Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (15 page)

She nodded. “What’s in his file?”

“Nothing,” Cross said absently, collecting the cards and shuffling once more. “There’s a sister.”
Cynthia West.
A pretty girl, welcome in Society despite her lack of breeding. West’s money had purchased her support. “Unmarried.”

Georgiana nodded, knowing better than anyone what was inside the slim file in her safe. “And nothing else.”

“Nothing at all?”

She’d looked a few times in the early years, but she’d stopped as West had become ally in her battle with Society. “Not much,” Bourne replied. “His initial funding came from an anonymous donor for the gossip rag, which came to pay for the other papers. I’ve looked for evidence of the donor for years, but no one seems to know anything about it, except that there was a fair amount of money involved.”

“Nonsense,” Cross said. “There’s always a trail when it comes to money.”

“Not this money,” Bourne replied.

“Family money?”

“He’s not landed. There appears to be no one but the sister,” she said.

“So, he had a mysterious benefactor,” Temple said. “So did we at the beginning.” The Duke of Leighton had bankrolled his sister’s whim, with the understanding that no one ever know his identity – a condition to which Georgiana had been only too happy to agree.

She met the Duke of Lamont’s black gaze. “You’re saying he’s a man with no secrets.”

“I’m saying that he’s a man with no interesting secrets.”

She shook her head. “Everyone has an interesting secret. West is man enough to have more than one. So tell me, why don’t we know them?”

Temple’s gaze narrowed on her. “You can’t mean to search for them.”

She did not like the condemnation in his tone. “You’ve never stopped me before. When we founded this casino, it was with the understanding that you were in charge of the ring, Bourne the tables, Cross the books. And I was in charge of the information we needed to ensure that the venture succeeded.”

Cross spoke up. “If you do this, you play with fire. He has a great deal of power.”

“As do I.”

“But his power grows as Chase’s is diminished. Your secrets will destroy you.”

“West won’t discover the truth.”

Cross did not look so certain. “They always learn the truth.”

“Who?”

He did not answer the question, which suited her fine, as she did not like the hint of what he might have said. “Do not tempt the lion, Anna. Not this one. Not one who is so much a friend.”

She thought of the kiss earlier in the evening. There was nothing about it that was friendly. Indeed, it had pleasured and tempted and teased and devastated, but it had not been friendly. It had done nothing but make her want him, and she knew that wanting a man was not the same as trusting him. She’d learned that the last time she’d been kissed. The first time she’d been kissed.

She needed protection from him.

Not him
. The thought whispered through her.

Perhaps it was right. Perhaps she did not need protection from him. Perhaps she needed protection from herself. From how he made her feel.

But either way, one thing was certain.

“Friend or foe, he knows my secrets.” She looked to her partners. “I need to know his.”

She was saved from having to face their questions by a knock at the door. Cross called for the newcomer to enter – only a handful of people knew the owners’ suite existed, each person trusted without question.

Justin Day, the casino’s pit boss, entered, finding her instantly, and crossing the room to her.

“Is it done?” she asked.

The majordomo nodded once. “Burlington, Montlake, and Russell, each happy to end their suit.”

Bourne turned curious. “Suit of whom?”

Temple replied, “Aren’t they all after the Earl of Holborn’s girl?”

Four heads turned in the duke’s direction. Georgiana voiced their collective disdain. “Your newfound interest in Society is terribly unsettling.”

Temple shrugged one enormous shoulder. “They are after her, though, aren’t they?”

Not since Lady Mary Ashehollow called Caroline a whore, they weren’t.

She did not reply, and neither did Justin. “There is more,” he said.

She turned to a nearby clock, noted the time, and knew without asking what news he brought. “Lady Tremley.”

Justin nodded. “At the ladies’ entrance.”

Bourne’s brows rose. “How did you know that?”

“What is she doing here?” Cross asked.

“She was invited,” she said, drawing a dark look from her partners.

“We did not discuss inviting her,” Temple said.

No, they hadn’t. She had sent the invitation within the hour of West’s leaving, several days earlier.

