London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  A cold chill went down his spine. “Evelyn, think about what you’re doing,” he said slowly, beginning to realize just how deep the hole he’d dug for himself was. “If you don’t let me go right now, do you think you’ll ever be able to do so?”

  She stopped, one hand on the door handle. “I hope so. You’re a very intelligent man. I think you could also be a good man. It’s time for you to learn something.”

  Evie closed and locked the door, then sagged against the heavy closure. She’d never spoken like that to anyone in her life, and it actually felt good to finally say those things aloud.

  On the other hand, the situation terrified her; she could never allow harm to come to him, but neither could she allow him to swear out a statement against the children. “Please understand,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek.

  The encounter had actually gone better than she expected, considering that she hadn’t known precisely what she was going to say until she’d begun speaking. The dark, predatory speculation in his eyes bothered and excited her still, but she supposed a hard look was better than yelling and attempted attacks.

  Eventually he might even appreciate the lengths to which she was going in her attempt to turn him into a true gentleman. Evie sniffed, wiping her cheeks. Kidnapping hadn’t been part of the lesson plans she and Lucinda and Georgiana had concocted. Straightening, she managed a grim smile. Last year they’d worried that Georgie’s maneuverings were going too far. Lord Dare had had it easy.

  Upstairs she gave another lesson in the waltz, then ran through a few last-minute instructions for the older children as they were all called down for luncheon.

  “Do we have to feed him?” Molly asked, scowling.

  “Of course we do. And be nice to him. He doesn’t like being in there, and we need to show him how to care for people besides himself.”

  “And if that don’t work?” Randall asked, squinting one eye.

  “It will work,” Evie returned, with more confidence than she felt. Dangerous as it could be, her plan wouldn’t succeed unless St. Aubyn could be made to interact with the orphans under his care. “He’ll probably be mean at first. We’ll have to show him better manners.”

  “I’ll show him some fine manners,” Alice Smythe cooed.

  She’d been afraid of that; she knew firsthand how charming Saint could be. She would never fall for his kisses again, but these girls—these young ladies—could be very susceptible to him. “Just remember how important this is. He’s very devious, so no one is to go in to see him alone. And I’m keeping the key to his shackle with me. If he knows you don’t have it, there’s no reason for him to try to take it from you.”

  “Seems like there’s an easier way to take care of this.” Randall pulled a small whittling knife from his pocket.

  Oh, good heavens. “No. Having Lord St. Aubyn as an ally is much better than having him…dead. Promise me that none of you will harm him.”

  “You want a promise? From us?”

  “Yes, I do. And I expect you to keep your word.”

  Randall jabbed his knife into a bedpost. “All right. We promise.”

  The rest of the children echoed him, and finally Evie could breathe again. They had lessons to learn, just as Saint did. And for some reason she seemed to have been chosen to deliver them. “I will see you first thing in the morning. Good luck.”

  When Evelyn reached Barrett House she was only twenty minutes late, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she’d lost more time than that, and that somehow everyone could see right through her and know that she’d kidnapped St. Aubyn and was holding him captive in the cellar of the Heart of Hope Orphanage.

  “Evie,” Lucinda said, rising to clasp her hands. “We were getting worried about you.”

  Evelyn forced a careless laugh and went to the couch to kiss Georgiana on the cheek. “I’m not that late, am I?”

  “No, but you’re usually never late at all.”

  “I was playing with the children.”

  “And your gown?” Lucinda asked.

  Evie looked down. She’d tried to clean up, but patches of dirt still sullied her dress where she’d fallen to the floor. “Oh, dear,” she said, forcing a chuckle. “I suppose I should play less enthusiastically.”

  “And your hair?” Georgie fingered one of the strands that had come loose from her haphazard bun.

  Blast. “Some of the girls and I were doing our hair. Is it too hideous?”

  Lucinda chuckled. “I’ll have Helena make general repairs before you leave.”

  They chatted about the week’s events, as they always did, and Georgiana regaled them with an anecdote about Dare’s youngest brother, Edward, who had just turned nine. Evie slowly began to relax, though she couldn’t escape the vision of Saint chained alone in a cellar while she nibbled at tea cakes and laughed with her friends.

  “How goes your other lesson?” Lucinda asked, sipping her tea.

  “Which other lesson?”

  “You know—St. Aubyn. Or have you decided to take our advice and select a more reasonable student?”

  “I haven’t seen him today,” Evie blurted before she could stop herself. Blast it, she sounded like an idiot. “And…I have to confess,” she went on, pretending not to notice the look her friends exchanged, “he’s more of a challenge than I expected.”

  “So you’ll forget him, then, yes?” Georgiana took her hand. “It’s not that we doubt you, Evie. It’s just that he’s so…”

  “Awful,” Lucinda finished. “And dangerous.”

  “I thought the idea was to choose someone awful,” Evelyn countered. “You kept telling us that Dare was the worst man in England, Georgiana. I thought that was why you chose him.”

