London's Perfect Scoundrel (18 page)

She’d failed, miserably. And now, thanks to her own stupid lust and desire and hope for a terrible, heartless man, she was ruined. Everything was ruined.

J
ansen pulled open the front door as Saint reached the top step at the entry of Halboro House.

“My lord,” the butler said, bowing, “we’d begun to wonder where—”

“I want a bottle of whiskey, half a chicken, and a hot bath, all in my private rooms. Now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He knew he looked the worse for wear, arriving unshaven, dirty, shirt untucked, and with his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat missing. At the moment he didn’t give a damn what he looked like. He’d spent seven days shackled to a wall in a cellar and no one had noticed. No one but Evelyn Marie Ruddick. And she’d made the mistake of thinking she could change him—improve him, even.
Ha
. Well, he’d shown her.

His bedchamber upstairs looked as it always did, dark mahogany furniture, dark wall hangings, and dark, heavy curtains closed against the daylight. With a scowl,
he limped to the nearest window and shoved the dark blue material aside, then flipped open the latch and pushed open the window. He repeated the action with all five windows, not pausing as footmen began struggling in with heavy buckets of steaming water. After a week in the dark, he certainly had a new appreciation for sunlight.

His valet hurried into the room, only to stop dead in the doorway. “My lord, your—” Pemberly gestured at Saint’s attire. “The—”

“Yes, I know,” Saint grunted. “Get out.”

“But—”

“Out!”

“Yes, my lord.”

If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was his valet spreading rumors about his battered appearance, and especially about his ankle and the scratch marks Evelyn had left across his back. Once his luncheon and the whiskey arrived, he slammed his door closed and dropped into his dressing chair. The shirt was easy to remove, but his boots were something else entirely. With a grunt he pulled off the right one, tossing it to the floor, then went to work on the left.

The polish and smooth black leather were worn away, and after having the boot off and putting it on again, the swelling in his ankle had worsened. After several attempts and some cursing, he hobbled to his writing desk, pulled out the knife he used for sharpening quills, and sliced the boot open.

His ankle was black and blue, the skin raw and swollen. It hadn’t seemed as painful an hour ago, but he’d been preoccupied then. Shedding his trousers, he stepped into the tub, hissing at the sting, and slowly sank into the hot water.

Reaching over the side of the tub, he dragged up a chair and lifted his plate of food onto it so he could tear into a drumstick. He eyed the whiskey, but now that he was in the hot bath, the need for it didn’t seem as pressing.

Evelyn Marie Ruddick. Given his lifestyle, he frequently found himself in possession of information that could ruin marriages, fortunes, or his fellows. For the most part he kept the secrets, because the notion amused him. This was the first time in his recollection he had information that could send a woman to prison and probably see her transported to Australia. The children, especially the older ones, could face worse—except that Evelyn would shoulder all responsibility for their criminal actions.

And there he sat, soaking in a blissfully hot bath: not summoning a solicitor to prepare a case, not swearing out a statement against any of them—and not going to see Prince George and finalize the plan to destroy the orphanage, and not informing all and sundry that proper Evelyn Marie Ruddick had lifted her heels for him. Saint dunked his head and reached for the soap.

He’d escaped. He’d satisfied his damned lust where she was concerned, he’d freed himself from his shackles, and now he could do as he pleased, with whomever he pleased. Except that what pleased him, what occupied him at the moment, was the idea of having her in his arms again. Saint submerged in the water once more.

After this past week, and especially after today, he held more information about her than he could possibly use for any plan that might occur to him. He sat up, snorting and blowing. “Jansen!” he roared. “Bring me my mail!”

He’d missed attending a week of London’s social events with her. He wasn’t going to miss any more.

“Evie! We’re going to be late!”

Evelyn jumped, dropping her earring for the third time. “Just a moment, Mama.”

She’d tried to explain that she didn’t feel well enough to attend the Alvington ball. Given her pale complexion and the way her hands shook, she’d thought convincing her mother and Victor would be simple. Victor apparently wanted her to dance with Lord Alvington’s idiot son Clarence, however, and so of course he expected her to rally enough to do her duty to the family.

