he gave her a knowing smile. "I don't believe this, Derek! Not a bloody word of it!"
"First she 'ad me take a bath," Derek reminisced, a thoughtful expression on his face. "God . . . the 'ot water . . . hard soap,
an' it smelled so sweet . . . an' the rug on the floor . . . soft. I washed my arms an' elbows first . . . my skin looked so white
to me . . ." He shook his head with a faint smile and sipped some brandy. "Afterwards I was shiwerin' like a newborn pup."
"And then I suppose she invited you into her bed and you were a magnificent lover, beyond anything she had experienced
before," Lily said sarcastically.
"No." Derek grinned. "The worst, more like. 'Ow did I know to please a woman? I only knew as to please myself."
"But she liked it anyway?" Lily asked skeptically. She was experiencing the same confusion she always had concerning such matters. She had no idea what drew men and women together, why they desired to share a bed and engage in an act that was
so painful, embarrassing, and joyless. There was no doubt that men enjoyed it far more than women did. Why would a woman deliberately seek out some stranger to couple with? A blush came to her cheeks and her gaze fell, but she listened intently as Derek continued.
"She taught me what she liked," he said. "An' I wanted to learn."
"Why?"
"Why." Derek hesitated, drinking more, staring into the dancing fire. "Any man can rut, but few knows or cares to please a woman. An' to see a woman like that, going soft an' eazy underneaf me ... it gives a man power, y'see?" He glanced at Lily's perplexed face and laughed. "No, I s'pose you don't, poor gypsy."
"I'm not poor anything," she retorted, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "And what do you mean by 'power'?"
The smile he turned to her was faintly nasty. "Tickle a woman's tail right, an' she'll do anyfing for you. Anyfing."
"Thing," Lily said distinctly, and shook her head in bemusement. "I don't agree with you, Derek. I've had my ... I mean, I've
done . . . that . . . and it wasn't at all what I expected. And Giuseppe was known everywhere as Italy's greatest lover.
Everyone said so."
Derek's bright green eyes filled with mockery. "Sure 'e did it right?"
"Since I conceived a child from the act, he must have done something right," Lily retorted.
"A man can father a thousand bastards, an' still not do it right, lovey. Plain as a pipe stem—you don't know nonng about it."
Arrogant male, Lily thought, and gave him a speaking glance. She didn't care how someone did it, there was no possible way
it could be pleasant. Frowning, she remembered Giuseppe's wet mouth on her skin, the suffocating weight of his body, the pain that had driven through and through her until she had gone rigid in silent misery . . .
"Is this all you have to give?" he had demanded in his fluid Italian, his hands roving over her body. She had flinched from the intimate groping that had brought only embarrassment, the rough probing that brought pain. "Ah, you're like all the English . . . cold as a fish!"
Long before then, she had learned that men could never be trusted with her heart. Giuseppe had taught her not to trust anyone with her body, either. To subject herself to that again, from any man, would be more degradation than she could bear.
Reading Lily's thoughts, Derek stood up and approached her chair. He braced his hands above her head and stared down at
her with glinting green eyes. Lily shifted uncomfortably, feeling trapped. "You do tempt me, lovey," Derek murmured. "I'd like
to be the man what shows you the pleasure it can be."
Disliking the threatened feeling that was coming over her, Lily scowled at him. "I wouldn't allow you to touch me, you
wax-nosed cockney."
"I could if I wanted to," he returned evenly. "An' I'd make you like it. You needs a good tumble, worse than any woman I ever knew. But it won't be me that does you over."
"Why not?" Lily asked, trying to sound bored. Her voice held a nervous quaver that made him smile.
"I'd lose you then," he said. "That's what always 'appens. An' the devil will go blind before I loses you. So you'll find some
other man to lift your 'eels for. An' I'll be 'ere, when you come back to me. Always."
Lily was quiet, her wondering gaze locked on his purposeful face. Perhaps, she thought, this was as close as Derek could
ever come to loving someone. He saw love as a weakness, and he despised weakness in himself. But at the same time, he depended on their odd friendship. He didn't want to lose her . . . well, she didn't want to lose him, either.
She gave him a glance of mock scorn. "Was that supposed to be a declaration of affection?" she asked.
The mood was broken. Derek grinned and rumpled her short hair, pulling at the silky curls. "Whatewer you wants it to be, lovey."
* * *
After her meeting with Zachary, Lily went to Craven's in search of Derek. Certainly he would know something about
Wolverton. Derek knew the financial worth of every man in England, including past bankruptcies and scandals, future
inheritances, and outstanding debts and liabilities. Through his own intelligence service, Derek was also aware of the private contents of their wills, which men kept mistresses and how much they paid for them, and what marks their sons made at Eton, Harrow, and Westfield.
Dressed in a pale blue gown, her small breasts emphasized by a scoop-necked bodice edged with sparkling cream lace, Lily strolled through Craven's unaccompanied. Her presence attracted little attention, for by now she was a familiar sight, an
accepted oddity. She was the only woman Derek had ever allowed membership at Craven's, and in return he had demanded complete honesty from her. He alone knew her darkest secrets.
