Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  But the rats came, perhaps attracted by the scent of a boy who perished from cold or hunger. They came, and their noises would pierce the black.

  More memories erupted: cold winters pressed up against the other boys for warmth; being kicked awake by a hard boot; broken bones and bloodied fingers when he didn’t do a job right.

  The tread of boots on the stone steps drew Thorne’s attention.

  Patrick Whelan stood silhouetted against the doorway, holding a lantern in his hand. Another memory came fast: Thorne was twelve years old, waiting on this man to come down here in the dark. Hoping for another opportunity that would earn him scraps for a job well done.

  God, he’d worked so damn hard for the pathetic bites of food he’d been given. So damn hard for any praise at all.

  Now that Thorne’s eyes had adjusted to the lantern light, he could see his former tormentor more clearly. Whelan had aged a great deal since Thorne stuck a knife in his gut on the new London Bridge and tossed him into the Thames. His face was heavily lined and his hair had grayed all the way through. Whelan was once a mountain of a man—not as large as O’Sullivan, but formidable. Terrifying. Now he was as thin as an opium addict. But while his body had lost its musculature, his eyes were still as sharp and cunning as ever. Cold, dead eyes. Devoid of warmth and emotion, for the man was incapable of either.

  “I was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Whelan said. “You learned a lot from me in these walls, Nicky boy.”

  “I suppose I did,” Thorne replied.

  A strange calm settled over Thorne. Yes, he had learned a lot from this man. He had learned about survival. He had learned about how to lie awake at night and plan how he’d gain power. He had learned every shrewd skill necessary to take it, whether at the end of a blade or in the houses of Parliament. And now he was the master of the East End.

  And every fucking street in it.

  “I reckon you owe me a debt for that,” Whelan continued. “And for the money I lost when you pulled Seymour’s contract. I promised my men a share of the blunt.”

  Thorne gave a small smile. “Is that what you think? That I owe you money for the assassination contract on my wife?” He gave a sharp laugh. “How far you’ve fallen, to be beholden to other men.”

  Whelan straightened, his lips flattening. “Yeah, you got grand, haven’t you, lad? I reckon you could use reminding of where you come from.”

  “I know where I came from,” Thorne said, very softly. “I’ve never let myself forget.”

  “That right?” Whelan’s eyes glittering in the lantern light. “Seems to me you’ve forgotten. Almost got a toff’s accent now. Wearin’ those fancy clothes, playin’ lord with your lady, you seem little different than a nob. You and I both know that you’ll never be more than the lad I picked from the gutters, who’d whore himself out for a bite of bread and kill a man for a fuckin’ coin.”

  Some dim flicker of shame went through Thorne, chased away by his memories of Alex. Alex, kneeling beside the bathtub, asking him to go on that journey with her in the future. Alex, tracing his scars and hearing the story of each one. Alex, granting him forgiveness, a gift he had never allowed himself to hope for. She knew his darkest secrets, that life he had kept hidden from her in Stratfield Saye. Thorne understood now that truth held some power, for it was an offering: Here is everything I have done, and everything I’ve learned. Will you take me as I am?

  And Alex had taken him, past and all.

  “Never say you’re jealous,” Thorne said with a laugh.

  “Jealous?” Whelan snarled, moving closer to Thorne. “Yeah, you’ve changed, Nicky-boy, if you think I’m jealous of a fuckin’ pretend nob. Your wife’s softened you up, ain’t she? You’re thinkin’ you’re respectable now?”

  “What matter?” Thorne suddenly felt impatient. “Seymour pulled the contract. She’s nothing more to do with us.”

  “She’s everything to do with us!” Whelan hissed. He lashed out with his fist, slamming it against Thorne’s jaw. Thorne stepped back, but showed nothing; no pain, no fear. He had grown used to Whelan’s fists years ago. They had left their marks on him. Whelan grasped the front of Thorne’s shirt. “You came back four years ago with enough blunt to ruin me and thought I wouldn’t find out where you got it? You have my best men slaughtered and think I won’t fuckin’ notice?”

