London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Evelyn wished they weren’t enjoying this so much, especially in front of St. Aubyn. The marquis’s expression didn’t change, however, and he kept his gaze on the two boys until they left the cell, closing the door behind them. “One of my fellow board members warned me that I would turn this place into a thieves’ rookery,” he said in his low drawl. “It seems you’ve beaten me to it.”

  “I don’t consider working toward one’s self-preservation to be thievery,” she retorted. “And besides, the chair is orphanage property. We’ve only relocated it.”

  Standing, he heaved a sigh. “My backside’s too tired to waste time with arguing semantics.” With no apparent effort, he righted the chair and dragged it into his corner beside the mattress.

  He looked tired and disheveled, and in desperate need of a shave. His fine clothes were covered with dirt, and a dark smudge of the stuff ran across his cheek, where it had mingled with his blood. It was odd, because attractive as she’d always found him, he looked even better to her now. The polish was gone, but the man underneath remained as enticing as ever.

  “Trying to think up your next torture for me?” he asked, sinking into the chair with a sigh of relief that couldn’t possibly be faked.

  “You need a shave,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm.

  “Well, all I have for the task is my watch fob, and it’s not very sharp.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with.” Evie sat on the small stool. “I think it’s time I explained my position to you.”

  He sat back, closing his eyes. “I thought you’d done that. I’m in here because I’ve stepped between you and your only chance to make a difference in the world.”

  “Rose has lived here since she was two, you know. And so has Matthew, and Molly since she was three and a half. This is their home.”

  “They can just as easily make a home in another orphanage. One without me on the board. You could even volunteer there, and save the world from King’s Cross Road or somewhere.”

  “That’s not the point. They’ve become brothers and sisters, and you want to break them apart because it’s inconvenient for you to be here.”

  Green eyes opened, gazing at her. “‘Inconvenient’ doesn’t begin to describe it, Evelyn. My mother and her little waifs. It was ridiculous. She was convinced they would give her some horrid disease. Her way of showing bravery and conviction was to line them up for inspection once a month.”

  “You told me that.”

  He nodded. “And then, when she contracted measles, she blamed the brats for it. And still in her will I was to look after the Heart of Hope Orphanage. She didn’t have time to change it.” Saint gave a short, humorless laugh. “The darlings did kill her, after all, and now she’s stuck me with them.”

  St. Aubyn’s dislike of the orphanage ran deeper than she’d realized. Evelyn looked at him for a long moment. “They aren’t brats, or darlings, Saint. They’re only children, without anyone else to watch over them.”

  Crossing his ankles, the chain clanking as he did so, Saint closed his eyes again. “They have you, Evelyn. Only you’re too ashamed to tell anyone else that you’re even here, aren’t you?”

  “I am not ashamed. This…doesn’t fit in with my brother’s ideas of my duties, and so I’ve had to be secretive about it. That’s all.”

  “Do you ever ask yourself what bloody good it is teaching them how to dance or how to read, Evelyn?” he went on. “Once they turn eighteen they leave, and other than the females dancing in some bawdy house waiting for someone to pitch them a penny to lift their skirts, I can’t think of a single practical bit of instruction you’ve handed out yet.”

  Evelyn clenched her hands together, determined not to let him see how much his words upset her. “The dancing and the reading are a means to an end, my lord,” she said stiffly. “I’m here to provide a little kindness, to show them that the entire world is not populated by heartless, self-centered, arrogant men like you.”

  “Those are brave words while I’m chained to a wall, my dear,” he murmured, eyes glittering through half-closed lids. “Perhaps you might show me a little kindness and bring me some luncheon.”

  He’d had little enough to eat this morning that he was probably starving. “The children will bring you something when they return for their afternoon lesson in vowels.” She stood, dusting off her skirt, then paused. “Do you have a heart at all, really?” she asked.

  “If I do, you’re not likely to convince me of it here.” He straightened. “If I teach them their consonants, might I have a pencil and some paper?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll come see you before I leave.”

