“Good…good evening, Lord St. Aubyn.”
He glanced past her. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother with kidnapping Clarence Alvington. It’s just a rumor, but I hear that the Alvington family coffers are nearly depleted.”
“Please don’t say such things.”
“And besides, you already have someone to share your bed. You certainly can’t want him.”
For a surprised moment, she wondered if that was jealousy she heard in his voice. But Saint couldn’t be jealous, because he claimed not to have a heart. “My brother wants me to be nice to him. But what are you doing here? I thought you preferred darker haunts.”
He pursed his lips. “I’m here because of you, my love. You thought the constabulary might hesitate to make an arrest at the Alvington ball, yes?”
Oh, no. “If…if you’re going to have me arrested,” she whispered, the blood draining from her face, “then do so. But please don’t let them bring the children or my family into it.”
“You already asked me that. Would you pay the price I would ask to keep silent?”
Her pulse hammered. “But I—we—”
“I want you again, Evelyn.” He tilted his head, eyes studying her face. “Don’t you want me?”
So much she could barely keep from leaping on him, despite dozens of potential witnesses. A tear started, and she brushed it away before anyone could see it. He couldn’t possibly care for her. She was such a fool, and she’d made such a muck of everything, and she was so blasted confused. “I was only trying to help.”
“I know. And I have no intention of seeing you arrested, my dear one.”
“You…” It took two tries to force out the words. “You don’t?”
Saint shook his head. “That would be too easy. I’m going to blackmail you.”
“Blackmail me?”
With one stride he closed the scant distance between them. “You belong to me now,” he said in a low, intimate voice, “and for that you can thank yourself.”
“I will not be—”
He brushed a second tear away with his thumb. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until morning to discover what it is I want from you. So go smile and dance with your fop, and dream tonight about what may come.”
“Saint, just promise me—please—that you’ll blame no one but me for what happened.”
The marquis smiled, the expression warm and dark and utterly desirable. “Don’t worry on that count. I blame you entirely.”
“You blame my sister for what, St. Aubyn?” Victor appeared from the direction of the refreshment table.
If Evie hadn’t been driven far beyond the point of fainting, her brother’s arrival would have sent her to the floor. By now, though, she’d begun to consider claiming insanity. She’d be locked away in Bedlam, but then at least no one could reasonably hold her responsible for her actions.
“I blame Evelyn for convincing me to speak to Prinny about naming you to his Cabinet,” Saint said smoothly. “The consensus seems to be that several ministries will open before the end of the Season. Two ambassadorships as well, I believe.”
Victor looked nearly as skeptical as Evie felt. “And why would I want your support in anything. St. Aubyn?”
“Wait here.”
The marquis headed in the direction of the Alvingtons’ drawing room. As soon as he was out of earshot, Victor grabbed her by the elbow.
“Did I or did I not warn you to stay away from that man, Evie?” he growled. “I can’t believe…” He shook his head. “Is concentrating on your duties to me for one damned evening so difficult? I’ve tried to excuse your flightiness on account of your youth, but I’m beginning to think you’re merely dim and st—”
“Mr. Ruddick,” Saint’s voice came from beyond them, “it’s my pleasure to introduce the Duke of Wellington. Your Grace, Victor Ruddick.”
Evelyn wasn’t certain who was more amazed—Victor or her. Her brother certainly recovered first, stepping forward to shake the duke’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Saint informs me that you’ve spent time in India,” Wellington said, gesturing Victor to join him. “Tell me, did you ever make the acquaintance of Mohmar Singh?”
The two men strolled into the crowd, leaving her standing with St. Aubyn. “How in the world did you manage that?”
“I can be quite persuasive.” Saint gazed at her for a moment. “And it seemed the most efficient way to dispose of your opinionated brother. But don’t think I’ve done you a favor, Evelyn. Wellington may…consort with the occasional whore, but he’s death-defyingly conservative. If he were to discover that his new friend Victor Ruddick was brother to a ruined, nobleman-kidnapping lunatic, he’d—”
“He’d see Victor’s career destroyed,” she finished quietly.
