Luck Be a Lady (5 page)

“Wasn't only you who was kidnapped,” he said mildly.

She let triumph curve her lips. “Indeed. Your niece was also endangered. Pity we had to save ourselves. At any rate, if either of us did overindulge in the ­aftermath—which I did
not
—then it was not from any inclination to intemperance, but merely from a natural wish to forget the events that preceded it. To say nothing of the company in which I found myself afterward!” Here, she gave him a pointed look.

His brows climbed. “There's a proper speech. I think I preferred you drunk.”

“I told you, I was
not—
”
She cut herself off with a hiss. No use in arguing with this ruffian. And, truth be told, she had not been entirely . . . herself that evening.

If only she
could
manage to forget the whole of it. But she remembered saying some very forward things at the end of the night, to do with Mr. O'Shea's face and figure . . . and the amount he might bring at auction, were he a sculpture for sale . . .

Oh, she refused to think on it. She had vowed never to drink again.

She crossed her arms and looked over his shoulder toward the tenement. “Please go.”

“In a minute, I'm tossing you over my shoulder.”

She recoiled. “You wouldn't dare.”

But perhaps he would. His smile looked rakish. “You might enjoy it. I seem to recall a fine compliment to my shoulders, last time we met. I'd put it down to the drink, but you say you were sober. Well, then. Your sober self, Miss Everleigh, adjudged me a handsomely equipped man.”

Mortification crawled through her. “You're a churl.”

“Maybe. Course, a churl wouldn't drive you home. He might throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his coach, though. Why don't you think on it for a moment.” As another spate of rain dampened them, he grimaced and said, “I'll give you five seconds.”

She darted another glance at the tenement. Peter might be in that building for hours, yet, and the light was fading now. “Fine. I will allow you to hail me a hackney.”

“It's a wonder,” he said, “that you ain't been robbed yet. You travel much by cab?”

“I would sooner trust a cabman than you,” she said through her teeth.

“You think you've got anything I want?” As his gaze trailed over her, she flushed and crossed her arms again. “Ah,” he said, laughter twitching at his lips. “I see. You reckon me a lecher.”

“I see the insult gratifies you.”

“Oh, I'm gratified by something.” His gaze lifted again, but his smile had faded. “You didn't get that idea from my niece,” he murmured. “Which means you cooked it up all by yourself. You think of me, Catherine, when you're lying in bed at night? God knows I've thought of you, once or twice.”

She gaped at him. Never had any man spoken to her so vulgarly.
You flatter yourself:
it
did not seem like a properly sharp retort.

The truth would not serve, either. God help her, how did he see it? Since their first meeting, she had wondered about him. He was so very . . . free . . . in his attitudes and behavior. She had never met anybody like him.

He made some soft noise, then stepped toward her. The alley was not wide. Inches separated them now. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body, so welcome in the damp. She shrank against the brick wall, her pulse drumming in her throat. “What—what are you doing?”

“Wondering,” he said softly. He cupped her cheek, his palm warm and rough. She sucked in a breath, and smelled coffee and soap, where she'd expected gin. She could see the fine black grain of his oncoming stubble; his eyes were the shade of mist on a meadow, gray mixing with the faintest hint of green.

She averted her face, appalled by herself. “Let go of me.”

His thumb made a soft, lingering stroke down the slope of her jaw. “I'm not holding you,” he said. “Seems a pity, don't it?”

She swallowed. “Please.”

“Please, what?” He spoke very low into her ear. She felt his nose brush against her hair. He was nuzzling into her, and the knowledge, as much as the sensation, sent a shiver over her skin. “You're blushing,” he said, and the surprise in his voice made her blush harder. “Tell me, Catherine. What do you imagine I'll do to you, if I get you alone in a carriage?”

She rolled her lips and bit them. She knew how to handle men like this. She took a steadying breath, then made herself look at him directly.

The devil had given his henchman a face and form
of spectacular charms—and
she
was a woman whose ­occupation required her to find beauty in unlikely contexts. She would not fault herself for noticing his physical appeal. Perhaps it was educational. Looking at him, she understood the riveting force that drew men to look at
her.

But a businesswoman could not afford feminine weaknesses. This shivering heat in her—she must crush it. “Were we alone in the carriage,” she said, “I imagine you'd clutch your guts and howl.”

A frown pinched his brow. “And why is that?”

“Because I would hit you so hard that you'd topple.”

With a shout of laughter, he stepped away from her. “Superintendent called you cold as ice,” he said, grinning. “I told him he must have delivered that note to the wrong woman. Miss Everleigh, I told him, is the hottest lady you'll ever meet.”

