The Notorious Scoundrel Read online

  “You can’t work at the club anymore.” Hard, steely eyes pegged her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Amy gazed into the dark pools, reflecting the glimmering light like mirrors. However, unlike the glass, she didn’t see herself cast back in the glossy orbs. She looked deep into the obdurate man’s soul and witnessed a bevy of emotions that both alarmed and strangely thrilled her. Being so close to Edward teased her senses, muddled her thoughts. Every word and breath was more acute, every touch more sensitive.

  “I can handle the situation at the club,” she insisted in a low voice.

  “You’ve been attacked twice in two nights.”

  The man’s sharp, warm breath stirred the fine hairs at her temples, making her shiver. “I was attacked once,” she clarified tersely. “I protected myself tonight.”

  She wriggled her wrist loose and stepped away from him, her heart thumping in her chest with greater vigor.

  “And who will protect you tomorrow night?” He glared at her. “There’s one lazy guard who can’t get off his arse and quit napping during the performances.”

  So that’s how Edward had finagled his way into the rear of the club, she mused.

  “I’ll protect myself,” she said with confidence.

  “Amy,” he drawled in a deadly tone, “the attackers have been offered one hundred pounds to kidnap you. I heard them before the door closed.”

  “I heard them, too,” she said indignantly. “I’m not deaf.”

  “Do you think such men will quit coming after you? Forfeit the fortune?”

  She gritted, “I can’t quit the club.”

  “It might be the queen who wants you dead.” Slowly he approached her. “She might have hired the attackers to kill you. The woman hates you, you know.”

  Amy snorted. “Madame Rafaramanjaka would never waste one hundred pounds on me. If she wanted me dead, she’d strangle me herself.”

  Amy stepped away from the nearing scoundrel. He roused her blood, her pulse in such an alarming manner, she felt safer at a distance from the brooding fellow.

  “Look,” he said more softly, stilling his steps. “I know you’re frightened about the unknown future, but you can’t risk your life at the club.”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “You need to find another form of livelihood,” he persisted in an even voice.

  “No. No!” She skirted around the table to evade his darkening expression. “I refuse to live like one of them!” She pointed at the two opposite walls. “I refuse to be poor and desperate.”

  “Amy,” he said sharply, eyes aglow, “you have to be reasonable. You’re being hunted.”

  “I am being reasonable,” she retorted sourly. “As soon as my youth is gone, Madame Rafaramanjaka will dismiss me from the club and hire a replacement.” She jabbed her forefinger into her bust. “But I will have saved enough funds by then to live out the rest of my days in comfort.” She looked daggers at him. “What do you want me to do? Be a seamstress? A governess? I can’t even read! I’ll make a pittance each year toiling under some other ruthless employer. I make more than sixty pounds each annum working for the queen!”

  “You slave for the queen,” he corrected darkly. “And it isn’t worth your life.”

  “You want to see me living in the streets! How is that any better?”

  “I want to see you work in a less dangerous profession.”

  She scoffed and rubbed her hands together, pacing the room. “You want me to work under the direction of some other boor for a meager amount. And then, one day, when I’m too old to work, and I’ve no money saved because I’ve spent every penny on food and rent, I’ll be destitute. Thank you,” she said sarcastically, “however, I don’t like your plan for my future.”

  “Well, do you have some money saved? Or have you spent it all on mirrors?”

  “Why do you think I live in this wretched place?” She glowered at him. “I want to save every penny, but I still don’t have enough.”

  “You can get married. A husband will look after your needs.”

  He offered the alternative as if it was an obvious solution to her troubles, and she looked at him with scorn.

  “A husband will only drink away my hard-earned pennies. I see what it’s really like out there.” She pointed at the window. “I see the wives with their drunken curs for spouses. Just listen!” She outstretched her arms as if to take in all the vile noises stemming from every side of the room. “I won’t live like them.” She crossed the room and collected her shawl, fingers trembling, heart pounding. “I’ve survived on my own since I was a babe, and I’ll continue to survive on my own just fine.”

