All Men Are Rogues (6 page)

“D
evil take it!”

Evelyn crumpled the paper into a ball and angrily threw it across the room to join a heap of others. She rose and stalked over to the curtains, throwing them open. Moonlight filtered in as clouds glided past. Even the open window could not give her enough fresh air to alleviate the crushing scents of burning candles, ink, and parchment.

She stretched her arms overhead and arched her back, feeling the blood warming her cramped muscles.

“What are you trying to tell me, Father?” she whispered to the starless night.

The crackling fire answered her with a resounding hiss.

She rubbed her weary eyes and resolutely closed the curtains. No one needed to know that she was still awake at, what was it? She last recalled the hall clock tolling the hour of three. She turned and lifted a basket and gathered up the scattered papers strewn around the room. Once the floor was cleared, she crouched before the fire and tossed each paper in and watched it burn, ensuring that nothing legible of her scribblings was left. Just as she had been taught.

Once her task was done she closed her father’s black leather-bound journal and removed it from her secretary. She sat before the fire with the book in her lap. Slowly, she lay down, resting her head against the soft animal skin and inhaling the comforting scent of leather. It made her feel close to her father. This was her legacy just as much as any money. His handwriting, his words, his thoughts. She lay on the thick carpeting before the fire and stared unseeingly at the dancing flames.

She forced herself to remember the great diplomat and intelligence regular her father had been. Her earliest memories were of him overseeing the clearing of the house in Madrid. Or had it been Paris? No, it must have been Madrid, because she’d been about two. She had fallen climbing on one of the trunks, and she’d split her chin. She remembered the blood and crying and being lifted into his arms. He had carried her into the nursery. White linens. Bloodstains. Many servants running with wet cloths. He had held her and made her feel safe.

With her finger, she traced the scar on her chin, feeling the jagged slash. Odd. She could not recall the pain or the treatment, only the comfort he’d given. Where had Mother been at the time? Probably already in Paris, their next assignment. Mother had had a difficult time with the nomadic life. Even at a young age Evelyn had sensed the discord between her parents. Her father had been a thinker, a doer, and a man of action. Mother had been more of an amorphous being of beauty. She had loved to sing, paint, and play the harp. Evelyn could not recall her face very clearly. Angelic, beautiful. Long golden hair, blue eyes. The scent of roses. The sound of rustling silk when she’d moved with such grace. It had been only ten years since her mother’s death, but it seemed to Evelyn she could only recall the earliest memories. She seemed to have a clearer recall of her nurse. Her nanny. Her governess. And Sully. There was always Sully.

Evelyn sent a prayer out to the man who had been so loyal to her family; so much so that he’d had to leave her. A tear slid from her eye and dripped into her ear. She rubbed the sleeve of her dressing gown across her eyes. What was happening to her? She never cried. And now twice in one night? Not even when she had held her long cold father in her arms. Not when she had closed up the last house and packed up her father’s belongings. She sniffed. She was just feeling so dreadfully
alone
. She needed help. No. She just needed some companionship, a reprieve from worrying about spies, the future, money and death. If father were here he would be taking her out for a ride in the countryside to slough off her melancholy. It was an exercise for mind, body, and sagging spirit.

But no joyful afternoons appeared in sight. On the contrary, it looked as if she had an uphill battle ahead of her to counteract the malicious campaign against her father’s name and her fortune. She was without friends, without resources, and so desperately lonely. She rolled her face onto the cover of the journal and sobbed. She did not care that her hot tears soaked the leather. Or that wracking howls broke free from her scratchy throat. Except for the fleeting pleasure of a few kisses, she did not relish her new role as self-sustaining adult. She sniffed.

Even if these tears meant she was weak, she was going to cry anyway. Father owed it to her. And so did the British government, it seemed. A loud hiccup erupted from her throat. She shuddered as the last upswell of tears slowly diminished. She pressed her cracked lips to the cover of her father’s precious journal and kissed it, reverently. If Father were here he would be sketching out a plan of action. Strategizing his next move. Prepared to
play
.

“I am only as powerful as I choose to be.” Her voice was barely more than a scratchy whisper.

