by Shana Galen
“How do you know? I don’t think Juliette even knows where Fallon came from. And what does a courtesan have to do with a matter of state?”
“I’d love to discuss that with you, old chap…”
“But you can’t. Well I will tell you this. I don’t know who you’re looking for, but if it’s a spy or a traitor, looking at Fallon is looking in the wrong direction.”
Warrick leaned forward. “Go on.”
“She’s fiercely loyal—to her friends and to the Countess of Sinclair. The last time I saw her, she told Juliette she was relieved this business with Lucifer was over and done. She said he was…” Pelham rubbed his fingers together, obviously searching his memory for the exact words. Warrick appreciated his friend’s effort to be precise, but then again, he expected nothing less from the orderly Duke of Pelham. “Ah! She said Lucifer was a thorn in the side of the city and had been for years. Struck me as rather patriotic.”
A tingle ran up Warrick’s spine all the way to the base of his skull and then down his arms. So this Fallon knew of Lucifer. That was interesting because the very existence of the man was not common knowledge among anyone who did not frequent London’s gambling hells. And those were certainly not the usual haunts of glittering courtesans like The Three Diamonds.
Pelham didn’t know it, but by trying to defend his wife’s friend, he’d just confirmed everything Warrick had learned, thereby dooming her.
“I had better be going,” Pelham said, rising. “We are leaving early in the morning. I told Juliette I’d take her to Bath.”
“One more thing.” Warrick rose. “Has the duchess, your wife, ever called Fallon by any other name? Besides the Marchioness of Mystery?”
“Not in my hearing. Do you want me to ask Juliette if Fallon has another name?”
“No. Don’t say anything. In fact, I’d prefer if you kept the topic of this meeting to yourself.”
“Of course. Good luck with your search, Fitzhugh.”
“Thank you. Godspeed.” Warrick watched Pelham stroll out of his club. The man was obviously in a hurry to return to his bride. And why shouldn’t he be? He was married to one of the most beautiful and notorious women in London. Someone—Warrick suspected the girls themselves—had put it about that the Prince Regent gave them their sobriquets. Juliette had been the Duchess of Dalliance before becoming a legitimate duchess and Pelham’s wife. Lily was the Countess of Charm, and Fallon, the one he sought, was the Marchioness of Mystery. Warrick thought the marchioness might not be such a mystery after all.
Warrick gave his father a salute, which the earl ignored, and strolled out of his club.
***
Two days later, Warrick had been to more social events than he normally attended in a year. Fallon appeared to have boundless energy. She and her counterpart, the Countess of Charm, went everywhere and knew everyone. He did not know when they slept because they danced until after four in the morning and then began making calls or receiving callers at ten.
What Warrick did know was that, for a courtesan, Fallon was remarkably difficult to corner. He had tried, quite unsuccessfully, on several occasions to get her alone. It had proved impossible. And so tonight he had been left with no other recourse but to adjourn to the one place he knew he could have a private conversation—her boudoir.
Warrick had been impressed with her staff, in particular her giant butler. The man had almost caught Warrick as he wound his way through Fallon’s town house and up to her private chambers. Once in her chambers, he’d had to deal with Fallon’s lady’s maid. He’d bound her and stashed her comfortably in Fallon’s rather large dressing room, and then he’d returned to wait.
And wait.
He didn’t know at what point he’d decided to lie down on the bed. He’d only known he was weary and wanted to close his eyes for a few moments. He didn’t expect to sleep. He rarely slept. But he’d been startled from a light doze when something—rather, someone—sat on him. He realized immediately what had happened. She had not seen him in the dark room. To her credit, when she jumped up, she did not scream. He heard the hasty intake of breath, but she seemed able to control the impulse to utter a bloodcurdling screech.
“It’s about time you came to bed,” Warrick said. It was too dark to see his pocket watch, but he gauged the time close to five in the morning. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Oh, how rude of me,” she said, her voice quite low and husky in the shadowed room. He could hear her fumbling about and realized she probably sought her tinderbox. “To keep an uninvited man waiting.”
A moment later a spunk blazed to life, and she lit one of the lamps beside the bed. Upon seeing him, her brow creased. He was obviously not who she expected. And she was not what he expected. He’d seen her more times than he could count, but he’d rarely been this close to her, and when he had, he’d not been looking at her but planning how to best monopolize her attention. Now she was an arm’s length away and, for once, not surrounded by an army of admirers.
Warrick realized she was impossibly beautiful.
But of course she was beautiful. He’d known that. Everyone knew that. She had lustrous chocolate-brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her skin was the color of burnished gold, and her body far more voluptuous than was the current style. But what man ever favored a Greek statue? A man wanted soft flesh and warm curves when he sank into a woman.
