Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  She brushed her gloved thumb across his shoulder and his expression gentled imperceptibly. “If you have the police in your pocket, then put them to work,” she told him.

  The quiet between them seemed to stretch as he considered her words. Perhaps it was only mere seconds—but it felt minutes long. Then he gave a nod and pulled out the blade with a sharp jerk. The man’s muffled scream made Alexandra wince. He whimpered as Nick lay the blade against his cheek and carved two intersecting lines.

  “Every man and woman I own in the city knows this mark,” Nick said flatly. “You had best hurry to the police station before one of them sees it, because if they do, I’ll reward them beyond a mere two fucking quid for your life.” With that, he released the man and shoved him hard in the direction of the alley. “Run fast.”

  The blond man took off, his quick footfalls echoing through the alley.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For listening to me.”

  “Don’t give me thanks for that.” Nick avoided Alexandra’s gaze, but took a kerchief from his pocket to gently dab the blood on her lip. “It’s past time to pay Lord Reginald Seymour a visit,” he told her.

  She winced when he put pressure on the cut. “And I will come.”

  “No.” Nick didn’t even hesitate.

  “Yes. I know you are worried for me. I also know that you intend to go there and make threats like when a vote comes up in Parliament. That will not work. Let me use my manuscript.”

  Her husband did not seem convinced. “Wasn’t it you who said you didn’t have the political influence to publicly accuse him?”

  “And you encouraged me to keep writing.” She placed her hand over his. “I have an idea. Let me try it before you charge into his home. I may need Mr. O’Sullivan to accompany me to a few places.”

  Nick’s hand tightened beneath hers. “I hate your suggestion.” Then, with some gusty sound, he said, “But very well.”

  She gave a small smile. “Good. Because we’re going to need your money.”

  “Pounds, shillings, and pence,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “I told you already: everything is yours.”

  Chapter 28

  Days later, in a townhouse in Mayfair, Thorne watched Lord Reginald Seymour enter his dark office. Despite the late hour, servants had taken turns stroking the blazing fire to keep it warm. Thorne and Alex had waited, hidden behind the curtains, until their master returned from an outing at White’s.

  Thorne brushed his arm against Alex—a simple touch to feel her solidity. Three days ago, he had almost lost her in that alleyway. Since then, he had thrown himself into work at the Brimstone, leaving her to come up with a plan for confronting Lord Seymour. Whatever that plan involved was currently within the briefcase she held. She would not budge when he proposed, for a second time, confronting Seymour alone.

  So here he was, putting her in danger again.

  He clenched his teeth and focused on Seymour. Through the slit in the curtain, he saw the other man loosen his cravat and pour himself a snifter of whiskey. Lord Seymour was a tall and lanky, twice Thorne’s age. Another toff who never sullied himself with his own dirty work, who used his position of power for his own gain. A common fucking tale.

  The man sat at his desk, and Alex stepped out from behind the curtain. “Lord Seymour.”

  The MP choked on his whiskey. He moved to stand, but Thorne got there in a blink. He put a hand on the toff’s thin shoulder and shoved him back down. “Don’t think so,” he said in a low growl. “Take a fucking seat.”

  Alex smiled at Thorne, an honest admiration in her gaze. Christ, he loved her so damned much. “My lord, I don’t believe you’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting my husband.”

  Seymour did not rise to the bait. “I suppose you’ve brought him here to threaten me.”

  His wife’s expression didn’t change. “Of course not. I am perfectly capable of making my own threats. I’ve come to issue a request.”

  Seymour shifted under Thorne’s hand, but he held the other man fast. “And what is that?”

  Thorne answered for Alex. “Pull the contract on her life, Seymour.”

