Page 1 of Why Do Rogues Fall in Love?

CHAPTER 1

The Honourable Miss Cordelia Maubry had never imagined she might lose her cat in London. Sir Charles was not given to grand adventures. He possessed the serene confidence of a creature who expected the world to accommodate his preferences and generally found that it did. Dignified and impossibly discerning, he accepted affection only when it suited him, regarded unfamiliar people with lofty indifference, and carried himself with the quiet majesty of a monarch graciously permitting others to share his kingdom.

Comfort was not merely a preference but his natural state. In Berkshire, he devoted himself to sun-drenched windowsills, stately inspections of the rose garden, and the velvet cushion in the morning room that had been placed there solely because, through repeated occupation, he had declared it his own. Routine governed his days, and Sir Charles cherished it, which made his disappearance all the more alarming.

“Sir Charles,” Cordelia called softly as she moved through her father’s townhouse for the third time that morning, lifting her skirts to navigate the narrow passage between a console table and the wall. “This is quite enough now.”

There was, as before, no soft meow in reply. She checked beneath the escritoire, behind the draperies, and even inside the small withdrawing room where he had never once ventured of his own accord.

“Sir Charles, where are you?”

The servants had been questioned, but none had seen the cat. Her mother had suggested, with thinly veiled disapproval, that animals did not belong in townhouses at all.

Cordelia dismissed the remark entirely. It was her third Season, and if London had taught her anything, it was that one required fortitude to endure it and, if one were fortunate, the steadfast support of a dear friend or devoted companion. Without either, the place had a curious way of making one feel entirely alone, even when surrounded by hundreds.

She endured two Seasons without Sir Charles and had sworn never to repeat the mistake. Cordelia frowned. Had he stumbled upon something that piqued his curiosity? Sir Charles was, by nature, unfailingly inquisitive. That thought propelled her toward the side door. The garden behind the townhouse was modest yet elegantly arranged, every inch thoughtfully cultivated. Narrow stone paths wound between neatly clipped hedges and well-tended flowerbeds, while climbing roses softened the high brick wall.

She stepped onto the flagstones, the cool morning air fragrant with blooms. “Sir Charles!”

A flicker of white caught her eye. Cordelia’s breath caught as she turned sharply. At the far end of the garden, a flash of pale fur vanished behind the shrubs along the brick wall dividing their property from the neighboring townhouse.

“Oh no, you do not,” she murmured, gathering her skirts and hurrying forward.

She reached the shrubbery just as her cat emerged from the leaves. With effortless grace, he sprang onto the gnarled branches of a pear tree trained flat against the brick wall, climbed another few nimble steps, and launched himself onto the broad coping separating the neighboring gardens.

“Oh, Sir Charles!”

He paused only a heartbeat, his plush tail held proudly aloft, before disappearing over the other side. Cordelia hurried to the nearby stone bench nestled amongst the flowerbeds. Gathering her skirts, she stepped onto it and rose onto her toes, bracing her fingertips against the top of the wall.

She caught sight of him just in time. His unmistakable white-and-grey form landed lightly upon the stone sill of an open window in the neighboring townhouse. Without the slightest hesitation, he slipped inside as though he had done so a hundred times before.

Cordelia stared.

Her neighbor’s window.

A neighbor she neither knew nor recognized, for her family was barely known within the ton. Her father had been terribly fortunate to inherit the title of baron upon the death of a distant cousin ten years earlier, yet their entry into the upper echelons of society had been slow and cautious.

Though her elder sister Katherine had married the second son of an earl, an alliance that had elevated their family’s standing considerably, it had not raised them so far that Cordelia herself received an offer during her previous seasons. Nor had it elevated them to the point where neighbors called upon them to make acquaintance or enjoy one another’s company over afternoon tea.

Cordelia stared at the open window as though sheer disbelief might coax Sir Charles back into view. The elegant drapes stirred gently in the morning breeze, but there was no sign of him. She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the pear tree trained against the brick wall. Proper young ladies did not climb walls or trespass into neighboring homes. They summoned servants, penned polite notes, and waited with patience for matters to be resolved.

But Sir Charles was irreplaceable, and at this very moment he was likely prowling through a stranger’s house with all the serene confidence of a creature who believed every corner of the world existed for his inspection.

Drat.

She had no notion of who her neighbors were. Her mother might have mentioned them at some point, but Cordelia rarely paid attention when her mother and cousin Emelia spoke with great excitement about people with grander titles and the cleverest ways to secure an introduction.

With quiet determination, Cordelia turned and went back inside. She went directly to her bedchamber, collected her bonnet, and drew on her gloves. She would knock upon the neighboring door and introduce herself.

“Lord, let me accomplish this without mishap, or worse, Mama discovering I made the introductions myself,” she muttered.

Cordelia hurried downstairs. She let herself quietly out the front door and descended the stone steps to the pavement. The morning was lovely, touched by a gentle warmth that promised a beautiful day. She lifted her face to the golden rays of the sun as she made her way toward the neighboring townhouse, allowing herself a moment to enjoy their warmth on her skin.

Reaching its polished black door, she drew a steadying breath before lifting the brass knocker. The door opened almost at once to reveal a butler of impressive bearing. He was tall, immaculately turned out, and possessed an expression so reserved it bordered upon forbidding. His gaze swept over her with polite efficiency, lingering only long enough to confirm that she was, indeed, a lady of breeding.

“Yes?” he inquired.

Cordelia smiled, summoning every ounce of calm dignity she possessed. “Good morning, sir. I am Miss Maubry, your neighbor. Might I speak with the master of the house? I have a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss.”