London's Perfect Scoundrel by Suzanne Enoch Page B

frustration. Saint might have sent her fleeing before she could complete her interviews, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go elsewhere for information. “Lucinda, have I mentioned lately how very fond I am of you?” she asked, squeezing her friend’s arm.
    “I’m glad to be of assistance, my dear.”
     
    Saint sat back in his chair. “It’s only a suggestion,” he said, tapping the ashes off the end of his cheroot. “Take it or not.”
    The scowl on the face of the large gentleman seated across from him didn’t lift. “I have to consider public opinion, you know, even if you don’t.”
    “It’s not as though you’re doing something underhanded. A new, larger park for the public, part of the Prince Regent’s grand plan for the improvement of London.”
    “Yes, Saint, but it would involve razing an orphanage .”
    The headache lurking in Saint’s temple began to throb again. “The orphans won’t be in it, for God’s sake. I’ll see them all relocated, at my expense.”
    Someone scratched at the office door and cracked it open. “Your Majesty?”
    “Not now, Mithers,” the prince grunted. “I’m engaged in business.”
    The narrow face in the doorway paled. “Bus…business, Your Majesty? With…with…”
    “Yes, with me, Mithers,” Saint finished with a soft grin.
    “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh—”
    “Mithers, go away,” Prince George ordered, pitching a glassful of expensive Madeira in his secretary’s direction.
    The door closed.
    “Damn me,” the Regent continued, “in five minutes he’ll have half the ministry in here.”
    Clenching his cigar between his teeth, Saint refilled the prince’s glass. Mithers was right to go fetch reinforcements, which didn’t leave him much time. “Before they throw me out, just consider. I’m giving you the deed to several acres of land, to use as you see fit. It borders the project you’re working on now, and the only cost to the taxpayers will be tearing the damned thing down and planting a few trees.”
    His chair creaking at the shift of his substantial weight, Prince George leaned forward. “But what, my dear Saint, is in all this for you?”
    Saint studied the prince regent for a short moment. Prinny couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, but theplan he’d concocted over the past few months—while it was rather underhanded, despite what he’d told the prince—wasn’t illegal. “It’s simple,” he said through a puff of cigar smoke. “My mother’s will stipulated that my family—meaning me—maintain an interest in and supervisory position over the Heart of Hope Orphanage. If the Crown were to take over ownership and tear down the place, my obligation would be removed.”
    “So your mama had an affection for the place?”
    “She liked to embroider table runners for holiday meals and call it ‘aiding the unfortunate.’ I won’t be saddled with continuing such nonsense. Not when you’re building a perfectly good park just across the road.”
    Swirling his glass of Madeira in chubby yet elegant fingers, the prince chuckled. “I’ll have my staff look into it, but I’m not agreeing to anything you propose without first finding someone more reputable to confirm the facts.”
    Saint smiled back without humor. “I expect nothing less.” He could be patient. After all, he’d inherited care of the damned place six years ago. He’d managed to bide his time, looking for an opportunity, for this long. He could wait another few weeks.
    “Now,” the prince continued in a more conspiratorial tone, “tell me, my boy. Is it true that Fatima, Lady Gladstone, makes certain…sounds while in the throes of passion?”
    “Mews like a kitten,” Saint answered, draining his glass. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”
    Chuckling again, the prince shook his heavy jowls. “Be off with you. It amazes me, Saint, that you can own so few redeemable qualities and still be so likable.”
    Saint stood, sketching a bow as he backed