O’Shea’s broad palm pressed into the small of her back. She swallowed a gasp. Now he’d done it. But she was fine! She was not undone. O’Shea meant only to encourage her—or to provoke her brother. He could not guess how her heart tripped. He would never know.
She inched out of reach. “That’s right,” she said. “Married, legally and quietly, in the register office in Whitechapel. So you see, the service entrance would hardly do—for your new brother-in-law.”
Peter shook his head slowly. “You’re . . . this is . . .”
She darted a sidelong glance at O’Shea. The bright light of the parlor seemed to sharpen his beauty, making him a study in contrasts: sun-bronzed skin; hair gleaming black; and those eyes. They should call him the Ice King, for those eyes.
Idiotic! She pinched herself. A devilish smile was tugging at the corner of O’Shea’s mouth. Was he privately mocking her? Did he realize how rattled she was?
He caught her look, and winked at her before giving an infinitesimal nod toward her brother.
Frowning, she followed his attention back to Peter, who was gaping like a fish out of water. Why, perhaps O’Shea was laughing at him. It was worth some enjoyment. This was bound to be the sweetest discussion she’d had with Peter in years.
She bit back her own swift smile. “Do you find it preposterous?” she asked her brother. “Ludicrous? Both those words have crossed my mind of late—but in regard to your doings. I watched in silence as you embezzled from our profits to fund your personal affairs. But did you really imagine that I would let you sell the company? Our father’s company?”
Peter was turning purple. “This won’t stand.”
“But it will,” she said. “The license was legally acquired. The marriage was entered into the registry. And the union was . . .” She took a deep breath. “Consummated.” She rushed onward, blinding herself to Peter’s grimace. “There is no court in the land that would contest this marriage. I assume full directorship of the auction rooms now.”
“You goddamned—”
As Peter lunged, O’Shea stepped in front of her. As if she could not handle Peter! She had managed well enough on her own, for twenty-six years. She stepped around him. “It is done,” she said.
Peter fancied himself athletic. He fenced for pleasure at a local studio, and liked to brag that he could swim the Channel, if only he had the time. But as he sized up O’Shea, he was not fool enough to consider himself equal to what he saw. A curious sneer worked over his features, drawing his mouth into a tight little smile.
He sat heavily on the sofa. “Well,” he said flatly. “Congratulations. You have ruined me.”
“Your political prospects? No doubt.” Sensing O’Shea’s surprise, she put a hand on his arm.
Hard as iron. Fearsome strength. But he’d been so gentle with her . . .
She bit hard on her cheek. Just a moment longer, she silently begged him with her look. A moment in which to treasure this victory, and to make Peter feel the absolute depths of misery. That would soften him for the bargain she meant to propose.
O’Shea gave a fractional nod, and she returned her attention to her brother, whose expression was murderous.
“You will regret this,” Peter said. “You imagine that you will seize control of Everleigh’s? Now I will never be away from it. You have left me no choice. I will drive it into the ground to spite you.”
Her temper exploded. “How reassuring, that you should finally admit to how little you care for the place!”
He sneered at her. “And you? What care do you show, by marrying our name to that of the most infamous criminal in England?”
“Well, now,” O’Shea said evenly. “That’s a gratifying thought.”
Peter’s glare snapped to O’Shea’s face, then slid away. He slumped, one hand bracketing his brow to shield his expression. “My God,” he muttered. “My God, you have ruined me.”
Here was the despair she’d been awaiting. “In fact, there is still a hope for you.”
“It’s done,” he said, muffled. “You knew it. Why else did you do it?”
“But you spoke rightly, a minute ago. I have no wish to see you without any aim but the auction house. And so Mr. O’Shea and I have discovered a way to preserve your political aims.”
Peter loosed a choked snort.
“It is very simple,” she said. “You will support Mr. O’Shea’s interests at the Municipal Board of Works, and give me full control at Everleigh’s.”
