London's Perfect Scoundrel (29 page)

“Mrs. Natham. I’m looking for Miss Ruddick. Is she here this morning?”

The woman seemed baffled that she remained employed, but Saint had no intention of easing her confusion. Evelyn liked her, so she would stay. That was the limit of his caring where the Iron Mop was concerned.

“No, my lord. The children have been inquiring, but we haven’t seen her for three days now.”

“Hm. Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Natham.” He turned on his heel.

“My lord?”

Saint stopped. “Yes?”

“Young Randall has been telling the other children the most amazing story—about a new home for all of them. They are so excited, but I wondered whether…Randall likes to tease, you know.”

“Randall is correct.” He hesitated. “I believe Miss Ruddick wanted to inform them herself, as soon as the papers were signed. I would appreciate if you would suggest to the infants that they act surprised when she gives them the news.”

The housekeeper smiled, the expression softening the hard features of her face. “With pleasure, my lord. And thank you—for the children’s sake, that is.”

“You are all welcome. Good day, Mrs. Natham.”

It was so odd, he reflected, riding back toward the center of Mayfair, that seeing people happy would make him feel so…pleased. He’d demand an explanation of the phenomenon from Evelyn once he tracked her down.

He caught up to Miss Barrett and Lady Dare just as they were exiting Barrett House. “Good morning, ladies,” he said, doffing his hat.

“My lord,” they echoed, sending a glance at one another.

“I’m looking for Miss Ruddick. I’d hoped to find her with you this morning.”

Lucinda frowned, then quickly wiped the expression away. “She said yesterday that she had a…place to visit this morning.”

Saint swung down from Cassius. “She’s not there. Nor is she at the other place.”

“We were to go to the museum this afternoon,” Lady Dare said thoughtfully, “but she sent me a note, begging off.”

Trying to maintain his relaxed stance, Saint took the note as the viscountess pulled it from the pocket of her pelisse. “It doesn’t say why she canceled,” he muttered to himself. In fact, he’d never known her to be so brusque with her friends.

“I’m sure her brother’s merely sent her off on another of his missions.” Despite the reassuring words, Lady Dare didn’t look all that confident.

Both of her friends would know about Victor Ruddick’s plans for Evelyn and Clarence Alvington, and he could see the speculation in their eyes without having to ask the question aloud. The Alvingtons were to have been at dinner with the Ruddicks last night. Saint’s heart began hammering, filling him with an unaccustomed, unpleasant sensation—worry.

“Perhaps we should call on her, Georgie,” Lucinda suggested. “Just to make certain she’s feeling well.”

Saint barely heard them. He was already up on Cassius again. “No need. I’ll see to it.”

Something was wrong. Little evidence though he had, his keenly developed sense of self-preservation told him that the morning was not as it should be. He wanted to gallop, but propriety still counted, so he settled for a fast trot to Ruddick House.

The Ruddick butler opened the door at his knock. “Lord St. Aubyn. Good morning.”

“I would like to speak with Miss Ruddick, if she’s in,” Saint said, unable to keep the clipped impatience from his voice.

“If you’ll wait in the morning room, my lord, I shall inquire.”

Saint let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She was there, anyway. She hadn’t been dragged off somewhere and married to Clarence Alvington before he had a chance to do anything about it.

He paced the morning room, the need to see her creeping along his veins like a fever. She would be all right. She would come downstairs and tell him that she’d had too much wine at her brother’s dull dinner and that she’d simply overslept.

“St. Aubyn.”

He turned. “Ruddick.” The hairs on the back of his neck pricked. Whatever was going on, it was worse than he’d anticipated.
Be polite
, he reminded himself. Evelyn wouldn’t go completely against her brother’s wishes in anything, and so he had to woo Victor as much as he needed to convince her of his sincerity. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. My sister’s not feeling well this morning, I’m afraid.”

Saint’s jaw clenched.
He wasn’t going to see her
. “Nothing serious, I hope?” he made himself say.

“No. Just a headache. But she’s not seeing anyone.”

“Well. I won’t keep you, then.” Saint brushed by
Ruddick, returning to the hallway and handing the roses to the butler. “For Miss Ruddick.”

“And St. Aubyn?” Evelyn’s brother continued, following him toward the foyer.

Only Victor’s presence kept Saint from storming up the stairs and breaking down doors until he found Evelyn and assured himself that she was all right. “What is it?”