And Warrick didn’t know why the hell he was thinking of soft flesh at the moment. He was supposed to be working. But he hadn’t anticipated the distraction of her mouth. It was wide and red and far too tempting. And then there was the tilt of her eyes—rather exotic the way they turned up at the corners. No wonder people tossed about rumors she was a gypsy queen. Warrick’s gaze wandered downward, and he had to take a fortifying breath. It was one thing to glimpse her body across a crowded ballroom. It was quite another to feel the heat from her, to see the rise and fall of the rounded flesh revealed by her neckline, to smell the scent—jasmine or some exotic flower—she wore, and to know if he buried his face in her hair that sweet scent would surround him.
“Get the hell out of my bed,” she said in a velvet voice that only made him desire her more.
Warrick didn’t even sit. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Get out, or I’ll call my butler and have you thrown out.”
“I don’t think so.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back on her prodigious pile of pillows. They were satin and velvet, arrayed in every jewel tone he could imagine. The mountain was quite comfortable except for the occasional beaded pillow whose ornamentation dug into one’s skin.
“Oh, really? I’ve already thrown one man out tonight. I can do so again.” She started for the door with a fast, purposeful stride he had not seen before, but before she could reach for the handle, he spoke.
“I would not do that, Margaret. Or should I call you Maggie?”
***
Fallon stilled, not trusting her ears. Her hands had begun to shake, and she clenched them to still their trembling. Slowly, she turned. “I believe I see your mistake now, sir. You have me confused with someone else.”
“No, I don’t.” His hands remained linked arrogantly behind his head as if he had not a care in the world. Fallon felt like pulling all the pillows out from under him so he would knock his skull on the headboard. Then she’d hold those pillows over his face until she smothered him.
Bloody man!
“Mr. Fitzhugh—is that your name?”
“It is, but you may call me Warrick. I think it only fair since I intend to call you by your given name—Maggie.”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Fitzhugh. My name is Fallon—not that I’ve given you leave to use it. And I really am going to have to insist you leave now.”
“Insist all you want, but I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”
Fallon’s blood chilled in her veins. All men were the same. They wanted one thing and would apparently go to any length to take it. She did not know how this man had discovered her real name. And she didn’t know what else he knew about her, but she did know if he thought he was going to outwit her, he had a lot to learn.
She had been outwitting arrogant men since the age of five.
She put a hand on her hip. “And I suppose if I do not give you what you want then you will reveal my secret.”
“It’s called blackmail, and yes, that is generally how it works. Now that we both know the rules…”
“Oh, I make the rules, Mr. Fitzhugh.” She sidled closer to the bed. “After all, we are in my bedchamber.”
“I…” He trailed off when she dropped her shawl on the floor beside the bed and, lifting her skirts, crawled onto her satin coverlet.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Courtesan rule number one,” she whispered, crawling toward him. “Don’t talk.”
His arms dropped from behind his head and he sat forward, looking rather alarmed. Oh, this was going to be easier than she’d anticipated. She had thought to arouse him and then, when he was sufficiently distracted, knock him over the head and scream for Titus. But at this rate, she might not have to do much more than kiss him.
“We have to talk if I’m going to…”
Now on her hands and knees, she slid one hand down his chest all the way to his waistband. He grabbed her hand before she could stroke his cock. She glanced up at him. Was he going to play coy now? How tedious.
“You misunderstand me, Maggie.”
“Fallon,” she said, sitting up.
“Fallon. I came to ask you—”
“I told you, no talking.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. She felt him go rigid immediately. Was he really surprised she had kissed him? Wasn’t that what he had come for? She ran her tongue lightly over his lips and felt him relax slightly. His hands had gripped her shoulders at her first touch, but they loosened now.
She tasted his mouth, tried not to notice the flavor of champagne on his lips. Tried not to notice how warm his lips were, how pliable. Most men mashed their mouths to hers and took, took, took. This one didn’t seem to want anything from her. He allowed her to kiss him.
She opened his mouth with the gentle pressure of her tongue and teased him with the promise of a deeper kiss. When his tongue met hers, she felt a spark of heat that shocked her. She hadn’t expected to feel anything and was still puzzling over it when he dug his hand into her hair and pulled her closer.
She was losing control, she realized, and had to gain it back or she would be forced to actually go through with this seduction. She ran her hand down his chest again—why did it have to be so deliciously muscled and hard?—and forced herself not to be distracted. When she reached his trousers, she wrapped her fingers around the hardening length she found there.
“Stop.” He was up and out of her bed before she could even catch herself. She all but fell on her face in the spot he had occupied. “This isn’t what I came for. I have nothing against you or your profession.”
She frowned. What exactly was that supposed to mean?
“But I don’t pay women for their services. I’m not that desperate.”
She stared at him. Desperate? Did he think she allowed any man into her bed? Did he think she allowed any man to kiss her?
She tugged at the bodice of her dress and squared her shoulders. “I don’t mean to dispute you, sir, but you were the one waiting in my bed. And when I refused you, you threatened to blackmail me.” She gave him a tight smile. “It smacks a little of”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“desperation.”
“That’s because you misunderstood.” He paced away from her, running a hand through his hair. With the lamps lit, she could get a good look at him. She knew who he was, of course. She’d seen him before.
