To Seduce A Scoundrel Page 4

  “Put your hood back on,” Sevrin urged. He’d stopped next to her and was glancing up and down the corridor. “Anyone could happen upon us at any moment.”

  “We’ll revert to your kissing stratagem, then. I need a minute to catch my breath.”

  “I know this has been a trying evening.” He kept his voice low.

  “‘Trying’?” Hysterical laughter bubbled in her chest, but Philippa fought to keep it inside. “Why did you call my mother by name?”

  He looked up as if he were contemplating the question, then his gaze found hers with warm intensity. “I wanted to put her on notice that she is not immune to scandal.”

  A roguish thing to do, certainly, but he’d done it for her, which somehow took the edge off Philippa’s panic. She took a deep breath.

  Sevrin frowned. “I hear footsteps. Put your hood back on.”

  She frowned back at him but did as he said. A huge figure circled the corner ahead and walked straight for them. Sevrin pulled her away from the wall and tucked her against the side of his warm body. He was still coatless—why hadn’t they thought to get him a new one from that room?

  “Sevrin, you’ve disdained a mask this evening. How bold.”

  The large man stepped into the light splashing from a sconce and Philippa had to bite back a shocked gasp. He was quite simply the biggest person she’d ever seen. Impossibly tall and massively wide, with hair the color of coal and eyes like a storm cloud. But most unnerving of all was the scar running from the tip of his left eye to the base of his jaw. Was this the mysterious Lord Lockwood? Though he lived—and clearly entertained, if one could call it that—in London, she’d never seen him at a Society event.

  “I’ve nothing to hide, Lockwood.” There was a smirk in Sevrin’s tone and, not for the first time tonight, Philippa wondered if he really embraced his notoriety or simply had no other choice. What would she do if she were a pariah? She’d still be the daughter of an earl, but she’d be relegated to a fringe existence, always clinging to the outside. Never getting in. Never being accepted. She felt a rush of sadness for Sevrin, and more than a surge of panic for her own situation.

  Lord Lockwood clasped his hands behind his back, for all purposes seeming as though they chatted at the edge of a ballroom. “Not surprising, but curious since you donned a mask on your other visits. And tonight you brought entertainment, but then my offerings never did catch your eye.”

  So Sevrin came to these parties but had yet to indulge, according to Lockwood anyway. However, since he’d taken her directly to that room with the dresses perhaps, as the huge footman had asked, Sevrin merely liked to watch. She peered at him through the slits of her mask, envisioning him watching activities like she’d seen downstairs. Had she ruined his evening’s plans?

  “A note, however,” Lockwood said, his voice dark and deep and mysterious. “A girl like her will draw notice. If you’re at all worried about disclosing her identity, you ought to consider covering that mark on her arm. Gloves might have been in order. In fact, if you ask one of the footmen in the foyer, he’ll procure a pair for her.”

  Philippa stiffened in his embrace. She’d earned the crescent-shaped scar just below the crook of her elbow falling from a tree when she was eight. Lord Lockwood was frighteningly observant.

  Sevrin stroked her arm, covering the tell-tale scar. She relaxed just a bit.

  “We appreciate your discretion, Lockwood,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Of course.” He smiled and it stretched the scar on his face, making him appear more menacing than he already did. Too bad he hadn’t encountered the footpads earlier. They’d have taken one look at him and run screaming in the other direction. He clapped a hand on Sevrin’s shoulder, and the man’s strength carried into Philippa’s frame. “Enjoy your evening.” Lord Lockwood continued past them down the corridor.

  Sevrin took her elbow and pulled her forward. He sounded as if his breathing had become a bit difficult. “We need to get out of here as soon as possible. Your carriage is waiting for you?”

  “I hope so.” Just when she’d begun to believe she might actually escape this nightmare unscathed, the encounter with Lockwood disrupted her equilibrium. “Do you think running into Lockwood will prove to be a problem? My scar, I mean…”

  He didn’t slow their pace. “Lockwood designed these parties to be as anonymous and secretive as an attendee deigns. He won’t divulge anything.”

