London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “You still have to say it, Evelyn Marie,” he murmured. Her damned classrooms were the closest private place he could think of. The doors didn’t lock, but all the brats thought she’d gone. “Say it.”

  “I…” she began breathlessly, her gaze on his mouth, “I want to know if you’ll stop your plan to tear down the orphanage if…if I…”

  Sweet Lucifer. Angels could be a frustrating, pitiful bunch. “If you take me inside you,” he whispered, pulling a clip softly from her hair. Auburn waves of lemon cascaded over his hands.

  “Yes.”

  Saint shook his head, removing the second clip. “Say it.”

  Her cheeks flushed and, her lips already swollen from his attentions, her breasts pressed hard against his chest, the pristine angel moaned. “If I take you inside me,” she whispered.

  Difficult as logical thought was becoming, he was nevertheless aware that her choice of phrase regarding the orphanage left him a fair amount of room to maneuver. “That is a deal, Evelyn.”

  “Not here, though,” she said, gasping as he brushed the outside of her breasts with his thumbs. “The children—”

  “How about one of your little classrooms?” He captured her mouth again, only partially aware that he didn’t usually react like this. Of course, he’d been suffering through a nearly three-week drought, but this lust, this hunger, was new. And it was hunger for her—not some nameless, faceless female to satisfy his needs.

  “No. Oh, Saint. More private. Please?”

  She wasn’t even able to utter full sentences any longer. “The boardroom.”

  “The cellar,” she countered. “It’s after breakfast, and—”

  “The cellar,” he agreed, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the stairs. A clean patch of dirt would have suited him at the moment.

  “But my hair,” she protested.

  “We’ll go down the back way. No one will see you.”

  Because of its history as a barracks, two sets of stairs descended into the cellar; the ones from the kitchen, and the ones through the old administrative office for keeping a tally of supplies as they arrived.

  Saint grabbed a lamp from the hallway and pushed the office door open. “Are you sure this won’t do?” he asked, yanking her up against him for another kiss. Thank God she’d decided to give in, because he wasn’t certain how much longer he would have been able to keep his hands off her without going stark, raving mad.

  “Windows,” she managed, clinging to his lapels.

  “I’m going to make you scream with pleasure,” he whispered against her mouth.

  If they paused here much longer, he, who prided himself on his self-control, wouldn’t be able to walk. Saint took her hand again to lead her through the far door and down the stairs.

  As soon as they reached the cellar floor, he pressed her back against the stone wall, meeting her upturned mouth with a hot, openmouthed kiss. Finally, just the two of them, with no one to interrupt for at least an hour, until the kitchen help began luncheon preparations.

  “Evelyn,” he groaned, kissing her throat, peeling back the collar of her gown to kiss her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Saint,” she whispered, her breath coming already in hard, fast gasps.

  Sliding one arm back around her waist, he pulled her up against him. “What are you sorry for?” he breathed, kissing her again.

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “What—”

  A footstep sounded behind him. Saint whipped around as something blunt and heavy crashed down against the side of his skull. He uttered a half-articulate curse and collapsed.

  Evelyn stared down at the Marquis of St. Aubyn as he lay slumped at her feet. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of anything. They couldn’t change their minds now, and yet in the hot, sensual place Saint had awakened inside her, she almost wished they had been alone in the cellar, and that he’d fulfilled his promise to make her scream with pleasure.

  Randall lowered the oak bedpost. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a year, now.”

  Shaking herself out of her nervous, aroused, and shocked stupor, Evie sank to her knees. “He’s still breathing,” she exclaimed, sagging further with relief. Aggravating as St. Aubyn was, she didn’t want him dead. Even the thought left her feeling oddly…empty with imagined loss.

  “A course he’s still breathing,” Randall said in an annoyed tone, obviously disgusted that she could doubt his expertise in the field of head-bashing. “Let’s get him in the brig before Nosy Nelly comes down to steal apples.”

