London's Perfect Scoundrel by Suzanne Enoch

the taunt of “dirty Mulligan” circled the room. Saint allowed it; she obviously hadn’t been talking about him. He’d bathed this morning. And shaved.
    “Now, now,” Evie continued, patting Mulligan on the shoulder. “I’m not here to make fun. I just want to know you. Do you stay in here all day?”
    “The Iron Mop said we had to stay indoors today for an inspection,” one of them answered.
    “The Iron Mop?”
    “Mrs. Natham, I mean, Miss Evie.”
    “I see.”
    Saint thought a faint smile might have passed her lips, but it was gone too swiftly for him to be certain. He frowned. Proper ladies didn’t have a sense of humor; his god-awful reputation was proof enough of that.
    “How do you generally spend your days, then? In school?”
    “‘In school?’” another of the boys mimicked. “Did you come here from Bedlam, Miss Evie?”
    “Are ye one of them religious ladies, come to pray for our heathen souls?” Mulligan put in.
    “No, of course n—”
    “The Reverend Beacham comes here every Sunday to try to save us,” another lad said.
    “No, he don’t. He comes for the Iron Mop!”
    Evelyn shot Saint a frustrated glance, and he lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should offer them pudding,” he suggested.
    “I’m a heathen!”
    “I’m a Red Indian!” one of the younger boys whooped, starting a war dance.
    “Interesting, Evelyn,” Saint murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Does chaos follow you everywhere?”
    She scowled at him, then quickly wiped the expression from her face as she turned back to the boys. “Do you know about Indians?” she cut in, squatting down to the brave’s eye level. “Would you like to know about them?”
    “Randall told me about them. They scalp people.”
    She nodded. “And they can move through a forest without making a sound, and follow a bear’s trail over rocks and through rivers.”
    The boy’s eyes widened. “They can?”
    “Yes. What’s your name?”
    “Thomas Kinnett.”
    Evie straightened. “You know, Mr. Kinnett, when you introduce yourself to a lady, you should bow.”
    The boy’s brow wrinkled. “Why?”
    “So you can look up her skirt,” Saint commented dryly.
    This was typical; a female attempting to teach babies etiquette before she knew whether they had enough to eat. Abruptly he felt disappointed. For a moment, he’d thought Evelyn Ruddick might have a bit of sense in addition to her tempting body.
    “Lord St. Aubyn!” she snapped, flushing. Snickers and giggles erupted around her.
    “Yes, Miss Evie?”
    “I don’t believe—” she began sharply, then stopped. With a look around her, she excused herself from the circle and stomped up to him. “I don’t believe,” she repeated in a quieter, equally fierce voice, “that these boys need a poor example set before them. You have not done them a good turn.”
    He leaned forward, holding her gaze. “Neither have you. Bowing lessons for seven-year-old pickpockets are, in a word, useless, Evelyn.”
    Her fair complexion paled, and for a bare, surprised moment he thought she might slap him. Finally, though, she nodded. “At least I am making an attempt to do something for them. I very much doubt you can make the same claim.”
    Good God. She was baiting him. Women didn’t do that unless they wished to end up either publicly humiliated or, better, naked beneath him. “Evelyn Marie,” he whispered, unable to stop the smile from touching his lips, “I’ve only laid claim to one thing today, and that is your mouth. And I mean to collect on the rest of you.”
    She blinked and then, stammering something to herself, backed away. “Scoundrel,” she muttered.
    Saint sketched a bow. “Ready to service you.”
    With another stunned, furious look, she turned on her heel and fled. Saint stood in the midst of the laughing boys and watched her leave. That should take care of things. She’d be a fool to approach either him or the orphanage again after that. Neither thought,