But once Catherine had cleaned herself up in Neddie’s washroom, she hadn’t wanted to go. Lilah had asked a man to ride around the auction rooms, and he’d reported back quickly: the building was dark, but he saw no damage from fire. That had set Catherine’s mind at ease. She’d decided to keep Lilah company.
“It’s safe here,” she’d said. “And I can’t bear to face my brother just yet. He’ll be full of questions . . . I’ll wait with you until Palmer and Mr. O’Shea come back.”
Shortly thereafter, some cheeky group had sent over two tankards of ale. Catherine had grimaced awfully at her first sip, which had inspired a great round of laughter. Now the entire pub had taken it upon themselves to send fresh rounds on the regular, just to see if she’d screw up her face again.
Catherine was toying with a fried oyster, inspecting it as though in search of flaws. “This establishment seems quite successful.”
Of course it was. “Nick owns it.”
She raised the oyster and gave it a dubious sniff. “Is he unmarried, your uncle?”
“Nick?” The thought was ludicrous. “Some husband he’d make.”
“Indeed? He’s of age, and he seems well established. How many properties does he own in London?” Catherine popped the oyster into her mouth, then made an enthusiastic noise and widened her eyes.
“I know,” Lilah said by way of agreement. “Nobody fries them like old Neddie. As for Nick, this public house was the first place he bought.” He’d needed some place to invest his ill-gotten money. The banks would have no truck with him, back in the early days. “Used to spend all his free time here, before he opened the House of Diamonds.”
“He’s almost—” Catherine put a hand over her mouth, evidently startled by her own poor manners; she had not yet finished chewing. She swallowed the oyster before continuing. “He’s almost a proper businessman, then.”
Lilah glanced again toward the door. Neddie said Nick had known where to look for Bolkhov. It was a hop and a skip away. They should have been back by now. “Proper? No. Businessman . . . I suppose so. Among other things.”
“Criminal things,” Catherine said solemnly.
“Well . . .” Lilah hesitated. Nick had long since passed the point of petty crimes; the profits were too trifling for him, now. “He doesn’t let the law stop him, that’s for certain.”
“I imagine he doesn’t let anyone stop him,” Catherine said. “Saint Nicholas. The King of Diamonds. A very dangerous man.”
Lilah frowned. “He never crossed anybody that didn’t deserve it. And he’s mostly a landlord these days. Owns every building for ten streets around us.”
“Really?”
Catherine’s amazement touched off an uneasy realization. Stars above. I’m defending my uncle.
Well, but it was true, wasn’t it? Nick was turning a fine profit now aboveboard, though certainly he still kept a hand in the below. And wasn’t there something gratifying about putting that look on Catherine’s face? Lilah’s kin might not be decent folk, but nobody would ever call Nick stupid. He had more power, in his way, than the mayor.
The aristocracy of the underbelly. So Christian had once put it when trying to drive her away. “Where are they?” she muttered. “It shouldn’t be taking this long.”
“Trust your uncle,” Catherine said serenely.
Lilah snorted. “If I’ve got one piece of advice, it’s to mistrust him with all you’re worth.”
“Oh, naturally. But . . .” Catherine looked into her tankard, delicately flicking at the foam. “You said he was honorable in his own way.”
“In his own way. Give Nick a plan, and he’ll turn it inside out, stand it on its head, fold it in half, and leave you so dizzy that you’ll end up convinced the plan was his idea in the first place.”
Catherine’s brows drew together. “So he’s a skilled negotiator, then.”
Lilah suddenly remembered that conversation in Catherine’s office, what seemed like ages ago. She’d asked for a meeting with Nick—to do with Bolkhov, she’d claimed.
But this line of questioning didn’t touch on the Russian. “Why are you so interested in my uncle?” she asked slowly.
Catherine’s lashes dropped. “Well . . . I’m not going to marry Lord Palmer, Lilah.”
Her throat tightened. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Catherine said serenely.