  Thorne licked the blood from his lip. “After what you did to O’Sullivan and me and the rest of the lads, it was fair play.”

  “I fed you, sheltered you—”

  “Forced us to steal for you, murder for you, whore ourselves out and sleep in this dark cell at night. Aye, fine father figure you are.”

  Whelan pulled a pistol out of his dirty coat and pointed it at Thorne. A sliver of fear went through him, but he tamped it down. This would end. Tonight, this would end.

  “Don’ care,” Whelan hissed. “You owe me a fuckin’ debt, Nicky. And if you don’t pay up, I’ll collect it tonight. And tomorrow, I’ll take the rest from your wife.”

  Thorne went cold, his entire focus on the gleaming barrel of the pistol as he edged a hand inside his jacket. “End it, then. Shoot me.”

  Whelan cocked the pistol and took aim with his finger on the trigger.

  Chapter 34

  A gunshot rang out through the streets of the Old Nichol.

  “Oh, god,” Alexandra whispered, as she and Mr. O’Sullivan raced for the door of the tenement.

  Her heart was in her throat, her thoughts replaying that awful sound. Wondering what it meant. Dreading what it meant. Beside her, Mr O’Sullivan was gasping as they shoved their way into the old, empty tenement. He hurried through another opening and down a stone staircase.

  Alexandra followed, terrified of what she’d find—and then gave a sob of relief when she saw Nick. He held a bloody knife a firm grip as he stood over a crumpled figure on the ground. The man who must have been Whelan had a pistol in his limp hand.

  The sight of it sent a jolt through Alexandra. How close had she been to losing Nick? If he had been less handy with a blade . . . if he had been a bit slower, a bit more tired . . .

  She could barely fathom losing him.

  Nick turned to her and Mr. O’Sullivan with a displeased look. “O’Sullivan, what the hell were you thinking, bringing Alex—”

  “Oh, do shut up, Nick,” Alexandra said, and grasped his shirt to haul him in for a kiss.

  With a soft groan, Nick slid his arms around Alexandra’s waist. Only then did she notice that he trembled, and Alexandra wondered if his calm demeanor when she’d run in had been a facade for Whelan. His hands grasped at her hips, fingertips digging into the fabric of her dress. Yes, perhaps he had sensed how close he’d come to losing tonight. She returned his desperate touch with her own. It gave her reassurance: he was warm, the solid press of his hands at her back were real. His lips were on hers. This was no dream.

  He was alive. He was alive.

  A throat cleared beside them. With a soft noise, Nick pulled back to give Mr. O’Sullivan a scowl. “You brought her. Here.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan rolled his eyes. “You know your wife, yes? As if I could stop her.”

  “In fact”—Alexandra smiled brilliantly—“you could say I brought Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  Nick sighed. “Of course you did.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan knelt next to Patrick Whelan’s body, his eyes sharp as he took in the dead man’s features. Some unreadable expression crossed his face. “I wish I’d been here to see it,” he murmured.

  Nick released Alex to clasp Mr. O’Sullivan’s shoulder. The two remained side by side, staring at their tormentor, at the place they had grown up in so long ago. Alexandra could never truly comprehend what they had experienced in the cellar, all those years ago. All she could do was be there for Nick when the nightmares came again—and she knew they would. They always would.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said to Mr. O’Sullivan.

  “Don’t be,” Mr. O’Sullivan said, rising to his fee
t. “I’ve two bullets in a pistol I’m saving. Neither of them were for Whelan.” Then, very softly, “I’m sorry for trying to keep her from you.”

  “Don’t do it again.”

  “I won’t.” Mr. O’Sullivan gave a small smile. “Men like us don’t often get second chances with women like that. I’m glad you punched me in the fucking face for it.” With that, he started up the stairs. “Night, boss. Mrs. Thorne.”

