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If You Give a Rake a Ruby

Page 8

by Shana Galen


  “No.” The word was practically a caress, and he was standing so near she could not help but think how easy it would be for him to take her in his arms, press her against him, and kiss her until she gasped for breath. He could kiss her that way. She had no doubt of it.

  “My enemy is your father.”

  The world seemed to spin, and Fallon clenched her fists to keep from spinning with it. Her father was dead. How could Fitzhugh think Joseph Bayley was his enemy? “I thought I already explained that my father is dead.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” But as soon as the word was out of her mouth, the niggling doubts began. Was her father dead? There had been so much blood. She hadn’t thought anyone could survive after losing that much blood. But what if she’d been wrong? She had been fifteen years old, terrified, and eager to be away. She’d fled, thrown the knife in the Thames, and run until her legs could no longer carry her. She hadn’t looked back.

  “I can see you’re doubting yourself.”

  “I’m not. He has to be dead.” Why else would he have completely disappeared? No one saw him after she’d plunged that knife into him. She hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of his doings. And he would have come looking for her. If he’d still been alive, he would have come for his revenge.

  “Because you killed him.”

  She looked down. She had never told anyone she’d killed her father, except the Countess of Sinclair. The countess had a way of making people tell her things, whether they wanted to or not. But that was all right with Fallon because she knew the countess would take her secret to the grave. She knew the countess loved her no matter what she had done—and she had done some rather unlovable things.

  She did not want to confide in Fitzhugh. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. He was a spy, for God’s sake. He could probably keep her secret better than she could. But there was a sense of intimacy formed when one shared one’s secrets. Fallon avoided that sort of intimacy. She had no use for intimacy, no use for the vulnerability that came with it.

  Added to those reasons, she didn’t want to relive her father’s death. She sometimes managed not to think of it for days or even weeks. If she spoke of it now, if she confided in Fitzhugh, she knew it would haunt her again daily, hourly. She could not face that. She was too tired right now. Too weary.

  “I think I’ll go find your housekeeper,” Fitzhugh said, stepping back. Fallon was surprised to see him capitulate so easily. “I’d like a few moments to ready myself before dinner.”

  “Of course.” She wanted the same.

  “And where did you say we were going after dinner?”

  She hadn’t. “You are not going,” she said. “You don’t have an invitation.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, going to her door and opening it. “You’re my invitation.”

  Dinner was a tense affair, punctuated by the clink of silver on china. Fallon was vaguely aware Cook had prepared a delicious meal with fowl, fish, and a variety of soups and vegetables—a mountain of food for only two people, though Fitzhugh was making an effort to scale the mountain—but she didn’t taste any of it. Fallon couldn’t help but feel she didn’t belong.

  It was absurd. This was her home, her dining room, and her servants. But she felt like some sort of invader. All this talk of her past with Fitzhugh was making her remember it, making her doubt who she was now.

  Nagging thoughts invaded where they were not welcome—she didn’t belong at this table with its crystal goblets and delicate china. She didn’t belong in this lovely town house with its silks, satins, and velvets. And who was she to tell a servant to fetch this or carry that? She was no better than they were and probably born far lower.

  She was even looking down at her coppery dress of shimmering silk and wondering if everyone at Alvanley’s ball was going to look at her and wonder just who she thought she was, dressing up like someone of quality.

  Not that she’d ever pretended to be quality.

  She’d masqueraded as a courtesan for years. No one thought courtesans respectable enough to be quality. She glanced down the table at Fitzhugh, who was nodding to the footman refilling his glass, and scowled. Fitzhugh raised his brows at her, and she didn’t mistake the twinkle in his eyes. He thought all of this amusing.

  “Why the pretty moue?” he asked.

  “It’s not a… whatever you said. It’s a scowl.”

  He narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “If you say so.”

  She wanted to throw her plate at him, but it would be a waste of good china. Instead, she glanced at the footman. “Please leave us. That is if Mr. Fitzhugh doesn’t want to drink yet another glass of my wine.”

  “I believe I finished the bottle,” Fitzhugh said with absolutely no sense of remorse whatsoever.

  When the footman was gone, Fallon said, “How do you know I’m not really a courtesan? And don’t give me one of your enigmatic answers.”

  “Enigmatic.” He lifted his goblet and studied the wine. “I like that word.” His eyes met hers. “You’re described that way, aren’t you?”

  She was. That was how she’d first learned the word. The countess had made Fallon read and study for hours and hours when she first went to live with the Sinclairs. The countess said that no one would ever take her seriously or consider her anyone or anything if she didn’t learn to speak and write correctly. And so Fallon had learned, but there were still words that were unfamiliar. Words like moue. She didn’t know what the hell it was, but she was pretty sure she didn’t do it.

  “Answer the question, Fitzhugh.”

  He sipped his wine. “Are you ever going to call me Warrick?”

  “No. Now answer the question.”

  “I think we should make a wager.”

  “I think you should answer the question.” She traced the edge of her plate and wondered how much it would cost to replace. It might be worth the expense to smash it over his head.

