Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Alexandra opened the box and lined up the columns she’d cut from newspapers. This one, written by Nicholas Spencer in The Examiner: Lady Alexandra writes admirably of the difficulties of East End workers. However, it is easier to notice oppression whilst standing at the top of the factory gazing down from that lofty height than it is to acknowledge the ways in which every man and woman of her station benefits from the exploitation of their labour.

  And this, from the Saturday Review: Lady Alexandra’s work in charity, like many women of her station, comes with the problem of picking and choosing recipients based upon moral judgement, rather than an understanding that every man and woman serving in the gaol for thievery began their crimes as a starving lad or lass who stole a loaf of bread to help feed a starving family.

  In these eight passages she had cut from the literary reviews and newspapers, were his true thoughts: marriage didn’t change that their backgrounds were insurmountably different. He had written reviews of her work under the name Nicholas Spencer, knowing she was the only person in London who would ever connect that name to Nicholas Thorne.

  Alexandra would ask him about these one day, when she could shove the box in his face and convey nothing of the hurt he’d caused. But she was not there yet. His words still held weight.

  His lies still hurt.

  A rap at the door drew her attention. “M’lady?” The young maid, Morag, entered the room and gave a started noise. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the girl squeaked, gawking at the mess.

  Alexandra shoved Nick’s articles back into the box and shut it with a thump. She ignored Morag’s shock at the collection of notes scattered across the room. “Yes?”

  Music drifted from the hall as Morag opened the door wider. “I just . . .” she scanned the room with wide eyes, then snapped her attention back to Alexandra. “I just came to ask if ye were wantin’ dinner soon, m’lady.”

  “Thank you, no.” Laughter roared from downstairs. Nick’s business, it seemed, was crowded tonight. The noise was breaking her already tenuous concentration on her work. “Later, perhaps.”

  Morag cleared her throat. “Would ye like me to tidy the room for ye?”

  “No.” At Morag’s stunned expression, Alexandra tried again. “That is, please tell the other staff that the room must stay as it is. If a note is missing, I’ll know.”

  “Aye, m’lady,” Morag said, no doubt thinking Alexandra was a complete nutter.

  More hoots of laughter came from below stairs. Alexandra frowned in irritation and shifted her notes into better organized piles. “Is it always this obnoxiously loud?”

  Though Alexandra had arrived two nights ago in the middle of business hours, the private suites, kitchens, and staff rooms at the back of the hell muffled noise from below.

  “Sometimes louder, if the orchestra is in a mood.” Morag didn’t seem bothered by it. “If not dinner or tidyin’, would ye like help dressin’ for bed?”

  Alexandra gave a distracted shake of her head. What was it Nick did during these nights? Was he downstairs now laughing with the other gentlemen? Flirting with Maxine’s girls? Counting his notes and shillings? “I might as well take a look at what my money built,” she muttered, passing the maid. “Goodnight, Morag,” she called over her shoulder. “Take the night off.”

  All Alexandra had to do was follow the raucous, which led her to a balcony that overlooked the gaming hell’s ground floor. She stared at the sea of men and women below in amazement. Now she understood why everyone from aristocrats to businessmen patronized Nick’s club. The decor at the front was decadent, everything draped in gilt, gold, and crimson. The ceiling fresco completed the decadence; without the gaming tables, the hell could have been mistaken for a palace ballroom in France. The busy tables were full of men laughing and chatting, with women draped across their laps.

  Alexandra leaned forward, resting her elbows against the railing. This was what Nick had betrayed her for, what he had used her fortune to build.

  A monstrosity to line his pockets.

  Some heavy ache settled in her chest. This had been worth everything to him: a building. Just a mere building covered in gold trimmings, where he ruled as lord and master. His East End palace. This place had been worth destroying her.

  A gusty, bitter laugh escaped her. She hoped he felt cold at night, knowing the Brimstone was what he sold his soul for. She hoped it brought him comfort, in the days to come, long after the divorce petition had been settled. It was better for her to see this. She’d remember it when she travelled on a ship and explored the world. It was time she made up for the years she’d wasted hurting over him.

  “My lady,” came a voice behind her. “Was there something you needed?”

