Free London's Perfect Scoundrel by Suzanne Enoch Page A

posture taking on a distinctive defeated slouch. “There is sixty years’ worth of accumulated furniture, paintings, re—”
    â€œIf you’re so curious,” Saint interrupted, “tally it yourself.” He sat forward. “But if I find you’ve sold one stick of it, I’ll be very…unhappy.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œGive it up, Rutledge,” Sir Edward Willsley said gruffly, downing the remains of his glass of port. “I would never have approved it, either.”
    â€œYour thefts will have to be more creative than that, if you wish them to get past me.” With a dismissive glance, Saint refilled his own glass, then Sir Edward’s. All this was a great deal of nonsense, anyway. The only merit to Rutledge’s prattling was that it kept Saint occupied while he waited to see whether Evelyn Marie would appear.
    He doubted it, but not enough to forgo the board meeting altogether. Waiting, however, didn’t sit well with him under most circumstances; here, he felt distinctlyterritorial and defensive of his inherited territory—no doubt to Rutledge’s dismay.
    â€œSo do we have any other new business to discuss?” Lord Talirand asked around a puff of cigar smoke.
    Sir Edward cleared his throat. “The leftmost window in the older boys’ dormitory is coming loose from the casement again.”
    Saint offered a faint grin. “How else would they slip out at night?”
    â€œWhat?” The baronet sat forward. “You knew?”
    â€œI’m not blind, Willsley.”
    â€œHa. You’d turn this establishment into a thieves’ rookery if it was up to you.”
    Lord Talirand exhaled another cloud of smoke. “At least then we’d be making a profit.”
    Saint only sipped his port, reflecting that the only thing worse than being on the Heart of Hope Orphanage board of trustees was having to attend the meetings.
    Someone scratched at the door, and he was on his feet before he registered the wish to remain seated. A slow heat ran under his skin. Damnation, that had best be her.
    â€œExpecting someone?” Talirand drawled, eyeing him.
    â€œEager to escape,” he countered, strolling to the door and pulling it open. “What is it?”
    The housekeeper jumped backward. “My…you said…it’s Miss Ruddick.”
    â€œShow her in, Mrs. Housekeeper.”
    â€œNatham, my lord.”
    He ignored her squawking as Evelyn came forward, and ignored the shuffle of feet as the board stood behind him. She wore a pale green muslin, high in the neck and very plain for one of the diamonds of Mayfair. Her auburn hair, coiled severely at the back of her head, gaveher the appearance of a governess; no doubt she intended to look demure and businesslike.
    She curtsied. “Good afternoon, Lord St. Aubyn, Lord Talirand, gentlemen,” she said, passing by Saint and keeping her gaze turned away from him.
    â€œHow brave of you,” he murmured, motioning her toward his vacated chair. “And you’ve brought gifts.” Wanting to touch her, he settled for tapping his fingers against the stack of papers she held in her arms.
    â€œSupporting documents,” she returned, setting them on the chair.
    â€œWhat brings you here today?” Rutledge asked, coming forward to take her hand and draw it to her lips.
    Saint felt her glance, but ignored it, making his way over to lean against the writing desk. He wanted a vantage point from which to observe her, where the others couldn’t see him doing so. Informing anyone of her anticipated arrival smacked of servitude, and he hadn’t been keen on giving any of the other males in the room advance notice, anyway.
    â€œI…am here to present a proposal for improvements to the orphanage,” she said, her voice only a little unsteady. “Lord St. Aubyn seemed to feel that I should be allowed to donate my time and money only if I could account