His Improper Lady--A Historical Romance

by Candace Camp

  Though in his childhood Tom was part of that world, few of his acquaintances from that time were still around. Most had died or were in prison; a few had moved into more legitimate pursuits. But over the years at the agency, he had cultivated several criminal contacts who were willing to sell information.

  Unfortunately, none of them knew of a female housebreaker. Even his most reliable informer in the world of thievery, a pickpocket named Pike, looked at him skeptically. “A girl? Doing upper-story work? Nah...there ain’t many of that sort to begin with—too hard. Easier to jump,” he said, referring to the practice of breaking into a building through a ground-floor window. “And women?” He snorted. “There’s plenty of judies that swipe a bloke’s wallet and run. Or take something from a shop, like. But climb like a cat?” He shook his head.

  “What about the Farrington Club?” Tom asked.

  “That fancy club? Above my touch, lad.”

  “Any pickpockets working it or thieves finding marks there?”

  “Maybe some swell magsman,” Pike said doubtfully. Tom knew he was talking about the sort of well-dressed swindlers who duped their victims into giving them money. “But that place is particular. Takes more’n a few quid to get you inside.”

  “What about robbing them when they come out?”

  “Most of that lot get in their carriage or a hack, don’t they? The cabs are lined up outside the door. Two guards outside, too, dressed up like footmen. They keep it clear all around the place. No point in it—easier to wait at some boozer to catch a drunk. ’Sides, more’n yer life’s worth to try it. ’E warned us all when he opened it, din’t ’e? Don’t touch ’is customers if you value your ’ealth.”

  “He? Who is he?”

  “Bloke that owns it, ’oo do you think? Name’s Malone. Blew in from Australia ten or twelve years back. Learned pretty quick not to go up against ’im. ’E’s a bruiser, and ’is men, too.”

  “Do you think he’s cheating his customers?”

  Pike shrugged. “Nobody wins but the house—everybody knows that ’cept a fool. But I never heard nothing about it being any worse than others. But then, I don’t know the sort wot goes there.”

  “Do you think he uses the place to find marks?” Even as Tom said it, he knew that was unlikely. Malone would be making too much legitimately to risk losing customers if word got around that thieves were targeting his customers.

  Tom handed Pike a few bills and left. It was clear he wasn’t going to find out a great deal more here. He needed to see the place for himself. If he was lucky, his quarry was a regular at the club and might turn up in person.

  That was probably wishful thinking; anyone who was high enough on the social ladder to get into the exclusive club would be unlikely to spend her spare time breaking into businesses. It was just as possible that it had been in a pile of loot she had stolen or that she’d found it on the street. Maybe she was a charwoman at the club and had swept it up for the dustbin—though he had some trouble envisioning a woman that daring working at anything so mundane. And if that were the case, why make the chip into a necklace?

  No amount of reason could completely suppress his hopes, though, and Tom set out that evening for the Farrington Club in high anticipation. His stomach was a little knotted with nerves; walking into a nest of criminals would cause him less anxiety than trying to pass himself off as someone who belonged in an elegant club. He would have felt more at ease had Con accompanied him, but Con hadn’t wanted to spend the evening away from Lilah.

  Tom had been careful to dress for the occasion, wearing the same silk waistcoat and tailored suit that he’d worn to Con’s and Alex’s weddings. His prized possession, the gold pocket watch Reed had given him when he finished his education, hung on a chain, tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He felt a bit foolish with the top hat on his head, but it finished the picture of a gentleman out for an evening of pleasure. He’d been around the Morelands long enough to realize that simplicity gave one more an air of entitlement than flashy rings or jeweled tie pins.

  But the proper clothes could not give him the air, the carriage, the underlying surety of one’s high place in the world that graced a man raised in the genteel world. He had worked on his accent; he didn’t sound like someone from a rookery. Still, he couldn’t quite emulate the sound of someone who was born to it.

  Tom had never been one to show his fear, though; indeed, he’d been told time and again that he was too cocky for his own good. He’d brazen it through; confidence was what swayed people. He stepped down from the Morelands’ town carriage—he had agreed with Con that it was the perfect touch to make anyone believe his status as a gentleman.

  As it turned out, the doormen sent him through with a mere glance at his invitation. Inside he managed to glance around with casual interest, not gawking at the ornate chandeliers that lit the large room or the textured wallpaper or the intricate plaster moldings on the ceiling and the heavy red velvet curtains. The place exuded wealth to such an extent that it seemed almost a jest, a playful parody of pretension. Tables were all around, surrounded by men and a few women.

  Tom strolled around the room, maneuvering to get a glimpse at each woman—was this one too tall, that one too curvaceous, or another too fragile—as he inspected the games and the participants. There weren’t many women, and none fit the description. He saw terror in eyes that were riveted to the roulette wheel and the wild avidity in another face as a man rolled the dice.

  Servants passed with trays of champagne; two of the black-and-white clad servers were women. It occurred to Tom that this sort of occupation would be better suited to the intruder. He could see nothing suspicious about them as they smiled and offered drinks to the patrons, but then he doubted that his thief would be obvious. Like him, she would keep her inspections casual.

