression sliding into a crude semblance of subservience. “But if that’s how things are run here, I

suppose I can handle it.”