If You Give a Rake a Ruby (4 page)

And so Fallon did the only thing she could—though it would doom her when James came for her. She raised the board and hurled it at Tom.

It struck true, knocking him squarely between the eyes. He hadn't been expecting that and lost his balance, tumbling down the remaining steps, clutching his face. Fallon jumped out of the way, but the space was cramped and he fell against her legs. She needed maneuverability if she were to fight James, but Tom grabbed at one of her ankles and she couldn't shake him off. James was already on the stairs, and their gazes met.

“Get her,” Tom said, his voice wracked with pain.

At least she had caused some damage, she thought, as James reached for her.

***

Warrick unbolted the door, opened it, then jumped back as Fallon and two men tumbled inside. He'd been on one of the upper floors when Fallon approached and had seen the beginning of the confrontation. He'd been about to rush to her defense when she kicked one of the men in the face and slammed the back of her head into the other one.

Warrick had been rendered completely immobile and utterly stunned. He watched as she deftly defended herself, two against one, and only when he finally realized she was in trouble did he snap to attention and sprint down to open the door.

Now he lifted Fallon from among the tangle of arms and legs and quickly scanned her face and arms for injury. She looked to be all in one piece.

“What…” She paused to catch her breath. “Took you…” She gasped in another breath. “So long?”

“It didn't appear that you needed my assistance. Someone has taught you how to defend yourself.”

She glared at him. “And here I thought… you knew everything about me.”

So had he. But she'd managed to surprise him—surprise and impress him—and that was not easily done.

“What the devil is going on?” one of the men demanded, crawling to his hands and knees. Blood poured from a gash above his nose. “That little bitch cut me.”

“You're lucky that's all that happened.” Warrick set Fallon down and pushed her behind him. “Now get out of here before I have you charged for attacking a lady.”

“And who the hell are you?” the other man asked. He was in considerably better condition.

Warrick disliked questions. He disliked answering them even more. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his pistol. He leveled the weapon at the men. “Any further questions?”

The men scrambled to their feet and backed away. When they were in the doorway, Warrick closed it, bolted the lock, and turned to Fallon. “Good of you to come.” He checked his pocket watch. “You're late.”

“I was detained,” she said, her eyebrows coming together.

“Excuses, excuses.” He lifted the lamp he'd hung on a nail next to the door and began to make his way back into the club proper. He scanned what appeared to be a parlor or study. Bow Street had been here. He could see their handiwork everywhere—overturned tables, drawers standing open, papers scattered on the floors. They were clumsy and overlooked more than they found.

“If you had that pistol with you, why didn't you threaten those men with it to begin with?”

He turned to see Fallon standing in the parlor's doorway. Warrick shrugged. “You seemed to have matters well in hand.”

She shook her head. “That is no way to treat a lady.”

“That's because most ladies are skittish ninnies who faint if a man utters the word
damn
in their presence. You should hope I don't treat you like a lady. I have no use for ladies.” He turned back to the room and began conducting his own far more delicate search. He didn't know what he was looking for—something to do with the Diamonds in the Rough. Something to give him insight into Lucifer.

But, of course, that's why Fallon was here.

He glanced at her and saw she was shaking her head. “
This
sentiment on the topic of ladies comes from the son of Lord and Lady Winthorpe?”

He turned back to the task at hand, lifting a stack of papers and flipping through them. “I take it you know my mother.”

“I know
of
your mother. She's one of the most persistent, scheming, marriage-minded mamas I have ever encountered. I apologize if that offends you.”

He righted an overturned desk. “Why would it offend me? If you ever do meet her, tell her those words exactly. She'll be flattered.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

He glanced at her. “You shouldn't doubt me. After all, it takes a man with considerable convictions and impressive fortitude to resist the manipulations of a mother like mine. I tell you truly, I don't care for ladies.” He rolled onto his back and peered under the desk he'd set on its feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Shine the lamp so I can see.” Though her steps were light, he heard her cross the room. A moment later, the lamp's light illuminated the bottom of the desk. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Did you expect to find the diamonds? He won't have them here.”

He stilled, willing her to go on. He could ask her about her association with Lucifer directly, but he knew she would not be forthcoming. Information she volunteered on her own was worth far more.

“If he has them at all, they're somewhere well protected. He's done with this place. He won't come back. It's been violated. At least in his mind.”

“You knew him well,” Warrick said, pretending to study the underside of the desk.

“No. Thank God. The man was diabolical.”

“As the name would indicate.”

“Yes, well the accounts I heard of him were terrifying. Even at fifteen I was not so much a fool as to believe he snacked on young virgins, but I knew something horrible went on here.”

“So it wasn't only gambling?” Warrick sat. In his research he'd come across several interesting accusations against Lucifer of Lucifer's Lair. Now he wondered if Fallon would confirm them. He could hear traces of the lower-class accent creeping into her speech. She must have worked very hard to rid herself of it to become one of The Three Diamonds.

