Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Gibbons bucked, and Thorne pressed him harder into the wall. He wasn’t a lad anymore, weakened and trembling from hunger. He had muscles from sparring with O’Sullivan. He hadn’t gone without a meal in years.

  He could break this man so easily.

  “Before I take my hand away from your disgusting fucking mouth,” Thorne hissed, “let me remind you: in the East End, you live by our permission.”

  “Oh, I gave up my permission years ago,” O’Sullivan told Gibbons casually.

  Thorne flashed his teeth. “Guess it’s by mine, then.” Gibbons made some muffled noise, but Thorne dug his fingers into the man’s jaw and spoke as if he weren’t interrupted. “And I want to know why you would make the fucking idiotic choice to return to my city after I was generous enough to let you keep breathing. Speak.”

  He took his hand away from Gibbons’ mouth and waited.

  “I got family,” Gibbons said in a breathless voice. “Don’t fuckin’ kill me, I got—”

  “I’ve never heard of any family,” Thorne said, his voice cold. “O’Sullivan?”

  Behind the glint of his spectacles, O’Sullivan’s expression was hard. “He’s lying.”

  “No.” Gibbons made some movement, but Thorne had him back against the wall. “I got a cousin”—Thorne’s gaze narrowed—“and I need just a bit o’ scratch, that’s all.”

  “Now that I do believe,” Thorne murmured. “You need money. And perhaps it’s a coincidence that you happened to be in my city days after some murders in my territory. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Gibbons’ eyes darted between Thorne and O’Sullivan. “‘Course not.”

  Thorne slid his knife out of his coat and pressed the tip to the other man’s face. “Let’s try that answer again. Aye, O’Sullivan? What do you say about a second chance?”

  O’Sullivan’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “Not for him.”

  Thorne felt Gibbons tremble. “Hear that? O’Sullivan wants me to stick this blade in your gut. Why do you think that is?” Gibbons’ mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “Tch. Reckon this one needs reminding, O’Sullivan.”

  His friend’s hands curled into fists. “Oh, I don’t think he needs reminding. He knows. Don’t you, Gibbons?”

  Gibbons’ breathing was rapid. “Now. Now, O’Sullivan, I did a lot of things—”

  Thorne gave him a small nick with the edge of the blade. “So many things,” Thorne said with a bitter laugh. “ And one in particular. You were there when Whelan sold O’Sullivan to that toff who tortured him.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Quiet,” Thorne said, sliding the blade down the man’s cheek in a caress that drew blood. Gibbons flinched, releasing a small whimper. “Here’s what I remember: you and the others taking us out of that cellar for the Earl of Sunderland to inspect like he was about to buy a goddamn horse. Fourteen years old, I was. O’Sullivan?”

  O’Sullivan’s lips flattened. “Twelve.”

  “Twelve,” Thorne repeated softly. “How much was O’Sullivan worth, Gibbons?” When the other man didn’t respond, Thorne whispered, “Five pounds. Five. Fucking. Pounds. Did you see any of that coin for forcing us all into that room? Or did Whelan not bother sharing any?”

  Gibbons jerked, as if he were thinking of running, but Thorne held him fast. “Don’t remember.”

  Thorne laughed again, the sound echoing through the empty street. Anyone nearby would turn the other way, if they heard it in the darkness. “Doesn’t remember. See, here’s the thing. We do.” Thorne stuck the knife into Gibbons’ chest—not far, but enough for the tip to break skin. Gibbons hollered, and this time Thorne didn’t bother to quiet him. He wanted to hear him scream. He wanted O’Sullivan to hear it, after all he went through. “But I requested a conversation. So how about you tell me where you were last Friday eve. We’ll start there.” The night they’d found Benjamin Ayles’ body.

  “Oh Christ. You’ve—Oh Christ!”

  “The lord ain’t gonna help you, Gibbons. Only the devil sullies himself with the Nichol, and tonight the devil answers to me.” He leaned forward and hissed, “Talk. Before I sink my blade into your heart.”

