Seducing the Siren of Seven Dials (Secret Wallflower Society Book 4)
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Not out of some misguided attempt to adhere to a code of ethics; her very survival in London’s most dangerous rookery had demanded she give up her morality a long time ago. But because she simply hadn’t needed to.
One of the first lessons Artemis learned when she had exchanged glittering ballrooms for gritty alleyways was to always have a way out. Molly, her mentor and the proprietor of the finest whorehouse in all of Seven Dials (which was rather like choosing the least mottled piece of fruit in a bin of rotten apples), had taught her that. Along with a few other key pieces of wisdom, such as how to hold a man’s bollocks in one hand while stealing his coin with the other.
When Artemis first ran away, she’d wandered through London like a lost little lamb. Half-starved, wet, and cold, she couldn’t count the number of times she’d considered giving up and going home.
Truth be told, that had been her plan when she’d given her last bit of coin to a hackney driver. But instead of returning her to Grosvenor Square, he’d taken her money and left her stranded in the middle of a rookery.
That should have been it for her. A defenseless woman was not long for the world in a place like Seven Dials. She should have been killed, or worse. She would have been, if not for Molly.
Molly, the whore with a heart of…
Well, it wasn’t gold.
If that were the case, Molly would have found a way to sell it off long ago.
There were two things Molly cared about.
Herself.
And money.
In her youth, she’d made that money on her back. Molly the Magnificent, they’d called her, and men had come from miles around to worship between her soft thighs. As she grew older, and harder, she’d gone into business for herself.
‘No one’, she’d told Artemis sternly, ‘will ever love you as much as you do. Remember that.’
With charm, and luck, and the aid of a wealthy benefactor, Molly had created an empire in the most unlikely of places. She’d plucked girls off the street, cleaned them up, and taught them how to pleasure a man in any manner of ways. Then she’d set them loose into the world, like sacrificial minnows cast out into a lake.
And they’d brought her back some very large fish.
Only Molly knew the names of her clients who came in the dead of night. The ones who kept their faces hidden. The ones who had titles and wives and more money to spend than the devil himself. For those men, she reserved her best girls. Her ‘doves’, as she called them, and they were renowned throughout Seven Dials and beyond for both their astounding beauty and their immeasurable talents in the bedroom.
When Molly had happened upon Artemis, cold as ice and shivering in the rain, her initial thought was that she’d discovered a new dove. A good thing, as she had recently lost a prized member of her flock to a charming viscount with a silver tongue.
From experience, Molly knew that the girl would be back. Men, particularly men of great wealth, were attracted to shiny things. But when that shine wore off, they quickly lost interest. Soon enough, her dove would fly home. In the meantime, she had a void to fill.
When Artemis found herself approached by a buxom brunette who wore too little clothes and too much perfume, she’d been naturally hesitant to place herself in Molly’s care. But what other options did she have, really? With no money, no means to travel, and no way to defend herself, she was at the mercy of whoever happened to stumble upon her.
To this day, she was still grateful that person had been Molly.
The whore with the heart of tin had taken Artemis in under her wing and offered her protection. She’d given her a hot bath, a warm meal, a room to call her own. She’d given her a new dress. New shoes. Even a new hat.
And then Molly had given her a choice.
‘You can be one of my doves’, she had told Artemis matter-of-factly. ‘Men will pay through the nose for a fine piece like you. You’ll be the wife they always wanted. The mistress they could never afford. I can promise you won’t be harmed, although a bit of humiliation goes part and parcel with the job. Or…’
‘Or?’ Artemis had prompted.
In the dim lighting of the satin filled bedroom, Molly’s brown eyes had taken on a mercurial gleam. ‘Or you can work for me in a slightly…different capacity.’
Artemis had chosen the latter, and soon found herself immersed in a world of cutthroat thieves, stolen jewelry, and dangerous heists.
The scheme Molly had contrived was simple enough. She lured in high paying clients with the promise of pleasure, and then while they were busy in Seven Dials she sent men to their manors in Grosvenor Square to rob them blind.
The problem she kept running into, however, was that the sort of riffraff she hired were not acquainted enough with upper class households to know the best means in and out. Not to mention where the lady of the manor kept her jewelry, or the lord stashed his gold pocket watches.
For that, Molly needed someone who knew the difference between a dressing chamber and a guest bedroom. Someone who knew that a duke was likely to keep his most valuable possessions in his private study, and that the key was kept in the butler’s pantry. Someone who knew precisely what time the staff retired for the evening, and which door they were most likely to leave unlocked for ease of access in the morning.
For that, Molly needed someone with an intimate knowledge of the ton.
Someone like the runaway daughter of an earl.
It was not a position that Artemis had accepted without reservation. She’d never stolen so much as a hairpin before, let alone priceless necklaces and bracelets from her very own peers. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and after Molly made it abundantly clear that her generosity did not come without a price, Artemis had stepped grudgingly into her new role as a thief. It was either that, or pay what she owed on the flat of her back. And she hadn’t left one man to be controlled by another.
