London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  That began the conversation, which he’d interrupted with his arrival, going again, and served to remind Victor that he was the reason Wellington was chatting with him now. Not bad, for one sentence. Taking a breath, he settled the napkin in his lap and raised his eyes.

  Evelyn sat chatting with Clarence Alvington, having apparently found the pearl pin in the fop’s cravat an item of unparalleled interest. She was being charming again, no doubt on her brother’s behalf, but Saint wondered whether she’d yet figured out why Mr. Ruddick kept sending Alvington in her direction.

  He’d figured it out, and he didn’t like it one damned bit. “Clarence, I haven’t seen you at Gentleman Jackson’s lately,” he drawled, digging into the roast pork as soon as a footman brought it by.

  “No, I’m afraid I’ve been engaged with writing a poem,” the Neckcloth answered, sending a fond glance in Evelyn’s direction.

  Saint wanted to strangle the bastard. “A poem?”

  “A sonnet, actually.”

  He and Clarence had little in common, and they certainly traveled in different circles. The outlandish intricacy of his neckcloth and the near-to-bursting seams of his waistcoat and jacket, however, gave Saint a fair indication of just how good his poetry was likely to be. As a longtime gambler, he was willing to risk Evelyn’s admiration of the piece. “Why don’t you regale us with it, then?”

  The dandy blushed. “Oh, it’s not quite ready yet.”

  “You’re among friends,” Saint insisted, smiling his most charming smile. “And the composition of poetry fascinates me.”

  “You don’t need to recite it if you don’t wish to, Mr. Alvington,” Evelyn said in a low voice, sending a brief glare in Saint’s direction.

  “Oh, Clarence is such a talent,” his mother put in with a chuckle. “While he was away at school, he would send us a composition every week.”

  “Truly admirable,” Saint said, nodding. If this was what proper folk spent their evenings doing, he was glad to be considered a scoundrel.

  “Very well,” Clarence said, beaming. Clearing his throat, he stood. “As I said, it’s still a work in process, but I shall relish hearing your opinion of it.”

  “Good God,” Lord Alvington said under his breath, but Saint pretended not to hear.

  “‘On a bright summer’s morn in London’s fair streets,’” Clarence began, “‘I chanced upon a sight of dreams and sighs./ Delight and happy thoughts drove me from my carriage seat,/ To look up close upon an angel in earthly guise.’”

  A blush began to climb Evelyn’s cheeks. She sent another glance at Saint, who returned her gaze, willing her to realize just why Clarence Alvington had begun addressing poetry to earthly angels.

  “‘I spoke to the maiden and asked for her name,/ But she answered with a sweet, soft blush,/ As pure as the dew the sun tries to tame,/ Silent, and yet still enough to make my heart to hush.’”

  “‘Blush’ and ‘hush,’” his mother simpered. “That’s so lovely, dear. Do go on.”

  “‘Oh, Evelyn, Evelyn, my soul’s delight’—and see, I’ve used ‘delight’ twice, so I need to make a different rhyme there,” he continued, “‘I see thee in every star at night,/ And when the day comes ’round to light,/ I see thee still in the sunshine bright.’”

  While everyone applauded, Saint watched Evelyn. Her gaze went from Clarence to her brother and back again, her expression growing grimmer with each passing second. “That’s lovely, Mr. Alvington,” she finally said, taking a large swallow of wine. “I…”

  “I thought a sonnet had fourteen lines,” Saint said, when Evelyn looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to scream or begin pummeling poets. “But I only counted twelve.”

  “Yes, I’ve modified the form somewhat, but I think rhyming the last four lines gives it a sense of serene completeness.”

  “Indeed it does,” he agreed, raising his glass in Alvington’s direction. “A stunning composition.”

  “Thank you, St. Aubyn. I have to admit, I hadn’t expected to find you an admirer of the fine arts.”

