London's Perfect Scoundrel (14 page)

Neither did he know how long he’d been awake, though it seemed like hours. What little sleep he’d managed had been interrupted by restless dreams in which he took his vengeance on Evelyn Marie Ruddick’s naked body again and again, until he awoke aching and hard.

“Idiot,” he muttered into the darkness, the sound hollow and dull in the small room. She’d kidnapped him, probably concocted the entire plot, and he still lusted after her. Whatever lesson she’d meant to teach him about desiring a stubborn, devious virgin, he hadn’t learned.

For a time he’d considered what she’d said, about the consequences if he never reappeared in Society again. His servants were used to him vanishing for several days without a word, and he’d just made an appearance in Parliament, so no one would begin to miss him there for weeks. Because of Evelyn he was between mistresses, so no woman would be crying about missing him from her cold bed.

As for friends, he really didn’t have any left. While they’d mended their ways and married, or died of their bad habits, he’d simply sunk deeper into the black heart of London. Even that, though, wasn’t as black as this prison had become when the last candle went out. So that was it. No one would miss him at all.

He shuddered. He didn’t fear dying; he remained surprised that he’d lasted as long as he had. Rather, it was the idea of being completely forgotten that bothered him. No one to mourn him, no one to wonder where he’d gotten to, no contribution he’d made that would make anyone regret his absence.

The outside door squeaked, and he sat up straighter. A moment later a small trickle of light crept through the bars at the top of the door, touching the upper part of the wall behind him.

A key rattled in the lock, and the door pushed open. Candlelight flooded the room, and he squinted against it. A moment passed before he could make out Evelyn behind the light.

“Oh, I’m so sorry about the lamps,” she exclaimed. “I thought—”

“These are foul accommodations,” he interrupted. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee, either? Or a newspaper?”

He heard a boy’s voice on the far side of the door utter an admiring curse. At least he’d impressed someone. Saint lifted an eyebrow.

“I have coffee,” she said, setting the candle on the sconce. “And buttered bread and an orange.”

“At least you’ve spared no expense to see to my comfort,” he said dryly.

She brought the tray in, setting it on the floor and pushing it to him with the broom handle. Saint was too hungry to be stubborn, and he leaned forward to drag the tray closer.

“Didn’t they feed you last night?” Evelyn asked, sitting on the stool beyond his reach.

“Someone cracked open the door and lobbed a raw potato at my head, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, digging into his scanty breakfast. “I decided to save it for later.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, watching him eat.

“Evelyn, if you’re sorry, then let me go. If you’re not going to do that, then for God’s sake stop apologizing.”

“Yes, you’re right. I suppose I’m just trying to set a good example.”

“For me?” Saint paused between mouthfuls of bread. “You have an odd method of teaching manners.”

“At least I have your attention,” she retorted.

“You had my attention before.”

“For my looks, yes,” she said slowly. “But now you have to listen to me.” She folded her hands primly in her lap as though she were sitting in an elegant morning room and not in a dirty, stone-walled brig. “So what shall we chat about?”

“Your prison sentence?” he suggested.

She paled so alarmingly that for a moment he thought she might faint. He almost took his statement back, but
stopped himself. She might think she was in complete control here, but he did have some power remaining. It was best that she remember that.

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement eventually,” she returned after a long moment. “After all, I have all the time in the world to convince you.”

She was learning the rules rather quickly herself. “So how did you pass your evening, then?” he asked.

“I attended the Sweeney ball, actually,” she said. “Oh, and you should know that my brother credits your absence to his warning you away from me.”

He grunted. “I should have listened to him.”

She was silent for a moment, and when he glanced up, he caught her studying his face. Evelyn blushed and made a show of straightening her skirt. “I have a small bargain for you.”

“And what might that be?”

“I will bring you a chair to sit on, if you will read to some of the children.”

He could refuse, of course, but his back was already aching from sitting on the hard floor. “A comfortable chair,” he returned. “With padding.”

Evelyn nodded. “In return for a comfortable chair with padding, you must also teach them their vowels.”

“By writing in the dirt?”

“I will provide you with a writing board. And an instruction book.”

Saint moved his coffee cup aside and stood, bringing the tray up with him. While she rose from the stool, watching him warily, he walked to the end of his chain. “And another candle.” With a clatter he dumped the tray at his feet.