  She left him sitting in his chair. She’d known that convincing him not to dispose of the orphanage was going to be a monumental task under any circumstances; having him locked in the cellar made the situation more difficult still. At least she still had one thing on her side. Time. Time, and patience. And, she hoped, a great deal of luck.

  When she returned to his cell at the end of the day, he was no more cooperative than he’d been earlier. She couldn’t blame him; if she’d been locked alone in a dungeon in the dark all night, she would have been far closer to hysterics than anger. For that reason, she provided him with a candle and flint so he wouldn’t have to go through that again. Still, she hated leaving him and going home when he couldn’t. He’d done it to himself, she kept repeating as she returned to Ruddick House and changed for dinner.

  “Evie, you haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said all night.” Victor set his glass of Madeira down hard enough to make the scarlet liquid slosh over the side. A footman immediately appeared to sop up the wet and refill the glass.

  “I told you that I just have a bit of a headache,” she returned, blinking. She’d hardly touched her dinner, and she would need her strength for her next round of verbal combat with St. Aubyn. Grimacing, she went back to work on the roast pheasant.

  “Even so, I would appreciate if you would make an effort to pay attention. Lord Gladstone has invited you and me over for dinner tomorrow night. I’ve accepted on your behalf.”

  She choked on the mouthful of bird. “You—”

  “Apparently Lady Gladstone mentioned me to him, and she thought you were charming. Please make sure that you are. Plimpton’s been courting them ruthlessly, so this may be our last opportunity.”

  “Don’t you wish Mama to go in my place? She’s so much better at polite conversation than I am. And—”

  “No, I wish you to go with me. You’re the one Lady Gladstone knows.” He took a bite and chewed. “Thank God I sent you over to make her acquaintance. You made an impression, after all. Thank you.”

  “You know,” their mother said from the far end of the table, “Lady Gladstone and that awful St. Aubyn are rumored to be lovers.”

  “That’s another thing,” her brother took up. “Do not mention that scoundrel in Gladstone’s house. He’s likely to have an apoplexy, and then where would we be?”

  “But you don’t mind me being friendly with Lady Gladstone?”

  Victor frowned at her. “She’s the reason we’ve been invited.”

  “Even though she’s rumored to have taken a lover behind her husband’s back? I thought you were campaigning for morality.”

  “People like to say they support morality. And I won’t have you saying anything different. St. Aubyn’s been panting after you as well, as I recall. Or was it you panting after him, to annoy me?”

  “Neither,” Evelyn answered stiffly.

  “I wonder that anyone tolerates him at all,” Mrs. Ruddick noted around a slice of bread.

  “Probably because he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is,” Evie returned.

  “Would that we all had that luxury.” Her brother sighed. “This is only for a few more weeks, Evie. Please come with me.”

  She lowered her head. “Yes, Victor.”

  Evie excused herself early, then went to lurk in the library until Victor disappeare
d into his office, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later, Hastings, her brother’s valet, went down by the servants’ stairs to collect tomorrow’s shirts and cravats.

  “Steady, Evie,” she said to herself, and darted up the hallway to her brother’s bedchamber.

  Already laid out on his dressing table and ready for Victor’s morning ablutions, she found his razor, shaving soap, and shaving brush. She took everything, including the cup.

  Bundling them into the handkerchief she’d brought along for the occasion, Evie listened at the hall door for a moment, then hurried out to her own private rooms. Once she was certain she was alone, she laid the items on her bed to study them.

  Of course she couldn’t allow St. Aubyn access to the razor, because once he had a weapon, she’d never be able to get close enough to release him. That meant she would somehow have to shave him herself. She knew the mechanics of shaving a man, though she hadn’t actually done it since she’d been seven and her father had let her smear soap on his face. Shaving Saint, though, was not going to be the problem.

  “Hmm,” she mused, strolling to the fireplace and back again. The brig had come equipped with manacles, but convincing him to put his wrists in them would be impossible without some sort of leverage.

