London's Perfect Scoundrel (25 page)

“Ha. You never used to be so opinionated, Evie.”

“I never had to be.”

Genevieve gazed at her. “And now you shouldn’t be. You know it won’t do any good. And remember that you and I are to join Victor for an early breakfast at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

That couldn’t be good
. A command appearance at breakfast most likely meant that Victor had another ultimatum to hand down. She wasn’t going to stand for many more of those. Her mother had it completely wrong. She’d begun to realize that once she’d taken the opportunity to express her convictions and act on them, she’d never felt better. In fact, she wondered what her family would say if she simply told them she preferred Lord St. Aubyn’s company to theirs, and that even when she was angry with him, she liked Saint far more than any of the politically motivated connections her brother kept trying to foist on her. He might mean well, but he had a woefully poor idea of who she really was.

Of course, when she thought of Saint, her heart began to hammer. She had less than eighteen hours to think of a way to repay him for his services in procuring the orphanage. She knew how she
wanted
to pay him—he roused such wanton emotions in her that she could scarcely believe it of herself.

That solution, however, was too easy, no matter how satisfying it would be. Whatever she decided to do had to be good for him, had to continue the lessons in being a good person she’d been working so hard to dispense to him.

When Lucinda arrived, she still didn’t know how she would best use Saint’s latest challenge to her advantage. If something didn’t occur to her soon, she would end up naked with him again, because she absolutely could not tell Victor or her mother that she’d practically adopted a houseful of orphans behind their backs.

“Don’t fret,” Lucinda said, giving her an encouraging smile. “We won’t let those children end up in one of those horrid places.”

Evelyn blinked. Everything had happened so quickly today that she’d forgotten Luce didn’t know. “Actually,” she said, “I have good news. St Aubyn has purchased another house for them.”

“S…St. Aubyn,” Lucinda repeated, her expression clearly saying that she thought someone had gone mad.

“Yes. It’s lovely. They can all stay together, and I may set up the classrooms and the furniture and decorations however I wish. It will be such a hopeful, cheery place.”

“Just a moment, Evie.” Scowling, Lucinda sat forward in the coach. “The Marquis of St. Aubyn gave away an orphanage and then went and purchased another one.”

“Well, yes. He said he’d tried to change Prinny’s mind
about the Heart of Hope, but it had already been in the newspapers, so he couldn’t. He found this one, and took me to see it, and then offered Sir Peter Ludlow so fair a price that the baron just shook his hand and gave him the key. And then he gave me the key.”

Lucinda looked at her for a long moment. “Evie,” she finally said, “if anyone were to hear that St. Aubyn purchased a house for you, you would be ruined beyond repair.”

That had been part of what made it so exciting, but of course she could never tell Lucinda that. No one else could know about what she and Saint had done. She shook her head. “He didn’t do it for me; he did it for the orphans.”

“That’s not what it sounds like to me,” her friend insisted. “I don’t think anyone else would bother to believe that interpretation, either. You heard Lord Dare—Saint doesn’t do anything for free. And considering that he bought a house with you present, everyone will think you’ve become his…mistress.”

She
had
become his mistress, Evelyn realized. Her heart went cold. When Lucinda said it that way, everything seemed so sordid. What if Saint had planned her ruination all along? When she’d locked him in the brig, he’d said that she would be the first person he went after. He could be devious; she knew that firsthand. But this was beyond devious. This was…mean.

“I’m not that naive,” she managed, forcing a carefree smile. “After all I’ve tried to accomplish, if finding a new home for the children involves a risk to my reputation, then so be it.”

That had to be it. Of course, in interacting with Saint she would find a certain amount of risk. He’d left the method of payment up to her, and even the one he’d
suggested, of Evie confessing her involvement with the orphanage, would only damage her standing with her own family. The rest of society would never know anything about it—and certainly not that he’d bought a house for her.

“I don’t understand you any longer,” Lucinda said.

“Perhaps that’s because I’m not so afraid of making a mistake now. At least I’m trying to do something, instead of just complaining that no one thinks I can accomplish anything useful.”

