Charming the Rogue

Charming the Rogue Wright Bastards, Volume 4 Amy Sandas Published by Amy Sandas, 2023. This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental. CHARMING THE ROGUE First edition. February 14, 2023. Copyright © 2023 Amy Sandas. ISBN: 979-8215466902 Written by Amy Sandas. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication 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 Chapter Thirty-one Chapter Thirty-two Chapter Thirty-three Chapter Thirty-four Chapter Thirty-five Chapter Thirty-six Epilogue Sign up for Amy Sandas's Mailing List Also By Amy Sandas About the Author I'd like to dedicate this one to Patrice. Thank you for always being someone I can rely on for a great talk, a fun meal, laughter, and confidence. Chapter One May 1830 Bentley’s (an elite gambling hell) London, England Bishop Black was not a man to obsess over certain comforts. He could appreciate a good brandy or an exceptional Scotch, but he was just as partial to gin or vodka or whisky. As long as his meals filled an empty stomach, he didn’t care if he ate the finest French cuisine or a dry loaf of crusty bread. He didn’t worry much about the quality of horseflesh or the spring of a stylish phaeton if it got him where he needed to go. And when it came to women, his attraction had never been limited to a certain type. He’d enjoyed them all—in every way imaginable. But after five years of traveling under varying and often challenging conditions across multiple countries and a few continents, now that he’d returned to the only place he’d ever considered calling home, all he could think of was the familiar comfort of his old bedroom. Before he’d left London to discover the world (and himself), his greatest concern was that he might be burning a bridge behind him. But Roderick Bentley—Bishop’s longtime employer—had quickly corrected him on that issue. “You’ll always have a place here, Bishop. No matter how far you go or how long you’re away. This is your home.” The older man couldn’t have possibly known how much that assurance had meant to him. Mainly because Bishop had been sure to disguise his gratitude with some flippant response. Then again, perhaps Roderick had known. Bentley’s, the elite gambling club Roderick had built out of nothing, was home to an array of misfits and castaways. The club might be a pleasure ground of gambling and vice for its aristocratic members, but it was a family to those who worked and lived within its walls. And the bedroom Bishop kept there had been his from the day he’d arrived on the club’s doorstep as a lad looking for work. Though it had been five years since he’d last stepped inside the club, he had no doubt Roderick’s word would stand and the room would be as he’d left it—covered in sheets and a bit of dust perhaps. But dust had become a relative term to Bishop after the months he’d spent in the Sahara Desert a couple years back. The club was still alight with activity despite it being nearly dawn, so Bishop took extra care to avoid any common areas and the hallways where servants were most likely to traverse. With the many divergences possible during travel, it would’ve been difficult to predict exactly when he’d reach London. There had always been the chance he’d detour for some reason or another, significantly delaying his plans. It had certainly happened before. So, he hadn’t bothered sending word to Roderick or anyone else at Bentley’s of his impending return. He preferred to arrive unnoticed anyway. He hadn’t gotten much rest in the last few days and wasn’t at all in the mood for any type of welcome. Better not to see everyone again until after he’d claimed several hours of desperately needed, uninterrupted sleep. He was so tired that he managed to slip into his old bedroom, set his bag of personal effects beside the door (the rest of this belongs would be delivered the next day), toe off his boots and shrug free of his coat, then shuffle his way to the bed all in complete darkness. He only vaguely noted that the room hadn’t been draped in dust cloths after all, but felt rather freshly aired. When he caught the faint scent of roses hovering about the room, he immediately dismissed it as a nostalgic longing triggered by his return. So, it wasn’t until he tossed himself onto the bed and felt the undeniable movement of another body rolling toward him that he realized he wasn’t alone. With a muttered curse, he sat up and turned to the still heavily slumbering person beside him. Perhaps his confidence in Roderick’s promise had been misplaced. The possibility caused an uncomfortable twinge in his chest until he recalled that Roderick’s last letter, though some months old, had been closed in the same way his previous ones had been—with an assurance that Bishop would always have a place at Bentley’s. So, who in hell had commandeered his bedroom? With his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, he was able to just barely make out the faint outline of a form. It was not a very large form. In fact, Bishop was nearly certain the intruder was a woman. The suspicion went a very long way toward diffusing his irritation. It wouldn’t’ve been the first time a lovely wench crept through the club to crawl into his bed. The main difference being, of course, the fact that this one had no idea he’d be here. Though it was slightly possible one of the club’s