Peering into room after room, Lily took in the sights of early evening at the gambling palace. The supper rooms were filled
with guests partaking of fine food and drink. "Pigeons," she said softly, smiling to herself. That was Derek's word for his
guests, although no one but her ever heard him use it.
First the "pigeons" would dine on the best cuisine in London, prepared by a chef to whom Derek paid the unthinkable salary
of two thousand pounds a year. The supper would be accompanied by a selection of French and Rhenish wines, which Derek furnished at his own expense, ostensibly out of the goodness of his heart. Such an appearance of generosity encouraged the
guests to spend more at the tables later.
After supper, the club members would proceed through the building to the game rooms. Louis XIV would have felt entirely at home here, surrounded by stained glass, magnificent chandeliers, acres of rich blue velvet, dazzling and priceless artwork. Set
at the center of the edifice, like a precious jewel, was the hazard room with its domed ceiling. The air was filled with a quiet
buzz of activity.
Skirting the edge of the octagonal-shaped room, Lily absorbed the rhythm of ivory dice rattling in the box, the crisp shuffle of cards, the hum of voices. A shaded lamp hung directly over the oval-shaped hazard table, concentrating brilliant light on the
green cloth and yellow markings. Tonight several German embassy officials, a few French exiles, and a number of English
dandies were grouped around the central hazard table. A wry, pitying smile touched Lily's lips as she saw how absorbed they were. Bets were placed and dice tossed with hypnotic regularity. Were a foreigner to come here, someone who had never
seen gambling before, he would assume that some sort of religious rite were taking place.
The trick of winning was to play with detachment, taking calculated risks. But most of the men here did not play to win;
they played for the thrill of casting themselves on the mercy of fate. Lily played without emotion, winning moderately but
consistently. Derek called her a "rook," which was for him a term of highest praise.
A couple
of the croupiers at the hazard table, Darnell and Fitz, nodded discreetly as Lily passed by. She was on excellent terms with Derek's employees, including the kitchen staff. The chef, Monsieur Labarge, always insisted that she sample and praise his latest creations—lobster patties covered with breadcrumbs and cream, miniature potato souffles, partridge stuffed with hazelnuts and truffles, omelets filled with jellied fruit, pastries, and mouthwatering custards layered with crushed macaroons.
Lily glanced around the hazard room in search of Derek's slim, dark form, but he was not there. As she headed toward one of
six arched doorways, she was aware of a light touch at her gloved elbow. Turning around with a half smile, she expected to
see Derek's lean face. It was not Derek, but a tall Spaniard wearing a golden insignia on his sleeve that designated him as an ambassador's aide. He bowed to her perfunctorily, then reached for her with insolent familiarity. "You have attracted de notice
of Ambassador Alvarez," he informed her. "Come, he weeshes you to sit with him. Come weeth me."
Jerking her elbow away, Lily looked across the room at the ambassador, a rotund man with a thin mustache. He was staring
at her avidly. With an unmistakable gesture, he motioned her to come to him. Lily returned her gaze to the aide. "There's been
a mistake," she said gently. "Tell Senor Alvarez that I am flattered by his interest, but I have other plans for this evening."
As she turned away, the aide took her wrist and jerked her back. "Come," he insisted. "He weel pay for hees pleasure."
Obviously she had been mistaken for one of Craven's hired women, but even they were not subjected to this sort of treatment,
as if they were whores procured from a street corner. "I'm not one of the house wenches," Lily said through her teeth. "I'm not
for sale, do you understand? Now let go of me."
The aide's face darkened with frustration. He began to chatter in Spanish, trying to force her toward the hazard table where Alvarez was waiting. Several guests paused in their gambling to observe the commotion. As embarrassment joined her irritation, Lily shot a murderous glance at Worthy, Derek's factotum. He stood up from his desk in the corner and began toward them. Before Worthy reached the aide, Derek miraculously appeared from nowhere.
"Well, now, Seny'r Barreda, I see as you've met Miss Lawson. A beauty, ain't she?" As he spoke, Derek deftly extricated
Lily from the Spaniard's grasp. "But she's a special guest—my special guest. There's other women we 'as for the ambassador's convenience, an' sweeter to the taste. This one's a sour little apple, she is."
"You know what you are," Lily muttered, glaring at Derek.
"He wants thees one," the aide insisted.
" 'E can't 'ave 'er," Derek said, his voice pleasant. The gambling palace was his own private kingdom, his word the final one
in all matters.
Lily saw the flash of uneasiness in the Spaniard's gaze. Having once attempted to face down Derek, she knew exactly how daunting he was. As always, Derek was dressed in expensive garments—a blue coat, pearl gray pantaloons, and an immaculate white shirt and cravat. But in spite of his exquisitely tailored clothes, Derek had the rough, seasoned look of someone who had spent most of his life in the streets. Now he rubbed elbows with the cream of society, knowing as everyone else did that his elbows had originally been meant to occupy far less exalted places.
