The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

The viscount’s daughter eyed him. “I’ve heard your investigation has taken you into the Devil’s Den. Is it as wicked as they say?”

  For her philanthropic endeavors, she’d also always been fixated on the world of East London as if it were more of a story in a gothic novel than real life. “I was otherwise focused on my assignment and not the vices to be explored.” Whereas Ophelia Killoran . . . she appreciated and understood the world precisely for what it was and sought to improve the lives of the children in her charge.

  Bethany stopped in the far corner of the ballroom, forcing him to a reluctant halt behind the Doric column. Before he could respond, she looked off pointedly in Ophelia’s direction. “I trust it is your work that accounts for the attention you’ve shown the young woman.”

  He flashed a grin. “Come, Bethany, you’ve been many things where I’m concerned, but possessive was never one of them.”

  “Is she . . . important to you?”

  Connor carefully weighed his reply. “She was my dining partner.”

  “How very . . . convenient,” she commented, leaning against that marble pillar. Then her mouth formed a perfect circle, and she placed an artful gloved palm over it. “I see.”

  “And just what is it you think you see?”

  “She is part of your investigation,” she ventured, unerringly close. “It explains your . . . interest in the young woman.”

  His interest, as the lady put it, went beyond Ophelia’s role at the Devil’s Den. They had a shared history . . . often tense and mostly dark. But she’d also been the one to save him . . . more times than he’d deserved. How had she fared after the Earl of Mar’s rescue? It was a question he’d not allowed himself to entertain, for selfish, cowardly reasons. Now, shame soured in his stomach.

  “I trust Mr. Dabney knew what he was doing when he seated you beside the creature,” Lady Bethany was saying.

  Connor flattened his lips, unsure of which insult to take offense over on Ophelia’s behalf: that disparaging title affixed her by Bethany or the claims that Ophelia’s invitation last evening had been doled out as a way for him to interrogate the lady. Nonetheless, it was safer leaving Bethany to her erroneous opinions. “Come, you were never one to treat a person differently because of their birthright,” he mocked, edging that reminder in steel.

  Her lower lip quivered. “I’ve insulted you.”

  “Not at all.” She’d annoyed him. Bethany layered hidden meanings within her questions and statements that grew tiring.

  Unlike Ophelia, who’d only ever been given to blunt honesty.

  A servant found them and proffered his silver tray of champagne. Connor waved the footman off and briefly considered the point of escape beyond Bethany’s shoulder.

  The duchess touched her fingertips to his sleeve, forcing his attention back. “I’m not cruel. I’m realistic of a person’s motives,” she went on, relentless. “And I’ve learned about the young woman’s family in the papers. They are not to be trusted. She is not to be trusted.”

  It spoke to the lady’s tenacity that she didn’t show even a modicum of remorse over his previous rebuke.

  “I do not make a habit of placing overly much credence in the gossip columns,” he said frostily. The only use he had of those newspapers was as a means of obtaining information related to men or women involved in his cases. Beyond that, the ton was full of rather useless drivel.

  “No, you never did,” she said bemusedly. Going up on tiptoe, she whispered boldly against his ear. “It is just one of the many things I’ve come to admire about you, Connor,” she murmured, commanding his Christian name. With a smile, Bethany sank back on the soles of her satin slippers. “The gossips were right about one thing where the young woman was concerned.” He stiffened. “She is as lovely as they claimed.”

  More so. He grunted. Widowed two years now, Lady Bethany had become more dogged in her hope of a match between them. Had she always been this ruthless in her pursuit?

  She formed a slight moue with her lips and gave him another tap with her fan. “It does not escape my notice that you did not refute it.” The perfectly even-toothed smile she flashed did little to blunt the sharpness of her chastisement.

  Yet why should he? Connor dealt in facts, and there could be no disputing that Miss Ophelia Killoran had a siren’s allure.

  The orchestra concluded the lively reel. As the polite applause of the partners went up, he searched out Ophelia once more. Which swain would be escorting the spitfire for the next set? A fancy lord who’d put his hands on her trim waist, and—

  An uncomfortable knot tightened in his belly.