  Alexandra looked over to see Nick’s factotum— the one with the spectacles and the pretty face. She could study him properly now, in the bright light of the candelabras. She had been in such a rush when she showed up on the Brimstone’s doorstep. Few men were more beautiful than Nick, and this one was his opposite: gold in the way of an angel, with tawny hair and the startling eyes the color of a tiger’s. He certainly seemed more predator than angel—or, at least, as fierce as a heavenly warrior. Right now his entire attention was trained on her, and if Alexandra had not grown used to Nick’s scrutiny, she might have been unnerved by him.

  “You are Mr. O’Sullivan, yes?” At his nod, she said extended her hand. He stared at it, as if he wasn’t certain what to do with it. “It’s not a snake, sir. I prefer the informality of a handshake.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan seemed reluctant, but grasped her hand and gave it a firm squeeze before releasing it. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No. I wanted to see the Brimstone for myself. Assess its value.” She didn’t mention that value wasn’t monetary, but intrinsic.

  “It’s a gaming hell, not a stable of thoroughbreds,” he said.

  Unlike Morag, Mr. O’Sullivan did not demure. He did not regard her in the way of a staff member faced with his boss’s wife. Rather—behind his cool demeanor—Alexandra had the unnerving suspicion that he considered her an unwelcome burden. Trouble that had shown up on his doorstep and now seemed content to linger.

  Well, that was hardly her fault, was it?

  “Mr. O’Sullivan,” Alexandra said calmly, “I have a pair of working eyes. As a married woman, I may not be permitted to own my own property, but I’m nevertheless relieved Nick didn’t waste my money purchasing a stable. If he had, I might have strangled him.”

  His lip twitched, and Alexandra wondered if Mr. O’Sullivan were trying to suppress a smile. “You’re blunt for an aristo.”

  “So I’ve been told.” She scrutinized him. “I hear you are very close to my husband. I assume this means Nick told you the truth before our marriage went public in the newspapers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then perhaps you will understand why I place a high value on honesty.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan stared down at the bustling club. Alexandra wondered what he thought of this place, of the money that created it. What had Nick told his friends once he returned to the East End to build his empire? Had he laughed about her? Called her a fool, a pigeon, a mark? Worse?

  “What of loyalty?” Mr. O’Sullivan asked, breaking his silence. At her puzzled expression, he added, “You ought to ask him why he went to Hampshire sometime. God knows every man in his employ owes Nicholas Thorne their lives. One of them even gave it for yours.”

  Alexandra flinched at the reminder of O’Malley, the man Nick hired to protect her. He had been murdered in her garden. What had they done with his body? Had he a proper burial? A headstone? God, she’d not thought to ask.

  “I’m very sorry for Mr. O’Malley’s loss, and that you had to take care of my . . .” Alexandra bit her lip. What did she say? My murder? My mess? She left behind two bodies for him to clean up. Two messes foisted upon this man and his friends. “I’m very sorry,” she repeated softly. “May I contribute to his burial? To his f
amily, maybe? I . . . I owe him this small thing.”

  “Taken care of,” he said, clearing his throat. “But that’s a kind offer.”

  “You sound surprised.” At his guarded expression, a realization struck Alexandra which explained his behavior. “You think me unkind.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Indifferent, then.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan leaned against the balustrade. “Let me tell you something. Even if Thorne hadn’t built this place—even if we had nothing in our pockets but some thread and a stray button—we’d bury our own and we’d do it proper. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last. I don’t think you unkind, or even indifferent. Thorne and I, we take care of our own.” His cold, golden eyes met hers. “So when a woman comes along and breaks his heart, I take notice. My lady.”

  Break Nick’s heart? Is that what he had claimed? Likely, his pride had been damaged. Perhaps Nick had thought of Alexandra after she left Stratfield Saye, wondering if she was pregnant with their child. Or maybe he thought she’d be fool enough to forgive him and send word of her decision.

  Nick was not the kind of man anyone simply abandoned on a gravel drive. She hoped the memory of her refusal infuriated him. She hoped it plagued his dreams.

  A movement on the floor of the Brimstone caught Alexandra’s attention.

