London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Mews like a kitten,” Saint answered, draining his glass. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

  Chuckling again, the prince shook his heavy jowls. “Be off with you. It amazes me, Saint, that you can own so few redeemable qualities and still be so likable.”

  Saint stood, sketching a bow as he backed away. No sense in offending the Regent now, when he finally looked to have a chance to be orphanage-free. “It’s a talent, Your Majesty.”

  “Would that more of us possessed it.”

  As Saint left Carlton House and called for his horse, he reflected that his conversation with Prince George had actually gone more favorably than he’d anticipated. Considering that he was willing to pay for both the razing of the building and the planting of the park, a tentative “I’ll look into it” before he had to offer either was good news, indeed.

  He turned Cassius toward Boodles’s for luncheon, and several minutes passed before he realized both that he seemed to be taking a roundabout route to reach his club, and that this particular direction was for a reason. With a slight scowl, he slowed before the white house on his left.

  Ruddick House wasn’t large or grandiose by anyone’s definition, but the small garden appeared nicely kept, and the stable was full. Victor Ruddick’s business in India, conducted on the Marquis of Houton’s behalf, reportedly rendered the brother, sister, and mother a healthy income.

  Rumor had it that Victor had recently developed some political ambitions, something that his uncle no doubt approved. Those ambitions explained Evelyn’s approach of Fatima last week—the look of distaste on Miss Ruddick’s face had been the most amusing part of the evening. He wondered how she would react if he went up and knocked on her front door.

  That same door opened. Saint straightened, anticipation running through him. It was only the mother, though, dressed for some luncheon or other. He waited in the shade of the elms that lined the far side of the street, but only a maid followed. No Evelyn Marie.

  He had an appetite, and she’d definitely whetted his hunger. He’d probably been too forward with the delicate miss, and now she’d abandoned her orphanage project for a nunnery or something. Saint shrugged, turning Cassius back toward Pall Mall. If she didn’t appear at the board meeting the day after tomorrow, she wasn’t worth hunting, anyway. Even so, he couldn’t keep from looking over his shoulder at the house as he turned the corner. He could wait until Friday to find out. Anticipation appealed to him—as long as he could see it satisfied.

  “I’m more familiar with lesson planning for already-educated females between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” the Duchess of Wycliffe said, leaning down to dangle a cookie in the direction of the nearest end table.

  “Any assistance you could give me would be wonderful, Your Grace,” Evelyn returned, only half listening as the end table rocked.

  “Emma, please,” the duchess said, grinning as she slid off her chair to kneel on the carpet, cookie still before her. “Crawling about on the floor doesn’t seem very regal.” She turned her attention to the unseen object of the cookie bribe. “Elizabeth, Mama can’t fit under there. Please come out.”

  A giggle answered her.

  Emma sighed. “This is because your papa told you that silly story about the magic faerie who lived in a cave, isn’t it?”

  More giggling came from beneath the end table.

  Straightening, Emma popped the cookie into her own mouth. “Very well, the magic faerie’s papa can explain why she can’t live under the end table.”

  A servant scratched on the door, and the duchess returned to her more elegant perch on her chair. “Did you find them, Beth?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The maid set a short stack of papers and books on the table, and jumped at the subterranean giggle that erupted a moment later. “Dear me!”

  “Please see if you can locate His Grace, Beth. Last I heard, he was in the billiards room with Lord Dare.”

  The maid curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Evie sent a glance at Lucinda, who seemed to be enjoying her afternoon immensely. Miss Barrett, though, didn’t have to explain that she wanted to devise a plan to teach orphans to read. Nor did she have to worry about the reaction she might receive from the Duke of Wycliffe or Viscount Dare if they were to learn of her recent activities. And even their disapproval would be nothing compared to Victor’s. For a moment she wished Georgiana was here to intercede on her behalf with the male members of her powerful family, but the viscountess was having luncheon with her aunt. And besides, no one would intercede if Victor found out anything. No, she needed to learn to stand up for herself.

