If You Give a Rake a Ruby (10 page)

He did, but Fallon could hear Lady Sinclair in the back of her mind saying,
Fallon, language!

“He decided to sell me to the highest bidder. I overheard him talking about it with some of the other men from his gang. I don't know if Lucifer was going to buy me for himself or to sell my virginity to someone else, but when we went to Lucifer's Lair, I knew the reason. And I knew what would happen when I was bedded.”

“You weren't a virgin.” He said it matter-of-factly without any disgust.

“No, but my father didn't know that. He would have killed me. No.” That wasn't right. He would have done far worse. “He would have passed me around to all his friends and then killed me.”

“Fallon—”

“You need to understand why I did it, Fitzhugh. I didn't want to murder him, but I also wasn't going to be sold, especially when that sale meant the worst kind of death and torture. I tried to run away.”

He was beside her now, his hands tender on her forearms. “You don't have to justify it to me. I'm not judging you. I've done far worse than anything you can even imagine.”

“No, you haven't, and if you did commit murder, it was in the name of service to your country. That's honorable, not… not—” What was the word? She'd read it somewhere. “
Patricide
,” she said finally.

“There's a fine line between duty and murder,” he said, looking away. “I promise you I'm no saint. Tell me the rest.”

“He found me and brought me back. He beat me too, hurt me so badly I was in bed for a week. That delayed the transaction a bit, but it didn't deter him. He'd negotiated a high price for me. He came home drunk and boasting about it. He said… I won't repeat what he said. It wasn't the kind of thing a father says about a daughter.”

She was far away now, present in the room with Fitzhugh and cognizant of his warm hands on her arms, but at the same time back in that filthy little hovel with her father. Arthur had been gone by then, she didn't know where, and it had been the two of them. And he'd been crowing about how smart he was, how much he'd get for her. He'd been so drunk, drunk enough that he made a grab for her, loosened the ties on her blouse. He only wanted to see the merchandise, he'd said.

She'd smacked his hand away in an effort to cover her breasts, and he'd fallen backward. She hadn't hit him hard, but he'd been foxed and unsteady. He fell, and when he rose again, there was murder in his eyes. The knife had been on the table. He'd been using it to carve the mutton he'd brought home for himself. None for her, of course. She'd been providing her own food for years now. Before she knew it, the knife was in her hand and she was slashing at him.

She was fighting for her life, fighting to keep the knife away from him, fighting to save her poor, miserable life.

And when all was said and done, she was covered in blood. His blood. And he lay motionless on the rough floor of their ugly house. She knew what came next. Prison would be a blessing considering what Arthur or any one of her father's gang would do to her.

And so she'd run.

“And that was when Sinclair found you?”

She nodded. “I was shivering in a corner of Hyde Park in the early hours a few days later. I was hungry and tired and about to give up. Sinclair rode by on a gray horse, and at first I thought he was some kind of apparition. I thought I was imagining things. And then he reined the horse in, jumped down, and asked if I needed help.” Fallon laughed a little at the memory. She could only imagine how she must have looked to the earl—a ragged, filthy, little beggar who would just as soon steal his purse as do him the same kindness.

“I said no, of course. But he said I was to come with him anyway. I was too tired to argue. I thought prostitution was pretty much inevitable at that point, and he seemed nice enough and as far removed from my father and his associates as I could get. He took me home with him, and that's when I met the countess.”

It was also when she'd realized the huge disparity between the wealthy and titled and the world she'd grown up in. Fallon had stared in wonder at the enormous town house with its sunny rooms, high ceilings, and soft furnishings. She was ashamed to remember how the first few months of her stay all she'd thought about was what everything was worth and how easy it would be to steal it. Why, she could just walk out the door with a silver candelabra that would pay her rent for a year.

But she hadn't. Partly because she liked the countess and she liked Juliette, who had also been living under the Sinclairs' roof at that time. She liked having a clean, soft place to sleep. She liked being clean. She liked how Sinclair never expected anything of her. And, most surprisingly, she enjoyed her lessons.

She'd never learned to read or write, and her speech had been absolutely horrible. But the countess herself had sat with Fallon for hours and hours each day, teaching Fallon how to be a lady. And Fallon had wanted to be a lady.

Most of all, she wanted to stay with the Sinclairs, where she was safe and where she knew her father's men would never find her.

But as the years passed, she occasionally ventured back to her old haunts. No one recognized her, and there was no hint of her father, not even a whisper of his name. She began to feel bolder and braver. By then Lily had joined them, and the countess had come up with a plan to help the girls become self-sufficient.

“You became The Three Diamonds. It's a brilliant plan, and it has served you well.”

“But there's one problem. My past is still my past. You discovered it.”

“I'm a good researcher.”

“Good enough to be certain my father is still alive?”

