Sweetest Scoundrel

  Buggering hell.

  “Wait!” This time his hand actually smacked against the footman’s shoulder as the man moved between them. Asa glared at him. “Will you stand down? I’m hardly going to murder your mistress in the middle of Southwark.”

  “Mr. Harte, you’ve taken enough of my time,” she began, infuriatingly aristocratic, as she stepped around her footman.

  “Damn it, will you just let me think?” Asa said, rather louder than he’d meant to.

  She blinked and opened her mouth, looking not a little outraged. Doubtless she wasn’t used to commoners speaking to her so.

  “No.” He held out his palm. The last thing he needed was her sniping at him and making him angrier.

  He took a breath. Anger hadn’t worked. Insults hadn’t worked. Groveling hadn’t worked.

  And then he had it.

  He looked at her, leaning a little forward, ignoring the aborted movement of her footman. “Will you come?”

  She frowned at that. “Come where?”

  “To Harte’s Folly.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Mr. Harte, I hardly see—”

  “But that’s just it,” he said, holding her gaze—her attention—by sheer willpower alone. “You’ve not seen it, have you, Harte’s Folly, since the work to rebuild was started? Come and see what I’m spending your brother’s money on. See what I’ve accomplished so far. See what I could accomplish in the future—if only you’ll let me.”

  She shook her head again, but her blue eyes had softened.

  Almost.

  “Please,” he said, his voice lowering intimately. If there was one thing Asa Makepeace knew how to do it was seduce a female. Even one with a poker up her arse. “Please. Just give me—no, just give my garden—a chance.”

  And he must’ve found his infamous charm at last—either that or the lady had a gentler heart than he imagined—for she pursed her lips and nodded once.

  EVE KNEW SHE’D made a mistake the moment she nodded. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d done it, either. Perhaps it was Mr. Harte’s sheer presence, big and wide and muscular, the rain soaking his linen shirt until it clung transparently to his shoulders. Or perhaps it’d been his voice, softened in pleading. Or maybe even his eyes, still bloodshot, but a dark forest green, almost warm against the chill of the day.

  Or maybe the man was a sorcerer, able to put otherwise level-headed ladies under some sort of spell that compelled them to act against their own best interests.

  In any case she’d agreed and that was that and she must resign herself to more hours tramping about Southwark in the rain to strange places with a man she didn’t even like.

  And then the most extraordinary thing happened.

  Mr. Harte smiled.

  That shouldn’t have been so very surprising. The man had smiled earlier that morning—nastily or in anger or in an attempt at persuasion—but this smile was different.

  This smile was genuine.

  His wide lips spread, revealing straight white teeth, and indents on either cheek, bracketing his mouth. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he looked rather appealing somehow. Charming. Almost handsome, standing in his shirt-sleeves there in the rain, his hair wet, a raindrop running down the side of one tanned cheek.

  And what was terrible—quite horrible, really—was that Eve had the ridiculous notion that Mr. Harte’s smile was especially for her.

  Just her.

  Ridiculous. She knew—absolutely knew, in that no-nonsense, sensible part of her—that he was smiling because he’d had his way. It had nothing at all to do with her, truly. But she couldn’t entirely squash a tiny part that saw that smile and claimed it as her own. And it made her warm inside, somehow. Warm and a bit… excited.

  He knew it, too, the awful man. She could tell by the way his smile widened, transforming into a grin, and by the way his green eyes looked at her knowingly.

  She stiffened and opened her mouth to deny everything. To send the man on his way so she could go home and perhaps enjoy a soothing cup of tea.

  He was wily, though, Mr. Harte. He immediately bowed and gestured to the hired conveyance behind her. “Shall we take your carriage?”

  She had said she’d go. Or at least nodded. A gentlewoman shouldn’t go back on her word—or nod.

  Five minutes later Eve found herself sitting beside Jean-Marie as they rumbled through the streets of Southwark. Across from them Mr. Harte was looking quite self-satisfied.

  “Normally, of course, my guests arrive from the river,” Mr. Harte was saying. “We have a landing with stone steps and attendants arrayed in purple and yellow to give the feeling of entering another world. Once my guests have shown their tickets they proceed along a path lit by torches and fairy lights. Along the way are waterfalls of lights, jugglers, dancing fauns and dryads, and the guests may linger if they wish. Or they can explore the gardens further. Or they can continue on and attend the theater.”

