Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Alexandra looked around—they were beginning to draw attention. The last thing she wanted was an audience. She was ending the adventure now.

  She grasped him by the arm and pulled him behind a tree for more privacy. “Stop it, Nick. Stop laughing.”

  But he only grinned at her. “It’s flattering. We make a pair, aye?”

  “I don’t want us to make a pair. We. Are. Not. A. Pair.” She said these words through gritted teeth, slowly, so he’d understand them better.

  Nick’s smile disappeared. Something glittered in his eyes. Was it guilt? “Alex.”

  “No.” She couldn’t think when he called her that. Alex was a name reserved for the man he had pretended to be, the one she fell in love with back in Stratfield Saye. She took a steadying breath. “I don’t want apologies. You and I will have words, but first tell me why you’ve come.”

  He made some small noise, and moved—to touch her?—but aborted the gesture. “There was a murder last eve in Whitechapel,” he said, his voice quiet. “Her corpse came with a message for me.”

  Why was he telling her this? “What was the message?”

  Nick’s eyes met hers. “It was a page from one of your books.”

  A chill went through Alexandra at his words, so carefully spoken. His expression—full of laughter before—was now deadly serious. The murder was horrific, then. For he had grown up within the Old Nichol in Bethnal Green, and Alexandra knew very well from her work that corpses were not uncommon. Neither was murder.

  “Who was the woman? Did you know her name?”

  “Aye. Mary Watkins. A flower seller—”

  “Yes.” Her voice trembled. “And maid, very briefly, for Lord Reginald Seymour.”

  Nick’s gaze sharpened. “You knew her?”

  “She was one of my informants. Lord Seymour has been illegally smuggling opals and workers to his mines under the pretense of essential import and export shipments on the Australia route. Do you think Lord Seymour found out, somehow? About Mary speaking with me?”

  Nick’s expression was thoughtful. “Maybe. Or that she was seen with you, and she’s one of mine.”

  “One of yours?”

  “Under my protection,” he said. “Her brother had a habit of beating her. She came to me once sporting a shiner and favoring a bad arm, so I dealt with him.”

  “Dealt with him?” Were the rumors about him true, then?

  He didn’t pretend to mistake her meeting. “Did I kill him? No. I stuck a finely aimed boot up his arse and promised, under no uncertain terms, that I’d do worse if he hurt her again.”

  The man he had pretended to be in Stratfield Saye was gentle, a former schoolmaster. Looking at him now, Alexandra wondered how she had ever been stupid enough to believe such lies. His ferocity was so thinly veiled beneath a veneer of beauty.

  Panthers, after all, were lovely before they ate you.

  “Good,” she said, surprising herself. “I’m glad she . . . could count on you.” I couldn’t.

  He took her by the shoulders, and Alexandra was so startled by his touch that she let him. “I’ve a lot of enemies, Alex. Now that our marriage is public, word gets around the East End. You understand?”

  “You think this person will come for me.”

  “Yes.” He glanced over at her house, that looming mansion that had become so empty. “I’ve instructed one of my men to keep watch on you tonight. If you leave the house, take a footman with you and don’t stay out after dark. My man will follow to keep you safe.”

  Why did he care? They were strangers, bound together due to his greed and her adolescent stupidity. They had no obligations to each other. No children. No pleasant past they could point to that contradicted his dishonesty. Every moment of happiness those years ago had been false.

  Alexandra lifted her chin. “What a strange thief you are, to care for the safety of a mark after you’ve swindled her.”

  Nick’s grip tightened. “I made a mistake letting you leave four years ago thinking you were only a mark to me.”

  She made a small noise. How could she trust his words now? Since when had he ever been honest with her? She couldn’t point to any circumstance; not a single one.

  Divorce, she thought. We’ll have words about that another time.

  “Enough.” She jerked out of his grasp and stepped away. “I will do as you ask.”

  He stared down at his hands, as if recalling the feel of her. “Come to me,” he said softly. “If you need anything. No matter the hour.”

