“I might faint,” he jested.
She eased her grip at the justification, and together the couple strolled through the lively thoroughfare.
“I told you it was too soon for you to be roaming about the city,” she chastised.
After a short lull, Edward returned the conversation to the previous matter: “Well? Why don’t you seek employment at another club?”
“I’d have to do more than serve drinks at another club,” she returned bitterly. “I’m not a whore.”
“Ah, yes, you’ve told me that more than once now.” He glanced at her sheepishly. “I should teach you how to protect yourself from patrons…like me.”
She snorted. “I can protect myself—well, most of the time—just fine. I had no trouble defending myself against you, after all.”
She tapped her chin.
Edward reached for his bruised mandible. “You struck me?” He fingered the tender bone, bemused. “And after I’d rescued you from the attackers?”
“Before,” she clarified with a boastful smile.
“I’m not sure what to say.” He eyed her warily. “I can’t remember being such a scoundrel.”
“Forget about it. I’m used to overbearing characters.”
He frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. How many other patrons had approached her in a foxed state of mind? How many had she clouted?
The dark thoughts in his head rankled his temper, and soon another “overbearing character” entered his mind.
“Like Madame Raf…?”
“Rafaramanjaka? Yes, there’s her.”
“She is a character.” He conducted Amy around a heap of horse dung. “What a stage name.”
“It’s her real name, I think.”
“Is it?”
She nodded. “She’s from the island of Madagascar.”
“Off the southern tip of Africa.”
“Yes.” She looked at him with surprise. “Have you been there?”
He shrugged. “I don’t—”
“Remember, right.” She looked back at the congested road. “Well, she was once a queen.”
“I can believe that,” he said dryly. “She certainly acts like one.”
“She was one of the twelve royal wives of King Radama, but she fled from the kingdom about three years ago.”
“Why?”
“Her sister-monarch, Queen Ranavalona, was apparently plotting to poison the king, assume the throne—and behead all the rival wives.”
“I think I understand the other queen’s motives.”
Amy chortled. “She came to England as ‘Madame’ Rafaramanjaka to hide from the other queen’s wrath.”
“Do you believe her tale?”
“As you said, she certainly acts like a queen.”
“Hmm…and how did you find your way into her hands?”
“She found me, in truth.” Amy’s voice dropped in pitch. “I was living in the streets at the time.”
“You’re an orphan?”
She stiffened. “Yes.” After a brief pause, she resumed: “I was living in a foundling asylum until about the age of twelve. After that, I was sent to work in a household as a serving girl. I stayed there for a few years…until the master of the house troubled me.”
Edward bristled. “Did he hurt you?”
“He wanted to, I think.” She shrugged. “I left my employment and went back into the streets. That’s where Madame Rafaramanjaka happened upon me. She took me away.”
“To work at the club,” he surmised, appreciating Amy’s wretched upbringing. “You don’t sound like you come from the streets, though.”
“Ye mean, I donna ’ave a cockney tongue?” she said, like a common wench from the rookeries. “Madame schooled me in society, polished away my rough manners…well, most of them. She refused to be surrounded by anyone without good breeding—or at least the appearance of it.”
“You have more good breeding than that vicious queen,” he said passionately. “Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”
Amy bowed her head.
He recalled the items in her apartment: the mirrors, the fancy furnishings. She yearned to be a lady. Did she think if she surrounded herself with posh knickknacks, she would be a woman of standing?
In Edward’s eyes, she was already such a woman.
“Why didn’t the queen teach you to read?” he said. “Or the asylum’s mistress, for that matter?”
“I was schooled in the foundling asylum for a short time, but I was then sent off to work. I wasn’t allowed to touch my employer’s books, so I soon forgot my letters. And Madame doesn’t like me knowing too much, I think.”
“So she can better control you,” he said darkly.
“What’s the matter, Edward? Why are you scowling?”
“There’s something about that word…control.” He smoothed his features. “It’s nothing, Amy. Shall we dine?”
After a modest supper at a local pub, the couple returned to Amy’s lodgings, exhausted.
“Do you have to work at the club tonight?”
“No,” she said. “The club is closed on Sundays.”
“No sin on Sundays, eh?”
She scoffed slightly.
He shut and locked the front door before he admired her sprite figure as it darted across the sitting room, stoked the coal hearth, then lighted a few candles with the Lucifer matches.
The space brightened, and Edward settled into an oak chair, content to observe her bustling movements, which he suspected routine. She had an agile form, quite bewitching, even dancerlike, and in the misty candlelight, she was a tempting sight.
She soon glanced at him, starting.
“What’s the matter, Amy?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
She returned the matches to the tin box on top of the mantel. “Never mind. It must be the shadows in the room. I’m tired.”
She averted her eyes, and the soft orange glow from the small flames caressed her high cheekbones, making him wonder what it would feel like, smell like to nuzzle her there.