  He jumped as Bethany rapped her fan against his sleeve.

  “You are not paying attention,” she pouted. All earlier hint of displeasure faded under a coy smile. “You may make it up to me with a dance.”

  A dance. Once, he’d been so desperate for her affections it was a morsel he’d craved from this woman . . . a public showing that she was unashamed of him—and more, that he had a claim to a future with her. “You know I’m rot at dancing.” She’d often reminded him of that very fact as a way of explaining away her unwillingness to engage in a single set. “It is because I call you friend that I will not ask you to suffer through my plodding.”

  “Oh, hush, you are ever graceful on your feet,” she protested with her usual fawning nature. He would have appreciated her more had she maintained the correct opinion of his dance skills from their youth.

  Ophelia would never be one to ever praise him for the travesty of his steps on the dance floor and offer false compliments. Why, he’d wager the sterling reputation he had as an investigator that she’d as soon as stick a blade in his belly before allowing him to sign her dance card.

  And the prospect of drawing her lush form into his arms was appeal enough that he’d be willing to find out.

  Bethany planted her hands on her hips. “Do you intend to make me beg for a dance, Connor? Tsk, tsk, that is not very gentlemanly of you.”

  It was the one leveled charge that always had the ability to scrape at his conscience. It was an unwitting reminder of the life of crime and evil he’d lived before he’d entered the world of Polite Society, determined to be better and do more.

  The couples filed onto the floor for the next set, a waltz. He found Ophelia precisely where he’d last spied her. Intrigued that she, too, remained on the sidelines, he made his excuses. “Duchess, please forgive me. I should pay my respects to our host.” Connor sketched another bow and started across the ballroom, his gaze solely focused on the spitfire now surreptitiously inching around their host’s ballroom.

  Chapter 11

  The night had been bloody miserable.

  Until he’d arrived.

  Which was surely a hint of her own desperation in being thrust into Polite Society that Connor’s presence alone had managed to chase off the tension that had dogged her since her gown had been pulled into place and her hair arranged.

  Following their brief, silent exchange from across the room, she’d been certain he’d been coming to join her. After suffering through the company of the wastrels in debt to her family’s gaming clubs, she’d welcomed rescue where she could take it.

  Then he’d gone and joined his fancy piece in the corner. With her fan, and wicked eyes, and ruthless jibes last evening, she could be a match for any ruthless sinner of the streets. “Nasty tart.”

  “Uh . . . I beg your pardon?”

  Dragging her attention away from Connor, she forced her gaze back to Society’s leading rogue. Lord Landon, the tenacious gentleman who’d positioned himself at her side since her arrival, blinked slowly. In dire financial straits and in desperate need of a fortune, the miserable blighter had gone from courting Cleo . . . to now Ophelia. She shoved to her feet. “I said, this is where we must part.” She might be willing to make a match to save Gertrude, but she drew the proverbial line at a bastard who’d shift his attention from sister to sister.

  A flurry of protests went u
p.

  Lord Landon stepped into her path. “But our waltz is coming shortly,” he purred.

  “Step aside, Landon.” Lifting her skirts slightly, she revealed the dagger positioned at her ankle. “I see my sister motioning.” She pointed to the couples whirring across the duke’s Italian marble floor.

  The collection of gents gathered all looked in unison to the lone sibling in question. The very same one now being elegantly turned about the dance floor by her husband, both with matching besotted expressions. Expressions that indicated neither Thorne sought the company of anyone beyond their own.

  Lord Landon smiled wolfishly. “She looks otherwise engaged,” he persisted.

  Betrayed by a second Killoran.

  Ophelia sighed. She’d always looked after herself. Certainly she’d never required saving from anyone. “Look again,” she growled, and this time when Lord Landon and the other nobs looked off, she ducked around the group and lost herself in the crowd.