“Just remember that this is between you and me, Evelyn. You began this game; I’ve just altered the rules. And we play till the end. I will see you tomorrow, my sweet one.”
Obviously her actions had been enough to gain her the jaded St. Aubyn’s complete, undivided attention. It worried her, mostly because he excited and aroused her so much. But if he wanted to continue the game, as he called it, then she still had a chance to save the orphanage. And Saint. And herself.
It wasn’t how he’d meant to end the conversation. Several occurrences, though, had put him more than a little off kilter. Firstly, he’d been…absurdly pleased and gratified to see her. Secondly, the small part of her brother’s tirade he’d managed to overhear had infuriated him. And thirdly, he’d wanted to swat Clarence Alvington like an insect for putting a hand on her. He’d been her first, and now she was his. No one else was allowed to play this game.
She’d obviously wandered far out of her depth in this little escapade, but in their acquaintance he’d found her anything but stupid or self-centered. She thought more with her heart than with her head, but as far as he’d been able to determine, her motives had been as pure as an angel’s.
At the same time, she’d caused him a great deal of annoyance, and he owed her for that and for the amount of soul-searching the long, solitary hours had forced upon him. Evelyn Marie wanted to turn him into a gentleman. Well, he wanted to turn her into his mistress. And he had far more experience at being devious than she could ever dream of.
As for whether she might be better off with someone else—of course she would be. Saint scowled. It didn’t matter whom she might be better off with, because he refused to relinquish his hold on her. She’d begun this, but he would end it, in the manner of his own choosing.
“Saint.” Fatima glided up to him. “I knew you would never leave town during the Season, whatever the wags might say.”
“Do the wags say anything else of interest?”
She favored him with a coy pout. “They say you’ve found a new lover.” Sliding her fingers along his lapel, she practically purred. “It’s that Evie Ruddick, isn’t it? You’ve been hunting her for three weeks.”
“She seems a bit proper for me, don’t you think?” Saint drawled, capturing her hand and drawing it away from him. He didn’t have time for dueling with jealous husbands of past, forgotten lovers at the moment; he had other plans to put into action.
“I had Gladstone ask her and her lovely brother to dinner the other night, you know,” she continued. “You’ve tasted her. A woman can tell these things.”
“Can a woman tell when a man is about to push her into the punch bowl?” Saint returned. “I told you, I enjoyed your company for a while, when you were amusing. Now you’re annoying. Go away.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You will pay for the awful things you’ve done, Saint. I’ve already given Gladstone’s backing to Plimpton, so Miss Ruddick’s brother certainly has nothing to gain by your acquaintance.”
“Sterling of you. I imagine when the time comes I’ll be in the queue for Hades right behind you, Fatima. Good evening.”
The countess looked as though she wanted to slap him, but she wisely seemed
to think better of it. For the moment she would leave him alone, until she thought of something vindictive she could do without any danger to her own reputation, or until she found someone else who better catered to her whims. He’d been through that God knew how many times before—so often he could almost mark the schedule for attempted retribution on a calendar. Before she tried anything, though, she would be wise to consult with other of his former lovers about their own lack of success.
Music began for a waltz, and without thought he strolled back into the ballroom. Evelyn was already on the dance floor, Clarence Alvington trying to pull her closer than propriety allowed. She held him off with nothing more than a smile and a word.
He wondered what Clarence’s reaction would have been to finding himself leg-shackled in a dungeon for a week. The dandy’s first action would probably have been to wet himself, and if he managed an escape, his second would most likely have been to swear out a statement against Evelyn Marie and then to have the orphanage torn down with the brats still inside.
