Authors: Lisa Kleypas
Although there was no sound behind her, a sixth sense caused her nerves to tingle. Sara whirled around. No one was there. Cautiously she straightened her spectacles and told herself that she was being foolish. Wandering further into the gallery, she looked closely at the sumptuous paintings. Like everything else in the club, they seemed to have been chosen for their ability to impress. A man like Mr. Craven would probably spend his life collecting valuable artwork, elaborate rooms, beautiful women…They were all earmarks of his achievement.
Slipping the notebook back into her reticule, Sara began to wander from the gallery. She thought of how she might describe the club and its fictional owner in her novel. Perhaps she would romanticize him just a bit.
Contrary to those who assumed he was completely without grace or virtue,
she might write,
he concealed a secret love of beauty and sought to possess it in its infinite forms, as if to atone for—
All at once a powerful grip compressed her arm, and the wall seemed to open in a blur before her eyes. She was pulled off her feet, dragged sideways, so quickly that all she could do was gasp in protest as the unseen force yanked her from the gallery into a place of stifling darkness…a secret door…a concealed corridor.
Hands steadied her, one wrapped around her wrist, one clamped her shoulder. Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to talk and could only make a fearful squeak. “Who…who…”
She heard a man’s voice, as soft as frayed velvet. Or rather, she
felt
his voice, the heat of his breath against her forehead. She began to tremble violently.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Mr. Craven,” she whispered shakily. “I-its very dark in here.”
“I like the dark.”
She fought to catch her breath. “Did you really f-find it necessary to give me such a start?”
“I didn’t plan to. You walked right by me. I couldn’t help myself.”
Sara’s fear gave way to indignation. He was not at all sorry he had frightened her…He had intended to. “You’ve been following me,” she accused. “You’ve been watching me all morning.”
“I said last night I didn’t want you here.”
“Mr. Worthy said it was all right—”
“
I
own the club, not Worthy.”
Sara was tempted to tell him how ungrateful he was, after what she had done for him last night. But she didn’t think it wise to argue with him while she was trapped here. She began to inch backward, toward the crack of light where the secret door had been left ajar. “You’re right,” she said in a subdued voice. “You’re absolutely right. I-I believe I’ll go now.”
But he didn’t release his grip on her, and she was forced to stand still. “Tell me what made you decide to write about gambling.”
Blinking in the darkness, Sara tried to gather her wits. “Well…there was a boy in my village. A very
nice, intelligent boy, who came into a small inheritance. It would have been enough to keep him comfortable for many years. But he decided to try and increase his wealth, not by honest means, but by gambling. He lost it all in one night. At your club, Mr. Craven.”
He shrugged indifferently. “Happens all the time.”
“But it wasn’t enough for him,” Sara said. “He continued to gamble, certain that with each roll of the dice he would regain what he had lost. He gambled away his home, his horses and possessions, what was left of his money…He became the disgrace of Greenwood Corners. It made me wonder what had driven him to such behavior. I asked him about it, and he said he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was reduced to tears as he told me that after he had lost everything at Craven’s, he sold his boots to someone on the street and played cards barefoot at a local gaming hell. Naturally this made me wonder about the other lives that have been ruined by cards and dice. The fortunes that are lost nightly at the hazard table could be used for much nobler purposes than lining your pockets.”
She sensed his sardonic smile. “I agree, Miss Fielding. But one piddling book won’t stop anyone from gambling. Anything you write will only make them do it more.”
“That’s not true,” she said stiffly.
“Did
Mathilda
stop anyone from visiting whores?”
“I believe it made the public regard prostitutes in a more sympathetic light—”
“Whores will always spread their legs for a price,” he said evenly, “and people will always put their money on a bet. Publish your book about gambling, and see
how much good it does. See if it keeps anyone on the straight-and-narrow. I’d sooner expect a dead man to fart.”
Sara flushed. “Doesn’t it ever bother you to see the broken men walking from your club, with no money, no hope, no future? Don’t you feel responsible in any way?”
