Lorelie Brown (15 page)

Her hand looped over his forearm, and he squeezed his fingers over hers. She was firmly held between determination and lean strength. “Mr. Thomas. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ian said.

Fletcher flicked a look up at his wife, who gave a tiny nod. Sera wielded a quiet power over him that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with the reassurances given and taken in turn. “Same here, I’m quite sure.” He held out a hand, which Ian took with a brief shake. “I understand you’re on the lookout for a paper.”

“More, a woman.”

Sera gave a teeny, sprite-like smile. “You have a woman at your side.”

Ian chuckled. The sound wove through Lottie’s body with soft promise. She pushed temptation down, away. Not the time for it.

If she looked too closely, she might have to admit how much she liked being at his side.

Ian had moved on anyway. His gaze focused on Fletcher. “But have I heard of you before? Your name sounds rather familiar.”

Fletcher relaxed into his chair. His good humor melted into something more smug. “It’s possible. My interests are many.”

Lottie laughed. “How droll he is when he wishes to be. Fletcher is one of the largest crime bosses in London at the moment. If Patricia has any intention to indulge in her gambling hobby, she’ll come into contact with Fletcher’s people.”

Ian’s eyebrows flew up. His body tensed, and he looked from Lottie to Fletcher and back again. “You’re friends with an underworld criminal?”

“Of course I am,” she said on a smile. Oh, how she liked discombobulating him. “Doesn’t everyone have a favorite criminal?”

“No,” he said, feeling rather like the prude and country bumpkin she’d teased him about being. “Most people never come into contact with criminals, not on a regular basis.”

Mr. Thomas chuckled roundly, and his petite wife smiled. “Well, now,” he said, “I’m not quite as sure about that as you are. I’m of the opinion that you come into contact with criminals nearly daily.”

Sera curled a hand over her husband’s brawny shoulder. They looked about as mismatched as possible. Fletcher Thomas was a brute, with roughly hewn features and cutting ice-blue eyes. His wife was short and curvy. In her features dwelled calm serenity Ian wouldn’t have guessed from a criminal’s wife.

Sera smiled at Fletcher before speaking. “It’s only the thieves and riffraff you meet simply aren’t quite so open about their activities.”

“While I see no reason to hide anyone’s drinks or gambling. Everyone finds what they’re looking for. I candidly afford them the opportunity.” Fletcher pushed out of his chair and ambled to a sideboard filled with crystal decanters and squat tumblers. He poured a generous helping of liquor into a glittering glass. “Doesn’t seem like horrible criminality to me. Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you.” The whiskey burned Ian’s throat like fire. “Is there a plan in place for finding the chit?”

Lottie scooped the glass out of his hand, her fingers trailing over his like another touch of that fire. Except this one seared hotter. “Fletcher’s men are watching for her, but they don’t know her like you and I do. We’re going out to the main area to observe.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Fletcher saluted with his glass. “You’re welcome to sit with me and my wife at my usual table. Or you can gamble if you wish.”

Ian lifted a single eyebrow. “How kind of you.”

The other man gave a charming shrug. “It was worth an attempt. And really, I’ll spot you the first few quid.”

“How generous.”

Lottie waved the tumbler of whiskey, which Ian suddenly realized she’d almost fully downed. A whiskey-drinking lady. His mind rather flipped. “We’ll sit in the royal booth, thank you very much,” Lottie said with cheeky assurance.

“Royal booth?” Ian echoed.

“Lovely,” Sera said. Her smile barely curved, but her eyes warmed with true pleasure. “This will be fun.”

Thirty minutes later, Ian was rather surprised to find out that was true. Sera had insisted they drink champagne, a very good bottle she admitted came from Fletcher’s personal selection rather than what was sold to the regular hoi polloi filling the gambling tables.

Indeed, they hadn’t sat among most of the attendees. The seating Lottie called the royal booth was on the second level, abutting the balcony and looking out over the rest of the room. Beneath was a clear view of the gamblers and drinkers and girls working. The table itself was trimmed with gold and inlaid with mahogany stripes across. At the top of the stairs a bodyguard stood silent sentinel, but Ian was convinced by the one good look Ian had gotten of the man’s face.