  Philippa wished she could say this alleviated her concern, but how could it? Her entire reputation—indeed her entire livelihood—was at stake.

  They rushed down the stairs, but—and she should’ve expected it really, given how her night had progressed—a group of gentlemen stood in the center of the marble room. In unison, the men turned and watched her and Sevrin descend the staircase. If Lockwood had looked at her appreciatively, these men regarded her with unguarded lust.

  “Follow my lead,” Sevrin whispered close to her ear. He moved her to his left side, presumably so her scar would be hidden between them. He wrapped her hand around his arm as he guided her down to the marble floor.

  “Sevrin,” one of them said, “a mask is too good for you, eh?”

  He gave them a bland smile, and Philippa was glad her entire face was covered for she couldn’t have managed such a feat. In fact, she felt more than a trifle guilty that she was anonymous while Sevrin was not. “I must’ve forgotten it upstairs,” he drawled.

  “Your coat too, apparently.” It was clear this gentleman thought himself above Sevrin. Unaccountably, Philippa wanted to kick him.

  “Who’s your friend?” a second man asked. The man was of average height and thick build. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Philippa suspected she knew most of these people and would be shocked by more than a few of them, as she’d been with her mother. He stepped toward Philippa, studying her closely.

  “You can’t ask that, Blick,” the first man said. Philippa recognized “Blick” as the nickname of Mr. Bartholomew Blickleigh, a gentleman with whom she was acquainted and had even danced with once. Would she ever be able to attend another Society event without wondering if she’d met this person or that person at Lockwood House? What a chilling thought.

  “Idiot,” Blickleigh said, turning his head toward the man who’d identified him. “I’m wearing a mask for a reason.”

  “As is she,” the first man retorted.

  Blickleigh appeared to ignore him, returning his attention to Sevrin. “She looks like Quality. He leaned toward her and inhaled. “Smells like it too.”

  Sevrin pulled her closer against him. “Have you no discretion, Blickleigh?”

  “Is she in trade? I’d be willing to pay,” said a third man. He stared at her breasts and actually licked his lips. “A great sum.”

  Philippa shuddered.

  “Me too,” put in a fourth man. “Come now, Sevrin. She’s a beauty. Much too elegant for the likes of you.”

  The first man moved forward. “She the bit of fluff I saw you with in the drawing room earlier? Too bad you beat me to her. Though, perhaps I may get a second chance.” He reached out and grabbed her wrist. Caught unaware, Philippa lurched forward, but immediately pulled back toward Sevrin.

  He welcomed her by clasping his arm around her front and tucking her against his chest. His forearm rested against the flesh above her neckline. His embrace was possessive, warm, safe. Still, her heart thundered in her chest. “You lot know I like a good fight,” he drawled. He sounded as if he was baiting them. Philippa recalled the way he’d pounded the footpad in the alley. Had he enjoyed it?

  “He was kicked out of Jackson’s, mate,” the third man stage-whispered.

  The flesh around the mouth of the man holding her whitened and tiny lines webbed away from his lips. He let go of Philippa and backed away. “Just so.”

  “Good evening, lads.” Sevrin kept a firm arm around Philippa’s shoulders as he guided her to the door. She couldn’t wait to be free of this place.
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  The footman let them out, and Philippa practically ran down the stairs to the street where the line of coaches stood queued.

  “Wait,” Sevrin called. He’d let go of her as soon as she’d started her quick descent.

  She pivoted to face him. “What?”

  “I presume you came in the Herrick coach?”

  Why was he asking ridiculous questions? “Yes, of course. Let’s go.” She turned toward her family’s coach near the back of the queue. She raised her hand toward her hood, eager to rid herself of the visual impediment.

  His warm fingers wrapped around hers. “We can’t. At least not in your coach. And you can’t take your hood off yet. Those men are particularly interested in you and it will be easy for them to learn how we departed.”