  “I believe Lord St. Aubyn admires anything which can be used for empty flattery and subterfuge,” Evelyn said smoothly, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

  Well, at least she was speaking at him, if not to him. “I’m certain Mr. Alvington didn’t intend empty flattery, Miss Ruddick,” he returned.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Lady Alvington protested.

  “That’s…that’s not what I meant,” Evelyn said, her flush deepening. “I only meant that poetry may be used for empty flattery, and that is how I imagine Lord St. Aubyn would utilize it.”

  Saint lifted an eyebrow. “Do you imagine me often, Miss Ruddick?”

  “Evie,” her mother said sharply, “please refrain from insulting your uncle’s guests.”

  “He’s not a guest,” she retorted, throwing her napkin onto the table and rising, “he invited himself.”

  “Evie!”

  She glanced at her brother as she stormed out of the room. “I have a headache,” she snapped, her voice breaking, and slammed the door open and closed again behind her.

  Saint looked after her for a moment. He’d separated her from Clarence, but obviously he hadn’t earned any credit for it. And tomorrow she would still hate him, but the idiotic pseudo-sonnet would be forgotten. Giving himself an additional day of her hate was not what he wanted, and it wasn’t what he had in mind.

  “Tell me, Your Grace,” he said into the silence, “have you decided to mentor anyone for the House this Season? Despite my…conflict of opinion with Miss Ruddick, her brother is an upstanding fellow—quite the opposite of myself in nearly every way, in fact.”

  “I refuse to be bartered to Clarence Alvington in exchange for your seat in Parliament!” Evie shouted, striding back and forth before the morning room fireplace.

  Victor looked up from his newspaper, then went back to reading. “He’s handsome enough, and from good family. Besides, Lord Alvington guarantees me enough votes to defeat Plimpton.”

  “He’s an idiot!” she exploded. “And he dresses like a baboon! Don’t you care that I’ll be miserable?”

  “He seems very fond of you, dear,” her mother added from across the room, where she was busily addressing correspondence—probably wedding invitations. “And you have to admit, you’d never choose anyone on your own.”

  “I’d never choose him; that’s for certain. Victor, you didn’t even say anything to me about it. Instead I have to find out in front of…well, everyone, when he recited that stupid nonsonnet.”

  Her brother’s eyes lifted above the paper, then vanished again. “St. Aubyn seemed fond enough of it.”

  “St. Aubyn was making fun of it,” she retorted. “‘Light, bright, night, delight.’ For heaven’s sake. I would have laughed at it, too, except I was too occupied with trying not to vomit.”

  The newspaper snapped down. “That’s enough, Evie. Nothing has been decided. Clarence Alvington has merely expressed an interest in you. And he’s fairly harmless. An alliance would help me, and marriage to him would do little to upset your social calendar.”

  “I—”

  “As Mother said, you’ve had five years to find someone. Clarence would maintain and even elevate your status, and at least one of us has a use for him—which is more than I can say for certain other of your male acquaintances. I’m speaking to him again today, though after your…performance last night, he may have changed his mind about you.”

  Evie jabbed a finger in his face. “I will not marry Clarence Alvington. I’d rather have no one,” she enunciated, and turned on her heel.

  She yanked open the door and nearly ran into Langley as he raised his hand to rap. “I beg your pardon, Miss Ruddick,” he said, narrowly missing knocking on her bosom.

  “I’m going out.”

  “Good. So am I.”

  Only then did she notice the shadowed figure standing behind the butler, waiting to be announced. Saint. Even th
ough she was so angry and hurt and disappointed in him that she wanted to scream, her body still reacted as it always did to his presence. Her heart sped, and her nerves jangled all the way to the tips of her toes. “I’m not going with you.”

  “But I have something to show you,” he murmured, walking around Langley to confront her as though the butler had simply ceased to exist.

  He couldn’t be attempting to seduce her now. Not after what he’d done. “No.”

  Saint clasped her elbow, his touch more gentle than she expected. “Come with me,” he whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair with his lips. “I hold all of your secrets, remember?”

