London's Perfect Scoundrel Page 2

  The dour-faced housekeeper donned a surprised look as she opened the heavy door. “Yes, miss?”

  “You said the board would be meeting this morning, did you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I should like to discuss a matter with them.”

  When the housekeeper continued to stare at her in disbelief, Evie borrowed one of her brother’s more haughty and effective gestures and lifted her eyebrow. With a nearly audible hesitation the woman turned to lead the way toward the winding staircase.

  Behind her, Evelyn stifled as best she could a growing mix of anxiety and anticipation. She hated public speaking—it always left her stammering like a goose. On the other hand, the idea of sitting on her bottom or attending Victor’s endless parade of oh-so-proper soirees until he married someone more suited for the task left her shuddering with distaste. This, she could do for herself—and for the children abandoned inside the large gray barracks rooms.

  “Wait here,” the housekeeper said.

  With a last backward glance, as though to make certain Evelyn hadn’t changed her mind and fled, she knocked on another of the heavy oak doors. At an answering murmur of male voices, the woman pushed open the door and vanished into the room beyond.

  Evie glanced at the clock ticking against the far wall. Her aunt did expect her this morning, and if she didn’t arrive soon, someone would send word to Victor that she was missing a West Sussex Wives’ Political Tea—an absurdly self-important name for a group of females who did nothing but embroider handkerchiefs in political colors and gossip about absent members.

  The door opened again. “This way, miss.”

  Clasping her hands in front of her to minimize their trembling, Evie stepped past the housekeeper into a large, plush drawing room—no doubt part of the former barracks commander’s personal quarters. She’d seen greater splendor in the homes of Mayfair, and the most striking aspect of the room was how greatly it differed from the plain halls and gloomy rooms beyond.

  As soon as she stepped through the doorway a half dozen men rose, waving at the smoky air as though motion would dispose of the odor of expensive cigars. Evie’s initial nervousness ebbed almost immediately—she knew all of them, thank goodness.

  “Good morning, Miss Ruddick,” Sir Edward Willsley said, his thick brows arched in surprise. “Whatever brings you here on this fine day?”

  Evie curtsied, though technically she outranked half the men present. Politeness and flattery always garnered more results than strict formality. “The Heart of Hope Orphanage brings me here this morning, Sir Edward. I was informed earlier this week that if I wished to contribute my time and…other assets to the establishment, I needed the approval of the board of trustees.” She smiled. “And that would be you, would it not?”

  “Why, yes, it would, my young miss.”

  Lord Talirand smiled back at her with the patronizing gaze one gave a half-witted invalid. Evie knew she appeared somewhat angelic, for lack of a better word, and that for some reason gentlemen, especially those who were marriage-minded, concluded that since she appeared pretty and innocent, she must also be an idiot. It had used to be amusing; lately, though, she had to fight the impulse to make drooling faces at the perpetrators.

  “Then I ask your approval,” she said, favoring Timothy Rutledge, the only unmarried member of the group, with a flutter of eyelashes. Being thought stupid occasionally had its benefits. Men were so easy sometimes.

  “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather spend your time in a more pleasant environment, Miss Ruddick? Some of these orphans are, I believe, quite uncivilized.”

  “All the more reason for me to volunteer my time,” Evelyn replied. “And as I mentioned, I do have some funds at my discretion. With your kind permission, I would like to organize—”

  “A tea party?” a low male voice interrupted from behind her.

  Evie whipped around. Leaning against the doorjamb, a flask in one hand and his gloves in the other, the Marquis of St. Aubyn gazed at her. The expression in his green eyes stopped the retort she’d been about to make. Evelyn had seen cynicism before; in her circle its practice was so common it was nearly an affectation. In those light eyes, though, in that lean handsome face with its high cheekbones, angled jaw, and the mouth that again curved upward in the remains of a bemused smile, the jaded cynicism was so real she could almost taste it.