Lucinda looked as though she wanted to continue the conversation, but thankfully the coach rolled to a stop and a footman pulled open the door before her friend could say anything further. She hated lying to Lucinda and Georgiana, but they had the same opinion of Saint as did everyone else in London. They wouldn’t understand how important it was that she not act embarrassed or ashamed to be working with Saint. He would know if she did, and then all of her efforts would be for nothing.

Evie hurried to the ground, not sure what to say in response to the next thing her friend might ask. Luce would probably want to know what had caused this change in her, and she had only one answer: Saint.

Whatever fantastical dreams she’d once had of improving society or contributing something memorable and worthwhile, Saint was the reason she’d been able to do more than imagine. She’d accomplished something she could be proud of, and again thanks to Saint, her efforts would now bring about even more telling results.

She could hardly wait to see him again and discuss the next step. A slow heat crept up her cheeks. She could hardly wait to see him again, period. Michael Edward
Halboro, the most interesting, unexpected embodiment of a saint she could ever have imagined.

“Good evening, Miss Barrett, Miss Ruddick,” Lady Bethson greeted them, as they joined the small group in the drawing room.

“Lady Bethson,” Evie said, catching her mind up to the present enough to smile and give her hostess a fond peck on the cheek.

Unlike her Aunt Houton’s political teas, Lady Bethson’s twice-a-month literary evenings gave her something to look forward to. None of her aunt’s snootier friends would be present, because the evenings were devoted to literary discussions, conversations where one was actually expected to use one’s mind.

“Well, I believe we’re all here, ladies…and gentleman,” Lady Bethson said, with a nod to Viscount Quenton, their one regular—and thankfully good-natured—male participant, “so let’s begin our reading and discussion of William Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

They all pulled out their playbooks or moved over to share with someone who had one. Despite the scarcity of male attendees, Evelyn had the feeling that Saint would enjoy an evening such as this. No one made pretensions about anything, and without exception all dozen guests were intelligent, well read, and quick-witted. All those who weren’t had long ago declined to attend or had ceased to be invited.

They were all laughing over Lord Quenton’s rendition of Bottom the weaver when Lady Bethson’s butler entered the room to whisper something into the countess’ ear.

“How very interesting,” the buxom lady breathed,
and nodded to the servant. “Show him in.” As the guests watched the butler’s exit, Lady Bethson took a sip of Madeira. “It seems we have another participant for tonight’s discussion.”

As she spoke, the Marquis of St. Aubyn strolled into the room on the butler’s heels. “Good evening, Lady Bethson,” he drawled, bowing over the countess’ hand.

“Lord St. Aubyn. What a surprise.”

“I’d heard your literary discussions were amusing,” he returned, sending a glance at Evie that raised excited goose bumps on her arms, “so I thought I might impose to join you.”

“The more, the merrier,” Lady Bethson said with a chuckle. “And you bring an amusing veneer of notoriety with you, as well.”

He nodded. “I try to please.”

Evie looked away from him. That didn’t help, though, because Luce was gazing at her, one eyebrow lifted. “What?” she whispered.

“I’m not saying a word,” her friend returned in the same hushed tone.

“Why—”

“Miss Ruddick, might I share your playbook?” Saint stood before her, a slight smile lighting his green eyes. “I seem to have come all unprepared.”

Whatever he was up to this evening, he was behaving himself to a remarkable degree. It seemed like far longer than an afternoon since she’d seen him, and as his gaze lowered to her mouth, she half hoped he would kiss her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and feel the beat of his heart against hers.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, shaking herself.
For heaven’s sake
, one of them had to show some self-
control, and she obviously couldn’t rely on him to do it. “We are discussing
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

“Ah.” He seated himself on the couch beside her, managing to brush the back of her hand with his fingers as he did so. “‘He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt;/ He knows not the stop./ A good moral, my lord: it is/ Not enough to speak, but to speak true.’”

Lady Bethson chuckled again. “A literary scoundrel. You are full of surprises, Lord St. Aubyn.”