  Someone was absolutely going to get punched in the head today. “I hate you,” she whispered back, then faced the morning room again. “Lord St. Aubyn, who introduced you to Wellington and feels you owe him a favor in return, wishes to take me to the zoo. Sally and I will return in time for luncheon.”

  Victor grunted something that sounded like an assent, so she sent Langley to fetch Sally and stalked off to the foyer, the marquis on her heels. Everyone seemed content to determine the entire course of her life without bothering to consult her about any of it. Her protests, her screams, didn’t make any difference.

  “Let me guess,” Saint drawled. “I’m interrupting the scheduling of an outing with Clarence Alvington, yes?”

  So he’d realized what Victor was planning, too. Saint missed very little, so she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. “You may blackmail me into accompanying you,” she muttered, “but I will not be conversing with you.”

  “As you wish, my flower.”

  Sally hurried down the stairs to join them, and Evelyn led the way outside. Whatever he had planned, her maid’s presence would prevent him from attempting further seductions. And as desperately as she wanted to escape that house, even St. Aubyn counted as an improvement.

  “I hope you’re impressed,” he continued. “I brought the curricle so the entire entourage could ride. Are you certain you don’t wish to include the butler or the gardener in our party?”

  Since she wasn’t talking to him, she settled for sniffing and giving her hand to a groom to assist her into the vehicle. Apparently undaunted by her silence, Saint joined her on the low seat and clucked to the matched pair of grays.

  She realized that she should have asked him where they were going before she’d decided not to speak to him. With her maid present and with her family knowing she’d return by noon, however, he wouldn’t have much time for his mischief-making. She offered him a quick glance. Saint could make a great deal of mischief in a very short time. She’d learned that firsthand at the theater.

  After fifteen minutes it became obvious that they weren’t going to the zoo or to Hyde Park. “Where are we going?” she finally asked.

  “I thought we weren’t conversing.”

  “This is not conversing,” she pointed out. “It’s a question about our destination. Please answer it.”

  He gave her a sideways glance. “No. It’s a surprise.”

  Fine. He wanted to be difficult. Well, she could be difficult, too. “You do recall that I said I hated you.”

  Saint nodded, his gaze hardening. “I recall several unflattering comments you made to me. I will expect an eventual apology for all of them.”

  “Never.”

  “‘Never’ is a very long time, Evelyn Marie.”

  “Precisely.”

  They turned onto an old, tree-lined street, large houses of a long-ago faded gentry on either side. A scrawny black dog trotted across the lane in front of them. His barking made the horses start, but with no visible effort the marquis drew them back under his control.

  Half a block farther on, he guided the curricle to the right side of the street and stopped. A coach, large and black with closed curtains, waited opposite them. A faint stir of uneasiness went through Evelyn. She’d kidnapped him, and she could abruptly think of no reason why he wouldn’t do the same to her. This quiet old street would certainly be the perfect place for it.

  Saint tied off the reins and jumped to the ground. Coming around to her side of the curricle, he lifted his hand to her. She didn’t want to touch him, because when she did, she couldn’t seem to remember how much of a scoundrel he was. Neither, though, did she wish to try clambering to the ground in her dress and walking slippers. Taking a breath, she stood. As she did so, however, he stepped closer, sliding both hands around her waist and lifting her to the ground.

  “Let go of me,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on his plain, neat cravat so she wouldn’t be tempted to look him in the eye. Kissing and touching and all kinds of nonsense could follow that, and she was too angry with him to want that to happen.

  “For now,” he returned, and released her. “Shall we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strolled across the street and up the short, curving drive of the largest of the old manor houses. Her curiosity outweighing her caution, Evie trailed after him.

  At the door they were met by an elderly gentleman with a slight stoop and a limp. “Lord St. Aubyn, I presume?” he asked, offering his hand.

  Saint shook it. “Sir Peter Ludlow. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “No trouble at all.” He glanced past the marquis at Evie. “Would you and your lady like a tour?”

