Midnight Pleasures With a Scoundrel (6 page)

Chapter 4

I
t was deuced stupid for him to be so blasted nervous, Swindler told himself. He had inspected every inch of the carriage. It sported not a single scratch. The leather seat was thick and comfortable. The driver and groom, splendidly turned out in the noted Claybourne livery, were almost as well matched as the pair of grays.

Standing in front of Miss Watkins’s lodgings, he fought not to pace. He checked that his neckcloth was still properly in place and his buttons done up. He wore the same jacket and trousers as the day before, but his waistcoat was dark green brocade, his neckcloth a pale yellow. When he’d gone to Claybourne’s to retrieve the carriage, he’d allowed enough time so Claybourne’s manservant could trim his hair and nails, as well as shave him. He was not a man accustomed to uncertainty, nor was he generally taken with vanity, but both dogged his heels as the hour of his outing with Miss Watkins approached.

He’d considered waiting in the parlor but didn’t think he could manage to sit still. He had sent the groom around to make a discreet inquiry at the servants’ door, so he knew the lady had not yet left for the park. He asked the driver for the time for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. When had the afternoon begun to creep by?

The lady should be making her appearance at any—

The door echoed a resounding click, and he came to attention as though the queen were passing by.

With a startled gasp, Miss Watkins froze halfway onto the stoop. Then her face blossomed into a beautiful smile that caused Swindler’s chest to swell with satisfaction. He’d never in his life courted a woman, not even Frannie, because he’d known she would never return his feelings, that she favored Claybourne and Jack above him. Still, while he was not engaged in courtship at that moment, he thought he could definitely see the appeal in pleasing one woman above all others.

He’d always extended small courtesies to Frannie, and she’d always been appreciative, but he had always known that in spite of his best efforts, he’d never possess her heart. Miss Watkins, on the other hand—he didn’t want her heart, but he couldn’t explain this unheralded contentment that swept through him with her obvious pleasure. She was once again dressed in pale pink, her parasol in one hand, her reticule dangling from her wrist, her bonnet secured beneath her chin with a perfect pink bow. She was elegance and grace. Her father might have been merely a viscount, but she had undoubtedly been brought up to expect to walk among the aristocracy. He told himself that he needed to focus on his assignment, that she was so far above him as to be unreachable, but it was his own selfish desires that were causing him to want to make his discoveries about her pleasant for them both.

Her blue eyes took in the carriage, driver, groom, and horses before returning to linger on Swindler, as though she were taking in his full measure and discovering that he was not lacking in any regard. Finally closing the door behind her, she descended the steps and came to stand before him, her head tilted back so she could hold his gaze. “What a fine carriage you have, Mr. Swindler.”

“I must confess that I’ve merely borrowed it from a friend. The Earl of Claybourne. You’d mentioned that you wished to see London.” He opened the carriage door. “Shall we?”

She glanced in the direction of the park.

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he said quietly, disappointed that she hesitated, knowing her thoughts were focused on Rockberry. He couldn’t deny the spark of jealousy that threatened to ignite into a full blaze. What if he’d misconstrued her interest in Rockberry? What if she wished to replace her sister’s role in his life—whatever that role, however misguided, had been?

She smiled at him, and the warmth and sincerity of it were enough to tamp down his own misguided feelings. For this small moment in time he’d won out over a lord. “Of course it will,”

she said. “How silly of me to give the park even a second’s thought when I have a lovely carriage at my disposal.” She placed her hand in his offered one and he assisted her up. Once he settled in beside her, he urged the driver on.

“I suppose if I knew anyone in London, my reputation would be thoroughly ruined with this little outing,” she said demurely.

“I’ve never quite understood this practice of chaperones. In the rookeries, where I grew up, girls came and went as they pleased.”

“And what of their reputations?”

He gave her a wry grin. “They came and went as well.” In spite of a thousand little voices in his head urging him against it, he wrapped his gloved hand around hers. “If you were moving about in Society and were known, I would have brought a chaperone. I can still procure one if you wish.”

