Deliciously Wicked (6 page)

He found himself caught in a quandary. He wanted neither to confirm her audacious remark, nor to deny it. So he ignored her and returned to his work.

“It is all right though. You can pretend to dislike me and scowl. In our previous encounters it has made me scowl as well, but no more. I am a cheerful person, and I decided not to allow you to annoy me. It shall not hurt my feelings for you to pretend to find me annoying because I know that you do, in fact, find me utterly charming.”

He could listen to her spout her attributes no longer. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I find you utterly bothersome. You talk too much; you're entirely too cheerful.” He ticked each comment off on his fingers.
“And you really ought not wear such dresses around working men. Makes them think of things that would turn your face as red as your hair.”

Her mouth opened wide. From shock or irritation, Gareth could not ascertain.

And then she frowned. Tiny creases indented her forehead, and her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. He did find her charming, but he was too stubborn to admit it. He knew that about himself, it was an error of his character, not hers. But apologizing was out of the question. It was probably for the best if she found him beastly.

“Precisely what is wrong with my dress?” she suddenly asked. “It is rather fashionable, I assure you. I only recently purchased a closet full of new clothes. Or rather my father did.”

“Why did you need a closet full of new dresses? Didn't you already have some?”

“Yes, but I did not have any suitable for working,” she said quietly.

“Working?”

“Yes, working. While my father heals, I told him I would assist at the factory.”

“Your mother has no issues with her daughter working at a factory?”

She didn't look up from her work; instead she seemed to be more involved with it, holding the box closer to her face. “My mother died when I was a child. So I'm not quite certain how she would react to my working here. I suspect had she lived, they would have had more children, perhaps a boy, and I would have married years ago and would be living in the country with a house full of children while my brothers would work here. But I have no brothers,” she added with a tight laugh.

He'd hit a tender area. She was trying to pretend he hadn't, but it was there, under the surface. Pain. It was palpable, and he knew that if he reached out he would be able to touch it briefly before she was able to tuck it away. “I didn't realize about your mother,” he said.

“How could you?” She waved a hand in front of her. “I remember plenty of things about her. She had red hair like I do.” Her voice took on a remote quality. “And she was short, but she was very mild-mannered. Although my father has told me on many occasions that I get my spirit from her.” She smoothed a piece of blue velvet on the inside of a drawer. “What of your family?”

“What of them?” He didn't want to give her too much information. She was clever, and it wouldn't take her too long to figure out he had a secret. She'd already detected the difference in his speech.

“Tell me about them. It will give us some conversation and that will make the work move by swiftly.” She smiled at him. “It's a simple question, Gareth.”

“Without a simple answer,” he said.

She frowned. “Do you have parents?”

“Of course. Everyone has parents. People don't simply appear.”

“I meant, are they still living?”

“My mother is.”

“Where is she?”

“Ireland.”

“What about brothers and sisters?

He shrugged. “A handful.” She had such patience, and showed no sign of irritation at his terse replies. So he would answer her questions, but he would not offer her more than that.

“A handful? Is that large?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I suppose. There are five of us.”

“I always wanted a sister or brother. But it was not to be.”

“And your father never remarried?” he found himself asking. He probably shouldn't, but he wanted to distract her from inquiring more about his family.

“Oh no, never even considered it. He loved my mother far too much. Losing her nearly killed him. They had a great love,” she said.

A great love. He had once believed that his parents had such a love. It hadn't taken him long to learn the truth, though. It was a shallow love built on conditions and it hadn't survived. He didn't think his father had ever been unfaithful, at least not with another woman, but his vices had nonetheless taken him away from his family. His mother's love hadn't endured, and she'd left his father when he'd needed her most.

“Do you miss Ireland?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Are your siblings still there as well, or only your mother?”

“They're all still there. Fiona and Maggie are both married with children of their own. But the two youngest still live with my mother. Aileen is sixteen and Liam is thirteen.”

“Why, then, did you come all the way to London?”

He hesitated for a moment over his response. The answer to that question was something he'd been unable to make even his own family understand. This young woman, with her tailored dresses and her fiery hair and her sweet nature, how could she possibly understand
how he'd been driven to prove himself? To prove to everyone that he could live in this city. That he could live here and not succumb to the very things that destroyed his father. Or perhaps he needed only to prove those things to himself.

“To see if it was all I remembered it to be,” he said.

“You have been here before?” she asked, clearly surprised.

“I was born here,” he answered. He knew he was giving her more clues, but he felt compelled to answer her questions. Chances of her recognizing the Mandeville name were slim; she would have been a small child by the time his father died. By then his parents' activity in Society had diminished a great deal, his mother had been desperate to remove herself from the rumor mill. “I lived here until I was twelve. Enough about my family. They are not interesting.” He'd already said far more than he ever intended.

She wanted to ask more; he could feel her questions in the air. But she asked none of them. Silently she went back to work.

Born in London? Meg was still reeling from that admission and she wanted to press him more, but she knew he'd given her more than he was accustomed to. She eyed him cautiously. He was busy pressing a print of three kittens sitting in a basket to the lid of the box he was working on.

He'd been rather reluctant to share with her, but he'd given her more than she had expected. Perhaps if she changed the subject he'd forget he'd been so open with her.

“I have three dear friends who might as well be my
sisters,” she said abruptly. Now was as good a time as any to tell him that the Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society had taken on his case. She leaned in. “Would you like to know a secret?”

