A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (7 page)

He pushed away from the wall, a languid, easy move. She leapt off the bed and positioned herself in reach of the candlestand. He had a long, clever mouth, but if he tried to put it on her again, she’d brain him.

St. Maur walked on by her, momentarily examining the mattress. Her heart leapt into her throat. But if he noticed the lumps, he didn’t remark on them. Turning, he said only, “You value your pride, I take it?”

That struck a nerve. She’d lowered herself to thieving for her mum’s sake, which made it all right—so she’d told herself.

But in the end, the doctor hadn’t been able to do a thing. Now Mum was dead and Hannah was rotting in prison.

“Pride’s the only thing nobody can take away from you,” she said. You could handily destroy it yourself, though.

He lifted a brow. “I didn’t figure a woman with a black eye to be so naive.”

She’d forgotten about that. She reached up to touch the bruise. Michael had been out of his right mind yesterday. Had she not managed to escape, he probably would have killed her.

The look coming over St. Maur’s face made her flush. She didn’t need his pity. “You can figure me
however you like,” she said. “Why, did somebody steal your pride sometime?”

“Not mine.” He sat down on the bed, and the smile that edged onto his lips made her heart sink. He knew there was something under the sheets that shouldn’t be there. “But the last earl was a different matter,” he continued. “Somebody did steal his pride—or, to risk sentimentality, his pride and joy, as it were.”

She supposed she was meant to find his pause suspenseful. “Spit it out,” she said.

“They stole
you
.”

A snort escaped her. Not hard to steal a bastard nobody had wanted. But she didn’t speak the thought. St. Maur was clearly trying to trick her into something. Until she figured out his goal, it was better to keep herself to herself.

He seemed to see through her silence. “You have a great deal of discipline,” he murmured. “Not many manners, but self-possession in spades.”

There was something new in his regard, now—something canny and assessing that made her skin crawl. “What am I, a horse for auction? Would you like a look at my teeth?”

“No,” he said with a slow smile. “Indeed, Miss Nell-not-Cornelia, it’s your lucky day, for I want you just as you are.”

She tensed. Here it came. Whatever he was after, he was about to announce it.

But he didn’t. He simply continued to look at her, his striking eyes—more gray than green at present—wandering up and down her figure. It was his eyelashes, maybe, that made him so handsome; they were so thick and dark that they framed his eyes like whore’s kohl.

But no whore had ever given anyone such a look.
His inspection was calculating. He wasn’t figuring out how much to bid for her. He was deciding whether to bid at all, or whether to skip the bid and simply take whatever it was he wanted.

The realization set her heart to hammering, the heavy, solid knocks urging her to get up and get ready. He was a long, muscled man, too light on his feet for his height; it wasn’t going to be easy to get away from him. But if it was going to end in violence, she’d rather get on with it. “All right,” she said. “What do you want me for?”

His gaze lifted to hers. “What do you think of this house?”

She blinked. “It’s nice,” she said warily.

“Would you like one of your own?”

A startled laugh slipped out of her. He didn’t so much as crack a smile.

Good God, did he expect a proper answer to this piece of nonsense? “Why not?” she said. “I’d keep the pawnshops busy for a few months, I reckon.”

He looked thoughtful. “Stripping it, do you mean? No, you wouldn’t require money in this scenario. You’d be wealthy in your own right.”

Oh ho! His deck was definitely missing a few cards. “Sounds lovely,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you give me a taste now? Five pounds, say, just to test out how I feel about it.”

“That can be arranged,” he said. “But it would require an agreement between us.”

Of course it would. “Let me guess. This arrangement involves me lifting my skirts.”

“Indeed not,” he said gently. “My dear girl, I only wish to restore you to your rightful place. To your true inheritance.”

“Inheritance,” she said flatly.

“Just so,” he said.

He made no sense. “And what would that be?”

“First, ask who. There’s your twin sister, for one—Lady Katherine Aubyn.”

Her jaw dropped. That girl in the photograph she’d seen in the shopfront? Half sister, yes, but a twin? That would mean …

A smile crept over her mouth. “Didn’t expect you to have a sense of humor.”

“How shortsighted of you,” he said, not sounding offended. “But I’m not joking.”

No, she saw, he wasn’t joking. He had rats in his upper story. He was
cracked
.

A
fter she was done laughing so hard that her throat began to ache, she settled down to the best breakfast of her life. He did start to explain, but she knew well enough how tiresome these loonies could be when encouraged to enlarge on their fancies—she’d been raised by Mum, after all—so she waved him off and concentrated on her food.

Food? No, that was too ordinary a word for what they’d brought her. Folks in the Green would call it relishing, but she found herself thinking of words she’d never had the chance to use, words from the books she’d used to read to Mum:
ambrosial, delectable, nectarous
. She didn’t waste any time admiring it; the point was to get it into her stomach before St. Maur decided he’d like a bite himself.

Not a hard task, that. She started with the gooseberry scones, heaping them with clotted cream; moved on to toast points with butter and strawberry jam; then to the boiled eggs and a sausage seasoned with something grassy smelling and delicious. The coffee she drank down straightaway, the tea she sipped as she went, and the chocolate—oh heavenly mother, the chocolate she put down after a single mouthful. She knew an unwise idea when she tasted one.

All through this feast, she ignored St. Maur. And all through it, he sat there watching her as though she hadn’t just called him a madman and told him to hush. She’d seen cats with such patience, biding their time
by the mouse hole, occasionally licking themselves to keep their pretty coats clean. But his expression took on a darker edge as the meal drew on. She began to sense that his fancy manners were only a mask—one a girl would be wise to leave undisturbed.