  “Here’s the wager. If I can persuade you to call me Warrick tonight, then you tell me about your father.”

  She was never going to tell him about her father, and she was never going to call him by his Christian name. “Fine.”

  He raised his brows. “You agree? That easily?”

  “Yes, that easily. Now—”

  “And you won’t renege?” He set his glass on the table.

  She let out a puff of outrage. “I cannot even believe you would suggest such a thing. I honor my bets.”

  “Good. In answer to your question, I couldn’t find any of your lovers.”

  She blinked, at a loss momentarily.

  “You asked how I knew you were not really a courtesan. I tried to find one of your former lovers—or protectors, is that correct? The papers had you paired with all sorts of gentlemen, but when I approached them, none had any real intimate knowledge of you.”

  “I am discreet.”

  “You are the soul of discretion, my dear Fallon, but men, especially when they’re a bit in their cups, are not. They often talk, and that talk often turns to women. When I brought up your name, there was a lot of speculation but no real firsthand knowledge.”

  “That’s because the Earl of Sinclair—”

  “Is lying for you as well. I know the Sinclairs, Fallon. My mother and the countess went to school together. There is absolutely no way the Iron Countess, which is what I called her growing up, would allow the earl to bed you or any of the other diamonds under her own roof. I never believed that for a moment.”

  Fallon felt her mouth go dry, and she groped blindly for her untouched goblet of wine. She drank a sip and then another. “Well, you don’t know the countess as well as you think then.”

  She drank another swallow of wine. Hell, she might as well just drain the glass. Fitzhugh watched her unladylike behavior without reaction. “I’m not going to reveal your secret, Fallon
,” he said.

  “No, you’re just going to blackmail me with it.”

  He shrugged. “I thought we were past that.”

  “Oh, you think I want you in my house, eating my food and drinking my wine? You think I want to help you? You think I want you sleeping in one of my beds?”

  “Maybe you want me sleeping in your bed.” He was across the bloody room and she still felt a flash of heat when he said it. It was the way he looked at her, as though he knew just how she liked to be kissed and where she wanted most to be touched.

  “No, I don’t. What I want is for you to go away.”

  “And I will. After I find your father.”

  “What are you going to do with him when you find him?”

  He lifted his own glass and toasted. “I’m going to finish what you started.”

  ***

  Lord Alvanley’s ball was a tedious affair. Warrick hadn’t expected anything different. The same people were there as were at all the other events of the Season he avoided, though, to be fair, most of the stodgy ones had stayed away. That was probably because Alvanley had invited the entire demimonde. It wasn’t unusual for courtesans to attend Society events, but they weren’t usually present in such large numbers. He saw why Fallon felt the need to attend, and he glanced across the room to where she stood, surrounded by about half a dozen young men.

  He noticed she spoke very little and smiled even less. But she gave such sultry looks from those warm brown eyes and licked her plump red lips so seductively that the men probably did the talking and smiling for her. He watched her touch one of the men—a puppy of about twenty—on the arm and waited to feel some sense of jealousy. But none was forthcoming. Warrick knew he wasn’t immune to the emotion. And he knew he wanted her enough to envy any man who garnered her attention.

  But none of these men captured her attention—not really. This was all a play, and she was the actress on center stage. She flirted and lowered her lashes and swayed her hips, and she went home alone.

  That wasn’t entirely true. There had been one and possibly two men she’d bedded. He was nothing if not thorough, and he couldn’t find that they’d paid her in any way for these encounters. In both cases, there had seemed to be real affection between the two. Which only made her human, and far more restrained than he, since he had certainly had years where he bedded far more than one or two women.

  And there hadn’t always been much affection.

  But he did feel affection for Fallon. She was refreshingly honest and quite clever and could throw a hell of a punch. And she was beautiful, too. He couldn’t forget her looks, but those weren’t why he liked her, why he wanted her. He liked her because he respected her. She could hold her own, far better than many of the men he’d worked with. She might grouse and complain, but she was no wilting flower. For that alone, he might have forgotten the blackmailing and let her go on her way.

  Except he didn’t want her to go on her way. Not without him. They were going to bed together. He didn’t know when and he didn’t know where, but he knew they shared an uncommonly powerful attraction, and there was only one place for an attraction like that to lead.

  Unfortunately, tonight he was taking her to The Grotto to meet Gabriel. He glanced at his pocket watch. They’d spent an hour at Alvanley’s. Her time was up.

  He started across the room. She must have seen him coming because her eyes widened, and she shook her head slightly. He kept walking, forcing several couples who were loitering in his path out of his way.

  She shook her head more vigorously, causing the men surrounding her to look about for the cause of her distress.

  He kept walking.

  And when one of her suitors blocked his path, he gave the man a slight arch of the brow and that was all it took to convince the clodpole he should move. Not all of her suitors were so intelligent. A few stood their ground.

  “Sir,” one pup said, his voice all but breaking. “I don’t believe the lady wishes to make your acquaintance.”

  “The lady already knows me. Fallon, we’re leaving.”

  “You may go at any time you like,” she told him from between the shoulders of her entourage. “I’m staying.”