“They’re not brought in at gunpoint. They come to Craven’s to gamble. I give them what they want. And I make a fortune from it. If I didn’t, someone else would.”
“That is the most selfish, callous statement I’ve ever heard—”
“I was born in the rookery, Miss Fielding. Abandoned in the street, raised by whores, nursed on milk and gin. Those scrawny little bastards you’ve seen, the pickpockets and beggars and palmers…I was one of them. I saw fine carriages rattling down the street. I stared through tavern windows at all the fat old gentlemen eating and drinking until their bellies were full. I realized there was a world outside the rookery. I swore I’d do anything—
anything
—to get my share of it. That’s all I’ve ever cared about.” He laughed softly. “And you think I should give a damn about some young fop in satin breeches throwing his money away at my club?”
Sara’s heart hammered wildly. She had never been alone in the dark with a man. She wanted to escape—every instinct warned that she was in danger. But deeper still, there was a spark of unthinkable fascination…as if she were poised at the doorway of a forbidden world. “In my opinion,” she said, “you use your poor beginnings as a convenient excuse to…to discard all the ethics the rest of us must live by.”
“Ethics,” he sneered. “I couldn’t name one man, rich or poor, who wouldn’t discard them for the right price.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said steadily.
Derek fell silent. He was acutely aware of the small woman so close to him, buttoned and ruffled, cocooned in high-neck propriety. She smelled like starch and soap, like all the other spinsters he’d had the misfortune to meet…the governesses of his patrons’ aristocratic sons, and the maiden aunts who chaperoned untouchable young ladies, and the bluestockings who preferred a book in their hands to a man in their beds. “On the shelf” was what such women were called—objects that had lost their freshness and were stored away until they might serve some convenient purpose.
But there was a difference between her and the rest. She had shot a man last night. For him. His brows pulled together until his wound ached.
“I would like to leave now,” she said.
“Not yet.”
“Mr. Worthy will be looking for me.”
“I’m not finished talking with you.”
“Must it be here?”
“It’ll be anywhere I decide. I have something you want, Miss Fielding—permission to visit my club. What will you offer in return?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“I never give something for nothing.”
“What do you want me to offer?”
“You’re a writer, Miss Fielding,” he jeered. “Use your imagination.”
Sara bit her lip and considered the situation carefully. “If you truly believe the statement you made earlier,”
she said slowly, “that the publication of my novel would serve to increase your profits…then it would be in your interest to allow me to do my research here. If your theory holds true, you stand to gain some money from my book.”
His white teeth flashed in a grin. “I like the sound of that.”
“Then…I have your permission to visit the club?”
He let a long moment pass before he answered. “All right.”
Sara felt a rush of relief. “Thank you. As source material, you and your club are peerless. I promise I will try not to be an annoyance.”
“You
won’t
be an annoyance,” he corrected. “Or you’ll leave.”
They were both startled as the secret door swung wide open. Worthy stood there, gazing inside the corridor. “Mr. Craven? I didn’t expect you to be up and about so soon.”
“Apparently not,” Derek said darkly, his hands dropping from Sara. “Showing the place without asking my permission? You’re bloody certain of yourself these days, Worthy.”
“It was my fault,” Sara said, trying to protect the factotum. “I-I
insisted
on having my way. The blame is all mine.”
Derek’s mouth twisted. “No one can make Worthy do anything he doesn’t want to do, mouse. No one except me.”
At the sound of Sara’s voice, Worthy looked anxiously in her direction. “Miss Fielding? Are you all right?”
Derek dragged Sara out and pushed her, blinking, into the bright light. “Here’s your little novelist. We were just having a discussion.”
Sara stared through her spectacles at her captor, who seemed even larger and more imposing than he had last night. Craven was exquisitely dressed in charcoal-gray trousers and a snow-white shirt that emphasized his swarthiness. His tan waistcoat was made without pockets, fitted to his lean midriff with no hint of a wrinkle. She had never seen such elegant garments on anyone in the village, not even Perry Kingswood, the pride of Greenwood Corners.
