The Heiress's Deception (Sinful Brides Book 4)

by Christi Caldwell

  They both jumped. Swallowing loudly, they nodded.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Calum tamped down a curse. Interruptions during meetings only hinted at trouble. “Enter,” he called out.

  The door opened, and Adair stuck his head inside. A look passed between them. It was that silent language their gang of five had learned on the streets that spoke of trouble, without relying on words. It had kept them safe more times than they’d deserved. “We are done here,” he said, ending the meeting. Every moment they were away from their work, the less liquor was sold, and the less profit was made.

  The two young women tripped over each other in their haste to escape.

  No sooner had Adair closed the door behind them than he dropped the next crisis. “Webster’s quit.”

  “Bloody hell.” And just like that, Calum had a renewed appreciation for the seemingly easy order Ryker had accomplished inside the hell. “For what goddamned reason did she give?”

  “You insisted she inventory the floors.”

  He swiped a hand over his eyes. “I told her she could do it from the goddamned Observatory,” he muttered. Those wide windows with their clever mirrors had been put in at his insistence when they’d first purchased the Hell and Sin.

  A wry grin hovered on Adair’s lips. “She said she was sinning enough by simply being here, but she’d not be forced to bear witness to the evil we allow.”

  “She took on a damned post at a gaming hell,” he barked. “What in blazes did she think she’d be doing?”

  Chuckling, Adair settled his broad frame into the chair previously occupied by Marjorie. He propped his boots on the edge of Calum’s desk.

  “I’m glad you find the fact that we are now out a qualified bookkeeper amusing,” he groused, shoving the other man’s feet back onto the floor.

  Adair laughed again, and then his mirth faded. “What do you want?”

  A competent—nay—skilled bookkeeper. A familiar head guard. His club back to the way it was before Helena, Ryker, and Niall had all gone and married members of Polite Society. “Find me a replacement,” he settled for.

  “A woman, as Ryker and Penelope insist?”

  Calum would take a bloody Covent Garden pigeon, at this point, as long as it could successfully carry out the role. “I want the most qualified person you can drum up the quickest.”

  Adair hesitated. Did he intend to challenge Calum on breaking with the rules set forth on that position after Ryker had married? Instead, he just nodded.

  In the meantime . . .

  “Bring me the damned books,” he grumbled. God, beyond tabulating the profits earned in a given week and month, how he despised the tedious record keeping. He’d a grasp on numbers, but he’d never possessed his sister Helena’s natural acumen.

  “As you wish.” Adair hopped up and took his leave. In desperate need of a cheroot, Calum fetched one from inside his center desk drawer. Lighting it on the gold sconce behind his desk, he carried the small scrap over to the windows. He surveyed the streets below. With eyes sharpened from his time living on those very rough roads, he made out the figures lurking at the corners of buildings—waiting and watching. Pickpockets identifying a mark in the drunken gentlemen who’d no place in this dangerous end of London, but came here for that very reason alone. Calum took a long, slow pull from his cheroot and welcomed the calming of the pungent smoke as it filled his lungs. His gaze caught on a small boy who wove around the street. His dirty fingers effortlessly divested a bloke of his purse, and the street tough was gone without the fancy lord even knowing he’d been nicked.

  Not even eleven years ago, Calum had been doing the very same thing. Committing any theft, short of murder, to secure the funds necessary to buy and then build their empire. Taking another pull, he tapped the ashes in a crystal tray that rested on his sideboard. He’d stolen enough purses to hang ten years to Sunday. As he knew the Devil was indeed real, Calum also knew that when he drew his last breath, he’d be paying for his crimes. Stealing from the fancy toffs, however, would not be the crime he swung for. He settled his stare on a pair of loudly dressed dandies climbing the steps of his club. The irony was not lost on him. Those same men he’d once fleeced now willingly handed over their fortunes, all for a day’s pleasure at Calum’s gaming tables.