“My father wasn't a gambler,” she said looking around. “He drank too much and he stole and he occasionally engaged in blackmail. He never gambled. Why would he when he couldn't be sure of making money? I don't know what his association with Lucifer involved. I was present at several of their meetings, but they didn't speak freely in front of me. All I can tell you is it wasn't gambling.”

Warrick rested his arms on his knees. “And why do you think your father brought you to these meetings with Lucifer? He brought you here, I assume.”

“Yes.” She shivered almost imperceptibly. “I've been here before.” She looked at him and even in the dim light he could feel the power of her gaze. “Why do you think a man brings a young girl to a meeting with another man?”

“You weren't just a young girl. You were his daughter.”

“The daughter of a pickpocket and a whore. Trust me, he didn't have many tender feelings. He sold my mother until she was too ill to work any longer.”

“And did he sell you to Lucifer?”

“No. That's when I left.”

“And came under the protection of Sinclair.”

She looked away. “As warm and cozy as all of this reminiscing makes me feel, I cannot help but ask what it is you want from me?”

“Tonight? Tonight I want you to look around Lucifer's Lair with me. I could use another set of eyes. And you've been here before. Perhaps you have some insight.”

“That was ten years ago.”

He rose to his feet. “Humor me.”

“Fine. And after this our
friendship
is over. I've kept my end of the bargain.”

“I don't recall us making a bargain.” He took the lamp from her and started for the door on the far side of the room.

“Yes, we did. You said if I helped you, then you wouldn't reveal my past.”

“That does sound familiar.” He could hear her scampering behind him, and he walked all the more quickly to keep her hurrying after him.

“I've told you what I know. I don't know where the diamonds are. I'd never heard of them until Juliette mentioned them. I hadn't thought of Lucifer for years until he accosted her. I've held up my part of the bargain.”

Warrick spun round and grabbed her arm. This was life and death—to him, if not her. “I'll decide when you've done your part. I decide what's involved in our bargain and what's not, and I'll say when you've fulfilled your part. Is that clear?”

She looked down at his hand. “You're hurting my arm.”

He released her. “Forgive me.” He turned left toward the thick wooden door he remembered from his surveillance earlier that night. When he heard her behind him, he turned the handle and pushed the door open to reveal the scarlet and black bedroom. “Now, tell me what the hell went on in here.”

Fallon stepped into the room after Fitzhugh, keeping close to him. Not because she wanted to be close to him. He was holding the lamp, and she didn't relish the thought of standing in the dark, empty building by herself.

The walls of the room were black silk, as were the draperies and all of the furnishings. Except the bed. That was covered in a blood-red silk coverlet. Or at least it had been. Someone had ransacked the room and overturned the bed. It appeared the coverlet had been thrown over the bed as an afterthought. It looked very much like a splash of blood.

“I've never been here before,” she said. And she didn't want to come back. “I assume it's Lucifer's private room.”

“Not exactly to your taste,” Fitzhugh said, strolling about, lifting objects here and there as though he was unaffected by the eerie style of furnishing. Perhaps he wasn't. She knew very little about him. If Juliette and Pelham hadn't been away from Town, she would have gone to her friend's husband immediately and asked him for more information on Fitzhugh. The two were said to be friends.

But Fallon wondered if a man like Fitzhugh—a man who stole others' secrets—didn't have a few of his own. And as she well knew, when one had secrets, it was next to impossible to have any close friends. Juliette and Lily had their own secrets, and they never questioned Fallon about her past. But most people were hopelessly nosy.

“You've been inside my bedchamber.” He'd been in her bed. “You know my taste.” She watched him move about the room. He moved easily, comfortable in his skin and with who he was. He was unself-conscious, which made her all the more fascinated by him. She was always conscious of her every move, of her every word. She often felt she didn't know who she was—Margaret, Maggie, Fallon, the Marchioness of Mystery? She could be all of them or none of them on any given day.

Fallon had spent a great deal of time watching others. She'd been trained from an early age to observe others. One didn't prosper as a pickpocket if one didn't learn to pick out the best marks and find their weaknesses. As she grew older, she watched people for other reasons. One could tell so much about the interior lives of others by observing how they behaved, how they interacted with others, how they acted when they didn't know they were being watched.

Sometimes she even made up stories about the people she saw—that woman was rushing to meet a lover. That man was angry with his solicitor. That little girl wanted a new hat but was too polite to say so.