  With careful steps, she clung to the fringe of the room, dogging the footsteps of unsuspecting servants. The din of guests blurred with the whine of the orchestra’s instruments in a cacophony of sound.

  Her fingers twitched with her need to clap her palms over her bleeding ears. How she ached for the familiar sounds of St. Giles. The clink of coins striking coins. The—

  A tall figure stepped into her path. “Miss Killoran, we meet again.”

  Ophelia shrieked, that soft cry muted by the din of the ballroom. She shot out her arm reflexively.

  Connor easily caught it, deflecting the blow.

  Heart racing, she forced her breath into an even cadence. “Bloody hell, O’Roarke, you know better than to go sneaking up on a person.”

  First her sister had managed the feat, now Connor O’Roarke? She groaned. Bloody hell, she was going soft.

  He grinned, still retaining his hold on her arm.

  She braced for the usual fear and horror that came from any such grip.

  Little shivers of warmth radiated from his touch, foreign and so unexpected she was secretly loath for him to relinquish her.

  Inevitably, Connor had never done as she’d asked or expected. He let her arm go, and she swiftly drew it close to her chest.

  “I trust you are enjoying yourself.”

  She snorted. “Hiding in the shadows? I gather we have a like appreciation for the event.”

  He grinned again, flashing his even white teeth. “You would be correct on that score.”

  Her heart tripped a silly little beat.

  Over Connor O’Roarke? Nonsense. It was merely the familiarity of suffering through ton events with someone who’d lived on the streets of St. Giles—even if it had never truly been with her.

  He propped a hip against the wall and folded his arms at his chest. “Given we’d both sooner steal again in the streets of St. Giles than take part in the festivities, perhaps I can instead convince you to answer some questions.”

  Her smile froze in place.

  That was all her every exchange with him came down to. Given what Gertrude and Stephen had shared about Connor’s reputation as the Hunter, coupled with his own insistence since their reunion, she should expect nothing more.

  So how to account for the disappointment that settled in her stomach?

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Am I to hope that is a yes?”

  She tried to pull forth her usual flippant “Go to hell” but couldn’t manage it. For the truth she could at least admit to herself in her silent musings, was that after his defense last evening, she’d expected . . . more.

  What she’d hoped for she could not say, and her mind shied away from any answers as to what it could possibly be.

  “Miss Killoran!” They glanced off to that loud shout.

  Whisperings went up loud enough to rival the whine of the orchestra as the crowd looked to Lord Landon. One arm up, he moved at a determined clip across the dance floor.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered.

  “Lord Landon?”

  She tensed her jaw. “The same.” He hadn’t left her alone this whole night. Nor by the determined glint in his eyes did he intend to. Under the thin leather gloves, her palms moistened. Another fancy lord determined to put his hands on her . . . “Dance with me.” Hers was a harsh order.

  Connor blinked slowly. “I don’t . . . I . . .” He held up his palms.

  She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the dance floor. “Consider this the second debt paid,” she muttered, yanking her reluctant partner along.

  “The debt was paid when I stepped between you and a constable.”

  “There were others.” Must he be difficult in this? She peered toward the resolute swain.

  Lord Landon skidded to a stop in the midst of the ballroom and held a hand to his furrowed brow. Nearly trampled a moment later by a waltzing couple, he hurried from the floors.

  “Put your hand on my waist, O’Roarke,” she clipped out. When Connor tossed a desperate look over his shoulder, she muttered, “Oh, blast, I’ll do it myself.” She guided his hand to the point just above the small of her back and rested her other palm on his left shoulder.

  With a sea of dancers whizzing past, Ophelia waited.

  And waited.

  Ophelia squeezed his fingers. “Well?” Even as the question left her, a slow, horrified understanding dawned. “You cannot dance.”

  The Duke and Duchess of Somerset knocked into them. Connor righted Ophelia. That graceful couple made their swift apologies and wisely adjusted their steps away from the still-motionless couple.

  “I received lessons,” he said grudgingly.