But in spite of his expensive attire, no one would ever mistake Derek Craven for a gentleman. The jagged line of stitches on his face gave him a battered, rough appearance. His hard green eyes seemed to look right through her. He was a powerful man with street swagger and absolute confidence, a man who could no more conceal his appetite for the finer things of life than he could keep the sun from rising.
“I hadn’t intended to show Miss Fielding the hidden passageways,” Worthy commented, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. He turned to Sara. “However, now that you know about them, I might tell you that the club is riddled with secret corridors and peepholes by which you may observe the action on the floor.”
Sara slid a questioning glance to Craven, and he read her thoughts easily.
“Nothing happens here that I don’t know about,” Craven said. “It’s safer that way—for the club members and for me.”
“Is it really,” she murmured. There was only the tiniest hint of skepticism in her voice, but it didn’t escape his notice.
“You might find some of the passageways useful,” he said smoothly, “since you won’t be allowed to approach any of the guests.”
“But Mr. Craven—”
“If you want to stay here, you’ll abide by my rules. No talking to guests. No interference at the tables.” He glanced at her reticule, which bulged with a suspiciously heavy lump. “Still carrying the pistol?” he asked, casually amused.
“I try to be prepared for any situation.”
“Well,” Derek mocked, “the next time things get tight around here, I’ll know who to come to.”
Sara was silent, her face averted. Unconsciously she had wrapped her fingers around the place on her arm he had gripped. Her hand moved gently, as if to rub the memory away.
So his touch repelled her, Derek thought, and smiled grimly. If she only knew the sins his hands had committed, she would never feel clean again.
Worthy cleared his throat and spoke in his official no-nonsense factotum’s voice. “Very well, Miss Fielding. Shall we resume our tour?”
Sara nodded, looking back into the dark corridor. “I would like to see where this leads.”
Derek watched with a reluctant smile as the two of them ventured into the passageway. He called after the factotum, “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her shoot anyone.”
Worthy’s reply was muffled. “Yes, Mr. Craven.”
Derek closed the panelled door so that it blended seamlessly into the wall. He paused and steadied himself against a touch of dizziness. His bruised ribs had begun to ache. Slowly he made his way to his apartments and sought his opulent bedchamber. The head-board and posts of his bed were carved with cherubs bearing trumpets and dolphins rising on crests of waves. All of it was thickly covered with gold, which
gleamed richly against the embroidered velvet bed hangings. Although Derek knew it was in bad taste, he didn’t care. “A bed fit for a king” was what he had told the furniture maker, and the expensive design appealed to him. As a boy he had spent too many nights curled up in doorways and under rickety wooden stairs, dreaming of sleeping in his own bed someday. Now he had built a palace…only to discover that thousands of nights reclining amid gold and velvet would never take away the sense of deprivation. He still hungered for a nameless something that had nothing to do with fine linen and luxury.
Closing his eyes, he slept lightly, drifting into a troubling dream filled with images of Joyce Ashby and her glittering golden hair, her white feet splashing among rivers of blood…
Suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone. He jerked awake with a slight gasp, his nerves clamoring in alarm. There was a woman by his bed. His green eyes focused on her, and his dark head dropped back to the pillow. “God, it’s you.”
L
ily, Lady Raiford, leaned over him, her dark eyes vibrant with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hurt?”
“It’s not that bad.” Although he wore an expression of annoyance, he accepted the little attentions she gave him; her soft ducking, the touch of her fingertips on his wound. Their relationship was that of amicable, bickering friends. They rarely saw each other alone, for Lily’s husband, the earl of Raiford, possessed a jealous nature. “You’d better leave before Raiford finds us together,” Derek muttered. “I’m in no mood for a duel today.”
