The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

A male passerby paused to leer at her ankles.

Vere caught her hand and tucked it into the curve of his elbow. “I knew it was you, Grenville, all along,” he said, walking on with her.

“You say so now,” she said. “But we both know you would never have done…what you did if you’d realized it was plaguey cocklebur Grenville instead of a nice, friendly slut.”

“That’s like your conceit,” he said, “to fancy your disguise was so clever I’d never see through it.”

She threw him several sharp glances.

“You were only pretending to be drunk,” she accused. “That’s even worse. If you knew it was me, you could have only one reason for—for—”

“There’s only one reason for it.”

“Revenge,” she said. “You’re nursing a grudge about what happened in the alley two weeks ago.”

“I wish you would look at yourself,” he said. “You’ve hardly any clothes on. What more reason does a fellow need than that?”

“You’d need more reason,” she said. “You hate me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He frowned down at her. “You’re merely irritating.”

There was the understatement of the year.

She’d teased him, got him all stirred up and randy…and made him stop, just as they were getting to the good part.

Worse than that, she’d made him doubt.

Perhaps she wasn’t acting.

Perhaps no other man had touched her.

Not in that way, at least.

In any case, he had to know. Because if she truly was a novice, he was not going to bother with her again.

He had no use for virgins. He’d never had one and never intended to. This had nothing to do with moral scruples. The simple fact was, a virgin was too damned much work for too little reward. Since he never bedded any female more than once, he was not about to waste his time on a beginner. He was not going to go to all the trouble of training her so that some other fellow could enjoy all the benefits.

There was only one way to settle this matter, once and for all: the direct way.

He set his jaw, closed his hand a bit more firmly over hers, and said, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

“I should think it was obvious,” she said, chin up.

And cheeks blazing, most likely, though he couldn’t be certain in the gaslight’s shifting shadows. He almost lifted his hand to touch her cheek, to find out for sure whether it was hot, whether she blushed.

He remembered then how miraculously smooth her skin was, and how she’d trembled under his touch. And he felt the stabbing in his heart again.

Lust, he told himself. What he felt was simple lust. She was beautiful and lavishly shaped, and her ripe breasts had filled his hands, as he’d dreamed, and she had yielded so sweetly and warmly, and let her hands roam over him…as far as shyness would let her.

That was the maddest of incongruities, to connect the word “shy” with a woman who drove hell for leather through London’s streets as though it were the Coliseum and she were Caesar’s chief charioteer. Shy, indeed, this woman, who climbed up the sides of houses, who sprang upon a man in a dark alley, swinging her walking stick with the accuracy and power of a champion batsman.

Shy, she.

A virgin, she.

It was ridiculous, insane.

“I’ve shocked you,” she said. “You’re speechless.”

He had been, he realized. Belatedly, he discovered that they’d reached Long Acre.

He also realized his death grip would probably leave bruises on her arm.

He released her.

She stepped away from him, tugged at her bodice—for all the good that did, when there wasn’t enough to cover more than her nipples—and rearranged her shawl more modestly. Then she put her fingers to her lips and let out an eardrum-shriveling whistle.

A short distance down the street, a carriage started toward them.

“I hired him for the evening,” she said, while Vere rubbed his ear. “I know I look like a tart, and I did know better than to walk far in this costume. I wasn’t trying to invite trouble, whatever you think. I was leaving Covent Garden when I saw you. I only went back into the marketplace to avoid you. Otherwise—”

“Two steps is too far for an unescorted female, especially in this neighborhood, after dark,” he said. “You should have found someone to play bully boy. One of the fellows you work with, for instance. Surely there must be one big enough or ugly enough to keep off the lechers.”

“A bully boy.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “A big, intimidating fellow, you mean. That’s what I need.”

He nodded.

The hackney was pulling up at the curb, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was eyeing Vere up and down, rather as one would size up a horse at Tattersall’s.

“Do you know, Ainswood, you may be right,” she said meditatively.

He remembered her saying she had a very good reason for dressing as she had. He hadn’t asked what the reason was. He didn’t need to know, he told himself. He’d asked the only pertinent question, and having obtained his answer, had no earthly reason to linger.

“Good-bye, Grenville,” he said firmly. “Have a pleasant journey to wherever it is you’re going.” He started to turn away.

Her hand clamped on his forearm. “I have a proposal to make,” she said.

“Your driver’s waiting,” he said.

“He’ll keep on waiting,” she said. “I bought him for the night.”

“You are not buying me, for any period of time.” He picked her hand off his arm, rather as one would pick off a slug.

She shrugged, and her shawl slipped, baring one white shoulder and all of one breast except for the fraction concealed by the scrap of red cloth. “Very well, have it your way,” she said. “I’m not going to beg you. And perhaps, after all, it would be wrong of me to ask. The venture would be far too dangerous for you.”

She turned and moved to the hackney. She said something in a low voice to the driver. While she exchanged secrets with him, her shawl slipped further.

Vere swore under his breath.

He knew he was being manipulated.

She showed a bit of skin and said the magic words, “too dangerous”—which anyone who knew him had to know were irresistible to him—and expected him to run after her.

Well, if she thought she could whip Vere Mallory into a frenzy of excitement with such a paltry, tired old trick as that…

…she was right, confound her.

He went after her, pulled the carriage door open, “helped” her in with a firm hand to her hindquarters, and climbed in after her.

“This had better be good,” he said as he slammed down onto the seat beside her. “This had better be bloody damned dangerous.”

Chapter 8

Lydia gave him an abbreviated version of the tale of Miss “Price’s” keepsakes, starting with the assault and robbery at the coaching inn and ending with this night’s discoveries.

Lydia didn’t reveal Tamsin’s true identity or Helena’s previous career in theft. She merely told him she’d intended to enlist someone else’s aid and would return to the original plan if Ainswood preferred not to burglarize the lair of killers who liked to carve up their victims’ faces before or after strangling them.

His Grace only grunted.

He sat, arms folded, making no more articulate comment throughout her recitation. Even when she was done, and paused for his questions—for surely he had many—he remained silent.

“We’re nearly there,” she said after a glance out the window. “Perhaps you’d rather have a look at the place before committing yourself.”