And so was the countess. Evelyn had always admired her forthright manner and self-confidence, but not many—male or female—conversed with Saint to his face about his black reputation.

“I believe it’s just that the expectations for me are so low, I can’t help but amaze,” he returned. Apparently Saint admired self-confidence as well, though Evie had already suspected that.

Lord Quenton cleared his throat. “Despite the presence of a younger male, I refuse to relinquish the part of Bottom.”

Saint lifted an eyebrow. “I prefer Puck myself, anyway.”

This time Lady Bethson laughed. “Dear me. Puck it is, Lord St. Aubyn. Shall we continue?”

Despite the fact that this was one of her favorite comedies, Evie found it very difficult to concentrate. Saint sat so close that their thighs bumped, and he tugged the playbook over so half was across her knees and half across his. As he leaned over it, reading the part of Puck in his low, cultured voice, she had to stifle the desperate desire to kiss his ear.

She was reading Lysander and Titania, who thankfully had no lines with Puck. Speaking in a normal voice
was difficult enough without having to look at Saint. And then he made it even more difficult.

“How are you going to repay me?” he asked, while the other guests interpreted the pairing of Lysander and Hermia versus Helena.

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Hush.”

“Tell me now, or I’ll assume you mean to pay me with your soft breasts and your—”

“All right, all right. I will…” She paused, desperately trying to think of something when she had been leaning toward making love with him again. “I will procure you an invitation to General Barrett’s annual picnic.”

“Beg pardon?”

It was perfect. Only the most interesting people were ever invited, and the repartee would immensely appeal to someone of Saint’s wit. And it was good company; good for him and the lessons she still told herself she was trying to teach him. “It’s quite popular, and very exclusive.”

“I know that. How is it doing me a good turn, though, to invite me to a party where I can be muttered about and otherwise ignored?”

“You won’t be ig—”

“You will spend the day with me, at my side.”

She started to refuse, but Victor would never attend with so many liberals present. “Agreed.”

The readings resumed, with Bottom and his companions discussing the performance they were rehearsing for the royal wedding. Saint shifted his hand, hidden beneath the playbook. Keenly aware of him as she was, when his fingers slipped beneath her thigh, gently caressing, she nearly leapt out of her seat.

“Stop that,” she murmured, head down. She tried to
move away, but he tightened his grip on her skirt, keeping her there against his thigh.

“Lick your lips,” he breathed.

“No.”

His fingers crept farther up the underside of her thigh, pressed against her by her own weight. “Are you wet for me?”

With a quick flick she touched her tongue to her lips. “Shall I stand on my head now? Stop it. Lucinda will see.”

His fingers stilled, but he didn’t remove his hand. “Would she tell?”

“No,” Evie whispered, risking a glance at his profile. “But she would ask me. And then I would have to explain you, and I can’t.”

Everyone laughed at something, and she joined in belatedly. Beside her Saint didn’t move, but she could almost see the sudden sharpening of his attention. Her breath caught.

“What would you explain about me?” he murmured, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

Oh, God, she wanted to touch him
. “About why I like you,” she breathed back shakily. “Don’t make me regret it, Michael. Please remove your hand.”

His hand slipped back beneath the book, where it belonged, and abruptly she could breathe again. It didn’t stop her from yearning to slide her arms around his shoulders and smother his wicked mouth with kisses, but at least she knew she would be able to restrain herself tonight.

“You like me,” he repeated. “How interesting.” Then he lifted his head, reading Puck’s line aloud as though he’d been following the play all along. “‘What hempen
home-spuns have we swagg’ring here,/ So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen?’”

Evelyn didn’t know how he could possibly be paying attention; she could barely remember there were other people in the room. And that certainly didn’t bode well for her continued good reputation.

L
oath to acknowledge that the evening was over, Saint accepted a second slice of cake. If more of Society’s events were as interesting as Lady Bethson’s, he wouldn’t have been so diligent about avoiding them.