  The MP reclined in his leather seat. Had Thorne not been touching the other man, his cool facade might have been convincing. But Thorne could feel the tension in his shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

  “No? Then let me aid your memory.” Alex lifted the briefcase and set it on Seymour’s desk with a hard thump. “I’ve learned a great deal about the shipping business recently. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the expense of transporting goods from one continent to another. Particularly when they’re as distant as, say, Australia. The connections one must have! The capital!” She tilted her head and gave him a cutting smile. “How difficult that must be, when MPs earn no salary.”

  Seymour’s expression had gone cold. “I’m the son of the Duke of Norfolk.”

  “And brother to the Earl of Surrey.” Thorne almost let out a surprised laugh when she gave that particular name. The Earl of Surrey was one he knew well. Clever girl. Alex caught his look and gave him a brilliant smile. “You’re familiar with the earl, aren’t you, darling?”

  “I know every name in the Brimstone’s books,” Thorne said, crossing his arms. “He’s settled debts that would have sunk most aristos.”

  “Oh, I believe they did strain even the duke’s flush coffers. And fortunately for Lord Seymour, when I investigate someone, I take copious notes.” She opened the briefcase and set out paper after paper of sums—not only from the Brimstone, but other businesses. The MP regarded the papers but said nothing. “How much would this leave for a second son’s business ventures, I wonder? What do you think, Nick?”

  Nick grinned. He could watch her do this all day. “Fucking nothing, I’d wager. Aye, Seymour?”

  The MP shoved the papers away. “What of it?” he asked, lifting his shoulders. “It’s not unusual to have investors, though I understand women know little of such things.”

  “Indeed! Investors. Thank you for reminding me.” She picked up another paper and flicked it across the desk. “Yes, a dozen or so, and a rather impressive list. You might notice their names are crossed off. I did that as I met with each of them.”

  Lord Seymour froze. “I beg your—”

  “Pardon,” she said with a mocking look. “I wasn’t finished. They were all under the assumption that your business dealt in shipping supplies and goods, as Australia gives and receives half of its imports and exports. Why, they were very interested to know that their investment was being put toward illegal human trafficking for the purposes of mining and smuggling opals. I also let them know about the cost involved in transporting the raw gems to Germany for cutting. And what difficulty getting them there, with the French and Germans in a bloody conflict as recently as last year.” She set her hands on the desk and leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Imagine their shock when I told them all what their money was really being used for.”

  The MP’s breath came rapidly. Thorne’s, too, but for a different reason: his wife was fucking magnificent.

  “Get out of my house,” Lord Seymour said, his voice trembling. “Or I will alert the authorities.”

  Thorne leaned down. “Who do you think owns the authorities?” he asked, flashing his teeth. “I do.”

  “Now, Nick,” his wife said, chastising. “Let’s not be rude. We’re quite happy to leave, of course. But first, I have another matter of business to discuss.” She reached into the briefcase for another sheet, and set it down in front of him. “The settling of your debts. To me.”

  The MP sat straight and stared down at the sheet in alarm. “My—what—”

  “You see, once your investors heard that they were being swindled and unknowingly engaging in illegal trade, they were willing to let me buy up what you owed. So I did.” She tapped the paper. “There’s the amount, all added up. Quite a sizable sum. But I am willing to consider a trade.”

/>   Thorne marveled at her. He had seen her absorbed in her work, admired the way she spoke passionately about politics, but she was in her element now. Like Lord Seymour, he leaned forward to listen to the bargain. To hear what she had worked on for days while he worried over her.

  And here she was, saving it herself.

  Lord Seymour cleared his throat. “Trade?”

  Alexandra smiled. “Pull the contract on my life.” But when Lord Seymour almost relaxed, she added, “Then resign your post and leave the country. You will close up your mines and use whatever capital you gained in this trade to pay every single worker a hefty severance.”

  The MP shot up from his seat with a snarl, restrained only by Thorne’s grip. “That’s outrageous!”

  “Outrageous?” His wife’s smile disappeared. She shut her briefcase with a thump. “I can’t prove that you had my contacts murdered, but I can prove you owe me money and that your shipments are fraudulent. Recall that I can take everything you own, right down to the very last button on your coat. Between your brother’s debts and yours, not even your father the duke can help you now.”