  She dropped her hand. Hell and the devil, this night is a catastrophe.

  He withdrew his grasp. “We’ll have to hire a hack.”

  “Don’t you have a coach?” she asked.

  The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m afraid not.”

  Right. He was rumored to be light of funds in addition to black of soul.

  “But what about my coach? My mother will see it when she leaves and she’ll know I was here.” Her voice rose in panic. They’d come so close to escape!

  “I’ll instruct the footman to notify your coachman to return to Herrick House after a reasonable interval of time—say a half hour from now. Will that suffice?”

  She glanced at the coach. “Yes.”

  Sevrin went to a footman standing along the queue. They spoke for a moment and then he came to retrieve her. “All settled. We are now free to go.”

  “Where’s the hack?” Philippa looked up and down the street as if one would materialize precisely because they needed it.

  “We’ll catch one on the next street.”

  “Secrecy?”

  “Privacy. I prefer it. Especially in this situation.” He took her hand and guided her past the queue away from the alley where they’d encountered the men who were waiting for him. She ought to have known Sevrin would consider that.

  They left the line of carriages behind and soon turned the corner.

  “Now you can remove your hood,” he said.

  Philippa pulled the fabric from her head and slowed her pace a bit, savoring the relief of being away from Lockwood House. A breeze picked up the curl that brushed her neck and sent a prickle of goose bumps along her exposed flesh. Her gloves were long gone, and she’d left her shawl in the coach before going into Lockwood House. Thankfully, the late March night wasn’t freezing, but her body chilled, nonetheless.

  “You’re cold,” Sevrin said. “And I left my blasted coat in the alley.”

  “It’s all right. We’ll find a hack soon.” She hoped. They’d walked a good block since turning the corner and though there was a bit of traffic, they had yet to see a carriage for hire. Her thoughts turned to the men who’d been looking for Sevrin in the alley. She considered asking him about them again, but doubted he’d be more forthcoming. Her companion was a charming, if a bit wicked, enigma. Instead, she decided to focus on her own problems.

  Though she liked holding his hand—it gave her a welcome sense of security—she let go in order to wrap her arms around her middle. She was cold, but the sensation came more from her insides than the temperature.

  She’d accepted long ago that her parents existed in a polite marriage devoid of passion. But they’d shared a mutual respect and faithfulness. Or so she’d thought. She couldn’t help feeling betrayed by her mother’s actions. Mother had strained the fabric of their family, and if it ripped in two… Philippa squeezed herself tighter. “I don’t know what to do now that I’ve learned the extent of my mother’s depravity. Should I tell my father when he returns?”

  Sevrin put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Their proximity slowed their progress, but Philippa was grateful for his warm solicitude. “I don’t think I would,” he said. “Chances are he’ll find out soon enough. Secrets are awfully hard to keep, especially if one isn’t particularly careful about hiding them.”

  Philippa stopped and looked at him sharply. “Don’t tell me you were aware of her adultery before tonight? I had hoped to put an end to her behavior before it became known.”

  He gave a light chuckle. “You sound like the parent.”

  No wonder, given that Philippa had spent most of her life in the absence of any. She’d begun to assume the role out of necessity. “Someone has to be.”

  “Well, I wasn’t aware of anything regarding your mother. In fact, I’m not sure I could pick your mother out of a crowded ballroom.”

  “But you recognized her upstairs.”

  He returned her intense regard, and her heart beat a little faster. “Only from your reaction—and don’t worry that you betrayed yourself. I don’t think anyone else caught your gasp, and they certainly didn’t feel you stiffen.”

  The things he said seemed so… intimate. Or at least, they weren’t the typical things one might notice about another person after just meeting them. She ought to feel concerned or intimidated or something. Well, she did feel something, a ridiculously inappropriate attraction.

  She started walking again. “You can’t identify my mother, but you recognized me within ten seconds of me entering a dark room.”

