The Notorious Scoundrel (4 page)

Yes, and it was Amy’s duty to arouse the patrons into fits of ecstasy, encourage them to seek out the “other girls,” thus plumping the queen’s purse.

She shuddered.

“What if you become enceinte?” demanded the queen. “Do you think men will want to admire a woman with a fat belly?”

“I’m not pregnant!”

“At the first sign of a babe”—she moved her forefinger across her throat—“I’m cutting you off.”

Amy gasped for breath, her fingers quivering. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room, for the self-centered
queen had already tried and condemned her for her imaginary folly.

Amy eyed the iron poker next to the coal hearth and imagined…

She soon smothered the gruesome thought.

Madame Rafaramanjaka looked around the sitting room with scorn. “What is the meaning of so many trinkets?”

An instinct to protect the so-called trinkets welled in Amy’s breast. She had diligently saved her pennies to afford more luxurious items, like the damask window treatments with decorative finials, the bright patterned rug, the brass candlestick holders, the cranberry glass vase.

“Is this why you’re whoring?” The queen fingered an expensive, handmade oak chair with disdain. “To supplement your income?” She snickered. “What are you trying to do? Become a lady?”

Amy trembled with vexation. The desire to spit at and wipe the witch’s fingerprints from the furniture stirred her blood. She bit out stiffly, “I don’t have to explain my reasons to you.”

“I pay you too much.” She huffed. “I’m cutting your salary in half until you pay off the damage to the dressing room.”

Amy parted her lips to protest; the damage inside the dressing room was
not
her fault.

“Don’t tempt me, girl,” warned the witch, anticipating the objection. “One more troubling word from you and I’ll terminate your services at the club—entirely!”

Amy pinched her lips together, her resistance dashed.

“I want the coin purse, too,” she snapped. “You sallied off with it tonight. Do you think I’m going to fashion you a new one every week?”

“Yes, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

Amy returned to her bedroom. As she entered the cramped space, she looked for Edward. Was he under the bed? She eyed the narrow gap between the furniture and the flooring; she concluded the man was too big to fit there.

Where are you?

There was a chest in the corner of the room, next to the bedstead. The sturdy piece of furniture was locked. She removed the key from her bosom and retrieved the cursed satchel. As she departed from the room, she noticed bare toes shuffling under the fashionable screen.

Amy sighed and returned to the sitting room, where the petulant queen was still waiting. She removed her earnings from the little black bag before she returned the purse to the wicked woman.

The witch opened her hand for more.

“What?” demanded Amy.

“I want half your wages now.”

Amy’s heart pulsed. She squeezed the cold, hard-earned metal between her fingers. “No.”

“You can give me half the money now or forfeit
all
your wages next week.”

Amy gnashed her teeth, trembling, as she counted the coins, halving the much-needed salary.

“Here,” she said crisply.

The queen humphed before she snatched the blunt and removed her white, short gloves from her reticule. She slipped on the pair, then bustled from the room.

Amy was rooted to the spot, her breathing deep and heavy, her thoughts whirling in her head. She waited a few more seconds before she cautiously opened the door and peeped into the passageway. It was empty. She closed the barrier and secured the bolt.

As soon as the iron lock was in place, she sighed. She was stiff, every muscle taut, every nerve thrumming. The queen had an unfortunate knack for unsettling her good sense, for taking away every vestige of hope she possessed.

She moved away from the front entrance and gathered her breath, her thoughts. She glanced at the bedchamber through the opened door. “Come out, Edward.”

She entered the room just as the man’s tall figure emerged from behind the burnished divider. He had removed the bandages, and his low brow and smoldering blue eyes met hers with poignant regard.

He was clutching his shirt and coat. He set the garments on the bed. “She isn’t the landlady, is she?”

Amy shivered at the low timbre of his voice. It was rough, but not harsh. It was such a soothing contrast to the queen’s shrill tone that she yearned to keep him talking even though she knew it was better for him if he rested again.

“No,” she admitted cheerlessly. “She’s my employer.”