She didn’t know what to say. “Can you change your mind so easily? It’s bound to cause a scandal.”
“In polite circles, certainly. But . . .” Catherine shrugged. “I’ve never had any use for mixing with fashionable society. And even if I did, I could hardly marry Palmer. He’s in love with someone else, you see.”
Lilah folded her lips, bit them hard. “Do you think so?”
Catherine snorted. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”
Lilah tried for a smile, but it slipped right off her lips. This conversation was tempting fate. “Where are they?”
Catherine opened her mouth, but Neddie forestalled her, materializing beside them to plonk another round onto the table. “From the Hooleys,” he muttered, before stalking off.
Despondent, Lilah lifted her mug and took a deep breath. Catherine, who had caught on three pints ago, hurried to hoist her own tankard.
“To the Hooleys!” Lilah yelled, and the boys in the far corner grinned and took their bows.
Catherine cleared her throat. “As for your uncle—I need somebody to manage my brother, you see. He’ll drive our company into the ground otherwise. And I can’t trust the courts. They always favor men when it comes to matters of business.”
“Is that so?” Lilah didn’t feel much like talking about business. If she hadn’t known that Nick would come back here first, she would have been alone right now, clutching herself and praying. She buried her nose in the foam for a sip.
The door flew open.
“So I’ve been contemplating another solution,” she thought she heard Catherine say, but she was on her feet, staring, breathless, nothing left in her but yearning, desperate hope—
One of Nick’s men came in—and there was Nick! She slammed the tankard onto the table and started toward him.
Now came a wolfish-looking man, tall and dark, whom she didn’t recognize. But where was Christian? Fear crystallized like an ice blossom in her chest. Her uncle spotted her, threw out his arms, and flashed a bright grin.
“Shot the bastard dead,” he said. “I might like him, after all.”
She pushed past him—and the breath left her. There, in the doorway—filling it completely, tall and broad-shouldered, whole, in one piece. Hale and handsome and wild-eyed—until his gaze found her.
She put her hand to her mouth. He was safe. Shot dead. It was over.
“—the hell you went,” Nick said.
“We saved ourselves,” came Catherine’s clear voice in reply. “Nobody else seemed likely to do it.”
His laugh rang out. “Pints for everybody then! To women who save themselves.”
Christian started for her. She sidestepped around the wolfish man, who said, “I’ll take something stronger than a pint, if you’ve got it.”
The next moment, Christian was before her. Gripping her. “Are you all right?” He lifted her bandaged hand. “You’re hurt.”
“No, no.” With her good hand, she caught his, gripping hard, thrilled by the strength with which he squeezed her back. “I’m fine now.” The words sailed out as smoothly as a spring breeze. She was fine, indeed. His face told her so. He looked lighter, unburdened, free.
He pulled her into an embrace. Fierce, tight hug. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him.
Hoots from the far corner. The Hooley brothers, sassing as usual.
His lips moved against her ear. “I’m taking you home.”
She breathed deeply of him. Gunpowder and sweat. Beneath it, always, his essence. Magic to her. “Where is that?”
He pulled away to look into her face. “My ho
me,” he said—and then smiled slightly, as the Hooleys shrilled again. “Our home. Do you mean to argue?”
It was too delicious a moment. Launched so suddenly from fear into joy, she felt as though she were floating, giddy, already drunk. “Maybe,” she said, because in Whitechapel, a girl knew her own worth. She made a man work to earn her favor.
He laughed, a beautiful rich sound, and then bent and grabbed her by the waist. Hoisted her over his shoulder.
The Hooleys went wild. She craned around Palmer’s body to look. All across the room, tankards shot skyward in approval. Even Nick was smiling, while Catherine, by his side, cupped her cheeks to cover a blush.
“Ashmore,” Christian said. The wolfish man turned. “See Miss Everleigh home, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Not for a while yet,” Catherine said brightly. “Good night, Lilah! Lord Palmer!”