  His lip quirked up. “Knowing you and knowing your mother are not the same things.”

  She gave him a coy smile, knowing she shouldn’t flirt, but somehow unable to help herself. She didn’t remember the last time she’d met a gentleman who’d so rapidly provoked her interest. Never, she realized. “Any decent gentleman is versed in a young lady’s family.”

  “And that is where you misjudge me.” He lowered his voice. “I’m no decent gentleman.”

  Philippa tried to ignore the shivers dancing along her neck. “You’ve been incredibly gallant tonight.”

  “Good God, don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

  She angled her head to look at him. “Why are you so determined for everyone to think the worst of you?”

  He stared straight ahead. “This is a highly inappropriate conversation.”

  “After all we’ve been through, you find this inappropriate?”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to try to forget tonight ever happened. You must treat me as you did before, certainly not as some sort of heroic rescuer.”

  Was the disdain in his tone directed at her or himself?

  “So the next time I see you, I’m to ignore your presence and act as if we hadn’t shared the most thrilling night of my life?”

  “Is that what you did before, ignore me?”

  She couldn’t imagine how that could be possible. He’d provoked an intense and startling reaction in her. “I’m afraid I was simply unaware of you. A tragedy, really.”

  “You flatter me.” He withdrew his hand and stepped toward the thoroughfare. “There’s a hack.” He hailed the carriage and within a few minutes they were inside the marginally warmer interior on their way to Upper Grosvenor Street.

  Lanterns hung outside the carriage, but they cast meager light inside. Philippa sat facing forward, while Sevrin sat opposite. She supposed that was the appropriate arrangement, but she missed his warmth.

  In the near-darkness his features were indiscernible. They rode in silence for several minutes.

  She twisted the silken hood in her hands. “Do you really think no one will determine my identity?”

  “I don’t see how they could. You were nearly always masked, and when you weren’t, only retainers saw you.”

  “It’s a lucky thing you rescued me so quickly.” She recalled the way he’d pushed her against the wall, the way his body had fitted against hers, the way his heart had thundered beneath her palm, the way he’d kissed her. “No one has ever…embraced me like that before.”

  The space in the hack seemed to shrink, but even so, Philippa wished he were closer. Next to her.

  “It was a neces
sary inconvenience.”

  Philippa felt as if a bucket of water from the Thames in January had been thrown over her. He hadn’t experienced the same arousal. But how foolish of her to think he had. He was a man of extreme experience, regardless of what she thought she knew of him after their escapades together. To him, she was a silly Society girl who’d made a very, very stupid mistake. That he’d had to rectify at the expense of his own anonymity. She pulled herself into the corner of the seat, folding her arms into her lap and pressing her knees together.

  She looked out the window as they turned onto Piccadilly. She frowned.

  Sevrin leaned over and looked outside as well.

  Fear laced through her. “We’re not going the right way, are we?”

  “It doesn’t appear so.” The lantern light from outside the door streaked over his face, illuminating his concern. He pounded his fist on the roof of the hack.

  She waited for the small door in the roof to open, and when it didn’t, her trepidation mounted. “Where do you think we’re going?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

  The coach turned again. Sevrin grabbed the door handle. “Do you think you can jump?”

  Philippa blinked at him. “Out of a moving carriage?”

  “Yes, we’re on the Haymarket. Can you jump?”

  She looked down at the cobblestone street. They weren’t going terribly fast—she’d gone much faster in a phaeton in Hyde Park, of course—but she’d likely injure herself in the fall. She returned her gaze to his. “I don’t know.”

  As she considered whether she wanted to spend the Season with a fractured leg or arm or both, the door in the roof of the hack finally opened.

  A bruised but somehow familiar face looked down upon them. “Evening, milord.”

  “You,” Sevrin said, not letting go of the door.

  “Me.”

  Then Philippa figured where she knew him from. The alley. He was the hulking brute Sevrin had fought. “Let go of the door.” He pointed a pistol down at them and Sevrin let his fingers fall away.