Even more interesting, however, had been his hushed conversation with Evelyn Marie. He glanced at her, chatting with Lucinda Ruddick and the countess. With the play, dinner, and discussion finished, maintaining his seat at her side would have been asking too much of her polite sensibilities. But she’d said that she liked him—not because they’d become lovers or because he’d provided a new building for the orphans, but for some reason that she couldn’t define.

For the most part, the few compliments he received were on his skills as a lover, or acknowledging that he could be charming or a dead shot with a pistol. They were characteristics he could control and define. The idea of someone actually liking him seemed much more
tenuous and precious. And completely unexpected.

With a last chuckle, Evelyn and Miss Barrett rose. Swiftly putting the cake aside, Saint joined them. “I must be going,” he drawled, taking Lady Bethson’s hand, “or dozens of club proprietors will be sending out search parties. Thank you for allowing me to intrude, Lady Bethson. You host an interesting evening.”

The countess’ round cheeks dimpled. “The next interesting evening will be on the twelfth, for a discussion of Byron’s
Childe Harold
. You will find yourself invited, Lord St. Aubyn.”

“And I may very well find myself attending.” Saint nodded, offering arms to both young ladies as he caught up to them. “Might I escort you out?”

Miss Barrett’s grip was much more tentative than Evelyn’s, and he took the contrast as another good sign. She didn’t hesitate to touch him, even in public, under the right circumstances. He simply needed to manufacture more of those right circumstances.

“Evie tells me you’ve made a fortuitous purchase,” the dusky-haired lady said, her gaze on the coach as they stepped down to the drive.

She
could
keep secrets, then. “It seemed the…proper thing to do,” he returned, handing her into the vehicle.

When it came time to release Evelyn’s hand, though, he didn’t want to let her go. She turned in the coach doorway, looking down at him. “Good night, Saint,” she murmured, freeing her fingers.

“Sleep well, Evelyn Marie.”

The coach trundled off, and he swung up onto Cassius. As he’d said, the evening had barely begun for night-wanderers like himself, but losing himself in thought would be less problematic over a bottle of
brandy at home than over a deck of cards and a hundred quid at Jezebel’s.

Jansen blinked as he pulled open the front door. “My lord. We didn’t expect to see you so early.”

“Change of plans,” he muttered, handing over his coat and lifting the brandy decanter from the hall table.

“Shall I send Pemberly to see to you?”

“No. I’ll manage. Good night, Jansen.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Saint trudged up the stairs and down the long hallway to his private rooms. Tomorrow the chaos would begin again, but tonight, by God, he was going to have a few drinks and get a good night’s sleep.

Despite the fire crackling behind the fireplace’s iron grate, the air in his bedchamber felt cold as he opened his door. Someone had left a blasted window open.

“Hello, milord.”

The voice registered immediately, and Saint turned, unsurprised, at the sight of the young man propped up against the bed’s headboard, dirty boots leaving mud on the expensive coverlet.

“Randall,” he returned, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it across the back of the nearest chair. “You shouldn’t leave windows open.”

“I thought I might need to leave in a hurry.”

The boy kept his right hand concealed beneath the pillows. Saint mentally measured the distance to the door, the dressing room, and the boy. Randall was the closest. “And why would that be?”

Randall stirred, and a sleek steel muzzle emerged from the clutter, followed by the pistol’s barrel, the trigger, and his hand. “Your servants might come lookin’ after I make all the noise of putting a ball through your skull.”

Nodding, every muscle tense, Saint sank into one of the large chairs between the fireplace and the bad. “Do you just have a taste for murder, or is something in particular bothering you? There are easier targets than me, you know.”

“I told Miss Evie we should’ve buried you in that cellar. I told her no good would come of letting you see daylight again. Miss Evie don’t understand that men with money don’t care about nothings like us.”

“Men with money don’t make very good murder targets, either. People who shoot us tend to hang.”

The boy shrugged, swinging his feet to the floor and standing. The pistol didn’t waver, and Saint doubted Randall would hesitate even for a second to pull the trigger. Thank Lucifer the lad had come after him and not Evelyn.

“If somebody took your home away, wouldn’t you shoot ’im? If you’d spent nearly a week listening to the babies crying that they’re losing their beds and that they’ll have to eat rats and live in the gutter, wouldn’t you shoot the man who did it, whether he was a blue-blood noble or not?”

