Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Alexandra went still, too scared to move lest he change his mind. “By whom?”

  “I ain’t get paid to tell. Got paid to kill that that shadow watchin’ your doorstep and to bring you in. Dumped his body in the garden, and now ‘ere I am. Come slow.”

  Oh god, he’d killed the man Nick hired to protect her. Oh god.

  Trying to control her trembling, Alexandra followed him at his gesture. “What if I paid you more to leave? No consequences, I won’t tell the police. Just a quick payment to walk out that door.”

  His eyes glittered in the darkness. And why not? He was a mercenary, only here to do a job for payment. Men like him were easily swayed and easily bought. “. . . How much?” he asked.

  “How much are you owed for bringing me in?”

  The intruder’s smile unnerved her. “A tenner to bring you alive.”

  Alexandra’s breath stopped. That was a large sum of money. “And dead?”

  “Not a tenner. Figure the bloke payin’ me wants to finish the job hisself.”

  But why? She wanted to ask again for the name of who had hired him, but she focused on her task: persuasion; distraction. She needed to make it out of this house alive. She had prepared for this, all those times she went into the East End. Other women had taught her how to survive.

  She had learned so much from them.

  Deep breath. “I will offer you thirty pounds to leave this house. Thirty. Paid in notes. Right now.”

  He paused, tilting his head as he considered her offer. He’d be mad not to take the small fortune. Her thoughts were a litany of a simple prayer: Say yes. Please say yes.

  The man started to lower his pistol, but then lifted it again. “Can’t. He’ll come find me. He’ll—”

  “Thirty pounds is more than enough to escape,” Alexandra gently reasoned. “You can run wherever you like. Start new.”

  The intruder licked his lips. Yes, keep talking. Only a little longer now. She knew this man would betray her. Mercenaries did not have honor, and this man would likely kill her for the buttons on her coat. No one was coming to her rescue.

  She was going to have to save herself.

  “Show it to me,” he said.

  Good. Now stay calm.

  Alexandra went to her vanity and took the key out of its hidden compartment to unlock the drawer. At the top were stacks of letters and documents she kept for her essays and books. Reminders that she still had work to do, if she made it out of here alive.

  Below the letters was the object she sought: the small, ornately carved knife.

  She had commissioned the knife herself for protection in the London slums. The informants for her essays lived in dangerous parts of the city, where it was risky for a single woman to wander alone. Those women had told her to bring a weapon.

  And they had taught her how to use it.

  Alexandra grabbed her knife and slipped it behind her wrist. She shifted more documents aside, deliberately making noise, as if she were still searching.

  The intruder made an impatient noise. “Hurry the fuck up.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, plucking out the small wad of notes she kept to pay her informants. “Here you are.”

  She held up the notes for him to see. He stared at it, assessing. This man had likely never seen thirty quid in his life.

  His next thoughts were more obvious: was it worth taking her offer when he had another bounty waiting? Together, they netted him a small fortune. Her life was worth nothing to him.

  And forty pounds was more than thirty.

  “Give it ‘ere,” he said, gesturing with his fingers.

  With the blade hidden behind her wrist, she did as he demanded. The moment he lowered the pistol and reached for the wad of notes, she struck.

  Alexandra shoved the blade into flesh of his shoulder and pulled it out with a swift jerk.

  The intruder gave a shout, his pistol hitting the floor. Alexandra kicked it away, saw it skitter beneath the bed. With her slick, bloody knife still in hand, she whirled and lunged for the door. But he recovered too soon. The man seized her hair from behind and shoved her to the floor. Alexandra gasped in pain.

  “I’ll take your blunt and leave you dead, you little bitch,” he said, raising his fist.

  She was quicker. With a sharp cry, she plunged her knife into his gut. His expression was startled.

  Oh god. Oh god, oh god.

  “You—” He choked. “Y-you—”

  The intruder crumpled to the floor. His breathing was ragged, and he stared up at her as the blood pooled around him. His last words were an incoherent garble.