  Lord Seymour collapsed in his chair, wild eyed and a bit stunned. Thorne almost couldn’t blame the man—when Alex came here with the intent on destroying this man, she’d performed the task thoroughly. “I . . . I need time—”

  “Pull the contract and leave, pay your workers and close the mines, or I will publish every last bit of information I have and financially ruin you. That’s my offer. It expires the moment I walk out that door.” Alex grasped the briefcase off the desk and moved as if to leave.

  “Wait.” The MP put up a staying hand. “All right. All right. I”—he clenched his jaw and shot a glare at Thorne—“I accept.”

  “Good. Then we shall vacate your home.” She nodded at Thorne and gestured to the door. “Oh, and Lord Seymour?” She gave a small smile. “If I ever see you in England again, or if I hear that you have reneged on our deal, I’ll come to collect every last debt you owe. And I won’t be so pleasant next time.”

  Lord Seymour’s eyes flashed with fear.

  Once they exited the townhouse, Thorne scanned the road for anyone about. The dark thoroughfare—thank christ—was empty. He couldn’t restrain himself anymore. He hauled Alex up against the wall of a nearby building and set his mouth to hers.

  “I love you,” he said, kissing her fiercely. “I love you so much.”

  Alex let out a breathless laugh. She dropped the briefcase and grasped the collar of his jacket to pull him closer. “Why Nicholas Thorne,” she murmured against his lips, “do you mean to tell me you find threatening people to be arousing?”

  He nipped her lower lip. “I find you threatening people to be arousing.”

  “Mmm.” She tilted her head back as he flicked her earlobe with his tongue. “You are perverse.”

  “I am.” He slid his hands behind her to cup her arse. “Very perverse. Utterly hopeless. A complete deviant, mauling his wife on a public street at night because she is just so. Fucking. Tempting.” The last three words were punctuated with kisses tracked down her neck.

  At the reminder of where they were, Alex said, “Nick, we shouldn’t.”

  “Right. We shouldn’t.” He kissed her again anyway.

  “You are far too wicked.” She put a finger to his lips. “Take me back to the Brimstone.”

  “And?”

  She smiled up at him and looped her arms around his neck. “Show me how tempting you find me.”

  Chapter 29

  Two days later, Thorne received a letter from Lord Reginald Seymour that said, simply:

  The contract has been pulled. Check the dailies.

  And call off your wife.

  — RS

  Thorne nabbed an issue of The Times from the Brimstone’s foyer and unfolded it. The top column made him grin: SEYMOUR STEPS DOWN! The article expressed bafflement at the MP’s sudden plans to resign from his post in the House of Commons and retire to America, off all places. What could have precipitated such a mystifying decision? The columnists speculated at business prospects and Seymour’s health.

  None could have guessed that it was one exceedingly clever woman.

  He found her in the sitting room, reading a book at the bay window that overlooked the street. Thorne paused to admire the way the sun glinted off her tawny hair, framing her in a halo of gold light. Every day, he wanted to walk into a room and find her there. Every damn day.

  “I have a present for you,” he said, pushing off the doorframe to approach her.

  Alex’s glanced over at him, setting aside her book. Now her smile changed, and this one made his breath catch. This was a private look, one just for him. “Yes?”

  He snapped open the broadsheet and passed it to her.

  “America?” She let out an amused noise. “God help them. Remind me after the little season to make sure he’s payed his workers in Australia the severance we’ve negotiated, or I’ll send someone to threaten him.”

  “Send someone, or take a holiday with me?”

  Alex looked delighted. “Are you saying you wish to be my partner in intimidating very bad men?” The bubble of laughter in her voice was its own gift. He had missed it, in the years they were separated.

  Thorne leaned down for a kiss. “I’ll let you do the intimidating. I’m content to stand back and admire.”

  “Good answer.”

