Sweetest Scoundrel

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “I have Henry,” Eve replied impatiently.

  The mastiff thumped his tail at the sound of his name.

  Asa looked doubtfully at Henry. “I don’t like leaving you alone.”

  Eve rolled her eyes. “It’s the middle of the day and I’m hardly alone—there’re people everywhere.”

  Asa hesitated and then, when Oldman wriggled, seemed to make up his mind. He shook the saboteur hard. “We won’t be long. Stay here with Henry. Don’t leave the theater, and—”

  See touched her fingers to his warm lips. “Go on. I’ve got the books to finish here.”

  And then they were gone.

  Eve slowly sank back into her chair, worrying her lip. Hampston was a titled aristocrat—a much more powerful man than Asa—and possibly more underhanded. Even with the Duke of Wakefield’s help he might not prevail. She sighed and looked down at Henry.

  The big dog got up and came over to put his huge head in her lap, echoing her sigh.

  Eve scratched him behind his ear. “Do you miss your friend Dove, too, Henry? I know I do.”

  Henry gave her a long mournful look before snorting and returning to his bed.

  She shook her head and bent to her accounts books again, though it was many minutes before she could concentrate enough to read her figures.

  When Eve first heard the growling an hour later, she didn’t know what it was.

  Henry had never growled before.

  She looked up and stared at Henry.

  The mastiff was standing beside her desk, the short fur along his spine on end. And he was making the most awful rumbling sound in his throat.

  Eve might’ve been frightened of Henry save for the fact that he was facing the door.

  She swallowed, watching as the door handle turned, and she wasn’t entirely surprised to see that it wasn’t Asa standing there when the door opened.

  It was Viscount Hampston.

  “Oh, dear,” Lord Hampston said mildly. “I think I no longer need to ask if you remember me, sweet Eve. Your expression tells all.”

  Eve stood, placing her hand on Henry’s head. “I do remember you, my lord, and I think you had better go. Mr. Harte knows it was you who was behind the sabotage at Harte’s Folly and the highwaymen who attacked us the other night. He’s gone to get help from the Duke of Wakefield and will be back at any moment with soldiers to arrest you.” A small lie, but she felt it was justified, considering the circumstances.

  “Will he?” Lord Hampston asked almost carelessly. He shut and locked the door behind him. “I must confess that works perfectly with my plans. But I think we have a little time together before that happens.” He cocked his head, smiling at her loathsomely. “Now tell me. How did you recognize me? I’m quite curious, for I wore a mask that night.”

  Eve opened her mouth and then closed it, dread flooding her limbs. What was he about? “Your voice. And you have a tattoo.”

  “This?” He pulled back his sleeve and turned his wrist to reveal the little dolphin. “We all have one, you know.” He winked. “Even your father.” He pulled down his sleeve again. “Though not all wear the tattoo on their wrist. It’s the mark of the Order of the Lords of Chaos and we’re all powerful, my dear.”

  “But why?” She was in danger, she knew, but she had to ask the question. Why had they taken such delight in inflicting pain? It seemed almost inhuman. “Why did you—why did all of them—do those things?”

  He cocked his head and, disconcertingly, grinned. “Why not? We’re the Lords. We do as we wish at our annual revelry.” He shrugged. “You were merely one of many sacrifices. You ought to take it as an honor, really.”

  An honor? That horror? Eve physically recoiled, clutching at the ruff of Henry’s neck to steady herself.

  Henry barked, sharp and loud.

  Lord Hampston laughed. “Oh, dear, I can see I’ve shocked you. Well, it’s time, anyway.” He tapped his covered wrist roguishly. “I’m supposed to kill you merely for telling you about this, but that’s not the main reason I’ll do it.”

  Eve licked her lips, glancing at the locked door. “What do you mean?”

  The smile fell from his face so suddenly it might never have been there. “I mean that I want Harte’s Folly, and since my men have been utterly incompetent in trying to burn the theater, wreck the stage, blow the place up, or kill you and Harte, I’ve decided to do the thing myself. When Harte and these soldiers return they’ll find you murdered by Harte’s own hand. He might be uncommonly lucky, but even he won’t be able to escape the hangman’s noose for the murder of a duke’s sister.”