Lilah lifted her hand to wave farewell. Christian caught it and kissed her wrist. As he carried her out into the night, she started to laugh.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lilah woke from a nightmare of darkness into a world of blazing light. For a disoriented moment, she thought the room was on fire. Then her vision focused. Heavy walnut furniture, varnished by age. Cream wallpaper threaded with gold. Lamps everywhere. Sconces glowing along the walls. Candelabra flickering. Candlelight everywhere.
Somebody came off a nearby chair. Christian.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand with great care. Earlier, he had ordered a bath for her. Left a dressing gown that enveloped her head to toe. Then he’d rebandaged her hand while he told her of what had transpired with Bolkhov.
He’d recited the tale calmly, while taking such tender care with her wound. She’d felt sure that he would join her in bed afterward. But the day had caught up to her, or the drug. When she’d yawned, he had insisted she rest for a while—alone.
And then he had come back to watch her while she slept.
She felt strangely tongue-tied as he stroked her wrist. How unlike her. A glance at the grandfather clock showed it to be half past two. “Do you think Catherine got home?” That was a safe avenue into conversation, she thought.
He laid her hand down atop the counterpane, smoothing the fabric around it as though to clear a safe perimeter. “Ashmore—he’s a friend of mine; you saw him tonight. He’ll have taken her home long ago.”
Ashmore. That was the Earl of Ashmore, she guessed. She had read his name in the newspapers. “I hope so,” she said. “She was asking very odd questions about my uncle. Almost as though . . .” She frowned. “Well, I don’t think I imagined it. She means to ask Nick for help.”
He frowned as well. “That is odd.” Then the frown faded into a half smile. “But who knows? You make a fine argument for looking to Whitechapel for any number of things. Help, hope, love . . .”
Her tongue felt suddenly clumsy. It took a moment to wrap around the words. “Do you think so?”
“I know so.” He reached past her to adjust the pillows. “Lie back again, Lily.”
That was the last thing she wished to do. Her heart was suddenly racing. “I’m not tired.”
“I know. But to see you here . . .” He cupped her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “There’s a comfort you cannot begin to imagine, seeing you here in my bed. Safe, with me. Where you belong.”
How could a girl resist that blandishment? She sank back onto the pillows, beneath the warmth of the heavy quilts. “Then here I’ll stay,” she said softly.
He smiled. Smoothed back her hair, then leaned down to kiss her temple. Very lightly, he touched the corner of her eye. The crest of her cheek. The slope of her jaw. Brushes as light as a breath.
They tickled. She wrinkled her nose. “What are you doing?”
“Counting your freckles,” he said. “You usually hide them beneath powder, don’t you?”
If he would only keep touching her like this . . . she would stay here forever. “Freckles aren’t ladylike.”
He laughed under his breath. “Oh, I beg to differ. Everything about you is ladylike, Lily.”
Her smile felt too wide for her mouth to contain. So much light in this room! She rolled over to see the full extent. Ten candelabra. A dozen more candlesticks besides. “Did you fetch all these candles?”
“You don’t like the dark.”
She looked back at him. “You shouldn’t humor me in that. It’s childish.” Why, it had almost gotten her killed today. A shiver moved through her.
Perhaps he saw it. The bed sagged; he lay down next to her, putting his arm around her waist and gathering her against him. “Be childish.” He spoke into her hair, his breath warming her nape. “You’re done with fear, Lily. I’ll light as many candles as the world can supply, if that’s what it takes.”
She relaxed, eyes closing. Was this love, then? To be so easily accepted. Cherished even for weaknesses. “It was never just the dark, you know. It was being trapped in it, alone.”
“I will never leave you alone in it again,” he said.
A lump clogged her throat. Such a proposition. It would take courage for a woman to accept such an offer, for she would come to depend on it, and if it was ever withdrawn . . . what would be left of her? Only broken pieces. “I want that promise,” she whispered. “But if you make it, you’d best mean to keep it. In the eyes of the law, even.”