She did not tell them the whole truth, afraid that they might reject West’s request. Afraid they would not realize how much she needed West. The fear made her angry. She did not like feeling out of control. “I made a decision for all of us.”

“She’s dangerous. Tremley is dangerous,” Bourne warned. “If she offers his information – if he finds out —”

“I am not a child,” she reminded him. “I can connect the spots. What of the lady?”

Justin said, “Bruno says she’s a black eye.”

“Ah. Vengeance, thy name is woman.”

“If her husband is such a coward that he must resort to beating his wife, I’ll personally help her exact it,” Bourne said.

Justin replied. “She asks for Chase.”

“She shall have Anna instead.” She turned and smoothed her skirts.

Bourne met her gaze. “Be careful. I don’t like you dressed like a whore when none of us are there to protect you.”

“This isn’t a dark alley in the East End.”

“Chase,” he said, using the name he’d given her a half decade earlier, reminding them all of their history. “This is much more dangerous.”

She smiled, warm with the knowledge that they worried about her, this motley band of rogues she’d amassed. “Yes, but it is danger of my own design. I’m native to it.”

Bourne looked to the stained glass, his gaze lingering on Lucifer’s wings, useless as he fell. “It does not mean that there won’t come a day when it will swallow you up.”

“Possibly,” she allowed. “But it won’t be today.” She followed his gaze to the window, where the beautiful blond angel tumbled into Hell. “Today, I reign.”

In minutes, she was belowstairs, at the ladies’ entrance to the club, where Bruno, one of the Angel’s main security detail, stood watch in the dim light. Next to him was Lady Tremley, a beautiful woman in her twenties who sported one of the worst shiners Georgiana had ever seen, despite the Angel being known for its nightly bare-knuckle fights.

With a nod to Bruno, she opened the door to a small antechamber off the dark entryway. “My lady,” she said quietly, startling the other woman. “Will you join me?”

Lady Tremley looked skeptical, but followed Georgiana into the room, taking in the sitting room, appointed as though it were prepared for ladies of the
ton
to take their afternoon tea instead of gambling and gossiping and playing at life as their husbands did.

Georgiana indicated a settee, upholstered in blue velvet. “Please.”

The lady sat. “I asked to see Mr. Chase.”

And Chase she saw.

Georgiana sat across from Lady Tremley. “Chase is indisposed, my lady. He sends his regards, and hopes you will consider speaking to me instead.”

The marchioness took in the low neckline of Georgiana’s dress, the height of her pale blond wig, the dark kohl around her eyes, and saw what everyone saw when they looked at her. A skilled prostitute. “I don’t think —”

A rap came on the door, and Georgiana opened it to receive a package from Bruno, who was long-skilled in the art of knowing what the founders of The Fallen Angel required without being asked. Closing the door, she approached the lady, extending the linen parcel, filled with ice. “For the eye.”

The marchioness took it. “Thank you.”

“We know about bruises here.” Georgiana sat. “All sorts.”

They remained unspeaking as Lady Tremley held the compress over her eye. Georgiana had had this precise meeting too many times to count, and she recognized the lady. A woman eager for something more than that which life had offered her. Eager for something that would entertain and enrich and engage. Something that would change her in some small, private way, allowing her to suffer through her long days of propriety. And if the black eye were to be considered, something that would see her through long days of marriage, as well.

The key was to let the lady speak first. Always.

After long minutes, Lady Tremley lowered the ice and unlocked herself. “Thank you.”

Georgiana nodded. “Of course.”

“I am sorry.”

It always began this way. With apology. As though the lady had some hand in the cards she had been dealt. As though she weren’t simply made female and, therefore, less than.

“There is no need to be.” It was the truth.

“Surely you have something else…” The lady trailed off.

Georgiana waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing of import.”

Lady Tremley nodded once, looking down to confess to her skirts, “I judged you harshly when you appeared.”

Georgiana laughed. “You think you are the first?” She leaned back in her chair. “I am Anna.”

The marchioness’s eyes went wide. Georgiana was used to shock from proper ladies when she treated them as equals. It was the first test; the one that proved their mettle. “Imogen.”

