London's Perfect Scoundrel (21 page)

Pages of children’s faces, caricatures of St. Aubyn turning into a skeleton in his cell, but mostly pencil sketches of her, covered every inch of free space, front and back. “My goodness,” she whispered, her cheeks warming.

He’d caught her eyes, her smile, her scowl, her hands, her tears, all with remarkable skill on these coarse, smudged, wrinkled parchments. Looking at them, she felt as if he’d seen into her and drawn her secrets.

“You’re certain, now, Miss Evie, that you didn’t just let ’im go?” Randall asked again, lifting his knife from the wood. “’Cause it seems from them that you was sitting down there letting him do portraits of you.”

“I wasn’t,” she returned, hearing the accusation in his tone. After seeing the drawings, she couldn’t blame him. “He must have drawn them from memory. And look, he drew pictures of all of you as well. That means he was paying attention, and thinking of you.”

“So he’ll let us stay, do you think?” Penny asked, sitting on Evie’s other side. “Because I don’t want to have to live on the street and eat rats.”

“Oh, Penny!” Evelyn hugged the slender girl. “That will never happen. I promise.”

“I hope you’re right, Miss Evie,” Randall drawled, “because there’s still ways to make sure it don’t happen.”

“Randall, promise me you won’t do anything rash,” Evie said, a cold chill running down her spine. “And that you’ll consult me first.”

“No worries, Miss Evie,” he returned. “I ain’t likely to forget that you’re a part of this, too. None of us will.”

After the tense atmosphere of the orphanage, Aunt Houton’s political tea seemed woefully tame. Evie helped create silly political slogans to rhyme with the favored candidates’ names, but her thoughts were on the papers she’d carefully rolled up and stuck into the band of her stockings. They scratched her leg uncomfortably, reminding her how much she wanted a few minutes alone to sit and look at them again without a gaggle of curious children gazing at her.

“Your brother sent over a note,” Aunt Houton said, sitting beside her as she scribbled out rhyming words for “Fox.” “He’s in raptures because Wellington has finally agreed to sit down to a quiet dinner with us on Friday.”

Saint, again
. “My goodness,” Evie exclaimed for effect, though she wasn’t the least bit surprised by the news. “Just us and Wellington?”

“Not quite. The Alvingtons and…St. Aubyn will be joining us as well.”

“Hm. Interesting. I hadn’t thought St. Aubyn was political.”

“I hadn’t thought so, either. Victor attributed his sudden interest to some sort of conspiracy to sink his career, but—”

“Nonsense!”

“—but he’s willing to take the chance in exchange for another meeting with Wellington.” The marchioness turned away to answer one of the other ladies’ questions, then faced Evie again. “Do you know why St. Aubyn is so suddenly interested in your brother’s career?”

She was truly going to go to Hades for this, and it was all Saint’s fault
. “He asked me out on a picnic, but I can assure you that he didn’t mention this. I have no idea what he might be thinking, but there is certainly no ‘conspiracy’ between Saint and myself.”

“‘Saint’?” her aunt repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

“St. Aubyn. He asked me to call him Saint. Everyone does, I believe.” He’d also asked her to call him Michael, but apparently no one did that, and she wasn’t about to confess to that or to the circumstances that had brought it about.

“Well, whatever his interest in
you
, make certain you don’t encourage it. The Marquis of St. Aubyn is a dark, dangerous man, and no one you need in your life. Especially now.”

The words caught Evelyn’s attention, but before she could ask her aunt to clarify, Lady Harrington and Lady Doveston began an argument over whether “perfect” was an acceptable rhyme for “Ruddick.”

Evelyn shifted in her chair, and the drawings rustled against her leg again. This meeting was such a waste, when she needed to be planning the next step in her education of Michael Halboro. But given what he’d sketched, perhaps he was beginning to be more convinced than she’d realized. And given the way he’d sketched her, she couldn’t help hoping that perhaps he would call on her again very soon.

“Y
ou rented an entire box for just the three of us?” Evie asked as her brother offered her one of the two front chairs and her mother sat behind. The orchestra seats below were already filled, and it didn’t look as though a single box or chair would be empty this evening. The extravagance of an oversized box surprised her; if Victor was anything, it wasn’t frivolous.

