Luck Be a Lady (14 page)

Curious now, she returned to the sitting room. The gilt-mounted clock on the mantelpiece boasted a splendid marquetry of sycamore; it appeared to be a Cromwellian original. She drifted nearer, reaching out to touch the mantel that framed the hearth. Wood overlaid with plaster. Could this be an original Adam? Ceres, goddess of plenty, presided over the central panel, while the friezes displayed wreaths of wheat.

These treasures had been seized from irresponsible gamblers, no doubt. She should not admire them. And yet . . . it took taste to know what to seize in lieu of payment.

She glanced toward the locked door. She had paid little attention to the furnishings in O'Shea's private quarters. Nerves had blinded her. Now she wondered what she had missed. A pity one could not pay a visit at half past two to ask!

A pity one could not
trust
oneself to pay that visit.

Were he some other man . . . The notion shocked her,
but she dared to voice it to herself: were he somebody else, perhaps she would have taken the risk without regard for the shame. After all, hungers could be slaked, fires doused; revisiting his bed might have liberated her from this unsettling fever, allowing her to repossess her once-disciplined state of mind.

But in the eyes of the law, he was her husband. What happened between them in a bedroom would have repercussions outside it. She should not give him any cause to look on her as a true wife, for she had no interest in playing one—nor any ability.

There was another way to douse a fire: feed it no fuel. As she lay down in bed, she forced her thoughts to business, and fell asleep to nightmares of accounts that did not reconcile.

CHAPTER SEVEN

N
ick woke before dawn, taking care in his ablutions not to make any noise that might penetrate to the neighboring apartment. This was a task he meant to undertake without interference from innocents, no matter that their tongues were sharp enough to count them armed at all times.

He frightened her. That was clear. He knew the cause, too. Made her feel things she didn't want to feel.

He wouldn't lie to himself. He enjoyed frightening her. He'd never known a pleasure quite as rare and dark, as rattling a creamy girl who thought herself his better, and making her blush against her will.

As he dressed, he felt an old twinge in his left knee, relic of an earlier time when brawls had been dirty and physical. He'd grown hard by necessity, and he wasn't fool enough to miss those days. It had been years since he set out alone on foot, with only his own knife to back him. But when Nick reached the point where he needed friends to take on a single soft-bellied swell, he would be one foot in the grave already, and well past the need for killing.

He woke Johnson for a brief word—Catherine needed a guard, and Johnson would do in a pinch—­before stepping out of the club. He walked toward the high road, through alleys still sunk in darkness while dawn grayed overhead. On the omnibus, he stood shoulder to shoulder with dark-suited workers and neatly dressed girls bound for the shops and offices of the West End. Here and there he caught a glance lingering on his face, quickly averted when he remarked it. Some people recognized him, but not most.

This half anonymity suited him. It made it easier to pick out his own people, those with the knowledge to respect or fear him, as their circumstances required. Any better known, and he'd have to send his men to do the dirty work for him—and in this case, particularly, he was looking forward to doing for himself.

Two changes later, and he was in Bloomsbury. Roads swept neat, fat nabobs still slumbering. As he turned into Henton Court, he came across a street sweeper dozing on his feet, chin propped atop his broom handle. The boy opened one eye as Nick passed.

He remembered that kind of sleep. Never easy, never deep. As a child, he'd swept streets for a few months himself. It had taken owning a roof for him to learn to sleep soundly again. Neddie's had been his first purchase; until then, he'd had nothing to show for his ill-gotten coin. Bankers wouldn't touch it. He'd run out of places to hide his cash. When news had traveled of Neddie's plight—rent raised skyward, owner putting the public house to auction—he'd thought hard before making a bid. A man like him owning property? Seemed like painting a target on his back.

Instead, holding the deed in his hand, he'd discov
ered the intoxication of owning something real. Having a place where nobody could say he didn't belong, had no rights, wasn't good enough. He'd never interfered with Neddie's ways; he let the old man go on as always. But he'd taken to sleeping there for a time—sleeping as deeply and dreamlessly as a babe.

Diamonds was his pride. But Neddie's would always be his first and truest home. Still wasn't anywhere he slept better.

