London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Everyone was definitely looking at her now, no one surprised, and her aunt the only one with the least bit of sympathy showing on her face. What was she supposed to do, lie? She couldn’t do that. It would only make Saint look worse to everyone, and she couldn’t bear that.

  “I know…something about that story,” she stumbled. “It sounds worse than it is. Believe me.” She forced a chuckle, at the same time grabbing for her glass of Madeira. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing, my lady?”

  Victor slammed his fork onto his plate with enough force to crack the fine china. “From your lips, Evie.”

  “Wha—”

  “Imagine my surprise when Lord Alvington came calling late this afternoon with his cousins Lord and Lady Huntley. They heard you, my dear sister, at General Barrett’s idiotic idealists’ picnic, saying several…unfortunate things to St. Aubyn—including the fact, I believe, that you were eager to kiss that…blackguard. I would use a stronger term, but ladies are present.”

  “May I explain?” she asked, though she had no idea what to tell him but the truth—or as much of that as he could tolerate.

  “No, you may not. What did you think,” her brother pursued, “that you could behave as you like? Associate with that absolute…scoundrel and I would do nothing? I have questioned our aunt about your absences from her teas, and she admitted that you have been wasting your time with bloody, bastard orphans—excuse my language, ladies—at the Heart of Hope Orphanage, the very one under the authority of St. Aubyn!”

  Evie looked at her aunt. “You told?” she asked, her voice so calm it surprised her.

  “I’m sorry, Evie,” the countess murmured. “He’d already guessed. I had no choice.”

  “Thank God the Huntleys went to Lord Alvington and not to the gossip sheets,” Victor went on. “And thank God we have the means to make this fiasco right before any irreparable harm is done.”

  For a moment Evie closed her eyes, wishing they would all go away. Saint. She wanted to talk to Saint. He would have an answer for them. “And how do you intend to do that?” she asked.

  Clarence gave a nervous cough. “After some discussion, and a very generous settlement on you by your brother, I have agreed to take you as my wife.”

  Her heart stopped. She knew it was coming, but to hear it—“You ‘agreed’ to marry me?” she repeated, lifting her head to gaze at him.

  “And I agreed,” Victor put in. “Only we few know of this nonsense, and a marriage announcement should stop any further speculation regarding the weakness of your character.”

  “But I don’t agree.” Evelyn took a deep, steadying breath. Enough was enough—and if Victor required six other people present when he attacked her, then she was more than a match for him alone. At least she could tell herself that, for the moment. “I will shout and argue every step of the way, and when people look at you, Victor, they won’t be admiring your political acumen. They’ll be whispering about what a tyrant you are and how horribly you’ve used your sister.”

  Her mother gasped. “Evie!”

  “More likely people will be admiring my fortitude and patience in putting up with you. Obviously I’ve been too lenient in tolerating your selfishness and flightiness. Go to your room, and do not emerge until you agree to behave yourself. No more orphans, no more shopping with your frivolous friends, and no more conversation with St. Aubyn. Ever.”

  Evelyn put her napkin onto the table and slowly stood. “Whatever you think, and whatever you’ve been told, remember that you never heard my side of the story. And you might have thought to ask me, Victor, before you attempted to humiliate me in front of our family and friends. You will make a fine politician, but you would have been a better brother if you’d asked, and if you’d listened. Good evening.”

  With as much decorum as she could muster, Evie climbed the stairs, strode down the hall, entered her bedchamber, and closed the door behind her. Leaning back against it, for a long moment she simply concentrated on breathing. Then she realized she wasn’t so much upset as she was angry. Turning around, she locked the door. That would be better than hearing them lock it from the outside. At least this way she could pretend that she had some control over the situation—over her own life.

  She did have some control, she told herself. She could still say no. Not even Victor could force her to marry completely against her will. Of course, in return he could send her back to their estate in West Sussex and refuse to give his permission for her to wed anyone else—and he could also cut off her funds on the grounds that she’d failed to fulfill her duty to her family, so that she wouldn’t be able to afford to go anywhere or do anything.

  Even worse than all of that, though, was the thought of the children. Saint surely wouldn’t go back on his promise to move them to their new home, but even so, she’d broken her word to them. They would think she’d abandoned them, just as everyone else in their lives had.

  “No, no, no,” she chanted, pacing from the door to the window and back again. Six months ago, if Victor had ordered her to marry Clarence Alvington, she would have wept, protested, and ultimately complied.

  This, however, was not six months ago. She’d changed since then. She’d befriended orphans and realized she could improve their lives. She’d visited other institutions and seen how much yet remained to be done. She’d discovered how it felt to be in a man’s embrace, and how significant one man’s attentions could make her feel.

  Evelyn shoved the window open and looked down. The dark garden lay below, with nothing between herself and the ground but wall. “Damnation.” In romantic stories one always had a drainpipe or a rose trellis on hand for an escape—or a midnight rendezvous. She didn’t even have a certain someone waiting in the shadows to bring her a ladder.

