Sweetest Scoundrel

  She nodded once and simply left the room. Really, what else could she do? There was no proper way to take leave of a gentleman one had been discussing… that with just minutes before. Eve shivered. What had possessed her to continue questioning him? It was as if she’d been bewitched—the quiet room, his blazing green eyes, her own quickened breathing. She should be appalled at herself. Ashamed and cowed.

  And yet she wasn’t. If anything, she wanted to return and ask him more about what he could do to a woman.

  Eve shook the thought from her mind as she stepped into the sunshine, Jean-Marie behind her.

  “What will you ’ave this boy do?” the bodyguard murmured at her elbow.

  She inhaled, ordering her thoughts as they crossed the wide paved courtyard. “Mr. Makepeace thinks the stage might have been deliberately tampered with to make it fall. He says several of the beams bore marks of having been sawn partway through.”

  “Ah,” Jean-Marie said. “I, too, saw this. But I still do not understand what that ’as to do with the boy.”

  “Show me where he is and you’ll see,” Eve replied.

  Jean-Marie shot her a look and gestured ahead. “There, lurking about the pillars of the musicians’ gallery. ’E is distrustful, that one.”

  “It’s probably one of the reasons why Val employs him,” Eve muttered as she strode briskly to the musicians’ gallery.

  Now that Jean-Marie had pointed out the boy’s hiding place she could see him, blending into the shadows behind the pillars. Alf looked even more scrawny in broad daylight, and Eve had a pang. How often did the boy eat?

  “Ma’am.” Alf touched the brim of his battered hat as she stopped before him, but didn’t remove it. “Yer wanted t’ see me?”

  “Yes, Alf,” Eve replied. “I’ve a job for you, but it’s a bit of a secret.”

  A smile flitted across his face. “Most o’ my jobs are.”

  “Yes, well.” Eve took a deep breath. “Mr.… er… Harte, the owner of Harte’s Folly, thinks that someone may be trying to destroy his garden. Yesterday the stage collapsed in the theater, injuring two of the dancers—and killing one. Mr. Harte doesn’t think it was an accident.”

  Alf cocked his head, arching his brows in question.

  “I’d like you to be my agent in the matter and find out who might be behind the stage collapse,” Eve said. “Jean-Marie and I will say that you’re here to help me, but in reality you’ll be on the watch for anything suspicious. Do you think you can do this for me?”

  “Oh, aye, I can do the job,” Alf said slowly, “but if’n I’ll find a troublemaker or not, that I can’t say.”

  “I understand,” Eve said. “I just want you to look.”

  “I’ll do it.” Alf nodded. “What job d’you want me to do for you first?”

  Eve hadn’t thought that far ahead. She glanced around as if for inspiration, and a small movement in the nearby brush caught her eye.

  She gripped Jean-Marie’s arm in alarm. “I think we’re being watched.”

  Jean-Marie followed the direction of her gaze and strode to the bushes, then parted the branches to look.

  Eve saw when the taut line of his back relaxed. “It is nothing to worry over.”

  “What do you mean?” She went to where he was, Alf behind her, and looked in the bushes.

  There lay the giant dog she’d seen in the office at the theater. This time, though, his eyes were shut and he made no movement at all, his gaunt frame lying still in the brush.

  Eve felt guilt sweep through her. She’d been so fearful of the animal she’d never looked at him closely. Never realized he was starving. “Is he… is he dead?”

  Jean-Marie bent and laid his palm on the animal’s dirty side, waiting a moment before straightening and shaking his head. “He still lives, but not for long.”

  Eve stared at the dog. He had frightened her nearly out of her wits when she’d first seen him, but now he lay curled on his side, dirty and with ribs starkly revealed. No one could be afraid of such a creature.

  Not even she.

  Eve turned to Alf. “I have a job for you.”

  The boy looked between her and the dog, a brief expression of revulsion crossing his face before it blanked. “D’you want me to kill it?”

  “No,” Eve replied. “I want you to help me make him well again.”