  “Nosy Nelly?” Evie repeated, brushing hair from Saint’s forehead as another half dozen children materialized from the gloom around her. A trickle of blood ran past his ear, and she checked again to make sure his heart still beat. He looked so…innocent, with his face relaxed and the cynicism gone from his expression. Innocent, and beautiful. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

  “One of the cook’s helpers. Come on, lads. Heave ’im up. If we drag ’im, we’ll leave tracks.”

  Randall seemed to know a great deal about kidnapping. Evie stood, stepping back as the six oldest boys grabbed legs, arms, and waist and, with much groaning and complaining, lifted St. Aubyn off the floor.

  “Be careful with him,” Evie cautioned, lifting a candle to guide them to the narrow, half-hidden door.

  “Now you say that,” Matthew grunted. “Just think what he’d be doin’ to us right now if he was still awake.”

  Evelyn shuddered. Even knowing his seduction would be stopped, she still felt dazed and a little resentful. Saint was going to be furious. According to rumor, he’d killed people in duels over slights to his honor; this must fall somewhere far beyond that.

  They’d thrown a fairly decent mattress and clean blankets in the far corner, batted down the spiders and cobwebs, and stolen two lamps for the wall sconces. With less than fifteen minutes to prepare, they’d actually done an impressive job of readying the room for a resident.

  The boys tossed St. Aubyn onto the mattress with less care than she would have liked. The marquis groaned.

  “Cripes! Get the shackle on him!” Adam Henson yelped, jumping backward.

  “Wait!” Evie broke in, struggling free of the haze that had enveloped her. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Too late now, Miss Evie. He’ll see us all on prison barges or transported to Australia.”

  “Or hanged,” Randall added, squatting to fasten the shackle.

  “Do we at least have a key for that?” she asked, beginning to feel light-headed.

  “Aye. And for the door.”

  “Give them both to me, if you please.”

  Matthew obediently handed the brass keys over to her. Evelyn pocketed them and sat heavily on the stool. Good heavens, what was she doing? Kidnapping a marquis was worse than insanity. On the other hand, without her involvement, Randall and the other boys might have chosen a more permanent and deadly solution to the problem of St. Aubyn. With her in possession of the keys, she could at least protect him to a degree.

  “He’s waking up,” Adam announced.

  “All right, everyone out. I don’t want him to know who hit him. And close the doors, but leave a candle on the stairs. Don’t do or say anything out of the ordinary.”

  Randall grinned. “We’ll make a criminal of you yet, Miss Evie.”

  She didn’t seem to need their help with that. “Go. Hurry.”

  Seconds after they closed the barred door, Saint came awake with an abrupt start that made Evie jump. With a low, almost inaudible groan, he rolled onto his hands and knees.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice shaking as badly as her hands had begun to.

  “What the hell happened?” he grumbled, putting a hand to his temple. It came away bloody.

  “It’s a long story. Do you need medical assistance?” They couldn’t summon a doctor, of course, unless Saint’s injury was life-threatening. If pressed, she could probably sew up a wound, though even the
thought made her distinctly queasy.

  “No. What I need is a pistol. Who hit me?” Slowly he straightened up onto his knees, looking across the room at her where she perched on the stool.

  “I can’t tell you that. Saint—”

  As his gaze sharpened and focused, he began looking at their surroundings. “Where are we? Are you unhurt?”

  “Me? I’m fine. I need to—”

  Staggering, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, Saint climbed to his feet. “Don’t worry, Evelyn. I’ll get us out of here.”

  Oh, dear. Now he wanted to be chivalrous. “Saint, you don’t understand. I’m not a prisoner. You are.”

  She watched as he slowly absorbed what she’d said. Then, faster than she could draw a breath to explain, he sprang across the room at her. “You damned—”

  The chain snapped taut, and he went down almost at her feet. With a shriek, Evelyn fell backward off the stool. Saint reached for her, and only missed her ankle because she jerked her knees up to her chest.