  No, those gentlemen who’d let a lad starve in the street weren’t deserving of his—or anyone’s—remorse. A little twinge struck his side, where a sharp blade had once pierced his flesh. Steal from your betters, will you . . . He closed his eyes as that old horror whispered forward, as it sometimes did. Terror weighted his chest, robbing him of air. Stop. Calum forced his eyes open just as the two patrons were admitted to his club. Giving his head a shake to force aside thoughts of the gentleman who’d come closer than anyone to seeing Calum hang, he fixed on that which was within his control—the Hell and Sin.

  Taking a final pull from his cheroot, he ground the scrap into the tray. “Leave it on my desk,” he instructed.

  Adair’s curse filled the room. “How in blazes did you hear me?”

  It had been the age-old argument between them since they’d met as small boys, vying for superiority and survival.

  “You’ve got a heavy footfall. Always did,” he said, chuckling.

  Adair dropped an armful of books in the middle of Calum’s desk.

  Calum winced, and this time it was his brother’s turn to grin. “Knowing your love of the books, I’ll leave you to it.”

  And with another smug look, Calum reclaimed the chair at his desk and grabbed the top ledger. Opening it, he scanned the neat columns Mrs. Webster had kept.

  Bloody hell, I need a damned bookkeeper.

  Chapter 2

  London, England

  Lady Eve Pruitt’s breath came hard and fast in her ears; it matched the frantic beat of her heart as she sprinted across the darkened streets of Lambeth.

  There had once been a time where lectures had been given by stern nursemaids and governesses on the need for measured steps.

  But that had been before.

  Before the death of her mother and father. Before her elder brother Kit’s disappearance. Before Gerald’s descent into total evil.

  Your brother promised you’d be obliging . . . on the shelf, as you are. But I do so prefer a fight, my lady . . .

  Terror and horror clutching at her insides, Eve quickened her steps. Dashing through an old rain puddle, she headed for a familiar, narrow alleyway. She reached that coveted place and collapsed against the wall.

  Do not think of it. Do not think of it. If you do not think of it, it isn’t real.

  She squeezed her eyes tight as the memory of Lord Flynn’s assault gripped her. His searching hands, the whiskey-scented breath as he’d taken her mouth. The slap of cold air as he’d yanked her skirts up.

  A sob tore from her. Eve stamped her hand over her swollen lips to bury that damning sound. Dread pulsed in her veins, and all her muscles coiled tight, prepared for her assailant to emerge from the shadows like the demon he was.

  “No one is here,” she whispered. It was the reason she’d come. Her brother, in the midst of another of his wicked orgies, was far too drunk to hunt her down. His close friend, Lord Flynn, had been left in an unconscious heap at her feet after she’d clouted him over the head.

  Eve fought through the dread and panic, coming back from it. I’m safe. That was—as safe as an heiress in possession of a sizable fortune could be from a brother and his reprobate friend who were determined to wrest those funds from her.

  Her hands curled into reflexive fists at her side as fury flickered to life. She embraced it, welcoming the palpable outrage. For it gave her strength. It distracted her from the fate she’d nearly suffered this evening.

  Do not think of him. Not again. Not now.

  The distant sound of a horse’s hooves filled the eerie night silence. Run. Springing into movement, Eve raced down the narrow passageway between the two buildings. She reached the back door and poun
ded frantically. That loud rapping thundered in the quiet. Open the door. Eve stole a frantic glance down the alleyway. Open the door, she silently pleaded.

  And then the Lord apparently heard a second prayer of hers that night, for the familiar, wrinkled servant drew the door open. Surprise marred his heavily wrinkled features. Why should he not be startled by her appearance? It was late. Not an hour any respectable lady would be visiting Chancery Lane. And yet, Eve would rather sleep on the streets of Chancery than return home. “My lady . . .” Mr. Dunkirk’s words trailed off, and his stare lingered on her swollen mouth, her torn décolletage, and the fingerprints on her arms.