“I suppose,” he said warily.

“My friends and I have a secret society.”

He looked up at her then, surprise etching his features. “A secret society,” he repeated dumbly.

“Oh yes. Now, you cannot tell anyone as it would most certainly create talk.”

He motioned to the empty room. “Who would I tell? Besides, it's not as if my would-be friends and your friends are in the same circle.”

He had her there. She'd originally intended to tell him all this after they found their first lead, but he clearly had wanted to direct attention off his family. He did not want to discuss his life in any great detail. At least not yet.

But often people felt more inclined to share when others shared first. So for the time being, she'd do the talking and see if things eased with him.

“Yes, as I was saying. A secret society. We are called the Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then shook his head. “What do you do?”

“As it sounds, we sleuth.” She shrugged. “Or we attempt to do so. It is most difficult to solve crimes when we are not privy to all the details. As the authorities are.”

“You sleuth?” he asked.

She watched him carefully, looking for signs of what he thought. Only one of them had told someone outside their families. Amelia had told Colin before
they had married, well before they were in love. Colin had found it vastly amusing, but then he was an inspector for hire, and the thought of four ladies scavenging around London looking for clues to mysteries sounded ludicrous to him. He was far more favorable toward the group now.

Gareth, on the other hand, did not appear amused. At least Meg didn't think so; from his blank expression, it was difficult to determine precisely what he was feeling or thinking. More than likely he would think her a fool, but she'd started the conversation; she couldn't very well back out of it now.

His eyebrows raised and she realized she had not answered his question.

“Yes, we sleuth. We are rather good at it, I might add.”

“What have you solved?”

She frowned. That was a bothersome question. “The case we are currently involved in is still active.” She released a breath. That was the honest truth.

“What case are you working on?”

This was her fault. She'd brought it up. She had wanted to impress him before telling him they would solve his crime, but she'd always had a difficult time waiting to tell people things. And now that she was in the midst of the conversation she couldn't see a way that any of this would impart a lofty impression.

“Well, for one, your case. I met with the girls earlier today and they agreed. So the Ladies' Amateur Sleuth Society is officially working on finding the real culprit and proving your innocence.”

“I see,” he said tightly. “Did you also tell them that if word gets out about that, we will be compromised?”

She released a nervous laugh, then mentally chastised herself. “You know, they were worried about you telling people, bragging, if you will. But I told them you were intent on keeping it a secret. They'll never tell.”

He eyed her a moment longer before silently nodding. “And for another?” he asked.

He didn't seem to have much of a reaction to the news. She hoped he'd be excited. But she supposed that was expecting a bit much.

“Another?” she asked.

“You said, ‘For one.' That implies there are others.”

Oh dear
.

If nothing else she would make him laugh, and that was worth something indeed.

“Do you read the papers, Mr. Mandeville?”

He winced slightly. “If you must call me something, call me by my given name. And yes, I do read the papers when I find them lying about. I don't generally spend.”

“Then you must have read about the Jack of Hearts.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. A tight smile played at his lips. “I have. You and your lady friends are thinking to catch the Jack of Hearts?”

Meg smiled broadly. “We are.”

“What do you know so far?” he asked.

“Well, we know that he only steals from the wealthy,” she said.

He shook his head. “That doesn't count. The only people you can steal from are wealthy. Poor people have nothing to take.”

“Of course. I simply meant that he frequents events that are filled with the titled.”

He nodded.

“We think that this means he's arrogant.”

“In what way?” he asked.

He wasn't mocking her, she realized. He was listening, participating. Meg's chest swelled and she felt a surge of confidence. She'd never before been able to discuss her fascination with mysteries with anyone save the other girls. It was exhilarating. Especially when she'd expected mockery, and thus far, he'd reserved his reaction and only put forth questions. “He's bold. He walks into places and steals directly from people. He's a highwayman dressed as a gentleman. It's quite effective.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No. None of us have. One of us has come close a few times, but we're still waiting.”

“Well, he could be anyone,” Gareth offered.

“True. But we feel fairly confident that he's a servant who works for a good family.”

“Or he could be someone from a good family,” he argued.

She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it. Could he be? They had not even considered the possibility. That would certainly be the scandal of all scandals. She shook her head. It couldn't be. No one from a good family would dare. “No. Why would they need to steal?”

“Not all good families have money. You know that, Meg. In the same paper where you read your stories of the Jack of Hearts, there are reports of the Earl of Such-and-Such having to marry an unrefined heiress from America to save his family's name.”

Meg simply started at him.

“Why do you look so surprised?” he asked.

“I guess I didn't realize you read those parts of the papers. Keeping up with Society news, are you?” Was that customary for most factory workers? Or only ones who seemed more educated than most, who had alluring hazel eyes, and whose kisses could steal a thought right out of your head?

Gareth shrugged, but did not look at her. “It's comforting to know that even the blessed have their trials.” His tone was biting. “I only meant that the Jack of Hearts could be anyone. It could be a servant as you and your friends suggest. It could be the second son of an earl angry at his lousy inheritance. It could be a duke who's lost his fortune and is hell bent on getting it back. Or it could be any of the above, stealing not out of necessity, but out of sport.” He shrugged, then leaned back over his box to finish his work. “It could be me,” he added.

Her heart nearly stopped. “What do you mean, it could be you?”

“Precisely what it sounded like. I could be the Jack of Hearts.”

Her hand flew to her cheek. “Are you?” He couldn't be serious.