The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  “Why wouldn’t you feel like one?” he asked.

  Her gaze rose. “Because he never let me.”

  “Your husband.”

  “Yes.” She ran her thumb across her chin. The gesture seemed out of place, until Lucas glanced closer and saw the sliver of a white scar he’d never noticed before. It started half an inch beneath her bottom lip before disappearing underneath the edge of her jaw, almost like a hook.

  Red blurred the edges of his vision. He didn’t need to ask how she’d gotten such an unusual mark. The answer was obvious. And enraging.

  How many other scars did she have? Scars put there by the husband who should have protected her.

  Who should have kept her safe.

  Who should have treasured her.

  Who should have loved her.

  Instead, he’d beaten her. Degraded her. Made her feel like less than what she was. He’d hired a dangerous criminal to track her down, and smirked while he’d done it.

  Never mind that Lucas was the criminal in question. He had more virtue in his pinky finger than Glastonbury did in his entire worthless body. The duke was worse than a monster. He was pure, unadulterated evil. And by the time Lucas was finished with him, he was going to wish he was dead.

  “Mr. Black?” said Persephone uncertainly.

  He followed her fretful gaze to his hands and realized he’d curled them into fists. Fists he planned on using to pummel her husband into a bloody pulp.

  “Glastonbury is never going to touch you again,” Lucas vowed fiercely. “You’ve my word.”

  She frowned. “Then…what are you going to do with me?”

  All things considered, it was a damned good question.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” Calliope said with a nervous glance over her shoulder. She was thankful it was still daylight, or else there would have no question as to whether or not she and Helena should have been standing outside a shoddy looking tavern in the middle of Seven Dials.

  As dingy and dark as the rookery appeared in the middle of the afternoon, she was loathed imagining what it must have been like at night. If she wasn’t murdered in the next hour for the coins she carried in her reticule, Leo was going to kill her when he found out where she’d gone.

  “It’s a proper public establishment, the same as any other we might find in Berkley Square.” Brushing off Calliope’s concern with a flick of her wrist, Helena drew back the hood of her cloak, revealing her fiery red hair.

  “This is not Berkley Square,” Calliope noted as they stepped to the side to allow two burly men to exit the tavern. They leered at her, revealing teeth blackened with rot, and were it not for Helena’s ironclad grip on her arm she would have been hard-pressed not to turn on her heel and flee in the opposite direction.

  This, she thought silently, was a very bad idea.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Helena said cheerfully. “Could we have a moment of your time?”

  The first brute peered uncertainly at the second. “Is she talkin’ to us?”

  “Dunno,” his companion grunted. “Sounds like it.”

  “I am, indeed, talking to you. My friend and I are searching for someone, and we were told he often frequents this place. A man called…”

  “Mr. Bishop,” Calliope supplied when Helena paused, her brow knitting. “Mr. Art Bishop.”

  “That’s it!” Helena snapped her fingers as the men exchanged a quick look, the corners of their mouths twitching. “Mr. Art Bishop. We’d like to employ his services.”

  They’d received the name at the last “proper public establishment” they’d frequented. Which had just so happened to be a house of ill-repute. Calliope didn’t know if she’d ever forget the lascivious acts she’d witnessed…several of which she had half a mind to try with Leo.

  If he didn’t strangle her before she had the chance.

  He was going to be positively furious when he discovered the danger she and Helena had willingly subjected themselves to. Stephen as well. But it was worth remembering that no matter how angry their husbands were, they’d never actually hurt Calliope and Helena.

  Unlike the Duke of Glastonbury.

  Calliope squared her shoulders. She might have been scared witless, but she knew her fear paled in comparison to what Percy must have be experiencing. If tracking down and hiring a renowned thief-taker was what it took to get their friend returned safely, then that’s just what she and Helena would have to do.

  “Have you seen Mr. Bishop?” she asked the brutes. “We really need to speak to him.”

  “We might ‘ave. Aye, we just might ‘ave.” Again they looked at each other, and their grins grew. “Might need somefin to jog our memories, though.”