  “I was here! At the Golden Lion. Here!”

  “You believe him, O’Sullivan?”

  O’Sullivan’s lip curled. “No.”

  “Coincidence. Neither do I.” His knife sank in further. Gibbons screamed. “I’ll ask it again: where the fuck were you?”

  “Here! I swear it. I swear—”

  “Fine. Fine, I believe you. I believe him, O’Sullivan.” Thorne toyed with the handle of the blade, reveling in the small sounds Gibbons made when he twisted it a tiny bit deeper. Gibbons had been a master at this particular game when Thorne was a lad. All of Whelan’s men were experts in torture. “How about this: did you know that Patrick Whelan lives, and did he tell you to return and help him take back my fucking city?”

  There it was. A slight shifting in his gaze. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you . . .”

  “Wrong answer,” Thorne said softly, sinking the knife in further, finding satisfaction in the way the other man howled for mercy. “Quiet now. You feel that, Gibbons? One more push, and you stop breathing. Do you really wanna lie to me?”

  “I . . . may have—”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. How about you tell me where I can find Whelan and I’ll consider paying someone to stitch you up.” But Gibbons was shaking his head, his mouth set in a firm line. “No? That’s a shame. My blade hand isn’t as steady as it used to be and I might slip—”

  “I don’ know. He always comes and finds me!”

  Thorne leaned in. “If you don’t know, then give me a good reason why I should let you live.”

  “I—” Gibbons’ breath was ragged. “I . . .”

  Thorne gripped the hilt of the blade; he could press it in so easily now. But not yet. He wanted last words. “When your very long list of sins decides whether you enter paradise or go straight to the devil, how will you plead?”

  Gibbons looked helplessly at O’Sullivan, but found even less sympathy from that quarter. O’Sullivan smiled grimly. “Please,” Gibbons whispered.

  Thorne paused, rage simmering like a storm inside him. “Please?” he repeated, very softly. Beside him, O’Sullivan tensed. “What did Gibbons do, O’Sullivan, with the lads who said that word?”

  “He laughed.” O’Sullivan curled his lip. “And then he punished them for it.”

  “That he did,” Thorne murmured. “And I’ve the scars to show for it, don’t I, Gibbons? You used to have such a way with a blade. I learned it from you.”

  Gibbons’ chest rose and fell. He knew his time was up. The devil had come to call, and this man was about to die of the same fate he had given so many others. “You’re never gonna find Whelan, you fuckin’ bastard,” Gibbons suddenly hissed, baring his teeth. “He’s gonna kill you first. You and that fuckin’ cunt wife—”

  Thorne shoved his knife in to the hilt. Gibbons sagged against him, muttering some last valediction that was lost to the sound of blood garbling up his throat. Thorne lowered the body to the ground and retrieved his weapon with a swift tug. He barely noticed the stickiness of blood as he wiped the blade against his jacket.

  “He died faster than he deserved,” Thorne told O’Sullivan.

  O’Sullivan looked down at the dead man. “Better fast than not at all.”

  Chapter 23

  Dear Lady Alexandra,

  Please find enclosed the documents required for your divorce petition. Should Mr. Thorne cooperate with your request, he need only sign where indicated and inquire about further arrangements through our office.

  Should he mount an objection, I invite you to make an appointment with my secretary at your earliest convenience.

  Cordially,

  Miss Annabel Dawes

  Alexandra paced the length of her room, tapping Miss Dawes’ letter against her dress.


  Why had she slept with Nick? Why had she done it? Why, why, why? Retreating to the safety of her bedchamber had done nothing to ease her agitation. Her manuscript offered little reprieve from the tumult of her thoughts—it being another cause of her troubles.

  But now her foremost concern was a husband. One she thought she’d no longer wanted and now . . . now . . .

  This means nothing.

  God, how she’d wished that were true. When had she taken to lying? She, who demanded such honesty from him?

