How to Marry a Marquess (Wedded by Scandal 3)

Good God, if she had any notion of the lurid thoughts she evoked, she would slap him silly. He was so damned happy he had walked away with his honor and willpower intact. Evie was not for him, she never had been, and now with their social standings so opposing, she never would be. He trusted no woman as he did her, and even then, he could not give her his absolute confidence. She had become such a darling of society, a reigning queen of their fickleness and hard-heartedness. She belonged to the world he could no longer see himself a

part of. It had become intolerable to be part of the ton’s cruelty and hypocrisy.

Though of the same society, Evie would never fit into the life he had shaped for himself. He mingled with lowborn men and women the world thought of as less than the dirt under their boots, and he’d slit the throats of the men who’d thought to consign his daughter to a life of hell and others who followed similar trades. Worse…he’d felt no remorse at his lack of mercy. What he did now when he met with those with influence was not for his benefit but for the poor and the underclass citizens he and his good friends, the Duke of Wolverton and the Earl of Blade, fought for.

“Ah, Evie, what shall I do about our peculiar friendship?” He had to decide soon. The state of need he existed in for her, and the vow to never act upon that desire, could no longer be endured. Either he withdrew from her completely, or he seduced the charming beauty. His mouth dried and his cock stirred at the latter temptation.

If he were to act on his licentious thoughts, surely then he would be the worst blackguard possible. A discordant sound echoed in the dark. The click and clack of boots upon shingled roofs.

Ah…my shadow is back.

He casually twisted to confirm and saw a boy following him, lightly jumping from rooftop to rooftop, never letting Richard out of his sight. This was the third night he’d spotted his follower, and he was certain the boy had been spying on him when he met with his friend Tobias, the Earl of Blade, at Jenny’s Inn earlier. The boy normally gave up once Richard went into his carriage and departed from the slums of the East End. More likely he would be too much of an oddity in Grosvenor Square to follow him there.

It was improbable the boy was a footpad, but Richard did not underestimate him. He’d seen children as young as twelve slipping a blade between a man’s ribs in St. Giles. The boy could be dangerous, though was unlikely to be an assassin. Richard had made ruthless enemies from his society and from the slums of London for his ideals—men and women were made equal under God, and wealth should be dispersed amongst the masses and not accumulated by a few. He rounded the corner and leaned against the grimy wall of the building. Several shuffles later, and a grunt as the boy allowed himself to fall from the roof, he rounded the corner to where Richard lurked in the shadows.

The boy jerked with evident surprise.

“You’ve been dogging my steps. Here I am,” Richard said smoothly, lightly gripping his cane that contained his foil.

“Wot did ye do with Clara?” the boy asked. “They said ye be the gent who ’ave ’er.”

Clara. The boy was dressed in threadbare trousers and a coat that had seen better days. His shoes had holes, and Richard could see a big toe peeking out. The boy must have been cold, but he stared him down with something akin to savagery. The boy’s arm twitched, and it was then Richard noted the club he held.

“I know of a Clara,” Richard said. He indicated a height to his waist. “About this high, brown hair with red highlights and the darkest eyes I’ve ever beheld.”

The boy’s lower lip quivered, and the blast of hope and relief that filled his gaze was profound. “If ye’ve hurt ’er I’ll gut ye like a stinkin’ fish.”

“Fair enough, I would do the same to any man who harms a child.”

The boy seemed perplexed. “Ye a nob,” he sneered. “Ye hurt us.”

He considered the tears on the boy’s cheeks. “I know of a Clara. She lives at Kencourt Manor, in Hampshire.”

“That be yer fancy place?”

“One of them.”

“She be yer whore?” the boy demanded, his voice rough with rage.

“No, she is the friend and companion of my daughter, Emily.”

“Wot’s a companion?”

“They play together, and they learn the same lessons. At times, they even sleep in the same bed.”

The boy hardly seemed to know what to do with that revelation. “Yer lying.”

“Clara often speaks about her brother with fond memories. James was his name, if I recall correctly.”

The hope that brightened his eyes was so damnably painful to witness. His throat worked furiously, but no sound emerged.

Richard continued, “She spoke of the days before the loss of their mother, how they roamed the countryside in Suffolk, picking wild berries and catching fish for supper. They would also meet with the local vicar twice a week for letter learning.”

“It be ’er! ’ee’s my sister.”

“Would you like to meet with her…live with her?”

Confusion blanketed James’s face. “Wot do ye mean?”