  Smaller rooms branched off here and there, and in these were fewer tables, just one or two, and they were devoted entirely to cards. He paused in the doorway of the third secluded room, and his heart picked up its beat. There was a lone table in the room, though a number of other men crowded around behind the players, looking on.

  The reason for the onlookers’ attention was clear: at one end of the table sat a woman in a cherry-red gown, the neckline wide enough to reveal her creamy white shoulders. Little puffs of sleeves left most of her arms as bare as her shoulders. A ruby teardrop dangled at the end of a silver chain around her neck.

  In the soft golden light of the chandelier, her hair was the color of caramel, and it was done up in a puffy pompadour roll, soft wisps escaping at her temples to drift temptingly beside her face. The top half of her face was hidden by a mask of white and silver, a long white feather curling back over her hair. Below the mask, one could see a straight nose, firm mouth and rather determined chin. Her eyes inside the mask were light in color. She might not be beautiful, but she was utterly arresting. Tom could not look away.

  She raised her head and looked across the room at him, and her eyes pierced him. Almost unconsciously, Tom edged around the others watching the game, moving closer to her. She did not look at him again as she continued with the game, keeping up a light chatter and smiling.

  Tom maneuvered his way to a spot barely a foot away from her. Perfume drifted up lightly, a haunting, unusual fragrance that made him think of midnight and sultry heat and exotic flowers opening on a twisted vine.

  He had found his thief.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DESIREE NOTICED THE man the moment he entered the room. It wasn’t usually something she did; she kept her full focus on the men at the table and the cards. Those who liked to hang about watching were as much background as the walls or the noise from the main room.

  But tonight her eyes flicked up at the movement in the wide doorway, and her brain seemed to stutter, her concentration falling. She wasn’t sure what it was about him that caught her attention. Like many other men in the room, he
was well dressed, but nothing flashy. His hair was blond and his eyes light colored, blue, she thought, or maybe gray. He was neither tall nor short. A man, in other words, who should blend in. But there was something about him that made him...different.

  She pulled her eyes back to the game. Yet still Desiree was tinglingly aware of him. She felt more than saw him as he moved around the table toward her. It was fortunate that she held a strong hand, for she had glanced away just as the man next to her called her bid and thus she had missed her chance to watch him as he bid.

  There was little to see now in her opponent’s cool demeanor. The next man, Herbert Collins, who returned to her games so frequently that she now knew his name, folded. That didn’t surprise her: Collins was dreadful at the game of brag; his emotions were so easily readable that she always knew whether he had drawn a good or bad hand, without even using her talent. The third man had already dropped out of the game, and the next one joined him and Collins.

  Desiree suspected she could increase her probable winnings by going another round and concentrating on reading the other players with her inner eye, but she was confident of her three-card hand, and she was suddenly eager to end the game. So she smiled and doubled the bet, calling to see the cards. As she had expected, her pair royal easily topped her opponent’s jack.

  She filed away the man’s action for the next time she played him; he was a man who thought he could win by bluffing. Not as easy to defeat as poor Mr. Collins, but not likely to win over the course of time. One needed more skills than just the ability to lie, including a healthy respect for the odds.

  “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to take a rest for a few minutes before we start a new game, don’t you?” She gave them a dazzling smile and rose without waiting for any response from her fellow players.

  As she turned away from the table, there was the man she had noticed, holding out a glass of champagne to her. Desiree rarely drank while she played, but she found herself taking the glass from him. Her fingers grazed his; his skin was a little rougher than most gentlemen’s, and the feel of it against her own skin made her tingle.

  Excitement quivered in her stomach. It wasn’t danger exactly, or at least not wholly that, for she could feel the simple rightness of him. It was more the way she felt right before she stepped out onto the tightrope—a little scared, but filled with eagerness. To cover the unaccustomed nerves suddenly dancing in her stomach, she took a sip as she regarded him over the top of her glass.

  Up close she could see that his eyes were blue, though marked with crystalline striations radiating outward that gave his eyes a bright, penetrating quality. There was a small curved scar beside his mouth that intrigued her—indeed, his whole mouth intrigued her. He wasn’t handsome, exactly; his face was too puckish for that. He was...different. Interesting. And she wanted to keep on looking at him. For a long moment, she did exactly that.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said, wanting to know his name, wanting to hear his voice.

  “No, this is the first time I’ve come here. But now I’m very glad I did.” He grinned, and a dimple popped into his cheek. Desiree’s pulse leaped in response.

  “I hope you are enjoying your visit.” Her words were mundane but infused with meaning.

  “Very much.” Like her, the look in his eyes said much more. “I wish I had come here before.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to sit in on the next hand?” she offered. His presence would be far too distracting, but she wanted him to stay.

  “No, I’m not much of a gambler. But I enjoy watching.” The glint in his eye made it clear that it was not the game that he wanted to see.

  “Really? I would have guessed you were more a man who likes to participate,” Desiree replied archly.

  There was no dimple this time, but a slow and rather wolfish smile, his eyes darkening a little. “I do...when the reward is worth the gamble.”

  “So you must be sure that there’s no risk?” Unconsciously, she edged closer.