Peter lifted his head, staring at her with the squinting concentration of a man blinded by the sun.
“Mr. O’Shea’s buildings have been wrongly condemned,” she said. “They are located in Whitechapel; the inspector from St. Luke’s had no right to condemn them. You will persuade the board that the petition of condemnation is null and void. As for Everleigh’s—you will continue with your duties as auctioneer and client director. But I will oversee the accounts, and you will confer with me on any matters concerning the general operation of the company. As long as you meet these terms, Mr. O’Shea and I will keep this marriage private. Nobody will learn of it. And you may go on glad-handing politicians without any rumors to trouble you. But if you refuse . . .”
He was listening, his attention fixed and unblinking.
“If you refuse to meet our terms,” she said, “Mr. O’Shea and I will make a public announcement of our marriage. Per the terms of Father’s will, I will immediately assume equal control over Everleigh’s in the eyes of the law. The sale will be halted, regardless. Meanwhile, I believe your future hopes will be greatly diminished by the public’s knowledge of your new relationship to Mr. O’Shea.”
It took Peter a long, stammering moment to find his tongue. “This—this is—this is the most heinous, ridiculous blackmail—”
“No more ridiculous, I think, than a thief who wishes to become a member of Parliament.” She paused, savoring the moment. “Or—pardon me. That form of corruption seems a perfect qualification for politics. Indeed, perhaps Mr. O’Shea should consider contesting for the Whitechapel borough.”
At her side, Mr. O’Shea laughed softly. “Now, there’s an idea.”
His husky laugh brushed through her like fingertips, stealing her breath. She did not permit herself to glance over. Peter was looking between them as though evaluating two rabid dogs. “You would keep it a secret,” he said slowly. “How would you do that? The bloody register book is accessible to anyone who—”
“No fear there,” Mr. O’Shea said. “It’s tucked away where nobody will find it.”
Peter frowned. “But . . . your very association . . .”
“Mr. O’Shea and I do not intend to associate publicly,” Catherine said.
Peter blinked. “So . . . it’s not to be a true marriage, then? You will never share a household?”
She willed herself to be ice-cold, lest the insinuations—and the memory they evoked, of O’Shea’s mouth traveling her body—make her blush. “As I said, it has been made true in every way that pertains to the law. As for our future plans, they are none of your concern.”
“But they are.” He was staring at her very narrowly now. “Assume I accept your terms. I must do so on the absolute certainty that this marriage will never become public knowledge. For my aim is not merely to be a member of Parliament. That will only be the beginning. I will not be sabotaged by the eventual revelation of this—this grotesquerie!”
“I understand,” she said evenly. “We do not intend to live as a married couple.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” She would not mention the contractual plan for divorce, which would require a public hearing. Five years. What a long time that seemed.
Peter shook his head. “How low you will go to spite me.”
“How little choice you left me,” she countered.
He took a deep breath, then rose. “Well, then. I suppose I have no choice but to agree to this atrocity.”
“I concur,” she said. But her brother
’s composure struck a chord of unease through her, as did the slight smile that flitted over his mouth, gone almost before she could remark it.
“Glad that’s settled,” O’Shea said. “I’ll be needing to speak with you about that meeting next week of the Municipal Board.”
“Of course,” said Peter.
Of course? “Mr. O’Shea will communicate with you through me,” she said slowly. “Nobody will have any cause to suspect your alliance.” How odd that Peter had not thought to ask about that himself.
“Very good,” her brother said. “I am relieved to hear it. And now, I will thank you to get him out of this house before anybody remarks that he visited.”
She watched Peter let himself out of the drawing room. When O’Shea started to speak, she held up a hand and jerked her head toward the door.
Eyes narrowed, he nodded. They stood for a long moment in silence before she whispered, “It’s all right, go ahead.”
“Bit easier than I’d imagined,” O’Shea said quietly.
“Agreed.” She hesitated, but her suspicions were nameless. “I suppose he felt he had no choice.”
