The Notorious Scoundrel

by Alexandra Benedict

As she was still rooted to the spot beside the door, he crossed the room and cupped her elbow, escorting her to the round table. She assumed the seat with a sigh.

  “We don’t use first names at the table,” he said, and occupied the seat opposite her. “It boasts a level of intimacy one might not share with the other dinner companions.”

  She glanced around the room. “But it’s just the two of us at dinner.”

  He removed the napkin from its gold ring, flapped the crisp linen, unraveling it, then set it across his lap. “And are we intimately acquainted, Miss Peel?”

  “Ed—”

  He raised a brow.

  “Mr. Hawkins,” she said tightly as she followed his mannerisms, covering her skirt with the napkin. “I must talk with you about—”

  “You’ve placed the ring on the wrong side of your plate.”

  She looked at the table. “What?”

  “The ring sits to the left of your plate.”

  She moved the article. “It matters where I set the napkin ring?”

  “It matters if you’d like to be invited back to dinner. Don’t underestimate the smallest detail, Miss Peel.”

  The weighty warning sobered her, and she quickly firmed her lips, studying the man’s movements, mimicking his posture.

  As the soup was already presented in the bowls, Edmund picked up a spoon and tasted the steaming first course.

  Amy followed his movements. “Shouldn’t you wait for the lady to begin?”

  “It’s old-fashioned and crude to wait for the other guests. One dines as soon as one is served.”

  “Oh.”

  Amy brought the spoon to her lips and sighed at the refreshing scent, rather hungry herself. She tasted the soup; scrumptious.

  Edmund set down the cutlery. “You’ve just ruined yourself, Miss Peel.”

  Aghast, Amy placed the spoon into the bowl. “How?”

  “I heard the little noise you made.”

  Heat filled her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You slurped your soup. You must never make a sound while eating soup.”

  “I see,” she said stiffly.

  She picked up the spoon again, drinking the repast with an unsteady hand, but she managed not to make another indelicate noise.

  “The soup was delicious. Can I have—?”

  “No.” He cleared the table of soup dishes and retrieved two plates with roasted ham and potatoes from the serving cart. “One doesn’t ask for seconds.” He set the plates over the gold chargers. “It holds up the next course for the other guests.”

  Amy wiped her mouth.

  Slowly Edmund lowered himself back into his seat, staring at her.

  “What?” she demanded.

  He lifted his napkin. “Tap your lips.” He gestured. “Like this.”

  Her heart fluttered as he caressed his mouth in demonstration, his lips sensuous, inviting. Her mouth slightly ajar, she quickly clamped her lips together, chastising herself for her folly. The etiquette lesson was stirring very improper feelings in her blood, and setting aside her desire to learn and practice proper dinner manners, she realized she still had to set the scoundrel straight about their earlier kiss.

  He poured her a glass of wine. “A miss might drink up to three glasses of wine during dinner; however, a married woman might have up to six.”

  “Six?” She cut into the ham. “I’d lose my faculties after one.”

  He arched a black brow again.

  “I mean, I have to talk with you—”

  “Never speak with food in your mouth.”

  She quickly swallowed and parted her lips to speak—

  “And don’t talk about yourself at the dinner table; it’s rude.”

  She glared at him. “All right,” she said tightly. “What did you do today, Mr. Hawkins?”

  “I visited with a friend.”

  “That’s nice. Well, I—”

  “Keep your elbows off the table.” He gestured. “Wrists only.”

  “How about if I slit your wrists?” she muttered under her breath. At his questioning look, she swallowed the threat. “Well?”

  “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

  “I already know what you did today.” There was heat in his eyes, his voice. “And it isn’t necessary to reciprocate with the same question.”

  Amy shivered at the man’s knowing expression, the approval in his gaze. He wasn’t the least bit put off by her scandalous behavior, scoundrel that he was.

  “Tell me, Miss Peel. What do you remember about your childhood?”

  She stiffened at the unexpected query. “Very little.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why are you asking me about the past?” she snapped.

