London's Perfect Scoundrel (15 page)

To be sure, the physical annoyances of his enforced stay were mounting; his clothes, his skin felt grimy, his left ankle alternated between throbbing and numbness, and his face itched. Worse than anything else, though, was a sensation he’d never before been conscious of—he felt lonely. He, the Marquis of St. Aubyn, felt lonely.

Absently scratching at his chin, he reached for another pebble, then froze as the upstairs door squeaked open. He started to pull on his discarded jacket, then decided it was a useless gesture. At this point, nothing was going to make him look friendlier or less dirty.

He did check to make certain the lengths of his chain he’d buried beneath his mattress remained well hidden. With any luck, someone—Evelyn—would forget how much room he had to move, and he’d be able to liberate the shackle key.

He scented lemons as the door opened, and even before she stepped into view, he knew Evelyn had come again to see him. However insane her little plot was, at
least she seemed genuinely concerned that he remain in good health. That was more than he could say for most people of his acquaintance.

“Good morning,” she said, eyeing him warily. He didn’t blame her; he hadn’t been nice yesterday, but then she hadn’t deserved anything else.

“Good morning. You’ve brought my ration of bread and water, I hope?”

“Actually, I managed a pheasant sandwich and hot tea.”

His mouth began to water. “Really? What do I have to agree to in order to receive this delicacy?”

“Nothing.”

Matthew something-or-other carried the tray into the cell and pushed it toward him with the broom handle. Trying not to act as starved as he felt, Saint stood up, retrieved his breakfast, and sat in his nice, soft chair to eat. Two other children replaced his spent wall candles with new ones, and Saint licked his thumb and forefinger to pinch out his reading candle. No sense wasting light.

Evelyn cleared her throat, and he realized he’d been wolfing down his sandwich in a fairly uncivilized manner. “My compliments to the chef,” he muttered, taking a swallow of tea. He preferred more sugar, but he wasn’t about to complain. At least the potato they’d shoved at him last night had been boiled.

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling.

Saint stared at her softly curved lips until their amused expression faltered. He arched an eyebrow to cover his discomfiture. Solitude was obviously making him insane. “
You
made my breakfast?”

“It’s actually my lunch, but I thought you’d appreciate it more than I. And yes, I made it.”

“Then I thank you,” he said, venturing a smile of his own. He no doubt looked like a half-starved escapee from Bedlam, but she didn’t run away screaming in terror. Evelyn, he was beginning to realize, was a great deal braver than he’d given her credit for.

“You’re welcome.” She turned away, walking back to the door, and he lurched forward so abruptly he nearly dropped the tray.

“Are you leaving?” he blurted, grabbing the remains of his sandwich before it pitched onto the floor.

Evelyn stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. “No. I brought you another present. Two, actually.”

“One of them isn’t a key, I suppose?” he suggested. “Or perhaps they involve you removing your clothes?”

She blushed prettily. “You’re hardly in a position to be saying such things.”

“I’m shackled; not castrated. Unless that’s your surprise.”

Evelyn’s mouth twitched, but she only disappeared behind the door for a moment, returning with a small, laden table and Randall. Saint kept his attention on the youth; he couldn’t prove anything, but he was fairly certain Randall had been the one to put the club across his skull.

“First,” Evelyn said, putting down the table, “I must ask for your cooperation.”

That didn’t sound promising
. Saint swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich. “My cooperation in what?” he returned slowly. The tray wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would at least serve as a distraction if necessary. He gripped the edge of the flimsy thing.

Evie looked nervous. “I need you to…to stand up and slip your right hand into that manacle there.”

Saint just stared at her.

“Now, please.”

Several responses came to mind, but Saint dismissed them all as perfunctory and inadequate. “I may look a bit bedraggled,” he spat out finally, “but allow me to assure you, Evelyn, that I would sooner chew off my own foot than allow you to chain me to that wall.”

She paled. “You misunderstand. It’s only for a few minutes, so…so I may shave you.”

Well. That was unexpected. Anger began to slide into something warmer and less tangible, though he had enough pride remaining that the entire situation infuriated him. “Let me shave myself.”

