London's Perfect Scoundrel (10 page)

Dare’s eyes narrowed, the humor in his expression vanishing. “Are you certain you want to play this game with me?”

Saint shrugged. “Why not? I play it with everyone else.”

“You’re speaking about my wife, St. Aubyn.”

“And my cousin,” the large Duke of Wycliffe muttered, his expression tense and annoyed.

“I see.” With feigned carelessness, he pushed to his feet. Dare and Wycliffe together were formidable enough that he didn’t want a brawl in the House of Lords, though anywhere else would have suited him fine. “Why don’t you ask Miss Ruddick whether she wants me to leave her alone or not? Until then, I bid your domesticated backsides a good day.”

Across the aisle Lord Gladstone sat glaring at him.
Several husbands seemed none too happy to see him, as a matter of fact. As he left, it occurred to him that Fatima, Lady Gladstone, would likely be at home accepting visitors at this time of day, and that if he wanted some of his tensions eased, she would no doubt be eager to accommodate him.

At the same time, he knew he’d indulge in no such thing; he was concentrating on different, more difficult prey. When one wanted pheasant, one didn’t settle for chicken.

His pheasant was at some political tea or other, from what he’d been able to glean from her. Women only, and they’d be mostly old, wrinkled ones. Not many chits who still could find other ways to amuse themselves went to political teas.

Not being a chit interested in politics, he went home. “Jansen,” he asked his butler, as he shrugged out of his jacket, “do I have anything here with which I might amuse myself?”

“Ah, are you referring perhaps to…female company, my lord? No one of that persuasion has come calling today, I’m afraid.”

“No, not females,” he returned, scowling. “You know, things people—men—use to pass the time when they’re not bedding some woman or other.”

“Oh.” The butler glanced over his shoulder, but if any other servants had been in earshot, they’d already vanished. “Well, you do have a library upstairs, and—”

“I do?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“With books?”

By now Jansen had begun to realize that he was being toyed with, but he seemed to accept it with his usual equanimity. No doubt he considered it better than being
bellowed at or having things thrown at him. “Yes, my lord.”

“Hm. I don’t really feel like reading. Anything else you might suggest?”

“Billiards, perhaps?”

“Billiards. Do you play, Jansen?”

“I…I don’t know, my lord. Do I?”

“You do now. Come on.”

“But the d—”

“Gibbons or someone can mind the door.”

“You don’t employ anyone named Gibbons, my lord.”

Saint paused halfway up the stairs, hiding a grin behind another frown. “Fancy that. Remind me to hire someone named Gibbons, then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And don’t think you’re getting out of billiards. Come on.”

He tortured the butler for an hour or so, but it hadn’t been that amusing to begin with, and despite himself he actually began to pity Jansen. Evelyn’s influence, no doubt. She seemed to have the ability to make a statue soft-hearted. Well, he wasn’t a statue, and a kiss or two certainly wasn’t going to turn him into a mirror of Dare or Wycliffe. For God’s sake, it was seven in the evening, and he was at home playing billiards with his damned butler.

“Have Wallace saddle my horse,” he said, tossing the cue onto the table.

Jansen nearly sagged with relief. “At once, my lord. Will you be returning for dinner?”

“No. I won’t be returning at all tonight, with any luck.”

He dined at the Society club and sat for a game of faro
with Lord Westgrove and two gentlemen he’d never met. That suited him fine; most gentlemen he knew hesitated to wager with him any longer.

“I say,” the younger, stouter of the two began, “my Uncle Fenston said the Society would be crawling with peers and nonsuches. It seems rather…thin, tonight, if I do say so.”

Westgrove grunted as he lost another ten quid to the bank. “Almack’s tonight. Another flock of fledgling debutantes’ll be getting presented. All the bucks have gone to scout out the plumpest pockets.”

“Damn me,” the other, older, thinner of them mused. “Almack’s. Always wanted to go there.”

“Why?” Saint scoffed, setting his wager. He’d forgotten it was Wednesday, Almack’s Assembly night. His pheasant would be there right now, no doubt, curtsying and smiling and telling everyone how she’d tricked St. Aubyn into letting her meddle with his damned orphanage. Except that she seemed to want that kept a secret.