  “I’m curious to know more about you.”

  Amy took in a deep breath. It was one thing to collect trinkets that reminded her of better days, but it was another thing entirely to dredge up the past, to talk about wistful memories.

  She folded her napkin and set it aside. “I’ve lost my appetite, Mr. Hawkins.” She headed for the door. “Good evening.”

  “Amy, wait.”

  But she disregarded his entreaty and bustled toward her private room. Once inside the large bedroom, she sighed and examined her surroundings. A small fire burned in the hearth, casting the furnishings in a glistening aura. The bulk of the pieces belonged to her; she had arranged them in such a way that the configuration reminded her of…a time long ago.

  She approached the tall vanity, skipped her fingers over the scattered toiletries: hairbrushes, hand mirrors, perfume bottles—remnants from the past. She found little comfort in the familiar articles, now.

  A knock at the door.

  She ignored the bounder.

  The rapping persisted.

  She huffed. She inspected her countenance in the mirror and smoothed her scowling features before she walked across the room and opened the door.

  Her heart trembled.

  “Are you all right, Amy?”

  He peered at her from the misty darkness, his expression inscrutable, his eyes veiled with shadows. He queried her in a low voice; the sounds teased her senses, like fingers thrumming her spine.

  She gripped the wood frame. “I’m about to retire.”

  “Can I come inside?”

  He pressed his palm against the door frame, brushing her fingers. She pulled her hand away. Jerked it, really.

  He shifted his weight, leaned closer to her. “I need to talk with you.”

  She detected the scent of wine on his breath.

  “Now?” she snapped.

  “It’s important.

  She firmly pressed her lips together, but stepped aside, muscles taut, allowing him entrance.

  The man’s long figure sauntered inside the room. He stirred the air as he passed, making her shiver. She closed the door after him and waited.

  He scanned the bedchamber and remarked in a thick voice, “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

  “Was I not supposed to?”

  He turned around and offered her a small smile. “No, I want you to feel at home.”

  She humphed at the friendly gesture, still perturbed.

  He soon settled on the bed, the feather tick sinking. The ropes stretched, supporting his weight. In the firelight, one side of his body glowed, the other remained in shadow.

  She was sentient of his slightest movement. He rested his figure on the spot where she slumbered, and if he shifted a thigh, she sensed the hard muscles rubbing her leg; she imagined it.

  He looked across the room and set his gaze on a particular piece of furniture. “I’ve often wondered what sorts of treasures you keep locked away in that chest.”

  “You have your secrets and I have mine.”

  He chuckled. “And what secrets would you like to know about me?”

  It sounded like a dangerous invitation; like he might bundle her up in a potato sack and drown her in a pond if
she learned too many intimate details.

  She eyed him with intent. “What happened when you boarded a slaver for the first time?”

  He looked at his hands as a heavy silence entered the room. “I can’t tell you.”

  She walked across the wool runner and sat on the wood chest. “I guess you can’t see my treasures then.”

  He glanced at her with wry humor, but the flirtatious light soon faded from his eyes, and he sighed.

  “It was dark belowdecks,” he said slowly, “the air ports too small and too few to offer light or a fresh breeze. I had to crawl. The ceiling was low, too low to stand. I followed the sounds: the cries, the iron manacles striking. The smell was foul, putrid. I found the slaves, chained together tightly without space to move. Naked. Filthy. A woman nursed a dead babe at her breast. I…I set about my duty and unlocked their shackles.”

  He looked into the firelight as if seeking escape from the memory.

  “How many were belowdecks?” she whispered, aghast.

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  A staggering figure.

  Amy had suffered over the years, too. She had endured hunger and isolation and hopelessness, but she suspected the depth of misery Edmund had encountered aboard the slaver alien even to her.

  “Is that why Quincy takes to the opiate? To forget about the ordeal at sea?”

  “No.”

  “Did he kill someone aboard the slaver? A woman?”