“Absolutely certain.” His fingers trailed up and down her arms. “You didn't kill him that night. You may have gravely injured him, forced him underground for a time, but he's back. And he wants me dead.”

Fallon closed her eyes. For so long she'd thought her nightmare was over, but it had just been in hiding. Her father wasn't really dead. If Fitzhugh could find her, so could Bayley, especially now that she'd told Gabriel her real identity.

“I'm not going to let him touch you,” Fitzhugh said, grasping her arms. “I'm not going to let him hurt you.”

“You can barely protect yourself right now.” She indicated their present hiding place. “How can you protect me? And don't pretend you didn't involve me in all this to use me as bait. Don't forget where I came from. I know how to catch a fish.”

Fitzhugh let her go and looked away. “I admit, that was my intention.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I hoped I could find some clue as to the identity of the man paying your father. Who is he? Does your father work for him, or is he a man who prefers not to dirty his hands? It's someone wealthy, and if my instincts are correct, someone with a title or a place in the government.”

“But so far we're at a dead end.”

“Yes. The only lead I have is to your father, but I won't use you as bait.”

She shook her head. “Why not? Don't tell me you care about me. I'm no naïve virgin. I know what happened between us back at The Grotto doesn't mean anything.”

“Doesn't it?”

She frowned and studied him, confused. “Why are you always making cryptic statements like that? Are you trying to imply that what happened
did
mean something to you?”

“And what if it did? What if I told you I'm half in love with you, Fallon?”

Her heart kicked so hard, she had to sit on the edge of the crate to keep from falling. She did not understand this man. She thought she understood all men, knew what they wanted. But this man bewildered her. She looked up at him. He was watching her, waiting.

“I wouldn't believe you. I'd think it was some sort of trick or ploy.”

He nodded. “Of course you would.” He bent over, ostensibly searching for the exit again. “Men tell you that all the time.”

“They do,” she admitted. “But not… not like this.” She couldn't explain exactly how Fitzhugh's admission was different. Was it because they were locked together in a hole in the ground? Was it because he could have already had her and didn't take the opportunity?

But he'd never been after her body. No, what he wanted from her was far more dangerous. And now he was playing with the hottest fire of all—love.

“You don't mean it, do you?” she asked, finally.

He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a sardonic look. “Are you going to help me look, or would you rather sleep here tonight?”

She stood and began moving spades again. She was almost at the end of the pile when Fitzhugh swore.

“What is it?” she turned quickly to find him smiling.

“I've got it.” He grinned at her. “You're too smart for your own good, Fallon.” He brushed the dust and dirt away from a door that matched the interior of the room quite well. But it was a door and big enough for even a tall man like Gabriel to use as an entrance and exit. “Ready to see where it leads?”

“Probably right into Gabriel's lair.”

“Then I'll rescind my earlier compliment on your intelligence.” He tugged the handle, and the door creaked open. “What do we have to lose?”

Fallon peered into the dark tunnel.
I've already lost it
, she thought, and crawled inside.

Warrick stripped off his soiled coat and shirt and left them in a pile for his valet. He'd dismissed the man, wanting time alone now that he was finally in his own home, in his own bedchamber. He'd deemed it too dangerous to return to Fallon's residence, but his own was a bloody fortress. Neither Gabriel nor Joseph Bayley nor Lucifer himself was going to get in. If they made it past the guards patrolling the perimeter, they'd never make it past the locks, bars, and the four two-hundred-pound mastiffs that served as his intruder alerts.

The Grotto's hidden door had led to an alley a few blocks from Gabriel's establishment. Warrick and Fallon had emerged into the dark night, blinking like surprised owls. He'd expected her to argue about returning to his town house, but she was either too tired or finally resigned to trusting him because she followed without comment or protest.

And now she slept in a bed just a few doors away. At least he hoped she slept. He didn't sleep. He never slept anymore. It was too dangerous.

He paced his room, ignoring his untouched bed. Fallon was complicated. That shouldn't attract him, but for some reason it did. She hadn't believed him when he'd said he was half in love with her. He could have proposed marriage and she probably would have laughed. He imagined men proposed to her all the time. Conventional methods of wooing a woman were not going to succeed with Fallon. She was too jaded, too wary, too wise.

And that was all the more reason to treat her as a business associate and little else. He didn't need a complicated woman. He had enough of those in his life between his mother and sisters. And good God, he could only imagine the looks on their faces were he to be seen courting the Marchioness of Mystery. His mother would probably faint. Or at least pretend to faint.

He did not need another complicated woman.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about Fallon? Why couldn't he stop imagining what it would be like to have her here in his room, beside him in his bed? She'd be naked, that glorious honey-toned skin silvered by moonlight…

He glanced at his window, where the drapes were firmly closed. He'd have to open them before he carried her in here. And was there a full moon tonight?

