The Notorious Scoundrel

by Alexandra Benedict

He shrugged. “Break the engagement.”

  “Why?”

  “You care for her, admit it.”

  Edmund stiffened at the provocative suggestion, girded his muscles against the rising pressure in his chest, the unfilled longing. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  I have to marry him, Edmund. It would disgrace my father’s good name if I refused to wed the marquis.

  “Shut up, Quincy.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You don’t feel you deserve her, do you?”

  Edmund mustered a surly expression. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand better than you think. I’ve lived in their shadows, too. Breaking away from the past isn’t easy, I know. But you have a chance to make a new start for yourself with Amy, and if you don’t take it, it’s your own damn fault.”

  Edmund humphed and stared at his plate, feeling less hungry. He sucked the meat’s juices off his fingers just as the butler appeared in the door frame and announced in his classical, brusque manner, “Lady Amy.”

  Edmund bristled. Slowly he lifted his gaze, set it upon the piquant lass as she stepped into the room, draped in fine white linen, her fair hair plaited in a charming fashion. She was so damn lovely. In her presence, he was sentient of his every defect—and his every desire to be a better man. It was a stupid, wistful desire.

  “Hullo, Amy,” from Quincy.

  Edmund firmed his jaw, feeling less hospitable. “What are you doing here, Amy?”

  She was pale. She possessed light features, but her skin seemed even more pallid, iridescent in the sparkling sunlight.

  He demanded roughly, “What’s happened?”

  “I’m being followed,” she said, breathless.

  The brothers exchanged knowing glances.

  Quincy bounded to his feet. “I’ll take a look outside.”

  “Be careful,” she beseeched.

  Quincy smiled at her before he and the butler departed from the dining room in brisk strides.

  Edmund wiped his mouth, his fingers in the napkin; he lifted to his feet. With steady footfalls, he approached the trembling woman, resisting the impulse to draw her into his arms, comfort her.

  “Did you recognize the men, Amy?”

  “Yes, they’re the same two assailants from the Pleasure Palace.” She dropped her reticule on the table. “They must have discovered my identity as Zarsitti. They’ll ruin me, Edmund!”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” he said darkly.

  “What else is there?”

  “Kidnapping? Death?”

  She snorted. “They want money, I’m sure of it. A bribe. I’m not Zarsitti anymore; they can’t collect the hundred-pound bounty on my head, but they can blackmail me into giving them the lost amount.”

  She circled the table in a fretful gait. He spied her anxious mannerisms, heard her harried breaths. She was working herself into a frenzy. If he embraced her, he’d smother her fussy movements…but he’d ignite an unquenchable fire in his belly, too.

  He said sharply, “Why don’t you just pay them off and be done with it?”

  “And where am I going to get a hundred pounds?”

  “From your father.”

  “I can’t go to my father.” She knotted her fingers. “I can’t confess my past!”

  “I’ll give you the bloody money.”

  She stilled, looked at him with wide green eyes. “You’d do that? Even after…?”

  “Last night?” he said roughly.

  She flushed. “Do you hate me?”

  He breathed slowly through his nose. “You lied to me, Amy.”

  “I never lied to you.”

  “Aye, you did.” He closed the door and folded his arms across his chest. “You had no business coming to me in the park, giving yourself to me when you were promised to another man.”

  He choked on the last word, a wretched truth.

  Amy munched on her bottom lip. “I wanted to come to you in the park. I wanted to be with you, Edmund.”

  The quiet confession disarmed him, upset his moody disposition. He quelled the rampant need to touch her, taste her. She looked at him with such hopeless longing, he very nearly crossed the room and took her in his arms for a savage kiss.

  I want you too, Amy.

  He smothered the unfit impulse. She was a duke’s daughter. He was a pirate’s son. If desire burned between them, the damnable heat was moot.

  “I’ll fetch the blunt.”

  “Wait!” She circled the room again, brandished her hands. “The assailants haven’t approached me with any demands. What am I supposed to do with the money?”

  The sound of her swooshing petticoats rattled his sensitive senses even more. “What do you want from me, then? Do you want me to kill the blackguards?”

  She paused and gasped. “I’m not asking you to commit murder…not yet.”

  He looked at her with a wry expression. “Then why did you come here?”

  “I need your help. You have a friend, a Bow Street Runner. Can he look into the matter for me? Arrest the men?”

  “You’d prefer a stranger’s help to mine?” he said tightly.

  “You trust your friend, so I trust him, too.”

  The stiffness in his muscles loosened, and he warmed at the thought that the woman believed in him, trusted him.

  She said quietly, “Will you help me?”

  He gazed into her eyes, so imploring. He might never stand beside her in society as her social equal, but he would always stand behind her as a friend. “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Thank you.”

  “What about your fiancé?”

  She hardened. “What about him?”

  “Why didn’t you ask him for assistance?”

  She grabbed a chair, crushed the wood between her fingers. “I’m not very fond of the marquis.”

  “Trouble, Amy?”

  “Yes,” she bit out. “I have to marry him, the lout.”

