London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Yes, I had. Such a fine gentleman, he is.”

  Evie rose as well, though everyone ignored her until Clarence Alvington strolled into the box. That explained the empty chair. She was being bartered again. Hiding her disgust behind a smile, she dipped a curtsy as Clarence took her gloved hand and bowed over it.

  “You are a vision this evening, Miss Ruddick,” he drawled.

  “Indeed,” said Lady Alvington. “Wherever did you get that necklace, my dear? It’s exquisite.”

  Reaching up to touch the silver heart with the diamond inside, Evelyn was tempted to tell them all precisely where the necklace had come from. She couldn’t quite convince herself, though, that it would be worth the ruin just to see the looks on their faces. “It’s an old family heirloom,” she said instead, and caught her mother’s quick frown. “One of Grandmother’s, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I believe so.” Barely sparing her a glance, Genevieve Ruddick sat again. “Tell me, Mr. Alvington, how have you been occupying your days?”

  “How kind of you to ask, Mrs. Ruddick. I have recently begun designing a completely new style of neckcloth.” Clarence tilted up his pointed chin, revealing a cravat tied in so intricate a manner that he and his valet must have begun working on it when he arose that morning. “You see?” he indicated, trying to view his audience with his chin still pointed skyward. “I call it the Mercury Knot.”

  While everyone gushed over his neckcloth, Evelyn nodded and turned to the more interesting distraction of looking at the occupants of the other boxes. Two farther back from the stage, Lord and Lady Dare had taken seats together with Dare’s two aunts and all of his grown brothers but Robert, the one who had been wounded at Waterloo and who rarely appeared in public at all these days. On the far side of the stage Lucinda sat with her father, General Barrett, and an assortment of his distinguished military and political friends.

  The lights dimmed, and with a quick wave and smile at Luce, she took her seat. As the curtains rose, the flash of an opera glass caught her attention, and she glanced toward the massively expensive boxes closest to the stage to see who was staring at her. The pair of binoculars aimed in her direction lowered, revealing the lean, amused countenance of the Marquis of St. Aubyn.

  Her breath caught. His family had owned a Drury Lane box for ages, but as far as she knew, he never attended such tame events as these. But there he was—and he wasn’t alone. Sitting with him were a handful of his raffish male and female acquaintances, including one overly-made-up blond woman with a very large bosom, which she seemed intent on pressing against Saint’s arm.

  A keen ache shoved its way into her chest. So, despite his recent attentions to her, he considered her no different than any of his other fallen female conquests, a woman to be bedded, taunted for it, and forgotten. Fine. That was fine. She’d only been curious to discover what being with him would be like, anyway.

  “What play is this?” Clarence whispered a few moments later, leaning over and giving her a whiff of his very strong cologne.

  “As You Like It,” she returned, more tartly than she intended. The title was on the playbill he held in one hand, for heaven’s sake.

  “Ah. One of Shakespeare’s.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Someone nudged the back of her chair. Victor, no doubt, warning her to behave. She looked across Clarence’s massive neckcloth at Saint again. If he could still be…content in the company of his box fellows, and if he could practically flaunt that woman with the large bosom in front of her, then he hadn’t learned anything. Evie frowned. Or was she the one who hadn’t learned her lesson, despite what practically everyone she knew, including Saint, had told her about him?

  Victor’s cheek brushed her ear. “Stop scowling,” he whispered almost soundlessly.

  Oh, she needed to get away for a moment, away from where everyone in the theater could see every expression on her face, every tear in her eyes. “My stomach is unsettled,” she whispered back. “I need to get some water.”

  “Then go. But hurry back.”

  With an apologetic murmur, she stood and made her way through the heavy curtains at the back of the box. She wanted to sag against the wall and cry, but footmen wandered from box to box in the corridor, delivering drinks and opera glasses and whatever else the occupants required. At her whispered query, one of them directed her to a nearby curtained alcove, and she slipped inside just as the first tear ran down her cheek.