  Nick.

  Yes, he stood out, even in the crowded club. Alexandra was struck again by how foolish she was to believe his lies back in Stratfield Saye, for a suit did not hide his lethal grace. If anything, it enhanced the effect. That suit was a costume, she understood, to playact a gentleman. But he was no gentleman.

  “He never gave me his heart,” she said, watching as her husband shook hands with the men below. “I can’t break what I’m not given.”

  O’Sullivan made some dismissive noise. “I’ve read your work,” he said, to her surprise. “Thorn’d boast about it. Funny, none of those essays and pamphlets ever led me to believe you were a fool.”

  “Boast about it?” Alexandra’s laugh was dry. “Perhaps you’re not aware of the criticisms he’s published of my work in the newspapers. You’ll find them written under the name Nicholas Spencer, the alias he assumed in Hampshire. He’s called me every synonym in the thesaurus for fool, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  The factotum stared at her with an expression Alexandra found unreadable. “You really don’t know him at all, do you?” he asked.

  “No.” Alexandra pushed away from the balustrade. That role of gentility that he wore for the aristocrats below was one he’d perfected in Hampshire. “I was Nick Thorne’s unwitting dupe. So you see, Mr. O’Sullivan, I couldn’t have broken his heart. Not when he left my own in pieces.”

  Before O’Sullivan could respond, a shout came from below. Alexandra looked over to see a commotion on the floor—men shoved at each other to circle something. What was it? One man threw a punch. The other?

  Oh, bloody hell. The other was her husband.

  Chapter 12

  “Mr. O’Sullivan?” She asked in alarm when he made no move to leave, not even when Nick took another punch. “What in god’s name is going on down there?”

  The factotum didn’t look concerned. “Aristos have a habit of becoming angry when they play too hard and lose everything.”

  The men separated, their chests heaving. Alexandra recognized Nick’s opponent as the Earl of Latimer. Her lip curled. Latimer was a complete sod, and she’d warned off his fiancée, Lady Elaine Featherstone. It was a poorly kept secret that the maids in the Latimer house worked in pairs, as he was notorious for cornering those who tidied alone. In addition to his grotesque behavior towards staff, he had a gambling problem that was beginning to dwindle the family coffers.

  Lady Elaine rejected Latimer’s betrothal a fortnight later, and it seemed the earl had no luck finding another wealthy bride to accept his suit. Last she’d heard, he was looking amongst the American debutantes with large dowries.

  Latimer struck Thorne in the jaw. Good god, was her husband even trying? “Do something!” she hissed at Mr. O’Sullivan.

  The factotum watched the sight below, unconcerned. “Thorne has it in hand.”

  Latimer hit Thorne again.

  “He does not have it in hand,” Alexandra snapped, starting forward. Mr. O’Sullivan grasped her arm. “Let go of me, Mr. O’Sullivan, or I will punch you in the face.”

  Now he looked amused. “For a woman who claims to loathe him, you seem intent on defending him.” He ignored Alexandra’s glare. “Just watch. Wait.”

  She turned back to the scuffle below. Something in her chest ached at the sight of seeing Nick pummeled. Perhaps it was stupid to defend a man she loathed, but she didn’t wish to see him beaten on the floor of his own club, either. The crowd of idiot men down there were no help—they shouted and whooped, some cheering Latimer and others Thorne. This was a nightmare. This—

  Oh.

  Nick picked himself off the floor and licked the blood off his lip with a low laugh.

  Then he smashed his fist into Latimer’s face.

  Latimer staggered into the crowd. They shoved him back toward Nick, clearly determined to see this fight through until one man became a clear winner. Alexandra had worried that Latimer would best her husband, but she was wrong. Nick was . . .

  Exquisite.

  Alexandra leaned forward, riveted by the sight of her husband blocking and striking, as fierce and brutal as a predator. She knew the movements of his body—they were so familiar to her, even after four years—but he had been pretending with Latimer, moments ago. A lion playing the part of a gazelle.

  “Why . . . ?” She shook her head. She didn’t understand.

  Mr. O’Sullivan lifted a shoulder. “Thorne makes the fight look fair. Better for business if he gets hit a few times.”

