Luck Be a Lady (30 page)

God in heaven. She set the package down very slowly on the desk, for fear she would drop it. “What did you do?”

His face looked bleak, but his voice leveled, recovering the usual polish of his vowels. “I did it. For her sake, I did it. Took some persuasion, of course. Some tears. But for her sake, I went down on my knees and I kissed that bastard's boot.” His mouth curved. “And he lost not a moment in kicking me straight in the face. Broke my nose, chipped off a nice piece of one tooth.”

Her hands were over her mouth. How they'd gotten there, she didn't know. She felt the ragged rush of her breath, shockingly hot in the chill of the room.

He shrugged. “He took her in, though. Not that it made a difference. Babe came too early. Took her along to the grave.”

It was too much. She found herself stepping toward him, reaching for him, her hands closing on the soft wool of his sleeve. “Mr. O'Shea—” But no, that was not right. It was profane. “
Nicholas.
I'm so—”

“Don't say you're sorry,” he cut in softly. “Like I said, I haven't dwelled on it in years. But the lesson it taught
me, I'll never forget. You don't beg for anyone. For it never comes to good. Nothing's worth that price. And I don't mean the price is honor or pride. I mean, it's got to do with knowing your own worth. The world will crush you, if you let it. So you don't. You stand tall. And you never stoop, because there's nothing worth having that requires you to grovel.”

For a brief, blessed moment, he cupped her cheek in his gloved hand. And then he stepped backward, removing himself from her touch, so her own hands closed on empty air. He nodded toward the desk, the register book she'd left there.

“I won't keep you trapped,” he said. “Not even for five years. You burn that book, and nobody can say this marriage ever happened. You're free as a bird, Kitty. And I won't beg you to come back to me, even if I want to.” He exhaled. “And I do. There's the hell of it. You almost made me beg. Instead, I'll speak plainly: I want you. I love you. But you'll come freely, of your own choice. Or you won't.”

“I . . .”
Say it.
“I'll come,” she said hoarsely. “I think . . . I will come.”

He made a convulsive move, as though to grab her—but then he decided against it.

Instead, hands fisting at his sides, he withdrew another pace. “I don't want you to
think
,”
he said quietly. “I want you to
know.
I won't have you uncertain. And I won't have you in secret, either. I'll have you in front of the world, and you'll hold your head high beside me. Or I'll not have you at all.”

He turned on his heel. Her heart leapt into her throat, choking her, uncontainable. She opened her mouth—and he turned back.

“One more thing,” he said gruffly. “I'm taking over the seat for Whitechapel on the Board of Works. You were right, I guess. It was time.”

The breath left her. “You were right, too,” she whispered.

But he did not hear her. Or he pretended not to. Without another word, he left.

*    *   *

It was one of those rare mornings that rightfully belonged to October, but had somehow found its way into December by mistake. The sun shone brightly through the bare-branched trees, and the park was full of nannies in black gowns, overseeing the games of children in neatly starched pinafores and smartly-pressed trousers.

Catherine paused to watch the scene. To draw another deep lungful of the bracing air. Winter was upon them. She would long soon enough for the days when she had walked down the pavement without regard for the chill. This moment in particular would come to mind—one of the rarest in her life, for she never acted rashly, without first feeling certain of the outcome.

She had only done it twice before, in fact. The public auction. And the day she had wed Nicholas.

The sound of children's laughter followed her up the short flight of stairs. A uniformed servant opened the door for her, bowing smartly.

The lobby was mostly empty. One desk sat vacant; at the other, a single gentleman waited to speak with the clerk. The sight baffled her, brought her to a stop. She had counted on a longer queue. She had counted on a few more minutes, at least.

She found herself turning back toward the door, the sunlit scene without. The false promise of autumn, when winter was already here.

She caught herself with one hand on the door. Waved off the doorman and turned back into the room. She could not be sure of the outcome. The waiting would be painful. The result might shatter her. It might be too late.

But no part of her doubted her course.

“Madam?”

A new clerk had entered the lobby, was taking his seat at the desk. “May I help you?” he asked.

