Once She Was Tempted (31 page)

“Shall I stay with you?”

Daphne shook her head. She needed a moment to herself—a chance to think.

Olivia hesitated. “Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.” Daphne forced a smile. “Go, find the trim to match James’s eyes.”

A dreamy look stole over Olivia’s face. “They’re the color of moss. But with flecks of gold. Very well, I’ll see you inside. Don’t linger too long.”

“I won’t.” Daphne stood close to the stone front of the shop, in the shade of the building, and inhaled deeply. For days she’d been tortured by thoughts of what Hallows might do with the painting.

Now she knew.

She was surprised that he hadn’t revealed her name. But perhaps he thought the portrait would bring a higher price if there was an air of mystery around it. She hadn’t honestly thought Hallows intelligent enough to concoct such a clever scheme, but then, both times that she’d met him he’d been rather inebriated.

Strange as it seemed, there was some comfort in knowing what her fate would be. The painting would be publicly revealed. Mama would be humiliated and utterly aghast at Daphne’s wanton behavior. Anabelle would be saddened and disappointed. Daphne would be forever shunned by polite society, and her dream of belonging to that shining, glittering world would be dashed to bits. It was all but done.

“Daphne.” She felt Ben’s deep voice like a breath over her skin. He stood before her, looking as surprised as she. And more handsome than any man had a right to be. “How are you?”

“Very well,” she lied. “How is your leg?”

“I cannot complain.” The weary look on his face said he was lying, too. He glanced quickly behind him and in a lower voice asked, “You’ve heard about the Foley ball?”

Daphne swallowed, determined to be brave. “Miss Starling was kind enough to inform me just now.”

Ben made a face like he’d drunk curdled milk, and Daphne adored him for it. “I’m going to try to stop the auction.”

“Please, don’t do anything that could land you in Old Bailey or the Tower. I’m afraid there’s little we can do. Hallows is angry with both of us. He’s intent on destroying me, and he has the portrait, which is all the ammunition he needs.”

“Don’t give up, Daph.”

Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. What a fine thing for him to say.
He
was the one who’d given up. He’d given up on them. “Olivia is inside. I need to go.”

“I’m sorry that everything got so complicated and messy.”

“But that’s the way life is. You taught me that, remember?”

“I remember.”

She wiped her eyes and prepared to go inside, then halted. “Thank you for the books.”

He shot her a puzzled look.

“Caro told me. Nothing goes on in that orphanage that she doesn’t know about. That was a very kind thing to do.”

He used the foot of his cane to push a pebble back and forth in front of his boots. “The little urchins need something productive to do. To keep them out of trouble.”

“I think it’s very nice that you care about them.”

He opened his mouth as though he’d deny it, then clamped his lips shut.

Well. If he could change, so could she. “I’ll be at the Foley ball.”

His gaze snapped up and locked with hers. “Daphne, people can be incredibly cruel. If you think Miss Starling is bad—”

“I’ll be there,” she repeated. “And I hope you will be, too.”

B
en might not be a sleuth, but he had a good idea where to find Hallows that night—a gambling hell. The question was, which one?

He wasn’t at the hell on Pickering Place or the one on Cleveland Row. But the third one—on Bennett Street—was the charm.

Ben had pressed Averill into service. Naturally, Averill had been curious as to why Ben was so determined to find the infamous painting, so Ben told him the truth: the portrait was of a woman he cared about, and he needed to intercept it before the Foley ball.

Averill’s eyebrows had shot up, but he hadn’t asked Ben to reveal the identity of the woman—that was the kind of friend he was.

He was also the perfect person to assist with this mission:
the rare type of man who could blend in anywhere, as much at ease in a rough tavern near the docks as in the finest drawing rooms. This particular gambling establishment, with its marbled fireplace, ornate paneling, and rich carpet, gave the impression of elegance, but beneath the façade lay desperation and deceit.