  “There was a time when I would have sought your help without being asked,” she told him.

  Chapter 4

  Stratfield Saye, Hampshire. Four years ago.

  “Mr. Marlowe,” Alexandra said impatiently, “I have the money for this book. Do you wish to take it, or not?”

  The bookseller’s expression was stubborn, but firm. They had this argument before. Alexandra would choose her desired book, approach the till . . .

  . . . And the old man would refuse to sell it to her. On grounds of whatever he deemed inappropriate literature. Really, she already had one overbearing lout of a father, the last thing she needed was another.

  Mr. Marlowe was ancient; he ought to have passed the shop to his son, but that man had all the wits of an addled badger. It didn’t help that Marlowe’s was the only bookshop in the entire village of Stratfield Saye.

  Mr. Marlowe plucked the book out of her hands. “I can’t sell it to you. I shall sell you the Anne Brontë, but not this one.”

  Alexandra took it back. “Then why is it in your shop if you can’t sell it?”

  “Adam put in the order to the stockist,” Mr. Marlowe grumbled.

  Ah, the drunk son.

  “Well, that’s hardly my problem is it?” The bell over the shop door gave a jingle, and Alexandra ignored whoever entered. “This book was on your shelves, and so this is the one I want.”

  Mr. Marlowe smiled at his new customer with a pleasant look he certainly never gave her. “Morning, sir. If you’re in need of any assistance, do give a shout.” Then, to Alexandra, he hissed: “It’s inappropriate, amoral, depraved rubbish. Unsuitable for women.”

  Alexandra held it out of his reach. “Why, Mr. Marlowe, I ought to tell you that only makes me more determined to have this. I have a personal interest in depraved literature. I will double my offer.”

  The bookseller’s lips flattened as he crossed his arms. “No.”

  “Triple it, then. Come now, I know you’re in need of a roof repair.”

  Mr. Marlowe hesitated. “My lady—”

  “Might I offer some assistance?” Alexandra went still at the masculine voice behind her, for it was as smooth as a glass of fine port.

  Slowly, she turned to see its source. Alexandra was struck by his beauty; he had the kind of features that ought to be sculpted into marble and displayed for all to admire. That strong jawline, those high cheekbones, hair as black and gleaming as polished obsidian . . . Alexandra had never seen any man so handsome. No, a statue would not do him justice. It could not capture the way he boldly admired her.

  But Alexandra had grown accustomed to male attentions. She knew she was beautiful; she took after her mother, after all.

  Men usually admired her before she spoke. She doubted this one would be any different.

  At the reminder, Alexandra lifted her chin. “Unless you are able to persuade Mr. Marlowe to take my legal tender, then no. You cannot offer assistance.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Marlowe hastened to say, “the book is absolutely inappropriate for a lady. As I have explained to this one in detail.” He gave Alexandra a glare.

  She almost rolled her eyes. This one. Bah!

  The stranger raised an eyebrow and gestured to the book she held. “May I?” She complied, noticing then how dark his eyes were. Why, they were as deep and black as a pool of ink. “Pandora’s Box,” he murmured, returning it to her. “Mythology?”

  The bookseller gave a choking cough.

&n
bsp; Alexandra’s smile was slow. “No, no,” she said. “Clever euphemism for another box.”

  His surprise was fleeting, replaced with a soft laugh that was as lovely as his voice. Something warmed within Alexandra. Why, he was amused!

  Mr. Marlowe sputtered, his face a mottled red. “Get out.” He pointed to the door in some wild gesture. “Get out of my shop!“

  “Very well,” Alexandra said. She would have to resort to subterfuge. “Then I shall take the Anne Brontë”—she began to gather her things—”and leave you with coin for the trouble. Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Marlowe. And to you, sir,” she told the beautiful man. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Alexandra hurried out of the shop and strode down the road at a decent clip. The Hampshire countryside stretched before her, the hills awash with summer green. The village of Stratfield Saye was quiet—a relief, otherwise someone might stop her. She needed to be quick.