  ASA WAS STARING morosely at a letter when the door to his office opened.

  He looked up in time to see Eve enter. She turned without a glance to him and said, “Careful now.”

  Jean-Marie walked in, carrying a half-dead mangy mutt.

  “What—?” Asa began.

  “Put him there,” Eve said to the footman—still not paying Asa any attention. “We can use some of those rags here.”

  And she gestured to a pile of crimson-and-gold cloth.

  “Oi!” Asa rose, outraged. “Those rags are costumes.”

  Eve finally acknowledged him by lifting her eyebrow at him. “They look quite sooty.”

  Asa ran a hand through his hair. “They were salvaged when the theater burned.”

  Eve nodded. “And now they can be put to use, for I hardly think any actor or opera singer would want to wear them.”

  “But…” Actually he couldn’t think of any retort to that, so he was forced to watch silently as Jean-Marie maneuvered the dog over behind her desk and laid the animal gently on the pile of costumes.

  Eve was watching as well, a little worried frown between her brows.

  He couldn’t help but stare at her. She was afraid of dogs—he knew damned well she was—and yet here was seeing to the comfort of the same half-dead mutt that had sent her into a screaming fit not two days before. She was such a contradiction: the sister of a duke, proud and upright, but not half an hour ago she’d been wide-eyed and breathless as he’d described frigging a woman. It didn’t make any sense. He could feel his cock stir just at the memory of talking to her—no touching, they’d had both the desk and his table between them. She wasn’t pretty. He could see that even now. Her nose was too long, her face too plain. And yet he’d give nearly anything to see her body. To touch a slender hand or a pale shoulder, he who was used to doing so much more than that with his women.

  Asa snorted under his breath. It must be the lure of the forbidden—the very fact that he couldn’t touch her. If he were able to pull her into his arms, widen those prim lips under his mouth, why, he’d be tired of her immediately.

  Wouldn’t he?

  The boy came in then with a basin of water and a sack slung over his arm.

  “Oh, thank you, Alf,” Eve said, motioning him nearer the dog.

  Asa stalked to her to see what she was about. She was hovering over the dog, not quite touching him, but obviously wanting to do something.

  “Here, let me,” Asa said, taking off his coat. The dog stank to high heaven.

  He rolled up his sleeves and bent to tear off a piece of the crimson material.

  “What are you doing?” Miss Dinwoody asked anxiously.

  Asa snorted, gently pushing her aside. “If you’re going to keep him here, we might as well see if we can make him less odiferous.” He jerked his chin at the boy, still standing with the basin. “Put it down and come help me.”

  The boy glanced at Eve and, at her nod, did as he commanded.

  Asa squatted, examining the dog. The poor beast really was in bad shape, and Asa privately wondered if he would survive the night.

  But he wasn’t going to be the one to tell Eve that.

  The animal had been massive when in health, with drooping jowls on a huge head, but now he was mostly skin and bones. His pelvis protruded painfully, carving deep hollows in the animal’s hips. There were cuts and scratches all across the beast’s hide, the badges of many a battle over scavenged scraps, no doubt. One ear was torn shorter than the other, and the animal’s eyes and nose were crusted.

  But when he laid a hand on the dog’s head the animal opened his eyes and feebly thumped his ta
il against the material he lay on.

  “That’s a good lad,” Asa murmured. He wetted his cloth in the water and gently wrung it over the animal’s mouth.

  The dog stuck out his tongue and lapped the dribble of water.

  “Got it some cheese and meat,” Alf said by his side. He opened his sack, showing a lump of cheese and a slice of beef.

  Asa shook his head. “Might be too rich, the condition this dog is in. Go and ask around, see if anyone has brought bread for their luncheon today.”

  “Right,” Alf said, and scrambled to his feet.

  “You ’ave lost your ’elper,” Jean-Marie observed. “What do you need now?”