“Everyone goes to Almack’s. Don’t they?”

“Tepid lemonade, no liquor, no gaming rooms, old, glaring-eyed patronesses everywhere, and barely a waltz all evening. That’s Almack’s. You’re not missing anything.”

Westgrove chuckled, the sound turning into a hacking cough. “Don’t mind him, lads. He’s only saying that because he’s been banned.”

“Banned? Really? Why?”

“Too much intelligence,” Saint muttered, wishing Westgrove would shut up. He wasn’t there to entertain two country buffoons after some town bronze.

“For engaging in intercourse with Isabel Rygel in the storage room, as I recall.”

“In—Really?”

“No.” Saint glanced up, then placed his next wager. “It was hardly intercourse. Fellatio, perhaps, but not intercourse.”

“Stop my cork!” the young, large one exclaimed. “Who did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.”

“That, my lads,” the viscount supplied, “is none other than the Marquis of St. Aubyn.”

“You’re
the Saint?
They say you killed a man in a duel. That true?”

“Probably,” Saint answered, nodding at the dealer to close him out. “But I’m sure he deserved it. Good evening, gentlemen.”

“But—”

The cold night air felt good against his face as he and Cassius went looking for less talkative game. At this hour of the evening, the party at Almack’s would be its most crowded, with probably half a hundred men all waiting in line to be charmed by Evelyn Marie Ruddick.

Without really meaning to, he turned his mount north. A few blocks later he stopped outside the nondescript brick building to look toward the lighted windows. Music drifted out on the chill breeze, not quite covering the twittering of conversation beneath.

She
was in there. He knew it, and it frustrated him. Evelyn could get into places that he couldn’t. Proper, stuffy, self-righteous, boring places, but for once he couldn’t convince himself that he liked it that way. He’d been banned from Almack’s for five years, and until tonight it had never bothered him. Until tonight.

Evie pushed aside the curtains, trying for a breath of cool, fresh air. Whatever the temperature outside, Almack’s always seemed stifling. A horse and rider stood in
the dimness across the boulevard, and for a moment she thought one of them looked vaguely familiar. Before she could be certain, though, they rode off. Still…She shook herself. Saint wouldn’t be found dead in the vicinity of a proper place like Almack’s. And he’d have no reason to be lurking outside tonight, anyway.

“Evie, are you listening to me?”

She blinked and let the curtains slide back through her fingers. “I’m sorry, Georgie. What was it?”

“I said that St. Aubyn nearly caused a brawl in the House of Lords today. That’s what Tristan told me, anyway.”

“Oh, please, Georgiana. He’s always doing things like that. What do I care?”

“You might at least acknowledge that I put myself in harm’s way on your behalf, Evie,” the deeper voice of Viscount Dare came from her other side.

Georgiana stiffened. “No, you didn’t. Go away now.”

“No, I didn’t,” he repeated amiably, and nodded. “Good-bye.”

“Wait!” Evelyn caught his arm. “What do you mean, on my behalf?”

“I…ah…” He glanced over her head at his wife. “I don’t mean anything. I have a mental disability.”

“Please, Dare, tell me what’s going on. I’m trying to work with him, you know, and I really,
really
don’t want you making things more difficult.”

The tall viscount sighed. “I only suggested that he stop pestering you. You’re not the usual type of female who attracts him, so I can only assume he means you no good.”

“I don’t think he’s ever meant anyone any good,” she muttered. “I appreciate your concern, but as I said, if I’m
to continue my work, I need his cooperation. Please don’t speak on my behalf anymore.”

He nodded his dark head. “Just don’t say that I didn’t warn you, Evie. He’s done things that make
me
look like an angel.”

“Yes, as difficult as that may be to believe,” Georgiana added, tucking her arm around the viscount’s. “And blame me, Evie. I asked Tristan to say something to him. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

No doubt they disbelieved her; obviously even her closest friends thought her helpless and incapable of anything but smiling and uttering pleasantries when the occasion called for them. Saint was no better, but at least he had no reason to think otherwise. He might be able to coax a kiss or two from her, but if that was his price for allowing her to help with the orphanage, she was willing to pay it. And if she could coax a pleasantry or two from him, she would consider the venture a success.