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, gray eyes meeting his. “Done.”

“It’s a shame you don’t like me,” he said in a quieter voice, conscious of the little brats waiting for her just outside the door, “because I could use some company right now.”

A small smile touched her mouth. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

She turned and strolled back to the door. “I’ll come by again before I leave. Behave yourself with them.”

“They’re not the ones you should be concerned about.” He gazed at her steadily, making certain she understood his meaning, before he toed the tray beyond his reach.

Whatever she’d said about not liking him, she still felt attracted to him. He didn’t need to be a soothsayer to sense that. And she hadn’t left him there alone in the dark again, a salvation he was feeling more grateful for than he probably should. Still, all he needed from her was one false step. If she thought he wouldn’t take advantage, she was greatly mistaken.

“N
ow who are you?”

The little girl rolled her eyes. “Rose. And that’s Peter, and that’s Thomas. And we’re supposed to tell you that we don’t have any keys.”

Saint pursed his lips. Evelyn had sent the babies to him, evidently deciding they were the ones he was least likely to harm. “And you don’t have my chair, either.”

“Miss Evie said you have to show good fate first.”

“Good faith, you mean?” he corrected.

“I don’t know, because I’m only seven years old. Are you going to read to us now?”

The older of the two boys, Peter, shoved a storybook
at him. Obviously Evelyn had instructed them not to get too close, because all three had plunked themselves in the dirt in the corner beside the door.

He picked up the book and opened it. “Did Miss Evie say why I’m supposed to read to you?”

“So you can have a chair,” Thomas answered.

“And so you’ll like us,” Peter continued.

“So I’ll like you?” Saint repeated. That made sense. She was trying to convince him not to destroy the orphanage by acquainting him with the orphans. She wanted to soften his heart; a shame, then, that he didn’t possess one. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Odd as it felt for him to be catering to children, he had to admit, as he read and showed them the pictures, that it was better than being in the brig alone. Infant company was better than none at all.

“Isn’t this nice?” Evelyn’s voice came from the doorway. “Is Lord St. Aubyn a good storyteller?”

Rose nodded. “He makes the scary bits very scary.”

“I’m not surprised at all.” She entered the brig. “It’s time for you to go up to luncheon. Remember to take the back stairs and go around through the dormitory.”

“We remember. And we’re not to say anything about him.”

“That’s right.”

The children scampered out the door. “Lovely,” Saint noted. “Teaching them to be criminals in infancy. Saves trouble later, I suppose.”

“I’m only asking them to keep a secret for the benefit of all the children here.”

Saint closed the book and set it aside. “You’re only delaying the inevitable. Could you kill me, Evelyn Marie?”

She swallowed. “I have no intention of harming you. Not for any reason.”

That actually surprised him. “Then this orphanage will be turned into one of the Regent’s parks.”

“Not if you change your mind.”

“I won’t. Who are my next pupils to be?”

“Just one. Me.” Evie looked over her shoulder. “But first I promised you a chair.”

She moved aside as Randall and Matthew hauled a heavy cushioned chair, obviously liberated from the board’s meeting room, into the cell. Their wary attention on St. Aubyn, they dragged the chair to the edge of his reach.

“That’s good enough. Tip it forward, and he can drag it the rest of the way.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Matthew said, grinning as he kicked the chair over backward.

Evelyn wished they weren’t enjoying this so much, especially in front of St. Aubyn. The marquis’s expression didn’t change, however, and he kept his gaze on the two boys until they left the cell, closing the door behind them. “One of my fellow board members warned me that I would turn this place into a thieves’ rookery,” he said in his low drawl. “It seems you’ve beaten me to it.”

“I don’t consider working toward one’s self-preservation to be thievery,” she retorted. “And besides, the chair is orphanage property. We’ve only relocated it.”

Standing, he heaved a sigh. “My backside’s too tired to waste time with arguing semantics.” With no apparent effort, he righted the chair and dragged it into his corner beside the mattress.

He looked tired and disheveled, and in desperate need of a shave. His fine clothes were covered with dirt, and a dark smudge of the stuff ran across his cheek, where it had mingled with his blood. It was odd, because attractive as she’d always found him, he looked even better to
her now. The polish was gone, but the man underneath remained as enticing as ever.