She couldn't read Warrick Fitzhugh quite so easily. He had thoughts and emotions—of that she was certain—but he didn't betray them by his actions. The one trait she could identify was confidence. He spoke, moved, and acted confidently. He was a man who expected to be followed and obeyed. She wouldn't have expected so much certainty from him. After all, he wasn't his father's heir. He wasn't even the second son. He had a domineering mother, who'd bullied her other children into prestigious matches. She knew at least one of the matches was not a happy one. The husband of one of Fitzhugh's sisters had sent Fallon jewelry and gifts aplenty last year in an effort to woo her.

Most interesting, Fitzhugh was not handsome. Handsome men—men like Kwirley—were always confident. It was probably bred into them from an early age. She knew from experience that attractive people often got what they wanted. She couldn't count the number of times she'd used her looks to achieve some aim or other. But Fitzhugh was an exception. He wasn't ugly. His face was interesting—the broken nose, the scar near his eye…

The eyes. When he'd pulled her close a moment ago, she'd gotten a clear view of them. They were brown with gold flecks. They'd been smoldering when he'd hauled her against him, but she hadn't been afraid. In fact, she'd been aroused.

Of course, that might have been more the result of being thrust against his hard chest. She disliked tall, skinny men. This was a man who had strength and substance. He'd easily lifted her into his arms when she'd crashed through the door with those two idiots on top of her. She wondered what his chest looked like without his shirt.

“Are you going to stand there all evening?”

She blinked. “What would you have me do?” Oh, dear. Had he heard the sultry tone of her voice? She had to stop picturing him naked—or herself naked with him touching her. He was her enemy. He was blackmailing her. She didn't like him.

Fallon cleared her throat. “What I mean is, what am I supposed to do?”

“Look around.” He gestured to the room.

Fallon frowned at the overturned desk and the broken table. “For what, exactly?”

He sighed impatiently. “I don't know. You'll know it when you see it.”

“Of course. That helps.” She made her way to the desk because Fitzhugh was on the other side of the room and she thought a bit of distance might be for the best. She was not a tidy person, but she could at least straighten the spray of papers and quills. There wasn't much she could do about the dried ink on the floor. She glanced at Fitzhugh, who was holding a parchment toward the lamp and reading. At least she looked busy.

She lifted papers and stacked them neatly, covering a yawn with her hand. She was weary and would much rather be sleeping than digging through Lucifer's forgotten papers. A five pound note fell out of an envelope, and she picked it up to stuff it back where it had come from. Even if she'd been poor, she would never be so poor as to take Lucifer's blunt. She opened the envelope and caught sight of a familiar emblem. She pulled the paper out, noting it was a receipt for a deposit box at Lloyd's Bank. This was not unusual. She imagined Lucifer had quite a few things hidden away in boxes all over London as well as abroad.

What interested her was that the box had been opened by a man listed as Gabriel. No surname, no other identification. Simply Gabriel.

Fallon remembered Gabriel. He looked every bit the angel he had been named for. He had golden blond hair he wore long around a narrow, defined face. His movements, his voice, his hands were smooth and soft. He'd touched her once, when he was leading her to her father, and she'd been shocked at how soft his hands were.

Hers had never been so soft.

She glanced at Fitzhugh. This was probably the sort of thing he would want to know about. She sighed. And if she told him, it would only prolong their association. And if she didn't tell him, she'd probably end up telling him later, and then he'd accuse her of keeping more secrets.

She sighed again. “Here.” She held out the receipt. “This is probably what you're looking for.”

“What is it?” he came toward her, took the paper, and walked back to the lamp. He scanned it. “Who is Gabriel?”

Fallon nodded. He'd cut quickly to the meat. Fitzhugh was no fool. “Lucifer's majordomo. He ran the club when Lucifer was away and obviously took care of some of Lucifer's financial dealings.”

Fitzhugh glanced at her. “You met him?”

She wanted to lie, but he was looking at her with those eyes. Why did those eyes have to be so compelling? Why did they make her want him to keep looking at her?

“Yes. On several occasions.”

“And?”

She struggled for the words to describe Gabriel and settled on, “I didn't like him.”

“Why?”

“He was scary, but in a different way than Lucifer was scary.”

He frowned at her. “Scary? The same way those two men you beat the hell out of in the alley were scary?”

“I was fourteen or fifteen when I met him.” She stood and dusted off her gown. “That's the impression I carry.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good. Can we leave now?”

“Yes.”

She started for the door and was pleased when he followed. She could not wait to go home and go to sleep. Perhaps she'd take a warm bath first.

“Let's find this Gabriel.”

Fallon blew out a breath and felt her shoulders slump. “I
knew
you were going to say that.”

He hailed a hackney cab once they reached St. James again and climbed in after her. “Now where?” she demanded. “Surely you don't propose we search every gambling hell in the city for him.”

He actually seemed to consider the idea.

“
Fitzhugh
,” she warned.

“Coachman, take us to Monmouth Street.”