Ben and Averill walked through the dimly lit parlor and found two vacant chairs at a table where players bet on the roll of the dice. After a few games, Ben was fairly certain the dice were loaded. He placed a wager, lost, and bet again. All the while, he scanned the room for Hallows’s large blocklike head and beefy neck. As he was on the verge of telling Averill it was time to try another house, Hallows sauntered in. A couple of rough-looking men hunkered at his sides.

He had the confident swagger of a man who’d had a few drinks, but not so many that he was stumbling. Ben stayed out of his line of sight. If Hallows recognized him, he’d either run out of the building or beat Ben to a bloody pulp. Neither suited his purposes. He needed information.

Averill might be able to wheedle something out of him, but Hallows had met him briefly at the picnic. If Hallows remembered him, his guard would be up.

An overly rouged woman sidled up beside Ben and laid her bare hand on his shoulder. “Care for a drink? Or something else? She thrust her breasts forward, and they jiggled precariously above her tightly laced corset.

Ben weighed his options. The waitress was young, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent. “See the large man with blond hair who just sat at the faro table?”

“With the bruises around his eyes?”

Ben smiled. “The remnants of a broken nose. If you can get him talking, I’ll match your monthly wage.”

“What do you want him to talk about?”

“Gambling. Money. His assets.”

“That’s it?” She looked disappointed at the utter lack of challenge.

“Find out where in town he’s staying.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult.” She pushed the sleeves of her blouse off her shoulders and adjusted her breasts so that they showed to their best advantage.

“I’m going to hang back and listen.” Ben twirled his cane beneath the table, debating how much to tell her. He took in her businesslike demeanor and determined expression and decided she was nothing if not enterprising. “There’s one more thing. He has a portrait of a young woman. I want to know where it is—but it’s going to take a subtle approach. If he suspects you’re fishing for information, you won’t get anything out of him.”

She raised a painted-on brow. “A portrait? It would be easier to find out the color of his drawers.”

“If you get him to reveal the location of the painting, I’ll triple your wage.”

She glared at Hallows as if measuring him up. “Consider it done.” She walked toward him, her hips swaying like a boat gliding over waves.

Beside Ben, Averill chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for Hallows.”

Ben snorted. “Follow me. I want a good seat for this show.”

They found a couple of chairs with a decent vantage point and positioned themselves so that Hallows couldn’t see them. They listened as the young waitress presented him with a glass of whiskey. On the house.

She bided her time, perching herself on the arm of Hallows’s chair, draping herself over his shoulder, and occasionally whispering in his ear. He gradually became less interested in faro and more interested in the woman.

Nodding toward the high stakes in the center of the table, she said, “Your pockets must be stuffed if you can play that deep.”

“My pockets will be stuffed soon enough.”

She sniffed, apparently unimpressed. “So, you’re like all the other young gents who come in here, thinking they’ll make a small fortune off of cards. I’ll let you in on a little secret—it don’t work that way.”

Hallows scoffed. “I don’t need winnings. I’ve got something more valuable than all the stakes in this place.”

“No offense, milord, but I seriously doubt that. That gent in the corner just wagered his Thoroughbred.”

“I’ve got a painting—a bloody work of art, it is.”

“Is that so?” She examined her fingernails as though unimpressed. “What’s so special about it?”

“It’s a portrait of a lady. But she ain’t acting like one, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. Showing her wares, is she? So you’re going to blackmail her?”

“Not exactly. I’m going to auction it off. I’ll be rich, and she’ll be ruined.”

Ben fisted his hand around the top of his cane. Averill placed a firm hand on his arm, warning him to keep a level head.

“Is she pretty?” The waitress wound a curl around her index finger.

Hallows snorted. “Beautiful.”

“What have you got against her?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I can’t help it if I’m curious.” She snaked an arm around Hallows’s neck and removed imaginary specks of dust from his jacket. “I’d love to see it.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Maybe
I
could pose for a painting someday. Would you show it to me?” She flicked her tongue at Hallows’s ear, and Ben decided right then and there that he was tripling her wages, no matter what. Licking Hallows went above and beyond the call of duty.

Hallows pulled her onto his lap. “Impossible.”

The waitress pouted. “I thought it was your painting.”