Laying her head back down on the damp cover, she closed her eyes, exhausted, and fell into the dreamless sleep of the half-dead.

A hand pressed her shoulder, and Evelyn swatted it away.

“
Dogmak
,
Arife
.”

She opened one of her swollen eyelids not more than a slit and noted Shah bending over her. As usual, the squat maid was dressed head to toe in severe black and wore a judgmental scowl on her dark face.

Evelyn slowly sat up despite the fact that every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She rubbed her grainy eyes and licked her dry lips. Her mouth tasted like stale onions. “What time is it?”

“Seven. The house is stirring, although the upstairs, they sleep on.” She helped Evelyn to her feet. “I come to check on you when I get up.”

They walked over to the bed. With a sigh of relief, Evelyn slipped between the covers. She leaned wearily against the plush pillows and closed her eyes. Abruptly she sat up.

“Father’s journal!”

Shah held it in her hand and was wrapping it in a long, black cloth. “I have Sahip’s book. You rest. I will keep it safe.”

Evelyn nodded, relieved. She lay back down and closed her eyes, praying that when she awoke things would be better. She was counting on it.

W
ith the sunshine of a beautiful day to warm her spirits, Evelyn was glad she’d let Lady Fontaine convince her to attend the fair the next afternoon. And with little Miss Jane as her escort, a smile seemed permanently affixed to her lips. The child’s exuberance was infectious.

“Ooh, Miss Evelyn, they have clowns,” Miss Jane squealed excitedly. “And their dogs are wearing skirts!” She pulled at her cousin’s hand and dragged her through the throng toward the green lawns, where the jokers were throwing colorful balls and the costumed dogs were chasing after them.

Evelyn allowed herself to be pulled through the squawking vendors with their delicious-smelling smoked meat pies, buttery sweets and pastries until they stood on the edge of the crowd witnessing the spectacle.

A face-painted entertainer wearing a red-and-purple sack tossed colored rings into the air. Little black-and-white spaniels barked and raced to snare the rings around their heads. The crowd of mostly children and governesses clapped and laughed with each of the little dogs’ triumphs.

Evelyn opened her parasol to shade herself from the glare of the afternoon sun. All good things in moderation. There were few clouds drifting overhead and the sun bore into her black mourning gown, making sweat gather under her arms and down her back. Miss Jane clutched at her hand, and Evelyn’s heart swelled. With her broad-rimmed pink bonnet, matching muslin high-waisted gown and jersey half-boots, she was the picture of feminine youth.

Miss Jane was so enraptured that she let go of Evelyn’s hand for the first time in an hour and deigned to sit on the grass in her new gown with the other children. Jane’s governess nodded to Evelyn, then sat down beside her charge. Evelyn sighed, enjoying the moment. Her earlier reservations about attending the fair had vanished, to be replaced by delight with the welcome diversion from her worries. No one could be melancholy while watching dogs frolic.

A fresh breeze blew in, bringing with it the scents of candied apples and caramel. She scanned the crowd of upturned faces gleefully watching the entertainment. Presently, she looked over at the artist stalls, where fashionable men and women perused the creations in search of the next great painter. Her gaze locked with a set of wary brown eyes. They belonged to a smut-covered face that had not seen a washbasin in a very long time. He stood lazily and wore a dark brown cap pulled low over his face, but those sharp eyes never rested, watching her as cagily as a fox watched its dinner. He pushed away from the stall and slowly approached. He could not be more than nine, with his scrawny arms, too short pants, and overlarge hands. Shifting between the crowd that did not notice him, he made his way across the lane toward her.

She turned back to the clowns and waited. A dog barked excitedly, and the children laughed. The boy shuffled close and brushed against her skirts. She did not move a hair’s breadth.

“Now see here, you little scoundrel!”

Justin grabbed the urchin by the scruff of the neck and held him high. The poor boy’s legs dangled, and he swung his arms uselessly at the angry marquis.

“Put him down, my lord,” Evelyn demanded, angry with herself for not noticing Justin earlier. Noting the turned heads and the interested stares, she lowered her voice. “The boy did nothing wrong. Put him down.”

“You may not know that anything is awry, but I assure you this boy just picked your pocket.”

“He did not pick my pocket, as there was nothing therein to steal.”