  Saint shifted his chair, trying to put more distance between himself and Deliah’s eager bosom. He shouldn’t have invited anyone along tonight, but he would have looked like an idiot sitting in a six-person box all by himself.

  He looked back at Evelyn again, as he seemed to need to do every two minutes or so, to find her chair empty. He stood.

  “Saint, bring me a brandy,” Deliah cooed.

  Ignoring her, he exited the box and headed along the wide corridor toward the Ruddick family’s seats. No sign of Evelyn. Deciding she’d probably gone back in, he muttered a quiet curse and turned around again. And paused as he heard a sniffle coming from behind the nearest privacy curtain.

  “Evelyn?” he whispered, hoping to God it wasn’t Fatima or some other female of his acquaintance.

  “Go away.”

  Thank Lucifer. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  He pushed aside the curtain to see her facing the wall, her hands over her face. “If you’re hiding, it’s not working,” he murmured. “I can see you.”

  “I saw you, too. Enjoying yourself?”

  “Not really. I keep hoping Deliah will lean so far she’ll fall out of the box, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

  Lowering her hands, she faced him. “Why are you here?”

  With a glance up the corridor, he stepped into the alcove and pulled the curtain closed behind him. “Why do you think?” he asked, and covered her mouth with his.

  He pressed her into the corner, kissing her, tasting her again. Evelyn was breathing hard and fast, meeting his lips with hers. Gloved fingers slipped over his shoulders, pulling him hard against her.

  “Someone will find us,” she panted, moaning as he lifted his hands from her hips to cover her breasts.

  “Shh.”

  As soon as he saw her there, Saint had gone hard, and he absolutely was not going to give her a chance to escape. Kissing her again and again, hot and openmouthed, only made his aching for her worse. No woman had ever aroused him as she did. Reluctant to let go of her but very aware that they had little time, he released her breasts and guided her hands down to his trousers.

  “Here?” she gasped against his lips.

  “I want you,” he returned, moving her fingers across the hard bulge in his trousers. Then he slid his own hands down her skirt, gathered handfuls of the material and lifted, drawing her dress up past her knees. “Do you feel how much I want you, Evelyn Marie? Do you want me?”

  If she said no, he probably would have expired on the spot, but thankfully she began unfastening his trousers with anxious, shaking fingers. “Hurry, Saint,” she begged, silent but for the whisper of breath against his mouth.

  She freed him, and he lifted her in his arms, pulling her legs around his hips. With a groan he entered her, keeping her pinned between himself and the wall as he strongly pumped his hips against her. Her tight warmth welcomed him. Her harsh, fast breathing brought him to the edge of reason. This was perfection, being inside Evelyn, the joining, becoming one with her.

  He felt her come, and captured her moan against his mouth, letting her ecstasy pull him forward into his own. With an almost animal growl he joined her, pressing her so hard against the wall he feared he’d cut off her air.

  Breathing hard, he held her, her arms around his neck and her ankles and dainty slippered feet locked around his hips. Even now, still inside her, with the scent of her hair surrounding him and her warm, lithe body in his arms, he craved her, didn’t want to let her go.

&n
bsp; “Saint?” she whispered unsteadily, licking his jaw.

  “Hm?”

  “What is your middle name?”

  He lifted his face away from her bare shoulder to gaze into her light gray eyes. “Edward.”

  She smiled. “Michael Edward Halboro,” she murmured, running her fingers along his cheek with a surprising gentleness, “is it always like that? So…good?”

  “No, it’s not.” Saint kissed her again, slowly, relishing the touch of her soft lips against his.

  “Evie?” her mother’s hushed voice came from out in the corridor. “Where in the world are you?”

  Evelyn stiffened in his arms, stark terror crossing her face. “Oh, no, no, no,” she breathed. “Let me go.”

  Obviously now was not the time to argue. Saint lifted her away from him so she could put her feet back on the floor and lower her skirt. “I’m here, Mama,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll be right out. My stomach is unsettled.”

