London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I only have so much self-restraint, Evelyn Marie.”

  The lustful expression in his eyes started heat between her legs. Heaven knew, at least a half dozen times during the picnic she had to stop herself from leaning over and kissing him. More than anything, she wanted to feel again the way she’d felt in his arms. If he knew that, though, she would lose what little control she had over him. It was a balancing act, and she kept teetering on the edge of disaster.

  “Who else does your brother want to meet?” Saint asked, apparently realizing that she wasn’t going to jump into an alleyway with him.

  “Wellington was his main target for a Cabinet post, but since we seem to have lost Gladstone’s support, Alvington is the one who can probably do the most to get him the West Sussex seat in the House. How did you manage Wellington, really?”

  He shrugged. “I’d heard your brother wanted to meet with him, and I wanted to see you. Wellington likes fine sherry, and I own several cases of the finest.”

  “My brother would make a fine member of Parliament, you know.”

  Saint looked down at her. “And?”

  “And so you did a good thing.”

  “Yes, I did. I took you on a picnic.”

  Evie grimaced. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Why do you refuse to admit that you did something nice?”

  “Why do you think it was nice? I wanted something, and I did what was necessary to get it.”

  She shook her head. “No. I refuse to believe that your only motive for sending Wellington into Victor’s path was to gain a picnic with me.”

  He only smiled. “Tell me who else your brother needs in order to put together his campaign, and I’ll arrange it.”

  She stopped, and he came to a halt beside her. Sally also stopped a few feet behind them, and in full hearing of whatever she might say. “And what would you expect in return for that?”

  “More time with you.”

  Her first impulse was to shout at him that she was tired of being parlayed to men in exchange for political influence. At the same time, though, she realized that Saint had only seen what Victor had been doing for weeks, and had decided to use it to his advantage.

  “You might just have said that you were being helpful, with no ulterior motives.”

  “That would have been a lie. I was under the impression that you valued honesty.”

  Evie continued, walking beside him for a long moment in silence. Saint was honest. He’d never made any pretense of what he wanted from her. Even his honesty, though, wasn’t for its own sake; he used the admission of his mercenary qualities to gain her approval. Everything was so complicated, but if she meant to continue delivering her lessons to him, she needed to figure out how to convince him of the merits of doing a deed for its own sake.

  “My lady,” Sally hissed from behind them, “Mr. Ruddick.”

  She looked up. Victor stood on the front portico, his open pocket watch in his hand and a scowl on his face. “Oh, dear.”

  “We’re not late,” Saint said, following her gaze. “He acts like a procurer. Shall I remind him that you’re not someone’s whore?”

  The tone was mild, but Evie heard the steel beneath. Saint was angry at Victor—and on her behalf. A low thrill ran through her. “You will do no such thing. It would only put him in a foul mood, and it certainly wouldn’t benefit me.”

  “Perhaps not, but it would greatly improve my mood. I don’t enjoy being told how long I may spend with someone.”

  “Saint,” she muttered as they turned up the short drive.

  “I won’t enlighten him tonight,” he murmured back, “but please remember what I said about my flagging self-restraint.”

  He was teasing. Evelyn wanted to kiss him on the cheek—or better yet, on the mouth—but then Victor would faint. “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “I trust you had a pleasant afternoon,” Victor said, pocketing his timepiece as he came down the front steps.

  “Yes, it was lovely,” she answered.

  He took Evie’s free arm, and she abruptly worried that Saint would refuse to relinquish her and the two men would tug her in half. The muscles along Saint’s arm tightened beneath her fingers.

  “Your sister is delightful,” the marquis drawled.

  “Yes, she’s always quite charming.”

  Evie cleared her throat. “My goodness, so many compliments. I thank you both. And I thank you for a lovely picnic, my lord.”

  With a stiff nod, Saint relaxed his arm, letting her pull her hand free. “Thank you, Miss Ruddick,” he returned. “And you were correct.”