  “Come with me.” He took Alex’s hand and pulled her from the window seat. “I have something else for you.”

  She followed him into the hallway. “Does it come with more kisses?”

  “Maybe.” He damn well hoped so.

  “Does it involve a bed?”

  “No.” He gave her a hot look as they came to her bedchamber door. “But it does have a tempting flat surface.”

  “That sounds very—” She went still when she saw what was inside the room. “Nick,” she whispered.

  Thorne watched as she approached the desk she coveted at the exhibition. Her fingers skated across the smooth surface of the red wood as if familiarizing herself with it. He had a vision of her, sitting behind it in the years to come, writing away on her manuscripts. He’d told so many lies to her in Stratfield Saye; this, at least, was one promise he could keep.

  “The maids asked if they ought to stack your papers, but I let them know your organizing system made little sense to anyone but you.” When she remained quiet, he cleared his throat. She’d seemed strange at the exhibition. Had she changed her mind about liking it? “If you’d like something else, I can—”

  Alex lifted her head and met his gaze. “I love you.” Thorne went still. It felt strange to hear those words after so long. Had he imagined them? But then she repeated the words: “I love you, Nick.”

  She strode forward, took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. Thorne groaned and pulled her closer, wondering how he could be so fortunate to hold her. There had been a time when he thought he would never kiss her again, that he’d never hear her say those words. Christ god, how lucky was he?

  “Will you do something with me?” she whispered against his lips.

  “Anything.” He’d give her anything. Do anything.

  Alex walked over to her bed, where she extricated a wooden box from the mountain of notes. She pressed the box into his hands and said. “I want to burn these. With you.”

  “What are they?” he asked, opening the lid.

  “Notes,” she said, after a beat of hesitation. “That I gathered about you during my research in the East End. I had so many questions I was afraid to ask you because I feared being hurt again. And . . .” she bit her lip. “And your criticisms are in here, as well.”

  She had looked into him? Thorne’s chest tightened at the sudden understanding that she had not been incurious about his past, after all. She had taken notes, the way her brilliant mind processed information and examined it. She had examined him. She had—wait. “My what?”

  The tender look she ha
d given him before turned to impatience. “The reviews, Nick.”

  What was she talking about? “Reviews? What reviews?”

  “The . . .” She pulled back, scowling. “The reviews. The. Reviews. Of my work. You might as well have put out a full page advertisement in bold lettering, Stay Away, Alexandra.” She tore open the box, plucked a paper out, and smacked it onto the desk. She jabbed her finger at the name. “There. Nicholas Spencer. Unless there is another Nicholas Spencer who has a vested interest in criticizing my work.”

  Nick stared at the articles with unease curdling inside him. Sure, he was a slow reader, but he comprehended well enough from a few short sentences why she had accused him at the exhibition of not liking her work. Why she had flinched away from him at his compliment. While constructive, these reviews would have communicated something different if she thought they had come from him. These were a commentary on the disparity of their stations. Fears he held, yes, but nothing he would have written so publicly. They were his private concerns, things he had only ever confided to O’Sullivan.

  “I didn’t write these,” he said softly.

  She made some gusty noise and took the paper from him to stuff in the box. “Please don’t lie to me. I told you already—”

  “Alex.” His voice was firm. “I never wrote these.”

  Alexandra stared at him in disbelief. “But . . . who else would have? Writing these took time and knowledge of my work, as well as political issues in the East End. Someone who knew about our marriage and the alias you took in Hampshire.”

  Thorne had kept that information within his inner circle, limited to those who helped him take the East End from Whelan. His men had needed to know where the money came from, why he was so reckless from guilt that even O’Sullivan had feared for his life—

  That lady toff left you a fucking mess after Hampshire. I helped you pick up the goddamn pieces last time, remember? Don’t make me do it again.

  “Son of a bitch,” Nick snarled, seizing the box from the desk. He threw open the door and strode down the hallway.