“Trying to think up your next torture for me?” he asked, sinking into the chair with a sigh of relief that couldn’t possibly be faked.

“You need a shave,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm.

“Well, all I have for the task is my watch fob, and it’s not very sharp.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with.” Evie sat on the small stool. “I think it’s time I explained my position to you.”

He sat back, closing his eyes. “I thought you’d done that. I’m in here because I’ve stepped between you and your only chance to make a difference in the world.”

“Rose has lived here since she was two, you know. And so has Matthew, and Molly since she was three and a half. This is their home.”

“They can just as easily make a home in another orphanage. One without me on the board. You could even volunteer there, and save the world from King’s Cross Road or somewhere.”

“That’s not the point. They’ve become brothers and sisters, and you want to break them apart because it’s inconvenient for you to be here.”

Green eyes opened, gazing at her. “‘Inconvenient’ doesn’t begin to describe it, Evelyn. My mother and her little waifs. It was ridiculous. She was convinced they would give her some horrid disease. Her way of showing bravery and conviction was to line them up for inspection once a month.”

“You told me that.”

He nodded. “And then, when she contracted measles,
she blamed the brats for it. And still in her will I was to look after the Heart of Hope Orphanage. She didn’t have time to change it.” Saint gave a short, humorless laugh. “The darlings did kill her, after all, and now she’s stuck me with them.”

St. Aubyn’s dislike of the orphanage ran deeper than she’d realized. Evelyn looked at him for a long moment. “They aren’t brats, or darlings, Saint. They’re only children, without anyone else to watch over them.”

Crossing his ankles, the chain clanking as he did so, Saint closed his eyes again. “They have you, Evelyn. Only you’re too ashamed to tell anyone else that you’re even here, aren’t you?”

“I am not ashamed. This…doesn’t fit in with my brother’s ideas of my duties, and so I’ve had to be secretive about it. That’s all.”

“Do you ever ask yourself what bloody good it is teaching them how to dance or how to read, Evelyn?” he went on. “Once they turn eighteen they leave, and other than the females dancing in some bawdy house waiting for someone to pitch them a penny to lift their skirts, I can’t think of a single practical bit of instruction you’ve handed out yet.”

Evelyn clenched her hands together, determined not to let him see how much his words upset her. “The dancing and the reading are a means to an end, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I’m here to provide a little kindness, to show them that the entire world is not populated by heartless, self-centered, arrogant men like you.”

“Those are brave words while I’m chained to a wall, my dear,” he murmured, eyes glittering through half-closed lids. “Perhaps you might show me a little kindness and bring me some luncheon.”

He’d had little enough to eat this morning that he was probably starving. “The children will bring you something when they return for their afternoon lesson in vowels.” She stood, dusting off her skirt, then paused. “Do you have a heart at all, really?” she asked.

“If I do, you’re not likely to convince me of it here.” He straightened. “If I teach them their consonants, might I have a pencil and some paper?”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll come see you before I leave.”

She left him sitting in his chair. She’d known that convincing him not to dispose of the orphanage was going to be a monumental task under any circumstances; having him locked in the cellar made the situation more difficult still. At least she still had one thing on her side. Time. Time, and patience. And, she hoped, a great deal of luck.

When she returned to his cell at the end of the day, he was no more cooperative than he’d been earlier. She couldn’t blame him; if she’d been locked alone in a dungeon in the dark all night, she would have been far closer to hysterics than anger. For that reason, she provided him with a candle and flint so he wouldn’t have to go through that again. Still, she hated leaving him and going home when he couldn’t. He’d done it to himself, she kept repeating as she returned to Ruddick House and changed for dinner.

“Evie, you haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said all night.” Victor set his glass of Madeira down hard enough to make the scarlet liquid slosh over the side. A footman immediately appeared to sop up the wet and refill the glass.

“I told you that I just have a bit of a headache,” she returned, blinking. She’d hardly touched her dinner, and she would need her strength for her next round of verbal
combat with St. Aubyn. Grimacing, she went back to work on the roast pheasant.

“Even so, I would appreciate if you would make an effort to pay attention. Lord Gladstone has invited you and me over for dinner tomorrow night. I’ve accepted on your behalf.”

She choked on the mouthful of bird. “You—”

“Apparently Lady Gladstone mentioned me to him, and she thought you were charming. Please make sure that you are. Plimpton’s been courting them ruthlessly, so this may be our last opportunity.”