The men Fletcher Thomas employed were not to be messed with.

When a man with a bartender’s apron approached, Lottie took the opportunity to lean toward Ian. “This is all rather exciting, is it not?”

If she hadn’t such a problem with being called insane, he’d have told her how very cracked she seemed. “You forget I’ve been to gambling houses before.”

She pushed her lips into a pout. “How very masculine of you. I’ve little opportunity to indulge. Never when feeling so safe as well.”

“Oh, goody,” he intoned. “You do realize the corridor behind us is lined with women of reduced means who take to their backs to fund their lives, yes?”

“I do. I’ve been able to convince several to begin classes at my school, but it’s rather surprising how many are either honestly pleased to stay where they are or are too frightened to change.” She cupped a shallow, wide glass of bubbling wine. “I’ll be back in two days to take another run at convincing them to flee Fletcher’s evil clutches.”

“I do wish you would,” Fletcher interjected. “Responsibility for them is drawing me attention in more circumspect company.”

Sera patted his arm. “Fletcher is going to be a railroad baron.”

Lottie lifted her champagne glass in Ian’s direction. “In the meantime, do try to appear as if you’re having a good time.”

“Are we being watched?” Ian sat too close to Lottie. The hint of her cleavage above her dress’s bodice enticed him. “Must I entertain the masses below?”

“No, for me. I tire of seeing such a sourpuss face,” she said before laughing. “You’d be surprised how far a little forced enthusiasm goes. In no time, you’ll feel it for real.”

If anything, he was enjoying himself. But the gambling hall wasn’t a novelty. What pleasure he felt came from hers in turn. Seeing her excitement was enough to light him up.

Until a scream echoed through the air behind him.

Lottie jumped. Champagne dribbled over her wrist. Ian was up before he had time to think it through. His chair crashed to the ground. Fletcher scrambled out of his own seat. The man at the top of the stairs started to follow, but Fletcher put up a hand. “Block any crowd.”

The scream echoed again, louder this time.

Coming from the second door on the right. The door was locked, the brass handle not moving an inch. “Do you care?” Ian asked Fletcher.

“By all means.” Fletcher backed up a step to give him room.

Leaning back, he kicked hard at the knob. Once, then again. The wood cracked, showing pale white unstained by smoke or time. The door gave up completely with a quiet creak.

Ian got only the briefest impression of a small room. In the corner, a tiny blonde cowered and covered her face. Blood dripped from behind her hands.

A ham-fisted man towered above her with his shirt off and suspenders drooped around ample hips. “You’ve got no right, cunt. None. I’ll beat that mouth off you if you say it again.”

She peeked out from behind her fingers. One eye was already swollen. Her bottom lip was split. She spat blood across the hardwood floor. “You’ve the willie of a four-year-old, and it’s not my bloody fault if you can’t fuck a woman.”

The john drew back his foot, roaring with fury. “Whore,” he snarled.

Ian launched. Damp, sweaty flesh and the bitter stench of pure cowardice filled his senses. Ian kicked, taking out the man’s ankles with the edge of a boot. A flurry of blows and punches flew from Ian’s fists. One punch struck the bastard in the throat. No reason to fight fair when the bloke obviously didn’t—for it was completely unbalanced to attack a half-dressed woman.

The man clutched at his throat, making a whistling, choking noise as his face turned red and purple. For good measure, Ian punched him powerfully enough that his chin snapped back. The man tottered. First left. Then right. He snatched a knife from his belt, only to try to run. Except he came face-to-face with Fletcher, slashing wildly. Fletcher punched him and sent him spinning back toward Ian. He ducked a wheeling knife swing and connected his fist with the bloke’s temples.

He fell.

