The Notorious Scoundrel

by Alexandra Benedict

  A fiend soon restrained her wrists with cord, curtailing her outburst. He grunted and sighed as he toiled, winding the coarse rope, his cohort keeping her pinned to the ground.

  The door opened.

  “I fear I must apologize for my—” The stranger from the roof paused and stared at the spectacle on the floor. “What the devil…?”

  Amy mumbled wildly for help. An attacker charged toward the handsome scoundrel. The men butted fists, and Amy’s heart filled with vigorous hope as she anxiously watched the contenders. At length, the second assailant was pressed into battle or he risked watching his comrade smashed to bits.

  He released Amy’s wrists. She swiftly disengaged the still loose cord from her arms and jumped to her feet. She snatched the stool beside the vanity and whacked a ruffian over the head. He staggered, disoriented, before he collapsed. The stranger from the roof brawled with the other, ill-matched challenger…until the handsome devil was pushed into the looking glass.

  Amy gasped.

  The mirror shattered and the weakened would-be hero winced, but it took little effort to take down the other breathless assailant, and with one last jab between the eyes, the stranger ended the violent quarrel, victorious.

  It was a short-lived victory, though. He clutched his bleeding head and slumped forward, landing on his knees with a loud thud.

  “Your other admirers, I presume?”

  Amy scowled. She gathered her shaky breath and quickly hunkered beside the stranger. “Let me see the wound.”

  He parted his fingers and she spotted the bloody gash, pressing her lips firmly together in distress.

  “That bad, eh?”

  Amy contemplated the situation. She considered dashing from the dressing room before any more danger presented itself, but she quickly rejected the cowardly instinct. The stranger had saved her reputation, if not her life. She would do what was right—and fret about the consequences later.

  She grabbed the coin purse off the table. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  He staggered to his feet and wavered. “We should summon the authorities.”

  “No!”

  It wasn’t uncommon for wealthy, ambitious bandits to want to see her privately, to learn her true identity. But Madame Rafaramanjaka was strict: she insisted Amy keep her dancer’s anonymity, for it enhanced the mystery, the excitement of her performances. The fantasy would be ruined if the patrons discovered she wasn’t an exiled princess but an orphan from the city’s rookeries, and Amy would be tossed back out into the streets. She couldn’t risk summoning the authorities; she couldn’t risk her identity being revealed.

  “The club’s guards will take care of the attackers,” she said.

  “Where are the guards?”

  Amy wrapped her arm around his midriff in support. “Don’t worry about them. What’s your name?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  She sighed. He was too woozy to answer her questions, and she had to move with him quickly—and discreetly—through the club, so she suspended further inquiries.

  “I trust you’ll behave yourself,” she said stiffly after a short pause, “if I take you back to my lodgings to rest.”

  “I don’t know if I can promise that.”

  Amy almost dropped him in a fit of pique, but she regained her temperament, concluding the scoundrel was likely too light-headed to ponder his scandalous remark.

  Stealthily she steered him toward the back entranceway, all the while hoping she hadn’t misplaced her charitable inclinations.

  Chapter 3

  He opened his eyes.

  A soft glow illuminated the narrow, unfamiliar space, and he squinted, searching through the haziness, trying to make out the colored splotches in the darkened room.

  He lighted upon a figure, wrapped in a coverlet. She rested in a chair at the end of the bedstead, dozing.

  He rolled onto his side, parted his lips to call out to her…then grimaced at the shooting pain in his head.

  The figure stirred and murmured sleepily, “You’re awake.”

  He wished to the blazes he wasn’t awake. He couldn’t make out the woman’s figure clearly, for his vision was blurred and the room was in shadow. The vigorous pulsing in his head muddled his senses, too, and his jaw was tender.

  He groaned and clutched his bandaged skull. “What happened?”

  She slipped away from the chair, stepped into the faint candlelight, and knelt beside the bedstead. It was then he was able to observe her features more plainly—and she was lovely. Long, fine hair framed her winsome face, the fair tresses wavy and sparkling in the misty light. She possessed a milky complexion, with well-defined lips and a small, straight nose, the rounded tip upturned slightly.

  She might be considered haughty with such a proud façade; however, there was a much more agreeable side to her countenance: a passionate, sensual side. It was there in her eyes. Sharp, almost exotic green eyes that pierced a poor fellow with their haunting beauty. He remembered those eyes from…

  “What happened?”

  Had he asked her that question already? he wondered. Had she responded? He didn’t remember.

  “You were injured in a fight,” she said in a sweet-sounding voice that matched her charming visage.

  He traced a finger across his bandaged brow, searching through the murky memories in his head. “Did I win the fight?”

  She frowned. “Is that all you care about? There’s a gash at the back of your head.”

  The woman’s petulant expression marred her pretty features. He thought about smoothing her down-turned lips into a smile with his fingers. He sensed she wouldn’t appreciate the teasing gesture, though, and said instead:

  “Where am I?”

  “At lodgings in St. Giles.”

  He closed his eyes, searching for a memory, a recollection, but a pleasant thought soon entered his drowsy mind, and he wondered:

  “Are we married?”

  “What? No!”