  “Miss!“

  Damn.

  Alexandra walked faster.

  “Miss!“ The man from the bookshop caught up to her. “Miss, you forgot your hat.”

  “Oh.” Thank goodness. She took it from him without pausing. “I’m sorry, but I must keep walking. Fast.”

  He kept up with her easily. “Are we fleeing someone?”

  “You might say that.” She reached into the fabric of her dress and held her prize aloft.

  Bookshop Man threw back his head with a laugh. “You stole that book?”

  “Shhh!“ She glanced around, relieved to find no one about. “I paid Mr. Marlowe extra in coin. And I have merely taken it off his shelves before his son, who is always soused, discovered it was a naughty book and stole it to do . . . “ She glanced at him. She was being far too familiar with a man she didn’t yet know the name of. “To do whatever it is men do in private,” she muttered.

  “I see. It was a kindness, then.”

  “Yes.” She would take very good care of this book. It would grace the shelf with all her other offensive literature.

  “An act of benevolence, taking naughty books from drunk sons,” he continued.

  What manner of man was this? He . . . unnerved her, with his attentiveness. He was supposed to have left by now, but instead he seemed to find her . . . fascinating? No, no. Surely not.

  But she was aware of his gaze, of those black eyes watching her. His attentions were as tangible as fingers at her nape.

  Alexandra stared at him in astonishment, which made him smile, and oh, it was a lovely smile. Not bland, not polite—it held a hint of mischief that both unnerved and delighted her.

  “What?” he asked, noticing that she stared at him.

  Alexandra tried not to blush. They were far enough down the road from the shop now that she could slow her pace. “I thought I knew everyone in Stratfield Saye,” she said, as if she had been trying to place him.

  “I only just moved last month. Nicholas Spencer, at your service.” He sketched a bow.

  Ah, now that name she had heard. “So you are the new Baron Locke. I am Lady Alexandra Grey, your neighbor at Roseburn. My staff were gossiping about you.”

  Something flickered across his features, but it was gone so fast that she might have imagined it. “Anything noteworthy?”

  “The maids were in raptures about how handsome you are.” And they were right.

  “Is that so?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. Her father’s staff had claimed he was a former schoolmaster, but he did not seem like the kind of man who spent time in a classroom. His figure was, frankly, as strapping as a laborer. “Were you really a schoolmaster?”

  He tilted his head, his expression strangely somber. “What were you expecting?”

  She gave an apologetic smile. “A dusty old gentleman with a stern countenance?”

  He laughed, and Alexandra’s heart felt a little lighter.

  Thorne’s manners had become polished over the month spent practicing with tutors. He’d learned deportment. His toff’s accent no longer slipped; he’d learned to maintain it from sunrise to the moment his head hit the pillow at night. He’d learned how to mimic the behavior of a gentleman with only the occasional mistake.

  Day in and day out, he played the role of Nicholas Spencer, a schoolmaster who inherited a barony from a distant cousin who died heirless. Thorne became so confident in his role that he’d followed Lady Alexandra into the bookshop with a jolly spring in his step.

  So easy, he’d thought. His mark was a sheltered debutante, after all. Those had all the awareness and life experience of a caged songbird.

  A future spinster, her father had called her. An arrogant little shrew who irritates every man who speaks to her. You’ll have your work cut out for you. Don’t waste my time, Mr. Thorne.

  Thorne half-expected some dour, disapproving hellion with a permanent scowl. But this woman was nothing like he’d expected. Christ almighty, the earl had failed to mention his daughter was a looker. And not just beautiful—bold, clever.

  And a damned decent thief.

  Sure, she was no seductress, no accomplished flirt. She didn’t hide the fact that she liked the look of him. But rather than blush, she’d been brazen when she’d handed over that book.

  Pandora’s Box. He almost laughed. No, she wasn’t a woman who wanted a husband who’d force her to quiet herself, to make herself smaller. Little wonder she’d never found anyone who suited among the arrogant toffs in London.

  She needed a husband who challenged her back.