  “Stop that! You’ll injure yourself!” she gasped, rolling to crawl away from him as fast as she could. Her gown was going to be ruined, but if he got his hands on her, her clothes would be the least of her worries.

  The keys fell from her pocket with a thunk. Evie squirmed around as Saint lunged for them. The chain pulled him up just short. He clawed into the hard-packed earth, stretching out his fingertips, trying to reach them as she snatched them up and scooted backward again.

  “Give me those damned keys,” he growled in a dark, angry voice.

  This was the St. Aubyn everyone feared, she realized, the man he was with the veneer of civility torn away. And she’d managed to awaken him alone in a dungeon, with no help in earshot—not that she dared call for any.

  “Calm down,” she ordered, backing away still farther, even though there was no way he could possibly reach her.

  He drew up into an alert crouch, green eyes glittering with a fury that made her blood chill. “‘Calm down?’” he snarled, swiping again at the dirt-mingled blood running down his cheek. “I’m shackled to a wall, God knows where, and—”

  “We’re in the orphanage cellar,” she interrupted. “The old brig, I would assume.” She sat up straighter, pocketing the keys again.

  His eyes followed every move she made. “Why am I shackled to the wall in the goddamned orphanage cellar, Evelyn?” he asked in a low, dangerous-sounding growl. “And who hit me?”

  He obviously wasn’t going to be able to listen to reason at the moment. If anything, trying to speak in a rational manner with him would only make him angrier. Evie reached behind her for the wall and pulled herself to her feet. “I think you should calm down a little, Saint,” she suggested, wishing her voice would stop shaking. “I’ll bring you some water and a cloth for your head.” She edged toward the door.

  He straightened, pacing her at the end of his chain. “You are not going to leave me here, damn it. Evelyn, this is ridiculous. Give me those keys. Now.”

  “I can’t do that. And I’m not leaving you. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He gazed at her levelly. “If you don’t give me those keys now, you’d best hope I never get out of here,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Because the first person I come after will be you.”

  And she’d been worried he might want to see her arrested. Evie swallowed. “If you ever want to get out of here, you’d best not say such things,” she said grimly, and slipped out the door.

  Chapter 12

  Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,

  The heart—the heart is lonely still!

  —Lord Byron, “One Struggle More, and I am Free”

  Saint froze as Evelyn closed the door. A lock clicked, and through the narrow-spaced bars he heard the tap of her shoes as she climbed six, seven, eight steps. A second door squeaked open and then closed, leaving him in utter silence.

  He stood there for another moment, listening. Nothing. Dust coated his jacket, trousers, and waistcoat. The inside of his mouth and his nails felt caked, as well. He spat into the dirt, then clanked back to the mattress in the corner and sat.

  They’d—and he knew Evelyn hadn’t done this without assistance, whatever she might say—locked the shackle over his boot, just above his ankle. It was a snug fit, and the rust-coated iron was already doing a splendid job of ruining the leather of his expensive Hessians.

  Experimentally he tugged at the clasp, then at the ring that joined the shackle to the chain. Nothing budged. Link by link he worked his way back to the iron ring sunk and bolted into the wall. All the work was as solid as if it had been installed last week, rather than last century.

  Sitting back again and crossing his legs as best as he could with the left one chained to the wall, he began going through his pockets. Some money, a handkerchief, his pocket watch, a button that didn’t belong to him—Fatima’s walking dress, he thought—but nothing remotely helpful in aiding his escape.

  Saint fingered the cut on his temple again. He’d been an absolute idiot. Why had he thought Evelyn meant to spread her legs for him? Because he’d wanted to think that. She’d acted odd and distant all morning, then had lashed out at him in fury, and he’d accepted that she would twenty minutes later offer her body as a bribe because he wanted it to happen.