  He rubbed the sore muscles across his midriff. “Then why am I naked in your bed?”

  “You’re half naked,” she clarified, blushing. “I removed your shirt and coat because the garments were stained with blood. I’ve washed the linens and they’re drying in the other room.”

  That didn’t sound too scandalous, he thought glumly. “Are you my sweetheart, then?”

  “No!”

  She looked as if she wanted to clout him. Very unromantic.

  “Don’t you remember anything?” she said.

  He paused, thoughts spinning. “No.”

  She peered at him suspiciously. “You really don’t know who I am?”

  “I don’t even know who I am.”

  She seemed oddly pleased by his confession, for she smiled slightly. “My name is Amy. I was attacked. You offered me assistance.”

  “That was very noble of me.”

  She quickly made a moue. “Yes, very noble.”

  “Who am I? Where am I from?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted with a sigh. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  That sounded dire, and yet he wasn’t all that perturbed. Perhaps the head injury was making him mellow. It didn’t seem right that he should be so calm at the prospect of amnesia.

  Or perhaps it was the lovely Amy who was making him feel so tranquil. She had a magical, bewitching appeal about her. It suited him just fine if he forever stayed in her bed and admired her.

  Had she sensed his intimate thoughts? If so, the lass didn’t share his wistful sentiment, for she moved away from the bedstead then, and approached a small dressing table in the corner of the room.

  “I found this on your person when I removed your coat.”

  She handed him a small coin purse. He fingered the fine leather satchel and glanced at the embroidered initials.

  “E.H.,” he drawled.

  “It might be your name,” she suggested.

  The letters didn’t stir his memory, however.
“What sorts of names begin with the letter E?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He mused, “There’s Eric or Elmer.”

  “Elmer?”

  He glanced at her dubious expression. “I don’t look like an Elmer, do I?”

  She shook her head.

  “There’s Edward,” he said.

  “Edward’s nice.”

  He shrugged and set the purse aside. “Edward it is then. I don’t think the initials are mine, though. I think I stole the purse.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s embroidered with gold thread. Look here.” He lifted it again, stretching it toward the candlelight. The stitching was luminous. “It’s too fancy, something a bloody nob would sport, not a…” He frowned. “Well, whoever I am, I’m not a nob. I’m sure of that.”

  “Wonderful,” she said dryly. “I’m harboring a thief.”

  “Ah, but a thief who saved your life.”

  She snorted. “That would explain your foul manners at—”

  “My foul manners?”

  “Never mind.”

  He persisted: “At…?”

  “Never mind!” She sighed. “I think you’re a sailor.” She murmured, “When you’re not thieving.”

  He tossed the purse aside. “Why do you think that?”

  “You have a tattoo on your back.”

  “I do?”

  “An anchor on your right shoulder. There are some more letters there, too.”

  He fingered his shoulder. “What do they say?”

  She looked away. “I can’t read.”

  He observed her embarrassed mannerisms, her averted eyes. He didn’t want to make her feel even more uncomfortable, so he said to comfort her:

  “I might not be able to read, either.”

  “But you know the name Edward starts with an E?”

  “Good point.” He wrestled with his dizziness, and with great effort settled into a precarious sitting position. “Do you have a mirror?”

  She eyed him warily. “You’re pale.”

  He had sensed the blood drain from his face as soon as he’d righted himself. The pounding in his head was ferocious, too. “I’ll rest soon, I promise. The mirror?”

  She sighed and skirted across the room once more. She collected two small mirrors from the dressing table, for she had anticipated his intention.

  “Here.” She handed him a looking glass with a white bone handle. “I’ll hold the other one.”

  He gazed into the reflective material, then slowly lifted the other small mirror, angling it over his right shoulder.

  He spotted the inked anchor and the penmanship. “Bonny Meg.”

  “I suppose she’s your sweetheart.” She snatched the mirror away from him. “I’m sure you have one in every port.”

  Amy sounded…jealous, and that pleased him immensely, warming his belly. She ordered him to rest again. He obliged her; his head was throbbing.

  “I guess I can read.”

  He sighed as he lowered his head onto the feather pillow.

  “I guess you can,” she returned stiffly, setting the mirrors onto the dressing table. “An educated thief. I’m impressed.”

  Was she still brooding over the bonny Meg? he thought wolfishly.

  Who was Meg?

  His sweetheart? His wife? No…not his wife. He had no memory, but he had a feeling, an instinct the lass was not his spouse. The woman was dear to him, though, that much was for sure. He wouldn’t have inked her name on his back otherwise…unless he’d been foxed at the time. Perhaps she was just a pretty wench he’d tried to impress with the tattoo?

  He was thinking too much; his head pounded with vim.

  “Are you married, Amy?”

  She whirled around. “I told you, we’re not married!”

  “To someone else, I mean?”

  “No.” She placed her arms akimbo. “I live alone.”

  “What do you do for livelihood?”

  She hesitated. There was obvious uncertainty in her handsome green eyes.

  “Don’t trust an educated thief, do you?”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “I wouldn’t, either.”

  She screwed up her lips. “I suppose it’s no secret…I’m a barmaid at a gentlemen’s club. I serve drinks—and that’s all I do!”

