Uttering his Christian name would bring this one to blush. Despite the severity of the exchange, he fought to suppress a grin. “It’s also a place where a person doesn’t go blushing because they use someone’s given name.” He stared at her pointedly, in large part because he wanted to know the one affixed to the spirited lady before him.
“Eve.”
That was it.
One syllable. A name born of temptation and darkness and sin that conjured wicked musings of the slender miss before him.
Eve stared back, a piercing intensity in her thickly veiled eyes, and he forced aside those weakening thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “The responsibilities will include observing the gaming hell floors. Speaking with the guards and other proprietors. Visiting vendors and merchants we deal with on Lambeth.” With every item tossed out on his perfunctory list, the color leeched more and more from her cheeks so that only the dusting of freckles along her nose stood out, stark in an otherwise white palette.
When Eve spoke, her threadbare voice revealed the same hesitancy of last evening. “O-observing the gaming hell floors.” She captured her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. And damned if he didn’t feel a dose of guilt for reducing her to a worried miss. “Wh-where the patrons wager.”
Calum looped his arms across his chest. “That is generally where gentlemen conduct their wagering, Mrs. Swindell,” he said drily. He’d not spare her sensibilities by sharing that the one-sided glass windows that overlooked the floors would be sufficient for those observations.
Eve expelled her breath slowly through compressed lips. “I see.” The lady rocked back and forth on the heels of her feet.
He puzzled at that two-word acknowledgment.
“I will do it,” she said at last.
She would . . . ? With determined steps, Eve Swindell marched over to the door, and yanked it open. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Dabney, I must see to my morning ablutions so I might begin my assignment.”
Again, his lips twitched. “I wasn’t offering you the post.”
He may as well have run her through with the tip of her abandoned black pen for the shock there. “You weren’t?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” The lady leaned against the doorjamb.
Calum dusted a hand over his chin, warring with himself. Trust your damned instincts. Trust . . . Goddamn it. “It is yours . . .” The lady’s eyes lit bright, and she propelled away from the door. “As an interim post.” All the wind went out of her sails.
“Interim?” she repeated back.
“I don’t trust people who lie to me, Mrs. Swindell,” he informed her flatly. “No matter their reasons. A person capable of lies is capable of any kind of treachery.” Their gazes locked in a silent, meaningful battle. The lady glanced away first. “But I believe you.” Against my own judgment. Her eyes, teeming with surprise, flew back to his. “If you prove yourself loyal and capable, then I’ll consider hiring you on permanently.”
She fluttered a hand to her chest. “Thank you.”
Unnerved by that breathy expression of gratitude, Calum jabbed a finger in her direction. “One misstep and you will be gone. Be warned, if you bring harm to this hell, you will regret ever crossing me. I intend to watch you. And if I see any signs . . . any hint of deceit, I’ll make you regret the day you set foot inside this place. Are we clear?”
Did he imagine the brief hesitation and the fear in her eyes before she concealed all and nodded? “We are.”
“Your first order of business is to review the club’s records.” He waved a hand over at the ledgers she’d begun work on. “I’ll have the other books brought to your rooms until an office can be readied. You have a week to provide a detailed accounting.”
“Three months.”
Three months? “I beg your pardon?” Had the same insolent woman who’d maneuvered her way inside his club just put a demand to him?
“A week is hardly enough time to oversee all the accounting for an entire gaming establishment.”
By God, she was bolder than any man, woman, or child he’d met in St. Giles. “And yet three months seems arbitrary,” he drawled.
The young woman’s expression grew instantly shuttered. “Three months,” she repeated, firming her mouth.
Ryker would have tossed her out on her arse for that impertinence. Once again, Calum merely demonstrated how bloody different he was from the other man. “I expect the first report readied tomorrow morning, at six o’clock.” Calum studied her for a hint of horror at that early hour and found none. “In my office.”
“As you wish, Cal . . . Mr. Dabney.” It was the second time she’d taken bold possession of his name. And there was something . . . familiar . . . something oddly right about hearing her wrap those two syllables in that husky timbre. Also, something that those instincts he’d been failed by only once told him spoke of danger.
