London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  The boy sat up, rubbing his wrist. “Damn me. Nobles can’t do that. Where’d you learn it?”

  “You’re not the first fellow to aim a weapon at me,” Saint said dryly. “Get up.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to jail.”

  “Now’s a fine time to decide that.”

  “I ain’t goin’.”

  Saint sighed. “No jails, no dungeons, and no chains. I’m not above clubbing you across the skull if you misbehave, however, to return the favor you did me.”

  Glaring, Randall scrambled to his feet. “Miss Evie thought I’d killed you. I tried, but you’ve got a hard head.”

  Saint sent out another silent thanks to whomever might be listening that Randall Baker hadn’t turned his rather homicidal attentions in Evelyn’s direction. If the boy had hurt or even frightened her, Saint wouldn’t have been feeling nearly as charitable as he was this evening.

  Keeping Randall in front of him in case the lad decided to try pummeling him with something else, they went downstairs to Saint’s office. The servants hadn’t wasted any time in going to bed, but that was fine with him. He really didn’t want any witnesses seeing him practically holding an infant at gunpoint, anyway.

  “Sit there,” he said, indicating the pair of chairs facing the desk.

  Still eyeing him suspiciously, Randall sat.

  Saint took the chair behind the desk, laid the pistol at his elbow within easy reach, and shoved a small stack of papers in Randall’s direction. “Has Miss Evie worked a miracle with you, or shall I read the top page there to you?”

  The boy scowled. “I read a little.”

  Hiding his surprise, Saint nodded. Evelyn had worked a miracle or two, apparently. “Then read,” he said, striking a light and turning up the lamp.

  Mouthing the words, Randall went to work. He looked up after an excruciating five minutes. “What’s this word?”

  Saint leaned forward. “Annualized. It means the property taxes will be refigured once a year.” For a moment he watched the growing frustration on the young man’s face as Randall tried to decipher what had to be nearly a foreign language to him. “Shall I summarize?” he offered.

  “It’s about a house. I can see that.”

  “A large house, on Earl’s Court Gardens, with twenty-seven rooms. That,” and he flicked the papers with his finger, “is a twenty-three-page agreement for me to purchase the house as a facility for minors without parental supervision.”

  The confusion on Randall’s face cleared. “You’re buying us another orphanage.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why?”

  Saint sighed. “Your Miss Evie is very persuasive.”

  “You goin’ to marry her?”

  Attempting to ignore the low flutter in his gut that the boy’s question began, he shrugged. “Probably.” Saint put the papers back in their neat stack. “Now go home. And I would suggest that you not mention the pistol or the breaking into my house. Considering that Evelyn supplied the weapon, she might find this all a little upsetting.”

  “Aye. You’re not as much a devil as I thought, Marquis. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.”

  “So am I.”

  Saint kept the pistol as he showed Randall out the front door. He locked the heavy oak barrier again, leaning back against it. Tonight’s incident was far from being the closest call he’d ever had, but it had been more unsettling than previous encounters, nonetheless.

  Before, when he had faced a pistol, usually held by some angry chit’s husband or other relation, he hadn’t really cared about the outcome. Tonight, though, he had cared. Not because he feared being shot, but because death would prevent him from accomplishing the task he’d set for himself—namely, possessing Evelyn Marie Ruddick. In simpler terms, he didn’t want to die because he’d found something—someone—for whom he wanted to stay alive.

  Pulling the pistol from his pocket, he tilted it to dump the ball into his hand. Nothing happened. Tapping it, he pulled back the hammer, lifting the weapon to examine it in the pale moonlight of the foyer window.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  It was empty. From the looks of it, the pistol had never been loaded. Evelyn had kept him prisoner with an unloaded gun. Saint shook his head. She’d said she would never injure him, and apparently she’d meant it. No one had ever done such a thing to him or for him before. By God, she had courage.

  That, combined with a coachload of good intentions and her determination to see the positive in everything and everyone, made her dangerous. And the only way to protect himself was to make certain he kept hold of her.

