Amanda McCabe - Mischief in Regency Society - To Catch a Rogue

SEDUCTION in Regency SocietyAugust 2014

DECEPTION in Regency SocietySeptember 2014

PROPOSALS in Regency SocietyOctober 2014

PRIDE in Regency SocietyNovember 2014

MISCHIEF in Regency SocietyDecember 2014

INNOCENCE in Regency SocietyJanuary 2015

ENCHANTED in Regency SocietyFebruary 2015

HEIRESS in Regency SocietyMarch 2015

PREJUDICE in Regency SocietyApril 2015

FORBIDDEN in Regency SocietyMay 2015

TEMPTATION in Regency SocietyJune 2015

REVENGE in Regency SocietyJuly 2015

Mischief in

Regency

Society

To Catch a Rogue

To Deceive a Duke

Amanda McCabe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

AMANDA McCABEwrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA® Award, the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe.tripod.comand http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com.

Cover

Title Page Mischief in Regency Society To Catch a Rogue To Deceive a Duke Amanda McCabe www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author AMANDA McCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA® Award, the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe.tripod.com and http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com .

To Catch a Rogue To Catch a Rogue Amanda McCabe

Dedication To Laura Kay Gauldin, who has been brave enough to be my friend since we were teenagers! If not for the three Gauldin sisters there never could have been three Chase sisters.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

To Deceive a Duke

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Copyright

To Catch a Rogue

Amanda McCabe

To Laura Kay Gauldin,

who has been brave enough to be my friend since we were

teenagers! If not for the three Gauldin sisters there

never could have been three Chase sisters.

“Where’er we tread ’tis haunted, holy ground;

No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould

But one vast plain of wonder spreads around,

And all the Muses’ tales seem truly told

Till the sense aches with gazing to behold

The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon…

Lord Byron

Never had a night been as dark as this one.

The moon was a mere sliver high over the crooked rooftops of London, nearly obscured by scudding clouds. There were no stars at all, not even a tiny, bead-like sparkle, and an infamous London fog was creeping inward over the sluggish Thames. Heavy and greasy, a noxious grey-green, it would soon blanket the city, cutting off even the dull shimmer of that tiny moon.

But all the guests at the Marchioness of Tenbray’s ball—and that was nearly everyone in the ton who mattered at all—cared not a whit for the ominous night outside the brilliantly lit mansion. They were far too busy moving through the crush of the ballroom, laughing, dancing, trading the latest on dits behind silken fans, drinking champagne, stealing kisses under concealment of the terrace’s potted palms. All the world seemed compressed into this one marble-and-gilt room, a swirl of music and chatter and clinking crystal rising up and up with no care for the dark chill outside.

Not one of them—not even the marchioness herself, deeply preoccupied by a sudden shortage of lobster tarts—noticed a window in the library sliding silently open.

Someone else was taking full advantage of the darkness, and not for surreptitious caresses on the terrace. No, this person had something far more important, far more devious, in mind.

As the window swung all the way open, this person, tall and slim, muffled and masked all in black, climbed inside and hopped lightly to the Aubusson carpet laid over polished parquet. The figure made no sound, as soft as cat’s paws on the silken weave. It went automatically down into a low crouch, breath held as bright eyes, revealed through the slits of the satin mask, darted from left to right. The library, as expected, was deserted, lit by only one small Colza lamp on the polished desk. It cast a circle of golden glow, flickering, sweetly scented, and all the far corners were deep in gloom. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, crowded with leather-bound volumes that looked scarcely touched, let alone read and loved.

Well, thought the intruder. Old Lady Tenbray is scarcely renowned for her brains, is she?

Yet the late Lord Tenbray had been renowned for his passion for Italian antiquities, and this was what drew the black-clad figure’s interest. Once assured of being alone, the intruder rose from that crouch and moved stealthily across the room. The shadows were no deterrent—the library’s layout had been carefully studied, every chair and table mapped. This person knew what they sought.

At the far end of the space, on either side of the carved fireplace, were glass-topped cases, each one filled to the brim with the marquess’s ill-gotten gains. In his youth, long ago, he had served as a diplomat to the kingdom of Naples. From there, he sent home crates full of statuary, jewellery, frescoes, vases. Only a small part of the collection resided in this library.

The very best part.

“Ah, yes,” the intruder whispered. “There you are.”