  “Something to jog your memories?” Helena asked, puzzled.

  “Money,” Calliope hissed, poking her in the ribs. “They mean money.”

  “Oh!” Helena’s face brightened. “Naturally. This really is very thrilling.” Her expression turned stern as she withdrew a handful of shillings from her reticule and held them in a closed fist. “If I give these to you, gentlemen, I expect results.”

  “And you cannot murder us,” Calliope put in for good measure.

  “Yes. Under no circumstance is there to be any murdering.”

  “Or maiming.”

  “None of that either,” Helena said firmly. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Aye.” The larger of the two men held out his ham-sized hand.

  After a brief hesitation, Helena dropped the coins into it.

  “The person yer searchin’ for is sittin’ at the bar,” he said with a nod at the tavern. “Come on, Jack. Ye up for a flyer at Molly’s? Heard there’s a new girl. Real pretty like.”

  The other brute grinned and groped his crotch. “Always.”

  “Sitting at the bar,” Helena grumbled as the men sauntered off. “I paid five shillings for nothing!”

  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?” said Calliope. “Surely, that’s something.”

  The door creaked noisily when they stepped inside. Immediately Calliope was overwhelmed with the smell of ale and sweat. Shuddering, she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth as she followed closely behind Helena and did her best not to touch anything. A difficult feat, as the small, windowless room was cluttered with tables. And was that a…bear?

  She gave a startled yelp.

  Helena whirled around. “What is it?” she asked with some alarm.

  Calliope pointed a trembling finger at the hairy beast standing on its hind legs in the corner, its enormous brown face perpetually frozen in a menacing snarl.

  “Oh dear,” Helena gasped, and for the first time since they’d ventured into Seven Dials. she actually appeared a little bit afraid. “That’s quite a sight, isn’t it? I’ve never seen one before. I wonder where it came from?”

  “A traveling zoo, most likely,” Calliope said as they gave the mounted animal a large berth on their way to the bar.

  Roughly hewn and dimly lit, it was empty, save for the middle stool where someone sat hunched over a tall pint, their face shielded by a hat.

  “That must be him,” Helena whispered. “Mr. Bishop. He’s shorter than I pictured he’d be.”

  “What do we do?” Calliope whispered back.

  “Introduce ourselves, I suppose.” Squaring her shoulders, the countess marched up to the bar and thrust out her hand. “Mr. Bishop,” she said pleasantly, “I’d like to introduce myself. I am Lady Helena Ware, and this is Lady Winchester. We’ve come on a discreet errand in the hopes of employing your services.”

  “There isn’t anything discreet about you,” the thief-taker said dryly. He lifted his head, and Calliope gasped again. So did Helena.

  The two friends exchanged a shocked glance.

  “But you’re…you’re a woman,” Helena blurted.

  “So I’m told.” Jumping nimbly off the stool, Art Bishop removed her hat. A long rope of tawny gold hair tumbled down her back. With a smirk, she s
tretched her arms high over her head. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “N-no,” Calliope stammered. “It’s just that…”

  “You assumed I was a man.”

  “Yes,” said Helena. “We did.”

  The thief-taker flashed a grin. Now that Calliope knew she was woman, it was hard to fathom how she’d ever mistaken Art for the opposite sex. Despite her manly attire–an oversized tailcoat, white shirt, and breeches that bunched at the knees–Art Bishop’s delicate bone structure was obviously female. She had winged eyebrows a shade darker than her hair, large, luminous eyes as blue as the ocean, a narrow nose, and full lips. If she were dressed in a gown with her hair in an elegant twist, she wouldn’t have been out of place in a ballroom.

  “Not to worry. It’s a common mistake. My full name is Artemis, but around here, everyone either calls me Art or Bishop.” She shook Helena’s hand. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Oh,” Calliope said, looking dubiously at the row of dirty tin tankards sitting on a dusty shelf behind the bar. “We couldn’t possibly–”

  “We’d love to,” Helena interceded.