  What he wanted to do was talk to someone about this strange revelation, but anyone he would consider trusting had closer ties to Evelyn than to him. Saint stayed in the foyer for a moment, listening to the quiet house. Abruptly, though, the identity of his most likely confidant came to him, and he pushed away from the door, heading for the servants’ quarters.

  “Jansen,” he called, rapping on the door closest to the main part of the house. “Come out of there!”

  A moment later the door opened. The butler, coatless and shirt untucked, hurried into the hallway. “My lord! Is something amiss?”

  “Come with me,” Saint said, turning on his heel.

  “Now, my lord?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “I—ah—very well, my lord.”

  The muted padding of stockinged feet followed Saint as he returned to the main hallway. Thank Lucifer the butler hadn’t already removed his trousers. Grabbing a candle from the hall table, he led the way into the morning room. Jansen paused in the doorway while Saint crouched before the banked coals in the fireplace and lit the wick.

  “Have a seat,” he said, placing the candle on the mantel as he straightened.

  “Am I being dismissed, my lord?” Jansen asked, his voice stiff. “If so, I would prefer to at least be in my shoes.”

  Saint dropped into the chair that faced the doorway. Splendid. His chosen confidant thought he’d been summoned for termination. “Nonsense,” he grunted. “If I intended to hand you your papers, I’d at least wait for a decent hour to do it. Have a seat, Jansen.”

  Clearing his throat and plainly uncomfortable, the butler trod into the morning room in his white stockings and perched on the front inch or so of the facing chair. After a hesitation he folded his hands across his bony thighs.

  Well, this wasn’t going to work. Jansen looked like a convicted criminal facing execution, and Saint had enough to ponder without worrying over whether he was giving his butler an apoplexy. “Brandy,” he said.

  Jansen leapt to his feet. “Right away, my lord.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get it. Do you want a snifter?” Rising, he went to the liquor cart standing beneath the window.

  “Me?”

  Saint glanced over his shoulder. “Stop squeaking. You sound like a mouse. Yes, you.”

  “I…ahem…yes, my lord.”

  Once they were seated and relatively comfortable again, Saint took a long swallow of brandy. “I find myself wanting someone else’s opinion on a matter,” he began. “And I’ve chosen you.”

  “I’m honored, my lord.” Most of the brandy in the butler’s snifter had vanished, and Saint leaned over to refill the glass.

  “Discretion is required. And honesty.”

  “Of course.”

  Now came the difficult part. This was so idiotic. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking such things, much less considering saying them aloud. To his butler, yet. “I’m thinking,” he began slowly, “of making some changes around here.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact, I’m thinking of getting—” Saint stopped. The word simply wouldn’t come out. It was too strange, too foreign. Clearing his throat, he gave it another try. “I’m contemplating getting—”

  “New curtains, my lord? Since you said that you wished my honest opinion, the window coverings, especially in the downstairs rooms, are quite—”

  “Not cu
rtains.”

  “Oh.”

  Saint finished off his brandy and poured himself another. “This is much larger than curtains, believe me.”

  “A new home, my lord?” Jansen queried. “Through a fairly reliable source I have heard that Lord Wenston’s Park Lane home will be on the market soo—”

  “Married,” Saint snapped. “I’m thinking of getting married.”

  For a long moment the butler sat in silence, his jaw hanging open. “I…my lord, I simply don’t feel qualified to advise you about such matters.”

  “Don’t tell me that,” Saint protested. “Tell me whether you can imagine me as a married man or not.”

  To his surprise, the butler set aside his brandy snifter and sat forward. “My lord, I do not wish to overstep my bounds, but I have noticed a…change in your demeanor, of late. The question of whether anyone can imagine you married or not, however, is one I believe must be answered by you. And the lady, of course.”

  Saint frowned. “Coward.”

  “There is that, as well.”