She still remembered how hard her heart had pounded on the night of her first robbery. How frightened she’d been! Terrified that at any moment she would be discovered creeping through the hallway in Lord Garrison’s townhouse and be tossed into Newgate…or, far worse, returned to her parents and forced to marry the Duke of Warwick.
But no bells had rung. No dogs had barked. With surprising ease, she’d tiptoed into Lord Garrison’s study, retrieved the thin leather-bound ledger that Molly had requested, and slipped right out the front without anyone being the wiser.
After that, Artemis’s confidence had bloomed.
In the ballroom, she’d felt stifled and suffocated. But in the shadows, she was able to shine. And if she occasionally suffered from a twinge of guilt or conscience, well, it was rapidly dispelled when she reminded herself of where the lofty lord of the manor was while she rifled through his belongings. As far as she was concerned, there was no innocent party involved. And without innocence, she was not committing an act of malignance, but rather one of…repercussions. Especially after she renegotiated her contract with Molly so that she only stole from men. Men who wouldn’t have found themselves stripped of the worldly possessions if they’d stayed home with their wives and children instead of frolicking off to the rookeries for a quick tup.
Within months, Artemis had made a name for herself as one of the best thieves in all of Seven Dials. A title she shared with Lucas Black, a rival and occasional business partner who had taught her how to throw her first knife. Briefly they’d considered a relationship, but neither had wanted the complication.
Their paths had crossed as recently as a few weeks ago, when they’d both been hired by different parties to track down the missing Duchess of Glastonbury, Persephone ‘Percy’ Stillwater, who had run from her husband after he’d nearly beaten her to death and left her for dead in the pouring rain. Lucas had gotten to the duchess first, and had promptly fallen in love with her, hindering Artemis’s attempt to return Percy to her friends, Helena and Calliope.
It all turned out right in the end, though. Lucas and Percy were happ
ily together, the evil Duke of Glastonbury had received his just desserts courtesy of Lucas’s fists, and Artemis had gotten paid.
Following all the excitement, she’d taken a temporary reprieve from her thieving to work at the Fox and Bull while Smithy, the regular barman, rested at home with a broken arm. The money was piss poor, but having stashed away a considerable amount of gold and jewels in the floorboards beneath her flat, she could afford to take a break from stealing now and again.
A good thing, as the past year had found her wondering what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Especially after she’d witnessed Lucas riding off into the gilded sunset with his lady love.
One violet-eyed duchess was all it had taken for the notorious Devil of Duncraven to turn legitimate and officially put his criminal past behind him. If Artemis didn’t consider Percy a good friend, she would have been disgusted.
It was a little nauseating to see the two of them together.
All their long, soulful glances and sweet kisses.
Blech.
Artemis definitely did not want what they’d found. But she was coming to slowly desire more than what she had.
More than the tense, danger-filled nights. More than the long, lonely days. What once had been so exciting was now beginning to fester with monotony. Which was why she’d been considering going on holiday. Getting out of Seven Dials and leaving England all together. For a few weeks, a month, a year. Maybe she’d go to Spain, or even hop a ship bound for America. Somewhere different. Somewhere new. Somewhere that could alleviate this strange ache inside of her.
But she couldn’t go anywhere if the Duke of Warwick was just going to follow her.
Which really didn’t leave her with much of a choice, did it?
“That does it,” she sighed, tightening her grip on her knife as she met Warwick’s sharp gaze. “I suppose I am going to have to kill you, after all.”
Chapter Three
Warwick did not take his fiancée’s threat seriously. Why would he?
Yes, he had found her in a pub. Not just any pub, but a pub in the middle of Seven Dials. A rat-infested den of iniquity that should have swallowed up a lady of Amelia’s good breeding and spat her out in a matter of hours.
And yes, she was wearing trousers.
Quite nicely, as a matter of fact.
And yes, she’d thrown a knife at his head.
But really, what woman hadn’t wanted to do that at one point or another?
He chalked it up to blind luck that Amelia had come within a hairs breadth of giving him a close shave, and he doubted very much that she had it in her to hurt a fly, let alone topple a full grown man.
Amelia was a lady. A lady dressed like a scruffy street urchin, but a lady nevertheless. And in his experience, ladies did not kill dukes. That being said, they didn’t throw knives at them either…but his betrothed had been living in a rookery for the past three years. Surely a little wildness was to be expected, and wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with a hot bath and a proper gown.
“Please put the weapon away,” he said kindly. “I wouldn’t want you to accidentally injure yourself, Amelia.”
Her eyes, somehow more blue than he remembered, flashed with annoyance. “I could give a flying fig what you want. And the name is Artemis Bishop.”
Warwick blinked. “You cannot change your name.”
“Really?” Her head canted to the side. “According to whom?”
“According to…according to everyone.” He gestured broadly. “Now come along. I’ve a carriage waiting a few streets away, and–”
“Come a step closer and I’ll gut you like a bloody fish,” she snarled, slashing her blade through the air with enough precision to indicate the success of her earlier throw hadn’t been just blind luck.
