Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

Even as a youth, Clayton had always been too dedicated. Too determined. He had a rather overdeveloped sense of right and

wrong. He’d once walked a mile back to a store because they’d given him seven sweets when he’d paid for only six.

There was only one way she’d ever found to dissuade him—his heart.

He cared for things deeply. That wasn’t something that could be changed, no matter what he’d suffered. She had to make him think

of the mill not in terms of justice for past wrongs but in terms of the lives it helped now.

Before, it had been possible to coax him to change his point of view. It had taken a whispered word. A smile. A caress.

Olivia doubted Clayton would let her near enough to do any of those things.

But he had listened to logic. Always to logic. And saving the mill was logical. It was right.

She’d spent the last eight years working to convince lords, magistrates, and members of Parliament to help children who couldn’t

even vote. She’d charmed benefactors and political hostesses into funding charities that helped the very street urchins who’d

robbed them.

She would handle a former clerk.

Clayton glared up from the papers on his desk. He’d hoped the numbers would soothe him. But they only left him more dissatisfied.

From the paltry stipend the Foreign Office had paid him a little more than a year ago, he’d made a fortune, lost a fortune, then made

it back again. High-stakes investing was always a gamble, but with careful study it was much less so.

Normally, studying out his investments and planning his next ones soothed him.

But today he could barely keep his eyes on the page.

The numbers were as unsatisfactory as everything else had been that day.

Because he’d gotten nothing accomplished. That had to be the real reason for his discontent. He’d delivered a warning to Olivia.

But unlike ten years ago, he wouldn’t try to protect her from what was coming. She’d made her choices. Unlike last time, her father—

or even Olivia herself—would be unable to stop him from justice.

Yet one thing had been far too much like the last time he’d seen her.

She was still the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.

She’d matured well, time turning her imperfections into assets. The softness of her youthful form had settled into lithe, graceful

curves. Lips that had been too pouty now tempted under angular cheekbones. High-arched eyebrows now lent sophistication rather

than surprise.

And her wide eyes, the color of the sky, no longer sparkled with an innocence and naïveté so complete it had been as blinding as it

had been beautiful.

But it didn’t matter. He no longer desired her.

If he’d let her soft hand linger on his face a moment too long, it was because he’d been shocked at her audacity.

His butler, Canterbury, entered the study, wearing a rather improbable puce-colored hat. “Was justice satisfied today, sir?”

“I only delivered a message.” Why did he feel obligated to explain himself to his butler? He’d spent a decade as a member of

Britain’s most feared team of spies—the Trio. He’d revealed less information under torture. Yet somehow, this man made words

spew from his mouth at a glance.

Madeline and Ian, La Petit and Wraith respectively, the other two members of the Trio, would have mocked him mercilessly, but

there was something about the old servant that made Clayton feel guilty. Even when he was certain he’d done nothing wrong.

He’d inherited the impertinent butler at the marriage of Madeline Valdan, now Madeline Huntford. He still wasn’t sure precisely how

he’d been the one to end up with the servant. Ian was the one who knew Canterbury from a past life.

“You were able to meet with Mr. Swift then?” Canterbury asked.

“No. I spoke to his daughter.”

“Ah.”

That was precisely how Clayton felt about the whole thing. He hadn’t lied to Olivia earlier. At least not much. While he might have

thought of her a smattering of times, he’d never had any intention of seeing her or her father again. He’d been far too busy staying

alive to hatch intricate plans of revenge.

Until he’d seen the notice in the Times six months ago that the Swift Paper Mill was in contention to secure the contract with the

Bank of England despite Mr. Swift’s infirmity.

Never while Clayton drew breath. He’d given up ten years of his life to protect Britain. He wasn’t going to let it be cheated by the

likes of Arthur Swift.

“Did she say when you could call on him?” his butler asked.

Clayton tapped at the rows and columns before him. Perhaps that was the root of his dissatisfaction. He’d allowed the Swifts to

dictate to him as they’d always done.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.





chapter Three

It took Clayton only a short while to ride the five miles to the Swift house. Even with surprisingly few windows lit, the huge, Palladian-

style estate lorded over the surrounding land.

He waited for a minute in the courtyard after dismounting, but when no groom came to take his horse, he tied the reins to a tree.

Perhaps they’d seen him coming.

Indeed, it looked like they had. The front door stood open. Clayton expected to be met by armed footmen, but as he mounted the

steps, he saw the soles of two booted feet partially visible in the doorway.

He took the last three steps at a run, his knife already in his hand.

The man lying sprawled inside the doorway was the butler. A huge swollen lump disfigured the left side of his forehead. Clayton

dropped to the floor beside him and shook him gently, but the man remained limp. At least he was breathing.

Clayton scanned the surrounding area. Blood was pooled on the far side of the entry hall, then smeared in a crimson trail into the

corridor as though the injured person had tried to drag himself to safety. He followed the path of the bloody handprints. From the

amount of blood, the victim couldn’t have survived long.

Years of witnessing grisly violence, and at times meting it out himself, should have allowed him to analyze scenes like this without

any emotion. Yet this time, his heart hammered so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear his own footsteps, let alone signs of an

approaching attacker.

If she’d been the one killed—

It wasn’t Olivia. It was one of her footmen. And he was dead. Knife wound to the chest.

Hell. He wanted to call out for her, shout until she appeared unscathed from her room. He might despise her, but even he wouldn’t

wish this on her.

But Olivia wouldn’t have been the type to hide in her room if she’d heard an altercation. She’d have been out to investigate before

she realized the foolishness of her actions.

He kept silent. The attackers were most likely gone, but he wouldn’t risk giving away his location any more than was necessary.