  The clock on the landing chimed once. “Go to bed, Jansen. A bloody lot of help you’ve been.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler padded to the doorway, then paused. “If I may, perhaps the question you should ask yourself is whether you would be happier with a wife or without one.”

  Jansen vanished into the darkness of the hallway, but Saint sat where he was, sipping at his brandy in the dim, flickering candlelight. At issue wasn’t marriage to a woman, but marriage to the woman. Would he be happier possessing Evelyn, or seeing Clarence Alvington do so? The answer wasn’t a simple yes or no, or a resolve to behave or to carry on as he had since before he’d been seventeen, because the question wasn’t whether he’d be happy with her, but whether he’d survive without her.

  Chapter 22

  Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

  Though woman, thou didst not forsake.

  —Lord Bryon, “Stanzas to Augusta”

  As soon as Evie saw the fresh strawberries on the sideboard, she knew what Victor intended. Her brother was already seated at the table, partway through his usual breakfast of toasted bread with honey, and sliced ham. The ever-present morning edition of the London Times lay at his elbow, for once unopened and unread.

  “Good morning, Evie,” he said.

  She selected a few strawberries and a slice of fresh bread. “Good morning.”

  “I trust your evening went well?”

  Considering that he generally referred to her twice-monthly literary sojourn as the “bluestocking gossip circle,” she felt justified in her suspicions. And considering that all she could remember of last night was Saint sitting beside her and being naughty and pleasant all at the same time, she had no complaints about the evening at all.

  “Evie?”

  She shook visions of Saint from her mind, though he never went far. “Oh. Yes, it went well. Thank you.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  Evie took her plate to the table and sat. “Where’s Mama?”

  “She’ll be down in a moment. How are the strawberries?”

  Evie wanted to throw one at him. He was so obvious, pretending to be polite and concerned so she wouldn’t argue when he demanded that she marry stupid Clarence Alvington. And of course she would argue anyway, and storm out of the room, and end up doing exactly as he wanted, because that’s what she always did. Well, she’d learned some new games recently, and from a very practiced player. And she had better reasons these days for carrying through with her own plans rather than her brother’s. Fifty-three reasons, to be exact, ranging in age from seven to seventeen. “The strawberries are lovely. Thank you for requesting them.”

  He glanced at her for a moment, suspicion crossing his face, then went back to eating. “You’re welcome.”

  Their mother arrived, sweeping into the room and placing a delicate kiss on Victor’s cheek, then Evie’s. “Good morning, my darlings. It’s so nice when we all breakfast together. We should do it more often.”

  Don’t yell, Evie told herself. Whatever they say, don’t yell. “Yes, we should. What was it you wanted to tell me, Victor?”

  Her brother wiped the corner of his mouth on his napkin. “Firstly, I wanted to thank you for your assistance this Season. You’ve helped me make some very lucrative connections.”

  “Yes, I know I have. You’re welcome.”

  Her mother sighed. “Evie, don’t be difficult.”

  “I’m not being difficult. I’m agreeing that I’ve been helpful.”

  Victor frowned. “If you’ll let me finish? Thank you. You’ve also made your share of mischief.”

  She nodded, knowing precisely to what he was referring. “Yes, and St. Aubyn introduced you to Wellington.”

  Langley stirred in the corner, and for a brief moment Evelyn thought she saw a smile twitch across his stern, professional countenance. At least someone was on her side.

  “That isn’t the point.”

  “May I ask what the point is, then? Yesterday we were simply discussing alternatives, or so you said.”

  He eyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. “The point is, an alliance with Lord Alvington will secure me enough votes to assume Plimpton’s seat in the House of Commons. And, as you know, I have been looking for a proper match for you for some time, someone who will nurture your better qualities and who won’t stifle your…lighthearted manner. I am fond of you, Evie, and I haven’t come to this conclusion lightly. If Clarence Alvington hadn’t satisfied my requirements, I wouldn’t have chosen him for you. And yes, please note that I have not tried to conceal the fact that the decision has benefit for me, as well.” He sat forward. “Before you begin screaming about it, hear me out.”