  “Well, hurry up. Your brother is furious. He thinks you’re trying to avoid Mr. Alvington.”

  Saint fastened his trousers again while Evelyn attempted to straighten her dress. Taking a breath, she nodded and reached for the curtains.

  Before she could escape, Saint grasped her elbow and turned her to face him again. Shaking his head to let her know that he wasn’t letting her escape completely, he ran a finger along the low neckline of her gown, then leaned down and kissed her once more.

  “Evie!”

  “I’m coming,” she said, putting a hand against his chest to push him against the far wall. She half opened the curtains, leaving him concealed in the shadows, and stepped back into the dimly lit corridor.

  Saint stayed in the alcove, listening as the Ruddick ladies’ footsteps receded toward their box. He’d kept her secret for her—again. No one knew they’d become lovers; no one but the two of them. As many mistresses as he’d had over the years, it was heady, knowing that he was the first and only man to make love to her.

  But what had her mother said? Something about Evelyn not avoiding Clarence Alvington. So that was her brother’s scheme. Lord Alvington had little money, but he did own several properties in, and therefore had a great deal of influence over, the voting in West Sussex. That made the calculation simple: In exchange for handing Ruddick a seat in the House of Commons, the Alvington family would acquire Evelyn and her purse.

  Saint glanced up and down the corridor, then slipped out of the alcove. He wondered whether Evelyn realized she’d been sold. And if she thought it difficult now to devote time and money to orphans, once her income belonged to Clarence Alvington, any charity at all would be impossible. Her entire stipend would undoubtedly go to neckcloths, racehorses, and wagering.

  Of course, Saint would be finished with her by then, so it wouldn’t signify. And it wouldn’t bother him that thin-necked, thick-headed, high-shirt pointed Neckcloth Alvington would have nightly access to her bed and to her sweet body.

  “Saint, where’s my brandy?” Deliah asked as he dropped into the seat beside her again.

  “Get it yourself.”

  He sat and stared at the stage for the next hour, though the actors might have been reciting nursery rhymes, for all the attention he paid. With Wellington captured for the dinner party, Victor Ruddick owed him at least one more outing with Evelyn. She’d probably try to make a few more visits to the orphanage, as well, so he could intercept her there. Considering he’d only given the place four more weeks of existence, his chances to see her in private would then end.

  Saint glanced over his shoulder at the Ruddick box. The fop was whispering something at Evelyn that she was plainly trying to ignore. As Saint watched, her gaze lifted to meet his, and then she quickly looked away again.

  This was intolerable, wanting her so much that he couldn’t sleep, and barely being allowed to look in her direction, while the entire time someone else plotted to remove her from his grasp entirely. If he knew anything about his Evelyn, whatever he might wish, she would not consent to be his mistress once she was married, no matter how miserable she might be.

  So he needed to get rid of Clarence Alvington, which meant he needed to be the one to secure a seat in Parliament or a Cabinet position for Victor Ruddick. And he needed to see Prinny and delay the destruction of the orphanage, because once it was gone, she would never look at him again.

  “Saint?”

  He started. “What is it, Deliah?”

  “Intermission.”

  The lights had gone up, and he was staring at a curtained stage while the boxes around him emptied and members of Society wandered out to mingle and be seen. He stood. “Good. I’m leaving.”

  Deliah stood beside him, tugging down the front of her dress to better display her wares. “Lovely. I thought you might be wanting a taste of something,” she murmured, running her tongue along her lips.

  “I’ve already eaten. Good evening.”

  Oh, no. She’d become one of those harlots everyone heard rumors about, the ones who had sex with St. Aubyn in broom closets, on terraces, on chairs while their husbands dozed beside them.

  Evelyn put her hand across her eyes as the Barrett barouche emerged into the sunlight between the shops of Regent Street. And even worse, she enjoyed being his harlot, his mistress, his lover. He was so…direct. Everyone knew that he took what he wanted—and he obviously wanted her. Being the object of his attentions was so incredibly arousing, she could hardly stand it when they were apart. Perhaps she could stop by the orphanage this afternoon. He might meet her there.

