London's Perfect Scoundrel (5 page)

“Yes, of course.”

As Evelyn brushed past him, he leaned in to smell her hair. Lemons. Honey on her lips and lemon in her hair, and her skin probably tasted of strawberries. Evelyn Ruddick was a veritable dessert, and he wanted to feast. Badly.

Self-restraint had never been among his best-loved or most-mastered traits, but he supposed simply falling on her wouldn’t get him what he wanted. That would probably make her faint, which would be no fun for him at all.

Most of the two dozen boys were gathered at the far end of the room, crowded into a semicircle bound by one wall. Even through the chatter and shouts, he could hear the distinct clink of coins.

“What—” Evelyn began, then stopped.

“They’re pitching pennies,” he said, slowing to look at her.

“Wagering? In an orphanage?”

Saint stifled a sigh. Proper chits were more trouble than they were worth. “Any coins on the floor by the time I get
there,” he said in a carrying voice, “belong to me.”

The boys yelped, diving onto the floor to gather up stray pennies, while the onlookers formed a ragged, imperfect line of attention. They didn’t see him down here very often, and none of them looked any more pleased about it than he was.

“This is Miss Ruddick,” he said, gesturing at Evelyn. “She wants to know about you.”

“Thank you, Lord St. Aubyn.” With a slight, nervous twitch of her fine lips, she stepped into the center of the line. “First of all, please call me Evie.”

“Give us a kiss, Evie,” one of the older boys called.

Saint grinned. Since she’d let him kiss her, he supposed the boy had half a chance, as well. Crossing his arms, he leaned against one of the support beams that ran down the center of the dormitory. This should be interesting.

“If you want a girl to kiss you,” she said sharply, facing her heckler, “perhaps you should take a bath first.”

The other boys laughed, while the taunt of “dirty Mulligan” circled the room. Saint allowed it; she obviously hadn’t been talking about him. He’d bathed this morning. And shaved.

“Now, now,” Evie continued, patting Mulligan on the shoulder. “I’m not here to make fun. I just want to know you. Do you stay in here all day?”

“The Iron Mop said we had to stay indoors today for an inspection,” one of them answered.

“The Iron Mop?”

“Mrs. Natham, I mean, Miss Evie.”

“I see.”

Saint thought a faint smile might have passed her lips, but it was gone too swiftly for him to be certain. He frowned. Proper ladies didn’t have a sense of humor; his god-awful reputation was proof enough of that.

“How do you generally spend your days, then? In school?”

“‘In school?’” another of the boys mimicked. “Did you come here from Bedlam, Miss Evie?”

“Are ye one of them religious ladies, come to pray for our heathen souls?” Mulligan put in.

“No, of course n—”

“The Reverend Beacham comes here every Sunday to try to save us,” another lad said.

“No, he don’t. He comes for the Iron Mop!”

Evelyn shot Saint a frustrated glance, and he lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should offer them pudding,” he suggested.

“I’m a heathen!”

“I’m a Red Indian!” one of the younger boys whooped, starting a war dance.

“Interesting, Evelyn,” Saint murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Does chaos follow you everywhere?”

She scowled at him, then quickly wiped the expression from her face as she turned back to the boys. “Do you know about Indians?” she cut in, squatting down to the brave’s eye level. “Would you like to know about them?”

“Randall told me about them. They scalp people.”

She nodded. “And they can move through a forest without making a sound, and follow a bear’s trail over rocks and through rivers.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “They can?”

“Yes. What’s your name?”

“Thomas Kinnett.”

Evie straightened. “You know, Mr. Kinnett, when you introduce yourself to a lady, you should bow.”

The boy’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”

“So you can look up her skirt,” Saint commented dryly.

This was typical; a female attempting to teach babies etiquette before she knew whether they had enough to eat. Abruptly he felt disappointed. For a moment, he’d thought Evelyn Ruddick might have a bit of sense in addition to her tempting body.

“Lord St. Aubyn!” she snapped, flushing. Snickers and giggles erupted around her.

“Yes, Miss Evie?”

“I don’t believe—” she began sharply, then stopped. With a look around her, she excused herself from the circle and stomped up to him. “I don’t believe,” she repeated in a quieter, equally fierce voice, “that these boys need a poor example set before them. You have not done them a good turn.”

He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Neither have you. Bowing lessons for seven-year-old pickpockets are, in a word, useless, Evelyn.”

Her fair complexion paled, and for a bare, surprised moment he thought she might slap him. Finally, though, she nodded. “At least I am making an attempt to do something for them. I very much doubt you can make the same claim.”