  When they were alone, Alexandra studied the dark cellar. This had been where he’d slept once. Where he’d lived. Where he’d survived. In the dim light of the lantern, she could see the haunted look in his eyes. No, killing his old tormentor would not fix the scars beneath his skin. She knew that. They would always be part of the man she loved.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “No.” He grasped her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. “But I think I will be.”

  “Good.” She threaded her fingers through his. “Then come home with me, and I’ll give you better memories that take place in the dark.”

  Epilogue

  Ancona, Italy. Two months later.

  “Nick. Wake up, or you’ll miss it.” Alex pressed her lips to his cheek. “It’s moonrise.”

  Thorne eased his eyes open to find his wife leaning over him, a soft smile on her face. Behind her, the sky was the deep blue of twilight, but the air was still as warm as daytime. Hours ago, they had hiked the cliffs near the port of Ancona and came to a stop that overlooked the Adriatic sea. They polished off a bottle of Italian wine on arrival, and when his wife kissed him, her lips were as sweet as the moscato blanc.

  How had he ended up here? As he stared up at his wife, he marveled at how his life had shifted. Thorne never had the opportunity to relax, to share the burden of his responsibilities. After killing Whelan, he’d wanted to give Alex that future she’d longed for, the ship that took them to distant places.

  After all, they’d never had a honeymoon.

  O’Sullivan had taken over the club’s duties in Thorne’s absence. From his letters, the business appeared to be running smoothly; the factotum had even hired a proper bookkeeper. It seemed strange, to wake up without the weight of his obligations. To see this woman every day and wonder at the gift she had given him: a lifetime with her.

  Her expression softened. “What are you thinking?”

  Thorne smiled and shook his head. “Just admiring you.”

  She had lines in the corners of her eyes from laughing. He traced them with his fingertips, amazed that he would get to watch them deepen with time. That, though they had spent years apart, they would spend years more together.

  “Admire me in a moment.” Alex pulled away and gestured at the sight. “Look. It’s just as beautiful as the guidebook’s description.”

  Thorne sat up and stared at the sight with her. The full moon rose over the sea, its light spilling across the calm water below. The palate of colors were an artist’s dream: gold and blue, purple and orange, each color set in a vibrant gradient of shades he did not know the names of. The waves sighed against the rocks, filling the night with the breathing rhythm of the sea.

  Alex sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. “ ‘I do not remember ever so enchanted by any view as that now presented to us,’ ” she recited from her memorized passage in the guidebook, in a voice that was as calm and beautiful as the tide. “ ‘I know not whether daylight would rob it of any portion of its beauty and soothing influence; I can only speak of it as it impressed me then—so calm, so pure, so still.’ ”

  “Perhaps you’ll write a memoir of our travels, “ Thorne said. “An Englishwoman’s Adventures At Sea, With An Irish Husband And A Writing Desk In Tow.”

  He had never seen the sea before they set off in the steamer weeks ago. Had never travelled beyond the sprawl of London before he met her. Three weeks ago, they had been in Paris. A week ago, in Cadiz. Within the next fortnight, they would find their way to Venice, and wherever she wished, thereafter. He had purchased a second writing desk for her, portable, that neatly folded into a trunk they brought from port to port. The trunk itself had hidden compartments.

  After all, his wife still needed a place for pens, ink, sweets, and secrets.

  Alex laughed. “A memoir of our travels would cause a moral outrage. Two parts travel, one part erotic tale.”

  “One part? You issuing a challenge?”

  Her smile turned wicked. “Maybe.”

  “Good,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “Because it ought to be at least two parts erotic.”

  Later, as they lay naked on the blanket, Alexandra pressed a kiss to Nick’s shoulder. His skin was warm, and he tasted of salt from the sea. His soft moan gratified her, for she had spent these last few weeks learning him. Memorizing the texture of his skin beneath her lips, the sounds he made when she touched him. These were lessons she hoped to carry with her through the years of their marriage, when they had settled into their lives. When they fit beside each other like two stones that had scraped together long enough to sand their rough edges.

