The Millionaire Rogue by Jessica Peterson Page B

mysterious letter.
    Good. This sort of trouble was above and beyond even Violet’s expertise. The sort of trouble that Sophia had hoped to avoid all along.

Nine

    â€œI look ridiculous.”
    Mr. Lake shrugged at Hope’s grimace. “But I thought you liked costumes? In France you were all too eager to don a disguise. Remember the time you played a one-armed butcher—”
    â€œ
This
,” Hope pointed to the towering wig of black curls that wobbled on his head, “is a rather different scenario, don’t you think? The wig, the shoes—it’s a bit much, even for me. And dear
God
my head hurts.”
    Lake waved away his words. “Small price to pay for king and country, my friend. Though it does make you wonder how old Louis managed it. Fellow must’ve been bald as a bat to want to wear a wig like that.”
    â€œHe was a glutton for punishment, no two ways about it.” Hope took a deep breath, resisting the urge to itch his head. “Actually, I’m beginning to think we have quite a lot in common.”
    They were on the terrace, an open bottle of French cognac, smuggled into London not two days ago, resting on the stone balustrade between them. Over the tops of neighboring houses a cloudless sky faded to dusk, the edges of the horizon glowing faintly with the last of the day’s sun. A curving peel of moon swam noiselessly through the blue above their heads.
    Sounds of last-minute preparations floated through the open ballroom doors. The hurried steps of a dozen footmen; the famous opera soprano he’d hired, practicing her aria; the clink of crystal; the murmuring of kitchen maids as they laid out the refreshment tables.
    The sounds pleased him. Nearly five years ago to the day he’d hosted his first costumed ball with the intention of attracting wealthy—and well-known—clientele. A generation before, the Hopes were among the most prominent families in Amsterdam, bankers to and social equals of princes, dukes, even sultans. Their home in Groenendaal Park was one of the finest in the city, its rooms alive with a never-ending progression of teas, soirees, balls, and exhibitions.
    It had all ended abruptly, one tragedy after the next. But the memory of his family, their home, and the people whom they had welcomed and entertained there, had kept Hope warm throughout the years of misadventure that followed. When he at last landed on his feet in London, he set about resurrecting the glamorous heyday of the family he so sorely missed.
    The ball was an absolute triumph. By the third year, Hope counted among his clients the greatest and wealthiest titles of the
ton.
Though some of the more stalwart members of society refused to socialize with one who (God forbid)
worked
for a living, an invitation to Hope’s costumed soirees was nonetheless a coveted one.
    This year was no different; he’d done everything in his power to ensure its success. Hell, Hope had even convinced that infamously slippery rake the Earl of Harclay to attend. Tonight’s ball was, Hope knew, going to be the biggest and best he’d ever hosted.
    Surely there was no greater stage on which to play out Lake’s plot to snare Napoleon with the French Blue.
    Lake lifted the bottle of cognac to his lips and took a short, ruthless swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, as if reading Hope’s thoughts, said, “When Bonaparte’s men make contact, send for me straightaway. And don’t lose sight of that diamond.”
    Hope reached out and swiped the bottle from Lake’s hand. “And you. Don’t drink all my cognac. It’s bloody impossible to get these days.” He took a pull and, retrieving the cork from his waistcoat pocket, pounded it back into place with the heel of his hand. “Who do you think is going to steal the French Blue, anyway? Everyone who’s coming tonight can buy their own damned jewels. If I were to peg anyone,