  And leverage where Saint was concerned meant either her body or a pistol. A low thrill went through her at the thought of what he might request from her in return for this. At the same time, he would remember her previous ruse, and he wasn’t likely to fall for it again. St. Aubyn might be lustful and decadent, but he wasn’t a fool by any means.

  A pistol, then, though he had to know she would never shoot him. One of the boys would be a better choice, but the thought of Randall or Matthew with a firearm filled her with dread.

  Slowly she lay back on the bed, dusting the dry shaving brush across her chin. Of course, if Saint thought she’d armed the boys, she probably wouldn’t actually have to provide them with ammunition.

  Evie smiled. Once she procured one of Victor’s pistols, Saint would find himself clean-shaven in the morning. Perhaps she might even beg some cold pheasant from Mrs. Thatcher, the cook, for his breakfast.

  Saint tossed another pebble into his bucket. He’d already done sketches of Evelyn, himself, the grim reaper, and his students on the scant half dozen sheets of paper she’d provided for him. And he’d read the book Evelyn had left with him enough times to have it memorized, despite the fact that it was a ladies’ etiquette book called The Mirror of Graces, by “A Lady of Distinction.” It sounded like something Evelyn and her fine friends would author. She’d failed if she meant it to enlighten him, but the thing had at least given him a chuckle or two.

  He hated being bored. In fact, he’d spent a great deal of energy in his life avoiding that very thing.

  As Evelyn had pointed out, at the moment he had nothing but time. And the problem with that was it lent itself to all sorts of unhealthy things—like thinking.

  He sent another pebble into the bucket. Even with a tallow candle for his personal use, the silence and solitude of the night seemed to last forever. Concentrating on physical discomforts was easier than dwelling on whether his servants had done anything more than note his absence for a second night in a row, or whether anyone else in London missed his presence at all.

  To be sure, the physical annoyances of his enforced stay were mounting; his clothes, his skin felt grimy, his left ankle alternated between throbbing and numbness, and his face itched. Worse than anything else, though, was a sensation he’d never before been conscious of—he felt lonely. He, the Marquis of St. Aubyn, felt lonely.

  Absently scratching at his chin, he reached for another pebble, then froze as the upstairs door squeaked open. He started to pull on his discarded jacket, then decided it was a useless gesture. At this point, nothing was going to make him look friendlier or less dirty.

  He did check to make certain the lengths of his chain he’d buried beneath his mattress remained well hidden. With any luck, someone—Evelyn—would forget how much room he had to move, and he’d be able to liberate the shackle key.

  He scented lemons as the door opened, and even before she stepped into view, he knew Evelyn had come again to see him. However insane her little plot was, at least she seemed genuinely concerned that he remain in good health. That was more than he could say for most people of his acquaintance.

  “Good morning,” she said, eyeing him warily. He didn’t blame her; he hadn’t been nice yesterday, but then she hadn’t deserved anything else.

  “Good morning. You’ve brought my ration of bread and water, I hope?”

  “Actually, I managed a pheasant sandwich and hot tea.”

  His mouth began to water. “Really? What do I have to agree to in order to receive this delicacy?”

  “Nothing.”

  Matthew something-or-other carried the tray into the cell and pushed it toward him with the broom handle. Trying not to act as starved as he felt, Saint stood up, retrieved his breakfast, and sat in his nice, soft chair to eat. Two other children replaced his spent wall candles with new ones, and Saint licked his thumb and forefinger to pinch out his reading candle. No sense wasting light.

  Evelyn cleared her throat, and he realized he’d been wolfing down his sandwich in a fairly uncivilized manner. “My compliments to the chef,” he muttered, taking a swallow of tea. He preferred more sugar, but he wasn’t about to complain. At least the potato they’d shoved at him last night had been boiled.

  “Thank you,” she answered, smiling.