  She had been to Harte’s Folly before it’d burned—once, a year or two ago. She actually rather enjoyed a night at the theater, though she only ever went by herself—well, with Jean-Marie, of course, but not with a friend, because she really didn’t have any friends.

  She shook her head at her own irrelevant musings.

  “It all sounds very expensive,” Eve said, unable to keep the repressive note from her voice.

  Irritation crossed Mr. Harte’s face before he attempted a more benign expression. She wasn’t sure why he bothered. The man’s every emotion was transparent—and most of them were negative when it came to her.

  Which troubled her not at all, naturally.

  “It is expensive,” he said, “but it needs to be. My guests come for a spectacle. To be amazed and awed. There is no other place like Harte’s Folly in all of London. In all the world.” Mr. Harte sat forward on the carriage seat, his elbows on his knees; his broad shoulders appeared to fill the entire carriage. Or maybe it was his personality that made the carriage so small. His big hands spread as if grasping possibilities. “To make money I must spend money. If my pleasure garden were like any other—if the costumes were worn, the theatrics tame and uninspiring, the plantings everyday—no one would come. No one would pay the price of admission.”

  Reluctantly she began to wonder if perhaps she had been overhasty. The man was proud and bombastic and very, very annoying, but maybe he was right. Maybe he could return her brother’s investment with his wonderful garden.

  Still, she’d always been cautious by nature. “I’m expecting you to prove all that you’ve told me, Mr. Harte.”

  He sat back as if satisfied he’d already won her approval. “And so I shall.”

  The carriage rounded a bend in the road and a tall stone wall came into view. It looked very… utilitarian.

  Eve glanced at Mr. Harte.

  He cleared his throat. “Naturally, this is the back entrance.”

  The carriage jerked to a halt.

  Jean-Marie immediately rose, set the step, and held out his hand to help her down.

  “Thank you,” Eve murmured. “Please ask the carriage driver to wait for us.”

  Mr. Harte leaped from the carriage in one athletic bound and strode ahead of them to a wooden door in the wall. He opened it and gestured them through.

  Beyond was a tangled growth of hedges and some muddy paths. Hardly the look of a pleasure garden, but he had said this was the back way.

  Eve eyed the door as she entered. “Shouldn’t this be locked?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Harte said. “And usually ’tis when we’re open—it wouldn’t do to have people walk into the gardens without paying—but right now we’re still building. It’s easier for deliveries just to come in.”

  “You have no problem with thieves?”

  Mr. Harte frowned. “I—”

  A young redheaded man came trotting briskly along one of the paths. Eve recognized him instantly as Mr. Malcolm MacLeish, the architect her brother had hired to rebuild the theater.
br />   “Harte!” Mr. MacLeish exclaimed. “Thank God you’re here. The damned slate’s arrived for the roof and half are broken and still the driver’s demanding payment before he unloads. I don’t know whether to send the lot back or work with the usable stuff. We’re already behind and the rain’s leaking in the theater—the tarps won’t hold it.” The young man glanced up from his tirade, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Eve. “Oh! Miss Dinwoody. I hadn’t thought to see you here.”

  And he flushed an unbecoming mottled red.

  Eve felt a pang of sympathy. The last time she’d seen Mr. MacLeish he’d been begging for her help in escaping her brother’s influence. The man was probably quite embarrassed to encounter her.

  She gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Good day to you, Mr. MacLeish.”

  At that he remembered his manners and swept her a rather elegant bow. “And to you, Miss Dinwoody.” He inhaled, obviously ordering himself. “You’re a bright spot on this dreary morning, I declare.”

  And there was the sweet charm the architect usually displayed.

  She nodded. “Shall we see to your shingle delivery?”

  “I—” Mr. MacLeish glanced at Mr. Harte, his expression nonplussed.

  The pleasure garden owner frowned. “I didn’t bring you here to examine the dull behind-the-scenes stuff, Miss Dinwoody.”

  “But perhaps that’s what I ought to be examining,” she replied. “Please. Lead us on, Mr. MacLeish.”