  There were marks on her throat from his teeth; they had faded a day ago, but the memory of his touch lingered in her mind. She had brought herself to completion the last two nights, imagining it was his hands touching and tormenting her. When she woke in the darkness to find herself alone, she ached to open their connecting door and curl herself against him. She wished to feel his solidity, his scars beneath her fingertips. He had so much more to tell her about each one.

  Alexandra sighed and set Miss Dawes’ letter down on her tiny desk. Beside it, a scrap of paper documented her pathetic attempts to refocus on the future she had built in her mind:

  New York Island has an area of twenty-two square miles and twenty-nine miles of water front, about three-fourths of which stretches along the Hudson and East Rivers, and the remaining one-fourth upon the Harlem River and Spuyten Duyvil Creek. The streets, roads, and avenues measure 460 miles. 291 miles of these are paved; 169 miles are unpaved. 19,000 gas-lights are burned every night—

  Boots pounded down the hall outside her room. A door opened and shut. There was movement beyond the connecting door.

  Nick was home.

  Alexandra stared down at Miss Dawes’ letter, then at the passage she had memorized from a guidebook to the city of New York. Just one passage among many of places she had never visited.

  In the weeks after her marriage became gossip fodder, the guides were comforts. The schedules of sailing ships were, each of them, possibilities. Escapes to her first destination. Now, like a boat that had capsized in a storm, she was left adrift at sea without a guiding course.

  Should Mr. Thorne cooperate with your request . . .

  Should he mount an objection . . .

  “It’s time,” she told herself. Then she set her shoulders.

  Alexandra grabbed Miss Dawes’ letter and threw open the connecting door. “Nick. We need to t—” She froze at the threshold with a gasp.

  Blood stained Nick’s shirt and coat. He had a wild look to him: hair disheveled, jaw set, eyes deep and hard as volcanic rock. Though he posed no immediate threat, he looked . . .

  Alexandra fought the urge to retreat, suddenly comprehending what had unnerved her. The man before her was what the criminals of the East End feared: the master of their streets. The one they told stories of, and warned people to fear. This was the man who intimidated even the most powerful men in the country.

  And yet . . . she found this suited him. His dark beauty was as cold and alluring as a winter evening, but even ice held vulnerabilities. It fractured beneath too much pressure. His stare was both more incomprehensible and vulnerable than she had ever seen, dark depths beneath a cracked surface.

  “What’s happened?” she whispered.

  “I’m about to have a bath,” he said, in some strange voice she couldn’t understand. “Perhaps you’d like to speak when I’m finished.”

  “Don’t dismiss me.” She came further into the room, close enough to look him over. “Are you hurt? Did Whelan send men to attack you?”

  Nick’s laugh was dry as he reached for the decanter on his mantel and poured two fingers of whiskey. His hands . . . Alexandra drew in a breath. His hands were shaking and blood-covered. Did he experience this same awful fear when she came to him like this days ago? When she had been the one to bring blood on her hands?

  He threw back his head and polished off the drink. “Concerned about me?”

  She frowned. What mood was this? She did not understand it. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Three days ago you declared I meant nothing to you before we fucked,” he said flatly. “I did not imagine that.”

  Something contracted in her chest. This dull ache had been her constant companion for the last few nights. She was beginning to understand that her heart had never healed, not fully. Fractured hearts were always so brittle.

  She curled her fingers into her palm. It wasn’t true, she wanted to say. It meant too much, and I fear being hurt again. But in the end, she only said, “You are avoiding my question, Nick.”

  He poured himself another glass of whiskey. “One of Whelan’s old allies was spotted at a public house in the Nichol. O’Sullivan and I went to have a conversation.”

  “And did you . . .” She swallowed hard. “Did you have a conversation?”

  Nick downed the whiskey and set the snifter down on his desk with a sharp rap. “Ask what you really mean.” At her silence, he made some noise. “Fine, I’ll do it for you: Is he dead? Yes. I shoved a blade into his gut. Ask me once more about the scars on my body, and I’ll tell you that this man had a way with a knife. Now ask me why I let him bleed out on the pavement instead of giving the coppers a new prisoner.”

