London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  He smiled, no humor in the expression. “Pretend curiosity all you want, but when your little plan comes to nothing but sweets and sing-alongs, we’ll both know why you’re really here.”

  “And why is that, my lord? Because of you? You might consider that no self-respecting female would want to be seen in your company, and that in addition, under your direction this is one of the sorriest establishments for the underprivileged that I’ve ever seen.”

  It was the only establishment she’d seen up close, but he didn’t need to know that. Saint said something under his breath that Evie preferred not to interpret. Before she could renew her questioning of his motivations, he grabbed her arm and guided her against the wall.

  He didn’t push or pull her or use any obvious force, but at the same time she couldn’t have gotten away from him if she’d tried. And at the moment she was too startled to try.

  “Don’t forget,” he murmured, bending his face to hers, “that you are in my company, and that when you intentionally provoke me, you have to expect certain consequences.”

  Drawing even closer, he brushed his mouth against hers, soft and warm and intimate, then straightened again.

  “Now, shall we?” he said, his mouth curving in that faint, cynical smile of his, as he gestured for her to continue down the hall.

  Her mind spun. “You…you, sir, are a…a scoundrel.”

  St. Aubyn stopped, turned on his heel, and stalked up to her again. She tried to draw a breath to say something even more indignant and insulting, but he captured her mouth in a hot, hard kiss. Shoving her back against the wall, Saint tilted her head up to deepen their embrace. Dimly she heard her stack of papers hitting the floor as she wrapped her fists into his black jacket.

  Experienced or not, jaded or not, the Marquis of St. Aubyn knew how to kiss. On a few occasions the more daring of her suitors had kissed her. The sensation had been pleasant, she supposed, but she’d had no real basis for comparison—until now.

  Heat ran down her spine, and her toes positively curled in her shoes. Stop kissing him, she shrieked at herself, trying to force her fingers to let go of his lapels.

  Even so, it was St. Aubyn who broke the kiss. Looking at her from inches away, he ran his tongue through his lips as though he’d just eaten something he’d enjoyed.

  “You taste like honey,” he said, his voice a low drawl.

  She felt as if she’d been standing in a field of cannon—her ears rang, her legs felt limp and shaky, and she had the desperate desire to flee somewhere, anywhere, safe. “St…stop that,” she squeaked, shoving at his chest.

  “I already did.” Her pushing didn’t budge him an inch. Instead his gaze lowered to her mouth again. “Curious,” he murmured, as if to himself, brushing her lips once more with his fingers.

  Evelyn tried to breathe. “What’s curious?”

  Saint shrugged, backing away. “Nothing. Shall I escort you to the boys’ dormitory now?”

  “I believe I already suggested the dormitory,” she bit out, bending down to pick up her notes. Naturally he didn’t offer to retrieve them for her. Her fingers shook, and she grasped the pages quickly, snatching them to her bosom.

  He led as they continued along the hallway, and Evie took those few moments of relative solitude to straighten her bonnet and attempt to gather her scattered wits. As a proper, upstanding female she should have slapped St. Aubyn and stormed out of the building—though of course she shouldn’t have been at the Heart of Hope Orphanage to begin with.

  She decided, however, that he had kissed her precisely so she would flee. His insults hadn’t worked, so he’d attempted an even more personal assault. If she’d run, he would then have had his excuse never to allow her back in again—and she wouldn’t have the chance to prove to herself that she could accomplish anything useful. It might have worked, except that the beckoning, seeking sin of his lips had stirred…something inside that almost made her wish he would do it again.

  Saint opened the door to the boys’ dormitory, reflecting that he probably should have begun the tour there, rather than easing her into the place through the storage rooms and the kitchens and the girls’ rooms. He was getting soft, figuratively speaking. This was the encounter that would send her fleeing, and if he’d brought her here first, he wouldn’t have had to resort to kissing such a proper female. No wonder his insides felt twisted; no part of him knew how he was supposed to react to a virgin.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Coming?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  As Evelyn brushed past him, he leaned in to smell her hair. Lemons. Honey on her lips and lemon in her hair, and her skin probably tasted of strawberries. Evelyn Ruddick was a veritable dessert, and he wanted to feast. Badly.