“Not exactly. I invited some friends to join us,” Victor answered, taking another of the rear seats.

Suspicion ran through Evelyn as she gazed at the empty chair beside her. “Which friends?”

“Ah, good evening, Ruddick,” Lord Alvington’s booming voice came as he pushed aside the curtains at the rear of the box. “Good of you to have us tonight. Looks to be a sad crush, and I’d already loaned out my box to my demmed niece and her family.”

“That was exceptionally generous of you,” Victor complimented, shaking the viscount’s hand.

“Lady Alvington,” her mother exclaimed with achingly sweet glee, rising to kiss the plump viscountess on both round cheeks. “Have you heard that Wellington’s to join us for dinner on Friday?”

“Yes, I had. Such a fine gentleman, he is.”

Evie rose as well, though everyone ignored her until Clarence Alvington strolled into the box. That explained the empty chair. She was being bartered again. Hiding her disgust behind a smile, she dipped a curtsy as Clarence took her gloved hand and bowed over it.

“You are a vision this evening, Miss Ruddick,” he drawled.

“Indeed,” said Lady Alvington. “Wherever did you get that necklace, my dear? It’s exquisite.”

Reaching up to touch the silver heart with the diamond inside, Evelyn was tempted to tell them all precisely where the necklace had come from. She couldn’t quite convince herself, though, that it would be worth the ruin just to see the looks on their faces. “It’s an old family heirloom,” she said instead, and caught her mother’s quick frown. “One of Grandmother’s, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I believe so.” Barely sparing her a glance, Genevieve Ruddick sat again. “Tell me, Mr. Alvington, how have you been occupying your days?”

“How kind of you to ask, Mrs. Ruddick. I have recently begun designing a completely new style of neckcloth.” Clarence tilted up his pointed chin, revealing a cravat tied in so intricate a manner that he and his valet must have begun working on it when he arose that morning. “You see?” he indicated, trying to view his audience with his chin still pointed skyward. “I call it the Mercury Knot.”

While everyone gushed over his neckcloth, Evelyn
nodded and turned to the more interesting distraction of looking at the occupants of the other boxes. Two farther back from the stage, Lord and Lady Dare had taken seats together with Dare’s two aunts and all of his grown brothers but Robert, the one who had been wounded at Waterloo and who rarely appeared in public at all these days. On the far side of the stage Lucinda sat with her father, General Barrett, and an assortment of his distinguished military and political friends.

The lights dimmed, and with a quick wave and smile at Luce, she took her seat. As the curtains rose, the flash of an opera glass caught her attention, and she glanced toward the massively expensive boxes closest to the stage to see who was staring at her. The pair of binoculars aimed in her direction lowered, revealing the lean, amused countenance of the Marquis of St. Aubyn.

Her breath caught. His family had owned a Drury Lane box for ages, but as far as she knew, he
never
attended such tame events as these. But there he was—and he wasn’t alone. Sitting with him were a handful of his raffish male and female acquaintances, including one overly-made-up blond woman with a very large bosom, which she seemed intent on pressing against Saint’s arm.

A keen ache shoved its way into her chest. So, despite his recent attentions to her, he considered her no different than any of his other fallen female conquests, a woman to be bedded, taunted for it, and forgotten. Fine. That was fine. She’d only been curious to discover what being with him would be like, anyway.

“What play is this?” Clarence whispered a few moments later, leaning over and giving her a whiff of his very strong cologne.

“
As You Like It
,” she returned, more tartly than she
intended. The title was on the playbill he held in one hand, for heaven’s sake.

“Ah. One of Shakespeare’s.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Someone nudged the back of her chair. Victor, no doubt, warning her to behave. She looked across Clarence’s massive neckcloth at Saint again. If he could still be…content in the company of his box fellows, and if he could practically flaunt that woman with the large bosom in front of her, then he hadn’t learned anything. Evie frowned. Or was she the one who hadn’t learned her lesson, despite what practically everyone she knew, including Saint, had told her about him?