  “After Venice,” she said quietly, “I wish to return to Stratfield Saye. Anne wrote that she and Richard will be staying at Roseburn with James and Emma until their babies are born.”

  Nick’s fingertips brushed her neck. “All right.”

  Alexandra lifted her head so she could stare down at him. His black gaze glittered in the darkness, a sky full of stars so like the one above them. “Will you come with me?”

  “Leave the club in the extended care of O’Sullivan?” He made a face, then gave a long sigh. “I’ll come.”

  “Good, because there’s something I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Oh ho!” Nick grinned. “My wife’s been thinking. Dangerous words, those. Very well, let’s hear it.”

  Alexandra grazed his cheek with her fingertips, her expression suddenly serious. “Marry me.”

  Nick gave a little frown, his smile fading. “If you’re wondering whether our marriage lines are legitimate—”

  “I know they’re legitimate. Years ago, I visited the parish in Gretna. I saw the registry. This would not be a ceremony of legality. I want to say the vows to you in front of my family. I want to say them again knowing everything that you are, and that I love you beyond measure. I want to marry you, Nicholas Thorne. Will you say the vows with me?”

  Nick rolled her beneath him, his lips coming against hers in a fierce kiss. He tasted like the sweet wine from earlier and he smelled like the ocean. As he gathered her against him, pressed her to the hard line of his body, he whispered, “I love you.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. God, yes.”

  Laughing, she kissed him again and kept him in her embrace until the sun came up over the sea.

  Author’s Note

  The guidebook that Alexandra recites to Thorne is from An Englishwoman in Italy by Mrs. G. Gretton.

  My descriptions of the East End were helped by a hodgepodge of different sources, but those of the Old Nichol in Bethnal Green were aided greatly by Sarah Wise’s The Blackest Streets: The Life and Death of a Victorian Slum.

  During my research for this book, I learned quite a bit about opals and opal mining. There were a few decades in the early 1800s when opals were considered bad luck. However, Queen Victoria loved opals and helped bring them back into fashion amongst the wealthy. It certainly helped that massive opal deposits had been discovered in Australia during her reign.

  I would be remiss if I did not mention the human cost to the British Empire’s colonialism. Australia was under persistent British military presence, had a corrupt government, were subject to unfair taxes (particularly the miners), their labor was exploited by a rich ruling class, and indigenous Australians were grotesquely treated by white colonists.

  Though I dramatized the smuggling of opals for this book, the labor involved in opal mining did not require much in the way of fictionalization. It was—and still is—an extremely dangerous pro
fession that requires climbing down a ladder into a narrow hole that goes 15 meters into the earth. Many of these mines are located in the Outback, which is very hot and isolated. One of the ways people survive is by living in below-ground residences due to the extreme temperatures.

  If this is a subject that interests you at all, I recommend A History of South Australian Opal, 1840–2005 by Len Cram.

  As always, if you are able to leave a review for this book or my others on Amazon, it would be much appreciated!

  All my best,

  Katrina

  Thank you!

  Thank you for reading Tempting the Scoundrel! I hope you enjoyed it.

  Some of my readers may have noticed the delay for Alexandra and Thorne’s story, and for that I’m deeply sorry. Sometimes, being hit at once with life’s difficulties can craft amazing stories, and sometimes it makes things harder. For me, it was the latter. I wanted to make sure Thorne and Alexandra got the story they deserved—and not the one that was most expedient.

  Thank you for your patience, your emails, and your encouragement.

  If you’re able, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. I welcome all reviews, whether positive or negative, critical or gushing. Even just one line helps readers find books.

  If you want to know more about James and Emma, their story is told in the novella A Touch Wicked; which is currently available for purchase on Amazon. [LINK]