  “No, sometimes the risk is the heart of the pleasure.” His eyes went to her lips, and he moved a degree nearer, bending a little toward her.

  “Desiree?” Brock said, and she started, the moment broken. She turned to her brother and was surprised to find him standing only a yard away. She hadn’t noticed that he’d come into the room. Indeed, she had not noticed much of anything. “I think your table is getting a trifle restless.”

  Brock was looking not at her but at the man she’d been flirting with, his hard gaze sizing him up. He’d picked the worst time to display his protective brotherly instinct. “Oh, yes, of course.” She took Brock’s arm, turning him and urging him toward the table with her. She cast a farewell smile over her shoulder at the man whose name she still didn’t know, much to her annoyance. She leaned toward Brock and said in a low voice, “Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

  “Me? How would I embarrass you?” He gazed at her in a puzzlement she recognized as feigned.

  “I’m not sure. But you were looking distinctly antagonistic toward him.”

  “Who is that man? You could have at least introduced us.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “And don’t you interrogate him, either. I like him, and I’m not going to have you scaring him off.”

  “If you don’t even know his name, somebody ought to find out who he is.” He started to turn to look back, and Desiree gave his arm a jerk, stopping him.

  “Not you.” She fixed him with a stern gaze. “I will talk to him, and I will find out who he is and what sort of person he is. And if you go over there and harass him, I will not speak to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brock grinned. “I will thoroughly ignore him. So long as you promise not to do anything reckless.”

  “Me?” Desiree looked up at him in faux innocence, batting her eyelashes. “Reckless?”

  “Yes, you.” Brock grinned but left her at the table and walked out of the room.

  Desiree sat down and picked up the stack of cards and began to deal, casting a discreet glance toward the spot where they had been standing earlier. Her mystery man was still there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her, just as he’d said. She wondered if he’d purposely not told her his name.

  It could have just been a slip, something pushed aside in their flirting. On the other hand, she had given him the opportunity to introduce himself, a bold move, she knew, in the genteel world in which he lived. So why hadn’t he taken her up on it? Most of the clientele here would have jumped at the chance. It was part of her mystique to stay aloof, just as her flamboyant masks were, and men frequently attempted to engage her in conversation, to introduce themselves and learn her name in return. Yet he had not. It made him even more intriguing.

  Desiree turned her attention to the cards, determined not to be distracted into making a mistake. But now and then, between hands, she glanced over and saw him still there. He changed locations a few times, but for the next hour, he remained in the room.

  However, when she called the game to a halt sometime later and stood up to leave, her mystery man had disappeared. She took a stroll through the main room, glancing around in what she hoped was a casual way. She retrieved her stole from the cloakroom and turned to cast another long look around the club before she walked out the door. There was no escaping it: the man was gone.

  * * *

  TOM SAT IN the carriage, curtain drawn back a sliver so he could watch the front door of the club. He’d wanted to stay and talk to her again. But that was a foolish impulse, one he should not have made the first time. It would be impossible to have another conversation with her without telling her his name. And as soon as he did that, she’d know who he was and why he was there, and he would lose all chance of figuring out who had hired her to break in.

  He hadn’t intended to talk to her. Well, the truth was he hadn’t expected to find her so e
asily. But if he should be so lucky, his plan had been to follow her—see where she went, to whom she talked. But when he saw her closing the table for a moment, he’d grabbed a glass from one of the waiters and intercepted her. Even then, he hadn’t thought she would actually start a conversation with him. He had just wanted to see her up close, to measure her height against his to make sure she matched the thief, to try to make out what she looked like without the mask.

  Tom had thought she would brush aside his advance; she must be approached every night by a bevy of men. Instead, she had taken the glass and struck up a conversation with him. He thought now about their interaction—the challenge in her smile, the flirtation in her eyes, the sensual undertones beneath their words. There was no denying his response to her, the way his blood had heated, the enjoyment he’d taken in their banter, the temptation he’d felt. The urge to move closer, to touch her, to kiss her.

  He hadn’t been thinking at all, and it wasn’t until the other man interrupted—sending an unaccustomed stab of jealousy through him—that Tom had come to his senses. He wasn’t going to get anything from her this way. She wasn’t going to toss the information he sought into the midst of a flirtation.

  However much that subtle scent teased at his senses, however tempted he was to kiss her, that was never going to happen. They were on opposite sides. His task was to find out what she’d been trying to find when she searched their office. And why.

  Tom had continued to watch her play. She won the majority of the games, and when she didn’t win, she nearly always folded quickly, losing little money. Her stack of chips grew steadily. Tom thought she must be cheating, but he couldn’t figure out how.

  Tom knew sleight of hand and deception. He’d seen it and engaged in it often enough when he was a child. He’d been almost solely a pickpocket, but he knew enough of the ways to cheat at cards to be able to pick up the signs.

  He watched from several different angles. But he could see no indication she was hiding cards—where the devil would she put them, anyway, with her arms as bare as they were? The cards didn’t appear to be marked. He saw no signaling to her from any of the men standing behind the other players, nor could he find any mirrors on the walls or ceiling to reflect their hands.