  She paused, sitting in the reading chair by the window. Of course, she knew what she wanted to do; she wanted to go find Saint and convince him to elope with her, or to run away with her, or at least to hide her until she could figure out what to do. Saint, however, though he delighted in twists and turns, detested entanglements. If she landed on his doorstep, she would be bringing with her a knot the size of Windsor Castle.

  What if he only wanted her when no one else knew, when it wasn’t complicated? Slowly she leaned forward and closed the window again. If her life was going to become a nightmare, this way she at least would be able to hold on to the fantasy of loving the man Michael Halboro was on the verge of becoming. She couldn’t bear being the witness to and cause of his ultimate failure. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “What am I going to do?”

  Saint glared at his solicitor. “No, I am not going to consider this further,” he snapped. “Give me those papers to sign, or I will be forced to remove them from your person.”

  Wiggins swallowed. “I see you have considered already,” he said, eye twitching as he dove into his satchel for the final set of papers. “Just initial the first three pages and sign the fourth. Both sets, please.”

  Saint turned the papers to face him, then with a deep breath dipped his pen and signed. “That’s it then, yes? The property is mine?”

  “Yes, my lord. Signing over the funds is the last step.”

  “Good. Go file and transfer and stamp or whatever it is you do. I want the deed by noon.”

  “By—Yes, my lord.”

  The solicitor fled the office, and Saint folded his hands behind his head, tilting his chair back against the bookcase. The orphans had their home. Buying St. Eve House, as he’d decided to call it, was probably the most frivolous thing he’d ever done. It would turn him no profit—just the opposite, in fact. It gained him no leverage over anyone. It did, however, keep him in the good graces of the one female, the one person, he valued above all others.

  And with the papers signed, he could concentrate on finding a way to make her his forever. “Jansen!”

  The butler skidded into the doorway. “My lord?”

  “Have Cassius saddled. And get me a dozen red roses.”

/>   “Yes, my lord.” He vanished again.

  “Jansen!”

  The butler’s head reappeared. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Make it two dozen red roses.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Saint finished his remaining paperwork, then pulled on his riding gloves. It was past nine in the morning, thanks to his solicitor’s reluctance to hand over the last bit of paperwork. Yesterday Evelyn had said she planned to spend the morning at the new house, making notes on what needed to be purchased to make everything ready for the children.

  He would find her there, then. And after yesterday, he didn’t think he’d have much difficulty convincing her to join him in one of the private rooms for a short time. If he didn’t take her again soon, he was going to explode.

  Then it would be off to convince Wellington of some Cabinet post or other the two of them could propose that Prinny create for Victor Ruddick. He hummed a waltz as he made his way down to the foyer. Behaving was easier than he’d expected—particularly when he had a prize to claim at the end of the game.

  “I’ll return by noon for some papers Wiggins is to leave for me.”

  Jansen pulled open the front door. “Very good, my lord. And here are your flowers.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome, my lord. And good luck, if I may be so bold.”

  Saint grinned as he swung onto Cassius’ back. “You may, but don’t make a habit of it.”

  The street running past St. Eve House was empty but for a few carriages of the older gentry who occupied the other dwellings. Saint went in anyway, using an unlatched window when he found the front door locked.

  “Evelyn?” he called, his voice echoing through the empty rooms. “Miss Ruddick?”

  Obviously she wasn’t there. Saint returned to Cassius. Her second most likely location would be the old orphanage, so he rode through Marylebone to Great Titchfield Road.

  The housekeeper met him on the landing. “My lord,” she said, offering him a deep, ungainly curtsy.

  “Mrs. Natham. I’m looking for Miss Ruddick. Is she here this morning?”

  The woman seemed baffled that she remained employed, but Saint had no intention of easing her confusion. Evelyn liked her, so she would stay. That was the limit of his caring where the Iron Mop was concerned.

  “No, my lord. The children have been inquiring, but we haven’t seen her for three days now.”

  “Hm. Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Natham.” He turned on his heel.

  “My lord?”

  Saint stopped. “Yes?”

  “Young Randall has been telling the other children the most amazing story—about a new home for all of them. They are so excited, but I wondered whether…Randall likes to tease, you know.”

  “Randall is correct.” He hesitated. “I believe Miss Ruddick wanted to inform them herself, as soon as the papers were signed. I would appreciate if you would suggest to the infants that they act surprised when she gives them the news.”

  The housekeeper smiled, the expression softening the hard features of her face. “With pleasure, my lord. And thank you—for the children’s sake, that is.”

  “You are all welcome. Good day, Mrs. Natham.”

  It was so odd, he reflected, riding back toward the center of Mayfair, that seeing people happy would make him feel so…pleased. He’d demand an explanation of the phenomenon from Evelyn once he tracked her down.

  He caught up to Miss Barrett and Lady Dare just as they were exiting Barrett House. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, doffing his hat.

  “My lord,” they echoed, sending a glance at one another.

  “I’m looking for Miss Ruddick. I’d hoped to find her with you this morning.”

  Lucinda frowned, then quickly wiped the expression away. “She said yesterday that she had a…place to visit this morning.”

  Saint swung down from Cassius. “She’s not there. Nor is she at the other place.”

  “We were to go to the museum this afternoon,” Lady Dare said thoughtfully, “but she sent me a note, begging off.”

