Lorraine Heath - Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel

“She’s not a danger to him.”

Sir David stilled and scrutinized Swindler. “Are you a hundred percent certain?”

Was he? If he said yes, the assignment might very likely come to an end. And if Rockberry learned that no one was watching her, he might decide to take matters into his own hands. Besides, Swindler suddenly wanted to spend time with her, very much.

“Right then,” Sir David said, as though he’d read all the thoughts crossing Swindler’s mind. “Keep an eye on her, and for God’s sake keep her away from Rockberry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Late in the afternoon Swindler again borrowed Claybourne’s carriage, and the lady was again dressed in pink. He wondered if years from now he would remember her as the lady in pink, for he had no doubt that in his dotage when he reminisced about his most fascinating cases, she would come to mind. Not that he found much to recommend the case itself for further reflection, but the lady was another matter.

She was a bit of freshness in his life, a life that had become stale by all he’d witnessed.

He considered asking her about her late night surveillance of Rockberry, had even considered driving by Dodger’s to gauge her reaction, but he was so damned tired of Rockberry being even a hint of a conversation. He selfishly wanted today for himself, for Eleanor. He wanted to give the impression he was a suitor-and a suitor wouldn’t talk of another man. Even though he knew he could never be a true suitor to her, he could have this little bit of time with her.

He loved watching the way she enjoyed the gardens as the carriage rolled through one after another. She laughed when he didn’t know the names of the flowers. She pointed out her favorites, but even if she hadn’t, he would have known. Pinks and lavenders. Pale colors. Softness. Nothing bright. Nothing harsh.

Then she surprised him by asking, “Will you take me through the part of London where you grew up?”

She might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water on him. He’d been considering seducing her, but the filth that had been his life as a boy would make any woman squirm with distaste at the thought of his hands touching her.

“It’s not nearly as beautiful as the gardens,” he said, hoping to dissuade her from pursuing that path.

“But it would tell me a bit more about your life.”

He knew he should have been flattered that she had an interest in his past, might have an interest in him. While he knew he could never leave it behind completely, that it was woven into the fabric of his character, he had no desire for her to actually see the specifics. “Allow me to paint a picture: it was dirty, smelly, and crowded.”

“I’ve noticed that much of London is dirty, smelly, and crowded.”

“Not like the rookeries. It is absent of hope. It is not a place that allows in dreams. It’s drearily dismal.”

She looked at him as though he’d opened up his chest and shown her his heart. “You’re ashamed of your past.”

“I’m disgusted by it, yes.”

Angry at her and his words, he averted his gaze. How had she managed to take control of the conversation and direct it away from where it belonged-with him learning about her?

He was aware of her small hand covering the tight fist balled on his thigh. She squeezed gently. “You rose above your origins, Mr. Swindler. That’s to be admired. While I’ve heard tales of the rookeries, without actually seeing them, I can’t fully appreciate them.”

He twisted his head around to look at her, knowing his eyes and voice held a hard, implacable determination. “That’s my point, Miss Watkins. There is nothing about them to appreciate.”

He wondered what she was thinking as she studied his face, wondered exactly what it revealed. The harshness of the life he’d led? How, as he’d grown older, as he became more knowledgeable in the way of things, he came to abhor the life he’d lived? How the first time he’d felt any pride was when he led a constable to a boy who’d pilfered a money purse in order that the innocent boy who’d been arrested for the offense would be set free? How a gang of other boys had beaten him up for squealing on their mate-and so he’d learned to be secretive in his dealings with the police?

Even the rights and wrongs in life weren’t crystal clear. Compromises were made for the greater good. The problem there was: who decided the greater good?

He’d had the audacity on more than one occasion to believe it was him. Even now as he sought to gain her trust, to discover her plans, he wasn’t certain he’d provide Sir David or Rockberry with any information that could be of any use to them.

“You’re a complicated man, Mr. Swindler,” she finally said.

“Not complicated at all.” He unfurled his fist, turned his hand over, and threaded his fingers through hers. “All I need is a lovely lady to provide me with company.”

He watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed. “You claimed to be a scoundrel.”

He gave her one of his more charming smiles. “The evening is only just arriving, Miss Watkins.”

He’d planned to only be in her company for a couple of hours, but at the end of that time he wasn’t yet ready to let her go. Besides, if she was determined to seek Rockberry out at night, then Swindler was obligated to keep her occupied. He’d learned nothing while, if she was a perceptive woman-which he had little doubt she was-she’d learned a great deal. It bothered him that he could so easily reveal part of his soul to her. But it was only parts, bits, and pieces that she’d never be able to fit together properly in order to create the whole. He wasn’t even certain he knew the whole fabric of his being any longer.

When he’d become one of Feagan’s lads, he’d chosen a new name for himself: Swindler. While it was his nature to swindle others, of late he was beginning to suspect that perhaps he’d even managed to swindle himself into believing that his only interest in the woman stemmed from her fascination with Rockberry. Otherwise rather than taking her home, why did he return her to Cremorne Gardens?

“Why ever have you brought me here?” she asked as the driver brought the carriage to a halt on King’s Road.

“You’ve seen the worst of the gardens. I thought you should see the best.” He stepped out of the carriage and held out his hand to her. “We’ll leave long before the swells begin arriving.”

Her sister had written in her journal about the gardens and the spectacular display of bursting lights in the sky. “May we stay until after the fireworks?”

He gave her a generous smile that stole every bit of breath from her body. Oh, he was dangerous to her heart. She’d thought to take advantage, and instead she was finding herself enthralled by him.

“If it pleases you,” he fairly purred.

“It would very much.”

“Then stay we shall.”

After he handed her down from the carriage, he gave orders to the driver to return at nine. At the entrance, he paid a shilling for each of them, tucked her arm around his, and led her through the metal gates into the gardens. The crowd was dense. Ladies and gents strolled along arm in arm. She suspected most were married and those who weren’t had chaperones nearby. Even a few children could be seen. It was the time for families, for the proper people to be about.

This was what Elisabeth had seen, what she’d written about in her journal.

“Did your sister visit the gardens?” Mr. Swindler asked.

She jerked her head up and held the familiar green gaze, seeing the compassion and understanding there. How was it that he was able to read her so well? “Yes. She wrote glowingly about the fireworks.”

“So although you were lost the other night, you knew where you were?”