“No doubt. You’d have made a fine lawyer.”
The compliment startled her. She allowed herself a small, gratified smile. He smiled as well. His lower lip was very full. If he bent to kiss her right now—
Horrified by herself, she wheeled away. “I’ll see you out.”
“Perhaps you should stay somewhere else, tonight, just in case.”
One hand on the doorknob, she turned back. He had come up hard on her heels; he loomed over her, raw power and protective promise. Another woman would have counted herself fortunate to have such a protector, well capable of defeating danger with his broad, bare palms—
But his handsome hands were quite disfigured by the garish glitter of those rings. He was a criminal, not a gentleman, and she did not require the protection of such a man. She stared at the rings as she spoke. “I’ve got three locks on the door to my apartment,” she said. “But if anything goes awry—”
“Three locks? Why?”
Until she’d had them installed, her brother had liked to burst in to harangue her at all hours. “It doesn’t matter.” Five rings, he wore. Five too many. “But if something were to . . . well . . . I’ll send to the House of Diamonds if I’m in need.”
“Look at me.”
She lifted her chin, bristling at his scowl. “You’ll spend the night at Diamonds,” he told her. “There’s a guest suite on the second floor—”
“I certainly will not!” She pulled open the door. “Discretion, Mr. O’Shea, is the key to our success. Being seen entering that club again—”
His hand on her arm halted her exit. “You won’t be seen.” His face, his tone, were implacable. “But you’re not staying here. Three locks or no.”
His grip caused a wave of small shivers to chase over her skin, percolating into the pit of her belly . . . and lower. But he looked wholly unaware that he was touching her.
She yanked free and drew herself to her full height. “We have an agreement, you and I. By the terms of our contract, I am an independent creature.”
O’Shea gave her a cutting smile. “Don’t mistake me, darling. I’d be glad to let you stumble into trouble. But I need you alive if this blackmail’s to work.”
She laughed in sheer astonishment, and then to cover her uneasiness. Last spring she had been poisoned by chocolates meant for Lord Palmer. In her delirium, her addled brain had wrongly seized on the suspicions that O’Shea now hinted at.
But Peter was her brother. In a sober frame of mind, she could not believe him murderous. “I’m not in that kind of danger,” she said.
Her temporary husband watched her for a long, level moment. “You sure about that? Your brother’s got reasons now.”
“I should think I know my brother better than you do.” Oh, this was pointless—and it threatened to entangle them further, besides. “You will not interfere with me. Regardless of the cause, you have agreed not to do so. If you cannot keep that part of the bargain, then the whole matter is void!”
Narrow-eyed, he blew out a sharp breath. Then he clapped his hat on his head and sketched a mocking bow. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll bid you good evening. Wife.”
* * *
“Fifteen-two going once, fifteen-two going twice . . .” Peter paused. “Lot sixty, sold to Mr. Snowden of Sussex for fifteen-two!”
“Rubbish,” the man beside Catherine muttered.
She retreated to the back wall, where nobody could see her frown. That lot should have gone for twenty pounds at least. So far, the auction of the Cranston library was proving a wet squib.
At the top of the room, where he presided over the rostrum, Peter looked unconcerned. All this week, ever since he’d learned of her secret marriage, he had seemed unflappable. He visited her office daily to confer on decisions and review accounts. He had even summoned the solicitor to announce, in her presence, that he had abandoned the notion of selling Everleigh’s.
But his calm mood had fractured for a moment this morning. “I have done everything you asked,” he’d told her at breakfast when she had wondered aloud if she should attend the Cranston auction. “Must you dog my every footstep, too?”
Had he shown a sweeter face, she might have skipped the auction after all. She felt run ragged, exhausted by uneasy dreams. But an instinct had driven her to table her afternoon agenda so she might attend the sale.
She was glad of it. Something was amiss here. This auction had been scheduled for weeks, advertised in all the regular journals and newspapers. The soiree organized to accompany the formal preview had attracted over two hundred bibliophiles. What, then, explained the poor attendance today? Half the seats were empty, and the bidding felt sluggish.