  “Smithy is having a quick tup at Molly’s. I’m in charge until he gets back.” With impressive athleticism, Art launched herself over the bar and promptly filled three cups to overflowing with dark, frothy ale. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Helena and Calliope echoed as they picked up their tankards.

  “So,” said Art after she’d taken a liberal sip. “What brings two fine ladies to this part of town? Something dire, I’d wager. Unless you’ve decided to apply for work at Molly’s? I heard she’s looking a few new girls.”

  Calliope and Helena stared at each other.

  Art gave a peal of laughter. “I’m jesting! I’m only jesting. You should see your faces.”

  “Ha, ha,” Calliope said weakly. “Very amusing.”

  “We’re here because our friend, Percy, has been kidnapped.” Helena slid onto a stool. “We believe the Duke of Glastonbury hired someone to take her.”

  Art leaned against the shelf and tilted her head. “Why would a duke do a thing like that?”

  “Because Percy is his wife,” Calliope explained.

  “And she ran away from him after he nearly beat her to death,” Helena added grimly. “We’ve been protecting her ever since.”

  “Well, you haven’t done a very good job, have you?” Reaching for her tankard, Art took another drink. “I want to help you, ladies. Truly, I do. But I’m not about to get tangled up in a duke’s affairs.”

  “We have money to pay you.” Untying her reticule from her wrist, Calliope spilled its contents onto the bar. “Almost five pounds to start.”

  Art smiled thinly. Then, she pulled out a silver dagger. It was small but sharp, and she handled it with ease, flipping the blade from her left hand to her right. “And what’s to prevent me from taking those coins and slitting both your throats?”

  Instinctively Calliope’s fingers wrapped around her neck. “I…”

  “Because there’s more where that came from,” Helena said smoothly. “Much more. Our friend is very valuable to us.”

  “She must be, to go through all this trouble.” The thief-taker held up her dagger and studied her reflection in the flat of the blade. Peeling back her lips, she picked something from between her teeth. “All right. I’ll help you. Five pounds to start, fifty when I find this friend of yours.”

  “Fifty pounds?” Helena yelped. “I know I said there’s more, but that’s blind robbery! Do you realize how many hats I could buy with fifty pounds? Infinite. An infinite amount of hats. Red hats. Felt hats. Feathered hats. Hats with–”

  “Helena,” said Calliope with a strained smile, “why don’t we agree to give the nice lady with the knife what she wants?”

  “Fine,” the countess grumbled. “But Percy better be found.”

  Art tucked her dagger away. “Consider it done.”

  Chapter Eight

  That evening, Lucas had invited Percy to dine with him.

  She was reluctant to accept the invitation. After her impulsive kiss, she didn’t trust herself around him.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  Still, between taking a tray of food in her bedchamber and being allowed to move about the house, what choice did she have but the latter? True to her word, Bessie had drawn her a bath, and after soaking in the luxurious bubbles for what felt like hours, she’d dressed, brushed out her hair, and joined her kidnapper in the dining room.

  Lucas stood when she entered, those golden eyes sliding over her with an intensity that had her plucking self-consciously at her skirt.

  “I…I didn’t know what to wear,” she said, gathering a handful of muslin fabric. The blue gown with its ivory brocade overlay was far more suited for a night at the theater than a simple dinner for two, but in her haste to pack, she hadn’t brought anything more suitable.

  “It’s perfect.” Lucas swallowed audibly, then walked down the length of the long table draped in white cloth and pulled out a chair. “I hope you’re hungry. Bessie has outdone herself.”

  Feeling rather like a hen sitting down to dine with a fox, Percy sank gracefully into the chair and braced her hands on the armrests as Lucas slid her towards the table. He lingered behind her a full minute more than he should have, and she could have sworn she heard the gallop of his heartbeat through his impeccably tailored waistcoat before he moved away.

  “This is lovely,” she said when the food arrived.