Victor’s cheek brushed her ear. “Stop scowling,” he whispered almost soundlessly.

Oh, she needed to get away for a moment, away from where everyone in the theater could see every expression on her face, every tear in her eyes. “My stomach is unsettled,” she whispered back. “I need to get some water.”

“Then go. But hurry back.”

With an apologetic murmur, she stood and made her way through the heavy curtains at the back of the box. She wanted to sag against the wall and cry, but footmen wandered from box to box in the corridor, delivering drinks and opera glasses and whatever else the occupants required. At her whispered query, one of them directed her to a nearby curtained alcove, and she slipped inside just as the first tear ran down her cheek.

Saint shifted his chair, trying to put more distance between himself and Deliah’s eager bosom. He shouldn’t have invited anyone along tonight, but he would have looked like an idiot sitting in a six-person box all by himself.

He looked back at Evelyn again, as he seemed to need to do every two minutes or so, to find her chair empty. He stood.

“Saint, bring me a brandy,” Deliah cooed.

Ignoring her, he exited the box and headed along the wide corridor toward the Ruddick family’s seats. No sign of Evelyn. Deciding she’d probably gone back in, he muttered a quiet curse and turned around again. And paused as he heard a sniffle coming from behind the nearest privacy curtain.

“Evelyn?” he whispered, hoping to God it wasn’t Fatima or some other female of his acquaintance.

“Go away.”

Thank Lucifer
. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed aside the curtain to see her facing the wall, her hands over her face. “If you’re hiding, it’s not working,” he murmured. “I can see you.”

“I saw you, too. Enjoying yourself?”

“Not really. I keep hoping Deliah will lean so far she’ll fall out of the box, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

Lowering her hands, she faced him. “Why are you here?”

With a glance up the corridor, he stepped into the alcove and pulled the curtain closed behind him. “Why do you think?” he asked, and covered her mouth with his.

He pressed her into the corner, kissing her, tasting her again. Evelyn was breathing hard and fast, meeting his lips with hers. Gloved fingers slipped over his shoulders, pulling him hard against her.

“Someone will find us,” she panted, moaning as he lifted his hands from her hips to cover her breasts.

“Shh.”

As soon as he saw her there, Saint had gone hard, and
he absolutely was not going to give her a chance to escape. Kissing her again and again, hot and openmouthed, only made his aching for her worse. No woman had ever aroused him as she did. Reluctant to let go of her but very aware that they had little time, he released her breasts and guided her hands down to his trousers.

“Here?” she gasped against his lips.

“I want you,” he returned, moving her fingers across the hard bulge in his trousers. Then he slid his own hands down her skirt, gathered handfuls of the material and lifted, drawing her dress up past her knees. “Do you feel how much I want you, Evelyn Marie? Do you want me?”

If she said no, he probably would have expired on the spot, but thankfully she began unfastening his trousers with anxious, shaking fingers. “Hurry, Saint,” she begged, silent but for the whisper of breath against his mouth.

She freed him, and he lifted her in his arms, pulling her legs around his hips. With a groan he entered her, keeping her pinned between himself and the wall as he strongly pumped his hips against her. Her tight warmth welcomed him. Her harsh, fast breathing brought him to the edge of reason. This was perfection, being inside Evelyn, the joining, becoming one with her.

He felt her come, and captured her moan against his mouth, letting her ecstasy pull him forward into his own. With an almost animal growl he joined her, pressing her so hard against the wall he feared he’d cut off her air.

Breathing hard, he held her, her arms around his neck and her ankles and dainty slippered feet locked around his hips. Even now, still inside her, with the scent of her hair surrounding him and her warm, lithe body in his arms, he craved her, didn’t want to let her go.

“Saint?” she whispered unsteadily, licking his jaw.

“Hm?”

“What is your middle name?”

He lifted his face away from her bare shoulder to gaze into her light gray eyes. “Edward.”

She smiled. “Michael Edward Halboro,” she murmured, running her fingers along his cheek with a surprising gentleness, “is it always like that? So…good?”