  “You’ve said that to me before, haven’t you?” He frowned. “It sounds like you’re repeating yourself.”

  “I am.” She glowered at him. “You were both foxed—and bold—tonight.”

  “At the club? Where we met?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She bobbed her head. “You’re forgiven.”

  He might still be woozy and disoriented, but something didn’t seem quite right about her cajoling him into an apology.

  “Didn’t I save your life?”

  She pointed at him with accusation. “You do remember!”

  “No,” he said, drawing out the word. “You told me I saved your life, remember?”

  She looked flustered. He admired the color in her cheeks. It suited her pale complexion well.

  “Yes, you offered me assistance,” she confirmed. “And?”

  “Well, where’s my thank-you?”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Thank you.”

  “That wasn’t very sincere.”

  She scowled at him. “What do you want from me?”

  “A kiss.”

  She pressed her pretty lips together until the rosy flesh turned white. “You’re teasing me. You do remember everything about tonight, don’t you?”

  Had he kissed her at the club? What a miserable quirk of fate that he shouldn’t remember the sensual experience. It made the agony in his head all the more acute, for he rummaged through the foggy shadows in his mind, searching for the sweet memory.

  A series of knocks resounded at the door in the other room.

  Edward winced at the cacophony in his skull.

  “Let me in, Amy!”

  “Oh no!” The lass whitened even more. “It’s Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

  The unusual name rolled around in his head. “Who?”

  “Stay here!”

  She sprinted from the room and soon returned with his shirt and coat. She tossed both garments, still moist, onto the bed.

  “Don’t leave the room, please! If she finds you here, she’ll have me tossed into the street!”

  The look of horror in Amy’s eyes sobered Edward. Madame Raf…whatever her name was…must be the eccentric landlady who frowned on any immoral activity taking place under her roof—like an unmarried girl entertaining a bachelor in her bedchamber. He certainly didn’t want to see the lass destitute. However, staying in the room wasn’t going to protect Amy, not if the landlady was determined to search the quarters.

  He gathered his clothes as soon as Amy had closed the door, kicked his boots, sitting on the floor, under the bed, then slowly made his way to the tall, decorative screen at the other end of the bedchamber.

  He was dizzy and a bit confused by the need for a room divider in such a small space, but he slipped behind it, unwilling to dwell too much on the oddity…or the collection of ladies’ mirrors that rested on the dressing table. There had to be at least a dozen!

  Amy was a vain minx, wasn’t she?

  Amy frantically searched the sitting room with her eyes for any sign of Edward’s presence. She had removed his shirt and coat from the hearth. She observed no other indicator that there was a man staying in her lodgings: a man who might know her secret identity as Zarsitti.

  More pounding at the door.

  What was the queen doing at her apartment so late at night?

  Amy glanced at the mantel clock. It was after midnight. With a deep breath and trembling fingers, she unfastened the bolt at the door.

  “Madame?”

  The surly queen elbowed her way inside the apartment. “What is the meaning of this?” She produc
ed a piece of shattered glass and shoved it in Amy’s face as if she might cut her. “The dressing room is in shambles: broken glass, furniture. What did you do?”

  Amy veered her head to one side to avoid the lacerated edge. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Liar!”

  “I’m not lying,” she insisted in an even voice, heart swelling. “I was attacked.”

  The queen pinched her brows together. “By whom?”

  “Whom do you think?” The wicked woman was privy to the overexcited patrons at the club, and Amy gathered her courage to demand: “Where were the guards to protect me?”

  Madame Rafaramanjaka set the piece of glass aside. She eyed the dancer with venom. “I saw no one inside the dressing room.”

  The men must have regained their senses and escaped before the queen and guards had spotted them, Amy thought, but she refrained from making the claim aloud, for she was sure the cruel woman would not believe her.

  “I was attacked,” Amy insisted.

  “You look fine to me.” She grabbed her chin and roughly pushed it from side to side, inspecting the flesh. “Not a scratch.”

  Amy wriggled away from her icy claws, shivering at the woman’s vile touch. “That’s because I had help. One of the patrons came to my aid, but he doesn’t my true—”

  “Who?” Her black eyes flashed. “Your lover?”

  “I don’t have a lover.”

  “Is he here?”

  The queen glanced around the room as if she had not heard the assertion, her cheeks filling with blood. She headed for the bedroom door.

  “There’s no one here!” cried Amy.

  But it was too late. The wretched woman entered the bedchamber and Amy sensed her heart pause in trepidation, sweat gather between her brows…and then she sighed, the room empty.

  Where the devil had he gone?

  The queen marched out of the bedchamber in a haughty manner. “Why are the bedsheets rumpled?”

  Amy blinked, casting aside her bewilderment. “I was asleep,” she fibbed.

  “In your clothes?” She sneered. “He was just here, wasn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  “Your lover, you stupid slut!”

  Amy clenched her fingers into fists. “I don’t have a lover.” She pinched her tongue between her teeth, but, oh, there was so much more she wanted to impart to the miserable, insufferable witch. “And if I had a lover who’d just departed, wouldn’t I be in my underclothes?”