  “Now, where were we?” the duchess asked, wiping cookie crumbs from her fingers. “Ah, yes.” She lifted the books onto her lap, flipping through them, and then handed one to Evie. “This is a basic primer, which might at least give you a direction for starting some of the younger children on their letters. I would recommend beginning with vowels and their sounds—fewer letters to cause confusion.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Evelyn said feelingly, opening the book. “I’ve felt so frustrated, wanting to do something and having no idea how to begin it.”

  “You have ideas,” Lucinda said stoutly. “You just worry too much, Evie. And no one could—or should—fault you for wanting to make a positive difference in anyone’s life.”

  Evie smiled. “Thank you, Luce.”

  Emma gave her a speculative look. “Are you going to be doing all of the instructing yourself? I might warn you, teaching is very rewarding, but it will occupy every waking and sleeping hour you possess.”

  “I would like to do some of it, but…” Evie hesitated. She knew she could trust the Duchess of Wycliffe with her secrets, but confessing aloud how restricted she felt in all this meant admitting it to herself.

  “Your family duties take up much of your time,” the duchess finished for her. “I understand. Believe me.”

  With a smile, Evelyn picked up another of the books. “I do intend to oversee the hiring of instructors, and the courses of education. These are wonderful, Emma. Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure. Take whatever you wish, for as long as you need them.”

  “You summoned me?” a deep voice came from the doorway.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, and tawny-haired, the Duke of Wycliffe strolled into the room, Lord Dare on his heels. Evelyn grimaced, hoping they hadn’t been lurking in the hallway. In all fairness, “lurking” didn’t seem quite their style, unlike a certain marquis who’d been troubling her dreams over the past few nights.

  “Yes, I did. A magic faerie has taken up residence under the end table and is refusing to emerge for her bath.”

  The large duke lifted an eyebrow. “A faerie, eh?” He knocked on the smooth mahogany surface. “Is there a faerie under here?”

  A shrieking cascade of laughter answered him.

  With a grin that made Evelyn smile in return, the duke removed the candy dish and tea tray from the table, handing them to Dare. That done, Evie expected Wycliffe to lower himself to the floor as the duchess had done and extricate young Elizabeth. Instead, he simply lifted the table up and set it aside.

  “My Samson,” the duchess murmured with a warm smile that made Evie blush.

  Bright auburn hair in short curls all over her head and gowned in yellow and white, Lady Brakenridge gave another shriek and trundled toward the writing desk. In one long stride the duke caught up, scooping her into his arms. “Hello, Lizzie,” he cooed, hefting the infant up to his shoulder.

  With another blurbled word, Elizabeth wrapped her fists into her father’s jacket and giggled again.

  “Did you hear that?” the duke asked with a wide grin, turning to Dare. “She said ‘papa.’”

  The viscount returned the candy dish and tea tray to the relocated end table. “I distinctly heard ‘baboon.’”

  “Hm, well, you’re distinctly deaf.”

  “I heard that.”

  Laughing, Emma shooed the two tall men toward
the door. “Go away. We’re chatting.”

  Immediately Dare came to a stop. “About what?” His glance took in Evelyn, and she remembered his earlier warning about Saint. Well, she hadn’t turned her back on the marquis; he’d kissed her right on the mouth.

  “French fashions and jewelry,” the duchess answered without a pause.

  “Gak. I say we teach Lizzie to play billiards,” the viscount returned, grimacing.

  The duke nodded, motioning him out the door. “It’s suggestions like that which make me glad I encouraged you to marry my cousin.”

  “‘Encouraged’ me? As I recall, you threatened to shoot me if I didn’t.”

  The argument faded down the hallway, while Evelyn sat back, listening in wonderment. These two men had at one time been well known for their black reputations and bedchamber escapades. Now, however, one of them cradled an infant as though it were the most natural thing in the world, while the other would be in a similar situation within six months.