Fighting another wave of disquiet, he started for the door. “Calum.” At her puzzled brow, he clarified. “You may call me Calum, and I find, given the unfortunateness of your name, Eve is preferable to Swindell.”
A poignant smile graced her lips and dimpled her cheeks. “Calum, then,” she murmured in gentling tones, as though familiarizing herself with it.
And as Calum hurried to take his leave, he couldn’t shake the damned niggling thought he’d committed a great folly in hiring the enigmatic bookkeeper.
Chapter 7
Eve’s back ached, and her eyes hurt. Neither of which were attributed to the miserable spectacles Nurse Mattison had insisted she don.
She was fairly certain with the constant work she’d done on the Hell and Sin’s ledgers, she’d be dreaming numbers until she drew her last breath.
But the following morning, winding her way through her new, temporary home, Eve felt a thrill of triumph. She smiled. She’d done it.
Not only had she secured work inside the Hell and Sin—albeit an interim post—but she’d also managed to complete the daunting, near-impossible task set before her less than four and twenty hours ago, by Calum. A task that she was more than certain he designed to see her fail.
As she’d explained to him in their meeting in her temporary chambers, Eve had never been one to crumble under the weight of a challenge. She’d not done it when her father fell ill, and then eventually died. She’d not done it when her brother had at last remembered her existence and sought to force her into an unwanted union. And she’d certainly not falter because of some numbers recorded on a page . . . no matter how important they might be.
Eve reached the end of the hall, squinting through her lenses at the main stairway. Even with her blurred vision she detected the slender, wiry guard positioned there. He gave her a lingering look.
She bowed her head in greeting and then made her way down the servants’ stairs. In the privacy of her own company, she yanked off her glasses. Blinking to adjust to the dimly lit, narrow space, she adjusted her steps. The aged wood creaked, and she took note of those given to the loudest protest. As a girl who’d attempted to help Calum Dabney and only earned her brother Gerald’s wrath, Eve had grown accustomed to hiding and making a quick escape. Silence was the key to survival. She’d learned that at Gerald’s cruel hands. One never knew when one must make a quick escape . . . and this place—especially this place—was no exception.
Eve reached the bottom of the stairway and stopped. With all the enthusiasm with which she’d gone into her stern governesses’ lectures, she perched her spectacles back on. She sniffed the air, ignoring the still-offensive odor that clung to her now black strands. Then, following the far more pleasant smells of molasses and cinnamon, she found her way to the kitchens. She entered, and the servants scuttling about all seemed to note her arrival at once. The noisy activity came to a jarring halt. “Good morning,” she said with a smile. “I am Eve Swindell, the new bookkeeper,” she clarified.
Apparently appeased that she wasn’t someone come to bring harm, but u
ninteresting enough to merit further exchange, the men and women of varying ages resumed their work. Eve picked her way over to the pine trestle dining table, filled with dishes and baskets and oddly set with porcelain plates and lapis lazuli candlesticks. How singularly . . . odd . . . and very much out of place. Claiming a spot at the end of the table, she stretched her fingers out to touch the ornate gold vase, better suited to the breakfast room she’d left behind. She touched her blurry stare on the platters and platters of food. So very much of it.
“That’s ’er ladyship’s,” someone hissed, freezing Eve’s hand midmovement. Removing her spectacles, she looked about and found a young girl with thick golden curls and heavily freckled cheeks glaring back. Flummoxed, Eve assessed the tiny slip of a child. She was near in age to the children Eve visited at the Salvation Foundling Hospital. Her plump cheeks were full, and her gown had a soft quality. Yet her language spoke of a child who’d also known strife on the streets. “Something wrong with your ’earing and your eyes. This is ’er ladyship’s and—”
A boy close in age moved up behind her and nudged her in the side. “Ruby, she’s the new bookkeeper,” he said on a loud whisper. By the equal shock of golden hair, and handful of inches he had on the child, he was the older brother.