For a moment, he did not reply. She waited, biting her lip hard. She wouldn’t take back those words. She was no lady, but she’d not settle for being treated as less than one. She wouldn’t live with him in sin.
His mouth touched her nape. The softest kiss. “Do you remember the dream I told you about? The dream of the tree, which I could not protect?”
“Yes,” she managed. “Of course.”
“That was all I wanted,” he said. “Never to be the hero. Not the title, not the applause. But something of my own. Something to protect and defend. And perhaps . . .” She felt the deep breath he drew against her skin. “More than that. When I ended him today . . . it could have kept going. That rage . . . it was burning me from the inside. Darkening the world. A bullet would not have ended it. Nothing I could have done to him would have ended it. But in that room today, as I aimed the gun . . . you were there with me. And there was no rage left, suddenly. No darkness. Only thoughts of you.
“So you’re not simply the woman I want to protect,” he said softly. “You protect me. I walked out of that room free, because of you. And when I told you I wanted to bring you here, tonight . . . I called this place my home. But it only feels so when you’re here with me.”
She opened her eyes to stare at a branch of candles. The flames blurred. “I would always protect you,” she said, very low. “That’s what I do, for me and mine.”
“Yes,” he said. “What a great good fortune it is, to be yours.”
“Even though I’m . . . who I am?” She wouldn’t speak low of herself. There was no shame in being from White-chapel. Maybe not even shame in being Nick’s niece. That look of admiration on Catherine’s face tonight—what a pity that she’d had to see it in somebody else before acknowledging it in herself. “The niece of the King of Diamonds. For I don’t mean to cut him off, Christian. I won’t do his bidding any longer, but he’ll always be family. I won’t turn away from him, that way.”
“I would not ask you to,” he said after a pause. “I’ll be damned if he uses you again. But he took you in as a child. I wasn’t there to protect you then. But he was. And he played a role in making the woman you’ve become. The woman I want at my back, for as long as I live. I will never ask you to deny him.”
Her eyes closed. There was too much beauty in the world. She’d never realized that. It could overwhelm a person, once she knew.
“May I speak to you of a future together?” he asked slowly. “Or would you prefer that I wait?”
“Are you mad?” She turned so quickly that he laughed and caught her by the shoulders.
“Mind your hand,” he said.
She tucked it between her breasts for safekeeping. How her heart was pounding. “Speak,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Smiling, he smoothed her hair from her eyes. “Susseby will be rebuilt. From the ground up. Now, I confess, I’ve no notion of what it will require, or how long it will take. But I’ve an idea for a specific room—mirrored in glass. The countryside gets so dark, you see. But in this room, the light of a single candle will illuminate the whole. A music room, I think—always filled with light, no matter the hour.”
Wonder prickled over her. She sat up, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, smiling at her. In the wash of light he’d created for her, he looked dipped in gold: his hair, his eyes, his bronzed skin.
Indeed, he looked very cocksure now. “Tell me,” she said, unable to resist poking him, “who would want a room so gaudy?”
The dimple appeared in his cheek. “The woman who designs the rest of it. I warn you, she has odd taste in houses. If she can admire a pile like Buckley Hall, then God knows what she’ll make of Susseby. But however it turns out, it will be hers.” Very gently he stroked her hair. “And, one hopes, her children’s, and her children’s children, and the seven or eight or hundred generations to follow.”
She tried to smile, but her lips were trembling too hard to hold the shape. “You told me once that you were a rogue. Remember?”
He blinked—and then laughed, a startled puff of air. “The first night we met. In that hallway at Everleigh’s.”
“Yes.” She smirked. “Looks like I’ve ruined you.”
He kissed her forehead hard. “So you have. My days of roving may be over. Of course, that depends on your answer.”
She caught her breath. “To what?”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. “I love you, Lily Monroe. Will you be my wife? Or will you risk England’s wrath by spurning a war hero?”
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