  Self-restraint had never been among his best-loved or most-mastered traits, but he supposed simply falling on her wouldn’t get him what he wanted. That would probably make her faint, which would be no fun for him at all.

  Most of the two dozen boys were gathered at the far end of the room, crowded into a semicircle bound by one wall. Even through the chatter and shouts, he could hear the distinct clink of coins.

  “What—” Evelyn began, then stopped.

  “They’re pitching pennies,” he said, slowing to look at her.

  “Wagering? In an orphanage?”

  Saint stifled a sigh. Proper chits were more trouble than they were worth. “Any coins on the floor by the time I get there,” he said in a carrying voice, “belong to me.”

  The boys yelped, diving onto the floor to gather up stray pennies, while the onlookers formed a ragged, imperfect line of attention. They didn’t see him down here very often, and none of them looked any more pleased about it than he was.

  “This is Miss Ruddick,” he said, gesturing at Evelyn. “She wants to know about you.”

  “Thank you, Lord St. Aubyn.” With a slight, nervous twitch of her fine lips, she stepped into the center of the line. “First of all, please call me Evie.”

  “Give us a kiss, Evie,” one of the older boys called.

  Saint grinned. Since she’d let him kiss her, he supposed the boy had half a chance, as well. Crossing his arms, he leaned against one of the support beams that ran down the center of the dormitory. This should be interesting.

  “If you want a girl to kiss you,” she said sharply, facing her heckler, “perhaps you should take a bath first.”

  The other boys laughed, while the taunt of “dirty Mulligan” circled the room. Saint allowed it; she obviously hadn’t been talking about him. He’d bathed this morning. And shaved.

  “Now, now,” Evie continued, patting Mulligan on the shoulder. “I’m not here to make fun. I just want to know you. Do you stay in here all day?”

  “The Iron Mop said we had to stay indoors today for an inspection,” one of them answered.

  “The Iron Mop?”

  “Mrs. Natham, I mean, Miss Evie.”

  “I see.”

  Saint thought a faint smile might have passed her lips, but it was gone too swiftly for him to be certain. He frowned. Proper ladies didn’t have a sense of humor; his god-awful reputation was proof enough of that.

  “How do you generally spend your days, then? In school?”

  “‘In school?’” another of the boys mimicked. “Did you come here from Bedlam, Miss Evie?”

  “Are ye one of them religious ladies, come to pray for our heathen souls?” Mulligan put in.

  “No, of course n—”

  “The Reverend Beacham comes here every Sunday to try to save us,” another lad said.

  “No, he don’t. He comes for the Iron Mop!”

  Evelyn shot Saint a frustrated glance, and he lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should offer them pudding,” he suggested.

  “I’m a heathen!”

  “I’m a Red Indian!” one of the younger boys whooped, starting a war dance.

  “Interesting, Evelyn,” Saint murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Does chaos follow you eve
rywhere?”

  She scowled at him, then quickly wiped the expression from her face as she turned back to the boys. “Do you know about Indians?” she cut in, squatting down to the brave’s eye level. “Would you like to know about them?”

  “Randall told me about them. They scalp people.”

  She nodded. “And they can move through a forest without making a sound, and follow a bear’s trail over rocks and through rivers.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “They can?”

  “Yes. What’s your name?”

  “Thomas Kinnett.”

  Evie straightened. “You know, Mr. Kinnett, when you introduce yourself to a lady, you should bow.”

  The boy’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”

  “So you can look up her skirt,” Saint commented dryly.

  This was typical; a female attempting to teach babies etiquette before she knew whether they had enough to eat. Abruptly he felt disappointed. For a moment, he’d thought Evelyn Ruddick might have a bit of sense in addition to her tempting body.