  “N—”

  “Yes, we would,” Saint interrupted her, offering his arm. “Thank you again.”

  Well, he was certainly being polite, suddenly. With Sally following, they entered the old mansion. Their quiet footsteps echoed in the large, empty hallway, and Evelyn closed her fingers more tightly around Saint’s arm. Whatever he was up to, she wasn’t going to let him out of her sight until they were safely back at her home.

  “As you no doubt saw yesterday,” Sir Peter was saying as he limped into the lead, “most of the furniture and the window coverings are long gone, but the floor’s sound, and the walls and roof were patched and repaired after the rain last winter.”

  “How many rooms again?” Saint asked.

  “Twenty-seven. That includes two upstairs sitting rooms, the library, and the morning room downstairs. The ballroom and drawing room are both on the third floor, with the music room, and the dining room is just down this way. A dozen servants’ rooms are belowstairs, along with the kitchen and pantry.”

  “Saint,” Evie said, beginning to wonder whether he really did mean to keep her prisoner in the large old house.

  “Hush,” he murmured. “Let’s see the dining room, why don’t we?”

  A few yards farther down the hallway, Sir Peter pushed open a wide set of double doors. The room seemed closer to a medieval dining hall, with space for perhaps seventy-five guests in its long rectangle.

  Saint pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, scrawled something across it with a sad stub of a pencil, and handed it to Sir Peter. Evie thought the older gentleman’s eyes widened for a moment before he nodded.

  “Have your solicitor see mine,” he said, pulling a key from his pocket. “And you may have this now.”

  The marquis took the key and, to Evelyn’s surprise, offered his hand again. “Thank you, Sir Peter.”

  “And thank you, lad. I like a fellow who doesn’t feel the need to bargain.” He tipped his hat at Evie. “Good day, my lady.”

  As soon as the front door closed, Evelyn released her grip on Saint’s arm. “You obviously wanted me to witness this. So what is going on?” she demanded.

  Saint pursed his lips. “Excuse your maid.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m not telling you anything.”

  He meant it; she knew him well enough to realize that. Scowling, she faced her maid. “Sally, please wait just outside,” she instructed, “but return in no longer than five minutes.”

  Sally dipped a curtsy. “Yes, Miss Ruddick.”

  Once the maid was gone, Evie turned her attention on St. Aubyn again. Five minutes was both far too long and far too short a time to be a
long with him, but she steeled herself to be ready for anything. “All right, we’re alone,” she prompted. “And whatever…nefarious thing you have in mind, just remember that you deserved what I did to you.”

  Saint gazed at her for the space of several heartbeats. “And you deserve this, I think,” he said in a quiet voice, then held out the key. “Congratulations.”

  She frowned, but took the key from his fingers—both because she would then be able to escape if he attempted to lock her in, and because she wanted to touch him. “You’re giving me an old house?” she asked skeptically.

  Saint shook his head. “I’m giving you a new orphanage.”

  Evelyn stopped breathing. “What?”

  “Fully furnished, eventually, in whatever style you choose. And staffed however you see fit, though I feel compelled to protest the continued employment of Mrs. Natham.”

  Clutching the key hard in one hand, Evelyn stared at him. It made no sense. He’d finally escaped his obligation to an establishment he detested, only to purchase another one? “Wh…why?”

  “I talked to Prinny, but he refused to risk losing face by withdrawing his plans the day after he’d announced them. I’ve discovered that it’s difficult to convince a country’s ruler, even a Regent, to do what you want once the blasted thing is printed in the newspaper.”

  “But you hate the orphanage. Why go through all this?”

  A small smile touched his sensuous mouth. “I told you I would make it right.”

  She could breathe again, but now her heart was pounding so hard she feared he could hear it. “So you did this”—and she gestured at the grand old building around them—“for…me?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, my goodness. “I don’t know what to say, Saint. This is…extraordinary.”

  He tilted his head at her. “But?” he prompted, old cynicism touching his green eyes. “There’s something. I can see it in your face.”