The orchestra began one of the few waltzes of the evening, and without much difficulty she convinced Georgie and Tristan to join the other dancers on the floor. Lucinda wasn’t in attendance tonight, and Evie found herself in the unusual circumstance of being alone.

Unfortunately, it didn’t last. “Evie,” her brother said, strolling up to her in the company of an elderly gentleman, “have you met the Duke of Monmouth? Your Grace, my sister, Evelyn.”

“Charmed,” the duke rumbled, and she curtsied.

“I was just telling His Grace of your fondness for chess, Evie.”

Chess?
She detested chess. “Yes, it’s true, though I’m afraid I have more affection than talent for it.”

The duke nodded, a strand of his white hair standing straight up from his head. “I’ve often said that chess is beyond the faculties of females. Glad to see at least one of you young ladies realizes that.”

Evie smiled through her clenched jaw. “How kind of Your Grace. I assume you are a skilled player, then?”

“I am the champion of Dorsetshire.”

“How splendid!” Whatever contribution Victor thought Monmouth could provide for his campaign, it had best be a good one. Good heavens. An ancient chess player with ill-styled hair.

“His Grace specifically sought an introduction to you, Evie,” Victor said with an indulgent smile. “I suggested you might take a stroll about the room with him, since neither of you is fond of the waltz.”

Evie stifled a sigh. Chess and no waltzing. Apparently she was dull as cotton. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping up her half of the conversation. The duke not only knew the game of chess, but also the best material for chessboards, the origins of the game, and the most expensive set ever made—which he apparently owned.

She gave pleasant nods and smiles at the appropriate times, all the while sending silent curses in her brother’s direction. He’d done this before: found a potential supporter, discovered their favorite pastime or hobby, and made it hers. She’d always detested it, but disliked it even more now that she felt like she had better, more important things to do.

She was so busy nodding and smiling that it was a moment before she realized he was bidding her good evening. “Thank you for a most interesting discussion, Your Grace,” she said with a final smile and a curtsy. As
soon as his upright hair vanished into the crowd, she went to find Victor.

“Well done, Evie,” he said, offering her a glass of lemonade.

She refused it with a grimace. “You might at least have warned me. I don’t know the first thing about chess.”

“I’d teach you, if I thought you’d give it even an ounce of your attention.”

Evie cleared her throat. She put up with this for a reason. Maybe, if she tried to convince him…“Victor, I’ve been doing some research,” she began. “Do you have any idea how many parentless children live in London? What if—”

“No, no, no. I’m campaigning, not reforming. And you’re supposed to be helping me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Then stop speaking to St. Aubyn, and stop your little research projects. If children interest you, get married and produce some.”

“That’s mean.”

“I’m not here this evening to make friends with you. By the by, you shouldn’t look like such a wallflower. Your popularity reflects on me.”

“But I thought I didn’t like the waltz,” she retorted, wishing she had accepted the lemonade. Even tepid, it would have been a blessing in the stifling assembly room.

“You don’t like the waltz when Monmouth is present,” he said, sipping his own lemonade. “Nor when St. Aubyn is anywhere near.”

“Humph. At least St. Aubyn doesn’t lie to everyone about everything so he can influence people.”

Immediately she realized that she’d said the wrong
thing, but it was already too late to take it back. Victor set aside his lemonade and took her by the elbow, guiding her to one side of the room.

“I have been as patient as I intend to be about you and St. Aubyn,” he murmured. “I’m sure you think you’re being clever and independent or something, but as your brother I must inform you that you’re only making yourself look like a hypocrite and a fool.”

Frustrated tears welled in her eyes, but Evie blinked them away. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d made her cry. “You’ve always thought I was foolish,” she retorted, “but I am
not
a fool, or a hypocrite.”

“Ah. So you’ve given up your quest to aide the lower classes, the orphans, and the beggars of London?”

Ha. If he only knew
. “No, I have not. I never will.”

Her brother gave her a grim smile. “Then you should know that the scoundrel you’ve been flaunting in my face is currently in negotiations with Prince George to tear down an orphanage and put a park in its place. You can’t cling to both your hobbies, Evie, not without being a hypocrite.
And
a fool.”