  “No!” he said sharply, eyes fierce. “He’s not a murderer.”

  “He thinks he is.”

  He quieted at that. After a short pause, he confessed, “It’s our mother. Quincy believes he killed the woman.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  Edmund rubbed his head, scratching his scalp. “She died in childbirth to the pup. The damn fool thinks it’s his fault.”

  “I understand.” Amy sighed. “He feels guilty about her death.”

  “He’s got no reason to feel guilty about it; he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “He thinks he did, though.”

  “Aye,” he grumbled. “That’s the trouble. And I can’t convince him otherwise, I’m afraid.”

  She looked at her hands, rubbed them together. “I suppose it’s only fair that you learn some of my secrets now.”

  She carefully removed the iron key from around her neck, knelt beside the chest, her skirts pooling, and unlocked it.

  He hunkered beside her as she pushed up the cumbersome top and revealed the assortment of curios: a gentleman’s top hat, a crinoline, silk fans.

  “Why so many gloves?”

  At the low timbre in his voice, she shivered. “They remind me of my mother.” She opened one of the twelve boxes. “She used to wear gloves just like these. I purchased one pair, then another, searching for the right match.”

  He fingered the soft white leather. “And do you think, if you surround yourself with these knickknacks, you will recapture the past?”

  She closed the glove box, pinching his fingers between the cardboard; he was tardy in pulling them away.

  “I want to remember the past.”

  “Why do you want to remember painful memories?”

  “I don’t want to remember the bad memories,” she said stiffly. “There were good ones, too.”

  “Your mother kissing you good night?” He fixed his sharp eyes on her. “Your father tweaking your nose?”

  “That’s right.”

  She swallowed the knot of tears forming in her throat. “What is this about?” She closed the chest and locked it. “Why did you come here, Edmund?”

  “I think it a good idea we look for your parents.”

  She scrambled off the floor and treaded toward the firelight, hugging her upper arms. She stared at the snapping flames, seeking warmth. “Why?”

  “If your parents are alive, don’t you want to see them again?”

  She watched as his shadow moved across the ground, approaching her. She burrowed her fingernails into her arms. “It’s a waste of time; it’s been too long.”

  As she gazed into the firelight, fuzzy images stormed her mind: a garden filled with fragrant blossoms, a rambunctious puppy, a bright nursery room. The memories welled in her head with such vividness, she almost sensed…

  A set of thick arms circled her midriff. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Amy.

  “Really?” She struggled in his tight embrace, breathless, as the comfort of past dreams and the uncertainly of her future prospects clashed together in her heart. “Then what did you mean to do? Offer me false hope?”

  “Amy?”

  She pushed away from him; she staggered. “I have one chance to better myself as a lady’s maid or companion, and you want me to dream about lost parents and faerie-tale endings.” She brushed her hair away, the tresses trapped between her trembling lips. “Well, I won’t be distracted from my goal.”

  “I don’t want to distract you.”

  “Liar!”

  The man’s sensual lips firmed. “What did you call me?”

  “My parents are gone.” She swatted at the wretched tears that welled in her eyes, burned her sight. “I’m not going to waste my time and effort hunting ghosts. Get out, Edmund.”

  “Amy,” he drawled, “what the devil’s come over you?”

  “There’s nothing the matter with me. I won’t be pushed about, is all. I won’t let you torment me!”

  She had suffered under Madame Rafaramanjaka’s cruel dictatorship. She had endured the leers and abuse from the patrons at the Pleasure Palace. She had evaded the kidnappers. She had survived—alone—for most of her life. And she wasn’t going to let the disdainful, arrogant scoundrel taunt her with worthless dreams about long-lost parents for his amusement and selfish curiosity.

  “Torment you?” He glared at her. “Are you daft?”

  “I said get out!”

  He bristled. After a moment, he growled, “I know you’ve been without friends for so long you suspect a saving hand, but I am not your enemy. I am your friend. And you damn well don’t treat a friend with such disrespect. Why don’t you learn that lesson before you tout yourself a lady.”