“Don’t you wish Mama to go in my place? She’s so much better at polite conversation than I am. And—”

“No, I wish you to go with me. You’re the one Lady Gladstone knows.” He took a bite and chewed. “Thank God I sent you over to make her acquaintance. You made an impression, after all. Thank you.”

“You know,” their mother said from the far end of the table, “Lady Gladstone and that awful St. Aubyn are rumored to be lovers.”

“That’s another thing,” her brother took up. “Do not mention that scoundrel in Gladstone’s house. He’s likely to have an apoplexy, and then where would we be?”

“But you don’t mind me being friendly with Lady Gladstone?”

Victor frowned at her. “She’s the reason we’ve been invited.”

“Even though she’s rumored to have taken a lover behind her husband’s back? I thought you were campaigning for morality.”

“People like to say they support morality. And I won’t have you saying anything different. St. Aubyn’s been panting after you as well, as I recall. Or was it you panting after him, to annoy me?”

“Neither,” Evelyn answered stiffly.

“I wonder that anyone tolerates him at all,” Mrs. Ruddick noted around a slice of bread.

“Probably because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is,” Evie returned.

“Would that we all had that luxury.” Her brother sighed. “This is only for a few more weeks, Evie. Please come with me.”

She lowered her head. “Yes, Victor.”

Evie excused herself early, then went to lurk in the library until Victor disappeared into his office, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later, Hastings, her brother’s valet, went down by the servants’ stairs to collect tomorrow’s shirts and cravats.

“Steady, Evie,” she said to herself, and darted up the hallway to her brother’s bedchamber.

Already laid out on his dressing table and ready for Victor’s morning ablutions, she found his razor, shaving soap, and shaving brush. She took everything, including the cup.

Bundling them into the handkerchief she’d brought along for the occasion, Evie listened at the hall door for a moment, then hurried out to her own private rooms. Once she was certain she was alone, she laid the items on her bed to study them.

Of course she couldn’t allow St. Aubyn access to the razor, because once he had a weapon, she’d never be able to get close enough to release him. That meant she would somehow have to shave him herself. She knew the mechanics of shaving a man, though she hadn’t actually done it since she’d been seven and her father had let her smear soap on his face. Shaving Saint, though, was not going to be the problem.

“Hmm,” she mused, strolling to the fireplace and back again. The brig had come equipped with manacles, but convincing him to put his wrists in them would be impossible without some sort of leverage.

And leverage where Saint was concerned meant either her body or a pistol. A low thrill went through her at the thought of what he might request from her in return for this. At the same time, he would remember her previous ruse, and he wasn’t likely to fall for it again. St. Aubyn might be lustful and decadent, but he wasn’t a fool by any means.

A pistol, then, though he had to know she would never shoot him. One of the boys would be a better choice, but the thought of Randall or Matthew with a firearm filled her with dread.

Slowly she lay back on the bed, dusting the dry shaving brush across her chin. Of course, if Saint
thought
she’d armed the boys, she probably wouldn’t actually have to provide them with ammunition.

Evie smiled. Once she procured one of Victor’s pistols, Saint would find himself clean-shaven in the morning. Perhaps she might even beg some cold pheasant from Mrs. Thatcher, the cook, for his breakfast.

Saint tossed another pebble into his bucket. He’d already done sketches of Evelyn, himself, the grim reaper, and his students on the scant half dozen sheets of paper she’d provided for him. And he’d read the book Evelyn had left with him enough times to have it memorized, despite the fact that it was a ladies’ etiquette book called
The Mirror of Graces
, by “A Lady of Distinction.” It sounded like something Evelyn and her fine friends would author. She’d failed if she meant it to en
lighten him, but the thing had at least given him a chuckle or two.

He hated being bored. In fact, he’d spent a great deal of energy in his life avoiding that very thing.

As Evelyn had pointed out, at the moment he had nothing but time. And the problem with that was it lent itself to all sorts of unhealthy things—like thinking.

He sent another pebble into the bucket. Even with a tallow candle for his personal use, the silence and solitude of the night seemed to last forever. Concentrating on physical discomforts was easier than dwelling on whether his servants had done anything more than note his absence for a second night in a row, or whether anyone else in London missed his presence at all.