“I won’t provide you with a razor, Saint.”

“Smart chit. I don’t feel particularly civilized, however, and I don’t see the point of letting you fool yourself into thinking you’ve made me more comfortable by removing my damned whiskers.”

“That isn’t the point,” she insisted. “I am attempting to bring out your better qualities. I believe it’s easier to behave like a gentleman when you look like a gentleman.”

He folded his arms. “But I’m not a gentleman.”

“Nevertheless,” she returned, “please cooperate.”

“Aye,” Randall echoed, pulling a pistol from behind his back, “do as Miss Evie says, m’lord.”

“Hmm,” Saint mused, every sense alert as he slowly set the tray aside and stood, “I suppose even the devil could pretend to be a gentleman if someone aimed a pistol at him.”

Evelyn didn’t appear to be surprised at the appearance of the weapon; she’d probably provided it to the lad. Saint wondered whether she had a real idea of how
many laws she was breaking in the course of her little experiment.

“It’s just a precaution, Saint,” she said in a soothing voice. “Please do as I ask.”

She didn’t let out the breath she’d been holding until he took a slow, deliberate step toward the wall. She’d known that he would rebel against further restraints, but it would have meant something if he’d cooperated without the need for the pistol. Of course, Randall hadn’t given him much time to consider his options.

His jaw clenched and his eyes hard and cold, he lifted the right-hand manacle from where it hung along the wall. The look he sent her said she would pay for doing this, but she was already so far in trouble that adding more to the pile hardly signified. With a deep breath he put his right wrist against the clasp and snapped it closed with his left hand.

Evie glanced at Randall, noting the practiced and steady grip the young man had on the pistol. Thank goodness it wasn’t loaded. With an unsteady breath of her own, she crossed into Saint’s domain within the cell.

His right wrist hung suspended about level with his shoulder. His left hand, however, was still free, and he looked angry enough that she couldn’t be entirely certain the threat of a pistol would prevent him from grabbing her. She could just forget the entire thing, let him grow a beard down to his knees, but her argument was serious. She needed him to be a gentleman, and he therefore needed in his own mind to have the appearance of one. Besides, even if she changed her mind now, she would still have to approach him to unlock his wrist.

“Frightened of me, Evelyn?” he murmured, apparently reading her thoughts.

“Just cautious,” she returned, closing the distance between them.

With his jacket removed, his shirtsleeves pushed up, and his cravat dirty and wilted, he somehow seemed even more masculine and virile than before. Evelyn was abruptly and forcefully reminded that even with the amount of time spent in his company, they hadn’t touched in three days. And the last time they
had
touched, he’d been removing her gown and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

“Your fingers are shaking,” he noted, lowering his left hand.

“Be careful now, Marquis,” Randall cautioned.

“You don’t need to make this so difficult,” she said, stopping in front of him. Holding her breath, she reached down and took his wrist in her fingers.

“Yes, I do.” Saint lowered his voice so it was barely more than a whisper. “I know what you want.”

He didn’t resist as she raised his arm and closed his left wrist in the manacle. “And what is it that I want?” she asked, feeling bolder now that he was secure.

Saint gave a faint grin, lopsided and dark through three days’ growth of whiskers. “It’s not for me to be a gentleman, Evelyn Marie.” He glanced past her at Randall. “Tell him to leave. You don’t need him right now.”

If she had any sense, she would do no such thing. With Randall there, though, St. Aubyn would never converse with her about anything serious or important. And besides, in the deep, dark part of her that whispered this was all an excuse to touch Saint again, she knew she didn’t want Randall present, either.

She half turned. “Randall, hide the pistol in the cellar where none of the children will find it. You’re scheduled
for a reading lesson with Mrs. Aubry right now, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded his lanky blond hair. “Aye. Don’t you let him go without me here, though.”

“Of course not. Will you come back in thirty minutes?”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. It’s necessary.”

“Whatever you say, Captain. He better start bein’ convinced soon, though.”

“He will be.”

The boy left, closing the door behind him.