  She saw something else there, as well. Evie swallowed. “My lord,” she said belatedly, her mind dashing in a hundred directions. What in the world was he doing here? She hadn’t thought he went anywhere in the daylight hours.

  “Or an orphan musical recital?” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken.

  The other men snickered. Evelyn felt her cheeks warm. “That is not—”

  “Or a dress-up masquerade ball?” St. Aubyn pushed upright and strolled toward her. “If you’re bored, I can suggest a host of other activities to keep you occupied.”

  His tone implied exactly what he was talking about. Lord Talirand cleared his throat. “There’s no need to be insulting, St. Aubyn. If anything, we should be grateful that Miss Ruddick is willing to donate her time and money to our c—”

  “Money, you say?” the marquis repeated, his gaze still on Evelyn. “No wonder the lot of you are panting.”

  “Look here, St. Aub—”

  “What’s your plan, then, Miss Ruddick?” he asked, circling her like a stalking panther.

  “I…haven’t quite—”

  “Made up your mind?” he finished. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing here, or did you ride by and decide it would be an adventure to set foot in an orphanage?”

  “I set foot here last week,” Evie returned, dismayed that her voice had begun shaking. It always did that when she was angry, blast it all, though in truth he was closer to having her quaking in trepidation. “I was told that I needed permission from the board of trustees to volunteer. So, if you don’t mind, I will continue this discussion with them.”

  His smile quickened for a heartbeat, then faded again. “But I am the chairman of this happy little board,” he told her. “And since you don’t seem to have an organized proposal of your intentions or any idea how to contribute, I think it would be best if you pranced your pretty bottom out of here and went on with whatever nonsense makes up your day.”

  “St. Aubyn, really,” Mr. Rutledge sputtered.

  No one had ever spoken to Evie that way; even Victor generally couched his patronizing diatribes in more polite terms. Deciding that if she said another word it would compromise her reputation as a lady, she turned on her heel and stalked out the door. At the first-floor landing, though, she stopped.

  Everyone knew St. Aubyn was a scoundrel. There were rumors, which she believed, that he’d fought in several duels, and that suspicious husbands didn’t challenge him any longer because he never lost. As for his reputation with women…

  Evie shook herself. She had come here for a reason. Whatever St. Aubyn might say, that reason remained—and to her, at least, it seemed important. It felt important, when nothing else she’d done lately felt the least bit significant.

  “Miss?”

  She started, looking down the hallway beyond the landing. Three young girls, not one of them older than twelve, stood by the nearest of the tall, narrow windows. They had been playing with dolls, she realized, seeing two of the ragged things seated in the windowsill.

  “Yes?” she answered, giving a warm smile.

  “Are you the lady who came with the sweets last week?” the tallest of them, a thin girl with short red hair, asked.

  “I am.”

  “Do you have any more?”

  Evie hid a frown. She had thought to be talking with the board today and then joining her aunt’s party. Bringing more candy hadn’t occurred to her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. Not today.”

  “Oh. Never mind, then.” The girls returned to their dolls as though she’d simply ceased to exist.

  If all she had t
o offer was sugar, perhaps she did belong elsewhere. Evelyn walked toward them, careful to keep the friendly smile on her face. For goodness’s sake, she didn’t want to frighten the little ones. “If you could have any kind of food or treat, would it be candy?” she asked.

  The redhead faced her again. “I would want bread pudding with apples and cinnamon.”

  “Pudding. That’s wonderful. How about you?”

  The youngest of the three girls frowned. “I don’t want to think about it. Are you a cook?”

  “Heavens, no. I’m Evie. I wanted to come visit with you.”

  The girls continued gazing at her, obviously unimpressed.

  “What’re your names?” she ventured into the silence.

  “Molly,” the redhead answered, then elbowed the middle girl. “This is Penny, and that’s Rose. Are you going to bring us pudding?”

  “I think I could arrange that.”

  “When?”