A horrified puff of air escaped her. “You did
not
say that!”

His shrug looked lazy and raffish. He would never be mistaken for a man of breeding. Gentlemen moved stiffly, in a disciplined fashion, not with the slinking, prowling laxity of a feline. “Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe I hope that you save your hot little temper all for me.”

She drew herself to her full height. She was not
little.
And he was a perverse lunatic, if he mistook temper for something to covet. “It was distaste that the superintendent saw on my face,” she said sharply. “I have no fondness for corruption. And to see the chief of the Whitechapel police playing lackey for a man such as you—it is loathsome to me.”

He lifted one black brow. “A man such as me? What kind of man is that, I'd like to know?”

“A criminal, of course. Surely you don't expect people
to pretend that you're law abiding. Why, you yourself admit that you own a gambling den!”

He made a chiding click with his tongue. “Such horror,” he said. “You're clearly an upright soul. Which brings me to wonder again why you're wandering through Whitechapel. Plenty of dirt here, where a proper fly like you is generally drawn to nothing but honey.”

She snorted. “So now I am a fly, when earlier, I was a wet cat. Your thinking is disordered, Mr. O'Shea. Pity. It must be for want of a proper education.”

“Something is disordered,” he said agreeably, “to bring you here. If it was slumming you wanted, you could have gone south of the river; I've no stake in what happens to stupid girls in Southwark. But your idiocy won't become my problem.” His tone grew brusque as he held out his hand. “Let's go. Time for you to toddle back to the polite part of town.”

Was there anything more galling than male condescension? She sidestepped his reach—and the tenement door opened.

At last! And Peter wasn't coming out alone. She acted without thought, grabbing O'Shea's arm and dragging him behind the cover of the wall.

He was built like an animal, a muscled beast of burden. No gentleman's arm felt so . . . hard.

Peter stepped out. His companion lingered in the darkness of the doorway as they spoke, the shadows concealing his face. “Do you know that man?” she whispered.

O'Shea cut her a sardonic glance. “I believe that's your brother.”

“The other one!”

When he shrugged, she realized she was still gripping his arm. Flushing, she pulled her hand away, and locked the errant fingers through their better-behaved twins. “If you do know him, please tell me. I'll make it worth your—”

But she fell silent as the man emerged, for she recognized his face. What on earth was the
scarecrow
doing here?

“Ah,” said O'Shea. “Now, that is interesting.”

She cut a startled glance at him. “Do
you
know Mr. Pilcher?”

He turned toward her, a predatory ruthlessness in his expression as he took her measure, top to toe. “Seems we've got something to discuss, after all.”

CHAPTER THREE

G
ambling was illegal. But the House of Diamonds made no effort to conceal itself. Tucked away in a cobbled court adjoining the high road, it towered over the surrounding buildings, its facade of pillowed golden stone a sumptuous contrast to the dinginess around it. Through the arched gateway that opened into the court, lacquered carriages waited in orderly queue, discharging gentlemen in evening dress as they reached the red-carpeted walkway. The double doors, painted a brazen scarlet, swung open almost before visitors could lift the brass knocker.

To Catherine's amazement, a bobby loitered on the nearby corner, swinging his baton and looking with perfect indifference on the parade of patrons.

Beside her, Mr. O'Shea was gazing at the building with a look of clear affection. “Handsome, isn't she?”

Handsome was one word for the place. Every bay window was picked out in a shining black frame, the view from within blocked by swags of red velvet that some secret source of illumination caused to glow as
­lividly as lit coal. “Did you deliberately choose the devil's colors, or was that a happy coincidence?”

O'Shea laughed. “Come,” he said. “I'll take you in through the rear.”

Relieved, she followed him down a narrow footpath that wound between the shabbier buildings. It would hardly suit her to be seen entering such an infamous place. Indeed, she could scarcely believe she was entering it at all.

But she had wanted a meeting with O'Shea. And now she had managed to win it. Dared she fall back on her earlier plan? The intervening month had not offered other solutions. Her situation had only grown more dire.

After three sharp turns, they arrived at a side door, painted black. O'Shea's knock was answered by a young man in dark livery. A perfect thug, with a shock of disorderly auburn hair, a black eye, and a split lip. “Callan,” O'Shea said briefly. “Been brawling?”

“Seems it.” The man inclined his head to Mr. O'Shea, but seemed not to see her as he stepped aside. She had the impression, as she passed into a dim, carpeted hallway, that he was practiced in ignoring Mr. O'Shea's female companions.