  “Let’s sponge him clean as much as we can,” Asa said, stroking the dog’s filthy head. “Best we not get him too wet, though. He’ll get cold easily with no fat on his bones.”

  The footman nodded and removed his coat before kneeling as well.

  Asa gave the dog a little more water, then used his cloth to stroke over the animal’s hide. It must’ve hurt—several of the cuts and scrapes were fresh and began bleeding as he rubbed over them—but the dog never moved. He just lay quietly, watching his every movement. Asa noticed, too, that once in a while the animal’s eyes swiveled to look at Eve, and that when they did, the dog thumped his tail again.

  Asa felt his lips curve. “You’ve acquired an admirer.”

  “What?” She turned to look at him, her brows knitted rather adorably.

  He nodded at the dog. “He likes you.”

  She frowned down at the animal. “But I screamed when I first saw him. It doesn’t make any sense for him to like me.”

  Asa shrugged as he and Jean-Marie turned the animal gently to his other side. “Animals don’t always have to have a reason to like a person.”

  “I see,” she said soberly, still staring at the dog.

  Asa felt his lips quirk at her seriousness.

  The door opened again and he glanced over his shoulder to see Alf returning, holding a piece of bread triumphantly in his hand. “Got it.”

  “Good.” Asa nodded as he threw the rag into the water and wiped his hands. They’d done as much as they could without submersing the dog in a tub—and that they couldn’t do until the animal got better.

  If he got better.

  Asa frowned as he took the bread and broke a bite off for the dog. He held it out gingerly to the animal, wary of being bitten in the dog’s eagerness. But the beast, despite his obvious hunger, took the bread delicately from his fingers.

  “That’s a gentleman, that is,” said Alf admiringly as Asa fed the dog the rest of the bread. “Taking care not to bite the ’and what feeds ’im.”

  “Aye, he has very nice manners,” Asa said softly, smoothing over the animal’s brow. A pity the dog was in such bad shape—it seemed a friendly animal. “Well, that’s the best we can do, I think.”

  Eve nodded. “Alf, will you take this dirty basin and bring back a fresh bowl of water for him?”

  The boy nodded and took both the basin of dirty water and the soiled cloth.

  Eve was still staring worriedly at the dog. “Do you think he’ll recover?”

  “I don’t know,” Asa said honestly. “But the rest will do him good.”

  She nodded reluctantly, then glanced at Jean-Marie. “This reminds me that I forgot to bring a luncheon of our own today. Will you see if you can find something?”

  “There’s a meat pie shop not half a mile from here,” Asa volunteered. “Go out the back gate and then left down the lane. You can’t miss it—the smell of baking pies will lead you. Mind bringing back one for me as well?”

  He fished in his pocket and found a handful of coins to give the footman.

  “Of course.” Jean-Marie flashed his white teeth. “I shall return shortly.”

  And then he was gone.

  Asa glanced at Eve as he sat at his table. If she felt any discomfort at being alone with him, she didn’t show it.

  Maybe she’d already forgotten the matter.

  He glared down at his desk and saw the letter that he’d been reading when Eve and her dog had come in. “Damn.”

  Of course she heard him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he muttered irritably, folding the letter and pushing it to the edge of his desk.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. Come, if there is a further problem with the garden, it is within my right to know it.”

  “It has nothing to do with the bloody garden,” he snarled irritably.

  “Then—?”

  He picked up the letter and waved it. “It’s an invitation to the baptism dinner for my newest niece.”

  “Oh.” She smiled, her sky-blue eyes lighting. “How lovely. How many nieces and nephews do you have?”

  “Far too many, especially in my brother Concord’s family. He must wear out his wife near every night, the randy old goat.”

  “Well.” She cleared her throat, looking a little pink. “Congratulations. Will you be taking a present for the child?”

  “No,” he growled, flinging the letter away. “And I won’t be going, either.”

  Her smile abruptly turned to a frown. “Whyever not?”

  “Because,” he said with as much patience as he could muster, “my family will be there.”

  She slowly raised her eyebrows.

