Luck Be a Lady (21 page)

Scowling, Peter turned full circle. He had never applied himself to the studies required of an appraiser; between a Rembrandt and a copy by Mr. Taylor, he was helpless to spot the differences.

But even he knew a proper Sheraton when he saw one. As he faced her again, he looked puzzled. “Whose estate is this? Surely they insisted we hold it till the season.”

“No. I contracted for the first week of December.”

“December?” His glance strayed to a group of Chippendale chairs, the original patina intact. “Catherine,” he said slowly, “this collection should be saved for the spring.”

“Batten, will you give us a moment?” She held Peter's eyes, waiting until the other man had left to go on. “In the normal course, I would agree. This collection is well worth the spring. Unfortunately, our finances don't allow for delay. Curious, don't you think? It seems someone embezzled over five thousand pounds from our accounts. And then, the aftermath of the ring at the Cranston auction—”

“Enough,” he snapped. “I won't hear of that again.”

“And I won't argue,” she said, too cheerful to do any
thing but shrug. “I have power of attorney now. Full authority to do as I please. Unless you mean to sue for it back, you have no business telling me when to hold this auction.”

He laid a hand on the Sheraton dresser, rubbing the horrid French polish with a thoughtful frown. “Who is the client?”

“He prefers to remain anonymous.”

He cast her a sour look. “Fine,” he said. “Do as you please. Forego the handsome profit we might have fetched in May. I was coming to speak to you on a different matter.”

“Oh?” She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket to dust off the writing cabinet. To imagine that Queen Bess herself had stored papers in this chest! There was a proper businesswoman. She'd run the country singlehandedly, free of meddling brothers.

“O'Shea is out of hand. He challenged Pilcher's bid on the Orton Street properties. Did you know that?”

Mention of his name shot through her like a current of electricity. She carefully wiped the iron handles. “I don't know anything of Mr. O'Shea's private affairs,” she said. What a lie! She knew more now that she had ever imagined she would wish to know. She knew the ways he could kiss a woman—softly, and then savagely, with a roughness that somehow translated as the greatest compliment a woman could hope for. She willed her brain away from that line of reflection, for it was bound to make her blush. “You must speak with him directly on such matters.”

“We had an agreement,” Peter said sharply. “Brokered by
you.
I fulfilled my end of that bargain. But now he is persecuting me.”

She looked up from the desk. Her brother was flushed, nearly shaking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he has tendered an offer to the board for the properties that neighbor his. Properties in
St. Luke.
And the price he offers is ludicrous! It is an act of aggression, I tell you. Pilcher will have those properties!”

She frowned. “Do you mean his bid is very low?”

“Absurdly high,” he burst out. “And so the fools on the board wish to entertain it! But I won't allow that. Do you hear me, Catherine? I'll quash it flat. The tender period should have closed weeks ago—it was an oversight on some idiotic clerk's part to even accept O'Shea's bid. He's
mad
if he thinks I'll oppose Pilcher so openly. That was never our agreement!”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Is that all?”

“All?” He uttered an outraged laugh. “Yes, by God. Only your brother's future. Perhaps you can spare a thought for that, in between polishing the furniture!” He paused, breathing heavily, his expression bullish. “Catherine, I have tolerated your shenanigans. I have met your terms. But I warn you—if you back me into a corner, I will have no choice but to fight.”

“I understand,” she said slowly.

His grim nod alarmed her more than his threat. She felt a sinking in her stomach as the door slammed behind him. It was not like her brother to depart without having the last word.

*    *   *

Catherine stepped up to the railing that overlooked the gaming floor. Dinner had come and gone without a visit from O'Shea. Did he not wonder how his treasures had fared during their transport to Everleigh's?

Did he not wonder if she'd made a decision?

Make up your mind,
he'd instructed her last week—and every day since, in a silent monologue just beneath her conscious thoughts, she had been battling to do so. He made no move to assist her. He had not touched her again. He didn't need to. The way he watched her . . . Even the act of breaking open the crates today had come to seem strangely portentous. Wood snapping, restraints shattering . . .

She leaned out, searching the crowd. Where was he? Had he gone out for the evening? The possibility sank through her as sharply as a blade.

She clung tighter to the rail, amazed by herself. How had her life been so unseated from its steady, disciplined course? The future of Everleigh's remained precarious. One could never count on a single auction, no matter how promising. Failing to turn a profit this year might be the start of a pattern; failure, in the art world, had a way of compounding.
That
was what required her attention. So she had told him, stiffly, the day after their confrontation in his rooms. He seemed to have heeded those words.