  “Lord St. Aubyn!” she snapped, flushing. Snickers and giggles erupted around her.

  “Yes, Miss Evie?”

  “I don’t believe—” she began sharply, then stopped. With a look around her, she excused herself from the circle and stomped up to him. “I don’t believe,” she repeated in a quieter, equally fierce voice, “that these boys need a poor example set before them. You have not done them a good turn.”

  He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Neither have you. Bowing lessons for seven-year-old pickpockets are, in a word, useless, Evelyn.”

  Her fair complexion paled, and for a bare, surprised moment he thought she might slap him. Finally, though, she nodded. “At least I am making an attempt to do something for them. I very much doubt you can make the same claim.”

  Good God. She was baiting him. Women didn’t do that unless they wished to end up either publicly humiliated or, better, naked beneath him. “Evelyn Marie,” he whispered, unable to stop the smile from touching his lips, “I’ve only laid claim to one thing today, and that is your mouth. And I mean to collect on the rest of you.”

  She blinked and then, stammering something to herself, backed away. “Scoundrel,” she muttered.

  Saint sketched a bow. “Ready to service you.”

  With another stunned, furious look, she turned on her heel and fled. Saint stood in the midst of the laughing boys and watched her leave. That should take care of things. She’d be a fool to approach either him or the orphanage again after that. Neither thought, however, left him in a particularly good humor.

  “You stupid sots,” the youngest boy complained. “I wanted to learn about Indians.”

  Saint stifled a scowl as he left the dormitory. The comment hadn’t been aimed at him, of course, because no one—not even infants—were allowed to speak that way to him. And this wasn’t about what little boys wanted, anyway. It was about what was best for him—and for Evelyn Ruddick.

  Chapter 5

  Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,

  His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,

  So little trouble had been given of late;

  Not that the place by any means was full.

  —Lord Byron, “The Vision of Judgment”

  “You’re joking. Aren’t you?” Lucinda stopped beside the Barrett coach as her maid piled a half dozen boxes and parcels onto one of the plush seats.

  “Do I look as though I’m joking?” Evie returned, handing over her own parcel to be added to the stack. It was a sad commentary on the state of her nerves when she could only find one item to purchase on a shopping excursion.

  “Hm. I’ve never heard anything good—or rather, repeatable and good—said about St. Aubyn, but for him to publicly question your competence seems uncalled for. Your uncle is the Marquis of Houton, after all.”

  “I’m certain he doesn’t care a fig who my relations might be,” she said, wishing Luce would tell her something about St. Aubyn or his reputation that she didn’t already know.

  “No, he probably doesn’t care,” Lucinda admitted. “Oh, I heard that Luckings just received some new hats. Shall we?”

  Evelyn actually wanted to work on her proposal, but Victor was home today, and if he caught her holed up in the library on such a fine morning, she wasn’t certain she would be able to deflect his suspicions. “Absolutely.”

  They strolled down Bond Street toward the milliner’s, Lucinda chatting and smiling at acquaintances as they went, and pretending that she hadn’t noticed how distracted Evelyn seemed to be. That was one of the nicest things about Lucinda Barrett; calm and practical, she would patiently wait until a friend was ready to confess what a muck he or she had made of things, and then she would offer what was invariably sound and logical advice to correct the problem.

  Confessing that she’d allowed the Marquis of St. Aubyn to kiss her, however, would only make Evie feel more like an idiot than she already did. She doubted Lucinda would be able to say anything to alter her opinion. As for her proposal and her plans for the orphanage, she still intended to do something, kiss or not. For that task, though, she didn’t want to admit that she was already falling short of her own expectations.

  “Evie?”

  She shook herself. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  “I was just asking whether your brother had decided on a political platform. Georgiana’s going to dinner with the Duke of Wycliffe tonight, and she offered to extol Victor’s virtues if you wanted her to.”