And in so doing, he would have lost every point of leverage he held. Saint smiled. Some said that revenge was sweetest when it was served up cold and logical; where Evelyn was concerned, heat and lust were the emotions he still wanted satisfied. Proper females didn’t kidnap people. And no one had ever bothered trying to deal with him before. He held all the good cards, and she couldn’t walk away from this game. Not until he let her.
Chapter 16
There be none of beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me.
—Lord Byron, Stanzas for Music
Pemberly tossed the third ruined neckcloth of the morning onto the floor. “My lord, perhaps if you could inform me of the style you wish to achieve, I could be more helpful.”
Saint scowled at his reflection in the dressing mirror. “If I knew, I would do it myself. Just something more…dull.”
“Dull? You wish to be poorly dressed, my lord?”
“No! Plain. Not ostentatious. Harmless-looking. Whatever it says under ‘proper gentleman’ in the thesaurus.”
“Ah.” The valet muttered something under his breath.
Saint narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”
“I—nothing, my lord. My—” He cleared his throat as Saint continued to gaze at him. “I only said that if your intent is to appear harmless, perhaps you should send someone else in your stead.”
The valet had a point. “Do your best, Pemberly. I don’t expect a miracle.”
“Very good, my lord.”
If Saint hadn’t already decided that he felt keen anticipation at putting his plan into motion, he would have thought himself nervous. That, of course, made no sense, because he was never nervous.
As he descended the stairs to the main floor of his home, he noticed that the tenderness in his ankle was nearly gone. Other pains remained, however, especially an unpleasant ache located somewhere beneath his ribs that only seemed to ease when he was in Evelyn’s presence. Someone really needed to post a warning about proper chits. “Is the phaeton ready?” he asked Jansen, accepting his hat and driving gloves.
“Yes, my lord. And the…rest, just as you instructed.”
“Good.” He stepped through the front door as the butler pulled it open, then paused. “I expect to return home this evening. If I don’t, you may consider me missing and in peril.”
The butler chuckled. “Very good, my lord. Best of luck with your peril, then.”
Saint sighed. It was simply no use to assume that anyone would care if he vanished again or not. “Thank you.”
He went down the front steps and climbed up to the phaeton’s high seat. His liveried tiger jumped onto the narrow back behind him as he sent the team into the street.
Hundreds of carriages, carts, horses, and pedestrians crowded the streets of Mayfair. Eleven o’clock in the morning had seemed a civilized hour to call on someone, but as he joined the slow-moving crush he couldn’t help wondering if an earlier hour might have been better. If she’d gone out already he was not going to be pleased. But he’d warned her that he would call on her this morning. By his pocket watch it would still be morning for another fifty-three minutes. That answered that. She had best be home.
He arrived at Ruddick House with thirty-seven minutes to spare. His tiger held the horses while he lifted a bundle from the seat and made his way to the front door.
From the butler’s blank, efficient expression, the man had no idea who he was. “I’m here to see Miss Ruddick.”
“May I say who is calling?”
“St. Aubyn.”
The butler’s professional countenance collapsed as his jaw dropped open. “St. Aubyn? Y…yes, my lord. Pl…please…ah…wait here, and I shall inquire whether Miss Ruddick is…home.”
The door closed in Saint’s face. Evidently even wearing Pemberly’s version of a plain neckcloth didn’t make him look harmless enough to be admitted to the foyer. On another occasion he might simply have opened the door and followed the butler in. Today, however, he would wait.
After five minutes of standing on the portico, he was ready to change his mind. As he reached for the doorknob, though, the door opened again.
“This way, my lord.”
Saint followed the servant down the hallway and into the morning room. The news of his arrival had spread already, judging from the number of maids and footmen who suddenly had business in the hall.
“Lord St. Aubyn,” the butler said, throwing open the door and then escaping.
Saint strolled into the room—and stopped. Evelyn sat in one of the deep green couches tucked into the cozy room, but she wasn’t alone. “Miss Ruddick, Lady Dare, Miss Barrett,” he said, nodding, though he kept his gaze on Evelyn, trying to analyze and explain away the raw heat that ran through his veins as their eyes met.