  The architect waited for Mr. Harte’s nod before turning back down the muddy path.

  Eve picked up her skirts, stepping carefully. She regretted not wearing pattens on her shoes this morning, for she was beginning to worry that her slippers would be ruined by the wet and mud.

  “I confess, I thought from your description that the gardens would be more…” Eve paused, trying to find a tactful word as they walked past a clump of sagging irises.

  “Finished,” Jean-Marie rumbled, supplying the word, if not the tact.

  Mr. Harte’s frown had turned to a scowl at her bodyguard’s interjection. “Naturally the garden isn’t at its best in the rain. Now here,” he exclaimed as they rounded a tall tree and came within view of a pond, “here is where you can see what Harte’s Folly will be.”

  The pond was very pretty. An island sat at its center, with an arched bridge connecting it to the shore. Another tree, young and straight, had been planted at the edge of the pond, framing the view. Even in the misty rain it held a sort of otherworldly allure.

  Enchanted, Eve stepped closer… and right into a puddle, the cold, muddy water soaking her slipper and completely breaking the spell.

  She turned to Mr. Harte.

  His gaze met hers, rising from her dirtied feet. “We will, of course, be mending the paths before we open.”

  “I should hope so,” she replied frostily, giving her foot a shake.

  They continued along the path in silence, Eve’s toes slowly turning numb with cold as she followed Mr. Harte’s broad shoulders.

  Another five minutes and they came within sight of a series of buildings, the central one obviously a theater. It had wide marble steps that led to a row of columns across the front, and a high pediment with classical bas-relief figures depicting acting and the theater. It was an impressive building, even with the tarps covering the roof.

  Drawn up outside were an enormous cart and a team of horses. Three men stood by the cart, arguing loudly with a semicircle of people facing them. The crowd was a motley lot: a half dozen women wore matching bright-yellow dresses, their hems scandalously high—obviously for dancing. Another woman was in an extraordinary purple frock and still had paint on her face. Beside her was a plain woman in rather more ordinary clothing, holding a half-finished bodice. Several men were workers or gardeners—one had a rake over his shoulder—while others were better dressed and held various instruments under their arms.

  “Pay up or we’ll turn this ’ere cart around and take it back across th’ river!” said one of the cartmen.

  “Pay for vhat?” a slight man with a clever face and dark hair sneered. “A heap of broken shards? Bah!” He threw up his hands in disgust. “This theater, it vill never be finished. My musicians cannot practice vith vater dripping down their necks.”

  “What’s this I hear about broken shingles?”

  The crowd turned at Mr. Harte’s deep voice, and several people started talking at once.

  Mr. Harte held up his hands. “One at a time. Vogel?”

  The dark-haired man stepped forward, his black eyes flashing. “Vonce again the theater is not done. MacLeish promised last month and was it done? No! He promised this veek—”

  “It’s hardly my fault the rain kept us from building,” Mr. MacLeish said, his chin thrust forward. “And let me tell you, having to work around a crowd of musicians hasn’t been easy.”

  Mr. Vogel’s upper lip curled. “And vould you have us open vithout practice? Bah! You know nothing of opera or music, you English.”

  “I’m a Scot, you—”

  Mr. Harte laid a hand on Mr. MacLeish’s chest, stepping between him and Mr. Vogel. “What about my shingles?”

  “Not my fault if they came that way,” the leader of the shingle men said, suddenly sounding conciliatory. “This is the way I got ’em and this is the way I brought ’em.”

  “And this is the way I’ll be sending ’em back,” Mr. Harte said. “I paid for roofing tile, not broken shards.”

  “I can take it all back,” the shingle man said, “but I won’t be getting another shipment until December earliest.”

  Mr. Harte took a menacing step forward. “Goddamn it, man—”

  The double doors to the theater burst open and a short, bandy-legged man dressed in a blazing orange coat came down the steps. Eve blinked in astonishment, for it was Mr. Sherwood, the proprietor of the Royal theater. Whatever was he—?

  “Sherwood!” roared Mr. Harte, advancing menacingly on the smaller man. “What are you doing in my theater?”

  “Harte,” Sherwood returned, apparently unaware of the danger he stood in. “What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you rose so early in the morning. And Miss Dinwoody!” he said, catching sight of Eve, peering around Mr. Harte’s back. “A pleasure, ma’am, an absolute pleasure!”

