Page 16 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Alexandra went still, too scared to move lest he change his mind. “By whom?”
“I ain’t get paid to tell. Got paid to kill that that shadow watchin’ your doorstep and to bring you in. Dumped his body in the garden, and now ‘ere I am. Come slow.”
Oh god, he’dkilledthe man Nick hired to protect her.Oh god.
Trying to control her trembling, Alexandra followed him at his gesture. “What if I paid you more to leave? No consequences, I won’t tell the police. Just a quick payment to walk out that door.”
His eyes glittered in the darkness. And why not? He was a mercenary, only here to do a job for payment. Men like him were easily swayed and easily bought. “. . . How much?” he asked.
“How much are you owed for bringing me in?”
The intruder’s smile unnerved her. “A tenner to bring you alive.”
Alexandra’s breath stopped. That was a large sum of money. “And dead?”
“Not a tenner. Figure the bloke payin’ me wants to finish the job hisself.”
But why?She wanted to ask again for the name of who had hired him, but she focused on her task: persuasion; distraction. She needed to make it out of this house alive. She had prepared for this, all those times she went into the East End. Other women had taught her how to survive.
She had learned so much from them.
Deep breath.“I will offer you thirty pounds to leave this house. Thirty. Paid in notes. Right now.”
He paused, tilting his head as he considered her offer. He’d be mad not to take the small fortune. Her thoughts were a litany of a simple prayer:Say yes. Please say yes.
The man started to lower his pistol, but then lifted it again. “Can’t. He’ll come find me. He’ll—”
“Thirty pounds is more than enough to escape,” Alexandra gently reasoned. “You can run wherever you like. Start new.”
The intruder licked his lips.Yes, keep talking. Only a little longer now.She knew this man would betray her. Mercenaries did not have honor, and this man would likely kill her for the buttons on her coat. No one was coming to her rescue.
She was going to have to save herself.
“Show it to me,” he said.
Good. Now stay calm.
Alexandra went to her vanity and took the key out of its hidden compartment to unlock the drawer. At the top were stacks of letters and documents she kept for her essays and books. Reminders that she still had work to do, if she made it out of here alive.
Below the letters was the object she sought: the small, ornately carved knife.
She had commissioned the knife herself for protection in the London slums. The informants for her essays lived in dangerous parts of the city, where it was risky for a single woman to wander alone. Those women had told her to bring a weapon.
And they had taught her how to use it.
Alexandra grabbed her knife and slipped it behind her wrist. She shifted more documents aside, deliberately making noise, as if she were still searching.
The intruder made an impatient noise. “Hurry the fuck up.”
“Of course,” she murmured, plucking out the small wad of notes she kept to pay her informants. “Here you are.”
She held up the notes for him to see. He stared at it, assessing. This man had likely never seen thirty quid in his life.
His next thoughts were more obvious: was it worth taking her offer when he had another bounty waiting? Together, they netted him a small fortune. Her life was worth nothing to him.
And forty pounds was more than thirty.
“Give it ‘ere,” he said, gesturing with his fingers.