  “I’m free for luncheon tomorrow,” Evie answered. “How do your schedules look?”

  Rose giggled. “You’re coming back tomorrow?”

  “If you’d like.”

  Molly tugged on the youngest girl’s hand, pulling her back down the hall. “If you bring bread pudding, you can come whenever you want.”

  “I may come, you mean.”

  “No, you may not.”

  For a tall man, the Marquis of St. Aubyn moved very quietly. Taking a breath, Evie faced the staircase. Behind her, the girls continued their noisy flight down the hall. A moment later, a door slammed.

  “Does anyone like you?” she asked, looking up to meet his eyes.

  “Not to my knowledge. You were supposed to leave.”

  “I wasn’t ready to go.”

  He tilted his head, brief surprise touching his gaze. Undoubtedly few people stood up to him. If he hadn’t been so rude earlier, Evie wasn’t certain she would have had the courage to do so, herself. As Lady Gladstone had said last evening, his reputation was very, very bad.

  “I assume you’re ready to go now?” He gestured toward the stairs, his expression informing her that she would be leaving whether she wanted to or not. Best to keep a little dignity if possible, she decided, giving him a wide berth as she returned to the stairs.

  “Why don’t you want me to volunteer here?” she asked over her shoulder, hearing his boot steps close behind her. “It won’t cost you anything.”

  “Until you grow tired of providing puddings and sweets—or until the orphanage has to begin paying for the removal of children’s rotten teeth.”

  “The offer of sweets was only so they would talk to me. I imagine they have little reason to trust adults.”

  “My heart weeps at your compassion.”

  She faced him, stopping so suddenly on the stairs that he nearly ran into her. St. Aubyn towered over her, but she refused to look away from the scoundrel’s arrogant, cynical expression. “I didn’t think you had a heart, my lord.”

  He nodded. “I don’t. It was a figure of speech. Go home, Miss Ruddick.”

  “No. I want to help.”

  “First of all, I doubt you know the first thing about what the brats and this building might need.”

  “How could—”

  “And in the second place,” he continued in a quieter voice, moving one step down so that her face was level with his crotch, “I can think of a place where you’d be much more useful.”

  Heat rose in Evie’s face, but she refused to back away. “And where might that be?”

  “In my bed, Miss Ruddick.”

  For a moment all she could do was look at him. She’d been proposed to and propositioned, but never by someone like…him. He meant to shock her, to drive her away. That had to be the explanation. All she needed to do was keep breathing. She cleared her throat. “I doubt you even know my first name, my lord.”

  “Of course I do, not that it means anything, Evelyn Marie.”

  The deep sound of his voice curled around her name with a soft intimacy that made her shiver. No wonder he had such a devastating reputation with women.

  “Well. I am surprised, I admit,” she returned, trying to keep hold of her nerve, “but I believe you asked for a proposal detailing my plans for volunteering. I will provide you with that—and nothing else.”

  He smiled again, the expression delightfully handsome, except that his eyes retained every ounce of cynical derision he’d had from the beginning of their conversation. “We’ll see. Don’t you have an embroidery circle to join or something?”

  She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but he would probably consider that some sort of seduction. And what in the world was she doing anyway, standing in an abandoned hallway talking with the notorious Marquis of St. Aubyn? “Good day, my lord.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Ruddick.”

  Saint watched her out the front door, then returned upstairs to collect his coat and hat. Of all the meddling females who tried to relieve their boredom with candy-coated visits to the Heart of Hope Orphanage, Evelyn Marie Ruddick was probably the most and least surprising. Her political-aspirant brother doubtless had no idea she had gone visiting—no self-respecting female out to aid her male relation’s political career would venture outside of Mayfair to go wading with the poor. On the other hand, on the few occasions he’d ventured into his peers’ soirees, she and her clever friends had looked so terribly bored and self-important that undoubtedly she couldn’t resist a chance to spread the joy of her presence to the orphans.