  “I’m not certain Victor has any virtues. And Georgie certainly doesn’t need to spend the small time she has with her cousin talking about my brother.”

  The space between Lucinda’s delicate eyebrows furrowed. “That’s considerate, but not terribly politically savvy of you, my dear.”

  Evie sighed. “I don’t want to be politically savvy—and especially not on someone else’s behalf. I want to be a part of something meaningful.”

  “Like the Heart of Hope Orphanage?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucinda stopped. “You know, I have an idea.” With a quick smile, she took Evelyn’s arm and turned them back in the direction of the coach. “You’re right; it’s not the Duke of Wycliffe you need. It’s the duchess.”

  “The duchess? What—”

  “She used to be a girls’ school headmistress. Who would know better about helping young people than a headmistress? And who would be more discreet about it than Emma Brakenridge?”

  Slowly hope began to push aside yesterday’s frustration. Saint might have sent her fleeing before she could complete her interviews, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go elsewhere for information. “Lucinda, have I mentioned lately how very fond I am of you?” she asked, squeezing her friend’s arm.

  “I’m glad to be of assistance, my dear.”

  Saint sat back in his chair. “It’s only a suggestion,” he said, tapping the ashes off the end of his cheroot. “Take it or not.”

  The scowl on the face of the large gentleman seated across from him didn’t lift. “I have to consider public opinion, you know, even if you don’t.”

  “It’s not as though you’re doing something underhanded. A new, larger park for the public, part of the Prince Regent’s grand plan for the improvement of London.”

  “Yes, Saint, but it would involve razing an orphanage.”

  The headache lurking in Saint’s temple began to throb again. “The orphans won’t be in it, for God’s sake. I’ll see them all relocated, at my expense.”

  Someone scratched at the office door and cracked it open. “Your Majesty?”

  “Not now, Mithers,” the prince grunted. “I’m engaged in business.”

  The narrow face in the doorway paled. “Bus…business, Your Majesty? With…with…”

  “Yes, with me, Mithers,” Saint finished with a soft grin.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh—”

  “Mithers, go away,” Prince George ordered, pitc
hing a glassful of expensive Madeira in his secretary’s direction.

  The door closed.

  “Damn me,” the Regent continued, “in five minutes he’ll have half the ministry in here.”

  Clenching his cigar between his teeth, Saint refilled the prince’s glass. Mithers was right to go fetch reinforcements, which didn’t leave him much time. “Before they throw me out, just consider. I’m giving you the deed to several acres of land, to use as you see fit. It borders the project you’re working on now, and the only cost to the taxpayers will be tearing the damned thing down and planting a few trees.”

  His chair creaking at the shift of his substantial weight, Prince George leaned forward. “But what, my dear Saint, is in all this for you?”

  Saint studied the prince regent for a short moment. Prinny couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, but the plan he’d concocted over the past few months—while it was rather underhanded, despite what he’d told the prince—wasn’t illegal. “It’s simple,” he said through a puff of cigar smoke. “My mother’s will stipulated that my family—meaning me—maintain an interest in and supervisory position over the Heart of Hope Orphanage. If the Crown were to take over ownership and tear down the place, my obligation would be removed.”

  “So your mama had an affection for the place?”

  “She liked to embroider table runners for holiday meals and call it ‘aiding the unfortunate.’ I won’t be saddled with continuing such nonsense. Not when you’re building a perfectly good park just across the road.”

  Swirling his glass of Madeira in chubby yet elegant fingers, the prince chuckled. “I’ll have my staff look into it, but I’m not agreeing to anything you propose without first finding someone more reputable to confirm the facts.”

  Saint smiled back without humor. “I expect nothing less.” He could be patient. After all, he’d inherited care of the damned place six years ago. He’d managed to bide his time, looking for an opportunity, for this long. He could wait another few weeks.

  “Now,” the prince continued in a more conspiratorial tone, “tell me, my boy. Is it true that Fatima, Lady Gladstone, makes certain…sounds while in the throes of passion?”