All day she’d waited for Bow Street Runners to knock on the front door of Ruddick House and arrest her for marquis-napping. All afternoon she’d waited for one of her mother’s or Victor’s friends to come calling with news of St. Aubyn’s reappearance and his extraordinary tale of how she’d spread her legs for him and practically begged for his touch.

As she bent down and retrieved her earring, a sudden, hopeful thought occurred to her. Given her family’s—and her uncle the Marquis of Houton’s—standing in Society, the authorities might hesitate to arrest her in public. All she needed to do, then, was attend the Alvington ball and every other event for the remainder of the Season, and hide in a very dark hole between parties.

She sighed shakily. “Everyone warned you.
He
warned you. Idiot.”

“Evie! For heaven’s sake!”

Grabbing up her reticule, she hurried out her bedchamber door and sent up a silent prayer that by the end of the evening she would still have a shred or two of dignity remaining. “I’m coming!”

As the three of them took their seats in the coach, her mother reached over to straighten Evelyn’s shawl. “You should at least attempt to look as though you’re enjoying yourself.”

“She will,” Victor said, giving her an appraising look. “Pinch your cheeks. You look too pale.”

Oh, for God’s sake
. The idea of prison didn’t seem so awful when she compared it with this. They had no idea anything troubled her. “I’ll do my best,” she said, sinking lower into the corner.

“And don’t forget to save the first waltz for Clarence Alvington.”

“For heaven’s sake, Victor, perhaps you should pin your instructions on my dress so someone can read them to me if I forget.”

Her brother scowled at her. “Complain all you want in private. Just be charming in public.”

His campaign must have been going well if he couldn’t even be bothered to yell at her. Dinner with the Gladstones had been an interesting sort of torture, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Fatima Hynes knew something about her attraction to Saint. At any rate, Lord Gladstone had thrown his support to Plimpton. Victor, though, never ran out of ideas, or alliances.

Evie suppressed another shudder. Once St. Aubyn contacted the authorities, Victor would do far more than yell at her, because no alliance would withstand a scandal of this magnitude. She hoped if she could convince everyone that he’d known nothing of her activities, and if he worked quickly to disown her, he would survive her downfall, though she doubted it. She should probably tell him what had happened so he could devise a strategy to protect himself, but disaster already stalked her. She
didn’t feel up to waving her handkerchief and attracting attention.

At least in kidnapping St. Aubyn she’d had pure motives—or so she thought. Certainly having him seduce her hadn’t been on her list of things to accomplish. But what she’d done with him this afternoon had had nothing to do with concern for others. She’d wanted Saint, wanted to put her hands on him and feel his embrace and know what it was like to be with him.

The terrible thing was, she’d satisfied her curiosity about the mechanics of sex, but not her yearning to repeat the deed with him. And though St. Aubyn seemed content with numerous lovers, she only wanted one—him. And the next time she saw him, he’d probably laugh at her and have her arrested on the spot.

Evie entered the ballroom behind her family, unable to keep from glancing about for uniformed soldiers—or worse yet, and as unlikely as his presence would be this evening, Saint himself. Thankfully none were in sight. A hand gripped her arm and she whipped around, a shriek rising in her throat.

“Evie,” Lucinda said, kissing her on the cheek. “I heard that Clarence Alvington is prowling for you.”

Evelyn forced herself to breathe again. “Yes, I’m supposed to waltz with him.”

Lucinda wrinkled her nose. “Lucky you.” She wrapped her arm around Evie’s, guiding her toward the refreshment table. “I also heard that St. Aubyn has vanished from London. Perhaps your lessons were too much for him.”

Evie managed a laugh. “Perhaps so.”

“How are the orphans?”

“Shh. Please, Luce.”

“I’m being very discreet,” her friend returned, frowning. “But I hate that your brother can make you feel guilty about helping children. Propriety be damned.”

Oh, she felt guilt about so much more than the orphanage. And it was time she acknowledged that she could be harming her friends by her mere presence. Evelyn extracted her arm from Lucinda’s grasp. “At least I helped a little,” she said. “But I should find Clarence before Victor finds me.”

“Are you well, Evie?” Lucinda asked, her brow still furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘helped’? You’ve finished?”