The lady passed.

“Welcome to The Fallen Angel, Imogen. You may trust that whatever is said between us is shared only with Chase.”

“I have heard of you. You’re his…” She stopped, rethinking the word
doxy
, choosing a rhyming one instead. “His proxy.”

“Among other things.”

The lady hesitated, fiddling with the gold satin. Georgiana thought it was not a common action for the wife of one of the King’s closest councilors. “I received an invitation from Mr. Chase. I am told there is a woman’s club.”

Georgiana smiled. “No sewing circles or reading societies to be found, I am afraid.”

Lady Tremley’s gaze turned shrewd. “I am not as simpering as you might imagine.”

Georgiana let her attention fall to the bruise on the lady’s face. “I don’t imagine that you are simpering at all.”

Lady Tremley flushed, but Georgiana didn’t imagine that it was embarrassment that caused it. No doubt, if the woman were here, she’d long passed embarrassment at her husband’s actions. She was well into anger. “I understand that to gain acceptance, I must provide information.”

Georgiana was still for a long moment. “I don’t know where you would have heard such a thing.”

Imogen’s gaze narrowed. “I am not a fool.”

“Who is to say that Chase does not already have this information? As you must have heard, we’ve a file thick as his thumb on every important man in London.”

“He does not have this,” the lady said, lowering her voice and looking to the door. “No one has this.”

Georgiana did not believe that for a moment. “Not even the King?”

The lady shook her head. “It would ruin Tremley. Forever.” There was something in the words, eagerness. Excitement. The heady triumph that comes with revenge.

Georgiana leaned back. “We are aware that your husband steals from the exchequer.”

Lady Tremley’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

It was true.
 

How had West known it, dammit?

How had West known it and she hadn’t?

She collected herself, took a second run. “And we know that he pays it to fund the arming of our enemies.”

The lady looked as though the wind had been taken from her sails, even as years of practice kept Georgiana from leaning forward in her seat and asking,
Truly?
Because she hadn’t entirely believed it when West had said it. If it were true, after all, the earl was guilty of treason. And he would hang for it if it were ever let out.

It was the kind of information that a man would kill to keep secret. And from the look of his wife’s face, he was not a man to hesitate when it came to violence.

Georgiana spoke again. “I am afraid, my lady, that the price of your entry to The Fallen Angel will be proof of these things that we know. However, before we continue, you must be very certain that you are willing to offer this proof freely to Chase. To the Angel.” She paused. “You should understand that once it is ours, given in exchange for membership, we reserve the right to use it. At any time.”

“I understand.” The marchioness’s gaze was full of eager triumph.

Georgiana leaned forward. “You understand that you speak of treason.”

“I do.”

“That he would hang if he were discovered.”

Triumph turned dark. Cold. “Let him hang.”

One of Georgiana’s blond brows rose at the unfeeling words. That Tremley was a bastard was of little surprise. That his wife was a Boadicea was entirely the opposite. “Fair enough. Do you have proof?”

The marchioness reached into her bodice and extracted several pieces of torn paper, singed around the edges. She thrust them in Georgiana’s direction. “Show him these.”

Georgiana opened the slips of paper, piecing them together on the red silk of her skirts. She scanned the incriminating text on them. Looked up at the wife. “How did you —”

“My husband is less intelligent than the King gives him credit for. He tosses his correspondence into the fire, but he does not wait to ensure that it is incinerated.”

“Then —” Georgiana began.

Imogen finished the sentence. “There are dozens more.”

Georgiana was silent for a long moment, considering the implications of this woman. Of her stolen letters. Of the way they might help her this very night.

They would win her Duncan West’s help and, by extension, they would secure her future and that of her daughter.

New information always gave her a heady thrill, but this – it was a good day.

“I am certain I speak for Chase when I say, ‘Welcome to The Other Side.’”

Lady Tremley smiled then, and the expression opened her, removed the weathered lines of her face. Returned her youth.

“You are welcome to stay,” Georgiana said.