Page 28 of Tempting the Scoundrel
It was easier if she believed the broadsheets, written by those who did not know him. They called him an Irish upstart with suspected Fenian sympathies. One who used violent methods to claw his way from an impoverished nobody to someone who commanded an East End empire.
That was the man who sold newspapers. That was the man Members of Parliament deemed too dangerous, even as they spent money at his gambling den.
That was the man who had crushed her heart beneath the heel of his boot.
When Alexandra’s work took her to the East End, she couldn’t help but ask about her errant husband. From working girls to the miscreants outside the gin palaces, people spoke of his fairness. Of the high wages he paid staff, of the families he took responsibility for. Alexandra would examine these notes at night, in the privacy of her bedchamber, and file them away with an ache in her chest. Each one was a reminder that Nicholas Thorne was capable of caring for so many people. She could not reconcile those stories with the man who had colluded with her father to destroy her. With the man who cared enough about children that he’d purchase several orphanages.
“And their school fees? Who takes care of those?”
He only said, “It’s a small fee to pay. Gets them off the streets.”
“Butyoupay it,” she pressed. “Don’t you?”
“I pay,” he confirmed quietly. At her long silence, he gave a dry laugh. “If you’re worried about mistaking me for a good man, don’t bother,” he said. “I care for what’s mine. No more, no less.”
Something in her bristled at that. He was giving her permission to hate him, was he? “How kind of you to remind me,” she murmured, rising from the bed. She held up the dress he’d provided against her. While a touch too big in the bosom for one as small breasted as Alexandra, it was close enough in size everywhere else.
Nick spoke from directly behind her. “Mrs. Ainsley, the manager of the orphanage where Fi and Lottie stay, offered the dress when she’d heard you came in your nightclothes. The lads didn’t have time to go through your wardrobe before your servants woke. They had other tasks.”
Yes, this was easier: focus on who hired her abductor and killed Mary Watkins. The sooner they solved the matter, the sooner she could bring up the subject of divorce. Then she would board a ship and travel to all the places she’d only read about in guidebooks: Italy, France, Greece, New York. Anywhere.
Anywhere far away from him.
“You don’t intend on involving the police?”
“They’re involved.” At her raised eyebrow, he gave a rueful smile. “Suppose it doesn’t shock you to know I’ve got a few of London’s finest in my pocket.”
“The only thing that would shock me, Nicholas Thorne,” she said, “is if it were only a few. Did anyone recognize the man in my bedchamber?”
“No.” The answer was clipped. “Men who kill or abduct for money are worth more if they’re not recognizable.” She caught his look as she reached for the top button of her night rail. “Listen, O’Sullivan and the lads cleaned up your room, had to take a carpet or two, on account of the bloodstains. We’ll stop by St. James’s to pick up a few things, but you’re not staying there.”
Alexandra shrugged. “Fine.”
“Now, why do I get the sense that answer doesn’t mean you agree with me?”
“Because I don’t. You want me to stay here in your gambling den.” She twisted to reach for the back of the nightgown, but Mrs. Ainsley must have had help donning this particular dress.
Nick nudged her hands aside to help her undo the buttons. “Aye, I want you to stay here in my fucking gambling den.”
Alexandra tossed the nightgown to the floor. “Not interested.”
Nick gave a slow exhale of appreciation. Yes, he was not entirely immune to her. He might be a deceitful blackguard, a crook, entirely immoral, but he couldn’t hide his desire. She knew it well. It was the only truth between them.
Her words must have finally made it past his lust. “Wait, what the hell do you mean,not interested.”
“I’m not staying here with you.” She threw on the chemise and drawers and started on the corset. “Lace me, please.”
He made a frustrated noise and began to lace her in. “Don’t even think of suggesting a hotel where anyone can waltz in.”
“I’m not. I’ll stay with Richard and Anne at their townhouse in Bloomsbury. My brother has kept a bodyguard on retainer since his father-in-law’s trial.”
“You think those swells in Parliament don’t want to see Grey taken down a peg after revealing the prime minister’s involvement with covering up child murder? You think they’ll forgive his wife for sharing their secrets?”
He finished lacing her up, and Alexandra slipped on the dress. Without being asked, he began to button her up. “Of course not, but I’ll be safe there.”
“You’ll be safe here.”
“That man was in my bedchamber because I am married to you.” Alexandra was not in the mood to mince words. “That body in Whitechapel the other night was to tauntyou. So perhaps you ought to consider your very long list of enemies and narrow it down to a single nemesis.” She threw up her hands. “Where are my bloody boots?”