  “The earl,” she remembered. His adoption. How greatly their lives had diverged after that night when he’d been escorted off.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “You dance with me, and I’ll answer three questions from you.”

  He froze.

  “But we complete the set,” she warned.

  Without hesitation, he guided her slowly through the steps of the waltz, his large hand heavy at her back, reassuringly strong and warm.

  She beamed. “You were being modest. You aren’t nearly the—” His heel came down hard on her foot. Ophelia winced. “I cannot determine if that was on purpose.”

  “It wasn’t,” he mumbled, silently mouthing the one-two-three of the gliding dance.

  “Yes, I see that now.” Or he was determined to punish her feet for commandeering the set.

  Connor’s firm lips counted off the movements.

  Ophelia shook her head. “Don’t think of it in terms of numbers. Think of picking pockets.” He stepped on her foot one more time. They stumbled, and with a curse, Connor tightened his hold on her, steadying them.

  “Picking pockets?” he repeated incredulously, still counting that one-two-three pattern.

  “Well, thievery we understand.” Numbers, like words, had been irrelevant to them as children of the street. When Broderick had entered their fold and insisted she and her sisters be schooled in more than those dark acts, her only points of reference had remained her street experiences.

  “You’re mad.”

  “And you’re going to find yourself counting a useless pattern, not having asked a single question before we’re through.”

  He fell promptly silent.

  “Do you see Lord Rothesay?”

  Looking to where the dandy stood on the fringes, arms planted on his hips, a glower on his face, Connor nodded. “Left and center.” His expression darkened, and were he any other man holding her so, with the harsh glint frosting his eyes, she’d have been riddled with terror.

  But this was Connor O’Roarke.

  “He shall be our constable,” she explained as they slowly ambled through the movements. “The doorway in the far-right corner of the duke’s ballroom shall be our escape.”

  His lips twitched.

  She brightened. “See, you are enjoying yourself.”

  Connor scowled. “I am decidedly not.”

>   Wrinkling her nose, Ophelia gave a toss of her head. “Very well. Forward-side-close. That’s what you follow. Not your useless—”

  “Ophelia—”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. We move forward toward escape, slip sideways, and then close.” While they drifted through the motions of the waltz, Connor instead repeated back her pattern.

  “Is our constable staring?”

  He stole a quick peek. “Indeed.”

  “So then we retreat: back-side-close.”

  They continued through the motions slowly, and with every repeat movement, she felt an increasing confidence in Connor’s hold and steps. “I’m right,” she said with a grin.

  “You might be,” he conceded, glowering over her shoulder at their improvised constable.

  They settled into a companionable silence, and while she allowed Connor to concentrate on the new rhythm, her mind wandered back to his previous revelation. His earlier admission should not come entirely as a surprise. From her earliest memories of Connor, he’d always spoken in cultured tones that hinted at more than the street rat she herself had always been. “You’ve had dancing lessons.”

  He gave a slight nod. “I have.”

  That was it. Nothing more. For the rules of the streets that dictated a person not pry, questions hovered on her lips. Questions about not only what had become of him after his capture but also who he had been . . . before. Before he’d found himself in Diggory’s clutches.

  As the set continued, Connor relaxed the death grip he had upon her. With a gentler touch, he whirled her in neat, sweeping circles.

  “They were my favorite lessons,” she softly confided.

  Connor tripped and quickly caught himself. He held her eyes, and in that instant all words and thoughts fled.

  In the glow of the candles, and no more than a handbreadth between them, Ophelia appreciated the harshness of his heavy features. Had she truly believed him ugly? The pugilistic jaw of a fighter and the small bend in the middle of his nose from one too many breaks marked him as a warrior, unafraid of the battle.

  “Which were?”

  She studied his lips as they moved, hearing those words and slowly attempting to make sense of them past her muddled thoughts. “M-my dance ones. My lessons, that is,” she elucidated. Her instructor had been five inches shorter than she’d been and hopelessly in love with the head guard at the Devil’s Den. She’d never felt safer with another man . . .