  “Mr. Sherwood.” Eve nodded cautiously.

  “Your exquisite grace brightens the day, ma’am.” The theater manager beamed as if at his own wit and bobbed on his toes. He wore a white wig a bit the worse for wear and slightly askew. “Have you told Harte of my offer?”

  “You haven’t the funds to buy Montgomery’s stake out,” Harte sneered.

  “I haven’t,” Mr. Sherwood replied blithely, “but my backer has.”

  Mr. Harte seemed to expand, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Eve took a nervous step back into the comforting shadow of Jean-Marie.

  “What backer?” Mr. Harte growled. “You can’t possibly have—”

  At the top of the stairs a tall man exited the theater. He wore a lavishly curled lavender wig and a flamboyant ruby coat with silver lace edging the cuffs and collar.

  He glanced down and gave an exaggerated start on seeing Mr. Harte. “No,” he cried, an arm outthrust as if to hold the pleasure garden owner back. “You shan’t talk me out of it, Harte, not even with your silver tongue.”

  “What are you doing, Giovanni?” Mr. Harte’s voice had lowered into ominous, gravelly depths.

  Eve glanced around. Wasn’t anyone else worried about Mr. Harte’s simmering temper?

  But all eyes were on the theater stairs as the tall man swept down them. Eve realized that he must be Giovanni Scaramella, the famous castrato.

  “Leaving you,” Mr. Sherwood trumpeted, confirming Eve’s worst fears. “Giovanni’s coming to the Royal. The most talented castrato in London shall be singing exclusively for my theater now.”

  “You can’t do this, Gio,” Mr. Harte said. “You agreed to sing for me this season. We shook on
it.”

  “Did we?” the singer asked, eyes wide. “But Mr. Sherwood has a theater already built, a magnificent opera ready, and much money for me. You, Harte, have mud and a leaky roof.” He shrugged. “Is it so strange I go to sing at the Royal theater?”

  “Always get a performer to sign,” Sherwood said merrily, shaking a piece of paper in one hand. “Thought you’d know that by now, Harte.”

  Harte’s eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. Eve took an involuntary step back as he snarled, “Goddamn you—”

  “Ha!” crowed Mr. Sherwood, skipping down the last of the steps. “You may’ve stolen Robin Goodfellow, you may’ve stolen La Veneziana, but see how far you get without a leading castrato, Harte!”

  Mr. Harte didn’t say a word. In a shockingly concise movement, he stepped forward and swung his enormous fist into the other man’s face.

  Mr. Sherwood fell with a shriek and a burst of blood from his nose.

  Mr. Harte stood over him, still bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, the sputtering rain molding the fabric to the bulging muscles of his back and shoulders.

  He looked like everything that was uncivilized and barbaric and male.

  Eve inhaled and then had trouble exhaling. She didn’t like violence. She never had.

  This had been a mistake. A terrible mistake. The garden was a shambles, the opera didn’t look like it would ever be staged, and Mr. Harte was a brutal animal.

  “Take me away from this place, Jean-Marie,” she whispered.

  Chapter Two

  Now, this king had consulted an oracle upon the birth of his first son. The oracle told him that should any of the king’s children live to see midnight on their eighteenth birthday, the king would die.

  If, however, the king ate the heart of every child he sired, he would live forever.…

  —From The Lion and the Dove

  Bridget Crumb kept the house of the wickedest man in England.

  Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery, was handsome to the point of near-feminine beauty, powerful, wealthy, and completely—as far as she could see—without morals. She’d been hired only weeks before the duke’s exile from the country. One of his many minions had discovered her reputation—as the best housekeeper in London—and had offered her double the wage she’d been earning as Lady Margaret St. John’s housekeeper. Though truth be told the money had been only one of the reasons Bridget had promptly taken the job. In that short time before Montgomery had left for Europe he’d spoken directly to her exactly once—when he’d absently inquired what had happened to his butler. She’d told him politely that the man had decided to return to his birthplace in Wales. Which was, strictly speaking, true, although by no means the entire truth, since she’d certainly encouraged the butler in his dreams of retiring to become a shopkeeper.