  She hustled from the room, impervious to Edward’s shouts. She made her way through the building and reached the ground level, where she quickly skirted across the muddy street, rehashing the quarrel with Edward in her mind.

  It burned her blood to even think about forsaking her profession, as scandalous as it was, and working in a shop or a factory like a miserable horse for scraps. She would keep her livelihood as a dancer and confront the risks, as she had done—successfully—in the past.

  Insensible to her surroundings, Amy rounded the dark corner and rammed a towering figure.

  She murmured, distracted, “Pardon me,” and sidestepped the ruffian with his two gruff companions, but a firm hand arrested her movements and a deep voice stirred her hackles.

  “You must be Amy.”

  Amy’s heart palpitated as she gazed into the ruffian’s sinister eyes, and the danger Edward had warned her against flitted through her head, for the shaggy barbarian, with his long hair secured in a queue, was the most menacing fellow she had ever set eyes on.

  “She looks just like he described her,” said another ruffian.

  He was almost as tall as the devil holding her, though not nearly as ominous. Still, Amy’s chest cramped as her heart beat wild and sweat formed across her brow.

  “Aye, she’s as lovely as a rainbow,” praised the third shadow. He even smiled in the dark, for his teeth gleamed like moonbeams.

  She didn’t recognize the three assailants. How many were out there searching for her? As Edward had expressed, there was a one-hundred-pound bounty on her head. Who would forfeit such a fortune?

  “Oh, bullocks!” she cried.

  Amy struggled with her captor. In vain. The man shoved her against the nearest slimy wall with one hand, and glowered at her.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?” she whispered.

  “Edmund.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Ed—”

  Amy’s thoughts scampered like dry leaves in a windstorm. Did he mean Edward? What did he want with Edward? No, Edmund. Had Edmund robbed him of his coin purse? Was that why he was after him?

  She imagined the ruffian’s meaty fist slamming into Edmund’s handsome head, and she shuddered, pinching her lips.

  “I see you do know who I’m talking about.” Dark eyes flashed. “Now tell me where he is, wench.”

  However, she refused to betray Edmund’s location. It was so uncivilized, to be a snitcher. She wasn’t so dishonorable. She wouldn’t let them have the man who had saved her life, even if he was a thief.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she returned stiffly, her heart in her throat.

  “A guard at the Pleasure Palace told us he saw you run off with him.”

  She paled. “A g-guard told you that?”

  The same lazy one who had napped during her performance, allowing Edmund to sneak into the rear of the establishment?

  “Hmm…he was very forthcoming. He needed a little encouragement before making the confession, though. Will you need encouragement, wench?”

  She ignored the threat, filled with one haunting thought: she was ruined. If a guard at the gentlemen’s club had witnessed her dash off with Edmund earlier in the night…then Madame Rafaramanjaka would hear about it eventually, as well. She would know Amy had lied, that she had a “lover,” that her
true identity had been revealed, and Amy would be dismissed from the establishment for good.

  Hot tears filled her eyes. “Damn him!”

  She railed at Edmund. She had told him not to follow her to the club, but he had been stubborn; he had refused to listen. He had ruined her.

  She should confess the scoundrel’s whereabouts, that he was staying at her apartment. She should let the three bounders trounce him soundly for upsetting her life in such a cruel fashion!

  Edmund rounded the corner then. He glanced at Amy, pinned between the barbarian and the wall—and started swinging.

  “Get away from her!”

  He knocked the other two ruffians aside, amid hails of protests, with little effort, he was so incensed. He tackled the barbarian with precision next, but the ominous fellow had enough brute strength to pin the deft pugilist against the wall, curtailing the fisticuffs.

  He shoved his elbow under Edmund’s chin, and growled. “Where have you been?”