“That does not mean he did not try.”

The boy valiantly struggled on. His cap slid over his eyes. His voice was a whiney squeak. “I dinna take nothing!”

Evelyn stepped closer, praying the boy would say no more. “You are causing a scene. Put him down, my lord.”

“Why, so he can steal someone’s watch? I think not. The boy belongs with the authorities, perhaps in an orphanage where he will have some oversight, as his parents are obviously immoral or inattentive.”

The cap fell to the ground, exposing greasy black hair and brown eyes widened in terror. “You canna take me! Pa needs me! I swear I dinna take nothing! I jus—”

Evelyn’s heart raced with alarm, and she jammed her finger into Justin’s shoulder. “Put him down this instant or I will never forgive you!”

Justin slowly lowered the struggling boy to the ground but kept his hand locked around the urchin’s neck. “You are too softhearted. He would steal your bonnet from your head if it would benefit him.”

“Ya canna take me from my pa, he needs me,” the boy cried. “He’s sick in da head an’ canna work.” Fat tears slid down his dirty cheeks, creating streaks of misery.

Justin’s eyes narrowed. He slowly crouched, lowering himself to eye level with the boy. “What did you say?”

The boy blubbered as thick tears brimmed from his eyes, “Can’t work none, for the fits.”

Justin studied him a long moment. Then the distinguished marquis of Rawlings slowly pulled his embroidered handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to the street urchin. With suspicion the boy looked at the square of snowy white linen, then grabbed it in his dirty hand. He lifted it to his nose and blew noisily.

“Come, boy,” Justin ordered. He kept his hand on the urchin’s shoulder and pressed him toward the vendors’ stalls.

Following close behind, Evelyn asked worriedly, “Where are you taking him?” She scanned the crowds, knowing it was futile. No one saw Sully unless he wished to be seen. She was certain it was he who had sent the boy.

They stopped in front of a stand loaded with pies. The heady scents of seasoned cooked meats wafted around them. “Two meat pies, please.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Justin passed the meat pastries to the boy, who grabbed them with greedy hands. As Justin paid the man, the boy scampered off into the crowd.

Evelyn let go of the breath she was holding. Pressing her hand to the pocket of her pelisse, she felt the tiny piece of parchment folded inside. She tilted her head up and studied Justin. In his finely tailored goose gray wool suit, he was the personification of devilishly attractive English nobleman. But there was something about him, a hint of vulnerability she had never seen before. It seemed some inner demons resided in that stunningly perfect exterior. She certainly knew about societal armor protecting one from being vulnerable. Perhaps she could help him understand he was not so very alone.

He would not meet her eye, so she cleared her throat and began slowly, “When I was living in Barcelona, I felt the need to do something beyond painting and sketching and attending parties.”

He stiffly adjusted his sleeves and did not respond.

“So I offered to sketch and paint at St. Job’s.”

He shifted his shoulders and scanned the crowd, looking anywhere but at her.

She rested her hand on his arm, and he froze. His hard muscles knotted under her light touch. He looked down at her black glove against the soft gray of his coat. He stared at her hand, long and hard, considering. The muscle jumped in his cheek, but otherwise he did not move.

“So, you see,” she spoke softly, “although I can never truly understand, I recognize that simple kindness is the greatest balm to ease the suffering of others’ pain.”

He slowly looked up. Greenish-gray eyes locked with hers, and in their smoky depths she saw his anguish and was touched by it.

“Come, my lord. Let us walk.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

After hesitating a moment, he nodded and fell into step beside her.

They passed the vendors and street performers but did not see them. They came to a cluster of trees and lingered in the welcome shade. They were hidden from the sun and the crowds and the prying eyes. Evelyn closed her parasol and leaned against a scratchy tree trunk. Justin stood near, picking at the bark of the adjacent tree with his gloved hands, lost in thought.

Suddenly, he shifted and leaned against the tree beside hers. He restlessly toyed with a chunk of bark.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” she asked softly. “Was it your father who was ill?”

“We do not speak of it,” he stated harshly. He shrugged. “What would be the use?”

“To help those coping with the illness, for one.”

“It was my dear brother. And he’s dead, so why slander his name?”