He listened to the sound of his own footsteps echo off the polished stone faces of the townhouses. Nodded politely to a passing bobby, who yawned as he strolled his beat. The curtains were still drawn at the Everleigh house. He passed onward, pausing a few houses away to lean against a scrawny oak and wait.

He'd gambled that the events of last night would pull Everleigh from his bed quite early. Indeed, it didn't take above an hour until a carriage rolled out from the nearby alley, horses pulling up at the curb before the house. The front door opened; Peter went rushing down the stairs toward the coach, a footman at his heels. Nick stole up from the other side, waiting until the other door thumped shut to open the door on his own side and spring in.

“What the—” Peter Everleigh slammed himself backward against his cushions as the coach rocked into motion.

“I wouldn't,” Nick said, as the other man's hand rose to rap the ceiling for his driver's attention. “This will be a short discussion.”

Slowly, Everleigh lowered his hand. “What in God's name do you want?”

Bastard looked well rested for a man whose sister
had disappeared in the wee hours. Were he smarter, he'd be looking more alarmed by his present company, too. “You're easy to surprise,” Nick said. “Should take better care with your safety.”

“Some of us live decent lives,” Everleigh said tightly. “We see no need to be looking over our shoulders at the crack of dawn.”

Nick smiled. “Perhaps that was the case before. Then you gave trouble to my wife.”

Everleigh caught on at last. He lunged for the door, but Nick was ready for him. He caught Everleigh around the throat and pulled him onto the bench in a chokehold.

“Stop thrashing,” he said, “or I might hurt you.”

“Let go of—”

Everleigh's words ended in a sputter as Nick squeezed. “No need for you to talk. Simply nod.”

The man struggled harder. Nick seized his hair and forced his neck to an awkward angle. Soon enough, he'd be longing for air. “Nod,” he said flatly.

At last, Everleigh nodded. His lips were trembling; he pressed them into a flat line and dragged in a choked breath.

Nick stretched out his legs, making himself comfortable. These cushions were stuffed as plump as a Christmas goose. “Your sister tells me you've got political ambitions,” he said amiably. “I tell her she must be wrong. I say, any politician would know better than to break into his sister's room after midnight.” The thought tasted foul; he spat onto the floor. “A sister, mind you, who is lawfully married to another, and who was, I expect, only spending the night under your roof as a lark, one final evening in her childhood home. Aye,
there's
a
tale. Would play well in the newspapers, all right: the politician who dreams of bigamy.”

Everleigh looked white as pasteboard, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

“You'll tell Pilcher to keep his mind off her henceforth. And
you'll
keep away from Pilcher. You'll have him kicked off the municipal board on charges of corruption. Got it?”

Everleigh nodded—then shook his head wildly.

Just as Nick had expected. “Right. What's he got on you, then?”

Everleigh's lips moved soundlessly. Apparently the rat did need to breathe occasionally. Nick let him go.

Everleigh hurled himself onto the opposite bench, drawing his knees up to his chest as an extra defense. “You're a—” He looked frenzied with astonishment. “How dare you! You—”

“Pilcher,” Nick said flatly. “What's your connection with him?”

“You're a ruffian, a—”

Slow learner, this one. Nick lunged across the coach, catching Everleigh by the hair. Time to introduce his knife to this discussion. He set it just so at Everleigh's throat.

That got the bastard's attention. He stammered out some frantic, babbling apology.

Nick let the sharp edge of his knife give his reply. A shaving nick, it would look like.

Everleigh's eyes bulged wide. He shut up, finally.

“I'm no nob,” Nick said. “Your rules don't apply to me. And your blood won't look blue when I spill it. Ask me how I know.”

Everleigh had a shred of intelligence, after all. He didn't ask. Only loosed a little sob.

“Tell me, then, what Pilcher's got on you.” He eased the knife away a fraction.

“I . . . oh, God in heaven . . . I can't oust Pilcher from the board. He's got friends, you see, and I won't have the votes—”

“You'll have Whitechapel's vote. The votes of St. George's-in-the-East and Mile End. And your own,” Nick added. “That'll give you a fine start for
politicking.
”

“No, you don't understand! Your buildings—that inspector had no authority in Whitechapel. Pilcher understood that; he knows that a man of my ambitions must be seen to respect the law. But what you're talking of now—he would never forgive me for it! And I've got investments with him, you see. Land, properties, a great deal of money sunk into his developments. I'd lose it all. I can't afford to make him an enemy!”