“My sister is not as sensible as I could wish. She is betrothed to Clarence Alvington, and I would appreciate, gentleman to gentleman, if you would keep your distance from her.”

Saint froze.
No
. When she’d mentioned it to him before, it had only been a possibility, something he had already decided he could prevent. The woman he’d fallen in love with did not become betrothed to someone else. Not when he hadn’t even had a chance to win her. “She agreed to marry Alvington?”

“Of course she did. She has this family’s best interests at heart. Good day, St. Aubyn. I trust you won’t be calling here again.”

Saint paused in the doorway as the butler pulled open the door. “You know, Ruddick, I used to think I was the worst scoundrel in London. It’s somewhat reassuring to know that I was wrong. Congratulations. You now hold the title.”

“If you had a sister, St. Aubyn, you might understand. Now leave, and don’t come back.”

Leaving Ruddick House was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He knew Evelyn was in there, and that she had to be desperately unhappy. He needed to see her. He needed to help her. He needed to do something.

S
aint had grabbed Cassius’ bridle away from Ruddick’s groom when the butler emerged onto the front steps. “You, rag and bone man!” the servant shouted. “Don’t accost our guests. You know the servants’ entrance is around the back!”

Saint glanced over his shoulder in the direction the servant was yelling. No rag and bone man was anywhere in sight. With a fleeting glance in his direction, the butler disappeared back inside the house and slammed the door.

Forcing his mind back from the grim desire to beat Ruddick within an inch of his life, Saint rode Cassius down the street. Once around the corner from Chesterfield Hill, he found a young man, gave him a shilling, and handed the bay over to his care. Thank God for butlers.

Slipping along the carriage drive, he made his way to the rear of the house. The kitchen door opened as he reached it. The butler motioned him inside.

The kitchen staff seemed furiously busy with cleaning for this time of morning, but if it gave them an excuse not to see him, he had no objection. “Thank you,” he muttered, following the butler toward the narrow back stairs.

“If Mr. Ruddick sees you, I’m afraid I will have to deny providing you with entry,” the man returned. “But Miss Ruddick seems quite fond of you, as we are of her. She does not deserve this foul treatment. Go up to the second floor. Her bedchamber is the fourth one to your left.”

Saint nodded, already halfway up the stairs. At least the butler’s actions confirmed his own suspicions. Evelyn was not in this situation by choice. The hallway was empty as he emerged, and he made his way to the door the butler had indicated. Rapping softly, he leaned his ear against the hard wood. “Evelyn?”

“Go away, Victor! I will not speak to you!”

“Evelyn Marie,” he called in the same low voice. “It’s me. It’s Saint.”

He heard a rustle of material approach the door. “Saint? What are you doing here?”

“There’s no key in the lock,” he whispered back. “Do you know where it is?”

“I’ve locked it from the inside. Go away, Saint. Now. You’ll only make things worse.”

Saint rattled the handle. “Open the door, Evelyn. I need to talk to you.”

“N…no.”

“I’ll break it down, and then everyone will know I’m here. Open it before someone sees me standing here.”

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t comply, but then the lock turned and she pulled open the door. He
slipped inside her bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind him again.

Evelyn watched him straighten, turning to face her. She’d dreamed all the long, sleepless night of seeing him again. Now that he was here, she had no idea what he could possibly do to help her. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, willing her voice to be steady. “If Victor knew, he’d pack me off to West Sussex in an instant.”

The marquis looked at her for the space of a heartbeat, then closed the distance between them. Taking the sides of her face in his hands, he leaned down and kissed her, so softly, so gently, it made her want to weep.

“Your dear brother threw me out of the house a few moments ago,” he murmured, kissing her again, as though he hadn’t seen her in years, rather than just a day ago, “so I doubt he expects to find me anywhere in the vicinity.”

“Then how did you—”

“Victor could never be as underhanded as I am, even if he tried. Tell me what happened.”

She had to agree with that assessment. No one accomplished subterfuge like St. Aubyn. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, tell him all her troubles, and let him make everything right. This, though, couldn’t be made right. “Victor found out about my activities at the orphanage and something about you and I, and he decided he’d had enough. Clarence Alvington agreed to marry me, apparently for a very generous dowry, and Lord Alvington agreed to give his district’s votes to Victor.”

Saint paced away and back again, his face hard and set. “So it’s done. Signed and sealed, and you’ve been delivered. Did they ask you, Evelyn? Did anyone ask what you wanted?”