Good God. She was
baiting
him. Women didn’t do that unless they wished to end up either publicly humiliated or, better, naked beneath him. “Evelyn Marie,” he whispered, unable to stop the smile from touching his lips, “I’ve only laid claim to one thing today, and that is your mouth. And I mean to collect on the rest of you.”

She blinked and then, stammering something to herself, backed away. “Scoundrel,” she muttered.

Saint sketched a bow. “Ready to service you.”

With another stunned, furious look, she turned on her heel and fled. Saint stood in the midst of the laughing boys and watched her leave. That should take care of things. She’d be a fool to approach either him or the orphanage again after that. Neither thought, however, left him in a particularly good humor.

“You stupid sots,” the youngest boy complained. “I wanted to learn about Indians.”

Saint stifled a scowl as he left the dormitory. The comment hadn’t been aimed at him, of course, because no one—not even infants—were allowed to speak that way to him. And this wasn’t about what little boys wanted, anyway. It was about what was best for him—and for Evelyn Ruddick.

“Y
ou’re joking. Aren’t you?” Lucinda stopped beside the Barrett coach as her maid piled a half dozen boxes and parcels onto one of the plush seats.

“Do I look as though I’m joking?” Evie returned, handing over her own parcel to be added to the stack. It was a sad commentary on the state of her nerves when she could only find one item to purchase on a shopping excursion.

“Hm. I’ve never heard anything good—or rather,
repeatable
and good—said about St. Aubyn, but for him to publicly question your competence seems uncalled for. Your uncle is the Marquis of Houton, after all.”

“I’m certain he doesn’t care a fig who my relations might be,” she said, wishing Luce would tell her something about St. Aubyn or his reputation that she didn’t already know.

“No, he probably doesn’t care,” Lucinda admitted.
“Oh, I heard that Luckings just received some new hats. Shall we?”

Evelyn actually wanted to work on her proposal, but Victor was home today, and if he caught her holed up in the library on such a fine morning, she wasn’t certain she would be able to deflect his suspicions. “Absolutely.”

They strolled down Bond Street toward the milliner’s, Lucinda chatting and smiling at acquaintances as they went, and pretending that she hadn’t noticed how distracted Evelyn seemed to be. That was one of the nicest things about Lucinda Barrett; calm and practical, she would patiently wait until a friend was ready to confess what a muck he or she had made of things, and then she would offer what was invariably sound and logical advice to correct the problem.

Confessing that she’d allowed the Marquis of St. Aubyn to kiss her, however, would only make Evie feel more like an idiot than she already did. She doubted Lucinda would be able to say anything to alter her opinion. As for her proposal and her plans for the orphanage, she still intended to do something, kiss or not. For that task, though, she didn’t want to admit that she was already falling short of her own expectations.

“Evie?”

She shook herself. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was just asking whether your brother had decided on a political platform. Georgiana’s going to dinner with the Duke of Wycliffe tonight, and she offered to extol Victor’s virtues if you wanted her to.”

“I’m not certain Victor has any virtues. And Georgie certainly doesn’t need to spend the small time she has with her cousin talking about
my
brother.”

The space between Lucinda’s delicate eyebrows fur
rowed. “That’s considerate, but not terribly politically savvy of you, my dear.”

Evie sighed. “I don’t want to be politically savvy—and especially not on someone else’s behalf. I want to be a part of something meaningful.”

“Like the Heart of Hope Orphanage?”

“Yes.”

Lucinda stopped. “You know, I have an idea.” With a quick smile, she took Evelyn’s arm and turned them back in the direction of the coach. “You’re right; it’s not the Duke of Wycliffe you need. It’s the duchess.”

“The duchess? What—”

“She used to be a girls’ school headmistress. Who would know better about helping young people than a headmistress? And who would be more discreet about it than Emma Brakenridge?”

Slowly hope began to push aside yesterday’s frustration. Saint might have sent her fleeing before she could complete her interviews, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go elsewhere for information. “Lucinda, have I mentioned lately how very fond I am of you?” she asked, squeezing her friend’s arm.

“I’m glad to be of assistance, my dear.”

Saint sat back in his chair. “It’s only a suggestion,” he said, tapping the ashes off the end of his cheroot. “Take it or not.”

The scowl on the face of the large gentleman seated across from him didn’t lift. “I have to consider public opinion, you know, even if you don’t.”

“It’s not as though you’re doing something underhanded. A new, larger park for the public, part of the Prince Regent’s grand plan for the improvement of London.”