So that explained it. Everleigh and Pilcher were partners in land speculation.

Nick weighed his options. Tempting to throw this piece of shit to the wolves. But he'd not come up in the world by indulging his own whims at the expense of good strategy. “How much do you have sunk with him?”

“Three—four thousand pounds.”

“Break with Pilcher, then. I'll stand you the sum.” He shoved Everleigh onto the floor.

Everleigh scrambled off his knees to the opposite bench, huddling as far from Nick as the vehicle allowed. “But . . . you can't . . . Why on earth would you make such an offer?”

“It's business,” Nick said, clipped. “You'll be voting for me, whenever I require it.”

“Of course,” Everleigh said instantly.

“And you'll hand my wife every account attached to that auction house. You'll put them into her hands, and hers alone.”

“I—but the law won't allow that! By the terms of the trust, she cannot assume control unless she is married.” Bright color rose to Everleigh's face. “Or are you recanting your offer of silence?”

“No. The accounts will stay in your name, but you'll designate her your legal proxy.”

Everleigh gawked. “What on earth do you know of such matters?”

Here was what made the toffs such easy pickings. They imagined, because they'd designed the game, that nobody else could learn the rules. “You'll have that proxy drawn up today. Do you follow?”

“I . . .” Hesitantly, Everleigh uncurled himself. He set one boot on the floor, then another, his posture hunched, clearly braced for another attack.

Nick pointedly sheathed his knife.

Everleigh loosed an audible breath and sat straighter. “Then I accept your proposal.”

Nick paused, letting the silence tick out, three long beats. “Wasn't a proposal. It's the only chance you'll get. Understand?”

The other man recoiled. “Yes! Yes, I understand.”

Nick studied him a moment, cataloging each twitch. “You sure about that?”

Everleigh offered a flinching attempt at a placating smile. “I do understand,” he whispered. “I promise, I won't be any trouble to you.” He cleared his throat, then said in a meek tone, “Shall I ask the driver to drop you somewhere?”

“No need.” Nick opened the door, then leapt neatly
out into traffic. His last view of Everleigh was the man's pallid, astonished face as he leaned out to pull the door shut.

*    *   *

En route to Everleigh's through a sunny autumn morning, Catherine became aware of how her stomach churned. She fully anticipated a violent quarrel with her brother over the debacle of the Cranston auction. Worse yet, after his bizarre attempt to break into her bedchamber, her own anger felt secondary to nervousness. Peter had made her afraid to return to her own auction rooms! It was outrageous.

As she emerged from O'Shea's unmarked coach, one of his servants descended from the footman's step to escort her inside. A mountain of a man, with a shining bald head and a bashful smile, he introduced himself as Mr. Johnson. “I'm to stick by you today,” he told her, “and make sure your brother behaves, miss.”

This presumption on O'Shea's part would ordinarily anger her. But today, it seemed like welcome news. “Very well,” she said stiffly, and on a deep breath, led the giant inside.

But her brother was nowhere in evidence. In her office, she discovered an infuriated letter from Lord Cranston, the reply to which kept her busy for most of the morning. Cranston felt his pride had been injured by the interruption of the auction, and demanded assurances and recompense.

By the time a knock came at her door, she had all but forgotten her former anxiety, so immersed was she in the tricky politics of soothing an offended peer. “Come,” she said absently.

The door opened. Mr. Johnson stepped inside, her brother at his heels.

Her throat tightened, her pulse tripping into a gallop. Peter looked thin-lipped, flushed, and livid. But with Johnson looming behind him, she felt well able to match him in a fight.

She laid down her pen, and rose. “I hope you've come to apologize,” she said. “And to account for yourself! Last night—”

Peter threw a stack of papers onto her desk. “There,” he said flatly. “That is all you will have from me. Tell him it is done.”

“Tell whom?”

Peter grimaced. “Your gutter rat. Who else?” Turning on his heel, he shoved past Johnson and stalked out.

Mystified, she sat back down and broke open the seal on the papers. For a moment, looking them over, she lost her grip on English. The words made no sense.

Peter had made her his legal proxy.