  “Evelyn?”

  She shook herself. “My apologies, Emma. What did you say?”

  The duchess smiled. “I just asked whether you needed any help in putting your organizational plan together.”

  “Thank you, but no. I would like to attempt to do it on my own.”

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t use the help, but Saint seemed to think she was an imbecile good for nothing but warming his bed. If she received help, he would know it, and he would undoubtedly say something about it—in front of the rest of the board of trustees. No, this was her project, and she would put it together herself.

  “Of course. But please remember, I’m available if you have any questions.”

  After some cursory chatting about French fashions and jewelry, Evelyn and Lucinda left Brakenridge House. She’d made a small beginning already, but now, with her stack of borrowed books beside her, she felt as though she had half a chance of putting together something acceptable. The only problem was, acceptable wasn’t good enough. The plan needed to be perfect, and she needed to have it ready in two days.

  And the proposal wasn’t the only part of this that needed to be ready; she was determined that the Marquis of St. Aubyn would not send her fleeing again. Nor would she allow him to kiss her again. Whatever amusement he was after, she wouldn’t be the one to provide it.

  Saint narrowed his eyes. “I am not nearly drunk enough to approve funds for you to tally up the contents of the storage rooms, Rutledge.”

  Timothy Rutledge gave him a black look, his earnest posture taking on a distinctive defeated slouch. “There is sixty years’ worth of accumulated furniture, paintings, re—”

  “If you’re so curious,” Saint interrupted, “tally it yourself.” He sat forward. “But if I find you’ve sold one stick of it, I’ll be very…unhappy.”

  “I—”

  “Give it up, Rutledge,” Sir Edward Willsley said gruffly, downing the remains of his glass of port. “I would never have approved it, either.”

  “Your thefts will have to be more creative than that, if you wish them to get past me.” With a dismissive glance, Saint refilled his own glass, then Sir Edward’s. All this was a great deal of nonsense, anyway. The only merit to Rutledge’s prattling was that it kept Saint occupied while he waited to see whether Evelyn Marie would appear.

  He doubted it, but not enough to forgo the board meeting altogether. Waiting, however, didn’t sit well with him under most circumstances; here, he felt distinctly territorial and defensive of his inherited territory—no doubt to Rutledge’s dismay.

  “So do we have any other new business to discuss?” Lord Talirand asked around a puff of cigar smoke.

  Sir Edward cleared his throat. “The leftmost window in the older boys’ dormitory is coming loose from the casement again.”

  Saint offered a faint grin. “How else would they slip out at night?”

  “What?” The baronet sat forward. “You knew?”

  “I’m not blind, Willsley.”

  “Ha. You’d turn this establishment into a thieves’ rookery if it was up to you.”

  Lord Talirand exhaled another cloud of smoke. “At least then we’d be making a profit.”

  Saint only sipped his port, reflecting that the only thing worse than being on the Heart of Hope Orphanage board of trustees was having to attend the meetings.

  Someone scratched at the door, and he was on his feet before he registered the wish to remain seated. A slow heat ran under his skin. Damnation, that had best be her.

  “Expecting someone?” Talirand drawled, eyeing him.

  “Eager to escape,” he countered, strolling to the door and pulling it open. “What is it?”

  The housekeeper jumped backward. “My…you said…it’s Miss Ruddick.”

  “Show her in, Mrs. Housekeeper.”

  “Natham, my lord.”

  He ignored her squawking as Evelyn came forward, and ignored the shuffle of feet as the board stood behind him. She wore a pale green muslin, high in the neck and very plain for one of the diamonds of Mayfair. Her auburn hair, coiled severely at the back of her head, gave her the appearance of a governess; no doubt she intended to look demure and businesslike.

  She curtsied. “Good afternoon, Lord St. Aubyn, Lord Talirand, gentlemen,” she said, passing by Saint and keeping her gaze turned away from him.