  Alexandra stiffened. She recalled all those times they had met in Hampshire. She had taught him to float. Taught him to swim. Thorne makes the fight look fair. That, too, was a skill he had perfected in Stratfield Saye. Another of his many deceptions: to make you think yourself on equal footing, only to discover it had all been an act.

  Suddenly the fight below seemed like another of his games. More lies.

  Alexandra stepped back—she wasn’t about to watch this any longer—but then she saw something that stole her breath.

  Latimer had a knife.

  “Nick!” She cried his name without thinking. Stupid. Stupid.

  Her scream drew Nick’s attention—and that careless moment of distraction was all it took. Latimer swiped the blade, and Alexandra gasped as it tore through Nick’s shirt. She didn’t wait. She pushed past Mr. O’Sullivan and tore down the stairs.

  The group of men gawking at the fight blocked Alexandra’s way. She dove into the hollering crowd, elbowing a few imbeciles out of her way. Alexandra came to a halt as she reached the front. Nick’s grey waistcoat was bloody, and there were rips in the arm of his coat. Latimer may not have had her husband’s skill at combat, but he clearly made up for it in raw anger.

  Latimer lunged. Nick leaped back to avoid the blade, his expression more irritated than alarmed. “Put the knife away and I won’t break your fucking wrist, Latimer.”

  “You stripped my house, you Irish piece of shit.” Latimer’s words were slightly slurred. Alexandra couldn’t tell if he was inebriated or if Nick had hit him too hard. “You left me with nothing.”

  Nick’s smile was grim. “Left you the house. Unless you want to bet that, too.”

  Latimer snarled and swiped. Nick dodged and delivered a hard smack to the side of Latimer’s face. Was he even trying to end this? She suspect he was giving the crowd a show.

  Enough of this.

  “Latimer,” Alexandra snapped. “Put down that knife this instant.”

  The earl didn’t even look at her. “Bringing your wife to a fight, Thorne?”

  “Alex goes where she damn well pleases.” Nick flashed Alexandra a smile that made it very clear: he had k
nown she was there watching, and he was giving a show.

  Only not to the crowd—her.

  She glared at her husband, but addressed the earl again. “Latimer, put down that knife, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Latimer lifted a lip. “You’re the reason Lady Elaine called off our wedding. You and this bastard make one hell of a pair since you’ve both ruined me.” He whirled on Nick and gestured with his blade. “You ought to tell us all how you got this one to fuck you, Thorne. I didn’t know a single man who’d risk bedding her. We all thought her frigid cunt would freeze our cocks off.”

  Nick’s chin dropped. Rage clouded his dark eyes. Gone was the man having a bit of fun with an idiot aristocrat before throwing him onto the street. No, this was the King of the East End. This was the man who was rumored to kill his enemies in the shadows.

  Nick’s gaze flicked to hers. No, she thought. Let me handle this.

  A small lift of his lips indicated he understood her silent message.

  Alexandra strode up behind Latimer. The earl was a fool, distracted by the larger opponent rather than the woman he’d insulted at his back. She grasped his arm to whirl him around. The moment of surprise worked: Alexandra slapped the knife out of Latimer’s hand and punched him in the face.

  Latimer howled. “You cunt.”

  She hit him again. The men around them hollered as Latimer collapsed onto the plush red carpet with a gushing nose. “You didn’t get me, Latimer, because I deserved better than any of you.”

  Alexandra looked up at the crowd of men gaping at her. “Gentlemen, stop gawking and go back to what you were doing.” When they didn’t move, she snapped, “Now.”

  Mumbling amongst themselves, the men in suits dispersed, and Alexandra flagged down a few of the staff who had watched the show. “Remove this man from the premises, if you please. Then have someone bring clean bandages to Mr. Thorne’s suite.”

  “Alex.”

  Alexandra shut her eyes a moment before turning to Nick. He stared at her in astonishment, and—oh, good god—lust? It was an expression that spoke of desire—of twisted sheets and hard fucking. Perhaps she was every bit as perverse, for the image made her hot all over. Alex shoved down that ridiculous thought. “You.” She made a sharp gesture. “Your suite. Now.”