No Place for a Lady (11 page)

She was pushed to one side, pressed against the back wall. She did not object, taking the time instead to survey her surroundings. The room was typical for one of these affairs: The rich and the titled squeezed into the tiniest spaces, all vying to show themselves better than everyone else. Young misses flirted with abandon while the gentlemen tried to prove their manhood by wagering staggering sums of money on nonsense. It was really quite boring and more than a little sad.

So why did she so long to be among them?

The thought came as no surprise to her, much as she hated it. She had had such illogical, traitorous desires all her life. She blamed these on her mother, who had spent her short life trying to climb from one exalted bedroom to another. In the end, Gabrielle Delarive had died of the pox, alone except for Fantine, ugly, and afraid.

Definitely not the life Fantine wanted. So she wrinkled her nose in disgust even though the thought of putting on a golden gown and dancing until dawn made her knees go weak with a mute hunger.

She was a fool.

Stiffening her spine, Fantine pushed around the edge of the room, heading for the library. She would begin her search there. Men always hid the most damning evidence in the most obvious place, right where any good lock-pick could find it.

She was only halfway there when she saw him.

Chadwick.

Not ten feet beyond her, clear as a streak of sunlight in the rookeries and even more compelling. Dressed all in black, except for the white swath of his shirt, he shined in this crowd of overblown beauties and effeminate dandies.

He took her breath away.

Not because he was handsome. She already knew that.

But because he was here undoubtedly doing exactly what he had sworn not to do—investigating Lord Harris. Good Lord, she had just accustomed herself to working without him again, and yet here he was. True, they had only been together that one evening, but that time had left a permanent mark on her memory.

It had taken all week to stop thinking of him. And now that she had finally locked him out of her thoughts, here he was again, upsetting her composure.

She stood there nearly shaking with the need to scream her frustration at him. Impossible, of course. Still, the idea of leaving him free to interfere whenever he wished made her clench her fists. There had to be something she could do.

Then Chadwick bowed over the bejeweled hand of a statuesque blonde and her anger at last found a plan. She was one of the best pickpockets alive. It would take less than a moment to steal a signet ring here, a diamond bracelet there. The guests were too busy sniping at one another to notice if some tiny piece of adornment disappeared.

She could place a few items in his greatcoat and a few more on his person. She still had his pocket watch hidden beneath her shirt. She could attach most of the items on the chain and then plant it on him. Marcus would never know what had happened until it was too late.

Sometimes, she thought, life could be very, very good.

* * *

Marcus let his gaze travel over the various members of the political and social elite, first catching one person's eye, then another as he struggled to stifle a yawn. Whatever had induced him to come to this ridiculous affair?

He did not have to think twice to find the answer. It appeared before him in the form of a mental image, a picture of a dark elfin face with bright, mischievous eyes.

Fantine.

She wouldn't thank him for his help, but when he had received his invitation to Lord Harris's ball, he could not force himself to refuse. It had been a week since he'd left Penworthy's home with Wilberforce on his arm. A week of toying with his speech and staring out the window. A week of feeling at loose ends with nothing to occupy his time except memories of the oddest, most compelling woman he had ever met.

He imagined her at his breakfast table every morning, commenting delightfully on the morning's news. He pictured her in his bed every night, sliding her sensuous body along his. And during the day, he saw her in strangers and servants.

He was a man who relished a well-ordered life, and so Fantine ought to fill him with dread. Instead, he delighted himself by picturing Bentley's reaction to her sudden appearance on the doorstep. The poor man would be stupefied.

The thought was actually somewhat titillating.

So, he had come to Lord Harris's ball, hoping to stumble across something useful, thereby requiring him to seek her out to deliver the information. It did not hurt that he expected to find evidence of Harris's guilt. The memory of her scoffing at his suspicions still burned.

With that thought in place, he edged his way toward the library. He didn't notice the maid until he sauntered into the main hallway. Her hair was hidden beneath a tight cap, but the girl's size and form were familiar, and most especially, the walk. Who else wiggled just that way except Fantine? His blood heated at the possibility of seeing her so soon, but then he quickly dismissed it. He had been imagining Fantine everywhere from his own breakfast table to Hyde Park. Why not Harris's ball?

Still, the body seemed so familiar....

Changing directions, he followed her as she ducked into the cloakroom. Waiting in the shadows just beyond, he heard muted voices, then a low giggle.

A rendezvous. Which meant she couldn't be Fantine.

Marcus squelched his disappointment and turned back down the hallway. But before he could move beyond the tiny alcove, the serving maid left the cloakroom, a chocolate in one hand and a glass of champagne raised to her lips in the other.

So that was what the laughter was about, he guessed. A maid sampling the host's expensive dessert fare. Then, at the exact moment she passed in front of his hiding place, she lowered her glass. He finally got a clear look at her face.

It was Fantine! Probably investigating Lord Harris.

He glanced nervously around. Fortunately, the hall remained empty, but it was still not the time to perform a clandestine operation. Half the ton were here! She did not have the protection that invitation and his title gave him. If she was caught, nothing would prevent the full weight of the law from crashing down on her beautiful head.

He watched her move gracefully down the corridor before slipping quietly into the dark library. He followed her without a second thought, closing the door behind him.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

She spun around, her eyes wide with surprise, her body clearly outlined by the moonlight. But true to her quick wits, she straightened her shoulders and spoke with that grating cockney tone. "Auw, look wot the cat dragged in."