  Then, nothing. His eyes stared up at her bedroom ceiling, sightless.

  Alexandra had killed a man.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. What could she do? Call the servants? Tell someone to find a constable? They’d ask questions about the dead man in her garden, as well. They’d dig into that murder in Whitechapel. Had Nick even informed the police of Mary Watkins’ death?

  Nick.

  Come to me, if you need anything, he’d told her. No matter the hour.

  Nicholas Thorne was the only man she knew who could help her now. Alexandra barely remembered putting on her boots and cloak as she fled Kent House. She hurried down the pavement to the main road and hailed a hack.

  “Take me to the Brimstone in Whitechapel.”

  “Brimstone ain’t no place for a lady,” the driver said. “Don’t expect me to stick around—”

  “If I wanted to receive a lecture on appropriate behavior and places for women, sir, I’d listen to the imbeciles in Parliament. Now drive me to the Brimstone and there’s a sovereign in it if you shut the bloody hell up.”

  The driver shut the bloody hell up.

  Time went by in a blur. The streets changed from the tidy rows in Westminster to the uneven, blackened tenements of the East End. Ever closer to the Brimstone, and . . .

  Safety?

  Alexandra gave her head a shake. No. What happened in the last hour had addled her. Her breathing came too fast; she was surprised the driver couldn’t hear it. She kept recalling the face of the man she’d killed, the fact that he was still lying on the carpet in her bedchamber. God, his blood coated her hands, hidden beneath her cloak.

  Thorne’s wife, he’d called her.

  No, the Brimstone would not give her safety. Going there was simply necessary.

  The lights of the club were visible all the way up the road. Alexandra hated this place. Hated everything it represented: a gambling den to line the pockets of the man who had deceived her. And now—Alexandra held back a bitter laugh at the thought—she was here for his help.

  “Around the back,” she told the driver.

  The driver gave a grumble, but complied. He was not about to risk losing his sovereign.

  The hack rolled to a stop at the back entrance. Alexandra tossed the coin to the driver, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blood until after he’d left—not that it would make a difference, she suspected. Blood covered money was as good as any.

  Alexandra knocked on the back door of the gaming hell. She didn’t know who she expected to answer, but the man before her didn’t appear to be a lawless type. He was as broad and muscled as Nick, but with patrician features that wouldn’t have been out of place in a ballroom. His eyes, however, were the gold of fine whiskey. Intimidating, were it not for his glasses to soften the impact.

  “Are you from Maxine’s?” he asked. Before Alexandra could answer, he gave a gesture to the street behind her. “You ought to go around front. You can greet the gentlemen there.”

  Maxine’s was a nearby brothel that served the more upper crest clientele that came to Nick’s club. Alexandra had written an essay on the women who worked there. None of the women at Maxine’s would be caught dead showing up at anyone’s door looking so unkempt. It was bad for business.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Thorne,” she said, tamping down her impatience. Now that she had made it here, she was unstead
y with exhaustion. “Is he in?”

  The doorman narrowed his gaze. “If you’re hoping for more coin, Thorne doesn’t bed the ladies from Maxine’s. Go to the front—”

  “No,” she snapped. “Now get out of my way.”

  Alexandra stormed past the giant. She was through being polite tonight. There was one man dead in her bedroom, another dead in her garden, and both were there because she was married to a deceitful blackguard with a penchant for crime. To hell with politeness.

  The back antechamber was cozy and warm. The staff loitering in the hallways between their duties gaped at her, likely surprised to see an angry, bedraggled woman get past the door giant.

  A hand clamped on her arm. “Madam, I suggest you leave the way you came.”

  The giant again.

  “Remove your hand,” she told him with dangerous calm. “He might own this place, but it was my money that bought it. Now move.”

  She strode down the hall in the direction of what she hoped was the private wing. The giant followed, calling her “Mrs. Thorne”, which only snapped her already fraying patience.

  “Stop talking,” she said. “Just tell me which room he’s in.”