He looked very young, though she noticed a ring shining on his finger as she approached, which might have been a wedding band. Some men had taken to wearing them of late. But he looked too young to be a husband. She saw no sign of whiskers, and his cheeks looked plump, as though he still sat at his mother's table every night, cosseted and urged to eat more.

But maybe it was his wife who cosseted him. Maybe he was wiser than his years, and he had met a rare girl, and leapt to marry her, before he lost his chance to somebody quicker, bolder. More courageous. Rare chances, wondrous chances, did not come often.

“Ma'am?” He was frowning up at her, his sandy brows knitted. “Are you quite all right?”

“I am very well,” she said, and she sounded well; she sounded bold, decisive, a woman who knew how to seize an opportunity before it got away. “I would like to take out an announcement in your newspaper.”

“What kind of announcement?” he asked.

She smiled. “An announcement of marriage,” she said. “Mine, to Mr. Nicholas O'Shea.”

*    *   *

“You'll wear out the carpet,” Lilah drawled. “And I rather like it, for all that it's the most impractical color.”

Catherine wheeled. Lilah looked intolerably comfortable, stretched across the chaise longue beneath a cashmere throw, a book in her hand. She did not seem at all alarmed by the fact that the marriage announcement had been published to the world eight hours ago, plain as day, in stark black and white, albeit tucked in abominably small print in the very last page of the
Times.
Regardless, it was public knowledge now. Anyone might read of it.

Yet no visitors had called. Not a single rap at the door.

Nicholas O'Shea was nowhere in evidence.

“He's not coming.” For hours she had battled this awful suspicion, and now it came rushing out, acidic like bile. Like fear, fear such as she'd never known. “He's changed his mind. He gave me that register book
hoping
I'd burn it.”

“I very much doubt that.” Lilah cast aside her book and stretched, arms over her head, lolling with shameless abandon. Was she even wearing a corset? Her posture made Catherine very suspicious suddenly. “He's canny, I'll give you that much. But if he wanted it burned, he'd have burned it himself.”

“How can you be so calm?”

Lilah shoved herself up on one elbow. “Men can be very stubborn,” she said. “Perhaps you should call on him.”

“What? I can't!” The notion left her aghast. “Don't you see? He walked away from me. He said—he said I must prove myself. Well, I've done it. Must I do all the rest as well?”

Lilah sighed, then sat up fully. “Catherine,” she said. “You've lived at Diamonds. You've been to Neddie's. Have you ever seen a man in
either
of those locales making a study of marriage announcements in the
Times
?”

Spoken aloud, the idea seemed ludicrous. Mouth agape, she shook her head. “You can't . . . Do you think he hasn't seen it?”

“I think it possible that he has no idea what you've done. So perhaps you should go make it clear to him.”

She stood indecisively for a moment. Going to him was not at all what she'd imagined. Going to him meant . . . possibly facing his rejection in person. If the announcement wasn't enough—if he was not persuaded, if he
had
changed his mind—why, she did not think she could bear to witness the look on his face when he told her so.

“Consider this,” Lilah said. “Do you want to remain here, waiting, another day? Or possibly five, or ten?”

“You could write to him,” Catherine whispered.

“No,” Lilah said gently. “That would be wrong, and I think you know it.”

She pushed out a breath, then nodded. “May I borrow your coach?”

“Of course.” Lilah lay back again, smiling. “Oh, and if you pass Christian in the hall on your way out, tell him I have . . . something to show him.”

Catherine snorted. No doubt, then—Lilah was certainly not wearing a corset.

*    *   *

Without Johnson's key, she had no way to use the secret passage through the shop. For that matter, she needn't bother with secrecy, did she? Not when the rest of the world now knew of her marriage—even if, so she prayed, the other party had yet to realize it.

All the same, it was very odd to approach the front door of Diamonds and bear the mystified looks of two young swells waiting to be admitted. They gawked outright when Callan opened the door and admitted her straightaway, while leaving them to cool their heels on the grounds that the establishment did not open till half three.