  “About what?” she asked, turning to keep him in view as he took a step back down the drive.

  “About daylight. It’s exceptional. Ruddick, Miss Ruddick.”

  “St. Aubyn.”

  As the marquis and his picnic basket returned to the street and whistled down a hack, Victor tightened his grip on her other arm. Evie made herself look away from Saint and face her brother.

  “What was that about?” Victor asked, towing her up the steps and back into the house.

  Langley closed the door before she could give in and see whether Saint looked back at her again or not. It wasn’t important, but she was vain enough to want to know if he thought about her, spared her a single thought, even, once she was out of his sight. “What was what about?”

  “The comment about daylight.”

  “Oh. I told him that he should attempt to emerge into the sunlight on occasion.”

  “Ah.” Victor released her, heading upstairs to his office, where he’d probably spent all afternoon plotting.

  “You might try it yourself,” she called after him.

  He looked back at her from the top of the stairs. “Try what?”

  “Sunlight.”

  “Just because St. Aubyn introduced me to Wellington, don’t think you’ve talked me into a friendship with the scoundrel. He did me a favor, and so I allowed you to be seen with him on a picnic. Don’t get used to it. I don’t owe him anything more.”

  Evie sighed. “In case you were wondering, he was a perfect gentleman today.”

  “So long as you were a lady. I suppose I should congratulate you on your determination to upset me. Evie Ruddick, advocate of the unwashed masses, dining with a man set to tear down an orphanage.”

  Not if she had any say in the matter. “Yes, Victor,” she called, strolling into the morning room, “thank you for reminding me.”

  Saint took a seat at the main faro table at the Society club. “What the devil is a ladies’ political tea?”

  Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, finished placing his wager, then sat back, reaching for his glass of port. “Do I look like a dictionary?”

  “You’re domesticated.” Saint motioned for a glass of his own, despite unfriendly looks from the tables’ other players. “What is it?”

  “I’m not domesticated; I’m in love. You should try it. Does wonders for your outlook on life.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, thank you. But if you’re so in love, why are you here, and where is your wife?”

  Dare drained his glass and refilled it. “A political tea, I believe, is an arena for ladies to discuss how they might best support and further the political aims of their…men.” He pushed back his chair. “As to your other question, it’s none of your damned affair where my wife is, and I suggest you stay the hell away from her.”

  With a glance Saint took in the tense expression on Dare’s face, the half-full bottle still gripped in the viscount’s hand, and the wagers being discreetly exchanged at neighboring tables. “I’ve set my sights elsewhere than your wife, Dare. If you wish a fight I’ll be happy to oblige you, but I’d prefer to share a drink.”

  The viscount shook his head. “I’d prefer to do neither with you, Saint. Evie Ruddick is a friend of mine, and you seem to have nothing good in mind for her. Agree to stop bothering her, and I’ll drink with you.”

  A few weeks ago Saint wouldn’t hav
e thought twice about informing Dare and anyone else who cared to listen precisely how much of his attentions Evelyn Marie Ruddick had enjoyed. Tonight, without caring to examine too closely why he declined to speak about it, he stood. “Neither it is, then. For tonight.”

  He left the Society in a roar of speculation behind him. Let them wonder what he had in mind for innocent Evie Ruddick. She wasn’t quite so innocent any longer, but that was none of their business. Nor did they need to know that he still craved her body, her voice, and even her warm, sweet smile. He supposed a ladies’ tea, political or not, would be off limits to someone of his sex, but there was still Shakespeare at the Drury Lane Theatre. He would see Evelyn again tomorrow, no matter who didn’t want him to.

  As he rode home, still fresh enough from imprisonment that even the cold, foggy evening felt good on his face, he ran the day through his mind again. If a month ago someone had told him he would be going on a picnic with a proper chit, he would have laughed in the prophet’s face. But not only had he done so, he’d enjoyed it, and more than he felt comfortable admitting.