He reached for his coin purse, tangled in the white bed linen. As he stretched his long limbs, his muscles moved and flexed, and she was suddenly aware of his robust figure.

She blushed at the thought that she
was
aware of his robust figure. A warm sensation quickly rushed from her head to her toes, making her quiver.

He approached her. In the dim candlelight, she observed the smooth stretch of skin that covered his chest, his strapping form: a seaman’s form. He had an athletic build; it teemed with strength. Healed cuts marked his ribs, the scarred flesh paler than the rest of his tanned physique. He had been injured before, it seemed.

He followed her gaze with his eyes and glanced at his torso, rubbing the wounds. He said nothing, however. What was there to say? He had no memory…or so he claimed. She was still dubious about his bout with amnesia.

“I want you to take the money, Amy.”

He offered her the coin purse.

“No, it’s all the money you have in the world.”

She wanted to smother the stirring sensations in her belly, and she stepped away from him…but his dark blue eyes still fired her senses.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her in a cool, confident manner. “If I don’t remember my name soon, I’ll join a ship’s crew and earn my keep.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“The room at the club was damaged in the fight, wasn’t it?” He looked at her with a sharp glare. “I damaged it.”

“Helping me,” she clarified.

He had listened to the entire exchange between her and the queen. For a moment, she had forgotten about the wretched witch. She was soon filled with anxiety, though, as she rehashed the quarrel in her mind, wondering if she had inadvertently revealed any details about her secret identity as the dancer. In the end, she concluded she had not offered any insight into Zarsitti’s existence.

“I still want you to take the money.” He placed the purse on the dressing table since she still refused to take it. “I’ll leave it here whether you like it or not. Do what you want with it.”

An honorable thief?

Amy munched on her bottom lip. He wasn’t acting like an obnoxious lout anymore; he was behaving like a gentleman. It had to be the forgetfulness, she thought, making him so chivalrous. If he regained his memory, she was sure he wouldn’t be so gallant…that he’d return to his scoundrellike ways.

Slowly he grappled with his shirt and slipped it over his head, grimacing at the clearly difficult movements.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m leaving.”

“But your clothes are still wet.”

“It isn’t right for me to be here.”

That much was true, but the man was injured. He had risked his own well-being to protect her from the attackers. She couldn’t just let him wander the streets at night in a daze. Where would he go?

“Stay here for the night,” she insisted. “You have to rest.”

“No.”

He reached for his coat, and she grabbed the garment away from him. “You’re staying for the night whether you like it or not.” She tossed the coat onto the dressing table, then pointed at his chest. “Your shirt.”

There was a mulish gleam in his eyes. “I can’t stay here.”

“You have to heal.”

She stepped toward him with determination and tugged at his shirt. He lifted a black brow at her brazenness, but she ignored the impropriety of the gesture, for she was much more concerned with his unreasonable state of mind.

He sighed at last. With effort, he pulled the moist fabric off his back. She sensed it as he struggled with his breath, his steps wavering, and she quickly grabbed his arms to support him. He yanked the shirt over his head—caging her between his arms and the garment that still hung from his wrists.

Amy’s heart pattered at the hard, warm feel of his sinewy body. The masculine musk from his skin teased her senses, too, and the deep glow in his eyes melted her hardheartedness. She listened to the rugged sound
of his breathing, impervious to the more reasonable shouts of danger that crowded in her head.

“Amy.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I think I’m going to black out.”

Eyes wide, Amy quickly slipped away from his strong embrace. She escorted him back to the bedstead, where he dropped with a hard sigh before, as threatened, he fainted.

She chastised herself for her folly. She removed the shirt from his wrists, gathered the coat from the dressing table, and headed back into the sitting room, stretching the garments across the chairs and pushing them nearer the warm hearth.

T
he Westminster Bridge was swarming with Sunday afternoon merrymakers, all seeking amusement. The flowing Thames was congested with boat traffic, coal and passenger barges, and Edward stopped to observe the atmosphere, searching for a familiar face or ship.