Finally, when not a crumb remained to occupy her, she wiped off her fingers and folded up the napkin—real embroidered linen, but with him watching, she could hardly pocket it—and took a deep breath. “Well. I may have to roll myself home, but I’ll go with a smile.”

“You didn’t like the chocolate?” The darkness edged his voice now, too. Something had displeased him. She wouldn’t bother to guess at what.

She lifted her chin. “No, I didn’t.” The chocolate tasted of heaven and if she finished it, she’d memorize that taste and then spend the rest of her life hungering for more. She didn’t like wanting what she couldn’t have, but she couldn’t want what she didn’t know about.

Which was why, she thought as she rose, it was best to be leaving as soon as possible. She just needed to get him out of the room a minute so she could collect her—well, more accurately
his
—things. “I’ll be going,” she said, “after a quick”—she cleared her throat—”visit with a chamber pot.”

He stood as well. “Certainly. But before you go, I hope you’ll permit me the chance to show you the house.”

He spoke as courteously as though he were dealing with a lady of his own kind. It got annoying, after a while, since it was so clearly a show. “I can tell you exactly what your house looks like,” she said. “I broke into it last night, and I’ll warn you, the lock on your garden gate is as shoddy as cheap tin. The rest seemed
nice enough to feed a few counties for the summer, and that’s all there is to it.”

He nodded. “One thing, then. I’d like to show you one thing before you go.”

She hoped it wasn’t a weapon. “You’re not one of those
dangerous
lunatics, like?”

His mouth quirked as though he were biting back a smile. “I do hope not. If I returned your knife to you, would you feel safer?”

“And the gun,” she said promptly. She needed to get that back to Brennan.

But no: “I’ll save the pistol for your next visit,” he said and turned on his heel. “Two minutes, Nell. I’ll be waiting outside.”

He shut the door behind him. She raced back to the mattress and hauled out the lace. By an inch, the book didn’t fit in the inner pocket of her jacket, the candlesticks, either. Bloody hell. She put them back in their proper places and turned on her heel to snatch the linen napkin from the table—and the fork and knife, too; they felt heavy enough to be silver. A precious minute was wasted as she tested the knife on the embroidered stool, but the cloth proved too thick to cut.

The tour of the house: she’d be able to snatch up a few things along the way. Stuffing the cutlery into her pocket, she hurried out into the hall.

He was standing a few paces down the way, idly examining a stone bust of some ugly, big-nosed man in a wig. “Looks just like you,” she said as she caught up to him.

“You’re very kind,” he said dryly, walking onward.

After a brief hesitation, she followed. He moved smoothly as a tomcat, a sort of easy prowl, his hands in his pockets, the most glossy, expensive gentleman
she’d ever seen in the flesh. Somebody should take
his
photograph. He’d certainly sell well to the ladies.

He glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring. She scowled and looked away—then peered harder around her.

For all her bluster, she’d been too panicked last night to absorb her surroundings in detail. The corridor was just … infamously nice. The wood paneling had a carved trim. The carpet was a fine weave of gold flowers on a background of auburn and navy. Brass sconces gleamed. The air held a mix of waxes and lemony balms, and it smelled more than clean; it smelled like something you’d want to buy, a scent to lull you to sleep on nights when worries had you tossing.

No wonder he walked so lazily. Probably he’d never known a moment’s worry.

To her irritation, she saw nothing small enough to be pocketed. “What’s this thing you want to show me?”

“A letter or two.”

“A letter?” She slanted him a glance. “I’d hoped for something a touch more exciting.” Or valuable.

He shrugged. “You’ll find them interesting.”

“I doubt it.”

He came to a stop, evidently struck by a thought. “I do beg your pardon. If you can’t read—”

“I can read,” she cut in. “And I’ll tell you why I learned—so nobody would
read
me something that wasn’t on the page. So don’t think to be pulling
that
trick.”

He gave her the sort of smile she saw on tired mums with crabby infants: there was no real feeling behind it. “I’m chastened,” he said, and resumed his stroll.

Rolling her eyes, she followed.

They turned a corner and the hall opened into a
broad balcony appended on either side by flights of stairs that curved down toward each other. That door down there was probably the exit. “There’s my stop,” she said, making for the stairs.

His hand on her arm halted her. Had he squeezed or tugged, she would have shaken him off and maybe given him a sock in the gut for good measure: she was ready for it. But he didn’t even take proper hold of her. His fingers laid themselves on the spot right above her elbow, a steady, warm touch that somehow stopped her dead.

Queer thought: he had a magic touch to him. She’d bet she wasn’t the first lady he’d caught with two fingers.

“Please,” he said.

She turned back, eyeing him. It had been a long time since somebody had spoken that word to her. She liked the irony that
he
should be the one to speak it. He looked exactly as the master of this house should—richly dressed, too handsome by half, and radiant with that indefinable air that all rich people seemed to have: a sense of being comfortable, completely at ease, not afraid of anybody or anything.

And why would he be afraid? The world would see in one glance that he mattered.

She had to swallow hard to get the lump out of her throat. Stupid, but he made her feel bittersweet. He probably had chances and possibilities that she didn’t even know existed. He took them for granted, while a girl like her would need to sell her soul to get even a glimpse of them.

“What’s your angle?” she said on a deep breath. “Why are you so interested in the old earl’s bastard? And don’t give me any nonsense.”

He lifted a brow. “Evidently I didn’t make myself clear,” he said. “Nell, you aren’t a bastard.”

Looking at the girl gave Simon a headache. Or perhaps
vertigo
was the more accurate term. Each time he glanced into her thin, sullen face, he felt his brain waver under the strain of processing the message delivered by his eyes. She was remarkably similar to Lady Katherine—minus a few stone, a few hundred pounds in fashionable clothing and jewelry, and twenty-two years of tender rearing.