  Saint stared at her softly curved lips until their amused expression faltered. He arched an eyebrow to cover his discomfiture. Solitude was obviously making him insane. “You made my breakfast?”

  “It’s actually my lunch, but I thought you’d appreciate it more than I. And yes, I made it.”

  “Then I thank you,” he said, venturing a smile of his own. He no doubt looked like a half-starved escapee from Bedlam, but she didn’t run away screaming in terror. Evelyn, he was beginning to realize, was a great deal braver than he’d given her credit for.

  “You’re welcome.” She turned away, walking back to the door, and he lurched forward so abruptly he nearly dropped the tray.

  “Are you leaving?” he blurted, grabbing the remains of his sandwich before it pitched onto the floor.

  Evelyn stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. “No. I brought you another present. Two, actually.”

  “One of them isn’t a key, I suppose?” he suggested. “Or perhaps they involve you removing your clothes?”

  She blushed prettily. “You’re hardly in a position to be saying such things.”

  “I’m shackled; not castrated. Unless that’s your surprise.”

  Evelyn’s mouth twitched, but she only disappeared behind the door for a moment, returning with a small, laden table and Randall. Saint kept his attention on the youth; he couldn’t prove anything, but he was fairly certain Randall had been the one to put the club across his skull.

  “First,” Evelyn said, putting down the table, “I must ask for your cooperation.”

  That didn’t sound promising. Saint swallowed his last mouthful of sandwich. “My cooperation in what?” he returned slowly. The tray wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would at least serve as a distraction if necessary. He gripped the edge of the flimsy thing.

  Evie looked nervous. “I need you to…to stand up and slip your right hand into that manacle there.”

  Saint just stared at her.

  “Now, please.”

  Several responses came to mind, but Saint dismissed them all as perfunctory and inadequate. “I may look a bit bedraggled,” he spat out finally, “but allow me to assure you, Evelyn, that I would sooner chew off my own foot than allow you to chain me to that wall.”

  She paled. “You misunderstand. It’s only for a few minutes, so…so I may shave you.”

  Well. That was unexpected. Anger began to slide into something warmer and less tangible, though he had
enough pride remaining that the entire situation infuriated him. “Let me shave myself.”

  “I won’t provide you with a razor, Saint.”

  “Smart chit. I don’t feel particularly civilized, however, and I don’t see the point of letting you fool yourself into thinking you’ve made me more comfortable by removing my damned whiskers.”

  “That isn’t the point,” she insisted. “I am attempting to bring out your better qualities. I believe it’s easier to behave like a gentleman when you look like a gentleman.”

  He folded his arms. “But I’m not a gentleman.”

  “Nevertheless,” she returned, “please cooperate.”

  “Aye,” Randall echoed, pulling a pistol from behind his back, “do as Miss Evie says, m’lord.”

  “Hmm,” Saint mused, every sense alert as he slowly set the tray aside and stood, “I suppose even the devil could pretend to be a gentleman if someone aimed a pistol at him.”

  Evelyn didn’t appear to be surprised at the appearance of the weapon; she’d probably provided it to the lad. Saint wondered whether she had a real idea of how many laws she was breaking in the course of her little experiment.

  “It’s just a precaution, Saint,” she said in a soothing voice. “Please do as I ask.”

  She didn’t let out the breath she’d been holding until he took a slow, deliberate step toward the wall. She’d known that he would rebel against further restraints, but it would have meant something if he’d cooperated without the need for the pistol. Of course, Randall hadn’t given him much time to consider his options.

  His jaw clenched and his eyes hard and cold, he lifted the right-hand manacle from where it hung along the wall. The look he sent her said she would pay for doing this, but she was already so far in trouble that adding more to the pile hardly signified. With a deep breath he put his right wrist against the clasp and snapped it closed with his left hand.

  Evie glanced at Randall, noting the practiced and steady grip the young man had on the pistol. Thank goodness it wasn’t loaded. With an unsteady breath of her own, she crossed into Saint’s domain within the cell.