A warm body pressed beside him, and he smiled to feel the woman’s comforting presence.

“Well?” said Amy. “Do you remember anything?”

She had accompanied him on the excursion, journeyed with him along the river’s shoreline as he’d explored the various docks and wharfs. The robust hike hadn’t exhausted her, though. She was fit, hearty. And he enjoyed her company. In a strange environment, she was a welcome companion.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t remember anything.”

He rested, for he sensed the dull throbbing at the back of his head. He gazed across the polluted waters and spotted the far-off and cheering crowd at Searle’s yard in Stangate. The Leander’s Club was preparing
for their popular weekly race. The quays were jammed with eager, betting spectators of every age and both genders. Minstrels offered musical entertainment, while vendors hustled tobacco. At two o’clock sharp a pistol fired. The sculls set off toward the bridge amid a hail of shouts and waving kerchiefs.

Edward watched the thrilling race…feeling at home.

“What’s the matter?” said Amy in an anxious voice. “You look…sick.”

“I just feel like I belong here.”

“Ah, you’re sick with longing.” She looked out across the water. “Do you want to take a closer look at the south side of the Thames?”

He shook his head. There was no reason to prolong their travels. The water was home, that much he was sure about, but there was no spot along the Thames that was familiar to him. He would have to figure out some other way to regain his memories…or he would have to learn to live without them.

Edward glanced over his shoulder at the loud peddler woman, making her way across the long, bustling bridge.

“I’d rather have a glass of ale.” He looked at Amy with disappointment. “I gave you all my money, though.”

Amy wrinkled her pert lips and narrowed her brilliant green eyes on him before she sighed. She flagged the peddler woman with her wheeled barrel and purchased the half-penny malt.

Edward courteously offered Amy the refreshment first. She had walked a far distance, and she had to be equally as parched.

Amy swigged the frothing malt.

He downed the rest of the cool ale and returned the glass to the peddler woman, who recommenced her sales pitch and merged with the masses.

Amy looked at him sharply. “Now what?”

“Now I take you home.”

He steered her across the bridge in the direction of the Palace of Westminster, keeping her safe from the crushing horde.

“What will you do, Edward?”

He shrugged. “My memory might still return.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll join the navy, I guess.” He admired her down-turned lips. “You don’t need to worry about taking care of me, Amy.”

She looked away from him. “I’m not worried about that.”

“What’s troubling you then?”

She twirled the cords of her reticule, the purse tucked up her sleeve, wrapped the laces around her fingers until the flesh turned white. “Aren’t you frightened?”

Edward glowered at the street urchin, who had spotted the dangling cords from Amy’s sleeve. The young chap quickly reconsidered purloining the purse, however, for he scampered away, Edward’s stare ominous.

“I would’ve boxed his ears, you know.” She pointed at the grubby urchin. “I don’t need you to protect me from him.”

Edward scratched his head. “Very well then. Am I frightened about what?”

“Your future. It’s so…bleak.”

He snorted with laughter at her “comforting” words.

“I mean, you can’t even remember your past. You might have a family, a livelihood. Are you just going to wander the seven seas without bearing?”

“I’m not going to join the navy today, Amy. I’ve still more of the city to search. I’m sure I’ll remember something soon.” He stroked the back of his head. “I’m feeling stronger.”

She stared at her feet. “But what if you
don’t
remember your past? Can you accept your former life as lost?”

“You’re determined to see the worst in my situation, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “I’ve spent most of my years thinking about the worst in every situation—and how to avoid it.”

“Ah, so this is your way of making sure I avoid the pits? I’m touched.”

She pinkened. “About the worst…?”

He chuckled at her hedging retort. “If I don’t regain my memory, I suppose I’ll make a new life.”

“Really?”

“I won’t have any other choice, Amy.”

She murmured, “I don’t think I would be so calm about the prospect if I were in your place.”

“I’m not too keen to worry about tomorrow.” He circled her trim waist and steered her aside as a hackney coach thundered across the pebbled road. “I’m only concerned with today.”