“No, it’s not.” Saint kissed her again, slowly, relishing the touch of her soft lips against his.

“Evie?” her mother’s hushed voice came from out in the corridor. “Where in the world are you?”

Evelyn stiffened in his arms, stark terror crossing her face. “Oh, no, no, no,” she breathed. “Let me go.”

Obviously now was not the time to argue. Saint lifted her away from him so she could put her feet back on the floor and lower her skirt. “I’m here, Mama,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll be right out. My stomach is unsettled.”

“Well, hurry up. Your brother is furious. He thinks you’re trying to avoid Mr. Alvington.”

Saint fastened his trousers again while Evelyn attempted to straighten her dress. Taking a breath, she nodded and reached for the curtains.

Before she could escape, Saint grasped her elbow and turned her to face him again. Shaking his head to let her know that he wasn’t letting her escape completely, he ran a finger along the low neckline of her gown, then leaned down and kissed her once more.

“Evie!”

“I’m coming,” she said, putting a hand against his chest to push him against the far wall. She half opened the curtains, leaving him concealed in the shadows, and stepped back into the dimly lit corridor.

Saint stayed in the alcove, listening as the Ruddick
ladies’ footsteps receded toward their box. He’d kept her secret for her—again. No one knew they’d become lovers; no one but the two of them. As many mistresses as he’d had over the years, it was heady, knowing that he was the first and only man to make love to her.

But what had her mother said? Something about Evelyn not avoiding Clarence Alvington. So that was her brother’s scheme. Lord Alvington had little money, but he did own several properties in, and therefore had a great deal of influence over, the voting in West Sussex. That made the calculation simple: In exchange for handing Ruddick a seat in the House of Commons, the Alvington family would acquire Evelyn and her purse.

Saint glanced up and down the corridor, then slipped out of the alcove. He wondered whether Evelyn realized she’d been sold. And if she thought it difficult now to devote time and money to orphans, once her income belonged to Clarence Alvington, any charity at all would be impossible. Her entire stipend would undoubtedly go to neckcloths, racehorses, and wagering.

Of course, Saint would be finished with her by then, so it wouldn’t signify. And it wouldn’t bother him that thin-necked, thick-headed, high-shirt pointed Neckcloth Alvington would have nightly access to her bed and to her sweet body.

“Saint, where’s my brandy?” Deliah asked as he dropped into the seat beside her again.

“Get it yourself.”

He sat and stared at the stage for the next hour, though the actors might have been reciting nursery rhymes, for all the attention he paid. With Wellington captured for the dinner party, Victor Ruddick owed him at least one more outing with Evelyn. She’d probably try to make a few more visits to the orphanage, as well, so
he could intercept her there. Considering he’d only given the place four more weeks of existence, his chances to see her in private would then end.

Saint glanced over his shoulder at the Ruddick box. The fop was whispering something at Evelyn that she was plainly trying to ignore. As Saint watched, her gaze lifted to meet his, and then she quickly looked away again.

This was intolerable, wanting her so much that he couldn’t sleep, and barely being allowed to look in her direction, while the entire time someone else plotted to remove her from his grasp entirely. If he knew anything about his Evelyn, whatever he might wish, she would not consent to be his mistress once she was married, no matter how miserable she might be.

So he needed to get rid of Clarence Alvington, which meant
he
needed to be the one to secure a seat in Parliament or a Cabinet position for Victor Ruddick. And he needed to see Prinny and delay the destruction of the orphanage, because once it was gone, she would never look at him again.

“Saint?”

He started. “What is it, Deliah?”

“Intermission.”

The lights had gone up, and he was staring at a curtained stage while the boxes around him emptied and members of Society wandered out to mingle and be seen. He stood. “Good. I’m leaving.”

Deliah stood beside him, tugging down the front of her dress to better display her wares. “Lovely. I thought you might be wanting a taste of something,” she murmured, running her tongue along her lips.

“I’ve already eaten. Good evening.”

Oh, no
. She’d become one of those harlots everyone heard rumors about, the ones who had sex with St. Aubyn in broom closets, on terraces, on chairs while their husbands dozed beside them.