Lily grinned and settled back in her chair. “Alex trusts me,” she said virtuously. “Besides, he knows I’m far too busy with the children to have an affair.” The brief smile faded. “Worthy sent me a note this morning, saying you had been injured. Knowing his gift for understatement, I went mad with worry. It could have been a scratch or a fatal wound, or anything in between.
I had to see for myself. Oh, your poor face,” Her expression hardened, and for a moment her exquisite beauty was obscured by fury. “Who did this to you?”
He shook off the hand she had placed on his arm. “The odds are on Joyce.”
“Lady Ashby?” Lily’s velvet-brown eyes widened, and she spoke impulsively. “Why in God’s name?…Derek, tell me you weren’t having an affair with her! Tell me you weren’t like all the other poor rutting fools who were so entranced by that false yellow hair and lip-puckering and breast-jiggling that you fell right into her greedy clutches. No, don’t say anything, I can see that you were yet another willing victim.” She scowled and said acidly, “It’s written plainly across your face.”
The only reason she dared to speak to him so impudently was the close, enduring friendship they shared. Even so, she was treading dangerously close to the limits. Derek shoved a pillow at her, much in the manner of a bickering sibling. “Get out of here, coldhearted bitch—”
She dodged the pillow. “How
could
you have an affair with Lady Ashby when you know I despise her so?”
His mouth curved with a taunting smile. “You’re jealous.”
Lily gave an exasperated sigh. “We’re far beyond that, and you know it. I adore my husband, I belong to him completely—and he’s the closest thing to a friend you have. Both of my children refer to you as ‘uncle’—”
“All very cozy,” he jeered.
“There was never anything between you and me.
When I turned to you for help all those years ago, you pushed me into Alex’s arms, for which I am profoundly grateful.”
“You should be,” he assured her.
Suddenly the tension between them dissolved, and they exchanged a grin. “Your taste in women is abominable,” Lily said softly. She picked up the discarded pillows and placed them behind his head.
Derek leaned back and regarded her through slitted eyes. “Your style of nursing could kill a man.” Gingerly he touched his stitches, which had begun to pull. Although he didn’t admit it out loud, he knew she was right. She was the only decent woman he had ever associated with. He had loved Lily in his own way, but not enough to take the risk he knew he would never be ready for. He wasn’t fit to be a husband or father. He had only the vaguest understanding of the word “family.” Permanence, responsibility, commitment, the things Lily needed…those had never been part of his world. All he could be certain of were the material riches he had shored up in staggering amounts. If a place in heaven could be obtained with money, he would have cornered the market on eternity.
He watched Lily steadily, his expression closed. With her dark gypsy curls restrained in an intricate plait, and her slender form dad in an elegant gown, one would never guess that she had once been an outcast, just as Derek was. That had been the bond between them, the foundation for shared secrets and memories. Since her marriage Lily had graduated to the privileged society Derek was permitted to view only from the fringes. Aristocratic lords were seldom inclined to invite him to their estates, but their blue-blooded wives were more than eager to have him in
their beds. For Derek it was a pleasurable form of revenge, no less because it exasperated Lily.
“Tell me what happened with Lady Ashby,” she urged.
“I broke it off with her a week ago.” Derek smiled grimly as he remembered Joyce’s snarling fury. “She didn’t take it well. My guess is that she hired a pair of slashers to even the score.”
“How do you know someone else wasn’t behind it? Ivo Jenner, for example. He’s always playing nasty tricks—”
“No. The bastards who jumped me last night went straight for the face.” Ruefully he sat up and fingered the row of stitches. “A woman’s brand of revenge, I’d say.”
“You mean if Lady Ashby couldn’t have you, she wanted to make certain no one else would want you?” Lily looked stricken. “Disgusting, vicious—and exactly what one would expect of a woman like her. Why were you involved with her? Has your life become so stale and dull that you simply couldn’t resist her aristocratic charms?”
“Yes,” Derek sneered.