  He stared at her, confounded. It was the ambition of every chit in society to snag a titled husband, even if he was a lout, and her betrothal to the marquis assured her position within the ton.

  “What’s going on, Amy?”

  She stroked her fingers across the chair’s ornate headpiece. “I have to marry the marquis…but I don’t want to be with him.”

  Gravenhurst was a bloody peer of the realm, though. He offered her respectability and security and every other social advantage that she had longed for since being in the rookeries. Was she really displeased with such an advantageous match?

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “I don’t like him,” she said in a flat voice. “We don’t suit.”

  “Are you sure, Amy?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped, still rubbing her fingers across the chair’s headpiece in a mindless fashion. “I don’t want to be with the marquis.”

  Who do you want to be with, then?

  He’d almost asked her the daft question. In truth, it didn’t matter whom she set her cap on, for he would never be one of her suitors. He was a former pirate. He wasn’t good enough for the woman.

  “Cry off,” he suggested.

  “I can’t.” She balled her fingers around the chair. “It’s complicated, Edmund. I’ve been away from society for so long, folks view me with suspicion. A respectable match will assure my standing in good society, but if I cry off, I’ll disgrace my parents, especially my father, who made the betrothal contract. I’ll be branded a jilt, too.”

  “I understand,” he said gruffly, her words sinking into his skin like sharpened teeth. He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy, lass.”

  She quieted and shrugged. “I might not be for very long.”

  “Do you intend to poison your fiancé?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise.”

  She huffed. “I’m not going to poison him.”

  “Pity.”

&n
bsp; She glared at him. After a short pause, she said, hesitant, “I have another idea.”

  That she was scheming to be rid of the marquis livened his heart, warmed his blood, and while some other coxcomb might woo her one day, he’d enjoy the subterfuge for a time—even if it offered him false hope. “What is it?”

  “If the marquis’s reputation is publicly tarnished, my father will break the betrothal contract; he’ll insist I not marry the lord, and no one will think ill of me for obliging him. After all, I can’t be expected to wed an unrespectable gentleman.”

  He snorted at her mettle. She’d acquired the manipulative traits of every other gentlewoman in society, so her marriage to the marquis seemed a pointless front to Edmund; she was a proper lady.

  “And how do you intend to tarnish his reputation?”

  “I can make a past indiscretion public. Anonymously, of course. Once the tale’s printed in the scandal sheets, I’m free.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know it sounds hypocritical. I lived as Zarsitti for three years; I’ve my own past indiscretions to hide, but I can’t wed him. Besides, he’s a man. A marquis! He’ll endure the gossip without discomfort.”

  “I’m not judging you, Amy.”

  “You judged me last night,” she countered with spirit, her green eyes bright. “You thought me a selfish harlot, admit it.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. “I was angry with you.”

  She humphed. “Well, I’m not, you know.”

  He looked at her bottom lip, pouting. “I know.” After a short pause: “Well, what’s the indiscretion?”

  She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure. I followed him today.”

  “Where?”

  “A small churchyard on the outskirts of Town. It’s also where I first spotted the attackers. There’s a grave there with a pair of doves etched into the marker and the letters RUD.”

  There was a growing warmth in his belly. “You’re learning to read?”

  “I am, but I’ve still more to learn.” She pushed a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “The deceased is twenty years of age and he or she is buried in unconsecrated ground.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “The grave means a lot to the marquis.”

  “And you hope to unearth some salacious gossip about it?”

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” she contended, her cheeks a deep rose. “But I don’t see any other way out.”

  He stroked the back of his head, disorderly thoughts stomping through his skull. “Fine. Let me take care of it.”

  She looked at him with wide eyes. “The grave?”

  “The grave. The bandits. Everything.”

  “Edmund—”

  Quincy entered the dining room; he opened the door without rapping on the wood, breathless, as if he’d sprinted through the streets.

  “Anything?” from Edmund.

  “It’s clear.” Quincy then glanced at Amy. “You’re safe.”

  She sighed. “For now.”

  And always.

  Edmund turned toward his brother. “Take her home, Quincy.”

  The pup nodded.

  Amy gathered her reticule, her eyes alert, probing. “What are you going to do, Edmund?”

  “First, I’m going to muzzle the hounds chasing after you.”

  Chapter 21

  The low candlelight, the soft furnishings ensnared the senses. It was easy to dream at the Pleasure Palace. It was easy to imagine a shapely figure, out-fitted in sensuous silks, dancing across the platform, gyrating its hip bones, undulating its waist in rhythm to the haunting drumbeats.

  “Mr. Hawkins.”

  Edmund shifted his gaze away from the stage area. He eyed Madame Rafaramanjaka as she slowly approached him, swinging her voluptuous hips in a lush ensemble of fine green glacé silk.

  “How charming to see you again,” she said in a throaty voice as she joined him at the corner table: the same corner table where he’d first set eyes on Zarsitti. “You wished to speak with me?”

  “Good evening, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

  She folded her smooth hands, wove her fingers together, and rested them on the table’s polished surface. “And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “I’d like you to call off your hounds.”