  By his usual standards, the evening was still young. As had happened over the past few nights, however, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. His usual haunts—the gaming hells, the bawdy houses, the hellfire clubs’ lurid soirees—would only just be beginning their fun in earnest. Where once any attractive, semi-interesting female would have served, though, Saint didn’t want to ease his frustrated lust on some other woman.

  The low, flowing heat in his veins was for one woman in particular. The sensation invigorated him, made him feel more aware—more alive—than he could remember feeling in years. In her presence, seeing her and talking with her and being unable to touch her as he wanted, the torture was exquisite, and only bearable because he’d already promised himself that he would have her again.

  Cassius slowed and stopped, and Saint realized he’d managed to detour around to Ruddick House yet again. Only one window upstairs glowed with candlelight, and he wondered whether Evelyn’s night was proving as wakeful as his. He hoped so, and he hoped she was thinking of him.

  With a quiet cluck he sent the bay forward again. Whatever it took, he would have Evelyn Ruddick as his mistress. He didn’t want anyone else, and he wouldn’t accept that she might choose to decline the offer. By now he knew what she liked, and he would simply convince her.

  Evelyn managed to evade both Victor and her mother, and left Ruddick House for her aunt’s political tea early enough to accommodate a stop at the Heart of Hope Orphanage.

  It seemed far longer than two days since she’d last set foot in the glum old building, and from the children’s enthusiastic greeting any observer would have thought she’d been away for a year.

  “Miss Evie, Miss Evie!” Rose cried, flinging her arms around Evie’s waist. “We thought you’d been hanged!”

  “Or beheaded!” Thomas Kinnett added, wide-eyed, still scaring himself with his proclivity for gruesome tales.

  “I’m fine, all in one piece and very happy to see all of you,” she answered, hugging Penny with her free arm.

  “So’d he escape, or did you let him go?” Randall asked from the deep window sill, where he sat whittling.

  She remembered Saint’s warning about the older boys, but Saint was jaded and cynical. These boys had risked more than any of the other children in helping her, after all. “He escaped. But I also have his word that he will give me another four weeks to convince him to spare the orphanage.”

  “Four weeks ain’t much time, Miss Evie. And if you couldn’t convince him in chains, what makes you think ’e’ll change his mind now?”

  “He agreed to the four weeks without argument. I think that’s a very good sign.”

  “Should we give him back his pictures?” Rose asked, finally lifting her face from the folds of Evie’s gown.

  “What pictures?”

  “The drawings he made.” Molly went to her bed and pulled a handful of papers from beneath the mattress. “We hid them so no one would know.”

  Know what? Evelyn began to ask, then stopped the question as Molly handed her the papers. She’d seen Saint scribbling a few times, and he’d asked for additional paper twice, but she’d thought he was merely doodling to pass the time, or drafting letters to his army of solicitors about his imprisonment.

  “You look very pretty,” Rose said, taking a seat beside Evelyn as she sank onto the edge of one of the beds.

  Pages of children’s faces, caricatures of St. Aubyn turning into a skeleton in his cell, but mostly pencil sketches of her, covered every inch of free space, front and back. “My goodness,” she whispered, her cheeks warming.

  He’d caught her eyes, her smile, her scowl, her hands, her tears, all with remarkable skill on these coarse, smudged, wrinkled parchments. Looking at them, she felt as if he’d seen into her and drawn her secrets.

  “You’re certain, now, Miss Evie, that you didn’t just let ’im go?” Randall asked again, lifting his knife from the wood. “’Cause it seems from them that you was sitting down there letting him do portraits of you.”

  “I wasn’t,” she returned, hearing the accusation in his tone. After seeing the drawings, she couldn’t blame him. “He must have drawn them from memory. And look, he drew pictures of all of you as well. That means he was paying attention, and thinking of you.”

  “So he’ll let us stay, do you think?” Penny asked, sitting on Evie’s other side. “Because I don’t want to have to live on the street and eat rats.”

  “Oh, Penny!” Evelyn hugged the slender girl. “That will never happen. I promise.”