Randall was working himself into a fine lather, and Saint couldn’t really blame him. “Yes, I would shoot him,” he agreed, “unless he’d already thought of all that and had a solution in mind.”

“Say whatever you want; it don’t change what you did to us. You might’ve fooled Miss Evie, but you never fooled me.”

“Fooled you about what?”

Randall opened his mouth to answer, and Saint moved. Springing from the chair, he leapt forward. Catching the pistol between his arm and his ribs, he twisted and shoved, throwing Randall to the floor.

He gripped the captured pistol butt with his free hand, but left it aimed at the floor. “Come with me,” he said.

The boy sat up, rubbing his wrist. “Damn me. Nobles can’t do that. Where’d you learn it?”

“You’re not the first fellow to aim a weapon at me,” Saint said dryly. “Get up.”

“I ain’t goin’ to jail.”

“Now’s a fine time to decide that.”

“I ain’t goin’.”

Saint sighed. “No jails, no dungeons, and no chains. I’m not above clubbing you across the skull if you misbehave, however, to return the favor you did me.”

Glaring, Randall scrambled to his feet. “Miss Evie thought I’d killed you. I tried, but you’ve got a hard head.”

Saint sent out another silent thanks to whomever might be listening that Randall Baker hadn’t turned his rather homicidal attentions in Evelyn’s direction. If the boy had hurt or even frightened her, Saint wouldn’t have been feeling nearly as charitable as he was this evening.

Keeping Randall in front of him in case the lad decided to try pummeling him with something else, they went downstairs to Saint’s office. The servants hadn’t wasted any time in going to bed, but that was fine with him. He really didn’t want any witnesses seeing him practically holding an infant at gunpoint, anyway.

“Sit there,” he said, indicating the pair of chairs facing the desk.

Still eyeing him suspiciously, Randall sat.

Saint took the chair behind the desk, laid the pistol at his elbow within easy reach, and shoved a small stack of papers in Randall’s direction. “Has Miss Evie worked a miracle with you, or shall I read the top page there to you?”

The boy scowled. “I read a little.”

Hiding his surprise, Saint nodded. Evelyn
had
worked a miracle or two, apparently. “Then read,” he said, striking a light and turning up the lamp.

Mouthing the words, Randall went to work. He looked up after an excruciating five minutes. “What’s this word?”

Saint leaned forward. “Annualized. It means the property taxes will be refigured once a year.” For a moment he watched the growing frustration on the young man’s face as Randall tried to decipher what had to be nearly a foreign language to him. “Shall I summarize?” he offered.

“It’s about a house. I can see that.”

“A large house, on Earl’s Court Gardens, with twenty-seven rooms. That,” and he flicked the papers with his finger, “is a twenty-three-page agreement for me to purchase the house as a facility for minors without parental supervision.”

The confusion on Randall’s face cleared. “You’re buying us another orphanage.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

Saint sighed. “Your Miss Evie is very persuasive.”

“You goin’ to marry her?”

Attempting to ignore the low flutter in his gut that the boy’s question began, he shrugged. “Probably.” Saint put the papers back in their neat stack. “Now go home. And I would suggest that you not mention the pistol or the breaking into my house. Considering that Evelyn supplied the weapon, she might find this all a little upsetting.”

“Aye. You’re not as much a devil as I thought, Marquis. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.”

“So am I.”

Saint kept the pistol as he showed Randall out the front door. He locked the heavy oak barrier again, leaning back against it. Tonight’s incident was far from being the closest call he’d ever had, but it had been more unsettling than previous encounters, nonetheless.

Before, when he had faced a pistol, usually held by some angry chit’s husband or other relation, he hadn’t really cared about the outcome. Tonight, though, he had cared. Not because he feared being shot, but because death would prevent him from accomplishing the task he’d set for himself—namely, possessing Evelyn Marie Ruddick. In simpler terms, he didn’t want to die because he’d found something—someone—for whom he wanted to stay alive.