“I misunderstood?” She watched him pace across her bedroom then turn back. “You were lying in my bed, and when I asked you to leave, you said you would not depart until you had what you wanted. How did I misunderstand?”
He raked that hand through his thick hair again. “Yes, I can see how that might confuse you.” He paused and faced her. He was definitely not a handsome man. His face was too asymmetrical for handsomeness. His nose was slightly crooked, which suggested it had been broken at one time, and he had a scar near his right eye. His brown hair was short and not at all fashionably styled. He was medium height but had a breadth of chest and shoulders that made him seem less than elegant.
And yet she believed he’d never had to pay for a woman. There was something about his eyes that made him seem dangerous and mysterious and desirable. Her gaze dropped to his hands, now flat on her coverlet. They were large and dark, and she had an image of one of them cupping her breast. She closed her eyes and attempted to gather her wits.
“Perhaps we should begin again,” he was saying. “I came to question you and to ask you for a favor.”
She studied him, not knowing quite what to think. Was he lying? Telling the truth? “If you wanted to ask me a question, you could have done so on any number of occasions.”
“That’s what I thought.” He slapped the bed with a hand. “But you’re a damned hard woman to get alone. And my business is of a private nature.”
Despite herself, she was intrigued. “Go on.”
“I don’t know how much you know about me,” he began. She noted the subtle shift in his demeanor, from flustered to authoritative.
“Not as much as you know about me, apparently.”
He grinned at her, and in that moment, she forgot to breathe. With that grin, he’d looked so much like a mischievous boy that she’d wanted to gather him in her arms and kiss him again. His smile was completely out of character. It almost made him look handsome.
“I used to work for the Foreign Office,” he was saying, when she could focus her attention again. “I played a part in the wars against Napoleon.”
She nodded, her mind racing ahead to try and determine where this was going. She had nothing to do with France, Napoleon, or the governmental offices and failed to see how any of this related to her.
“Over the years, I developed certain skills. One of those was to ferret out information.”
“So you were a spy.”
He made a sound of distaste in the back of his throat. “I gathered information.”
“And now you are gathering information about me.” Things were beginning to take shape.
“I didn’t set out to do so, but the more I learned about you, the more… captivated I became. You were smart to keep your true identity hidden.”
“Apparently it’s not hidden well enough.”
“I don’t think there’s anyone who could hide something so well I couldn’t uncover it,” he said without any trace of conceit. She almost wanted to laugh at his boast. She had a feeling there were still a few things he hadn’t uncovered.
“You knew Lucifer.”
She felt a frisson of fear streak up her spine, and tried to control her reaction. But he’d taken her so off guard, she was too late. He was watching her with those sharp, enigmatic eyes. “Tell me, Mag—Fallon. Was he ever a victim of your considerable talent for theft?”
Three
“What is wrong with you, Fallon?” Lily asked the next evening at a soirée hosted by Mr. Heyward, who was the son of a baron and known for his lavish social functions.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said for the past quarter hour. And you have been sitting with me for that quarter of an hour when Mr. Heyward has been smiling at you and making every effort to garner your attention.”
Fallon glanced about the drawing room until she spotted Heyward. He toasted her and raised his brows meaningfully. Fallon lo
oked back at Lily. “I’d much rather talk to you than Mr. Heyward.”
“Oh, really? Then what have we—rather, I—been speaking of?”
Fallon had absolutely no idea. “Very well. I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. Take a turn with me about the room.”
Lily raised her eyebrows but didn’t object. They linked arms and began to stroll. Fallon imagined they made a lovely picture. They were both dressed in green—Lily’s gown was green with pink trim and Fallon’s green with russet trim. Lily’s pale skin and auburn hair was offset nicely by the sapphires she wore at her neck and throat, and Fallon had donned her rubies.
But she couldn’t concern herself too much with appearances at the moment. Lily was correct in that she should have been courting the attention of Heyward. A few months ago he’d given her a gold ring, which she’d sold for enough to pay her rent for two months. Undoubtedly he hoped the gifts would persuade her to allow him into her bed. They wouldn’t, but even though she tried to refuse the gifts, men gave them to her anyway.
She considered them payment for services rendered, even if those services were only making an appearance at a social function like this one. Even the whisper that one of The Three Diamonds—well, Two Diamonds now that Juliette had married—would attend a function made the invitations highly sought after.
At least by the gentlemen of the ton.
Although Fallon noted several ladies, who would never so much as deign to step over her were she lying in the street bleeding to death, watching her and Lily surreptitiously. No doubt the courtesans’ dresses would be copied and worn by several of the women in the weeks to come.
“We’re walking,” Lily said. “And I’m listening.”
“Someone has found out about me.”
Lily frowned, a delicate gesture that formed a small crease between her emerald green eyes. “What do you mean? Someone found out about Sinclair?”
“No. At least, I don’t think he knows that much. But he knows about my past.”
“What about your past?” Lily nodded to the son of the Marquess of Ainsall, who had been sending her poetry of late. “I don’t even know about your past.”