  Lucas grunted in agreement, and they began their meal in the prickly, awkward silence of strangers left alone together. Which was what they were, of course. Strangers. Except when she’d kissed him, he hadn’t felt like a stranger. In those moments of heat and passion, her soul had recognized his.

  And in that recognition she’d found the acceptance she had been starving for all her life.

  Now they sat at opposite ends of a table that might as well have been an ocean, and Percy honestly didn’t know if she wanted to sail as far away from him as she could possibly get, or dive overboard and swim straight into his arms.

  Within the first choice lay the opportunity to escape. With the second came almost certain death. Certainly there’d at least be sharks. Yesterday, the decision would have been obvious. But suddenly the answer wasn’t so clear.

  “The chicken is excellent,” she said tentatively, her fork poised in mid-air. “Very moist.”

  “Bessie is a good cook,” Lucas replied. In the flickering candlelight, he appeared every inch the formidable rogue that he was. But for some reason, Percy wasn’t intimidated.

  Quite the opposite.

  Against her will, she found herself drawn to Lucas’s inherent wickedness. His dark charm had mesmerized her. His mysterious allure had captivated her. She should have been terrified of him. Especially after everything she’d endured at the hands of her husband. But despite what Lucas was, and despite what he’d done, there was one thing that set him apart from Andrew.

  He made her feel safe.

  There was no rhyme to it. No reason. Lucas had kidnapped her. Taken her to the other side of London. Locked her in a room. But he’d also brought her sweet muffins. Held her while she cried. Kissed her until she saw stars. Given her a lady’s maid. Promised to protect her from the duke.

  Her fingers tightened around the fork.

  “How much did he pay you?” she asked quietly.

  Lucas sipped his wine, a red Madeira that Percy had yet to taste. “Who?”

  “My husband. How much did he pay you to kidnap me?”

  “Enough.”

  “And yet you said you’re not going to do it. You’re not going to give me to him.”

  His gaze shuttered. “No. I’m not.”

  “Why?” she asked, genuinely confused. Lucas was a criminal. He’d made no effort to hide it. So what was preventing him from following through on the bargain he’d struck with her husband? A bargain that (if she knew Andrew, which she d
id) was almost guaranteed to be incredibly lucrative. “If you were paid for a job–”

  “The job I was paid for wasn’t the job I was given,” Lucas said curtly. “Your husband”–he spat out the word in disgust–“neglected to mention all of the details when he employed my services.”

  “What details are those?”

  Lucas’s eyes were shimmering pools of barely restrained fury. “The fact that he beat you. Not once, or twice, but dozens of times, if I had to guess. The fact that he’ll do it again, and keep doing it until you’re either dead or withdrawn so far into yourself that you might as well be.”

  Percy flinched at Lucas’s brutal honesty.

  She couldn’t help it.

  But when she spoke, she was proud that her voice was steady and even. “Yes, he did. And he will. Andrew is horrible. I regret I ever met him. I never should have married him. But why would that matter to you?”

  Lucas stood up so fast his chair fell over. “Why would it matter to me?” he said incredulously, slapping his hands on the table with enough force to rattle the dishes. “Why would it matter to me?”

  Panic fluttered in Percy’s throat. She managed–barely–to hold it at bay. “If Andrew hired you, I can only assume it was for your expertise. Which means you’ve done this before. Do you swoop in and rescue all the damsels in distress you come across?”

  Or am I special to you?

  The question rested on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t dare say it aloud. How could she, when she didn’t know what she wanted his answer to be?

  “You’re not a damsel, Persephone. Any more than I’m a knight in shining armor. Damsels are weak. And you…” A muscle ticked high in his jaw. “You may just be the strongest woman I’ve ever met. I am not a good man, love. I am not a hero. But I’ve enough decency left in me to understand the difference between right and wrong, and turning you over to that filth wouldn’t just be wrong. It’d be a bloody sin.”

  “Oh. I…I see.” It was all she could think to say as Lucas righted his chair and sat back down. This time when he drank his wine she picked up her own glass and joined him, indulging in a deep swallow to calm her frayed nerves.