  “No, you’re not. Come with me now, or else I’ll be forced to take more drastic measures.”

  “Sir,” another puppy said. “The lady has refused you. Please take your leave. Don’t worry, Marchioness. I will protect you.”

  Warrick all but rolled his eyes. He didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. He settled on annoyed. “Last chance, Fallon.”

  “No,” the first pup said. “It’s your last chance.” And the idiot tried to punch him. Warrick easily caught the boy’s fist and pinned his arm behind his back. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “Fallon, your lapdog is in distress,” Warrick said. “Are you coming with me, or need I make more of a scene?”

  “I’m coming,” she said, pushing through the men still surrounding her. “Let him go. Mr. Dunsyre, are you all right?” she asked, stooping to look in his face.

  “Ow!”

  She glared at Warrick. “Release him.”

  Warrick opened his hand, and Dunsyre fell to his knees and cradled the arm. “You almost broke my arm.”

  Warrick raised a brow. “If I’d wanted to break it, you’d be doing more than fighting tears right now, boy.”

  Something poked him in the chest and he looked down to see Fallon’s finger poking him again. “Stop harassing people and leave. I’m not going with you.”

  She turned away from him, and he grabbed her elbow and bent his mouth to her ear. Several of her admirers moved as though to protect her, but Warrick gave them warning glances and they paused. “Come with me now, or I will really make a scene,” he murmured.

  “You have already made a scene,” she hissed. “I don’t think you can do any worse.”

  He shook his head. “Fallon, I thought you knew better. I can always make it worse.” And in one swoop, he caught her about the waist, tossed her over his shoulder, and marched across the dance floor, interrupting the quadrille.

  Shocked gasps and murmurs and an angry scream from Fallon herself reverberated in place of the orchestra, who had gone suddenly silent, but no one tried to stop him. Her friend, the red-haired Countess of Charm, did run alongside him. “Fallon, are you all right? Mr. Fitzhugh, what is happening?”

  “She’s fine, Countess,” he told her because she looked genuinely concerned. “I’m not going to hurt her. We have a small errand together. That is all.”

  “I see.” She scampered ahead of him. “I am not certain Fallon has agreed to this errand.”

  “I haven’t, Lily,” Fallon called from over his shoulder. “Make him stop.”

  Lily gave him a plaintive look, and he shook his head. “My apologies, Countess.”

  “Oh, dear.” She moved aside, and he could feel Fallon struggling to lift her head to see her friend as they passed.

  “Lily, help me! This is an abduction! Help!”

  And then he was out of the ballroom and taking the steps two at a time to reach the vestibule. She really was quite a light little thing. He wasn’t winded at all. The footman at the bottom of the steps did not so much as raise an eyebrow when Warrick asked for Fallon’s carriage, and to avoid the crowds congregating at the top of the staircase, he decided to await the carriage’s arrival outside.

  When he stepped outside, Fallon made a real attempt to free herself. She’d pounded his back before, but clearly she had not wanted to make the incident more than it was. And she probably truly believed someone would come to her aid. Now she struggled and fought and clawed at him. He adjusted her slightly and bore the brunt of her kicks and punches. In her current position, she couldn’t do him much harm.

  “Do you want me to put you down?” he asked when she paused to catch her breath.

 
“Yes!”

  “Then say my name.”

  “You ass! Put me down!”

  “Wrong answer. My name is Warrick.”

  “And you are an ass! Put me down!” And she was back to punching and screaming again.

  Finally the carriage arrived, and he deposited her inside, closing the door before she could escape. She tried anyway, and he had to restrain her. He didn’t mind all that much because it meant he wrapped his arms around her and held her still against him. He could smell the clean fragrance of her hair as she whipped her head to and fro in front of his nose. “You’re going to hurt yourself further if you don’t stop,” he said. “Your rib, remember?”

  “You weren’t thinking of my rib when you slung me over your shoulder.”

  “Yes, I was. I would have carried you under my arm if I hadn’t been protecting your rib.”

  “Ooh, I hate you! Let me go.”

  “Will you stop trying to escape?”

  “Yes, damn it! The bloody carriage is moving now.”

  He released her and she jumped away from him, tumbling into the seat across from him. With a wince she clutched her ribs. “I told you to be careful,” he said. She threw her reticule at him, but he ducked.

  There was a long silence, in which he assumed she was thinking of all that had happened. He, in turn, rolled his neck and shoulders to loosen them.

  Finally, she exploded. “What is wrong with you?” she all but screamed. “Are you trying to ruin me?”

  “I asked you to come with me nicely,” he pointed out. She muttered something he didn’t really want to hear, so he parted the drapes to check their location. A few more minutes and they would reach The Grotto. He glanced at her. She looked disheveled, but it would have to do. He supposed Gabriel knew they were looking for him by now. At any rate, they’d lost the element of surprise.

  The carriage slowed, and Fallon said, “Where are we now? I’m not getting out. I look a fright.”

  “You look wonderfully tousled,” he told her. “Anyone would think we just had a tryst in the carriage.”

  “I don’t want anyone to think that. I don’t want to tryst with you.”

 

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