He had little doubt that Catherine would accommodate his request. The familiar blush that he was coming to adore crept over Miss Watkins’s cheeks. “I don’t, not really. Besides, it would make things terribly crowded, wouldn’t it?”

“It would indeed, so relax and enjoy your tour of London.” While he fully intended to enjoy every facet of her.

While he avoided Hyde Park, Swindler ordered the driver to take them through other parks. He found it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes off Miss Watkins as she took in the sights. Her face revealed such exquisite pleasure, her lips continually curling into a smile, her deep blue eyes sparkling with delight.

As a rule, Swindler was not one to talk overmuch, but Miss Watkins was fascinated with everything, and she had the occasional question.

Had he toured Madame Tussaud’s?

He hadn’t.

Was the inside of Westminster Abbey as impressive as the outside?

It was.

He’d finally ordered the driver to stop at a spot near a river where rowboats were rented. After a couple of false starts—it had taken him a few attempts to get the gist of handling the oars—they were now gliding seamlessly along. A few other couples were in nearby boats. It occurred to Swindler that he’d never taken time to simply enjoy London. In his youth, he’d struggled to survive. As he got older, he’d struggled to learn. As a man, he’d become obsessed with his occupation, with being the very best at what he did. It seemed odd to suddenly find himself doing little more than gazing at the woman in the boat with him. She’d opened her pink parasol so it could provide some shade against the late afternoon sun. She appeared serene, as though she’d left her troubles on the bank of the river.

Yet Swindler couldn’t seem to stop himself from imagining Rockberry with her sister, watching her, enjoying her fascination with everything. “Your sister. Did you look exactly alike?” He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth and she grew somber.

“Exactly. But it was more than our features. Our mannerisms, our interests, were the same. No one could tell us apart, not even our father.”

So Rockberry had seen precisely what he himself saw when he looked at the lady. And Rockberry had taken advantage of the girl. Unfortunately, Swindler could understand that as well, because he was finding it very difficult to be near Miss Watkins and not touch her, not lean over and kiss her.

“It’s funny you should ask me about Elisabeth,” she said, her attention on the sunlight dappling the leaves above. “I was just sitting here lamenting that a gentleman had never taken Elisabeth rowing. Or at least she didn’t write of it in her journal. It’s quite pleasant.”

“I must agree. I’ve never before been rowing.”

She gave him an impish grin. “I gathered, but you mastered it quickly enough.”

“I tend to be a quick study. Growing up on the streets, I learned that the child who survived was the one who adapted swiftly to the unexpected.”

Her tongue darted out to touch her upper lip, and his gut clenched. He wondered what those sweet lips tasted of. “You mentioned that you were borrowing Lord Claybourne’s carriage and also that you sometimes move about in upper circles. How is it you know the nobility if you grew up on the streets?”

“Are you at all familiar with Lord Claybourne’s story?”

“No, my father never felt comfortable around the aristocracy. I think because his finances were never comparable to most. He always looked exactly as he was: an impoverished lord. He didn’t mingle with the other lords. So I fear I don’t know Lord Claybourne.”

“Just as well. He has—or had—a scandalous reputation. It’s settled down a bit since he married Lady Catherine, sister to the Duke of Greystone, but you probably don’t know her either.” Especially as Catherine had indicated that she didn’t know Eleanor. “Be that as it may, Claybourne lived on the streets as I did. His parents were murdered and he was lost for a while.”

“How horrible!”

“Yes, it was. Dreadfully so. Although you won’t hear him complain about it. Gave him a life unlike that of any other lord. We lived with a kidsman who went by the name of Feagan. Through him we learned to excel at thievery. When Claybourne was fourteen, he ran into a bit of trouble and was arrested.” He didn’t see the need to reveal that the trouble had involved his murdering a man. “As a result, he came to the attention of the Earl of Claybourne, who declared him his long lost grandson. When he took in his grandson, he took in his friends as well. So for a time I lived in St. James and was taught how to give the appearance of being a gentleman.”

“You chose your words so carefully, Mr. Swindler. ‘Appearance’ of being one? Do you not consider yourself a gentleman?”