“My God.” Aghast–and, against his better judgement, slightly aroused–Warwick stopped short and raised his hands. “You’ve gone completely feral, haven’t you? Poor mite. What have they done to you?”
“It is what I am going to do to you that should be of concern.” Her upper lip curled. “I am not going anywhere with you, Warwick. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. If you can get that through your thick skull, then I suppose we can forget this ever happened. If not…” Looking at her knife, she gave it a thoughtful turn, then lifted her gaze to his. “I am afraid this isn’t going to end well for you.”
“You’re not going to kill me.”
“I am not in the habit of making idle threats.”
“Then what are you in the habit of doing?” His nose wrinkled. “Surely you didn’t run away from our nuptials just to come here and work in a disgusting tavern.”
“I’d rather work in a sewer than marry you.” She pointed the tip of her blade at the door behind him. “Best you leave, Warwick. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Not that you were ever welcome to begin with.”
For the first time since he’d entered the pub, Warwick felt a tingling of anger. Amelia/Artemis was acting as if he had done something to wrong her when it was clear that he was the aggrieved party in this situation! She was the one who had left, and made a mockery of him in the process. Thirty-six months he had looked for her. He had persisted when even her own parents had given up and the ton had all but forgotten about her. He’d been ruthless in his search, wasting a small fortune in the process.
And this was his reward?
A bloody knife thrown at his head?
He thought not.
“Listen here,” he snarled, taking a step in her direction. “I haven’t come all this way to be denied what belongs to me, and I’ll be damned if–buggering hell!” Incredulous, Warwick glanced down at the top of his hand where a thin line of red had appeared. The cut was shallow, the pain was minimal, but the outrage was enormous. “You stabbed me!”
“Don’t be such a child,” she scoffed. “I barely scratched you.”
“That does it.” His jaw clenching, Warwick lunged forward. His tempestuous bride-to-be ducked and then came at him from the side, but this time he had anticipated her bloodthirsty nature and managed to catch her wrist before she could drive her blade between his ribs. He squeezed, harder than he probably should have, and she gave a startled yelp before the knife clattered to the ground. With a kick of his boot, he sent it spinning away.
“Now,” he said, his grip unrelenting as she twisted and writhed and struggled in vain to be free of him, “we are going to have a little chat, you and I.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you!” In the dim lighting, her eyes glowed like twin sapphires. Her color was high. Her fury evident. Every harsh breath she took lifted her breasts. They strained against her shirt, piquing Warwick’s desire until his anger and arousal burned in equal measure.
“All right,” he said silkily. “If you don’t want to talk, then we’ll do this instead.”
And lowering his head, he covered her mouth with his.
For a second, Artemis was too shocked to do anything.
Then the wave of pleasure hit, and she didn’t want to do anything.
Anything other than return Warwick’s kiss, that is.
Her lips parting beneath the demanding pressure of his mouth, she welcomed his tongue inside, her body secretly thrilling from the heat of it, the power, the passion.
As the kiss deepened, he continued to hold her captive, his firm grip unyielding on her slender wrist. But instead of pulling away from the weight, she leaned into it, wrapping her free arm around his neck and rising up on her toes so that her breasts pressed against his chest.
The sharp contrast of her soft curves against his hard angles drove her wild, and her breath caught on a gasp of desire when he sank his teeth into her bottom lip and tugged. The nails at his nape tightened, digging into his flesh as he dragged her into oblivion with his kiss. And in that moment of fire and flame, it didn’t matter that she despised him. The only thing she cared about was getting closer to all that heat, even if she burned herself in the process.
What the hell was she doing, dancing with the devil?
This man was her enemy, not her lover.
And certainly not someone she should have been kissing!
Disgusted with herself, furious with him, Artemis slowly reached for the small dagger she kept in concealed in an inconspicuous pocket on the inside of her trousers that she’d sewn herself. The knife was tiny enough to fit in the palm of her hand, but it was sharp despite its diminutive size. Sharp enough to cause Warwick to curse and immediately lift his arms high into the air when she raised the blade to his throat.
“Don’t move,” she told him, and he laughed darkly in response.
“Is this how you treat all the men who kiss you?”
She smiled thinly. “Just the ones I don’t like.”
His expression was calm, but his eyes were all but black with anger. It was clear the Duke of Warwick was not a man accustomed to being backed into a corner, nor was he one who would give up easily.
As she met Warwick’s wrathful gaze, Artemis was reminded of the hounds her father used to hunt. When they’d caught the scent of a fox they’d let nothing stop them. Not the terrain, not the elements, not even the threat of death itself. They’d kept going until they finally ran their quarry to ground.
For the past three years, Artemis had been a hound.
Relentless in her goal of retrieving whatever prize had been put out in front of her, regardless of whether it was an object or a person.
But now…now she very much feared she was the fox.
And the thing chasing her wasn’t a dog at all, but rather a savage wolf determined to bring her to heel.
She knew what she needed to do.