“Yes, Saint, but it would involve
razing an orphanage
.”

The headache lurking in Saint’s temple began to throb again. “The orphans won’t be in it, for God’s sake. I’ll see them all relocated, at my expense.”

Someone scratched at the office door and cracked it open. “Your Majesty?”

“Not now, Mithers,” the prince grunted. “I’m engaged in business.”

The narrow face in the doorway paled. “Bus…business, Your Majesty? With…with…”

“Yes, with me, Mithers,” Saint finished with a soft grin.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh—”

“Mithers, go away,” Prince George ordered, pitching a glassful of expensive Madeira in his secretary’s direction.

The door closed.

“Damn me,” the Regent continued, “in five minutes he’ll have half the ministry in here.”

Clenching his cigar between his teeth, Saint refilled the prince’s glass. Mithers was right to go fetch reinforcements, which didn’t leave him much time. “Before they throw me out, just consider. I’m
giving
you the deed to several acres of land, to use as you see fit. It borders the project you’re working on now, and the only cost to the taxpayers will be tearing the damned thing down and planting a few trees.”

His chair creaking at the shift of his substantial weight, Prince George leaned forward. “But what, my dear Saint, is in all this for you?”

Saint studied the prince regent for a short moment. Prinny couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, but the
plan he’d concocted over the past few months—while it was rather underhanded, despite what he’d told the prince—wasn’t illegal. “It’s simple,” he said through a puff of cigar smoke. “My mother’s will stipulated that my family—meaning me—maintain an interest in and supervisory position over the Heart of Hope Orphanage. If the Crown were to take over ownership and tear down the place, my obligation would be removed.”

“So your mama had an affection for the place?”

“She liked to embroider table runners for holiday meals and call it ‘aiding the unfortunate.’ I won’t be saddled with continuing such nonsense. Not when you’re building a perfectly good park just across the road.”

Swirling his glass of Madeira in chubby yet elegant fingers, the prince chuckled. “I’ll have my staff look into it, but I’m not agreeing to anything you propose without first finding someone more reputable to confirm the facts.”

Saint smiled back without humor. “I expect nothing less.” He could be patient. After all, he’d inherited care of the damned place six years ago. He’d managed to bide his time, looking for an opportunity, for this long. He could wait another few weeks.

“Now,” the prince continued in a more conspiratorial tone, “tell me, my boy. Is it true that Fatima, Lady Gladstone, makes certain…sounds while in the throes of passion?”

“Mews like a kitten,” Saint answered, draining his glass. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

Chuckling again, the prince shook his heavy jowls. “Be off with you. It amazes me, Saint, that you can own so few redeemable qualities and still be so likable.”

Saint stood, sketching a bow as he backed away. No
sense in offending the Regent now, when he finally looked to have a chance to be orphanage-free. “It’s a talent, Your Majesty.”

“Would that more of us possessed it.”

As Saint left Carlton House and called for his horse, he reflected that his conversation with Prince George had actually gone more favorably than he’d anticipated. Considering that he was willing to pay for both the razing of the building and the planting of the park, a tentative “I’ll look into it” before he had to offer either was good news, indeed.

He turned Cassius toward Boodles’s for luncheon, and several minutes passed before he realized both that he seemed to be taking a roundabout route to reach his club, and that this particular direction was for a reason. With a slight scowl, he slowed before the white house on his left.

Ruddick House wasn’t large or grandiose by anyone’s definition, but the small garden appeared nicely kept, and the stable was full. Victor Ruddick’s business in India, conducted on the Marquis of Houton’s behalf, reportedly rendered the brother, sister, and mother a healthy income.

Rumor had it that Victor had recently developed some political ambitions, something that his uncle no doubt approved. Those ambitions explained Evelyn’s approach of Fatima last week—the look of distaste on Miss Ruddick’s face had been the most amusing part of the evening. He wondered how she would react if he went up and knocked on her front door.

That same door opened. Saint straightened, anticipation running through him. It was only the mother, though, dressed for some luncheon or other. He waited
in the shade of the elms that lined the far side of the street, but only a maid followed. No Evelyn Marie.

He had an appetite, and she’d definitely whetted his hunger. He’d probably been too forward with the delicate miss, and now she’d abandoned her orphanage project for a nunnery or something. Saint shrugged, turning Cassius back toward Pall Mall. If she didn’t appear at the board meeting the day after tomorrow, she wasn’t worth hunting, anyway. Even so, he couldn’t keep from looking over his shoulder at the house as he turned the corner. He could wait until Friday to find out. Anticipation appealed to him—as long as he could see it satisfied.