“There is no disgrace to illness, Justin,” she chided gently.

He crushed the bark in his fist and tossed it away. “Of course there is, especially when, well, especially if…” his voice trailed off with distress.

“You fear that it is in the blood?”

He shrugged and looked away.

She blew out a long breath of air and watched as bunches of dark clouds gathered on the horizon. It seemed the weather was never constant in London. “I do not know what to say, other than I have no doubt that you are not mad. A bit gruff sometimes, a little too free with your kisses, but certainly not cracked in the head.”

He looked at her a moment. Then his lips bowed into a slight smile, wrinkling his eyes at the corners.

She stepped closer and leaned her forehead against his broad chest. “Justin, everyone has their crosses to bear. I am just so very sorry.”

He wrapped his arms about her and squeezed gently, holding her close. She pressed her nose into the soft wool of his coat. He smelled of musk and Justin, a warm and woodsy scent of which she was growing fond.

He rubbed his hand up and down her back, as if to comfort her. She understood that he was trying to soothe himself. He not only had to deal with the responsibilities of his title and family but he also had to overcome the nightmare of dealing with mental illness. And he had a dragon lady for a mother. Evelyn could give Lady Barclay a little more leeway. The woman could not have had it easy, even if she was a witch.

Justin pressed his chin against Evelyn’s soft, golden hair, wondering why he had told her about George. He never spoke of his brother’s illness. No one did. It was too painful. Too close. Too dangerous. Part of him was relieved to discuss it and not have her withdraw, repulsed. The other part of him felt vulnerable and afraid. What made him share one of his most private secrets with a stranger? A woman who might be involved in traitorous activities? Fear welled up in his chest. How could she use this information against him?

She snuggled closer into the circle of his arms, and his fears quelled. She was not an evil woman. If anything at all, she was likely an innocent caught up in a dangerous mess.

The faint scent of lavender always surrounded her like a bouquet. Never too much. Not perfume. Bathwater, more likely. The thought of warm water running down her naked body stirred him and made him remember that crowds were just paces away.

He gently shifted her away from him. “This is…in-discreet.”

“Yes, how Society frowns upon human comfort.”

“It was not human comfort which made me realize the danger.”

“You were hoping to dispense more of those free kisses?”

“They are not free,” he stated with a small chuckle. “I require you to repay me in kind.”

“Let me know when the piper comes calling.” She popped her parasol open and stepped away from him and the trees. “Until then.”

She strolled back toward the amusements, and Justin watched the luscious swell of her derriere as she gracefully swayed down the lane. He had to marvel at the enigma of the woman who had been haunting many of his daytime moments—and the nocturnal ones as well.

She joined the audience of children, and Jane jumped up and ran to her. The child chattered on excitedly, and Evelyn listened with fond patience. He noted that even little worried Jane found harbor in association with Evelyn. He smiled. She was strong and intelligent, too independent-minded, by far. But there was a loving softness, a caring to her that made him want to bury his head in her chest and just
be
with her. Not the marquis of Rawlings or George’s brother or the colonel’s intelligence man. Simply Justin.

He blinked; these thoughts were so beyond the realm of his experience. It suddenly hit home: he had just poured his heart out to the lady he was supposed to be ensnaring into telling
her
secrets. Could she truly be a spy intent on destroying his country? Was it all just an enchanting facade? His heart began to pound and his mouth dried to dust. Was he allowing himself to be duped? Failing at his duty in more ways than one?

He studied Evelyn as she conferred with his aunt Leonore. They were smiling at each other, obviously enjoying each other’s company. Doubt haunted him. He needed to think. He needed to sort this all out. He prayed he would realize Evelyn was not what he feared her to be. Watching the sun shimmer on her golden hair, he knew he needed to get away from her to see her clearly. He turned and strode down the lane, putting distance between himself and the woman who seemed to be turning his world on its axis.

Another set of eyes watched him go and then turned back to Evelyn with critical scrutiny. The face-painted clown slipped away from the other entertainers and casually sidled toward the entrance of the park. He studied the crowd with the guardedly trained eyes of a professional, but his mind was on the scene behind him, trying to understand what on earth Evelyn was doing consorting with the enemy.