The notion left her unsettled as she followed O'Shea's swift progress up a narrow stair. It was difficult, with the muffled sounds of carousing and celebration that penetrated the dark stairwell, not to feel as though she were poised on the precipice of disaster. Trawling the innards of London's most notorious club, with its ringmaster as her guide—were she a proper lady, she would be feeling faint.

But she had never aspired to gentility. As they reached
the second landing, O'Shea opened an unmarked door. The raucous laughter and rattle of dice abruptly grew clear, and a strange feeling of pride surged through her. Here was proof, she thought, of her dedication and resolve. Probably she would follow O'Shea into hell itself, if it offered a chance at saving the auction rooms.

They emerged onto a balcony carpeted in the same lurid crimson nap as the street-facing swags. What she saw so amazed her that she drifted to the balcony railing to inspect it more closely.

The balcony overlooked a room three stories high, capped by a frescoed ceiling depicting the heavens. The robed figures were painted in the style of Michelangelo—though these were not saints or angels, but a pantheon of Greek deities, whose vices were graphically depicted.

“Shocked?”

O'Shea's voice came very close to her ear. She shook her head. She had seen far too many paintings in her time to be mortified by the sight of bare breasts and genitals. “Irritated,” she said. “I recognize Mr. Taylor's brush.” He was a talented rogue. “His forgeries often find their way into our clients' collections. If I knew his address, I would send him a bill for all the time I've wasted weeding out his copies.”

“I didn't mean the ceiling.”

“Oh.” She glanced down into the gambling hall. Between pillars of amber marble, thick swags of cream and scarlet velvet veiled the walls. They provided a theatrical backdrop to deep-cushioned sofas and handsome mahogany end tables, nooks offering a cozy respite for fatigued players. In the center of the hall, chandeliers suspended on bronze chains cast an electric illumina
tion that blazed across champagne glasses, dice, and crystal table lamps. The green baize gaming tables were scattered at well-spaced intervals, each secluded by an encircling stand of potted ferns. But to those above, each table was perfectly visible. With the aid of binoculars, Catherine could have read the hand of every player.

Editorials fulminating against the House of Diamonds painted a seedy picture of dilapidation and decay, the better to evidence the corruption of the man who owned it. But clearly the authors had never set foot in here. The great resorts of Monte Carlo and Nice looked similar.

“I'm not shocked,” she said. “Even children play cards.” What was shocking, she expected, was the amount gambled and lost here each night. It was not yet five o'clock, but half the tables were full. “It must be crushed in the evenings.”

“We've other, more private salons,” O'Shea said. “Six hundred can be accommodated, easily.”

Six hundred! “Has it ever reached such a number?”

“Come back after supper and see for yourself.”

She recognized that easy confidence in his voice. Once she had felt the same way about Everleigh's capacities. How long ago that seemed! Now, as an honorable businesswoman, she would do better to turn away new clients. She could not promise them a fair auction when Peter was looting the accounts—much less planning to sell the place.

O'Shea was her last hope for fixing things. He was the devil's minion, but surely their meeting had been arranged by Providence.

“You have no partners?” she asked him.

O'Shea propped his elbows on the rail beside her,
watching the floor with the calm, narrow-eyed attention of a conscientious proprietor. “Never saw the use.”

“But surely you required investors to fund this place.” It would have taken a great deal of money to construct and furbish such a palace. She could clear his debts for him.

He slid her an unreadable look. “I had the capital.”

She glanced away to hide her surprise. Lilah had told her that O'Shea was well situated, but Catherine had not imagined the degree of it. “How long until you're in the black?” she asked cautiously.

His smile was slow and satisfied. “Broke even in the first year.”

“The first year!” How disheartening—and also, she begrudgingly allowed, how impressive. This was clearly a successful enterprise. She recognized some of the players below from their dealings at Everleigh's—men with the deepest pockets in Britain. Why, one of them was a Cabinet member, who had made his reputation in crusades against corruption and crime.

“I'm surprised,” she said, “that some of these men would risk being caught here.”

“Hence my eyes on the streets,” O'Shea said. “My patrons know they can trust me for discretion.”

How odd, that a criminal should have what her brother most wanted: the confidence of important people. “Crime pays, it seems.”

His mouth briefly quirked. “So it does. Perhaps, instead of billing Taylor, you should hire him to cook up a masterpiece for your auction.”

He was shameless, but she'd expected no different. “Perhaps I would do, if money were all I cared about. But there is also the small matter of honor.”

“Mm,” he said. “Honor, quite right. Not as useful as a ha'penny match, when it comes to keeping the fire lit.”