“No. Of course not. It’s just that I wish I could do more.”

“You’ve already done more than most. Don’t look so solemn.”

“I have a bit of a headache.” She forced a smile. “I imagine surviving Clarence will perk me up. Will you do me a favor and chat with Victor while I find Mr. Alvington?”

Lucinda grinned. “I’ll even dance with him.”

As her friend vanished into the ballroom, Clarence Alvington emerged from the crowd by the doorway. Someone had poured him into a black coat and trousers, or sewn it onto his person, because there seemed no earthly way he could have dressed in the normal fashion with the material stretched that tightly. As he bowed, she was certain she heard threads groaning with the strain.

“Lovely, lovely Evie Ruddick,” he drawled, taking her hand and drawing her knuckles across his lips. “So very pleased to see you tonight.”

“Thank you.” His tightly curled hair had been dampened and brushed straight, though the blond ends, now drying, had begun turning upward so that his body
looked as though it were topped by a large blue-eyed flower. An upside-down daisy, she decided as he creakily straightened again.

“Will you favor me with a waltz tonight?” he continued, pulling a snuffbox from his pocket and tapping the silver lid with soft fingers.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Alvington.”

“So polite, you are. I insist that you call me Clarence.”

Evie favored him with her practiced dimpled smile. “Of course, Clarence. Until then.”

“Ah. Yes. Until then, my dear.” With another seam-popping bow, he strolled away.

At least the preliminary torture had been brief. “Thank goodness,” she breathed, and turned around to look for an out-of-the-way place to skulk until the waltz. And stopped dead.

The Marquis of St. Aubyn stood no more than a dozen feet from her, shaking hands with one of the numerous nobleman acquaintances who didn’t dare cut him in public. As she noticed him, his gaze shifted and met hers, and she dimly heard him excuse himself from Lord Trevorston.

She couldn’t breathe. Her feet were frozen to the floor, her heart stopped, and she was going to expire in the middle of the Alvington ballroom. He approached, slightly favoring his left foot, and the stupidest thought occurred to her:
At least she wouldn’t have to dance with Clarence
.

“Good evening, Miss Ruddick,” he said, nodding at her.

He, too, had dressed in black, but unlike Clarence Alvington, no breath-strangling seams or false padding were necessary, or evident. He looked lean and hard and simply…deadly. And utterly desirable.

“Cat got your tongue, Evelyn?” he continued softly, taking another slow step closer. “Wish me a good evening.”

“I’m going to faint,” she muttered.

“Then do so.”

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on breathing. He wouldn’t come to her aid; he probably wouldn’t even keep her from falling flat on her face. Her heart continued to beat wildly, but after a moment the cold dizziness faded. She opened her eyes again, to find him still gazing at her, the expression on his face unchanged.

“Better?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Brief appreciation touched his hard gaze. “No, you don’t, do you? Wish me good evening.”

“Good…good evening, Lord St. Aubyn.”

He glanced past her. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother with kidnapping Clarence Alvington. It’s just a rumor, but I hear that the Alvington family coffers are nearly depleted.”

“Please don’t say such things.”

“And besides, you already have someone to share your bed. You certainly can’t want him.”

For a surprised moment, she wondered if that was jealousy she heard in his voice. But Saint couldn’t be jealous, because he claimed not to have a heart. “My brother wants me to be nice to him. But what are you doing here? I thought you preferred darker haunts.”

He pursed his lips. “I’m here because of you, my love. You thought the constabulary might hesitate to make an arrest at the Alvington ball, yes?”

Oh, no
. “If…if you’re going to have me arrested,” she whispered, the blood draining from her face, “then
do so. But please don’t let them bring the children or my family into it.”

“You already asked me that. Would you pay the price I would ask to keep silent?”

Her pulse hammered. “But I—we—”

“I want you again, Evelyn.” He tilted his head, eyes studying her face. “Don’t you want me?”

So much she could barely keep from leaping on him, despite dozens of potential witnesses
. A tear started, and she brushed it away before anyone could see it. He couldn’t possibly care for her. She was such a fool, and she’d made such a muck of everything, and she was so blasted confused. “I was only trying to help.”

“I know. And I have no intention of seeing you arrested, my dear one.”