  “I know.” The viscountess gave a small smile. “I had personal reasons for wanting to teach him a lesson. You both knew that. You have no such connection with St. Aubyn.”

  She did now. “Nevertheless,” Evie said aloud, “I am determined to teach him how to be a gentleman. Think of all the maidenly virtue I might be saving.”

  Lucinda put an arm around her shoulder. “Just protect your own. Be careful. Promise us that, anyway.”

  “I promise,” Evelyn repeated obediently, beginning to wonder whether Saint was having a greater influence on her than she was on him. She never used to be able to lie with any success at all. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Good. And if you need a distraction tonight,” Luce went on with a smile, “I’ll even dance with your brother.”

  Evie frowned. “Tonight?”

  “The Sweeney ball, my dear. Even St. Aubyn’s been invited to the mayhem, from what I hear.”

  Her insides turned to ice.

  She’d hoped to have a few moments to go check on St. Aubyn before the ball, but by the time she returned home and changed, Victor was pacing in the foyer.

  “Heavens,” she said, taking her wrap from Langley and pulling it on herself when Victor declined to offer his assistance, “you don’t want us to be the first arrivals, do you?”

  “Yes, I do, actually,” he returned, taking their mother’s arm and leading the way down the front steps. “I’ve been trying to have a word with Lord Sweeney for over a week. He’s spent time in India, as well. I won’t have a better chance to recruit him than this. He may even get me an audience with Wellington.”

  She stifled a sigh. “And what are Mama and I to do while you’re recruiting, then?”

  Victor glanced at her like she was a child’s porcelain doll who’d suddenly developed the power of speech. “You’re to chat with Lady Sweeney, of course.”

  For a moment she considered mentioning that she had a rude, arrogant marquis locked in a cellar, and a second set of manacles ready for another occupant. Instead, she smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

  Saint didn’t know what time it was, because he couldn’t see his pocket watch. He was fairly certain it was first thing in the morning, though he was mainly judging by the rumble of hunger in his sto
mach and the scratch of his whiskers.

  Neither did he know how long he’d been awake, though it seemed like hours. What little sleep he’d managed had been interrupted by restless dreams in which he took his vengeance on Evelyn Marie Ruddick’s naked body again and again, until he awoke aching and hard.

  “Idiot,” he muttered into the darkness, the sound hollow and dull in the small room. She’d kidnapped him, probably concocted the entire plot, and he still lusted after her. Whatever lesson she’d meant to teach him about desiring a stubborn, devious virgin, he hadn’t learned.

  For a time he’d considered what she’d said, about the consequences if he never reappeared in Society again. His servants were used to him vanishing for several days without a word, and he’d just made an appearance in Parliament, so no one would begin to miss him there for weeks. Because of Evelyn he was between mistresses, so no woman would be crying about missing him from her cold bed.

  As for friends, he really didn’t have any left. While they’d mended their ways and married, or died of their bad habits, he’d simply sunk deeper into the black heart of London. Even that, though, wasn’t as black as this prison had become when the last candle went out. So that was it. No one would miss him at all.

  He shuddered. He didn’t fear dying; he remained surprised that he’d lasted as long as he had. Rather, it was the idea of being completely forgotten that bothered him. No one to mourn him, no one to wonder where he’d gotten to, no contribution he’d made that would make anyone regret his absence.

  The outside door squeaked, and he sat up straighter. A moment later a small trickle of light crept through the bars at the top of the door, touching the upper part of the wall behind him.

  A key rattled in the lock, and the door pushed open. Candlelight flooded the room, and he squinted against it. A moment passed before he could make out Evelyn behind the light.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry about the lamps,” she exclaimed. “I thought—”

  “These are foul accommodations,” he interrupted. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee, either? Or a newspaper?”

  He heard a boy’s voice on the far side of the door utter an admiring curse. At least he’d impressed someone. Saint lifted an eyebrow.

  “I have coffee,” she said, setting the candle on the sconce. “And buttered bread and an orange.”

  “At least you’ve spared no expense to see to my comfort,” he said dryly.

  She brought the tray in, setting it on the floor and pushing it to him with the broom handle. Saint was too hungry to be stubborn, and he leaned forward to drag the tray closer.

  “Didn’t they feed you last night?” Evelyn asked, sitting on the stool beyond his reach.

  “Someone cracked open the door and lobbed a raw potato at my head, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, digging into his scanty breakfast. “I decided to save it for later.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, watching him eat.

  “Evelyn, if you’re sorry, then let me go. If you’re not going to do that, then for God’s sake stop apologizing.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I suppose I’m just trying to set a good example.”

  “For me?” Saint paused between mouthfuls of bread. “You have an odd method of teaching manners.”

  “At least I have your attention,” she retorted.

  “You had my attention before.”

  “For my looks, yes,” she said slowly. “But now you have to listen to me.” She folded her hands primly in her lap as though she were sitting in an elegant morning room and not in a dirty, stone-walled brig. “So what shall we chat about?”