  “So are you misrepresenting yourself?”

  They were almost to the edge of the village now. She tipped back her head and the sun lit her hair in a halo of gold. A creature of light, she was. And he was the bastard about to dim it.

  Then he realized what she’d just asked. “Sorry?”

  She smiled, as if she knew he was admiring her. “Misrepresenting yourself. Are you a dusty, curmudgeonly schoolmaster with the look of a rogue, or a rogue who plays the part of a dusty, curmudgeonly schoolmaster?”

  Oh, she was too clever by half. “What do you think?”

  Lady Alexandra toyed with her hat. “You did not look appalled at the book’s euphemism.”

  “And so?”

  “You are a rogue.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Just a moment ago, you seemed more appalled by me being a schoolmaster.”

  “Oh, I am. Rogues I can handle. Schoolmasters who look like rogues . . .” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes. You, Lord Locke, are too charming. That makes you dangerous.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Nicholas,” he reminded her. “Or call me Nick, if you like.”

  “Now, now,” she chided. “We don’t know each other well enough. And you did not even protest when I called you dangerous. I find that suspect.”

  If Thorne weren’t an accomplished confidence artist, she might have rattled him enough to reconsider the charade. But she was flirting with him, and that was enough for Thorne to lure her in. After all, a decent seduction first required a healthy bit of flirtation. The second thing? Understanding. Thorne had studied the broadsheets her father provided; sure, he was a slow reader, but he comprehended why she terrified those swells.

  They didn’t understand her, and men feared what they didn’t understand.

  “You, also, did not seem appalled by the book’s euphemism,” Thorne said.

  At the edge of the village, they came to a split in the road. The one that would separate their destinations. She to the Earl of Kent’s estate, and he, to a property that did not belong to Baron Locke at all. Baron Locke was a dead title, a role that would not hold up under scrutiny. It was meant only to last for three months. Just long enough to swindle her.

  Lady Alexandra paused, passing him a mischievous smile. “And so?” she asked, echoing his earlier words.

  Thorne shoved those thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford to care for a mark, no matter how surprising. “You are a lady rogue.”

  She kept her smile. “Perhaps I am,” she
murmured. Then she started down the road away from him. She looked over her shoulder and called out, “Lord Locke?”

  “Yes?” he called back.

  “In true wicked fashion, I’ll dispense with the formalities. I shall call you Nick if you call me Alex.”

  He watched her until she reached a bend in the road and disappeared. And when she left, she took all the light with her.

  Chapter 5

  London. Four years later.

  Alexandra woke to a man holding a pistol to her head.

  “Get up,” the man said, “all nice and easy like. And if ye make a sound, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  Alexandra’s heart stuttered and the breath left her lungs. The only thing she could do was nod, her fingernails digging into the quilt as the barrel pressed to her temple. The intruder was on top of her. It was too dark to see his features, but he smelled of cheroot smoke and spirits. The scent mercifully eased as he backed away to let her rise.

  With shaking limbs, Alexandra slid off the bed.

  Do not show weakness. Do not.

  The dim light from the open window illuminated her assailant’s features. He was tall and thin, his cheekbones prominent enough to cast shadows across his face. She could not see the color of his eyes, but she felt them all over her. Head to toe. He assessed her like a horse about to bring him a fortune.

  Alexandra tried to hide her shiver. She wore nothing but a thin night rail. The garment was a vulnerability: useless, flimsy, hiding little, not ideal for fleeing. He would capture her before she managed to alert the servants.

  Where was the guard Nick had promised? Had he abandoned her, then, for the insults, the caustic words? Worse: One brother was across the sea, and the other lived fifteen minutes away on foot. What servants she did have could not protect her from a man with a pistol. Alexandra had never felt more isolated and alone.

  All the way up here, they couldn’t even hear her screams.

  The intruder made an appreciative sound, the pistol still firm in his grip. “Shoulda known Thorne’s woman was a looker. I’d rip off that scrap of fabric meself if I hadn’t been told not to.”