“For years I’ve seen you hop from bed to bed. The more elite and snobbish they are, the more you want them…and why? Just to show the world that you can have the best, most sought-after females. Men like you regard women only as trophies, and it infuriates me!”
“From now on I’ll hump all the homely, unwanted ones. Will that please you?”
Lily’s small hands seized one of his, and she hung on in spite of his efforts to disengage her. “I’ll tell you what will please me,” she said earnestly. “It has broken my heart to watch you become so world-weary and
cynical. I want you to find a woman, Derek. A nice,
unattached
one—not one of your usual debauched sophisticates. I’m not suggesting marriage, since you’re so repelled by the idea. But at least take a mistress who’ll bring a measure of peace to your life!”
He smiled derisively. “That’s not why a man keeps a woman.”
“Isn’t it? I could name a half-dozen men whose mistresses are far more plain and matronly than their wives. A mistress is valued for the quality of companionship she provides, not the vulgar tricks she might know in bed.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
Lily shrugged. “I’ve heard the fellows talking during hunts, and at the club, and over their after-dinner port. Most of the time they forget I’m there.”
“Raiford should have put a stop to your hunting years ago.”
“Alex is
proud
of my hunting,” she replied pertly. “Stop trying to change the subject. What you need is a mistress, Derek.”
He laughed, deliberately reverting to the thick accent he had worked so hard to overcome. “I gets all the tail I wants an’ then some, lovey.”
She frowned at him. “I said ‘mistress,’ Derek, not your usual parade of lightskirts. I’m suggesting you find someone who would be a companion. Haven’t you ever considered spending all your nights with the same woman? Oh, don’t make a face! I think you should find a nice young widow from the country, or a lonely spinster who would be grateful for your protection. If you like, I’ll make a list—”
“I’ll choose my own women,” he said coldly. “God knows what kind of old crone you’d pick for me.”
“Anyone I chose would easily surpass Lady Ashby!” She let go of his hand and sighed. “I’d better leave. It will harm my reputation if I stay any longer in your apartments—especially considering your fascination for married women.”
“I didn’t ask you to come,” Derek retorted. But as she rose to leave, he snatched her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.
“Will you do what I ask?” Lily pleaded, squeezing his fingers.
“I’ll consider it.” His tone was so obliging that Lily knew he was lying.
Nevertheless she smiled and smoothed his black hair affectionately. “That’s better. Someday you’ll thank me for my sage advice.” She began to leave, then paused at the doorway and looked back at him questioningly. “Derek…before I came up here this afternoon I caught a glimpse of the most unusual little person wandering about in the back rooms with the staff. She was asking all manner of questions and writing things down.”
Derek settled back against the pillows, crossing his legs negligently. “She’s a novelist.”
“Really. Has she been published?”
“She wrote that
Mathilda
book.”
“
That’s
S. R. Fielding?” Lily laughed in surprised amazement, coming back into the room. “The famous recluse? How in heaven’s name did you manage to bring her here?”
“She brought
me
here last night—after rescuing me from the slashers.”
Lily’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
Suddenly he grinned at her astonishment. “Pulled out a pistol and shot one of them.”
There was a moment of frozen silence, and then Lily began to howl with laughter. “You must introduce us,” she begged. “If only she would consent to attend one of my soirées, or at least a salon discussion. You must help me persuade her to accept an invitation!”
“Just tell her you’re Lawless Lily. She’s here to research a book.”
“How fascinating.” Lily began to pace busily. “A woman who writes about whores, shoots criminals in the rookery, frequents gambling clubs, and is no doubt doing her best to dig up your dirty secrets. We’ll be great friends, I think. What is she like? Old or young? Friendly or shy?”
Derek shrugged. “She’s younger than you, about ten years. Quiet, spinsterish…” He paused as he remembered the discreet way Sara had glanced at him from beneath the lace frills of her cap, the little startled jump she had given as she realized she had been standing close to him. “Shy with men,” he added.
Lily, who had always managed the opposite sex quite adroitly, shook her head. “I don’t see why. Men are such straightforward, simpleminded creatures.”