Edward puckered his brow in curiosity. He sensed the woman’s hard muscles under her woolly shawl and crisp, linen shirt—and was aroused by the sensual thought of parting her clothes and running his fingers along the rigid flesh.

She pushed his hand away from her midriff…but not before she’d shuddered.

“I can’t live like that,” she said.

“On Fate’s whims?”

She nodded. “I need to know what will happen to me tomorrow—and the next day.”

“So what will happen to you tomorrow?” he wondered.

“I will serve drinks at the club where I’m employed, while you’ll search the city for clues to your past.”

“You can’t control everything, Amy.”

“I can try.”

Edward looked at his scuffed boots before he eyed the mudlarks in the foul river, scavenging for bits of metal and rope to sell at market. Their haggard faces boasted a level of misery that seemed uneasily familiar to him. One woman’s gaunt cheeks and soulless eyes pierced his head with such intensity, he staggered.

“What’s the matter?” said Amy, clutching his sleeve.

He grabbed his skull, his brain spinning with murky thoughts: howls and putrid scents. “I…remember.”

“What?” She assisted him to the street’s edge. “What do you remember?”

But after a few deep breaths, the images in his head blessedly faded away again. “Perhaps it’s best if I don’t remember.”

He sighed and righted himself again, combing his fingers through his mussed hair.

Amy gazed at him with concern. “What happened, Edward?”

“I had an impression…but it’s gone now.”

She frowned and looped her arm through his in a sturdy hold. Did she mean to guide him back to St. Giles? He found her attention amusing…endearing.

“I guess some memories aren’t worth remembering,” she said in a wistful manner.

“And others are worth forgetting about.” He speculated about her deep reflections: “Like last night’s quarrel with your employer?”

“The witch.” She spat. “I hope she chokes on the shattered glass.”

Edward lifted a brow at her vicious curse, even more amused. The feisty barmaid had a duplicity about her that piqued his interest: she was considerate in one moment and venomous in the next.

“Why do you work for her?” he asked. “I’m sure there are plenty of other clubs that’ll employ such a pretty face.”

Amy’s long, blond hair was twisted into a braid, revealing her dignified profile…and flushing features. The bright glow spread across her high cheekbones, while her thick lashes lowered in a demure manner.

She wasn’t accustomed to compliments? He considered that too unusual. In her line of work as a barmaid, she surely received hundreds of flattering remarks—a night! Then again, a besotted patron drooling over her probably wasn’t so very flattering. Edward’s praise was sincere—and he was sober. Perhaps it was that she wasn’t accustomed to?

She tried to pull her arm away from him in a skittish manner, and he quickly squeezed her hand between his ribs and biceps, caging her firmly. His muscles bristled at the thought of parting from her. He wasn’t ready to let her go, to lose the heat generated between her warm fingers. Blood moved steadily through his veins at her touch, his heart beat with vigor. She stirred his senses to perceptive life. He ached to hold on to her for a little longer.

“I might faint,” he jested.

She eased her grip at the justification, and together the couple strolled through the lively thoroughfare.

“I told you it was too soon for you to be roaming about the city,” she chastised.

After a short lull, Edward returned the conversation to the previous matter: “Well? Why don’t you seek employment at another club?”

“I’d have to do more than serve drinks at another club,” she returned bitterly. “I’m not a whore.”

“Ah, yes, you’ve told me that more than once now.” He glanced at her sheepishly. “I should teach you how to protect yourself from patrons…like me.”

She snorted. “I can protect myself—well, most of the time—just fine. I had no trouble defending myself against you, after all.”

She tapped her chin.

Edward reached for his bruised mandible. “
You
struck me?” He fingered the tender bone, bemused. “And after I’d rescued you from the attackers?”

“Before,” she clarified with a boastful smile.

“I’m not sure what to say.” He eyed her warily. “I can’t remember being such a scoundrel.”

“Forget about it. I’m used to overbearing characters.”

