London's Perfect Scoundrel (28 page)

She couldn’t help scowling at him. “Why not?”

He ran a finger along her cheek. “Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”

“But I don’t want to behave.” His light touch left her trembling.

“A tumble in the grass would be…delectable,” he murmured, offering his arm, “but someone would see. What I want of you doesn’t end today, my dear. And frustrating as being proper might be, if that is what it takes, that is what I shall do.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. Saint—Michael—had changed so much she could scarcely believe it. And apparently it was because of her. “You are very nice sometimes,” she whispered. Even if there was no hope for the two of them, she wasn’t ready to admit it yet to herself, and much less to him. Not today.

As the sounds of flirtatious conversation faded downstream, Lady Huntley craned her neck to peer around the stand of cattails behind which she and her husband
had taken refuge. Thank goodness she had decided the cattails would make a lovely centerpiece, or they might not have known until too late. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, elbowing her husband.

“Sounds as though St. Aubyn’s tomcatting after that Ruddick chit,” he grunted, climbing to his feet and brushing damp grass from his knees before he pulled her up after him.

“Oh, it’s much worse than that, I’m certain. I think she’s already been caught. And orphans, and someone was kidnapped, and God knows what else. We must inform Alvington.”

“Alvington? Why?”

“She’s the girl Clarence is set on marrying, for heaven’s sake. Do keep up.”

“I’m trying, my dear.”

Evie decided later that she should have realized an ambush was coming. At Victor’s most boring, stodgy dinner party of the year, however, she was more concerned with keeping her eyes open than with looking for traps. After the most wonderful day she could ever remember spending, her brother’s political acquaintances and strict propriety only reminded her how much she’d come to enjoy having Michael Edward Halboro in her life.

Everyone kept looking at her. At least it seemed as though she were receiving more attention than she usually did as the resident charming decoration of the household, but she ignored it as best she could. Even Clarence, trying to nudge her foot with his from across the table, only made her more determined to concentrate on the roast pheasant before her and excuse herself as soon as possible. Until Clarence proposed and she had to
face reality, ignoring the entire thing and behaving in a slightly scandalous manner seemed the best plan.

“I heard the most extraordinary thing today,” Lady Alvington said over the clinking of silverware.

At the same time Aunt Houton glanced in Evie’s direction and frowned. Evie’s heartbeat quickened. Now she would find out if the Huntleys had reported that she had sat with St. Aubyn all day, holding his arm as often as she could, and that once she’d even brushed a ladybug from his dark hair. And Saint the terrible, the scoundrel, the dead shot with a pistol, had laughed and blown it from her fingers.

“What did you hear, my lady?” Victor asked.

“I almost hesitate to say, except that it bears directly on someone at this table.”

“Then you must say,” Genevieve Ruddick insisted.

Evie briefly wondered whether the theatricality was on her behalf, or whether they always spoke to one another in so dramatic a fashion because otherwise the dullness of the conversation would put them all to sleep. She paid so little attention to them, and even less lately, once she’d discovered how many more important things existed in life.

“Very well.” Lady Alvington leaned forward conspiratorially, though she didn’t bother lowering her voice. Gossip was no fun if the servants couldn’t overhear and pass it on. “Apparently the Marquis of St. Aubyn was involved in a kidnapping at that orphanage he oversees. That’s why he vanished for a week.”

All the blood drained from Evelyn’s face. Fighting pure panic, she took several breaths, trying to keep from fainting at the dining room table.
Oh, no, no, no
. Who had heard that? Saint would never tell anyone; he’d promised her.

Everyone was definitely looking at her now, no one surprised, and her aunt the only one with the least bit of sympathy showing on her face. What was she supposed to do, lie? She couldn’t do that. It would only make Saint look worse to everyone, and she couldn’t bear that.

“I know…something about that story,” she stumbled. “It sounds worse than it is. Believe me.” She forced a chuckle, at the same time grabbing for her glass of Madeira. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing, my lady?”

Victor slammed his fork onto his plate with enough force to crack the fine china. “From your lips, Evie.”