“There are more important things than keeping warm.”

“So there are,” he said. “Power, for one. Those men below? They know I have them . . . here.” He held out his hand, miming, with his long figures, the act of catching and cupping something. His rings glittered in the glare of the chandeliers.

“I suppose that's how you keep this place open,” she said slowly. “For it certainly doesn't look like a social club, from this vantage.”

He offered her a wink. “Plenty of friendships made over dice. But, aye . . . it helps to hold the markers of men who make the laws.” He straightened off the rail and offered his arm. When she pointedly rebuffed it, he shrugged and set a springing pace down the curving balcony.

“It still seems unwise to me,” she said as she followed, “to invest so much in a place that could be shut down at any moment.”

“Like I said, I make sure to oil the gears.”

But superintendents of police retired, and elections changed the composition of Parliament. “If the gears were to change, the new machinery might not prove so amenable to your oil.”

He grinned as he opened an unmarked door. “Kind of you to worry for me.”

She stepped past him into a spacious office, the walls papered in dark print, the carpet a fine Smyrna facsimile. How odd, that the devil's den should smell faintly of lavender!

As she settled into a wing chair, the leather received
her like a soft embrace. O'Shea took a seat behind the desk, which was magnificent in its own right—carved ornately in walnut, with legs fashioned to look like serpentine sea dragons.

She touched one finely etched claw. “This is not a reproduction,” she said with surprise. This desk was three hundred years old, at least.

“Is that so?” O'Shea sounded pleased. “I wasn't certain.” He ran the flat of his palm across the smooth surface of the desktop. “I liked it, though.”

A fluke. She imagined his taste ran more often toward cheap gilt. Nevertheless . . . “Should you ever wish to sell this, I think it could go for eighty pounds.”

He grinned. “A good bargain, then. He only owed fifty.”

She pulled her hand back into her lap. Evidently this desk had been looted from some wretch who could not pay his debts. That rather spoiled her appreciation of it. “And if you hadn't liked his desk?”

He met her eyes squarely. “Then we would have had a problem.”

She hesitated. If she meant to propose an arrangement between them, she must also know that she could trust him not to . . . abuse her. “Would you have harmed him?”

He tipped his head slightly as he considered her. The thoughtful angle caused a lock of thick black hair to slip over one of his gray eyes. Oddly, her hand itched to wipe that curl away.

“I don't run a charity,” he said evenly. “But I've never killed a man over a debt.”

A chill ran over her, drawing her skin tight. He had killed men for other things? “I see.”

A flicker of dark humor curved his full lips. “If you're feeling faint, I'll remind you that you came here of your own free will—and you're welcome to leave that way, too.”

“I never faint.” She loosed a long breath. “May I ask, then, what you deem a proper cause for murder?”

He quirked one brow. “Feeling bloodthirsty?”

“Merely curious.”

O'Shea studied her, his dark face impassive. She sensed herself being assessed, gauged for anxiety or weakness. But he would find none.

As for his weaknesses . . . She had been trained from a young age to evaluate items for flaws. One might fault his cheekbones for their stark, sharp prominence—but his square jaw balanced them very well. His lips were vulgar, full and shockingly carnal. But the rough line of his nose drew one's attention away before judgment could crystallize.

She had seen no women on the gaming floor. That must be by policy. Otherwise, she'd no doubt that women of low taste would be lining up to play, simply for the chance at glimpsing him.

“Violence is a clumsy way of solving things,” he said. “But on rare occasions, it's necessary.”

“And you consider yourself a good judge of when it's needed?”

He paused. “You had a proposal for me last month. If it was a killing you wanted, you're looking in the wrong direction.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “It had nothing to do with hurting anybody.”

“No?” He laced his hands together atop the desk, flexing them so his rings glittered. “What did it concern, then? Pilcher, I take it.”

She hesitated. Did she really mean to do this? Propose an alliance with a . . . ruffian, a gambler, and a crime lord?

“Come now, darling. If it ain't murder, it can't be so bad.”

She flushed. Perhaps it was not his face that drew her. Her memory for faces was poor, but she never forgot a voice. His was rich and smooth. Night-dark, resonant.

Suddenly she felt reckless. What did she have to lose? Association with O'Shea might ruin her reputation. But losing the auction house would destroy
her.
“Pilcher isn't the problem. It's my brother, Peter Everleigh. I dislike to say it, but he's not fit to run a business.”

“Certainly he's got no talent at cards,” Mr. O'Shea said pleasantly.

She stared. “He comes here?”

“Once or twice. Never left but with pockets to let.”