Pulling the pistol from his pocket, he tilted it to dump the ball into his hand. Nothing happened. Tapping it, he pulled back the hammer, lifting the weapon to examine it in the pale moonlight of the foyer window.

“I’ll be damned.”

It was empty. From the looks of it, the pistol had never
been
loaded. Evelyn had kept him prisoner with an unloaded gun. Saint shook his head. She’d said she would never injure him, and apparently she’d meant it. No one had ever done such a thing to him or for him before. By God, she had courage.

That, combined with a coachload of good intentions and her determination to see the positive in everything and everyone, made her dangerous. And the only way to protect himself was to make certain he kept hold of her.

What he wanted to do was talk to someone about this strange revelation, but anyone he would consider trusting had closer ties to Evelyn than to him. Saint stayed in the foyer for a moment, listening to the quiet house.
Abruptly, though, the identity of his most likely confidant came to him, and he pushed away from the door, heading for the servants’ quarters.

“Jansen,” he called, rapping on the door closest to the main part of the house. “Come out of there!”

A moment later the door opened. The butler, coatless and shirt untucked, hurried into the hallway. “My lord! Is something amiss?”

“Come with me,” Saint said, turning on his heel.

“Now, my lord?”

“Yes, now.”

“I—ah—very well, my lord.”

The muted padding of stockinged feet followed Saint as he returned to the main hallway. Thank Lucifer the butler hadn’t already removed his trousers. Grabbing a candle from the hall table, he led the way into the morning room. Jansen paused in the doorway while Saint crouched before the banked coals in the fireplace and lit the wick.

“Have a seat,” he said, placing the candle on the mantel as he straightened.

“Am I being dismissed, my lord?” Jansen asked, his voice stiff. “If so, I would prefer to at least be in my shoes.”

Saint dropped into the chair that faced the doorway. Splendid. His chosen confidant thought he’d been summoned for termination. “Nonsense,” he grunted. “If I intended to hand you your papers, I’d at least wait for a decent hour to do it. Have a seat, Jansen.”

Clearing his throat and plainly uncomfortable, the butler trod into the morning room in his white stockings and perched on the front inch or so of the facing chair. After a hesitation he folded his hands across his bony thighs.

Well, this wasn’t going to work
. Jansen looked like a convicted criminal facing execution, and Saint had enough to ponder without worrying over whether he was giving his butler an apoplexy. “Brandy,” he said.

Jansen leapt to his feet. “Right away, my lord.”

“Sit down.
I’ll
get it. Do you want a snifter?” Rising, he went to the liquor cart standing beneath the window.

“Me?”

Saint glanced over his shoulder. “Stop squeaking. You sound like a mouse. Yes, you.”

“I…ahem…yes, my lord.”

Once they were seated and relatively comfortable again, Saint took a long swallow of brandy. “I find myself wanting someone else’s opinion on a matter,” he began. “And I’ve chosen you.”

“I’m honored, my lord.” Most of the brandy in the butler’s snifter had vanished, and Saint leaned over to refill the glass.

“Discretion is required. And honesty.”

“Of course.”

Now came the difficult part. This was so idiotic. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking such things, much less considering saying them aloud. To his butler, yet. “I’m thinking,” he began slowly, “of making some changes around here.”

“I see.”

“In fact, I’m thinking of getting—” Saint stopped. The word simply wouldn’t come out. It was too strange, too foreign. Clearing his throat, he gave it another try. “I’m contemplating getting—”

“New curtains, my lord? Since you said that you wished my honest opinion, the window coverings, especially in the downstairs rooms, are quite—”

“Not curtains.”

“Oh.”

Saint finished off his brandy and poured himself another. “This is much larger than curtains, believe me.”

“A new home, my lord?” Jansen queried. “Through a fairly reliable source I have heard that Lord Wenston’s Park Lane home will be on the market soo—”

“Married,” Saint snapped. “I’m thinking of getting married.”

For a long moment the butler sat in silence, his jaw hanging open. “I…my lord, I simply don’t feel qualified to advise you about such matters.”