  “How brave of you,” he murmured, motioning her toward his vacated chair. “And you’ve brought gifts.” Wanting to touch her, he settled for tapping his fingers against the stack of papers she held in her arms.

  “Supporting documents,” she returned, setting them on the chair.

  “What brings you here today?” Rutledge asked, coming forward to take her hand and draw it to her lips.

  Saint felt her glance, but ignored it, making his way over to lean against the writing desk. He wanted a vantage point from which to observe her, where the others couldn’t see him doing so. Informing anyone of her anticipated arrival smacked of servitude, and he hadn’t been keen on giving any of the other males in the room advance notice, anyway.

  “I…am here to present a proposal for improvements to the orphanage,” she said, her voice only a little unsteady. “Lord St. Aubyn seemed to feel that I should be allowed to donate my time and money only if I could account for the wheres and hows.”

  Talirand favored her with a smile as the board seated themselves once more. “How delightful. Please tell us your plans, Miss Ruddick.”

  At that she launched into a presentation concerning education, clothing, food, building improvements, and several vast social issues. Saint didn’t note much of it. Instead, he caught himself studying the way her hands moved, the turn of her head, and the earnest, enthusiastic expression on her mobile face. Whatever she was after, she seemed to think this was how she would achieve it.

  He didn’t doubt that he could wear her down, bring her to the point where she would beg for his caress, for his kiss, for his hands on her bare skin. The question was why he seemed to be obsessed with her. Fatima, among others of his former lovers, would laugh if she knew he was hard for a virginal chit.

  At the sound of polite applause, he shook himself. Whatever she’d said, his fellow board members had liked it—though they’d probably decided to give over their support as soon as she’d mentioned donating money.

  “I find your enthusiasm quite admirable,” Willsley said. “If you need any assistance or advice in managing your project, I hope you’ll feel free to come to me.”

  Rutledge nodded, as well. “You’ll no doubt find this management business far too dull and complicated for someone of your tender sensibilities. I am at your service.”

  Scavengers, Saint thought. Let them have the remains; he wanted the main course.

  Evelyn smiled with the smooth expression he’d often seen her use to charm her dance partners, angelic and a little aloof. “Thank you very much, gentlemen. Does this mean I have your approval?”

  Even Talirand was standing now, the scent of a
weak-witted female with funds practically making him salivate. “Shall we take a vote? All in favor say aye.”

  The eager chorus of ayes was nauseating.

  “Well, St. Aubyn, what about you?” Rutledge asked. “Surely you have no objection to Miss Ruddick’s proposal. Aye or nay?”

  Saint remained in his relaxed slouch, deciding his own position. He could refuse; he didn’t need her meddling while he was trying to dispose of the place. Evelyn would be angry and stomp home and slight him at soirees for the remainder of his life. That was well and good, except for one thing—he’d never have her spread beneath him, moaning his name.

  He pursed his lips, gazing at the object of his interest. “I assume this little experiment will remain under my supervision?”

  Evelyn’s confident smile faltered just a little. No doubt she didn’t know what to do with a male who didn’t fall to his knees at the sight of her smile. “If you insist,” she hedged.

  “I do insist.”

  She lifted her chin, the fine blush of her cheeks deepening. “Then yes, my project may be placed under your supervision.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Then my answer is aye.”

  Chapter 6

  Though the day of my destiny’s over,

  And the star of my fate hath declined,

  Thy soft heart refused to discover

  The faults which so many could find.

  —Lord Byron, “Stanzas to Augusta”

  “Evelyn!”

  Evie froze halfway out the front door of Ruddick House. Before she could decide whether to risk a dash out to the waiting coach or not, Victor stomped down the last flight of stairs. Crossing his arms and glowering, he came to a stop in front of her.

  “Good morning,” she said, favoring him with a bright smile.

  “I stopped by Aunt Houton’s yesterday,” he snapped. “She hasn’t seen you in over a week.”

  “That’s where—”

  “You missed the Tuesday West Sussex Ladies’ Tea.”