She’d tried to outmaneuver him, then, by providing witnesses. Not a bad strategy, considering that if anyone else learned of the kidnapping or her subsequent indiscretion, he wouldn’t be able to hold it over her any longer. And her brother thought her stupid.
“Lord St. Aubyn,” Evelyn said, not moving, “how nice of you to stop by this morning.”
He smiled. “I feel somewhat sheepish,” he drawled, cursing her silently. Didn’t she realize by now that he had no idea how to be a proper gentleman? A little warning would have been nice, so at least he might have practiced propriety before venturing out with the act in public. “I’d hoped to take you on a picnic today.” He held out the bundle in his hand. “I brought you roses.”
“They’re lovely, aren’t they, Evie?” Miss Barrett said, with far too much enthusiasm.
“Yes, they are. Thank you.”
Evelyn knew he wanted to see her alone. She also knew he wouldn’t simply hand her the bouquet of roses, wish her a good day, and leave. The only defense she could think of in the short time she had between last night and this morning, though, had been to invite her friends over for a chat.
“We heard you had to leave town for a few days,” Georgiana said, favoring Evie with a quick glance that clearly said, What the devil is he doing here? “I trust everything is well?”
He nodded, strolled over, and without being asked, seated himself on the couch beside Evelyn. “I had a few knots to unravel,” he returned conversationally, his friendly tone surprising her even with the accompanying innuendo. He was never so nice—not without reason.
Oh, he was impossible, and even worse now that she knew how very good and wicked he could make her feel. In fairness he probably heard such compliments from females he’d bedded all the time, so he never saw any reason to alter his behavior. Evie scowled. She wasn’t jealous, of course; she merely felt sorry for all of those poor ladies.
Her friends had been correct: She should have chosen another orphanage, and another student to reform—one who didn’t cause such havoc with her insides. It was too late now, however, to
do anything but attempt to minimize the damage she’d stupidly caused.
Belatedly she realized that everyone was looking at her. Say something, she told herself. “Would you care to join us for tea?”
“Thank you, but no. My tiger and phaeton are waiting for us.”
He handed her the bouquet, brushing her fingers with his as he did so. Evie waited for the resulting jangled thrill of nerves at the skin-to-skin contact. She swallowed. Her own lack of discipline and restraint frustrated her, but she wasn’t entirely certain whether to blame it on him or herself.
Lucinda cleared her throat. “I, ah, wasn’t aware that you enjoyed picnics, my lord.”
“Evelyn has told me I should spend more time in the daylight,” he answered. “This is my first attempt. Shall we, Miss Ruddick?”
Oh, he was clever. He might not know of the pact she and her friends had made, but he’d guessed enough to know she would have mentioned her dismay at his poor behavior.
“I can’t abandon my friends,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so shrill. “Perhaps another time, my lord.”
Green eyes met hers, and she felt her cheeks warm. “Today,” he murmured, leaning close to her shoulder, “or I’ll use the time to go see Prinny and finalize my transaction.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His teeth showed as he grinned. “I’ve had my cook prepare pheasant sandwiches,” he continued in a more conversational tone. “You’re particularly fond of them, I believe.”
Lucinda and Georgiana remained silent, watching the exchange with interest even though they couldn’t hear all of it. They wouldn’t volunteer to leave unless she signaled that they should, but the events of the morning obviously had them baffled. They had her baffled, as well, and even more flustered.
“Evie?” Victor leaned into the room. “Langley tells me that St. Aubyn is…Ah, St. Aubyn. Good morning.”
Even knowing the strength of her brother’s political ambitions, she couldn’t quite believe it when he entered the room and offered his hand to Saint. Still more astonishing, the marquis stood to shake it.
London's Perfect Scoundrel Page 19