  “Your prison sentence?” he suggested.

  She paled so alarmingly that for a moment he thought she might faint. He almost took his statement back, but stopped himself. She might think she was in complete control here, but he did have some power remaining. It was best that she remember that.

  “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement eventually,” she returned after a long moment. “After all, I have all the time in the world to convince you.”

  She was learning the rules rather quickly herself. “So how did you pass your evening, then?” he asked.

  “I attended the Sweeney ball, actually,” she said. “Oh, and you should know that my brother credits your absence to his warning you away from me.”

  He grunted. “I should have listened to him.”

  She was silent for a moment, and when he glanced up, he caught her studying his face. Evelyn blushed and made a show of straightening her skirt. “I have a small bargain for you.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I will bring you a chair to sit on, if you will read to some of the children.”

  He could refuse, of course, but his back was already aching from sitting on the hard floor. “A comfortable chair,” he returned. “With padding.”

  Evelyn nodded. “In return for a comfortable chair with padding, you must also teach them their vowels.”

  “By writing in the dirt?”

  “I will provide you with a writing board. And an instruction book.”

  Saint moved his coffee cup aside and stood, bringing the tray up with him. While she rose from the stool, watching him warily, he walked to the end of his chain. “And another candle.” With a clatter he dumped the tray at his feet.

  She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, gray eyes meeting his. “Done.”

  “It’s a shame you don’t like me,” he said in a quieter voice, conscious of the little brats waiting for her just outside the door, “because I could use some company right now.”

  A small smile touched her mouth. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  She turned and strolled back to the door. “I’ll come by again before I leave. Behave yourself with them.”

  “They’re not the ones you should be concerned about.” He gazed at her steadily, making certain she understood his meaning, before he toed the tray beyond his reach.

  Whatever she’d said about not liking him, she still felt attracted to him. He didn’t need to be a soothsayer to sense that. And she hadn’t left him there alone in the dark again, a salvation he was feeling more grateful for than he probably should. Still, all he needed from her was one false step. If she thought he wouldn’t take advantage, she was greatly mistaken.

  Chapter 13

  He, who grown aged in this world of woe,

  In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,

  So that no wonder waits him; nor below

  Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,

  Cut to his heart again with the keen knife

  Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell

  Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife

  With airy images, and shapes which dwell

  Still unimpair’d, though old, in the soul’s haunted cell.

  —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III

  “Now who are you?”

  The little girl rolled her eyes. “Rose. And that’s Peter, and that’s Thomas. And we’re supposed to tell you that we don’t have any keys.”

  Saint pursed his lips. Evelyn had sent the babies to him, evidently deciding they were the ones he was least likely to harm. “And you don’t have my chair, either.”

  “Miss Evie said you have to show good fate first.”

  “Good faith, you mean?” he corrected.

  “I don’t know, because I’m only seven years old. Are you going to read to us now?”

  The older of the two boys, Peter, shoved a storybook at him. Obviously Evelyn had instructed them not to get too close, because all three had plunked themselves in the dirt in the corner beside the door.

  He picked up the book and opened it. “Did Miss Evie say why I’m supposed to read to you?”

  “So you can have a chair,” Thomas answered.

  “And so you’ll like us,” Peter continued.

  “So I’ll like you?” Saint repeated. That made sense. Sh
e was trying to convince him not to destroy the orphanage by acquainting him with the orphans. She wanted to soften his heart; a shame, then, that he didn’t possess one. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  Odd as it felt for him to be catering to children, he had to admit, as he read and showed them the pictures, that it was better than being in the brig alone. Infant company was better than none at all.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Evelyn’s voice came from the doorway. “Is Lord St. Aubyn a good storyteller?”

  Rose nodded. “He makes the scary bits very scary.”

  “I’m not surprised at all.” She entered the brig. “It’s time for you to go up to luncheon. Remember to take the back stairs and go around through the dormitory.”

  “We remember. And we’re not to say anything about him.”

  “That’s right.”

  The children scampered out the door. “Lovely,” Saint noted. “Teaching them to be criminals in infancy. Saves trouble later, I suppose.”

  “I’m only asking them to keep a secret for the benefit of all the children here.”

  Saint closed the book and set it aside. “You’re only delaying the inevitable. Could you kill me, Evelyn Marie?”

  She swallowed. “I have no intention of harming you. Not for any reason.”

  That actually surprised him. “Then this orphanage will be turned into one of the Regent’s parks.”

  “Not if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t. Who are my next pupils to be?”

  “Just one. Me.” Evie looked over her shoulder. “But first I promised you a chair.”

  She moved aside as Randall and Matthew hauled a heavy cushioned chair, obviously liberated from the board’s meeting room, into the cell. Their wary attention on St. Aubyn, they dragged the chair to the edge of his reach.

  “That’s good enough. Tip it forward, and he can drag it the rest of the way.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Matthew said, grinning as he kicked the chair over backward.