“I’m more familiar with lesson planning for already-educated females between the ages of twelve and eighteen,” the Duchess of Wycliffe said, leaning down to dangle a cookie in the direction of the nearest end table.

“Any assistance you could give me would be wonderful, Your Grace,” Evelyn returned, only half listening as the end table rocked.

“Emma, please,” the duchess said, grinning as she slid off her chair to kneel on the carpet, cookie still before her. “Crawling about on the floor doesn’t seem very regal.” She turned her attention to the unseen object of the cookie bribe. “Elizabeth, Mama can’t fit under there. Please come out.”

A giggle answered her.

Emma sighed. “This is because your papa told you that silly story about the magic faerie who lived in a cave, isn’t it?”

More giggling came from beneath the end table.

Straightening, Emma popped the cookie into her own
mouth. “Very well, the magic faerie’s papa can explain why she can’t live under the end table.”

A servant scratched on the door, and the duchess returned to her more elegant perch on her chair. “Did you find them, Beth?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid set a short stack of papers and books on the table, and jumped at the subterranean giggle that erupted a moment later. “Dear me!”

“Please see if you can locate His Grace, Beth. Last I heard, he was in the billiards room with Lord Dare.”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Evie sent a glance at Lucinda, who seemed to be enjoying her afternoon immensely. Miss Barrett, though, didn’t have to explain that she wanted to devise a plan to teach orphans to read. Nor did she have to worry about the reaction she might receive from the Duke of Wycliffe or Viscount Dare if they were to learn of her recent activities. And even their disapproval would be nothing compared to Victor’s. For a moment she wished Georgiana was here to intercede on her behalf with the male members of her powerful family, but the viscountess was having luncheon with her aunt. And besides, no one would intercede if Victor found out anything. No, she needed to learn to stand up for herself.

“Now, where were we?” the duchess asked, wiping cookie crumbs from her fingers. “Ah, yes.” She lifted the books onto her lap, flipping through them, and then handed one to Evie. “This is a basic primer, which might at least give you a direction for starting some of the younger children on their letters. I would recommend beginning with vowels and their sounds—fewer letters to cause confusion.”

“Oh, thank you,” Evelyn said feelingly, opening the
book. “I’ve felt so frustrated, wanting to do something and having no idea how to begin it.”

“You have ideas,” Lucinda said stoutly. “You just worry too much, Evie. And no one could—or should—fault you for wanting to make a positive difference in anyone’s life.”

Evie smiled. “Thank you, Luce.”

Emma gave her a speculative look. “Are you going to be doing all of the instructing yourself? I might warn you, teaching is very rewarding, but it will occupy every waking and sleeping hour you possess.”

“I would like to do some of it, but…” Evie hesitated. She knew she could trust the Duchess of Wycliffe with her secrets, but confessing aloud how restricted she felt in all this meant admitting it to herself.

“Your family duties take up much of your time,” the duchess finished for her. “I understand. Believe me.”

With a smile, Evelyn picked up another of the books. “I do intend to oversee the hiring of instructors, and the courses of education. These are wonderful, Emma. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure. Take whatever you wish, for as long as you need them.”

“You summoned me?” a deep voice came from the doorway.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and tawny-haired, the Duke of Wycliffe strolled into the room, Lord Dare on his heels. Evelyn grimaced, hoping they hadn’t been lurking in the hallway. In all fairness, “lurking” didn’t seem quite their style, unlike a certain marquis who’d been troubling her dreams over the past few nights.

“Yes, I did. A magic faerie has taken up residence under the end table and is refusing to emerge for her bath.”

The large duke lifted an eyebrow. “A faerie, eh?” He knocked on the smooth mahogany surface. “Is there a faerie under here?”

A shrieking cascade of laughter answered him.

With a grin that made Evelyn smile in return, the duke removed the candy dish and tea tray from the table, handing them to Dare. That done, Evie expected Wycliffe to lower himself to the floor as the duchess had done and extricate young Elizabeth. Instead, he simply lifted the table up and set it aside.

“My Samson,” the duchess murmured with a warm smile that made Evie blush.

Bright auburn hair in short curls all over her head and gowned in yellow and white, Lady Brakenridge gave another shriek and trundled toward the writing desk. In one long stride the duke caught up, scooping her into his arms. “Hello, Lizzie,” he cooed, hefting the infant up to his shoulder.