“Wha—”

“Imagine my surprise when Lord Alvington came calling late this afternoon with his cousins Lord and Lady Huntley. They heard
you
, my dear sister, at General Barrett’s idiotic idealists’ picnic, saying several…unfortunate things to St. Aubyn—including the fact, I believe, that you were eager to
kiss
that…blackguard. I would use a stronger term, but ladies are present.”

“May I explain?” she asked, though she had no idea what to tell him but the truth—or as much of that as he could tolerate.

“No, you may not. What did you think,” her brother pursued, “that you could behave as you like? Associate with that absolute…scoundrel and I would do nothing? I have questioned our aunt about your absences from her teas, and she admitted that you have been wasting your time with bloody, bastard orphans—excuse my language, ladies—at the Heart of Hope Orphanage, the very one under the authority of St. Aubyn!”

Evie looked at her aunt. “You told?” she asked, her voice so calm it surprised her.

“I’m sorry, Evie,” the countess murmured. “He’d already guessed. I had no choice.”

“Thank God the Huntleys went to Lord Alvington and not to the gossip sheets,” Victor went on. “And thank God we have the means to make this fiasco right before any irreparable harm is done.”

For a moment Evie closed her eyes, wishing they would all go away. Saint. She wanted to talk to Saint. He would have an answer for them. “And how do you intend to do that?” she asked.

Clarence gave a nervous cough. “After some discussion, and a very generous settlement on you by your brother, I have agreed to take you as my wife.”

Her heart stopped. She knew it was coming, but to hear it—“You ‘agreed’ to marry me?” she repeated, lifting her head to gaze at him.

“And I agreed,” Victor put in. “Only we few know of this nonsense, and a marriage announcement should stop any further speculation regarding the weakness of your character.”

“But I don’t agree.” Evelyn took a deep, steadying breath. Enough was enough—and if Victor required six other people present when he attacked her, then she was more than a match for him alone. At least she could tell herself that, for the moment. “I will shout and argue every step of the way, and when people look at you, Victor, they won’t be admiring your political acumen. They’ll be whispering about what a tyrant you are and how horribly you’ve used your sister.”

Her mother gasped. “Evie!”

“More likely people will be admiring my fortitude and patience in putting up with you. Obviously I’ve been too lenient in tolerating your selfishness and flightiness. Go to your room, and do not emerge until you agree to
behave yourself. No more orphans, no more shopping with your frivolous friends, and no more conversation with St. Aubyn. Ever.”

Evelyn put her napkin onto the table and slowly stood. “Whatever you think, and whatever you’ve been told, remember that you never heard my side of the story. And you might have thought to ask me, Victor, before you attempted to humiliate me in front of our family and friends. You will make a fine politician, but you would have been a better brother if you’d asked, and if you’d listened. Good evening.”

With as much decorum as she could muster, Evie climbed the stairs, strode down the hall, entered her bedchamber, and closed the door behind her. Leaning back against it, for a long moment she simply concentrated on breathing. Then she realized she wasn’t so much upset as she was angry. Turning around, she locked the door. That would be better than hearing them lock it from the outside. At least this way she could pretend that she had some control over the situation—over her own life.

She did have some control, she told herself. She could still say no. Not even Victor could force her to marry completely against her will. Of course, in return he could send her back to their estate in West Sussex and refuse to give his permission for her to wed anyone else—and he could also cut off her funds on the grounds that she’d failed to fulfill her duty to her family, so that she wouldn’t be able to afford to go anywhere or do anything.

Even worse than all of that, though, was the thought of the children. Saint surely wouldn’t go back on his promise to move them to their new home, but even so, she’d broken her word to them. They would think she’d abandoned them, just as everyone else in their lives had.

“No, no, no,” she chanted, pacing from the door to the window and back again. Six months ago, if Victor had ordered her to marry Clarence Alvington, she would have wept, protested, and ultimately complied.