He grinned. “Only when it suits my purpose. Often I’m more a scoundrel than gentleman, Miss Watkins.”

The heat in his eyes caused her heart to gallop. Oh, she was treading on very dangerous ground here, and well she knew it.

“Is that what you were doing out so late at Cremorne? Scoundreling?”

His rich, dark laughter echoed around them. She thought it was as wondrous a sound as the sea roaring onto shore. If she wasn’t careful, she feared she might find herself being even more taken with him.

“Is that even a word?” he asked.

“I’m simply trying to determine if it was providence or simply dumb luck that brought you to my rescue.”

“Does it truly matter how our paths crossed?”

She smiled at him. “No, I suppose not. Tell me something else about yourself, Mr. Swindler.”

Something else? He was suddenly at a loss for words. He couldn’t tell her about the Whitechapel murder.

Because sleep had eluded him last night, he’d gone to the mortuary where they’d taken the woman they’d found in Whitechapel. In spite of Sir David’s orders, he’d been unable to let the dead lie without at least trying to determine the story. The woman had been beaten beyond recognition. She’d been discovered sprawled in the alleyway wearing only a silver choker. While Swindler had spent many of the early hours of the morning interviewing those in the area where she was found, striving to at least determine a name for the victim, his thoughts had been elsewhere. It was unlike him not to remain focused on the task at hand. But this morning every fair-haired woman had caused him to think about Miss Watkins. Every question he asked had prodded him to wonder what questions he should ask of her. Every person peering around a corner trying to discern why he was there reminded him of his responsibility to cease her annoying Rockberry. He was striving to solve a murder that was not his assignment, and he’d been distracted by memories of Miss Watkins: her smiles, her laughter, her innocence.

But he could tell her none of that. Nor could he discuss any other murders that he’d investigated. While they fascinated him, they’d no doubt alarm her. His life suddenly seemed dreadfully dull. The only hope he had of an interesting conversation would come from her.

“Just as you’d never been to London, I’ve never been beyond London,” he finally told her.

“Tell me of your home.”

“You’ve never been outside of London?”

Swindler heard the incredulity in her voice. “No. Would I need a map?”

She laughed, and he wanted to capture the delightful sound and store it in a wooden box, to be heard whenever he lifted the lid. He was not usually so filled with fanciful thoughts, but she charmed him with little more than her presence.

“I daresay, you most certainly would, although the railways make travel a bit easier.”

“So tell me about your home.”

“It’s a small stone cottage built near the cliffs. The music of the sea is a constant refrain, but it’s not nearly as noisy as the city. I think that surprised me most—all the different sounds that come together. It’s never quiet. Even with the sea at home, I’ve always found myself able to think without noise intruding. Sometimes I can hardly think here. Well, except for now, of course. It’s very pleasant on the river.”

“Odd. I don’t notice the noises you refer to. I don’t know if I would like living by the sea if it gives a man too much time with his thoughts.”

“Do you not fancy your thoughts, Mr. Swindler?”

Sometimes they were too disturbing, too menacing, but he wasn’t going to share that with her. Instead he sought to put them back on course. “I’m surprised your home is small. I thought all the aristocracy lived in large residences.”

“While my father was part of the aristocracy, our beginnings were humble. Although he dreamed of better for his daughters. I suppose that’s the way of a father. Is your father still living?”

He should have expected the question, based on his own inquiries. He considered lying. He considered giving only a portion of the truth, but decided that although it pained him to give the answer, he could accomplish more with the truth, build a fragile cornerstone for trust. “No. He died on the gallows when I was eight.”

Sorrow reshaped the lines of her face into exquisite beauty, because the emotions were unguarded and true. He’d misjudged the wisest course. He’d thought to disarm her, and instead he was the one taken off guard. She lured from hiding something deep inside him. Emotions he’d locked away long ago wanted to venture forth from the darkness—if for only a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice brimming with her need to provide comfort. If she cared this deeply for a man she’d only recently met, what would be the depth of her love for a sister…or a husband? “What was his offense?”