Fallon's jaw dropped. “
Seven
Dials
? I'm not going to Seven Dials. Do you want to get us killed?”

“'Ave to agree with the lady, guv,” the jarvey added. “Monmouth is a wee bit unsavory this 'our of the night.”

“I'll pay you double,” Fitzhugh stated and pressed the coins into the man's hand.

The jarvey released the brake. “Monmouth Street!” he called.

“No!” Fallon had half a mind to jump from the vehicle, but that was a venture almost as dangerous as Seven Dials. “I'll pay you triple to turn back!” she called to the coachman, but either he didn't hear or he had decided money in the hand was worth more than promises.

Fallon blew out a breath. “What on earth is in Seven Dials? Other than pickpockets, cutthroats, and gin?”

“The Merry Widow.”

Fallon gripped the edge of the seat to keep from falling. “A brothel? I don't know what sort of arrangement you think we have—”

Fitzhugh held up a hand. “A business arrangement.” He leaned across the coach and looked her in the eye. “Trust me, Fallon, if I wanted you, I wouldn't have to take you to an accommodation house. I could have you right here and right now.”

Angry words of denial rose to her lips, but somehow she couldn't utter them. He was ridiculous. She wouldn't allow him to so much as touch her.

Would she?

His dark eyes seemed to challenge her, and she shivered. Perhaps it would be best not to test his assertions. She looked away—anything to avoid those eyes. “What is at The Merry Widow?”

“An old friend. If she doesn't know where this Gabriel is, no one does.”

Fallon had a thousand questions, but she clamped her mouth shut and refrained from asking. He was a spy. Such men probably had unlikely acquaintances in every city. And she supposed if this woman helped them find Gabriel then she couldn't complain. Fallon wanted out of this partnership, and the sooner the better.

The coach passed the sundial at the junction of the seven streets that made up the area of Seven Dials, and Fallon pulled the hood of her mantle around her face and burrowed into the soft material. She could take care of herself, but that didn't mean she looked for trouble. It was a short jaunt down Monmouth and then the hackney slowed and stopped in front of a dilapidated building. Fallon wondered if a building existed in Seven Dials that didn't look as though it had been lifted by some giant hand, spun around, and dropped back down again.

“'Ere ye are, guv. Quick as can be.”

Fitzhugh climbed out of the coach and held out his hand for Fallon. She pushed it away and climbed out on her own, ignoring the amused look in his eyes. She wasn't going to allow him to pick and choose times to play the gentleman, and she wouldn't be fooled. He might be the son of an earl—she looked up at the lurid sign proclaiming The Merry Widow with a lascivious looking woman on it—but he was no gentleman.

“Let's be done with this.” She swept past him and pushed through the bawdy house's red door. Really, did the owner not realize a little subtlety could go a long way?

Inside was precisely what she had expected. A drab common room with threadbare chairs and couches hunched around a dying fire boasted two or three downtrodden men, standing with hands shoved in pockets. The place smelled stale and vaguely as though something had died. Fallon put a scented handkerchief to her nose partly to disguise the smell and partly to hide her face. As soon as they'd entered, the men had glanced her way. Two of them looked right back down again, but one stared at her with undisguised interest. She certainly hoped he didn't write for
The
Morning
Post
. The last thing she needed was this latest escapade tidbit making the rounds of the press.

“You need a room?” a hard high voice asked from a dark corner. Fallon jumped and whirled in the direction of the sound. She hadn't seen the small, dark…person standing there. She squinted and studied the…was it a man or a woman? His or her clothes hung limply around an indiscernible figure that was reed thin. The face was hairless and ugly—too ugly for a woman but far too delicate for a man. The dun-colored hair was cropped in no particular style and hung in shaggy clumps around the small face, which was thin and narrow. It could have been the face of a young man or an old woman.

“Get your abbess,” Fitzhugh directed, using the slang for the proprietor of a bawdy house.

“And who should I say is calling?” the person said with something of a sneer in its voice.

“Warrick,” he answered.

The person nodded and melted into another dark corner and then was gone.

“Warrick?” Fallon whispered. “I thought you were going to give her—him some sort of code name. You know, Jackal or Raven or Fluffy Bunny.” She detected the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I don't have a code name. I wasn't that sort of operative.”

“You mean to say Fluffy Bunny was taken?” She knew she must be extremely tired to jest with him so. She should be annoyed that she was standing in a rotting brothel in Seven Dials at—she squinted at the tall case clock on the wall—half past three in the morning. Oh, she did hope that clock was not accurate.

“Precisely. And pray you never meet the man. Fluffy Bunny is terribly dangerous.”

“Why else would he be called
Fluffy
?”

“This way, sir. Madam,” the little person said from behind them. Fallon shuddered. How had it gotten behind them? It gestured to a door at the far end of the room and Fitzhugh motioned for her to go first.