  Evie clenched her hands together very tightly in her lap. “I’m listening.”

  “You—All right.”

  He was too much of a politician to show more surprise than that, but Evie also knew him better than any of his political acquaintances and allies. She’d set him off balance.

  Victor cleared his throat. “Mister Alvington has confided in me several times how much he adores you, and what an asset you’ll be when he takes his father’s place as the viscount.”

  “And what does he think of my friendship with Lord St. Aubyn?” It was the most defiant question she could think to ask. Saint’s lack of restraint in expressing his opinion might be refreshing, but she didn’t have the same freedom he did.

  “I don’t think much of it,” Victor said in a harder voice, “which is what should matter. You’d do best to be more concerned with maintaining your reputation for propriety. It’s not only Clarence and myself who have to approve the match. The Alvingtons’ sense of humor is nonexistent when it comes to their reputation and good name.”

  Oh, really? She’d suspected as much, but hearing Victor say it gave her the inkling of a plan. “So it’s all decided,” she said in as cool a voice as she could manage, “between you and the Alvingtons?”

  “You need to marry anyway,” her mother said. “It might as well be to someone useful and inoffensive.”

  Evie wasn’t certain she agreed with that assessment of Clarence Alvington’s character, but arguing seemed utterly useless. They’d already decided her fate. She swallowed down a cold lump of stone that had risen in her throat. She wasn’t married yet, but with the next word she spoke, she needed either to agree to their interpretation of her life or to deliberately begin working against them toward her own. “All right.”

  Victor blinked. “What did you say?”

  Breathe. “Who am I to argue with my brother and my own mother? If you don’t have my best interests in mind, no one does.”

  Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Be serious.”

  “I am perfectly serious.”

  “You’ll marry Clarence Alvington. Without kicking up a tantrum.”

  “If he’ll have me.” But before it came to that, she needed some time to put a plan into motion. “I would
like to be asked, though. And if he wooed me, rather than just signing a piece of paper, that would be nice.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Victor pushed to his feet. “I have a meeting. I’m taking you at your word, Evie, that you won’t refuse this match.”

  Any response she made would only make him even more suspicious, so she settled for nodding as he picked up the newspaper and left the room. Ha. If the Alvingtons were so concerned with propriety, she knew exactly what she needed to do. Clarence Alvington would never ask her to marry him if she didn’t measure up to his family’s strict standards. Therefore, all she needed to do was utilize a few of the lessons Saint had given her. A little naughtiness should keep Clarence away.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Mrs. Ruddick said, reaching over to squeeze Evie’s hand. “I knew Victor would find you a good match.”

  “Yes, I’ll be so happy, marrying for love like this.” Evie finished her last strawberry and stood. “If you don’t mind, I’m going walking with Lucinda and Georgie.”

  “I understand sarcasm, my dear,” Genevieve said in a low voice. “I urged you to find someone before your brother returned from India, but you insisted on playing about with your friends. Now you have no choice.”

  “I might have had a choice if you had stood with me for a change, instead of with Victor. You never asked me if I had any dreams, or ambitions, or wishes. You just assumed that I didn’t. I don’t mind helping Victor, but I don’t understand why I have to be the only one to make a sacrifice.”

  “Evie—”

  “I’ll see you for tea with Lady Humphreys, Mama.”

  Gathering her bonnet and shawl, she escaped out the front door, Sally on her heels. Evie frowned at her maid as they turned up the street. “I’m just going to see Lucinda. You don’t need to come.”

  “Mister Ruddick says I’m to accompany you everywhere,” Sally replied with an apologetic smile.

  “Did he say why?”

  “He only told me to make certain you behave, and to tell him if you don’t.” The maid dropped a slight, nervous curtsy. “I would never do that, Miss Ruddick, but Mr. Ruddick would dismiss me if he knew.”