  She stared at him a moment before scoffing, “Are you mad? Why would anyone believe that Mr. Harte had killed me?”

  “Well, for one I’ll be using his letter opener,” Lord Hampston said, picking up the item in question from Asa’s desk. Eve swallowed as he twirled the brass letter opener. It was in the shape of a dagger and quite sharp. “And for another my spies have informed me that he’s spent at least two nights at your house.” His eyes widened mockingly. “Once that’s known I think it’ll be easy enough to believe that he killed you in a lover’s quarrel, don’t you?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Though the outside of the cottage was mean and decrepit, the inside was a grand and glorious hall with marble floors and walls of gold. And standing in the hall was the most beautiful woman Dove had ever seen.

  Eric presented her with the bags, but when the sorceress opened them, the watercress was fine silk, the acorns were sparkling emeralds, and the mushrooms were rich perfumes.

  The sorceress smiled her approval, but then she noticed Dove.

  “Who is this girl you bring before me, Eric, my pet?”…

  —From The Lion and the Dove

  Asa heard Eve’s scream as he entered the theater with Vogel and MacLeish on his heels. Halfway to the Duke of Wakefield’s house Oldman had made a further confession: Lord Hampston had never left London. Not only was he in town, but he had plans to meet Oldman at the theater.

  Asa had immediately ordered the carriage back.

  Now he broke into a run without thinking, feeling a dreadful sense of déjà vu as he raced through the theater’s back corridors. He found two of the dancers at the office, pounding on the door.

  One of them, Polly, looked up. “It’s locked.”

  Eve screamed again.

  Asa didn’t bother with the door. He rounded the corner and ran to where MacLeish had shown him the hidden door—the weak spot in the wall.

  He backed a step, raised his right leg, and kicked the fucking wall down.

  Plaster and wood splinters showered his shoulders as Asa broke into the office. Eve was behind her desk, bent double next to Henry, her cheek covered with blood, and a terrible growling was coming from the dog.

  Asa’s heart stopped in his chest.

  He rushed toward the dog, wrapping his arms around the beast’s chest and bodily lifting it away from Eve. He swung to throw the bloody beast on the floor, but Eve’s hands were on his arms, staying him.

  “No, no!” she shouted in his face. “No, it’s not Henry!”

  He stopped and stared. Hadn’t the dog savaged her?

  Then he looked to where she pointed.

  Hampston lay moaning on the floor.

  “He stabbed Henry,” Eve panted, tears tracing through the gore on her cheek. “He was going to attack me and Henry got between us.”

  Asa looked and saw that the dog was bleeding from the side. Indeed, the animal yelped as he gently set him down.

  Hampston made a snakelike move toward the letter opener on the floor, and Eve—quiet, serious Eve—stomped on his hand.

  Hampston howled.

  Asa sneered and kicked him hard in the head.

  The viscount slumped to the floor.

  “Oh.” Eve’s hands flew to her cheeks and Asa saw now that her fingers were bloody as well—presumably from Henry’s wound. “Oh, have you killed him? You’ll have to leave the country.” Su
ddenly she burst into tears.

  “Hush.” Asa took her into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere. Besides,” he said more pragmatically, staring down at Hampston, “the viscount’s still alive, more’s the pity.”

  “Oh, but what about Henry?” Eve said, turning to her dog.

  Henry, brave lad, thumped his tail at the sound of his name.

  “I think,” Asa said, examining the dog’s side, “That the blade hit his shoulder only. It’s a shallow cut and he should recover.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Eve said. “Oh, thank God he’s all right.”

  “I’d rather thank God you’re all right,” Asa replied, and kissed her fiercely.

  A LITTLE OVER a week later Eve watched Jean-Marie gingerly stretch his arm over his head, the movement easy and obviously without pain.