“Is he upstairs?” she asked tensely as Callan led her past the empty baize tables.

“His office,” he said. “I don't think he's expecting you.”

The words scored her like claws. She bit her lip hard and summoned her courage. “That's all right,” she said. “I'll show myself up.”

His door stood ajar. She did not bother to knock, throwing it open and speaking at the same time. “Do you not read the newspaper?”

Nicholas was seated at his desk, working through a thick sheaf of papers. At the sound of her voice, he cast down his pen, but she saw his shoulders square before he looked up at her.

“No,” he said evenly. “Not on regular occasion.”

Her throat filled. Some knot she could not quite swallow. Nerves, maybe; hopes and fears and anxiety all tangled up in one lump. How well he looked. Not yet in his evening wear, not even fully dressed; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, but shirtsleeves became his broad shoulders very well. “Perhaps you should,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. “Reading is not my strong suit.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth. Lilah had been right. What an idiot she was! “Does
nobody
around here read the newspapers? Have a care for the state of the country? The stocks, the gossip, the . . . fashions?”

His brow lifted. “Is there a reason they should?”

His tone was all wrong. So polite, so distant, when in her dreams he was rushing toward her, wrapping her in his arms, putting her against a door the way he had done once, showing her with language deeper than words how much he wanted her. The disjuncture between fantasy and reality left her strangely off-balance, confused and dizzy. She felt trapped inside some poorly scripted farce, while he was following a different script, cold and refined. “I would imagine one of your—your customers might have mentioned it,” she said. But—of course; the club did not open until half three. Perhaps he'd met no customers yet today.

He rose from his desk, frowning. “Was there some story printed about the auction, then? Did word get out that the collection was mine?”

A disbelieving laugh spilled from her. “No! That is—yes! The
Times
did mention the sale. But there was also
this.
” She tossed her newspaper onto the desk and crossed her arms to hold her heart in her chest, for it was knocking hard enough to break free.

He looked down at it. Back up at her. “You might as well tell me,” he said flatly.

“No.” Suddenly she felt mutinous. He'd obviously had a very calm, collected morning. Meanwhile, she had been stewing in that house, stretched on a private rack of nerves, straining for the sound of a knock that had not come, agonizing—

She huffed out a breath. “Look for yourself. I don't care how long it takes you. I'll wait.” She dropped into a chair. “Go on. I have all day.”

“All day?” He lifted a brow as he came around the desk. “Work doesn't keep you?”

“Forget the auction rooms,” she snapped. “Read.”

“Forget the . . .” He gave her a marveling look, which narrowed as he reached for the newspaper. He leaned back against the desktop, looking down the front page.

“Not that page,” she blurted. “The very back.”

He flipped it over. She saw the effort he took, squinting as he scanned the print. For a man not easy with reading, it was no small task to look over the crowded columns, the crammed typeset, for a single unknown item.

She saw the moment when he reached her wedding announcement. The paper abruptly crumpled beneath the clench of his fist. He looked up at her, mouth agape. For one moment, she thought she saw a world of emotion in his face. She thought she saw a happy ending, after all.

And then he clawed a hand through his hair and burst into laughter. “By God,” he said, choking out the syllables. “He's done for, after all. Killed in one sentence.”

“What?” She sprang to her feet. “Who?”

“Your brother. You've finished him.”

He would talk now of her
brother
?
“Is that all you have to say?” She felt unaccountably furious, suddenly. For she had showed courage—she had proved that she had no doubts; that, rather than hiding, she would trumpet their marriage to the world. And he was
laughing
at her for it?

He shook his head, struggling for composure; put his fist against his mouth and dragged in a hoarse breath. “I was going to send word to you,” he said, his voice oddly rough. “Your brother—I had Pilcher broker the deal. Peter keeps his seat on the board, in exchange for selling his half of the auction rooms. But Pilcher and I mean to keep him useless, as far as the board goes. It's all done, Catherine.” He groped behind him, not taking his eyes off her as he found and held out the stack of papers he'd been looking through. “Everleigh's is yours. I had a solicitor draw up the transfer of sale.”