  He stormed from the room, leaving Amy biting back her tears.

  Chapter 14

  At breakfast the next morning, Edmund gathered a portion of every serving: biscuits with jam, smoked ham and cheese. He devoured the steamy fare without prejudice. As his belly filled, so, too, did the troublesome thoughts in his head. He had hoped to bury the haunting reflections with a hearty meal, but the shouts from last night’s row with Amy still resounded in his mind.

  Did the lass really think him such a beast, he would torment her?

  He frowned at the disturbing thought. He might be a scoundrel, but he wasn’t a bloody sadist. What was Amy thinking, accusing him of such loathsome conduct? Hadn’t he protected her, sheltered her for more than a sennight? Hadn’t he vowed to find her a respectable livelihood? And yet she still deemed him a reprobate. Why? Had she always harbored such a low opinion of him?

  The idea seized Edmund’s imagination and he stiffened at the wretched prospect. If she considered him such a swine, why had she kissed him? What the devil was the matter with the girl?

  Quincy entered the dining parlor, his features drooping, morose. He dropped into one of the sturdy chairs and sighed, massaging his temples.

  “You look like shit,” remarked Edmund.

  Quincy ignored the surly comment, pegged him with a beseeching expression. “You have to talk with Will, Eddie.”

  “About what?”

  “About letting me sail aboard the Nemesis. James is threatening to house me at Mayfair while you’re both away at sea.”

  Edmund snorted. “I’m half inclined to let him. It’d be a fitting punishment for being so daft.”

  “I can’t live with him, Eddie.”

  Edmund commiserated with his younger brother’s plight. Quincy’s misplaced grief and regret transcended their mother’s death. He
had watched their father mourn for the beloved woman over the years, and while no one had blamed the pup for her death, he had blamed himself. The foolish man believed he’d devastated all their lives with his birth, James’s most of all, for the demise of their mother had pushed James into the role of caregiver. A role, Quincy suspected, James had loathed. Edmund, however, wasn’t so sure James had despised the position; he had yet to relinquish it.

  “No, I suppose you can’t live with James. It’d drive you even deeper into the opium dens.”

  Edmund eyed his brother with scrutiny as a series of words from a mysterious stranger echoed in his head: Have you come looking for salvation?

  “What do you find in the smoke, Quincy? Salvation?”

  He lifted his eyes, his expression black. “Don’t preach to me, Eddie. I hear enough sermons from James.”

  “Bite your tongue. I’m not James.” He frowned. “But you’re not going to find forgiveness for sins you didn’t commit in the opium dens.”

  Quincy rubbed his brow, gnashed his teeth before he entreated, “Are you going to talk with Will?”

  Edmund stuffed a biscuit into his mouth.

  “I’ll talk,” he mumbled. “But I doubt he’ll listen to me.”

  “Well, he won’t listen to me.” Quincy scratched his head, restless. “I’ve already quarreled with him.”

  William entered the room next. He glanced at his brothers with a critical glare before he assumed a chair and gathered the food onto his plate.

  Quincy quickly excused himself and departed from the dining parlor, offering the brothers privacy.

  “What?” snapped Edmund. “Now?”

  There was still a fortnight before they had to set sail and resume their naval duties, but Quincy, it seemed, was too impatient to wait that long and learn his fate…or perhaps he was anxious to get more opium.

  “What’s going on?” from William.

  Edmund sighed. He stroked his lips and chin, grooming himself for the confrontation. “We should take Quincy with us aboard the Nemesis.”

  The captain paused. “I’ve already talked with him about the matter.”

  And with James, surely, he thought.

  Edmund persisted, “You can’t leave Quincy with James.”

  “I can’t leave him alone, either.”

  “You know what I mean, Will. Being with James will only make his nightmares worse. You know he feels guilty about Mother’s death. He thinks he’s ruined all our lives, and James’s iron hand will only compound the guilt.”