  Humiliated shame ripped through her. Never before had she longed for a cloak more than she did in this exposing moment. However, when presented with the option of donning a proper garment or fleeing her unconscious assailant, she’d opted for the latter. “M-may I see my offices?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  Cheeks flushed, the wizened servant stepped aside to admit her. “Of course. Of course, my lady,” he said quickly, ushering Eve inside.

  The click of the door shutting and lock turning eased some of the tension from her frame. It was an artificial sense of safety, and yet in this instance it was tangible and real. On numb legs, she followed Mr. Dunkirk through the familiar corridors of the Salvation Foundling Hospital. Where the sounds of laughter and children’s chatter usually filled these walls, nothing but a fitting, eerie silence hovered in the air, punctuated by the soft soles of her leather boots. “If you’ll wait here, my lady,” Mr. Dunkirk said as he admitted her to the makeshift office that Eve called her own during the daylight hours, “I’ll fetch Nurse.”

  “No,” she rasped. “Do not. Please,” she implored. “I—I . . .” bring threat enough to this place in simply being here. “My offices. I need my offices.” Concern glinted in his rheumy eyes. “I merely wished to finish my reports,” she finished lamely. Only a lackwit or madman would ever believe that, even with Eve’s devotion to her bookkeeping at the Salvation Foundling Hospital, mere ordinary business brought her here in the dead of night. But then, how many other peculiar times had she fled Gerald’s violent displays of temper, coming to this very place?

  Studiously avoiding Eve’s gaze, Mr. Dunkirk nodded. “Of course, my lady.” With a slight bow, the old servant left.

  Alone in the small office, Eve’s legs gave under her. She shot a hand out, catching herself on a nearby shellback chair, and lowered herself into that seat. The books and ledgers neatly stacked as she’d left them earlier that morn represented a sliver of normality in her precarious world. Closing her eyes, she pressed shaking palms to the top of that pile. The leather was cool against her palms, a reassuring balm to this hellish night.

  Originally, guilt had driven Eve to the foundling hospital. Guilt over the death of a boy she’d been responsible for seventeen years earlier. Over time, she’d accepted that remorse was a useless sentiment. It would never undo her actions in seeking help from Gerald. She could only work to see that other children didn’t suffer the same agonizing fate. And so she’d come here and given the only gift she might contribute—her ability with numbers.

  Now she sought solace in that same work. With shaking fingers, Eve opened the black ledger and lost herself in her work. It gave her purpose . . . and had for the better part of the year.

  Seated behind the aged Carlton House desk, Eve frantically scraped her gaze over the page, pausing periodically to make a note in the far-right column.

  Soaring costs of wheat . . . increasing number of children . . . must prepare for a . . .

  This is not the greeting your brother prepared me for . . .

  Her gut churned. “Damn you, Gerald,” she whispered.

  Her brother had grown desperate. Tonight’s attack, encouraged by her faithless brother, was proof of that. But then, desperation made a person do desperate things, and the only funds between Gerald and dun territory were, in fact . . . Eve’s monies. In one of his final acts of business, the late Duke of Bedford, knowing Eve would no longer be a debutante in her first bloom of youth, had set aside funds to tempt a marriage-minded gentleman. He’d not had the wherewithal to see that all he’d done in a final act of generosity had been to put a mark upon her for fortune hunters—and even more dangerously so, the ruthless son he’d left behind.

  When she reached her sixth and twentieth year, the twenty thousand pounds reverted to her, and the decision of what to do with it and how to use it all fell to her. In the event she married, those funds would become her husband’s. She steeled her jaw. It was an archaic arrangement her father had drafted on his sickbed. And though she’d loved her father for being a good, kind man, he’d given more credence to his son’s wit than her own. What was worse, he’d been so fearful that Eve wouldn’t make a match that he’d sought to sweeten the pot, as she’d overheard him discussing with his solicitor, Mr. Barry. Her fingers curled reflexively around her pen.