“It is, you little hoyden, but it’s not in my possession.”

She narrowed her eyes as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Why not?”

“For one thing, it’s too large to carry with me.”

“Then we’ll go to your flat,” she cooed.

“The idea has promise.” Hallows was practically drooling. “But the portrait is not there either.”

“Oh.” She sat up stiffly, as though miffed. “I can see you are toying with me.”

He yanked her closer, and Ben’s hackles rose. Hallows better not cross the line.

“I don’t play games,” he said through clenched teeth. “The painting is in a shop.”

A shop?
Ben tried to block out the sound of the conversations around him and leaned closer, intent on hearing every word.

“You’re selling it?” the waitress asked.

“You’re a bit dim-witted, aren’t you? I’ve already explained I mean to auction it.” Hallows spoke insultingly slowly. “It’s in the shop getting a new frame. Costing me
a small fortune, too—I went with the best in town. Mr. Leemore says the right frame can help a painting fetch a much higher price. He’d better be right—or he ain’t getting paid.” Hallows guffawed at the not-so-subtle irony.

Ben looked at Averill, who nodded. They had what they needed. Now they just had to extricate the waitress from Hallows’s sweaty paws. Ben relished the challenge.

The woman glanced over at him and he inclined his head toward the back room.

“My boss is signaling for me. Let me see what he wants and tell him I’m leaving early tonight.”

Hallows didn’t release her at first. But then he hoisted her off his lap, pinching her bottom as she tried to catch her balance. Charming.

Averill casually followed the waitress as she weaved her way through the crowd, carrying in his pocket a handful of coins that Ben had counted out as payment.

He bided his time, waiting until Hallows became agitated, craning his thick neck and cracking his knuckles. Then Ben walked directly up to him.

“How’s your luck tonight, Hallows?”

At the sound of his name, he turned. So did the thugs on either side of him. Just imagining what that rough-looking trio might do to him made Ben’s leg ache.

“Foxburn,” Hallows growled. He stood and puffed out his chest. To his friends—if the thugs could properly be labeled as such—he said, “This is the bloke who broke my nose.”

They stood, too, forming a wall of solid muscle and low intelligence.

“I must admit it’s looking better than when last I saw
you.” Ben squinted. “Although, it does bend awkwardly to the right.”

“Damn you, Foxburn.”

Ben shrugged. “Don’t fret. It’s hardly noticeable with all the bruising.”

Hallows fisted his hand. “Funny you should mention bruising.”

A small circle of spectators had formed around them. Witnesses were good. Hallows would be less likely to commit murder.

“I didn’t expect to see you here in town. Well, not outside of debtor’s prison.”

“I’m paying off my vowels soon. Of course, I’ll have to part with the painting of your mistress.”

“Watch yourself,” Ben warned.

“It pains me to say good-bye to her. She’s got those ripe breasts and an ass that you just want to squeeze. Many a time I’ve jacked off—”

Bam
. Ben slammed his fist into Hallows’s nose. Again. Blood splattered. Shouts went up all around him and before Ben knew what was happening, Averill grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the hell.

“Let’s go!”

Averill continued to drag Ben toward his coach, which was parked around the corner, but the thugs were in pursuit and his leg was about to buckle. He drew up short, and when Averill looked at him questioningly, Ben said, “I’ll take Eyebrow.”

“Right. Square Chin is mine.”

The words were barely out of Averill’s mouth when the men were upon them, fists flying through the air. Ben dropped his cane and ducked below a punch, letting his
left leg bear most of his weight. Eyebrow backed up three steps and lowered his shoulder as if he meant to charge and barrel Ben over. He stepped to the left and jabbed his attacker in the stomach. He moaned and leaned over, hands on his knees. Ben could tell the moment Eyebrow spotted the cane on the sidewalk but couldn’t beat him to it. The brute snatched it up and tossed it from palm to palm, an evil look in his eyes as he circled Ben.

Behind him, Ben heard Averill scrapping with his opponent. Excellent pugilist that Averill was, he could have knocked him out cold at any time. But what was the fun in that?