  He’d underestimated her, which in an odd way pleased him. As dicey as were some of the situations in which he’d found himself, no angry husband or jealous lover had ever managed to lock him into a dungeon.

  “Damnation.” He gave the chain another hard yank, but only succeeded in cutting his finger on a sharp-edged link.

  Whatever lesson Evelyn thought she was teaching him, he wasn’t having any of it. No chit bested him at anything. All he needed was to discover what she thought she wanted from this, and then use that to free himself. And revenge where she was concerned was going to be very sweet, and it was going to take a very long time.

  If not for his pocket watch he would have thought much more than thirty-seven minutes passed before the door at the top of the eight steps creaked open again. Saint lurched to his feet, clutching at his head as another wave of dizziness hit him.

  The key turned in his door, and he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Maybe she would forget how far his chain reached, and she’d wander into his grasp.

  “Saint?” she said in a low voice, peeking her head around the door.

  He didn’t answer, instead measuring the distance between the end of his reach and the door—a good six feet, by his guess. Whoever had built the brig had wanted to be sure no one got out until or unless they were supposed to.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve calmed down a little,” she ventured, her color still high and her expression nervous. She’d dusted off her gown and put her hair back up, though she still looked as disheveled as he felt. “Will you listen to me now?”

  “Yes. I’d love to hear how beating me over the skull and kidnapping me is—how did you put it?—‘for my own good.’”

  Evelyn winced. “Lady Gladstone told me once that you were so bad you didn’t need to be good.”

  Fatima had more intelligence than he’d given her credit for. “And you disagree, I take it?”

  “Yes, I do.” She stepped back into the doorway and reemerged with a tray. “Water and a cloth, as I promised.”

  Saint continued to observe, curious as to how she intended to give them to him without coming within reach. He tensed, ready to move at the hint of a mistake on her part.

  She set the tray down, though, well beyond the reach of his shackles. Reaching back through the door to her unseen helper, she returned with a broomstick, which she used to push the tray toward him.

  “You haven’t by any chance done this before, have you?” he asked, not moving.

  “Of course not.”

  “When I said I intended to be your first, this wasn’t what I meant.”

  Evelyn flushed, hurrying over to whisper somethi
ng outside and close the door. “I understand why you’re angry,” she said, turning the stool back upright and sitting down again. “You’ve been injured, and someone has taken away your freedom, all against your will and your wishes.”

  “Not someone,” he corrected. “You.”

  “Well, someone had to.”

  Saint narrowed his eyes. Normally he enjoyed the give and take of their conversations, but normally he wasn’t chained to a wall and forced to endure them. “Get on with your speech, Evelyn.”

  “Very well. I took your freedom before you could take something from me.”

  “Your virginity?” he suggested cynically. “You offered it to me.”

  “No, I didn’t! That was a ruse.”

  “Hoyden.”

  “Stop it. You’re trying to take the home away from these children. And you’re trying to take away my ability to do something worthwhile. My chance to make a difference. You’re just like all of the other men in my life, you know.”

  Whatever she meant by that, it sounded insulting. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Victor sends me to talk to disgusting old men because they think I’m charming. He doesn’t care if I have to lie to them about how interesting I find them, or whether the stupid political teas he makes me attend are useless and worthless and make me very…nervous. And you—you’re worse.”

  “Do tell.”

  “You only let me into the orphanage because you thought it would give you the chance to lift my skirts. You’re handsome, and exciting, and…enticing, but I do have a mind, you know. You don’t know me, and you don’t know these children who depend on you for their lives. All you care is that it’s inconvenient.”

  His angel certainly had a mouth on her. He would never have expected it, but at the moment he didn’t much appreciate it. “Are you finished?” he snapped.

  “Not yet. As of this moment, nothing is inconvenient for you. You now have all the time in the world. And someone else gets to judge whether you should be let loose into Society again or not.” She stood. “And ponder this, Lord St. Aubyn. If you never reappear, will anyone even miss you?”