  “My lord,” the housekeeper peeped, lurking in a downstairs doorway, “will there be anything more?”

  “No, not that you actually did anything,” he replied, shrugging into his greatcoat.

  “I…I beg your pardon?”

  “Weren’t those infants in the hallway supposed to be doing something useful?” he asked, shaking his flask before he stuffed it back into his pocket. Empty again. They needed to make the damned things larger.

  “I cannot be everywhere at once, my lord.”

  “Then you might focus on keeping track of the uninvited guests,” he finished, watching her step aside as he exited.

  “That’s why I’m seeing to you, my lord,” she muttered.

  Saint pretended not to hear that, preferring to escape the premises rather than stay and argue with the unpleasant woman. He could hardly blame her for her commentary anyway. The staff undoubtedly liked having him there as little as did the rest of the board of trustees. The only person who liked it less was himself.

  His carriage pulled into the street and circled to meet him outside the door. As he waited, he glanced down the roadway. The Ruddick family coach turned the corner and passed out of sight. She’d hesitated to leave, then, even after he’d sent her on her way. Hm.

  Attractive as she was, suggesting that she join him in bed had only been to frighten her away. God knew she was far too angelic and virginal for his tastes. Still, she did have pretty gray eyes, and they’d widened so amusingly when he’d insulted her.

  Saint allowed himself a faint smile as he climbed into his coach and they trundled off toward Gentleman Jackson’s. No doubt those pretty gray eyes would never look in his direction again. And thank Lucifer for that. He had enough to deal with without an empty-headed angel stumbling across his path.

  Chapter 3

  Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!

  She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name.

  —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III

  Fatima Hynes, Lady Gladstone, knew how to give a proper greeting. “Please remove your hand from my trousers,” Saint murmured, glancing over her head at the half-open door.

  “You didn’t say that the other night,” the viscountess purred, continuing her caress.

  “That was before I discovered you’d told your husband about our little amusements. I warned you once, I won’t be involved in your domestic squabbles.”

  Her hand left his nether regions. “That’s why you wanted t
o see me in private?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “To be rid of me?”

  “You’re not surprised, Fatima, so don’t pretend otherwise.” Saint took a slow step backward. “And neither of us knows how to cry, so good evening.”

  Lady Gladstone sighed. “You have nothing resembling a heart, do you?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  With a quick glance to be certain the hallway was clear, Saint slipped out of Lord Hanson’s library and back toward the ballroom. He’d known Fatima wouldn’t object, and all he needed to do now was stay out of Lord Gladstone’s way for the next few days, until the viscountess found another lover. The old goat Gladstone was volatile enough that he would likely demand a duel, and Fatima Hynes simply wasn’t worth the bloodshed.

  The majority of guests had arrived at the ball, and Lady Hanson’s dinners were reputed to be exceptional, but he had no intention of staying. Despite the crowd here, he would find a plentitude of fat purses and more interesting conversation at Jezebel’s or one of the other, less-distinguished clubs.

  He headed for the foyer and the exit beyond, then stopped as a lithe figure in blue silk blocked his path.

  “Lord St. Aubyn,” Miss Ruddick said, dipping one of her pert, perfect curtsies.

  The muscles across his abdomen tightened. “Evelyn,” he said, deliberately using her Christian name, and somewhat surprised at his body’s reaction to the chit.

  “I would like to set up another meeting, my lord,” she said, her gray eyes meeting his. Interesting, that. He didn’t know too many people, male or female, who looked him in the eye.

  “No.”

  A delicate flush crept up her cheeks. “You said you wouldn’t allow me to volunteer because I had no plan. I am assembling one, and I wish to be allowed the courtesy of presenting it.”

  Saint gazed at her for a long moment. It would be easy to dismiss her out of hand. To be honest, however, she seemed less dull than he’d expected, and he’d spent far too much time lately being bored. A little amusement would be worth a small effort on his part.