“Bravo!” cheered a voice Ian should have expected. Lottie stood in the doorway with Sera at her side. Though she still held her glass of champagne, now half-empty, she tapped fingertips against her palm in applause. “Well done, sincerely. Have you spent time boxing?”

“Truly?” His blood pounded in his temples. His fists couldn’t unclench. All through him rushed wicked power and awareness of himself as male and Lottie as female. He wanted to take. And she wanted to play games. “You think violence worthy of accolades?”

She shrugged and flicked a glance toward Sera at her side. “When it’s for such a worthy cause. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Certainly.” Sera nodded. “I appreciate all champions of womanhood, no matter the form.”

Behind him, Fletcher had given the woman a robe and was roughly inspecting her face. “I think you’ve likely got a break along your cheekbone, Melody. It’ll be long to heal, at any rate.”

“A damn shame.” She held still in Fletcher’s grasp. “I won’t be able to give any of my specials until it’s less painful.”

“Hurts like a right son of a bitch, doesn’t it?” Fletcher asked.

“Language,” piped up Sera from the doorway. “You’ll slip at the Duchess’s ball. Again. We barely got invited back this time.”

“You heard my lady wife. Use more respectful language when discussing such woeful matters.” His mouth tweaked with a hint of humor. “Now, Melody. What happened to anger the bloke so?”

She shook her head, tucking the robe closer about her midsection. The silken lapels gaped open. Waving a hand through the air drew attention to her ample cleavage. “He called me mummy last time, and spent all his time admiring…
these
. I simply asked if he’d like to again, an innocent-enough question. Surely not worth getting my lip busted over.”

Ian’s head spun. Rough laughter shook him by the shoulders. He looked at Lottie, who lounged in the doorway sipping champagne as if she hadn’t a single care. “This is your world?”

“Part of it. Now do you see?”

He was beginning to understand, at the very least. Why all the truth-laced lies at society parties. Why she put up such fronts and falsities. Part of it had to do with her mother, yes. But in running so hard from her own mother, she’d found an entirely different world full of excitement and life. Her own recklessness didn’t seem half so dramatic in such surrounds.

He crossed the room toward her. They were probably entirely too close considering that people encircled them. He touched the back of her neck anyway, that long and lovely length.

“I think I might. I really do think I might.”

Chapter Twelve

Lottie hadn’t been the one fighting, yet she felt fully absorbed in the moment. Her blood pounded. Shocks zipped down her limbs and turned the back of her neck into a prickling mess. She was caught up in Ian’s energy. His gaze locked on hers, and Lottie couldn’t look away. Couldn’t hardly
breathe
. He was magnetism and power, and he was finally focused on her.

The other times she’d asked him for more touch, more contact, for him to do more to her…they faded. She hadn’t known, not really. Not like she did now, when her entire being was absorbed by him. She wanted him, from her toes to her eyes and everything between.

She would do scandalous, delicious things if given half a chance.

When Sera made an inarticulate noise, Lottie thought that she’d read her mind. The smaller woman clapped her hands over her mouth, then darted across to Fletcher. “Fletcher! You’ve been hurt.”

Fletcher looked down. A tiny rivulet of blood escaped his cuff and curled around his thumb. “Well, I’ll say. Can’t be too bad, I’m guessing.”

Sera had gone white. “Don’t you be a man about this.”

“Can’t help it. I am one and all.” He shucked off his suit coat. Sure enough, high on his arm was a slice. It didn’t look too bad, but Sera swayed.

“Oh, come. Come now.” She pulled him toward the doorway and into the hallway. “We’ll have to get that fixed immediately. I couldn’t stand it if you—”

“I’m not going anywhere, wren.” Fletcher smiled down at the top of Sera’s head, where she bent over the relatively minor injury. “But I’ll get stitched if you like.”

“I do like.” Worry colored Sera’s tone into something higher pitched and strained.

Sera and Fletcher whisked out of the room. Lottie had to step to the side of the doorway as other employees swarmed in. Two women surrounded the whore who’d been attacked, though she seemed well enough to be joking and teasing with them.