“Indeed, I am.” Eve bowed her head. “I’m Mrs. Swindell.”
The little girl snorted. “Lousy name for a gaming hell.”
She scratched at her brow. Now the second person to point out her name.
The pair exchanged a beleaguered look.
“Ya don’t know what that is, do ya?” Ruby accused.
“Alas, I’m afraid I do not.” Eve motioned to the empty table. “Perhaps you’d keep me company while I break my fast and enlighten me?”
“It means you’re a cheat, by the way.” Ruby eyed her suspiciously. “Ya talk funny.”
Eve merely stood in patient wait until Ruby and her partner settled into the seats opposite her. Gathering a napkin, Eve carefully unfolded it and then set it on her lap. All the while aware of the children following her every movement.
“Ya weren’t born on the streets.” The boy shot those words his sister had previously alluded to, in the form of an accusation.
“No,” she conceded. She looked pointedly at him.
“Gideon,” the girl supplied, earning a glare.
“Given that we’re to share the same roof, it makes sense that we share breakfast.” It spoke volumes to the lives they’d surely led that they continued to eye her with a healthy dose of skepticism. Carefully, and with deliberate purpose, Eve sliced up the still-warm plum cake and made three plates. Her father had once said, “A person could learn much about another person by the way they treat animals, children, and servants.”
“Unless . . .”—she looked between the laconic pair—“the proprietors don’t permit you to do so?”
Gideon scrambled forward. “There ain’t no better man to work for than Mr. Black.” He spoke with a vehemence and passion in his eyes, born of true loyalty. Not the fear her own brother inspired.
“Ya,” Ruby piped in, sitting next to her brother. “Gave us a home and work so we didn’t ’ave to go to one of those miserable workhouses.”
Eve fiddled with her fork and watched her dining companions as they ate. How many lords and ladies failed to help the children suffering in the streets? Rather, they were content to call the constable and have them carted off, without ever sparing them another thought, as Gerald had done. “And what of Mr. Dabney?” she ventured, carefully presenting the question. Ruby and Gideon looked up from their plates. She was more than half-afraid the boy would snap and hiss and withhold any information about the man she’d once called friend.
“Wot about ’im?” Gideon demanded around a mouthful.
The boy reminded her much of the child Calum had once been. Snarling and hissing when she’d discovered him in the mews, he’d threatened to gut her if she didn’t run off. Eve had learned long ago how to deal with skittish strangers. She picked up the pitcher and poured two glasses. “Is he as fair as Mr. Black?” she asked, presenting the question as a casual one.
“Not a fairer one,” Ruby chimed in. “’e sees we ’ave beds, missus. Beds,” she said on an awe-soaked whisper. “And food in our bellies.”
So that was the manner of man Calum had become. He and the other men who ruled this gaming establishment gave shelter to children. As a girl, knowing nothing more than his first name, she’d been hopelessly enamored of Calum Dabney. He’d spoken to her not as though she were a duke’s cherished daughter or a little sister in need of protecting. And he’d grown up to be a man who looked after those in need of nurturing. “I see,” she said softly. “He sounds very kind.”
“Not a nicer one. He . . .” Little Ruby’s words trailed off as her brother stuck an elbow in her side. His faint whisper barely strained the level of audible. The girl rounded her eyes.
Furrowing her brow, Eve followed her gaze, casting a glance over her shoulder. Her heart stilled its beat.
For in the doorway stood Calum. With a newspaper tucked under his arm, he may as well have been any proper gent come to breakfast. That illusion was shattered by the seven hulking, menacing strangers at his back. However, her attention was not on any of those still-smaller, less-broad men, but rather the one she’d called friend. There was nothing, however, friendly, and only anything menacing about the glint in his near-black irises.
“Mrs. Swindell,” he greeted.
Eve damned her fair skin prone to blushing. Oh, please, say he didn’t hear me quizzing two children about him. She searched his stoic face. Yes, perhaps he’d not heard any of her discourse with Ruby and Gideon, after all.