He sat on his bed, put his head in his hands, and willed himself to stop thinking about her, stop planning her seduction, their lovemaking. This wasn't a mission. He had bigger, more important dilemmas at the moment than whether he or she should be on top. Besides, he would be on top the first time. He wanted to be able to look down at her face when she climaxed, and he wanted to control the penetration. He'd take her with agonizing slowness. She thought she liked it fast and hard, but he'd show her there was something to be said for torturously slow. He'd make her cry his name again. He'd make her cry it again and again.

And that would probably wake up the servants.

Damn it! He flopped onto his back. He didn't care about the servants—except they would likely report to his mother, and then she'd show up, wanting to know what was going on. She'd report back to his father, who was already not speaking with Warrick. Oh, the shame of having a son who insisted on pursuing a place in the Foreign Office. And the shame of the younger brother who followed him into battle. But just because the Earl of Winthorpe had disowned Warrick didn't mean the man didn't receive regular briefings about his wayward son.

And that didn't mean Warrick didn't hope his father would one day accept him again. Accept him for who he was—not who his father wanted him to be. And he was a man who would take great pleasure in making love to Fallon, whether she was the Marchioness of Mystery or not. And to hell with his mother and father.

He was a grown man and could do what he damned well pleased.

He lay on the bed for another quarter hour and unwillingly succumbed to a restless sleep. He dreamed he was on a battlefield. He couldn't say which one. It was gray and misted with fog. It looked like any of the dozens of battlefields he'd seen in his career—littered with the corpses of dead and dying men; reeking with the stench of blood, sweat, and excrement; and punctuated by the agonized groans of the wounded.

Warrick didn't want to be here. He was supposed to be somewhere else. He couldn't think where at the moment, but it was urgent. He felt for his satchel, where the documents he was ferrying would be stored, and his hand came away wet. He stared at it, at the bright crimson dripping from his fingers. Was it his blood or another's? Where was his horse? Had he lost him? Was that why he was walking?

He stumbled and fell to his knees, his face inches from the severed head of a man. Warrick tried to jump up, but he couldn't get his footing on the slippery, uneven ground. And then he looked down and realized he hadn't been walking on ground at all. He'd been walking over bodies—hundreds of them, thousands of them. He'd been stepping on their hands and chests and noses, trudging through their blood and waste, and he had to climb over thousands more to reach the edge of the battlefield.

That was if there was an edge. It seemed to go on and on, disappearing in the omnipresent fog. He wanted out of here, but he was seeking… something. Something vital. He called for help, hoping one of his countrymen would hear him. It was stupid to call out—the enemy could come just as easily as an ally, and he had those documents. Not that he cared about them anymore. There was something else.

He called out again, knowing he shouldn't but desperate now, his state verging on hysteria. The eyes of the corpses were looking at him, staring at him. “Don't look at me!” he yelled.

And that was when they opened their mouths, their yawning black mouths. “Fitzhugh,” they chanted. “Fitzhugh.” The gaping mouths mocked him. “Warrick!”

“No!” He shot straight up, clawing at the air around him, trying to free himself of the bodies and the dream. “No!”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

It wasn't the voice of a dead soldier. It was the low voice of a woman. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and tried to focus. Fallon.

“I heard you calling out. I kept thinking one of your servants would come, but no one did. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Fallon,” he croaked, sitting. Damn! How could he have allowed himself to sleep?

“I knocked.” She indicated the open door. “But you didn't answer, and then I heard you yelling, ‘Don't look at me.' I was afraid someone had attacked you.”

“I'm not upset,” he said, understanding immediately what had happened. “Thank you for coming. I'm fine.”

“You're covered in perspiration and white as a sheet. I can see that even in this dim light.” She gestured to the candle she'd brought with her. “You're not fine.”

He ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed his eyes. The nightmare was fading but not quite fast enough. He could still feel the terror and the hands of the corpses pulling at him. “It was a nightmare. Nothing more.”

“It sounded like a very serious nightmare. It woke me from a sound sleep.”

He envied her that. He could not remember the last time he'd slept soundly. He raised his brows when she sat on the bed beside him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.” He stood. He was still wearing his trousers, but he found his discarded shirt on the floor. He slipped it over his head, leaving it open at the throat.

Fallon rose as well. “I see. I'll go back to my room then.”

He'd hurt her feelings. Damn it! He wasn't in the state of mind to deal with her—or anyone. He was still shaking, his mind sluggish and reluctant to return to reality. He couldn't think about etiquette right now. “Fallon,” he said, making an attempt anyway.

She paused.

“It's not that I don't appreciate your concern, but I don't want to speak of it. To anyone.” And especially not to her. It was his pain, his private torment. He didn't want to inflict it on others.

“I understand.” She nodded and turned to go again. “But, if I may inquire, why didn't your valet or another one of your servants come? I'm certain you roused the entire house.”