He folded his arms over his chest, more mindful of the “look” he had offered her just a moment ago. “I’ll sleep out here.”
“In the sitting room?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “I think I’m used to less comfortable surroundings.”
She nodded. “I’ll get you a blanket.”
She slipped inside the bedchamber, and he listened with interest as she rummaged through a series of unidentifiable articles in a chest, looking for the blanket, he supposed. What sorts of treasures had she buried in there? he wondered.
A minute later, she returned.
She offered him a white embroidered quilt and matching bolster. “It’ll keep you warm.”
“Thank you.”
He touched her slender fingers as he reached for the linens, and she quickly dropped the bedding into his lap, skirting away as if he had burned her.
“Good night, Edward.”
She closed the bedchamber door.
He remained in the chair for a minute more, looking at the sealed barrier. He hadn’t intended to make her feel uncomfortable; however, it was hard for him to suppress the intense feelings she evoked in him.
Edward unraveled the linens and settled on the round, woolly hearth rug. He placed the bolster under his head and covered himself with the blanket, staring at the ceiling.
He sensed the wood floor under his bones, even with the plush carpet. He tossed from one side to the other before he settled on his back once more and sighed, weaving his fingers together and placing them behind his head.
He soon noticed a dark figure standing, watching him from the bedroom door, clearly cross. She had opened the barrier without making a peep.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
Was he making too much noise? He found that unlikely, for the sounds coming from the other tenants were far more boisterous.
He sighed.
“I don’t think I’m accustomed to going to bed so early in the evening.”
He had walked a far distance today. He should be ready for sleep. He was restless, though. It was only about ten o’clock, he guessed.
“You’d rather be out chasing skirts and getting tattoos?” she quipped.
He grinned at that. “I think so.”
She snorted. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Truth be told, he’d rather be in the apartment with her. He’d rather be close to her…touching her.
“What do you do for fun, Amy?”
“I don’t have fun.”
He cocked a brow, gazing up at her from the floor. “At all?”
“I work six days a week and I only get one day off to rest.”
“So what do you do for fun?”
Amy made a wry face and returned to the bedchamber, shutting the door quietly.
She was an odd lass, wasn’t she?
Edward was nestled beside the coal hearth, the spring nights still chilly, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, when Amy slowly opened the bedroom door once more.
“I like to play croquet,” she confessed quietly.
The genteel sport suited her temperament. She wasn’t one to enjoy the rat pits, he reckoned.
“I even purchased a croquet set.”
Edward pulled the blanket away and jumped to his feet. “Let’s play then.”
He folded the embroidered linen and set it and the bolster, aside.
“Here?” she said, puzzled. “Now?”
He started stacking the chairs in the corner of the room. “Why not?”
“I’m tired,” she said lamely.
“You don’t look tired.”
She was hardy, like him. And if he wasn’t all that fatigued, she wasn’t, either, he suspected. She was only putting up pretenses, for she was…odd.
“Do you play?” she wondered, folding her arms across her bust.
“Perhaps.” He pushed the round table into the other corner and rolled up the rug. “And if I don’t know the rules, you’ll teach them to me.”
She wavered.
“What’s the matter, Amy? You like to play the sport and I’m restless.”
She sighed at that. “Wait here.”
She vanished back inside the small bedroom, and again he heard the shuffling and knocking as she groped through the mysterious items she had buried in the sturdy wood chest.
She returned to the sitting room with a long leather case, and set it carefully on the floor, unfastening the belted straps.
“It looks new,” he observed.
“It is.” She opened the container. “I’ve yet to use it.”
Slowly she removed the wickets, balls, and mallets.
He hunkered across from her and collected the pieces. “Don’t you play with your friends?”
She scoffed. “I don’t have friends.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the people who live in the building…or in the area at large.”
He eyed her intently before he arranged the thick wood wickets around the room in a pattern, keeping the arches steady, as he wasn’t able to stake them into the soil, as the game required.
“I guess you do know how to play croquet.” She nodded at the figure-eight arrangement. “You’ve placed the wickets in the proper order.”
He looked around the room and shrugged. “I suppose I do.”
Amy handed him the mallet with a blue stripe. “Why don’t you start?”
He picked up the corresponding blue ball and readied himself at the starting point. The space was cramped, but he managed to gauge the wicket and send the ball rolling through the arch.
He stepped aside, and allowed Amy the next play with her red mallet and ball.
“Don’t you ever get lonely, Amy?”
She knocked the ball through the first wicket. “No, I like my company.”
“I like your company, too,” he admitted, observing her blush. His belly warmed, rumbled with pleasure even, at the charming sight. “But what’s the use in having a croquet set if you can’t play the game with others?”
He struck her red ball with his blue ball, earning himself another point and a bonus play.