  She beamed at him. “I’m so glad that your shoulder has completely healed.”

  “As am I, mon amie,” the footman rumbled. He flashed her a white-toothed grin.

  They were in her sitting room after a day at the gardens, Jean-Marie on the settee and Eve in the armchair. Asa hadn’t returned with her, because the grand reopening of Harte’s Folly was tomorrow. When last Eve had seen him he had still been roaring orders to gardeners, workmen, and singers alike. She had no doubt, though, that he would come to her after he considered the work sufficiently done for the night.

  He’d slept in her bed every night since the attack on her by Lord Hampston, after all. Nights filled with passion. Nights filled with love—but no declaration of love.

  Eve looked down at her hands at the thought, the opal ring Val had given her winking in the candlelight. “I’ve been thinking…”

  “And what is that, ma petite?” Jean-Marie cocked his head to the side.

  She inhaled and straightened. “I’ve decided to go to the Continent. To find Val.” She nodded at Jean-Marie’s arched eyebrows. “Someone has to confront him over what he’s been doing. Over blackmailing so many people. I was too much of a coward before. He may not listen to me—he may never listen to me—but I have to at least try.”

  Jean-Marie nodded gravely. “A wise and honorable decision, mon amie. I am very proud of you.”

  She felt heat climb her neck. Jean-Marie’s opinion was very important to her. “Thank you.”

  He smiled a little sadly. “But I am afraid I will not be accompanying you on this journey.”

  Eve’s mouth fell open. “What? But why?”

  “It is time, I think,” her bodyguard—her friend—said simply. “I ’ave been with you many, many years, oui?”

  “Over ten years,” Eve whispered.

  He nodded. “This is so. Remember when I first came to you? How you ’ad so many nights in which you dreamed of terrors?”

  She shuddered. The nightmares had plagued her for years. “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “And now you do not.”

  “I had three recently,” she murmured.

  “And that was all.” He smiled, broad and wide. “But there is more: you ’ave let a man touch you. You ’ave taken a lover. Even if you should have another terror in the night, I think, mon amie, that you will be able to withstand it. Without me. You no longer ’ave need of me.”

  Her first instinct was to argue—she’d had Jean-Marie by her side for so very long, protecting and supporting her—but then she realized he was right.

  She no longer needed him.

  Eve looked at her old friend. “I may not need you any longer, Jean-Marie, but I want you by my side.”

  “Ah, ma petite, it makes me very ’appy, that we should be such good friends as this. But I ’ave another to consider, one—you should forgive me—who holds a more important place in my ’eart. My Tess.”

  Of course Tess came first for Jean-Marie—Eve had known that must be the case when he’d married her, for Jean-Marie was not a man to take such a step lightly. Still she couldn’t prevent a pang of jealousy.

  She wished that she were first in another’s heart.

  In Asa’s heart.

  But that was neither here nor there at the moment. She looked at Jean-Marie. “And what does Tess want?”

  “A tavern in the village where she grew up,” he said promptly. “Oui.” He nodded at her startled look. “This is so. ’Er elder brother knows of such a place for sale and she wishes that we go into business with ’im and buy it. She says that she shall cook meat pies and we will call the tavern the Creole.” He shrugged. “It will no doubt be quite exotic in a little English village, non?”

  Eve laughed, for she could see Jean-Marie presiding over a tavern, handing out ale and gossiping cheerfully with the local villagers. “I think it a wonderful idea, though I will miss you, my friend.”

  “As I will you, mon amie,” Jean-Marie replied. “When do you plan to make this trip in search of your brother?”

  “I don’t know, but soon. I’ll stay for the grand reopening of Harte’s Folly, and then I’ll find a ship to book passage on and leave.”

  “Ah.” Jean-Marie frowned. “You will not be accompanied by Mr. Makepeace?”

  “I…” She had to pause and clear her throat, for it had inexplicably closed. She would not weep—not when she had so recently triumphed over her fears. “No, I don’t think so.”

  For a moment he simply looked at her.