  Trying to maintain his relaxed stance, Saint took the note as the viscountess pulled it from the pocket of her pelisse. “It doesn’t say why she canceled,” he muttered to himself. In fact, he’d never known her to be so brusque with her friends.

  “I’m sure her brother’s merely sent her off on another of his missions.” Despite the reassuring words, Lady Dare didn’t look all that confident.

  Both of her friends would know about Victor Ruddick’s plans for Evelyn and Clarence Alvington, and he could see the speculation in their eyes without having to ask the question aloud. The Alvingtons were to have been at dinner with the Ruddicks last night. Saint’s heart began hammering, filling him with an unaccustomed, unpleasant sensation—worry.

  “Perhaps we should call on her, Georgie,” Lucinda suggested. “Just to make certain she’s feeling well.”

  Saint barely heard them. He was already up on Cassius again. “No need. I’ll see to it.”

  Something was wrong. Little evidence though he had, his keenly developed sense of self-preservation told him that the morning was not as it should be. He wanted to gallop, but propriety still counted, so he settled for a fast trot to Ruddick House.

  The Ruddick butler opened the door at his knock. “Lord St. Aubyn. Good morning.”

  “I would like to speak with Miss Ruddick, if she’s in,” Saint said, unable to keep the clipped impatience from his voice.

  “If you’ll wait in the morning room, my lord, I shall inquire.”

  Saint let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She was there, anyway. She hadn’t been dragged off somewhere and married to Clarence Alvington before he had a chance to do anything about it.

  He paced the morning room, the need to see her creeping along his veins like a fever. She would be all right. She would come downstairs and tell him that she’d had too much wine at her brother’s dull dinner and that she’d simply overslept.

  “St. Aubyn.”

  He turned. “Ruddick.” The hairs on the back of his neck pricked. Whatever was going on, it was worse than he’d anticipated. Be polite, he reminded himself. Evelyn wouldn’t go completely against her brother’s wishes in anything, and so he had to woo Victor as much as he needed to convince her of his sincerity. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. My sister’s not feeling well this morning, I’m afraid.”

  Saint’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t going to see her. “Nothing serious, I hope?” he made himself say.

  “No. Just a headache. But she’s not seeing anyone.”

  “Well. I won’t keep you, then.” Saint brushed by Ruddick, returning to the hallway and handing the roses to the butler. “For Miss Ruddick.”

  “And St. Aubyn?” Evelyn’s brother continued, following him toward the foyer.

  Only Victor’s presence kept Saint from storming up the stairs and breaking down doors until he found Evelyn and assured himself that she was all right. “What is it?”

  “My sister is not as sensible as I could wish. She is betrothed to Clarence Alvington, and I would appreciate, gentleman to gentleman, if you would keep your distance from her.”

  Saint froze. No. When she’d mentioned it to him before, it had only been a possibility, something he had already decided he could prevent. The woman he’d fallen in love with did not become betrothed to someone else. Not when he hadn’t even had a chance to win her. “She agreed to marry Alvington?”

  “Of course she did. She has this family’s best interests at heart. Good day, St. Aubyn. I trust you won’t be calling here again.”

  Saint paused in the doorway as the butler pulled open the door. “You know, Ruddick, I used to think I was the worst scoundrel in London. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that I was wrong. Congratulations. You now hold the title.”

  “If you had a sister, St. Aubyn, you might understand. Now leave, and don’t come back.”

  Leavin
g Ruddick House was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew Evelyn was in there, and that she had to be desperately unhappy. He needed to see her. He needed to help her. He needed to do something.

  Chapter 24

  Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,

  And Freedom find no champion?

  —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV

  Saint had grabbed Cassius’ bridle away from Ruddick’s groom when the butler emerged onto the front steps. “You, rag and bone man!” the servant shouted. “Don’t accost our guests. You know the servants’ entrance is around the back!”

  Saint glanced over his shoulder in the direction the servant was yelling. No rag and bone man was anywhere in sight. With a fleeting glance in his direction, the butler disappeared back inside the house and slammed the door.

  Forcing his mind back from the grim desire to beat Ruddick within an inch of his life, Saint rode Cassius down the street. Once around the corner from Chesterfield Hill, he found a young man, gave him a shilling, and handed the bay over to his care. Thank God for butlers.

  Slipping along the carriage drive, he made his way to the rear of the house. The kitchen door opened as he reached it. The butler motioned him inside.

  The kitchen staff seemed furiously busy with cleaning for this time of morning, but if it gave them an excuse not to see him, he had no objection. “Thank you,” he muttered, following the butler toward the narrow back stairs.

  “If Mr. Ruddick sees you, I’m afraid I will have to deny providing you with entry,” the man returned. “But Miss Ruddick seems quite fond of you, as we are of her. She does not deserve this foul treatment. Go up to the second floor. Her bedchamber is the fourth one to your left.”

  Saint nodded, already halfway up the stairs. At least the butler’s actions confirmed his own suspicions. Evelyn was not in this situation by choice. The hallway was empty as he emerged, and he made his way to the door the butler had indicated. Rapping softly, he leaned his ear against the hard wood. “Evelyn?”