“I don’t keep the croquet set so I can play with it,” she returned tersely, waiting for him to make another attempt.
He frowned as he took his bonus turn. “Why?” What was the purpose of amassing so many “treasures,” then? To engage in make-believe?
But she remained quiet.
“What about a beau, Amy?”
She stiffened. “I don’t have a beau.” She eyed the red ball and knocked it through the next wicket, bumping his blue ball. “You heard Madame Rafaramanjaka. I’m not to keep a beau.”
“I heard she doesn’t want you to have a lover…but that doesn’t mean you have to listen to her.”
She bowed her head, her beautiful long locks loose from the braid and hiding her features. “If I want to keep my employment at the club, then, yes, I do.”
“But who will keep your bed warm?”
She glared at him, missing her bonus shot. “Are you trying to distract me from the game?”
“No.” He took up his turn. “I’m just curious.”
She huffed. “I keep my own bed warm.”
“There can’t be any fun in that,” he said seriously.
“I told you, I don’t have fun.”
He had rounded the figure-eight course and was making his way back to the starting point. “And yet here we are, playing croquet.”
She was quiet for the rest of the game—and appeared piqued to lose as he struck the blue ball back through the starting wicket, ending the play.
“I’ve won, Amy.”
Her pert lips twisted and he smiled.
“Don’t be peevish. I’ve clearly played more often than you.”
She humphed and snatched the mallet from him.
He nuzzled her soft cheek, scented with lemon soap. “This is why you should play with friends, Amy…you might lose every time if you don’t practice.”
She bristled, rooted to the spot. He listened to the sound of her breathing, so heavy and irregular, and blood hastened through his veins as he sensed her growing arousal.
“How about a kiss for the victor?” he whispered.
She glanced at him sidelong: a sharp, wicked glance, for she then let her right fist swing in the direction of his jaw.
He ducked this time, avoiding the blow, and chuckled. It had been worth the effort, he thought roguishly.
Amy gathered the equipment and secured it in the leather case before she returned to her bedchamber. “Good night, Edward.”
She shut the door with a sharp snap.
Chapter 5
Amy was seated at the dressing table, combing her hair. She twisted her long locks into a queue and secured the tresses with a white ribbon, observing her reflection in the vanity glass. She rarely fashioned her locks outside the club, but today she decided to adjust her routine.
She stood and smoothed her skirts before she opened the bedchamber door. Her heart pattered at the imposing sight of Edward. He was standing beside the window, gazing out into the street below, a meditative expression across his low brow. He offered no indication that he was even aware of her presence, so she took the quiet, discreet moment to observe him in greater detail.
He was dressed in a slightly rumpled shirt and creased trousers, his coat draped casually over an oak chair. The man’s dark locks were mussed, his otherwise piercing blue eyes still somnolent. He was in such a bedraggled state that he stirred her blood. It was almost dreamlike, the impression he made upon her. He filled the room with his energy, and she welcomed the comforting company. For the first time in many years she had someone else in the home to talk to after waking up in the morning.
“You can stay here as long as you’d like,” she blurted out.
Slowly he looked away from the pane of glass and stared at her. He gazed
at her quietly for a lengthy time, the silent observation making her bones quiver.
She was quick to impart: “As you search the city for your home, I mean.”
He returned his attention to the window without commenting, and she busied herself in the room, collecting the blanket and bolster and returning them to the chest in her bedchamber.
“You have no money, after all.” She next moved into the small kitchenette and gathered the pewter dishes, set two bowls on the table in the sitting room. “You might as well stay here until your memory returns.”
“Are you trying to keep me around, Amy?”
“Of course not.”
She fastened an apron around her waist before she stuffed kindling into the iron stove in the kitchenette. She started a fire with the matches, then set a copper pot over the range and filled it with water from a pitcher that was sitting on the shelf.
“But what will you do for funds?” she said. “Shelter?”
“I’m resourceful,” he assured her with confidence. “Don’t worry about me.”
She opened a ceramic jar and scooped a handful of oats from the container, stirring the contents into the pot. She wiped her fingers in her apron, careful to keep her back turned toward Edward. “You mean, you’ll steal.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. I’m sure my memory will return soon.”
She twisted her lips at his annoying tranquillity. Did nothing ruffle the man’s feathers? How could he act with such coolheadedness? Was it all just bravado? Or was the man really unperturbed at the prospect of starting over?
She whisked the oatmeal in the steaming pot with a wooden spoon before she ventured a glance at Edward again. He was still standing beside the window.
“What are you looking at so intently?” she demanded, sounded unintentionally peevish.
“The two suspicious-looking fellows who keep pacing the street.”
Amy frowned and crossed the sitting room. She paused beside Edward and peered through the damask drapery at the bustling crowd.
“What two—?”
She quickly stepped away from the window, her heart pounding.
The Notorious Scoundrel Page 5