He blew out a breath. “I suppose they are used to it,” he said.

“Used to it? Used to you calling out at night? You scared me half to death.”

“I frequently have nightmares. My servants are accustomed to the interruption and do not trouble me.”

She blinked at him. “You have nightmares like that often? Why?”

“I told you—”

She raised a hand. “Of course. You don't wish to speak of it. It's fine for me to tell you my most intimate secrets, but you are not expected to reciprocate and let me in.”

“Fallon—”

“It's late, and I'm tired. I have
troubled
you more than enough. Good night.”

Warrick swore when she closed the door. This was not how he had hoped things would go if he ever managed to find her in his room. He thought about going after her, but he was in no state to smooth over roughened feelings. His own were too raw at the moment.

He looked at his bed, the Gothic-style canopy an unlikely enemy, and sat at his desk to work.

His mother always told him everything looked better in the morning. Warrick thought that one of her more sensible sayings, but it didn't prove true at breakfast. Fallon looked exquisite. She wore a simple day dress in white and rose with a gauze fichu tucked in the bodice. Warrick couldn't help but notice it was a low bodice, and it seemed to him the gauze only served to tantalize, not conceal. Obviously the clothing she had sent for had been delivered, and—he studied her elaborate upsweep—perhaps her lady's maid had come with it. Fallon looked fresh and pretty in his bright dining room and gave no indication she remembered anything of the night before.

She gave no indication she saw him at all.

She didn't acknowledge him when he walked in and didn't return his greeting. So his punishment was silence. Well, he knew how to deal with silence. He went to the sideboard and filled his plate. He didn't look at what he chose. He wasn't hungry and couldn't care less what he ate. He was considering his options. When he was younger, and far more naïve, he thought it a blessing when his mother or one of his sisters treated him to silence. But experience had taught him that accepting the silence was never a good idea. Unlike men, women really wanted to say what was on their minds. And if they didn't get it out, they'd explode or retaliate in other ways.

He set his plate on the table, nodded to the footman who poured him tea, and studied Fallon. He would pick a fight. That would do very well with her argumentative temperament.

“Thank you, George,” he said to the footman. “That will be all.”

Fallon watched George go, and Warrick could all but see her plotting how to make her own exit.
Don't be in such a hurry
, he thought as he opened the
Times
. “You'll stay here while I make the rendezvous at The Merry Widow tonight,” he said, not looking at her.

Silence. She was debating. She wanted to speak but remembered that she wasn't speaking to him. He turned the page.

“Stay here?”

He smiled, gaze on the paper. “Of course. It's far too dangerous for you to come along.”

“Too dangerous? You've dragged me to meet every other denizen of hell. If my father is alive, I want to see him.”

Warrick perused the paper and leisurely turned another page. “I don't think that's wise.”

The paper flew from before him, and he looked up to see Fallon with hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “I don't care what
you
think. I can do as I like, and I'm not staying here.”

“Fine.”

“And don't tell me—fine?”

“Yes.” He rose. “Fine. But you'll stay in Daisy's office. You can see the drawing room from her spy hole. I don't want to expose you to your father unless I have to.”

“He'll want to see me.”

“We don't always get what we want.”

She shook her head. “So I'm to be some sort of bargaining chip.”

He didn't argue. This was the reason he'd recruited her. He wished to God he hadn't, but there was no room for regrets now. It wasn't just his own life he was saving. He needed to know who Bayley was working for.

Fallon was shaking her head at him. “You really aren't a gentleman at all, are you?”

He couldn't say why the barb stung. He'd done things no gentleman of the
ton
would ever do, acted in ways even someone of the lower class might find distasteful. He did not particularly care if he was considered a gentleman or not.

So why was he suddenly infused with rage? Was it because he heard the echo of his father's words in Fallon's?

“I'm a soldier,” he said through clenched jaw. “My duty is to my country, not Society.”

“I would think protecting the weak a universal trait, not simply one of Society.”

He laughed. “You, weak? Darling, I wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley. I'm not at all certain I would come away unscathed.”

“And now you insult me!”

He almost laughed again. She really was incensed. “That's no insult. I admire a strong, fearless woman.” He leaned close. “Especially in bed.”

“Don't flatter me. It won't lure me into your bed.”

“Then perhaps this will.” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. She resisted, but he'd taken her off guard and her surprise was enough to give him the upper hand. He pulled her close, lowered his mouth to hers, and claimed it.

She tried to speak, to protest, to curse him or worse, but he was merciless. He slanted his mouth over hers, taking her with a wildness and abandon he had almost forgotten he possessed. Slowly, she stopped pounding his chest with her hands, stopped trying to pull away, and sank into him. Her body melted against his, her heavy breasts warm against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and her sweet mouth opened for him.