  When she was nine years old, she discovered the depth of Gerald’s evil. With the innocence only a child was capable of, she’d gone to him, pleading for help in saving the boy from the streets she’d called friend. Gerald had repaid her trust by having him dragged off to Newgate and hanged. That ruthlessness had extended to Eve in a whole new way this evening.

  “Do not think of it,” she urged herself in the quiet. “Do not think of him.” She trained her gaze and every attention on the books before her.

  Except, she’d let him back in her thoughts, and the menacing glint in Lord Flynn’s ruthless blue eyes flashed behind her mind. Her stomach revolted, and Eve covered her face with her hands, willing him gone.

  Do you know, I thought it would be a chore to bed you? But I do believe I’ve been wrong . . .

  “Eve?” Snapped to, Eve dropped her hands and glanced to the doorway where Nurse Mattison stood. Nearly six feet tall, the unflappable nurse of thirty years had always had a Spartan-like strength around the children in her care. “Whatever has . . .” Her words trailed off.

  Eve followed her stare to the ripped décolletage. Throat working, she made a futile attempt to right the gaping fabric. “I needed to finish my reports,” she said blankly, no more believing the older nurse would accept that as truth than she trusted Gerald would leave Eve alone after this night. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

  The other woman made a sound of protest as she slid into the seat opposite Eve. “Do not be silly,” she chided.

  Eve stiffened and braced for an onslaught of questions she was unprepared to answer. She couldn’t share the details of the wicked party her brother currently hosted or . . . Her mind shied away from the details of Lord Flynn’s punishing assault.

  She continued to work, her pen flying frantically over the pages. All the while she felt Nurse Mattison’s gaze on her. When Eve had come to this hospital a year ago and offered funds and her assistance, the woman had been skeptical. In time, when Eve had begun evaluating the head nurse’s reports and books, they’d struck up an unlikely friendship. As such, this place had become a sanctuary from her uncertain world. And it was even more so in this instance.

  “Do you know, I have served in three hospitals? In all those times, you are the only lady who’s done more than pay visits to uplift the spirits of the children.”

  Eve paused midtabulation. Yes, she knew it. She knew it from her frequent visits and the time she spent reading to the children here. She knew it from the grateful smiles and words of thanks that fell too frequently from the mouths of those who called this place home. What they failed to understand was that since the illness and then passing of Eve’s father, this institution had served as a de facto home. It had been the one place to give her purpose—and a sense of control, which her own life was so very much without. This place, where children who’d not a soul to depend on, found a home. And all that was on the cusp of being lost to the mounting bills. So how could the other woman appear so . . . so . . . calm, with ruin staring down the eyes of the noble institution?
She mustered a smile. “It would take a good deal of conceit to believe that my presence would so uplift a person’s spirits that they’d forget their empty belly or terror for the possible future awaiting them.”

  The candle’s glow illuminated the sparkle in Nurse Mattison’s eyes. “Then you do not properly appreciate just how dearly the children and the staff care for you.” She gave her a meaningful look. “How much we all care for you.” She paused. “What happened?” she asked quietly.

  The pen slipped from Eve’s fingers, splashing a trail of ink upon the otherwise perfectly tidy page. She shook her head tightly and proceeded to ramble on. “I have to see to the wheat reports. I fear it is even more dire than we thought.” Not only had the foundling hospital seen a decline in donations and sponsorship from the peerage, they’d also taken in more children, which meant greater expenditures. “I’ll just—”

  “It can wait,” the imperturbable woman insisted. “What happened, Eve?” she repeated.

  Eve’s throat worked. Since she’d come here, this woman had been like the caring, elder sister she’d never had. And yet even with that bond between them, she couldn’t bring herself to share this. “I cannot . . .” Slowly, she lifted her head and met the other woman’s gaze, pleading with her to understand.

  Had there been tears or a hint of weakness in Nurse Mattison, Eve would have been reduced to a blubbering mess. Nothing but the woman’s steely resolve met her gaze.