He frowned. He didn’t like the sound of that. How many other patrons had approached her in a foxed state of mind? How many had she clouted?

The dark thoughts in his head rankled his temper, and soon another “overbearing character” entered his mind.

“Like Madame Raf…?”

“Rafaramanjaka? Yes, there’s her.”

“She
is
a character.” He conducted Amy around a heap of horse dung. “What a stage name.”

“It’s her real name, I think.”

“Is it?”

She nodded. “She’s from the island of Madagascar.”

“Off the southern tip of Africa.”

“Yes.” She looked at him with surprise. “Have you been there?”

He shrugged. “I don’t—”

“Remember, right.” She looked back at the congested road. “Well, she was once a queen.”

“I can believe that,” he said dryly. “She certainly acts like one.”

“She was one of the twelve royal wives of King Radama, but she fled from the kingdom about three years ago.”

“Why?”

“Her sister-monarch, Queen Ranavalona, was apparently plotting to poison the king, assume the throne—and behead all the rival wives.”

“I think I understand the other queen’s motives.”

Amy chortled. “She came to England as ‘Madame’ Rafaramanjaka to hide from the other queen’s wrath.”

“Do you believe her tale?”

“As you said, she certainly acts like a queen.”

“Hmm…and how did you find your way into her hands?”

“She found me, in truth.” Amy’s voice dropped in pitch. “I was living in the streets at the time.”

“You’re an orphan?”

She stiffened. “Yes.” After a brief pause, she resumed: “I was living in a foundling asylum until about the age of twelve. After that, I was sent to work in a household as a serving girl. I stayed there for a few years…until the master of the house troubled me.”

Edward bristled. “Did he hurt you?”

“He wanted to, I think.” She shrugged. “I left my
employment and went back into the streets. That’s where Madame Rafaramanjaka happened upon me. She took me away.”

“To work at the club,” he surmised, appreciating Amy’s wretched upbringing. “You don’t sound like you come from the streets, though.”

“Ye mean, I donna ’ave a cockney tongue?” she said, like a common wench from the rookeries. “Madame schooled me in society, polished away my rough manners…well, most of them. She refused to be surrounded by anyone without good breeding—or at least the appearance of it.”

“You have more good breeding than that vicious queen,” he said passionately. “Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

Amy bowed her head.

He recalled the items in her apartment: the mirrors, the fancy furnishings. She yearned to be a lady. Did she think if she surrounded herself with posh knickknacks, she would be a woman of standing?

In Edward’s eyes, she was already such a woman.

“Why didn’t the queen teach you to read?” he said. “Or the asylum’s mistress, for that matter?”

“I was schooled in the foundling asylum for a short time, but I was then sent off to work. I wasn’t allowed to touch my employer’s books, so I soon forgot my letters. And Madame doesn’t like me knowing
too
much, I think.”

“So she can better control you,” he said darkly.

“What’s the matter, Edward? Why are you scowling?”

“There’s something about that word…control.” He smoothed his features. “It’s nothing, Amy. Shall we dine?”

After a modest supper at a local pub, the couple returned to Amy’s lodgings, exhausted.

“Do you have to work at the club tonight?”

“No,” she said. “The club is closed on Sundays.”

“No sin on Sundays, eh?”

She scoffed slightly.

He shut and locked the front door before he admired her sprite figure as it darted across the sitting room, stoked the coal hearth, then lighted a few candles with the Lucifer matches.

The space brightened, and Edward settled into an oak chair, content to observe her bustling movements, which he suspected routine. She had an agile form, quite bewitching, even dancerlike, and in the misty candlelight, she was a tempting sight.

She soon glanced at him, starting.

“What’s the matter, Amy?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

She returned the matches to the tin box on top of the mantel. “Never mind. It must be the shadows in the room. I’m tired.”

She averted her eyes, and the soft orange glow from the small flames caressed her high cheekbones, making him wonder what it would feel like, smell like to nuzzle her there.

He folded his arms over his chest, more mindful of the “look” he had offered her just a moment ago. “I’ll sleep out here.”