  The giant pointed to a closed door. Alexandra opened it, swept inside, and shut it in his face.

  Nick sat behind a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. She had never seen him at work; he was in his rumpled shirtsleeves, his fingers ink-stained. Despite his obvious weariness, he still looked as handsome as the very devil.

  Alexandra curled her fingers into fists. How dare he appear so calm while she was falling apart? How dare he bring this chaos into her life?

  “I said not to disturb me, O’Sullivan,” he said, not looking up.

  “I would have liked the same courtesy.” Her voice cut across the room like a whip. “But now we’re both disappointed, aren’t we?”

  Nick’s head snapped up. “Alex? What’s happened?”

  The concern in his voice did something to her. All at once, her careful self-control came undone. She slid down to the carpet. Her breathing was ragged as she held out her blood-covered hands. “You said I was to come to you if I needed anything,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “I need you now.”

  Chapter 6

  Thorne rose from his chair and approached her slowly, as he would a wounded animal. It went against every instinct— Every. Fucking. Instinct—not to seize her and hold on. Never let her go.

  “Are you hurt?”

  His calm voice hid his rioting thoughts. So much blood. So much blood. His hands curled into fists so he didn’t grab her up and check her over; he didn’t wish to frighten her. So he sank to his knees beside her and deliberately reached for her cloak. She shut her eyes and let him.

  “I don’t think so,” she whispered.

  “Who’s blood is this? Did you recognize who it was?” he asked as he unbuttoned the heavy cloak. Then he eased the garment off her shoulders. When he saw what was beneath, a breath exploded out of him. Her night rail. She came in her night rail. White cotton; blood everywhere.

  She only shook her head, her eyes so unfocused that it terrified him. “No,” she said, gulping now. “No.”

  “Shhhh. Come here.” Thorne held her against him. He didn’t care if blood ruined his clothes. He needed to hold her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She shook her head wildly. “He said he’d murdered the man you hired to protect me, and I didn’t . . . I wasn’t sure what else to do. I killed him, Nick. I killed him.”

  He held her closer. Thorne knew what it was like to kill a man. He’d been fifteen the first time he slid his blade in a man’s gut and watched him bleed to death on the streets of the Nichol. If only that first kill had been his last—but he had done that dirty deed so often that he lost count. Each time killed a little bit of his soul until he thought there was nothing left

  But there was, and it existed for her. No one else.

  And he was supposed to protect her.

  Thorne shut his eyes against the guilt that gnawed at him. “You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

  “I don’t know.” She was whispering now, her voice barely more than a breath managed between her wild exhales.

  “Tell me where, love,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft. His fingernails dug violently into the carpet. Control. Control. “Where did you leave him?”

  She buried her face in his neck and he bit back a sound in his throat. Christ, she hadn’t been this close to him since . . . since the night of their wedding. That had been the last time she had trusted him to hold her like this.

  Four years ago.

  “My bedchamber,” she said. When he jerked in surprise, she only huddled closer. “He was going to take me somewhere. I don’t know where. I’m sorry about your man’s death.” Her tears wet his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Nick.”

  “Shh,” Thorne said again. He gathered Alex into his arms and helped her into the nearby leather chair. “Sit here.” But when he moved away, she grasped his shirt to keep him close. Thorne stroked her cheek. “Give me a moment, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere, all right?”

  She nodded, and Thorne rang the service bell for O’Sullivan.

  Moments later, the factotum gave a discreet knock and opened the door. When he saw Alex in Thorne’s chair, he raised an eyebrow and said, “Taking the night off?”

  Thorne ignored the question. “I’m going to need a clean up,” he said. “The Earl of Kent’s residence in St. James’s. Two bodies—and have the lads do a sweep. I wanna know if anyone’s hanging around who shouldn’t be. Tell ‘em to be quick and quiet, then take the corpses to the docks. Stage a scene, call the coppers. Pay them not to ask questions.”