“Be careful about him,” Saint said in a low voice, his face turned toward the door as though he were listening for something.

“Randall?”

He returned his attention to her. “If you don’t help his cause as he likes, there’s nothing to stop him from locking you in here with me.”

She looked up at him, a small, uneasy thrill running through her. “Are you worried about me?”

“I think you’re in a great deal more trouble than you realize, and I think any mistakes on your part might get me killed.”

So he was still only thinking of himself
. “You’ve threatened to take his home away from him. How is he supposed to react? How are any of them supposed to react?”

He scowled. “I remain unconvinced. And at the moment, Evelyn, you are very precious to me.” Saint rattled the chains imprisoning his wrists. “So be careful. I don’t wish to end up as a skeleton in the cellar of an orphanage.”

“You won’t.” This was ludicrous. Even in the middle
of a mercenary proclamation, he could say she was precious to him and it made her pulse speed. It was only because he showed such little concern for anyone else; when he did so, even in passing, it was as spectacular as a stroke of lightning.

“Evelyn?”

She started, her gaze darting back to his enigmatic green eyes. If he knew what she’d been thinking, he didn’t say. Evie blushed anyway. No one made her blush as he did; probably because no one said things that made her self-conscious, made her think outside her prim, proper life as he did. “My apologies. I was considering your warning. I will keep it in mind.”

“Good.”

“And now I believe you need a shave.”

“To be honest,” he returned, his expression softening a little, “my face itches like the devil.”

Evie wished that he would remain angry; wry and charming, the Marquis of St. Aubyn stirred into life far too many unaccustomed sensations.

Taking another breath, she backed up to retrieve the little table. Fortunately she’d escaped Ruddick House before Victor rose and found his things missing. No doubt she would hear about the theft when she returned home, and all during the evening with Lord and Lady Gladstone. “Oh, bother,” she muttered, mixing the shaving soap with water.

“I did offer to do this myself.”

With a grimace she dunked the brush into the soapy water. “You’re not the bother. My dinner appointment is.”

“Tell me why.”

She paused, the brush halfway to his chin. “Why do you want to know?”

“Why not? It’s not as though I have anything to do but listen to your scintillating tales.”

“It’s nothing. My brother and I are invited to dinner with Lord and Lady Gladstone.”

His expression didn’t change, even though he and the countess were known by everyone to be lovers. “I don’t suppose you’d give my regards to Fatima?”

“No, I won’t.” Evie knocked the brush against his chin, and more lather than she expected splattered onto his face, his neck, and his wilted cravat. “Apologies.”

“Don’t apologize; tell me why you don’t like dear Fatima.”

“Humph. Tell me why you do like her.”

“Lovely soft breasts, long, slender legs, and a willingness to s—”

“Stop!” she demanded. “She’s someone else’s wife!”

He shrugged, the manacles clinking against the rough stone wall. “I take her marriage vows as seriously as she does. As they all do. You can’t be that naïve.”

“I don’t consider my opinion naïve. I like to think it’s honorable.”

Saint gave a short, humorless laugh. “You are unusual, Evelyn. I’ll give you that. Now, are you going to shave me, or just throw soap on me?”

“You’re awful.” Evie lowered her hand, just staring at him. How could she feel…attracted to this man?

“I never said I wasn’t awful. It’s not my fault if you view me as something other than what I am, my dear.”

For a long moment she kept her silence, considering. “I prefer to think that I view you as what you could become, under your cynicism and your whiskers.” Slowly she raised the brush again, sliding it up along his cheek. “And I intend to reveal that person.”

“He died a very long time ago, I’m afraid. And no one, including myself, mourned his passing.”

“Stop talking. I’m trying to do this right.” Dipping the brush into the soap again, she lathered his other cheek. She liked touching him when he couldn’t do anything about it, when the contact was entirely on her terms.

“Have you decided how long my sentence is to last?” he asked when she set aside the cup and picked up the razor.

“I prefer to think of it as your enforced education.”

“If our positions were reversed, I could think of several ways to educate you,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I’m at your mercy, Evelyn. Is shaving me the wildest, wickedest thought you could come up with?”