  “Why?” she breathed.

  He stepped closer to her, his gaze as black and glittering as the sea at night. “Because. I. Wanted. To.”

  Yes, she understood his reputation now, why some had remarked that he had the eyes of the devil, of a man possessed. But she had seen his scars. The King of the East End had been a necessity born of cruelty.

  She, too, had killed. Survival came with a cost.

  “Do you wish for my condemnation or my absolution?” she asked him. “For I’ll give you neither.”

  “I wish for you to comprehend the manner of man you married. It isn’t a former schoolteacher. I’m not a gentleman. I’m not Lord Locke.”

  “I’ve known for some time now the kind of man I married.” She pressed her lips together and held up the letter from Miss Dawes. “I think you should see this. It’s the letter I received from my solicitor this morning.”

  Nick took the page from her and began reading. Alexandra watched his expression, waiting for some change that might indicate his thoughts. But his mind was as closed to her as a locked door.

  “I see,” he said, very softly, and handed it back.

  He turned away from her and removed his coat, tossing the material to the floor. His shirt and trousers followed, then his small clothes, as he made his way across the room to the mosaic tiled water closet. Alexandra couldn’t help but stare. Nick was beautifully made. Muscular thighs, tapered waist, broad shoulders, strong arms. Golden skin stretched over muscle, with smatterings of scars across his back. Reminders of his brutal past.

  Alexandra followed him. A bath had already been prepared in the gleaming copper tub, the steam rising. “Do you have nothing else to say?”

  He lowered himself into the water. With a soft sigh, he tilted his head back and shut his eyes. “You could make a case for cruelty,” he said in that detached tone. “Perhaps you ought to do it before Gladstone reorganizes the court system, if you don’t wish to wait.”

  All at once, Alexandra found herself furious. How easily he spoke the same suggestion Miss Dawes had made. Women who divorced for abuse found no safety in their own homes. Their husbands did not offer comfort, or affection, or even respect. They didn’t carry them to a bedchamber and offer to watch over their wives while they slumbered. Wives who divorced on grounds of cruelty did so because they were terrified.

  “Cruelty,” she repeated, her lips flattening. Did he believe she thought so little of him that she’d fabricate such a claim?

  “Yes, and why not?” His laugh was harsh. “Everyone in that courtroom, from the judge to the gawking audience, would believe any story you told them about me. Make me into a big enough villain and you might even gain their fickle sympathy.”

  “Is that what you wish me to do?” Alexandra said, her voice sharp
with fury. How dare he? “Lie and say you beat me? Threatened my life?”

  “Are you worried over my reputation?” What a strange smile he had, so bitter. “You needn’t be. I have none to defend.”

  “Yes, you do,” she snapped. “Here in the East End, you do.”

  “Here in the East End,” he repeated, his voice some dangerous purr. “Where I killed a man mere hours ago.”

  “A man who tortured you.”

  “Since when did your opinion of me become so generous?” His mouth twisted. “It’s more generous than I deserve.”

  “Listen to me, Nicholas. I will not stand in that courtroom and call you a monster. You may not have a care, but I do.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Say I committed adultery, then, if that lie will better ease your conscience. Isn’t that what toffs call a soft divorce?”

  Once more, he had so easily reproduced Miss Dawes’ argument. Eight days ago, in her solicitor’s office, divorce on grounds of adultery had seemed the easy solution. After a separation of four years, many husbands and wives would have found another lover.

  But like Alexandra, Nick had not strayed from their vows.

  I consider you to be worth everything, he’d told her. Then why let her go so easily? Did he not wish to present his case? Make some argument for gathering the tattered remains of their marriage and attempting to stitch it back together?

  “And you would mount no objection?” Alexandra tried to keep her voice calm, fearing he would hear it shake. “Not to any case I bring before the courts, no matter how much I embellish or how abhorrent it made you look? You would do nothing to fight it?” Nothing to fight for her?

  Open your eyes, she wanted to say. Look at me.

  But he only let out a breath and said, “No.”