Apparently she hadn't.

She spotted O'Shea at last, at the table directly below. He sat looking over his hand of cards as a
woman
hung over his shoulder.

Catherine recoiled from the railing, her face stinging as though she'd been slapped. For a moment, the chandeliers, the brilliantly painted ceiling, seemed to spin around her.

A woman.
What
woman?

She forced herself back to the railing.
That
kind of woman. Indeed. Not a natural redhead, no. Her head
dress, a vulgar disarrangement of badly dyed feathers, protruded from hair the livid shade of an overripe rose. For some awful reason—not merely from a lack of taste, but from an absolute well of depravity—she had chosen to wear a gown that matched her hair, trimmed in lurid silver lace.

People of similarly depraved tastes would probably count her pretty. Her face was delicately featured and dramatically heart shaped, broad at the temples and cheekbones, narrowing to a small, sharp chin. Her nose looked like somebody had taken a scoop out of it, then patted it upward, the better to display her neat little nostrils, which flared as she laughed.

Catherine could hear her laughter from two stories above: rich, robust, ringing. Ladies did not throw back their heads and shout out their mirth. But the gentlemen at her table did not seem to mind her lack of decorum. To a man, they were grinning at her. And no wonder! Her neckline was cut low enough to display a good portion of her bosom.

Catherine supposed she could feel a grudging admiration. Yes, why not? Most women were not encouraged to cultivate talents apart from feminine wiles. At least this one was plying hers with dedication.

A gentleman does not admire a woman for her mind, Catherine.

So her mother had told her, time and again. But it had been years since she felt this bitter sense of insufficiency. What did she care if O'Shea found her wanting? Theirs was no true marriage. His hot words were lies, of course. Any woman would do for him. It made her an idiot to have imagined differently.

Still, what poor business sense on O'Shea's part! Such
a . . . spectacle . . . posed a distraction to the players, turning them away from their game. Look at them now—their attention was not for their wagers.

Had she actually ventured to the railing in the hopes of drawing his attention? She took a step backward. As least she knew now why he had not joined her for dinner. He'd already found companionship for the night—somebody far better equipped to flatter, admire, and cosset him.

But how dare he flaunt her here? This marriage might be a sham, but must he rub his debauchery in her face?

Why, that contravened the terms of the contract! In public situations, he was legally obliged to accord her all due measures of respect! Furious, Catherine resolved to confront him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

H
alfway down the back stairs, just as Catherine began to doubt the wisdom of her course, O'Shea came around the corner, halting a few steps below. “There you are,” he said, one hand on the banister as he smiled up at her. “I was coming to have a word with you. Did everything arrive to Everleigh's in one piece?”

Very relaxed, he looked. Very
windblown,
as though somebody had been dragging her fingers through his thick, black hair. “Kind of you to come ask,” she said stiffly. “Particularly when you looked so very content downstairs.”

He eyed her as he came up the steps. “What's got you so sour?”

She turned and preceded him up to the balcony. “Lemons are sour,” she said.
“I
am—uncomfortable, irritated, offended—when I must watch you consort with harlots.”

“Harlots?” He caught her arm, turning her back toward him.

His frown annoyed her. “Don't pretend to be confused. That woman with the cheap red hair, who was hanging over you at the card table.”

He let go, sweeping a marveling look from her head to her toes. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like we're married, after all. Will you be dragging me off to the priest now for my penance?”

Blood rushed into her face. “Don't mock me.”

A grin tugged at his lips, infuriatingly smug. “­Deirdre Mahoney's no whore, although I'll grant you that she flirts like one. And aye, I'll admit it—she wasn't a redhead as a child.”

She would not be distracted by his charm. “So you admit that you were flirting with her, in plain view.”

He lifted a brow. “You'd rather I flirt with her in private?”

She gritted her teeth. “I have no interest in what you do in private. Nor, I imagine, do you care what
I
do behind closed doors. But the contract was very clear: in public, we will accord each other all due—”

“Here, now,” he interrupted in a dangerous tone. “I'll be damned if you're doing anything behind closed doors that doesn't involve me.”

“I . . .” The shiver that ran through her felt oddly delicious. She crossed her arms tightly. “We're not speaking of me.”

“Now we are,” he said grimly. “You won't be consorting with other men. We're married in the eyes of the law, and I won't be raising another man's bastard.”