  O’Sullivan’s expression sharpened. “O’Malley? He was watching her, wasn’t he?”

  Alex made a soft sound, and Thorne reached over to grasp her hand. “It’s all right, love.” Then, to O’Sullivan: “Have Samuel tell O’Malley’s widow the news. Make sure she knows she’ll be taken care of.”

  “Fuck,” O’Sullivan breathed, allowing himself one show of emotion before straightening, all business. The factotum was used to cleaning up messes for other men. Back when they were lads, it was his job.

  “And Mrs. Thorne? Would she like anything?”

  Thorne answered for her. “A bath, please. And some of our best brandy. Send it up to my suite.”

  Once they were alone, Alex murmured, “I don’t like brandy.”

  “You don’t have to like it to need it.” He buttoned up Alex’s cloak to hide her night rail. The last thing he needed was a maid seeing her like this. Thorne helped her to her feet, but her legs were unsteady. “I’m gonna carry you to my suite, all right?”

  After a short hesitation, she gave a nod.

  Thorne swung her into his arms and started down the hallway. Alex rested her forehead against his neck with a sigh that made him want to pause and check her over again. Hold her closer. Never let her go.

  But he only mounted the stairs and asked, “You tired?”

  “No.” She sounded exhausted.

  Thorne made a soft noise. “You telling the truth?”

  “Maybe.”

  He stroked a hand across her shoulder and asked her, very quietly, “You afraid to sleep?” She didn’t answer, and for a moment he wondered if she’d already passed out. But when he looked, he found Alex staring up at him with an expression full of uncertainty. Aye, she was afraid. “What if I promised I’d stay by your side tonight?”

  “I don’t believe your promises.”

  Nick held back a flinch. He deserved that one. “Then I won’t promise. You know my reputation?” The flicker across her face indicated she did. “Then I’ll put out the word. Anyone else tries to hurt you, their life is mine.”

  Either she heard the conviction in his voice, or she was too weary to argue. By the time they reached his suite, she was already asleep.

  Thorne held her as the maids filled the copper tub in th
e mosaic bathing room and set out a decanter of brandy. He stroked her cheek, careful not to mar her skin with blood that transferred from her clothes to his hands. He wasn’t certain why—she could clean it off, and he ought to have grown accustomed to sullying her by now—but this single act seemed important. Even while masquerading as Nicholas Spencer, he had never felt clean enough to touch her. Didn’t matter how often he bathed, or how well he scrubbed, it wasn’t good enough.

  He wasn’t good enough.

  Fancy clothes and a fake accent couldn’t change a man’s past.

  When the maids finished, Thorne dismissed them and gently shook his wife. “Alex. Wake up, sweetheart.”

  She opened those blue, blue eyes of hers and Thorne felt as if he’d been struck with something heavy. He forgot what it had been like to hold her close, to meet her gaze directly. He forgot how easily she could disarm him.

  “Nick,” she whispered.

  Thorne longed to close the space between them. It was only a mere breath. So why did it seem as vast as an entire ocean?

  Haven’t you already hurt her enough? Look at what you’ve done.

  His thumb was on her cheek. He’d smeared blood across it.

  Thorne jerked away from her. “Your bath is ready.”

  Alexandra rose to her feet. Though she seemed steady enough, her hands trembled as she began unbuttoning her cloak.

  Thorne politely turned his back on her. After all, what right did he have to watch her undress? Such domesticities were reserved for actual husbands, not ones who made marriage vows under false pretenses.

  “Would you like me to ring for a maid?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “And you don’t need to turn your back to preserve my modesty. It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”

  God help him, but a part of him wished he hadn’t. It was a different kind of hell to love a wife who loathed him, recalling what it had been like for her to welcome his touch, his kiss. Thorne still went to bed at night and dreamed of her long legs wrapping around his hips as he slid inside her. He’d brought himself to completion for years based on the few moments of intimacy they’d shared. A laughably inadequate pleasure in comparison. His imagination was paltry.