“Obviously not. But I stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. I knew what might happen.”

“So you accept this?”

Evelyn took a ragged breath. “I wish you hadn’t come here, Michael. Of course I don’t want to marry that idiot. But what else can I do?”

“Leave here. With me. Right now.”

Oh, God, she’d wanted to hear that so badly
. “And what about my family?”

“They’ve sold you. Don’t you dare worry about them.”

“But Saint, they’re my family. I’ve tried so hard to make a positive difference. If I ruin Victor’s career, what does that say about me?”

His eyes narrowed. “That you got even.”

“But I don’t live by that philosophy.” She ran her fingers along his lapel, unable to resist touching him.

He captured her hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest. “I won’t let you marry Clarence Alvington,” he said in a low, black voice she’d never heard him use before. “That is my philosophy.” His heart under her fingers beat hard and fast.

“Believe me, if there’s a way to escape this mess, I will do it. But I won’t ruin my family name. My father was very proud of who he was, and so am I. And much as I want to hate him, Victor is a good man—if misguided about some things.”

“And what about your infants, then?” he retorted, yanking her still closer. “Would you leave them to me?”

“You’ll do right by them, Saint.” A tear ran down her cheek, the first she’d wept since everything had fallen to pieces. “I’ve seen your good heart.”

He released her so abruptly she staggered. “I don’t
have a heart, Evelyn. That is why I…need…you. Leave with me right now. I’ll buy you anything you want, take you anywhere you want to go. We’ll open orphanages all over Europe, if you like. Just be with me.”

She heard the desperation in his voice, and the hurt. “Michael, I can’t,” she whispered. “Please understand.”

Saint faced the window for a long moment, the muscles across his back so taut she could see him shaking. “I understand,” he finally said. “Victor gets his seat in Parliament, you make certain the children are cared for, and you live a miserable, hopeless life.”

“That’s not—”

He whipped around to face her. “I’ll see to the first two, but I will never,
never
agree to the last.” Striding forward, he kissed her again, roughly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Michael, I’m not—”

“Tonight.”

He reached for the door. Frantic that he might try something even more drastic than this, she pushed against it. She might as easily have stopped a charging bear, but he halted his retreat.

“Michael, look at me.”

With a shuddering breath, he faced her again.

“Promise me that you’ll continue on this path you’ve chosen. That you’ll be good.”

The Marquis of St. Aubyn shook his head. “No. You don’t get to feel as though you’ve made a sacrifice for the greater good where I’m concerned, Evelyn. I intend to get exactly what
I
want, even if you’ve given up.”

With that, he slipped out the door and softly closed it behind him. Evelyn leaned against the door, listening for a long time, but he didn’t return. Slowly she turned the
key and the lock clicked shut. Even if he came back tonight, she wouldn’t let him in. If she did, she would never have the strength to let him go.

Saint rode past Lord and Lady Gladstone’s grand house on the way home. He didn’t even realize it, however, until he was two streets past there. If he needed an answer about how much he’d changed, that provided it. He didn’t want Fatima Hynes or any other nameless female with vacant eyes and an ample bosom. He didn’t want anyone else, ever. He wanted Evelyn Marie Ruddick—and he’d be damned if he was going to let Neckcloth Alvington have her without a fight.

And if there was one thing he knew how to do better than anyone else in London, it was how to fight dirty.

“I need a message delivered to Wellington immediately,” he said as he entered his home.

“I’ll fetch Thomason,” Jansen returned, hurrying down the side corridor as Saint made his way to his office. Several invitations lay stacked on the side table, and he flipped through them. Nearly a dozen, more than he used to receive. Whether anyone had begun to notice his more polite behavior or not, they had realized he was attending more of the Season’s events.

At the bottom of the pile he found the one he’d been looking for. Thankfully he’d already accepted the invitation to the Dorchester ball that evening. It wouldn’t give him much time, but he had little enough of that anyway.

He grabbed a paper and scrawled out a note to Wellington, offering the duke his last case of sherry if His Grace would join him at the Dorchester soiree and do him the very great favor of sending on a note informing Ruddick that the duke would like Victor and his family to be in attendance as well. When Thomason ap
peared, Saint dispatched him immediately, instructing the footman to wait for an answer.

For a moment he considered sending a similar note to Prinny, but he needed more than a notable appearance; he needed a Cabinet posting. A seat would take too long to ensure, and Alvington had that card in his hand already. And any appointment suggested by the Regent would bog down in committee for a year. If he couldn’t arrange faster results for Ruddick than Alvington could, he needn’t bother.