  And then he leaned forward, his expression urgent. “Ask him, ma petite. You are a strong woman—a brave woman. Do not let this opportunity slip away because of doubts and fears.”

  She swallowed, blinking at the tears that had come whether she wanted them or not. “But his garden.”

  Jean-Marie slapped at the air. “A garden is a wonderful place, but it is not the same as a woman—and the man who does not know this is an imbécile.”

  Eve shook her head, opening her mouth to say more, but then they both heard the knocking at the front door.

  Her gaze flew to his.

  Jean-Marie nodded, rising from the settee. “Remember what I’ve said.”

  And he left to let Asa in.

  Eve rose, for she felt at a disadvantage sitting down. She turned to the door, feeling as if she prepared to face an adversary.

  Asa opened it and walked in, stopping dead when he saw her face. “What.”

  She lifted her chin. He looked worn and weary from the long day at the pleasure garden, but at the same time there was a kind of restless energy about him, perhaps a residue of the excitement of the garden’s being ready to open tomorrow.

  Could she really compete with his life’s work?

  “I’ve decided to go to the Continent and find Val. To confront him with the wrongs he’s done—the wrongs he’s doing—in blackmailing others.”

  His face blanked. “When?”

  She took a deep breath. “As soon as I’m able after Harte’s Folly reopens.”

  A scowl immediately convulsed his features. “Why so soon? The garden will only be just opened. You can’t leave me—”

  “I want you to come with me.” Her heart was beating, alive and vulnerable, in her hands when she said it.

  He turned away and she felt as if he’d cleaved her in two. “I can’t. You know that. I can’t.”

  She took her bleeding heart in her palms and presented it anew. “I don’t. The garden is alive again. After tomorrow night you can find another to manage it for a little time while you’re gone. I—”

  He whirled and slammed his hand down on the back of the settee. “Damn it, Eve, don’t ask me to choose between you and my garden!”

  “Why not?” she shouted back, uncaring that the rest of the house might hear their argument. Her heart was a bloody mess on the carpet between their feet now. “I have a right, don’t I, to mean more than a garden? To be the first in someone’s eyes—in your eyes?”

  “You have every right.” He grimaced as if in pain. “Every fucking right, Eve. I’m just not that man.”

  “Then who is?” She stared, incredulous. “Do you want me to go away and find another l
over?”

  “No!” he roared. “Stay here, damn it.” He thrust a hand into his hair and then held it out to her. “Why? Why can’t we go on as we have been? I with my garden, you in this house.”

  “Because I deserve more,” she said. “I deserve a man who loves me above all else. I deserve a family and happiness.”

  “Then go!” he growled. “Go off and find this mythical man and spread your legs for him if it’ll give you what you want.”

  She took two strides toward him and slapped him, quick and hard, and then her eyes widened as she realized what she’d done. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  He turned his face back to her slowly, almost lazily. “I’m not.”

  And then she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, wild and hot and dangerously close to out of control. He thrust his hand into her hair, holding her head immobile, and ravished her mouth, biting, tonguing, thrusting.

  She could feel her center melt, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him close as she dragged her mouth away from his. “I want you, only you.”

  “And I want only you,” he snarled.

  He picked her up and strode to her bedroom, let her fall on her bed, and then straddled her prone body, on all fours like a predator over its kill.

  She froze for a moment, staring up at him. His wild tawny hair was hanging over his brow and cheeks, his mouth red and wet from their kiss, his eyes glittering between slitted lids.

  He paused. “Too much?”

  She shook her head against her pillows. “No. Not enough.”

  He didn’t smile, just looked at her and slowly lowered himself, his big body covering hers. He opened his mouth over hers as he grasped fistfuls of her skirts and yanked them up.

  She twined her fingers in his hair, feeling the cool air brush her calves and then her thighs. Her breasts, trapped behind her stays, were pressed into his broad chest.

  He thrust his tongue into her mouth as his hand found her center.

  “Wet,” he rasped into her mouth. “Wet for me.”

  She moaned and widened her legs, offering herself to him.