  He pointed his index finger at her forehead. “Don’t give me that look. You haven’t met my family, so you don’t have any idea how ghastly this could be.”

  “I assure you I am fully aware how awful a family can be,” she said with clipped accents. “But you’ve never given indication that your family are outright monsters.”

  He snorted. “Worse. They’re religious.”

  “Even so,” she said, “this child will someday grow and realize that hers was the only baptism of her family that you didn’t come to, and it would be remiss—”

  Asa muttered under his breath.

  She stopped. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’ve never been to any one of the damned baptisms,” Asa said a little louder. Lord only knew why he was having trouble raising his voice—it wasn’t a usual problem for him.

  Miss Dinwoody froze for a moment and then sat a little forward and clasped her hands together on her desk. “Let me see if I have this correctly—”

  “Oh, dear God,” Asa muttered.

  She continued over him. “You have five brothers and sisters and of these, how many have children?”

  He flushed. “Well, Verity and Concord, certainly. I’m not sure about Silence—married a dodgy sort, y’know, and keeps rather to herself. Winter has the home, of course, and Temperance…” He screwed tight his eyes, thinking. Hadn’t there been talk of a child sometime last year? “I think she has a girl?”

  Miss Dinwoody inhaled sharply. “And how many children do Verity and Concord have?”

  “Verity has three children,” he replied promptly. That at least he knew. “And Concord has… oh, five or six?”

  “Is that counting the new niece?”

  He stared at her a moment. He had absolutely no idea. “Yes?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. “So, let me see if I understand. You have nine to possibly eleven nieces and nephews and you’ve never been to a single baptism?”

  “I’ve been busy!” he shouted, having—thank God!—found his volume at last. “I’ve had a garden to run and a business to build!”

  He stopped, glaring at her.

  She crimped her lips, narrowed her eyes, and said very precisely, “You are going to that baptism, Asa Makepeace.”

  He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “And how are you going to make me do that? Lift me and carry me clear across London?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m simply going to point out that they’re your family, both young and old, and you can’t keep running from them forever. Besides…” She smiled—not at all nicely, he noted. “You might enjoy it.”

&
nbsp; “I won’t,” he said, sounding uncommonly like a three-year-old child.

  “Is your family so very terrible, then?” she asked seriously.

  “Concord is an ill-tempered ass,” he muttered.

  She looked at him pointedly.

  He could feel the heat climbing his neck and cast about desperately for a diversion. “What about you, then?”

  “What about me?”

  “I don’t see you skipping off to attend family dinners,” he said rather resentfully.

  “I haven’t much family,” she replied drily.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What about that Ladies’ Syndicate?”

  She glanced away. “That’s a social assembly. It’s hardly the same thing as family.”

  “Ha!” he said, pointing his finger at her again.

  She batted at it. “I do wish you’d quit that. It’s rather rude.”

  “You,” he said with great glee, “are avoiding the subject.”

  “What subject?”

  “The fact that while the Ladies’ Syndicate might not be family, it is a social event that you don’t wish to attend. Just as I”—he waved a hand at his chest—“have no desire to go to my niece’s baptism dinner.”

  “It’s not the same at all,” she said, looking at him oddly. “One is a family obligation at which your attendance has been requested, and the other is a social event at which I’m not welcome.”

  “That’s not true,” he said. “Judging by Lady Phoebe’s friendliness to you the other day, I’d lay wager that you’d be very welcome.”

  She scowled. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, it would be most awkward in any case.”

  “Coward,” he said fondly.

  “Scoundrel,” she retorted, and then looked surprised at herself. “Well, it’s true—only a scoundrel would miss his baby niece’s baptism.”

  He waved that away. “If I have to attend this wretched family event, then you must go to the next Ladies’ Syndicate meetings. Agreed?”

  She opened her eyes wide. “I never agreed—”

  “And furthermore,” he pronounced, “since it’s your idea that I suffer through the dinner, I think you ought to attend as well.”