Peter didn’t seem to have noticed. It was an auctioneer’s duty to broadcast an almost infectious excitement about the lot at hand, the better to spur the bidding. But as he watched the attendants carry out the next lot, Peter slouched against the rostrum like a schoolboy, elbows akimbo, gavel drooping. This lot, a very rare volume on the early history of New York, had survived a century in handsome condition. The olive morocco was richly ornamented by gilt dentelle edging that still shone brightly, despite its age. Its color plates had merited a great deal of interest at the preview, for they had been painted by a famous cartographer.
The clerk intoned the conditions of sale. Almost languidly, Peter waved his gavel to open the bidding.
The reserve was immediately met and raised by Sir Wimple, a crotchety collector who never let a map go by without bidding. “Ten,” he called.
“Ten pounds,” Peter drawled. “Do I hear fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” came the reply, from near the window.
“Fifteen, gentlemen.” Peter sounded as though he were battling a yawn. “Twenty?”
“Twenty,” said Wimple sharply.
Peter paused briefly, staring at Wimple, then seemed to collect himself with a slight shake of his head. “Twenty-five, then?”
The ensuing pause seemed odd. Unlikely. Patrons exchanged uneasy looks, and no wonder. The volume was exceedingly rare, both in type and condition. It had been expected to fetch fifty pounds at minimum.
“Twenty-five, then,” Peter said more pointedly. “Do I hear twenty-five?”
The pause seemed to stretch interminably. The audience looked to Wimple’s opponent, a portly blond who stood beneath the great window. As though sensing the general interest, he withdrew a copy of the catalog from his jacket pocket, making a small notation before glancing up at the volume on offer. His slight frown, the faintest shake of his head as he flipped to the next page of his catalog, drew a new round of murmurs. He had the look of a man who was waiting on some upcoming treasure, which quite overshadowed his interest in the current lot.
Others pulled out their catalogs. What did he know that they didn’t?
He knew nothing! Catherine did not recognize him; he
was no bibliophile of note. Why was Peter not speaking, praising the volume, reminding the audience of its worth? She saw several collectors in the audience who had the knowledge to prize it, if only they were nudged out of their uncertainty—an uncertainty, she privately fumed, that had been fueled by some stranger with a penchant for melodramatic flourishes.
Peter opened his mouth. “Twenty-five, going once . . .” His quick glance toward the man by the window caused a prickle to move down her spine. “Going twice . . .”
The blond man looked up. “Thirty,” he said hesitantly, then grimaced, as though already regretting it.
“Thirty,” Peter said, with a note of clear surprise. “Do I hear thirty-five?” He looked over the crowd, but did not take special note of Sir Wimple.
He was in on it. He was conspiring with that man by the window to slow the bidding.
No. It couldn’t be. A ring, in the saleroom? She looked sharply through the crowd, ignoring the familiar faces for those she did not recognize. Even Peter would not do this, surely. Rings were a plague on country sales, but respectable auction rooms did not tolerate them. Could not, if they wished to remain respectable.
“Thirty-five,” Sir Wimple said.
But last spring . . . hadn’t she wondered about a ring then as well? At an auction of English paintings, she’d sensed collusion at work, strangely sluggish bidding on a portrait by Gainsborough. Rings generally appointed a single man to bid, and agreed not to challenge him. Then they conspired to discourage strangers from mounting a challenge. They spread rumors about the legitimacy of a particular piece; during the sale, they undertook any number of tricks, like that cheap showmanship with the catalog, to convey their indifference to a desirable lot. Once their man had obtained it at a cut-rate price, they reconvened for a new, private auction among themselves, bidding on the item’s true worth. The money saved in the first, corrupt sale then went to the ring as a whole.
In corrupt salesrooms, half the profit went straight to the auctioneer.
Luck Be a Lady Page 10