"Stop that!" he snapped, unsure why he was so angry except that the memory of her husky giggle in the cloakroom stood prominent in his memory. "You can speak like a lady, why do you insist on that backstreet caterwauling?"

"'Cause it makes ye mad, ducky," she said as she crossed behind Harris's desk. "It just burns in yer gut that ye had to work wi' the loikes of me—a thief an' a back-street whore."

"Ah," he said, adopting a casualness he did not feel. "Is that what you are?"

She frowned slightly as she maneuvered her lock-pick. "Wot, ducky?"

"A thief and a whore." He had no idea why he was asking, except that he had a desperate need to resolve at least one question about her.

"Oi ams what Oi ams," she responded glibly.

Marcus could only stare at her. She brushed him off as if he were of no account when he had spent the last week imagining her, thinking of her, even dreaming of her.

Suddenly his anger got the better of him. Stepping forward, he grabbed her wrist, pulling it up until she was forced to look at him. "What are you, Fantine? Actress? Whore? Thief?"

She glared at him, hatred clear in her beautiful eyes. "Go play wi' someone else, guv. I be busy jes now."

Rage burned within him. He knew his reaction was completely out of proportion, but that did not seem to matter. No one had ever toyed with him, dismissed him, infuriated him as much as she did. The feelings were as exciting as they were maddening, and he could not decide whether to kiss or throttle her. In the end, she took the choice away from him.

"Why are you here?" she asked, her voice as cultured as it was cold.

"I am making sure your pretty neck does not get stretched for thieving."

"My neck is quite safe as long as you stop bellowing." Then she twisted out of his grip and returned to Harris's desk.

He settled his fists onto his hips. "You cannot seriously expect to investigate his desk now," he said softly. "Anyone could walk in. The house is filled to the rafters with people."

She did not glance up as she inserted a long thin wire into the lock. "When should I do it? When there are servants loitering about? Or when everyone, including the host and hostess, is occupied with the myriad guests?"

"Perhaps when the servants are on holiday—"'

"That will not happen until May."

"Or in the evening when the house is silent and asleep—"

"Noise is easier to cover now."

"Or rely on your friends to assist you. I have already furthered my acquaintance with Lord Harris. I could easily—"

She glanced up, her eyes steely and hard. "You are not my friend."

He paused, seeing again the seething hatred in her eyes and wondering at its origin. When had he offended her that deeply?

"I am not your enemy," he said softly.

Her only response was the quiet click of the desk lock as she finally released the catch. Pulling open the drawer, she gazed into the neat stacks of linen within.

"Ye're in me light, guv."

Glancing behind him, he saw that he was indeed blocking the moonlight. Stepping to one side, he lit a candle, placing it so that a stack of papers hid the light from anyone who happened to glance at the window from outside. Then he crossed to her side, his gaze drawn to the sight of her small, delicate hands rifling Harris's papers.

"Are you looking for anything specific?"

She glanced irritably at him. "You said you would leave this matter to me."

"And I have," he countered. "I merely wish to be of assistance."

"I do not need your help."

"You have it nonetheless."

She twisted away from him, pulling open another drawer and lifting out a large leather volume. "I do not want your help," she bit out through clenched teeth.

"Really?" he asked casually, as he reached for the open volume. "Can you decipher this?" He ran his hand down the neat rows of accounts, frowning as his attention followed the path of his fingers.

"Is it significant?"

He heard the note of uncertainty in her voice and nearly crowed out loud. "Do you admit that you need my help?"

He watched her closely, seeing the moonlight trace her lashes and illuminate the turmoil in her bronze eyes. What a difficult choice this must be for her: remain staunchly independent and lose a potentially significant clue or admit weakness and further her investigation. He could almost feel sympathy for her plight, but he was too interested in which direction she would choose.

In the end, her integrity won out. "Yes, I admit it. Now what does this mean?"

He quickly paged through the accounts, pointing out the relevant notations. "See all these companies and the money Harris has invested in them? It shows exactly what I knew originally. Lord Harris was deeply steeped in the slave trade."

"Was?" she asked softly.

Marcus grimaced. Trust Fantine to catch the most significant part of his explanation. "Yes," he said, even though it disproved his own theory. "He has been pulling his money away from those investments and putting them in more sound companies."

"Companies not threatened by Wilberforce's bill?"

"Yes."

"Which means he has no reason to kill Wilberforce."

Marcus nodded grimly. "This is why his objections to the bill have stopped. He merely wished to delay its passage until he could shift his money around. Now—"

"Now he can afford to embrace Wilberforce's Christian charity."

Marcus caught the hard note of cynicism in her voice and could not disagree with it. "So now our only lead is a man with three gold teeth."

She nodded grimly, and in that moment of silence came the sound of a female giggle. A woman was in the hallway and coming closer.

Marcus did not spare time to think. He immediately doused the candle. Beside him, Fantine was equally swift as she silently shoved the ledger back into its place. They had no idea if the woman intended to enter the library, but they had no wish to take the chance of being caught.

"We must leave," he whispered urgently.

She shook her head. "I have to lock the desk." Her hands were remarkably steady as she worked the lock-pick. Then the unknown woman's giggle was joined by the low tones of a man.

Marcus could have groaned out loud. This was exactly why he had not wanted Fantine to search during a rout. All too frequently, a couple would sneak off somewhere private. Some quiet place like the library.