Thomason returned in less than thirty minutes. “That was fast,” Saint said, pausing in the pacing that was wearing a track in his office floor. “What was his answer?”

The footman actually backed away a step. “The…His Grace was not at home, my lord.”

“Damnation. Did his butler say where I might find him?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Saint gazed at his footman as all remaining patience fled. Being polite and considerate could go hang itself. “Then where is he?” he hissed.

“Calais.”

Saint stopped. “Calais,” he repeated. “The Calais in France.”

“Yes, my lord. On his way to Paris. I’m very sorry. I could go after him, if you’d—”

“No. Go away. I need to think.”

“Yes, my lord.”

No Wellington. Prinny looked to be his only choice, though with the time and care the Regent spent in selecting his wardrobe, convincing him to attend a party on such short notice would be nearly impossible. And Prinny didn’t have a reason to invite Ruddick. Victor
would see through the ruse in a heartbeat. He resumed pacing again, then stopped. “Thomason!”

Everyone seemed to be lurking close by today, because both the footman and Jansen galloped into the office. “Yes, my lord? Am I to go to Calais, then, after all?”

“No. When did Wellington leave?”

“Just this morning. He wanted to make the evening tide at Dover.”

Saint nodded. “Good. Nothing in the newspaper about his departure until tomorrow, then. Wait right there.” He returned to his desk and grabbed another sheet of paper.

“Is there anything I can do, my lord?” Jansen asked.

“No. Yes. I will need eight coaches or other conveyances this evening.” He glanced up, then went back to scrawling. “Make it ten. And I want them here by seven this evening.”

“I’ll see to it, my lord.”

It took two attempts to get the wording right, and then he sanded and folded the letter. The seal would be a problem; after a moment’s consideration he used his own, twisting the ring in the soft wax so the crest was unrecognizable.

Blowing on it, he stood, then realized Thomason was wearing the distinct black and red St. Aubyn livery. “Damn. Do you have another jacket?”

“My lord?”

“Never mind. See Pemberly before you go. Wellington’s servants are in plain black, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“I have something that should suffice in my wardrobe, I’m sure. You are now in Wellington’s service, and you are taking this note to Ruddick House. Don’t wait for an answer. Wellington’s man wouldn’t.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have to understand, Thomason. You must convince them that you are in Wellington’s employ, that he’s in town, and that you’re actually too important to be delivering this note. If not, none of this will work.”

The footman nodded. “I understand, my lord.”

Saint took a deep breath. “Go see my valet, then.”

Once the footman was gone, he changed his coat to go out again: The day was passing quickly, and he had another errand to run. Three of them, actually.

For a moment when someone began pounding on her door, Evelyn thought Saint had returned to kidnap her. She wouldn’t have resisted. She shouldn’t have turned him down when he offered to take her away before. He was correct; it wasn’t fair that everyone got what they wanted but her.

“Evie, open this door!” Victor bellowed.

Hope fell to the floor again. “Never!”

“If I have to come in there—”

“Then you’ll break my door, and you’ll have to lock me in the cellar.”

She heard his muffled cursing behind the door. He probably had no idea what to do when she didn’t give in to him.

“Wellington has requested our presence at the Dorchester ball this evening,” he said after a moment.

“I’m not going.”

“He thinks you’re charming, and he wishes to dance with you, Evie. You
are
going. And you’ll dance with Clarence, as well, and we’ll begin spreading the rumor of your engagement.”

Jumping out the window was beginning to seem a sound alternative. Just as she started to yell her defiance
once more, though, she remembered what Saint had said.
He would see her tonight
. Had he arranged this? He knew Wellington, certainly.

It was a chance. Not much of one, but at least if she went out, she could see her friends, and perhaps think of something to get herself out of this. And she could ask Lucinda to get a message to the children, so they would know that she hadn’t forgotten them.

“I’ll go,” she called. “If you’ll let me see my friends.”

“As long as I’m there beside you, you may see anyone you wish—except for St. Aubyn.”

She didn’t answer that; he wouldn’t believe anything she said, anyway.

As her own personal act of defiance, Evie wore the diamond heart pendant Saint had given her. No one would know its significance but the two of them, and if he was in attendance it would probably send him the wrong message—that she still hoped for his rescue—but somehow she felt stronger inside with it on.