She gasped. “How dare you imply—well, and
I
won't be touching a man who consorts with other women!”

“All right, then.”

His easy tone disconcerted her. “All right, what?”

“I said, all right, then. We've revised our agreement.”

She hesitated, hunting through their last remarks for clarity. “What do you mean? I didn't revise—”

“Binding oral contract.” His smile looked wolfish. “Just as good as written. Looks like you're stuck with me until that divorce.”

“I didn't . . .” She bit her lip. What had just happened, here? Why did he look so pleased about it?

He gave her no chance to work it out, taking her arm as he started toward her apartment. “I'll be needing a meeting with your brother. Shall I arrange it, or will you?”

She should pull away, but his hand made a pleasant warmth on her elbow. She hadn't realized she was cold until now. “Is this about the buildings on Orton Street?” she asked as she opened her door.

“He mentioned it, did he?” He followed her into the sitting room, releasing her to take a seat by the dying fire. “Well, Pilcher did make an offer for my buildings. The ones on the St. Luke's border.”

Confused, she sat down across from him. “Did you accept?”

“Of course not. I don't need his money. But those other properties, which surround my lots. I've sent an offer to the board for them.”

She nodded. “Why?”

His brows drew together, two inky slashes. He rose and walked to the sideboard, uncapping a bottle of brandy. “Because I can.”

“But . . . those buildings aren't in Whitechapel.”

He carried the drink back to his seat. “Brilliant,” he said flatly. “Just what I need—another swell telling me to know my place. Only this time, it's my own wife.”

“That wasn't what I meant! I simply don't understand. This will only anger Mr. Pilcher.”

He lifted his brows. “And do I give a good goddamn whether Pilcher's in a snit?”

“There is no need to curse,” she said stiffly. “I simply don't understand how you mean to profit by this purchase. The lots are empty. You're a landlord, not a developer.”

His jaw set in a hard line. “I'll profit by teaching that bastard a lesson. Thinks his precious parish is too good for the likes of me? Well, he'll have to change his mind.” He took a large swallow of his drink.

“So you
want
to provoke him.” What idiocy! “Why not ask a fortune for your buildings? That would hit him where it hurts.”

He slammed down his glass. “And the seventy-odd people who live in those buildings?”

“What of them?”

“Pilcher would toss them out like—” He snapped his fingers.

“There are other buildings,” she said. “They can find somewhere else to live.”

His mouth twisted. “Aye, you
would
think it that easy. Never had to worry for finding a roof in your life, have you? When your brother's got too hot, you came straight to mine.”

She recoiled. “
You
invited me. And—what has it do with me, anyway? This is a business matter—”

“Fuck business. They're my people,” he said darkly. “And I take care of mine.”

She bit her tongue. He glared into his drink. The fire crackled; a log collapsed, throwing sparks.

“Very well,” she said. “Go to war with Pilcher, then.”

He speared her with a hard look. “It would be war, if Pilcher had his way. The moment I was seen to roll over for him, let him throw my own into the street—why, every other man I've crossed would think I'd gone soft. Wolves at my throat:
that
should mean something to you, even if seventy-six innocents don't.”

Why was he speaking to her as though
she
were the enemy? “You're being unfair. I never said that your tenants don't matter—”

“Unfair, sweetheart, is being tossed out on your ear because some silver-suit has a crooked deal with his vestry. But you're right, aye, why bother with the seventy-six who would pay most dearly for it? Poor wretches. Factory workers and dockhands. I doubt their fate would keep you up at night, for all that their hands don't look so different than yours.”

She took a sharp breath. “I am no snob—”

His harsh crack of laughter silenced her. “You? That's rich.”

“When have I ever said—”

He rose, the drink clenched in his hand. “You say it in a hundred ways, Catherine. You think I didn't see your face, when we walked through that crowd at the B Meeting? You asked about consumption. That sideways look, the lift of your brow—you think I don't speak that language? I learned it as a lad. I learned it in the street, sweeping the path so the likes of
you
could cross without dirtying your skirts.”

He'd been a crossing sweep?