  Slowly Amy slunk along the wall, hoping to skirt away; however, one of the other beasts, who had recovered from the earlier assault, grabbed her arm, and she sighed in defeat. The young buck offered her a flirtatious wink in consolation, though, and she frowned.

  “What the devil is wrong with you, Edmund?”

  Edmund stopped struggling at the sound of his name, looking confused. “Ed…what?”

  “Do you think you can just run off and hide with a ladybird, without letting us know where you are?”

  Amy bristled. “I’m not his ladybird.”

  He already had a bonny Meg stashed away in some port, she thought tartly.

  “Belle’s been worried sick,” the ruffian charged.

  Amy rolled her eyes. Edmund had another sweetheart weeping for him in port? Was that why the men had come looking for him? To drag him back home to his family, his wife? Hell, he might even be one of those drunken curs she had denounced just a few minutes ago.

  Amy’s temper rankled as she stewed in her own folly. She had forsaken her livelihood to care for and protect him, the wretch!

  Edmund narrowed his eyes. “J-James?”

  “Are you drunk?” the barbarian demanded.

  “With love,” said the flirty ruffian, grinning at her.

  Amy twisted her arm in a bid to escape his clutches, but he maintained a firm grip.

  She huffed. “He’s not drunk—with love or otherwise.” She looked pointedly at her cheeky captor, then: “He hit his head and can’t remember his name.”

  James relaxed his hold. “Is that true, Eddie?”

  “You can’t remember us?” said the third ruffian. “Your own brothers?”

  Amy glanced from one face to the other, and quickly assessed the claim was true: the men were his brothers. It was there in their rugged features and dark hair, the shapes of their eyes, and even their manners of expression.

  Edmund grabbed his skull as he was wont to do whenever a memory came upon him. “My head hurts.”

  “Let’s get him indoors,” suggested Amy. “He needs to rest. I live just around the corner.”

  She yanked her arm away from the young upstart, who chuckled at her curt manner, and guided the brothers back to her lodgings.

  Inside the apartment, the four men filled the room, making it seem so much smaller than it really was.

  “Sit,” ordered James.

  “No.”

  Edmund moved toward the window and stood beside the glass, pensive. The other three ruffians settled into the oak chairs, the wood joints creaking.

  Amy looked at each of the big fellows crowding her small apartment. Within a few days, she had witnessed her life sink even deeper into turmoil. Distressed, she remained beside the door, lips pinched.

  “I’m Quincy,” said the scamp who’d guarded her in the street, clearly sensing her unrest. “That’s William.” He pointed to the third, quiet ruffian. “And James you know.”

  The barbarian. He and William were about twenty years older than Edmund and Quincy, for she observed the smattering of silver at their temples.

  Edmund still gazed out the window, wondering: “How did you find me?”

  “We retraced your steps from the flash house in Buckeridge Street,” William informed him.

  “We had a drink there before parting ways,” said Quincy. “Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Why don’t we take you home so you can rest, Eddie.” James shifted from the chair and approached his brother at the window. “You hit your head?”

  “Aye.” Edmund ruffled his hair. “But I can’t go home yet. I have to talk with Amy.” He crossed the room, eyes alight, and took her by the hand. “Alone.”

  He dragged her into the bedchamber and shut the door.

  Edmund had regained his memory, that much Amy was sure about, for he had looked at her with such fire in his eyes, it was clear he had recollected their first unfriendly meeting.

  The small room was dark. Moonlight moved softly through the space, illuminating the man’s wide form as he sat down on the edge of the bedstead.

  She remained standing beside the closed door and folded her arms across her chest. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Edmund Hawkins,” he said with some uncertainty.

  “Are you a thief? Or a seaman?”

  He was silent.

  “Ugh!”

  “I didn’t steal the purse,” he returned with quiet conviction. “It’s mine. The initials are mine.”

  “What are you doing with such a fancy pouch?”

  “It was a gift from my sister, Belle…I think.”