  “I hope you’re right, Miss Evie,” Randall drawled, “because there’s still ways to make sure it don’t happen.”

  “Randall, promise me you won’t do anything rash,” Evie said, a cold chill running down her spine. “And that you’ll consult me first.”

  “No worries, Miss Evie,” he returned. “I ain’t likely to forget that you’re a part of this, too. None of us will.”

  After the tense atmosphere of the orphanage, Aunt Houton’s political tea seemed woefully tame. Evie helped create silly political slogans to rhyme with the favored candidates’ names, but her thoughts were on the papers she’d carefully rolled up and stuck into the band of her stockings. They scratched her leg uncomfortably, reminding her how much she wanted a few minutes alone to sit and look at them again without a gaggle of curious children gazing at her.

  “Your brother sent over a note,” Aunt Houton said, sitting beside her as she scribbled out rhyming words for “Fox.” “He’s in raptures because Wellington has finally agreed to sit down to a quiet dinner with us on Friday.”

  Saint, again. “My goodness,” Evie exclaimed for effect, though she wasn’t the least bit surprised by the news. “Just us and Wellington?”

  “Not quite. The Alvingtons and…St. Aubyn will be joining us as well.”

  “Hm. Interesting. I hadn’t thought St. Aubyn was political.”

  “I hadn’t thought so, either. Victor attributed his sudden interest to some sort of conspiracy to sink his career, but—”

  “Nonsense!”

  “—but he’s willing to take the chance in exchange for another meeting with Wellington.” The marchioness turned away to answer one of the other ladies’ questions, then faced Evie again. “Do you know why St. Aubyn is so suddenly interested in your brother’s career?”

  She was truly going to go to Hades for this, and it was all Saint’s fault. “He asked me out on a picnic, but I can assure you that he didn’t mention this. I have no idea what he might be thinking, but there is certainly no ‘conspiracy’ between Saint and myself.”

  “‘Saint’?” her aunt repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

  “St. Aubyn. He asked me to call him Saint. Everyone does, I believe.” He’d also asked her to call him Michael, but apparently no one did that, and she wasn’t about to confess to that or to the circumstances that had brought it about.

  �
�Well, whatever his interest in you, make certain you don’t encourage it. The Marquis of St. Aubyn is a dark, dangerous man, and no one you need in your life. Especially now.”

  The words caught Evelyn’s attention, but before she could ask her aunt to clarify, Lady Harrington and Lady Doveston began an argument over whether “perfect” was an acceptable rhyme for “Ruddick.”

  Evelyn shifted in her chair, and the drawings rustled against her leg again. This meeting was such a waste, when she needed to be planning the next step in her education of Michael Halboro. But given what he’d sketched, perhaps he was beginning to be more convinced than she’d realized. And given the way he’d sketched her, she couldn’t help hoping that perhaps he would call on her again very soon.

  Chapter 18

  I want a hero.

  —Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto I

  “You rented an entire box for just the three of us?” Evie asked as her brother offered her one of the two front chairs and her mother sat behind. The orchestra seats below were already filled, and it didn’t look as though a single box or chair would be empty this evening. The extravagance of an oversized box surprised her; if Victor was anything, it wasn’t frivolous.

  “Not exactly. I invited some friends to join us,” Victor answered, taking another of the rear seats.

  Suspicion ran through Evelyn as she gazed at the empty chair beside her. “Which friends?”

  “Ah, good evening, Ruddick,” Lord Alvington’s booming voice came as he pushed aside the curtains at the rear of the box. “Good of you to have us tonight. Looks to be a sad crush, and I’d already loaned out my box to my demmed niece and her family.”

  “That was exceptionally generous of you,” Victor complimented, shaking the viscount’s hand.

  “Lady Alvington,” her mother exclaimed with achingly sweet glee, rising to kiss the plump viscountess on both round cheeks. “Have you heard that Wellington’s to join us for dinner on Friday?”