Lorraine Heath: Midnight Pleasures with a Scoundrel

With the reading of her sister’s journal, her life and her reason for coming to London had taken a drastic turn.

The lodging house came into view. It was modest, her two rooms small, but comfortable.

“Thank you for escorting me home,” she said.

“It was my pleasure.” He gave her a grin that could have been teasing, could have been warning. “I do hope you won’t wander the streets alone tonight. I would be sorely aggrieved if anything untoward were to happen to you.”

“I plan to retire early,” she assured him.

“I’m glad to hear it. I shall look forward to seeing you at the park tomorrow, perhaps a bit earlier. Say around two?”

His startling green eyes wandered slowly over her as though they provided him with the means to see inside her soul. Their shade reminded her of the verdant grass in the middle of summer, and how often she’d run barefoot across it as a child. But she saw no softness in his gaze, nothing to tickle the souls of her feet. It was imperative that she not become lost in those eyes. She wondered how many women had. They were his most striking feature. Through them, she could almost see the cleverness of his mind. He gave the impression that he was relaxed, at ease, and yet she could fairly see the wheels turning.

With her cheeks growing warm, she wished her purpose in coming to London was different. She tried not to think that if she’d been the first to come to the city, she would not have made Elisabeth’s mistakes. She’d even tossed Elisabeth’s failings in her face-before discovering the journal and coming to understand all that her sister had endured. She shouldn’t enjoy a man’s attentions now, but she seemed unable to help herself. “An earlier outing would be most welcome. I shall probably be there, yes.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” He tipped his hat and began to walk away.

She hurried up the steps and opened the door using the key that Mrs. Potter, her landlady, had given her. She walked into the entryway and was immediately greeted by the fragrance of furniture wax and fresh flowers.

Mrs. Potter bustled out of the parlor, wiping her hands on the hem of her apron. Her black hair had begun to turn into silver, her face had lost the firmness of youth. She had a penchant for gazing out windows, an even greater one for inciting gossip. “That’s him, Miss Watkins, the man I told you about, the one who’s been making inquiries about you.”

“Is he?” She’d suspected as much when Mrs. Potter described him.

“He gave me a crown not to tell you, but my loyalty is to my tenants, especially as you’re alone. Is he a suitor?”

“If I’m fortunate, yes. You will let me know if you see him about anymore, won’t you?”

“Oh, most assuredly.”

“Thank you.” She went up the stairs. Inside her corner room, she walked to the window and peered between the draperies. She didn’t see Mr. Swindler. She wondered if he’d walked on or circled back to watch her room from some vantage point. She was fairly convinced now that he was Rockberry’s man, sent to keep an eye on her. If he meant more harm than that, surely he’d have already seen to it.

She removed from her reticule the map Mr. Swindler had given her. Clever man to devise so sweet an excuse for approaching her. But still, she had no plans to underestimate him.

In the light of day she’d been surprised by his height and the breadth of his shoulders. But it was more than his size that was so dangerous. It was what she’d seen in his face. He looked to be a man who could kill someone simply by wishing him dead. He was not one to be deceived, and yet she planned to do exactly that-deceive him. Deceive him into befriending her, into wanting her, until he would do anything to protect her-even fall on his own sword.

I hate to be a bother.”

“Good Lord, Jim,” Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, said as he poured whiskey into two tumblers. “I’ve bothered you often enough.”

“You’re a lord, it’s your right.”

Claybourne scowled at him. They’d grown up on the streets together, working for Feagan, until it was discovered that Luke was the lost heir to a title. Swindler had never felt quite comfortable around the aristocracy, but then he felt comfortable around few. He was a skeptic at best when it came to someone else’s good intentions. No doubt a result of his father’s good intentions leaving him with a wounded soul that still, after all these years, refused to heal.

Claybourne handed a goblet of wine to his wife, Catherine. She was a lovely woman. Her blond hair almost reminded Swindler of Eleanor Watkins’s, although Miss Watkins’s made him think of moonbeams woven together. He imagined her hair would be soft but catch on his rough fingers. He imagined those same fingers abrading her delicate skin as he brought her pleasure. To spare her any discomfort, on her most sensitive flesh, he would use his mouth, his tongue-

“Jim?”

He snapped himself free of the dreams that had begun to haunt him ever since his encounter with Miss Watkins in the park and took the tumbler Claybourne offered. “Thank you.”

Claybourne sat on the sofa beside his wife, stretching his arm across her shoulders, so his fingers could casually stroke her bare arm. Swindler doubted he’d have been as informal were his guest a lord. Or perhaps he would have if their friendship had been woven in the squalor that was the rookeries.

“You had some questions to ask of Catherine,” Claybourne prodded.

Swindler took a sip of the whiskey, relishing the taste and the burn. He felt his muscles begin to relax. They’d been tense ever since he’d escorted Miss Watkins to her lodgings. Last night he’d been surprised to discover that she was not staying in one of the better parts of London. As his own lodgings were not that far from hers, he was well aware of what the accommodations offered. They were adequate but nothing fancy.

“Yes. I’m curious about a Miss Elisabeth Watkins. She was the daughter of a viscount.”

“Watkins?” Catherine’s delicate brow pleated. “I believe I’ve heard mention of a Viscount Watkins, but I fear I know very little about him. Sterling might, although I suspect it unlikely. Of course, he’s not due to return to London for another few days.”

Swindler appreciated what she wasn’t saying-that the man was in the South of France making love with his new wife, with Frannie. What surprised Swindler was that the thought of her with another man didn’t bring with it the usual sense of loss. Since his encounter with Miss Watkins this afternoon, she had been the one to occupy his mind, as though no one else mattered.

“I’ll be content with anything you know,” Swindler assured her, hoping to gather a few more morsels about Miss Watkins in his endeavors to learn about her father.

“If he’s the man I’m thinking of, he rarely comes to London. Doesn’t even have a residence in town.”

Had word not even passed through the ranks that he’d died?

“Elisabeth apparently had her coming out last Season,” Swindler told her.

Catherine distractedly patted Claybourne’s thigh. “I fear I was far too caught up in my own affairs last Season to give much attention to someone’s coming out. I’m sorry.”

Claybourne’s hand ceased its stroking and closed around her upper arm, offering strength and comfort. It was last Season that their lives had all become irrevocably entwined.

“You might inquire of Jack’s wife,” Catherine continued. “Before Olivia went into mourning, she may have met Miss Watkins earlier in the Season.”

The widowed Duchess of Lovingdon created something of a scandal by marrying before the proper period of mourning had passed-an even greater scandal by her selection of a husband-Jack Dodger. Wealthy though he might be, he owned an exclusive gentlemen’s club that was almost as infamous as he.