  Aha! Belle wasn’t a sweetheart he had abandoned, then. For some obscure reason, she was relieved to hear that. Although it didn’t explain the identity of the mysterious bonny Meg he had tattooed on his back.

  “I would never keep the purse otherwise,” he said dryly.

  She approached the locked chest in the corner of the room and removed a key secured on a chain from around her neck. She opened the chest and rummaged through the contents for the pouch. The coins still secured within the leather, she tossed him the purse.

  He captured the small satchel with one hand.

  “The tattoo on your back?”

  He rubbed his shoulder. “The bonny Meg?”

  “Yes, her.”

  Amy tried to keep the tartness out of her voice, but she had failed to do so, and the scoundrel had noticed her tone, for he murmured softly, “Are you jealous?”

  She snorted at the absurd suggestion.

  “I thought I would ask.” He shrugged. “The Bonny Meg is a schooner. She was my late father’s ship, named after my late mother, Megan.” He said with reverence, “I sailed aboard her for many years.”

  The stiffness in Amy’s shoulders eased. “I see.”

  “Amy.”

  “What?”

  He lifted off the bed and stepped toward her. “I want you to come home with me.”

  “As your ladybird?” she snapped, pulse fluttering.

  “I can help you find another line of work.” He pressed his hands against the door, trapping her. “You can’t work at the club anymore.”

  He was too bloody close, the proximity making her senses dance with awareness. A hard set of eyes stared at her, offset by a pair of lush, well-formed lips that seemed balmily tempting to taste.

  “Did you hear me, Amy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You can’t work at the Pleasure Palace anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  He sounded unconvinced, surprised even, that she had acquiesced, and after resisting the suggestion so ardently earlier in the night.

  “Yes, thanks to your brothers, I’ve learned one of the sentries at the club witnessed us leaving together.” She said tightly, “The wretched queen will soon find out my identity is revealed.”

  “As Zarsitti?” he whispered.

  The man’s lips moved with captivating sensuality, leaving Amy grasping for he
r wits, and even her breath.

  “She’ll dismiss me, I’m sure,” she said, voice shaky.

  “I remember the first night I saw you on stage—the very first night.” He peered at her intently, as if conjuring the images in his head. He then glanced hotly at her belly. “You have a mark between your breasts.”

  She shivered, senses ravaged, for he stared at her midriff, peeling away the layers of her garments in his mind, she was sure. And the thought that he was thinking about her without her attire properly secured made her heart beat with ferocious swiftness.

  “A kiss,” he murmured. “You have a kiss between your breasts, I remember.”

  He sounded like he wanted to kiss her right between the breasts, the man’s voice was so low, hardly audible…and the thought was so wickedly tempting, moisture gathered between her breasts.

  “Is it real, Amy? The mark?”

  She licked her lips. “I-I was born with the birthmark.”

  “Hmm…It’s a good thing you can’t return to the club.” He lifted his eyes and gazed at her with mesmerizing intensity. “Come home with me and I will find you a new profession.”

  It was hot inside the room. The scoundrel’s heated words warmed her even more, making the blood pump through her veins with greater vigor.

  “As what?” she said hoarsely.

  “How about a lady’s maid? No one knows your identity as the dancer, for you always concealed your features with a veil and paint. And Madame Rafaramanjaka will never move in high society, so she will never cross your path at a social function; she will never betray your past.”

  Amy dismissed the heady effect he had on her for a moment, and glowered at him as if he were daft. “A lady’s maid?”

  “You want money and a comfortable life. I can see to it that you get both things.”

  “How? You’re just a sailor…aren’t you?”

  After another perturbing pause, she cried:

  “Oh no! You are a gentleman? The fancy purse. The gentlemen’s club. That’s how you got inside the Pleasure Palace!”

  Thoughts whirling, Amy pushed away from the man’s warm embrace and crossed the room. He was a bloody gentleman? He could…help her?

  She rubbed her flushed cheeks. “Why are you dressed like a vagabond?”