“Miss Fielding is from a village in the country. A place called Greenwood Corners. She knows nothing about men or the city. She wanders through the worst rookeries in London—to her, all problems are solved with ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Doesn’t think anyone would rob or rape her…why, it wouldn’t be polite. Do you know why I let her come to the club and poke her nose around here? Because if I didn’t, she’d be visiting every gambling hell in the city and rubbing elbows with every thief an’ murdering bastard what’s ever shook an elbow at green felt!” He began to warm to the subject, the casual note disappearing from his voice.
“And she’s almost engaged. Hell knows what kind of man would let her traipse through London alone, unless it’s his plan to get rid of her! The bloody idiot!—I’d like to tell ’im what ’appens to women who walks in the city with frigging pistols in their readers—”
“Derek.” There was an odd smile on her face. “Your cockney is showing.”
He closed his mouth abruptly.
“That only happens,” Lily murmured, “when you’re considerably excited or angry about something.”
“I’m never angry.”
“Oh, of course not.” She returned to him, skewering him with a level gaze.
Derek didn’t like her expression, the superior look women wore when they felt they knew something a man was too stupid to understand. “I thought you were leaving,” he said gruffly.
“I was, until you began making speeches about our Miss Fielding. What does she think of you? Appalled by your lurid past, as I would imagine?”
“She’s in raptures over it.”
“I suppose you’ve done everything possible to be offensive.”
“She likes it. She calls me ‘source material.’ ”
“Well, you’ve been called worse things. Especially by me.” Lily regarded his slashed face with genuine dismay, “If only she could see you when you’re handsome. How long before the stitches are removed?”
“She’s not my preferred style,” he said flatly.
“It’s time I told you something, Derek…I’ve never been particularly impressed by your ‘preferred style.’ ”
Derek’s lips twitched with amusement “A fine romp I’d have with her in bed. She’d lie there and take notes the whole time. She…” He stopped as an image
swept through his mind…Sara Fielding’s pale, naked body beneath his, her arms twined gently around his neck, her soft breath rushing against his skin. The idea was disturbingly erotic. Frowning, he forced himself to concentrate on what Lily was saying.
“…it would be far safer than the kind of liaison you had with Lady Ashby! You’ll be fortunate if your looks aren’t permanently ruined from this latest episode. Well, I’m going to make Lady Ashby regret this, mark my words—”
“Lily.” Something in his voice hushed her at once. “Let the matter rest. You’re to do nothing about Joyce.”
Lily was made uncomfortable by Derek’s sudden cool intensity. His was the kind of glance she had seen exchanged between men with dueling pistols in their hands, and between players who had staked their fortunes on the turn of a card. The men who won were always those who didn’t seem to care. She both admired and feared such ruthless nerve. “But Derek,” she protested, “you can’t let her get away with this. She must be made to pay for it—”
“You heard what I said,” Derek had never allowed anyone to settle his debts for him. He would confront Joyce in his own way and his own time. For now he chose to do nothing.
Lily bit her lip and nodded, wanting to say more but knowing the danger of provoking him. He would allow her friendly teasing and bullying up to a point, but there was a line she would never dare to cross. “All right,” she murmured.
After holding her gaze for a moment, Derek relented. “Give us a kiss, then.”
Obediently she pecked his cheek and gave him a
subdued smile. “Come to visit soon. The children will be fascinated by your stitches, especially Jamie.”
He touched his forehead in a mock salute. “I’ll tell ’em I was attacked by pirates.”
“Derek,” she said contritely, “forgive me for interfering. It’s just that I’m concerned for you. You’ve had such a difficult life. You’ve lived through horrors that most people, including me, will never understand.”
“That was in the past.” He grinned and said in his old, boastful manner, “Now I’m one of the richest men in England.”
“Yes, you have more money than anyone could spend in a lifetime. But it hasn’t brought what you expected, has it?”