This, however, was not six months ago. She’d changed since then. She’d befriended orphans and realized she could improve their lives. She’d visited other institutions and seen how much yet remained to be done. She’d discovered how it felt to be in a man’s embrace, and how significant one man’s attentions could make her feel.

Evelyn shoved the window open and looked down. The dark garden lay below, with nothing between herself and the ground but wall. “
Damnation
.” In romantic stories one always had a drainpipe or a rose trellis on hand for an escape—or a midnight rendezvous. She didn’t even have a certain someone waiting in the shadows to bring her a ladder.

She paused, sitting in the reading chair by the window. Of course, she knew what she
wanted
to do; she wanted to go find Saint and convince him to elope with her, or to run away with her, or at least to hide her until she could figure out what to do. Saint, however, though he delighted in twists and turns, detested entanglements. If she landed on his doorstep, she would be bringing with her a knot the size of Windsor Castle.

What if he only wanted her when no one else knew, when it wasn’t complicated? Slowly she leaned forward and closed the window again. If her life was going to become a nightmare, this way she at least would be able to hold on to the fantasy of loving the man Michael Halboro was on the verge of becoming. She couldn’t bear being the witness to and cause of his ultimate failure. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “What am I going to do?”

Saint glared at his solicitor. “No, I am not going to consider this further,” he snapped. “Give me those papers to sign, or I will be forced to remove them from your person.”

Wiggins swallowed. “I see you have considered already,” he said, eye twitching as he dove into his satchel for the final set of papers. “Just initial the first three pages and sign the fourth. Both sets, please.”

Saint turned the papers to face him, then with a deep breath dipped his pen and signed. “That’s it then, yes? The property is mine?”

“Yes, my lord. Signing over the funds is the last step.”

“Good. Go file and transfer and stamp or whatever it is you do. I want the deed by noon.”

“By—Yes, my lord.”

The solicitor fled the office, and Saint folded his hands behind his head, tilting his chair back against the bookcase. The orphans had their home. Buying St. Eve House, as he’d decided to call it, was probably the most frivolous thing he’d ever done. It would turn him no profit—just the opposite, in fact. It gained him no leverage over anyone. It did, however, keep him in the good graces of the one female, the one person, he valued above all others.

And with the papers signed, he could concentrate on finding a way to make her his forever. “Jansen!”

The butler skidded into the doorway. “My lord?”

“Have Cassius saddled. And get me a dozen red roses.”

“Yes, my lord.” He vanished again.

“Jansen!”

The butler’s head reappeared. “Yes, my lord?”

“Make it two dozen red roses.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Saint finished his remaining paperwork, then pulled on his riding gloves. It was past nine in the morning, thanks to his solicitor’s reluctance to hand over the last bit of paperwork. Yesterday Evelyn had said she planned to spend the morning at the new house, making notes on what needed to be purchased to make everything ready for the children.

He would find her there, then. And after yesterday, he didn’t think he’d have much difficulty convincing her to join him in one of the private rooms for a short time. If he didn’t take her again soon, he was going to explode.

Then it would be off to convince Wellington of some Cabinet post or other the two of them could propose that Prinny create for Victor Ruddick. He hummed a waltz as he made his way down to the foyer. Behaving was easier than he’d expected—particularly when he had a prize to claim at the end of the game.

“I’ll return by noon for some papers Wiggins is to leave for me.”

Jansen pulled open the front door. “Very good, my lord. And here are your flowers.”

“Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, my lord. And good luck, if I may be so bold.”

Saint grinned as he swung onto Cassius’ back. “You may, but don’t make a habit of it.”

The street running past St. Eve House was empty but for a few carriages of the older gentry who occupied the other dwellings. Saint went in anyway, using an unlatched window when he found the front door locked.

“Evelyn?” he called, his voice echoing through the empty rooms. “Miss Ruddick?”

Obviously she wasn’t there. Saint returned to Cassius.
Her second most likely location would be the old orphanage, so he rode through Marylebone to Great Titchfield Road.

The housekeeper met him on the landing. “My lord,” she said, offering him a deep, ungainly curtsy.