“Pennies,” he said. He set his glass on the table without making a sound, and somehow the care he took to do so was more unnerving than his anger had been. “Folks crossing the road, they tossed their coins at my
feet, because they didn't want to risk touching my hand, lest I carry some sickness. And did I blame them for it? Not once. I knew there was a better world, where babes didn't cough in their cradles, and sickness didn't come regular as church on Sunday. I didn't blame you for asking about the consumption. Why would I? It's a wonder you came with me at all. In your shoes, I would never have done it. Never would have left the West End. For I know what it's like. I saw it as a boy. Peeked into your windows, when the street was empty. Made a fine sight for a boy like me. Chairs for everyone. Piano in the corner. Always a fire in the hearth—real wood, no coal to fume up the place. You ever stayed up all night, Catherine, struggling to breathe? Choking on the smoke that keeps you warm?”

“No,” she whispered. “I don't . . . why are you angry with
me
?”

He ran a hand up his face, clawed through his hair. “I'm not,” he said on a sigh. “It's not your fault. Nor your brother's, either.” He pulled a quick grimace. “Not even Pilcher's. You think I blame your kind for tossing their pennies? No. Why risk what you've got? Why risk that little piece of heaven?”

She shook her head. Whatever heaven he referred to, it did not encompass her experience. A wood fire and sufficient chairs could not make a paradise. She'd grown up taking for granted the roof over her head—she couldn't argue that. But there had never been peace beneath it. The only peace she'd ever found was at Everleigh's.

He misread her silence, perhaps. A curious smile twisted his lips. “And now you've got no words,” he said. “That look on your face—it's pity, I expect.”

She recoiled. “No,” she said. “Not for you.”

“Not for me.” His tone was sarcastic. “I'm not poor enough, I reckon. Or deserving. It's the fashion, ain't it, to save your pity for the
deserving
poor.”

She felt the first lick of temper. She would not be chided by
him.
“If so, then you're right, you certainly don't deserve a trace of sympathy on either account.”

“Good,” he said coolly. “And don't bother with the people you see in the streets here, either. They don't want your pity, and they don't care that you won't touch them. They don't want your respect, either. What they want is what you've
got.
And that's what scares you the most, ain't it? Because you know you've got more than your fair share. You know it's not right. The Bible tells you so.”

“I have earned my keep,” she said, very low.

He snorted. “Sure, you lot will say that, won't you? Sit around your fine wood fires at night, come up with reasons for why you deserve what you have. And
that
,
Catherine, is what burned me as a lad. I never wanted your respect. I never cared for your pity. But with God as my witness, I wanted you to know that the only thing separating us was luck. When I swept the road, I wasn't scrambling to do it out of respect. I was only doing it for money.
That
was what I wanted the toffs to realize, just for a
second.
”

He took a deep breath, then issued a curt laugh as he sat down again. “Of course, then I grew up.” He pressed his palms together against his lips for a long moment, his rings glittering in the firelight. “I grew up and realized it ain't so simple. Manners and family and whatnot—bloody aristocracy, breeding—the lies are piled thick as hail. And I saw I was never going to prove them
wrong. The con had been going on too long. Fighting it would take a greater man than I.”

He lowered his hands and fixed her in a cold, steady gaze. “So I decided not to play that game. I made a game of my own instead. And I decided no man was going to beat me at it. Pilcher wants to try? Good luck to him. He's not the first. And he sure as hell won't win.” He paused. “So. Your brother says he won't help me? Then I'll find another way. A way to make him, maybe. You understand?”

Her hands, knotted together at her waist, were trembling. She tightened them, willing them to steady.

He noticed. His gaze dropped to her lap, and his expression gentled. He reached out, laid his palm over her knuckles. “Catherine,” he said. “You're one of mine now, too. So there's no call to shake.”

“I'm not shaking,” she lied.

He studied her a long, silent moment. Then he eased out of the chair, kneeling with lithe grace in front of her chair. “You're safe here,” he said. His thumb stroked lightly over her knuckles. “You believe that?”

“Yes.” She felt no hesitation in saying so. After his heated, radical speech, that seemed a proper wonder. But she did not shake for fear.

His pale eyes were steady and unfathomably beautiful. He lifted her hands, pressing his lips softly against them. Perhaps he felt her breath catch, for as he glanced up, the taut line of his mouth eased. He slipped his hand through the heavy mass of her chignon. “No dye for this color,” he said huskily.

“No,” she whispered.

Very slowly, he pulled her toward him. Their lips met. The kiss was slow, impossibly strange—him kneel
ing before her, her heart still thudding from shock. Her eyes drifted shut. His mouth was soft, almost tender. She felt herself sag, tension melting from her back as he nuzzled her.

At last, she made herself avert her face. “What poor taste you have,” she said very softly. “To kiss one of the lot whom you damned as unchristian.”