  She lifted a dark, slender brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  In an idle manner, he skimmed his eyes across the thinly populated gentlemen’s club. “It’s quiet here tonight.” He looked at the shrewd queen again, her features aglow. “Isn’t Zarsitti scheduled to perform?”

  “Zarsitti doesn’t perform here anymore,” she returned tightly. “She’s been kidnapped by a Turkish sheik. I’m working on retrieving her from the harem.”

  “Hmm…without the dancer, you’re operating just another whorehouse—and not a very popular one at that.”

  The woman’s lips soured. “What do you want, Mr. Hawkins?”

  “You must be very angry with Lady Amy for deserting you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sure you read the papers…Your Highness.”

  She narrowed her black eyes on him. “You’re the bitch’s lover, aren’t you?” She firmed her fists. “I hope she slowly roasts in hell. She abandoned me, the ungrateful harlot.”

  “She’s the daughter of a duke.”

  “She’s a slut! And she left me without a show. I’m still training her replacement. It’ll take the new girl many more months to learn all the seductive dances.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he drawled. “I’m also sure you’d like nothing better than to see Lady Amy suffer for it.”

  “That’s right,” she said succinctly.

  He glowered at her. “Well, that’s why I’m here. Call off your hounds.”

  “Is the whore in trouble?” She smiled. “How marvelous.”

  “If you hurt her,” he said with a darkened expression, “I’ll see you hang.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed. A dark fire burned in the murky pools. “I’d like nothing better than to see the tart dead, but I’m not willing to hang for the pleasure.” She lifted from her seat and leaned over the table. “I’ve sent no hounds after her. I don’t hate the slut enough to burn alongside her, Mr. Hawkins.”

  Slowly the dethroned queen sauntered away.

  Edmund stared after her curvy figure, frowning. The deceitful woman refused to admit her involvement with the attackers. The arrogant, narcissistic queen might cherish her neck, but she possessed a wicked, vengeful spirit, too. She’d orchestrated the threat against Amy, he was sure. But how was he going to prove it?

  Edmund departed the Pleasure Palace in brisk strides and headed through the Covent Garden district. He passed through Bow Street, making his way toward Anne Street, where he entered an apartment structure. On the third floor, he located the proper loft door and pounded on it with his fist.

  In a few moments, the barrier opened, and Edmund swaggered inside the room, disgruntled.

  “I need a favor, John.”

  The investigator yawned and closed the door. “Didn’t I already do you a favor?”

  As Edmund folded his arms across his chest, he leaned against the wall. “What do you do when you know someone’s guilty of a crime but you don’t have enough evidence to prove it?”

  “What’s going on, Eddie?” He scratched his head, somnolent. “Are you in trouble?”

  Amy was in trouble, at the mercy of bandits, but it was their “employer” who really posed a threat, for if the attackers were apprehended, there was nothing preventing the queen from hiring more cutthroats to torment the lass.

  “Just tell me, John.”

  John rubbed his eyes. “Look for more evidence, I guess.”

  Edmund frowned. “I’m not in the mood for jests.”

  “Nor am I. What time is it, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” Edmund stalked across the room, restless. “Well?”

  “Why don’t you just beat a confessio
n out of your suspect?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a woman.”

  The investigator lifted a curious brow. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, Eddie?”

  “No.”

  John stroked his chin, then sighed. “Well, what’s your suspect’s motive?”

  “Revenge,” he returned succinctly. “And why were you so sure the footman from the dowager Lady Stevenson’s estate had nabbed the family jewels? You didn’t even have the baubles in your custody at the time.”

  “There were too many coincidences.” He shrugged. “It was logical to assume the footman had discarded the jewels to protect himself.”

  That was Edmund’s trouble, too. It was too great a coincidence, the circumstances between Amy’s attackers and the Pleasure Palace: a coincidence he wasn’t able to ignore. But coincidence wasn’t akin to proof.

  “What about another suspect?” suggested John. “Can the clues point to a different villain?”

  Edmund pinched his brows in contemplation. Another suspect? He mulled over the prospect that the attackers were working independently of a master, but he quickly dismissed the idea, for it implied the bumbling cutthroats were savvy enough to orchestrate an abduction on their own.

  Could one of the guards at the Pleasure Palace be involved? But what would be the man’s motive? Greed? Did he think to sell Amy to a real Turkish sheik? Edmund doubted the athletic yet dim-witted sentries capable of formulating such a complicated plan. And there was still the matter of Amy’s anonymity. She had always veiled her features and painted her eyes to protect her true identity. The attackers knew her as the lowly dancer from the city’s rookeries. How had they discovered she was Lady Amy, the Duke of Estabrooke’s daughter?

  Someone had to have informed the attackers about her true heritage…and every bit of evidence pointed to the queen.

  “No,” said Edmund with confidence. “I’m certain it’s her.”

  John scratched his belly. “Follow her, then. If she’s engaged in criminal activity, catch her in the act.”

  Madame Rafaramanjaka was too shrewd to be prowling the streets at night, hunting Amy, hence she’d hired the attackers to hound the lass. She’d not associate with the brutes again, he was sure. He had to find some other way to implicate the cruel woman.