  “Well, I never thought it would happen,” Lucinda was saying, and Evie jerked to attention.

  “I’m sorry, but what were we talking about?”

  “Your apparent success with St. Aubyn. An entire picnic during which, as you reported, he was a perfect gentleman, and now last night he stayed for the entire first half of As You Like It. I can think of no other explanation but your lessons in civility and propriety.”

  Yes, she and Saint were both so proper and civilized that they’d disappeared to have standing-up sex behind a curtain. “I tend to think it’s just circumstance and coincidence.”

  “Does he continue to say shocking things to you?” Lucinda asked, her cheeks dimpling as she grinned.

  “At every opportunity,” Evie said, relieved to be able to speak the complete truth for once.

  “But no more stolen items?”

  Only her virginity. “No. Nothing I’ve discovered, anyway.”

  Lucinda gave a loud sigh. “Evie, what’s wrong? Really? You can tell me anything, you know.”

  “I know.” Frowning, she searched for something she was prepared to tell her friend, without Lucinda thinking she was a complete and utter fool. “He’s given me four weeks to convince him about the orphanage. I’ve already tried…everything. I have no idea what to say that will change his mind now, when nothing else has.”

  Lucinda’s brow furrowed. “But Evie…”

  Cold fingers wrapped around her heart. “But what?”

  “I’m not entirely certain, so please keep that in mind,” Lucinda said, taking her hands and squeezing them, “but I heard yesterday that Parliament has approved Prince George’s expansion of the new park.”

  A roaring began in her ears, louder and louder until she could barely hear Lucinda’s words. “No,” she whispered. He’d promised. Four weeks. She’d been with him last night, as eager as he was for the joining, and he’d said nothing.

  She gave a harsh laugh. Of course he hadn’t said anything. If he had, she would never—never—have let him touch her again.

  And she’d begun to think that perhaps, maybe, he was learning. That he’d changed, at least a little, and that maybe he even…cared about her. He said such nice things, sometimes—but now she knew it was all lies. All of it. And she’d thought he always told the truth. That she could trust him. Ha.

  “Lucinda,” she said, realizing tears had begun running down her cheeks, “will you please do me a ver
y, very large favor?”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “I need you to go with me to St. Aubyn’s residence. Right now.”

  “St. Aub…Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m quite certain.”

  Lucinda evidently believed her, because she nodded and sat forward. “Griffin, we have a change of plans. Please take us to Lord St. Aubyn’s house.”

  The driver actually turned around to look at his employer. “Miss Barrett? Did you say—”

  “You heard me. At once, if you please.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Saint leaned over the railing. “Jansen, have we heard from Carlton House yet?”

  The butler emerged into the hallway. “Not yet, my lord. I assure you, I will inform you immediately.”

  “Immediately,” Saint repeated, retreating into his office to pace while he waited for permission to see Prinny. Saving the orphanage was at least something about which he could take action, while he tried to determine how best to undermine Alvington and secure a seat for Ruddick. Thank God, Prince George couldn’t do anything without Parliament, someone else’s money, and a thousand advisors. And some fine claret. He stalked to the door again.

  “Jansen, I need a case of my best claret.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

  Leaving the orphanage open would mean keeping him leg-shackled to the damned place. It wasn’t forever, he reminded himself, cursing. Just until he’d figured out what to do about Evelyn. Another opportunity would come along, or perhaps he could stall the entire park idea for a few months.

  Jansen scratched at the half-open door. “My lord?”

  “Did you find the claret?”

  “Ah, no, my lord. You have callers.”

  “I’m not in.”

  “Female callers.”

  “Then I’m definitely not in. Get the damned claret. I’m off to Carlton House as soon as I receive permission to visit.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Usurping Alvington would be trickier. His own influence in West Sussex was negligible. He had no properties there and no acquaintances who did. Neither did he recall any information he held over anyone there that he could use against them if they didn’t help.