Ruby nudged her under the table.
Her flush deepened. “Mr. Dabney,” Eve returned belatedly, coming to her feet.
“If you’ll meet me in my office. I’ll be along shortly.”
Well, drat.
She’d been talking about him. Putting questions to Ruby and Gideon, to be precise, which life had proved was invariably dangerous. If one sought information about a person, it was a sign that one needed to sleep with one eye open and a blade in one’s hand because danger lurked on the horizon.
And yet why did he stand here appreciating the delicate sway of her generous hips as she made her way to his office? Watching, until she’d disappeared around the corner.
“Well, this is hardly regular morning business talk,” Adair drawled in hushed tones, snapping Calum from a fleeting moment of madness.
His neck heated, and he shot his brother a black glare meant to silence.
Alas, this was Adair, and the moment one gave him an inkling that one had fallen to his baiting, he was worse than a starved dog with a bone. “You hired her?” Incredulity underscored that inquiry.
Mindful of the guards seated in the kitchen now taking their breakfast, Calum dropped his voice. “Temporarily.” It was a weak defense, merely met with another shocked look. “She found errors in the damned books,” he said, giving his collar a tug.
“Oh, it is not the fact that you hired the woman. Rather that you failed to mention the club is, in fact, in possession of a new employee.”
Yes, he’d been remiss there. “I intended to speak of it over breakfast,” he groused, feeling very much like a boy being scolded by a disapproving parent. And yet, Adair was entitled to the questions in his gaze. For after he’d granted Eve the post, Adair had been deserving of a meeting. Instead, Calum had assigned a guard to watch her rooms and delayed the discourse . . . until now. What he hadn’t expected was a lady who rose long before any of the street-hardened men who lived in this club. “I granted the post as an interim one,” he felt compelled to add, when Adair continued to scrutinize him. “If she proves herself capable and skilled”—and truthful—“then she can stay on.”
Adair cracked his knuckles. “And if not?”
“Then, she’ll be turned out.” That truth came with a levelheadedness born of placing t
he club before even the desperation of a lone woman on her own. Calum looked over his shoulder to where Eve Swindell had made her exit a short while ago. “I’ve a meeting to evaluate the lady’s reporting on the accounts. Speak to the men.” He glanced to the two children now eating with the guards. “And everyone else inside the club. Let them know there is a new employee. Ask them to be looking for anything amiss or suspicious. If she sneezes even too many times, I’m to know of it,” he ordered.
Adair grinned wryly. “You do know the lady merely arrived late for her interview.”
Calum dropped his voice. “And secreted off the club books and seized rooms for the night.”
“If she intended to gather our information for Killoran or anyone else, she would have made off with the books,” Adair rightly pointed out. “Your feeling?”
At that casual question, his hand tightened reflexively on the paper in his hands. He gave a brusque nod. Life had shaped them each in different ways. However, Adair hadn’t nearly swung for ignoring his instincts—Calum had. And the lesson had left an indelible mark of his own mortality.
Calum turned to go, when Adair touched his shoulder.
Adair passed a somber gaze over him. “Whatever decision you make, you have my full support,” he said, his meaning clear. He trusted Calum implicitly enough to send a small, desperate woman out into the streets, without the security of work.
And this was where he and Adair had been forever different from Niall and Ryker. Their brothers lived their lives with a ruthless edge, where their small street family mattered above anything and everything else. They’d not have thought anything of turning away a woman who’d given them reason for suspicion. Calum, however, hadn’t been born to the same life as they had. He’d been a failing merchant’s son who’d still known a loving home and devoted parents. He knew desperation in a different way. Struggling to survive to one’s suddenly changed circumstances. “Just be listening and watching. Instruct the others,” he repeated, and started the trek for his office. He climbed the same servants’ stairwell Eve had ascended a short while ago. When he reached his office, he silently opened the well-oiled door. And instantly found her.
The Heiress's Deception (Sinful Brides Book 4) Page 10