Derek motioned to his two most beautiful house wenches, who sped efficiently to the frowning ambassador, sporting lavish displays of cleavage. "No, I azure you, 'e'll like those two better . . . see? 'Appy as a mouse in cheese."
Lily and Barreda followed his gaze and saw that with the women's expert attentions, Alvarez's frown had indeed cleared away. Giving Lily one last frown, the aide retreated with a few mumbled words.
"How dare he," Lily exclaimed indignantly, her face flushed. "And how dare you? Your special guest? I don't want anyone
to think I need a protector. I'm completely self-sufficient, and I'll thank you to refrain from implying otherwise, especially in
front of—"
"Easy, settle your temper. I should've let 'im 'ave a go at you, is that it?"
"No, but you could have referred to me with some respect. And where the hell have you been? I want to speak with you
about someone—"
"I respects you, lovey, more than a woman should be respected. Now come 'ave a walk with me. My ear—what's left ow
it—is yours to chew."
Lily was unable to prevent a short laugh, and she slipped her hand into the crook of Derek's wiry arm. He often liked to take
her on his strolls through the gambling palace, as if she were a rare prize he had won. As they crossed the main entrance hall
and went to the magnificent gold staircase, Derek welcomed some of the arriving club members, Lord Millwright and Lord
Nevill, a baron and an earl, respectively. Lily favored them with a bright smile.
"Edward, I hope you'll indulge me later with a game of cribbage," Lily said to Nevill. "After I lost to you last week, I've fretted
for the chance to redeem myself."
Lord Nevill's pudgy face creased with an answering smile. "Most assuredly, Miss Lawson. I look forward to another match."
As Nevill and Millwright headed to the dining room, Nevill was heard to say, "For a woman, she's quite clever ..."
"Not too much ow a scalping," Derek warned Lily. " 'E touched me for a loan yesterday. 'Is pockets aren't long enow to please
a little rook like you."
"Well, whose are?" Lily asked, causing him to chuckle.
"Try young Lord Bentinck—'is father takes care of 'is debts when 'e plays too deep." Together they ascended the magnificent grand staircase.
"Derek," Lily said briskly, "I came to ask what you know about a certain gentleman."
"Who?"
"The earl of Wolverton. Lord Alexander Raiford."
Derek recognized the name instantly. "The nob what's betroved to your sister."
"Yes, I've heard some rather disturbing speculation on his character. I want your impression of him."
"Why?"
"Because I fear he is going to be a cruel husband to Penelope. And there is still time for me to do something about it. The
wedding is only four weeks away."
"You don't give an oyster for your sister." he said.
Lily directed a reproving glare at him. "That shows how little you know about me! It is true that we have never been much
alike, but I adore Penny. She is gentle, shy, obedient . . . qualities I think are very admirable in other women."
"She doesn't need your 'elp."
"Yes, she does. Penny is as sweet and helpless as a lamb."
"An' you were born wi' claws an' teef," he said smoothly.
Lily lifted her nose. "If something is threatening my sister's future happiness, it is my responsibility to do something about it."
"A bloody saint, you are."
"Now tell me what you know about Wolverton. You know everything about everyone. And stop snickering like that—I don't intend to interfere in anyone else's affairs, or do anything rash."
"Like 'ell you won't." Derek was laughing, envisioning yet another scrape she might land herself into.
"Hell, Derek," she corrected, enunciating the word. "You didn't see Mr. Hastings today, did you? I can always tell when
you've missed a lesson."
Derek gave her a warning glance.
Lily alone knew that for two days every week Derek employed a special tutor who tried to soften his cockney accent into a
more genteel one. It was a hopeless cause. After years of devoted study, Derek had managed to elevate his speech from the
level of Billingsgate fish vendor to that of ... well, perhaps a hackney driver, or a Temple Bar merchant. A slight improvement,
but hardly remarkable. "His h's are his downfall," the
tutor had once told Lily in despair. "He can say them if he tries, but he always forgets. To him I'll be 'Mr. 'astings until he draws his last breath."
Lily had replied with a mixture of laughter and sympathy. "That's all right, Mr. Hastings. Just have patience. He will surprise
you someday. That h won't stop him forever."
"He doesn't have the ear for it," the tutor said glumly.
Lily had not argued. Privately she knew that Derek would never sound like a gentleman. It didn't matter to her. She had actually come to like the manner of his speech, the mixed up v's and w's, the imprecise consonants that fell rather pleasantly on the ear.
Derek led her to the carved, gilded balcony overlooking the main floor. It was his favorite place to talk, for he could watch every move at the tables, his mind never ceasing its intricate calculations. Not a farthing, cribbage-counter, nor a card flicking through nimble fingers ever escaped his vigilant gaze. "Alex Raiford," he murmured thoughtfully. "Aye, 'e's shook the elbow 'ere a time
or two. Not a pigeon, though."
Then came you, by lisa kleypas.txt Page 3