No Place for a Lady (6 page)

"'Ey now!" she cried, jumping up to her feet. "There's no need to roust 'im. 'E's me cull, and I means t' keep 'im!"

She turned to Ballast, but it was his son who stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "But you said you already cleaned 'im out. 'E's only got enough fer Gilly and a couple o' pints."

Fantine bit the inside of her lip, caught in her own lie. If what she had claimed was truly the case, then Rat would barely care what happened to her daft gent. Unless...

She straightened."'Ey now, 'e's got friends wot would come next time if'n I show 'im a good time. Don't be 'urting me future business."

Sprat's eyes narrowed with greed."'Ow many friends? 'Ow much future business?"

"Boy," cut in Chadwick, as he jerked awkwardly out of his captor's restraint. "Rat, what is going on here? I told you, you shall not receive a copper unless I return safe an' sound to Grosvenor Square."

Fantine breathed an internal sigh of relief. At least Chadwick retained enough wits to support her.

"Do not worry," said Ballast's son smoothly, adopting a cultured tone and friendly manner. "Rat 'as turned your care over to us. Me name is Sprat. I shall see you safely 'ome and collect wotever is due."

"'Ey now!" Fantine exclaimed, but she was quickly silenced by a knife at her back. The best she could do was turn slightly, enough to catch Chadwick's gaze and his slight nod as he flicked his gaze to the only door.

Fantine felt her breath catch in her chest. Chadwick wasn't drunk. He was, in fact, quite aware of the situation. So aware that he clearly expected her to follow her own advice: Cut and run. Just what she'd told him to do before this all began.

She glanced back at Ballast and his son, quickly considering her options. They would not kill Chadwick. It was too dangerous to finish off a peer. But they might hurt him. They would certainly steal everything he had on him, not to mention cleaning out his Grosvenor house. Good Lord, why did he have to mention such an exalted location?

"'Ey, Rat, ain't that so?" Sprat asked, cutting into her thoughts. "'Aven't you turned over his care to us?"

Fantine bit her lip. The situation was rapidly slipping out of her control. Rat would certainly cut his losses and escape, but could she? Much as she disliked Chadwick, she could not leave him to Ballast's tender mercies. He was her partner, after all.

She just did not see any good alternatives.

Taking a deep breath, she made her decision.

And heaven forgive her for her sins.

Chapter 3

Chadwick blinked, working to maintain the image of drunkenness while keeping his mind sharp. He knew he should never have let Fantine talk him into this ridiculous charade. Things were rapidly slipping out of control. He knew the brute behind her held a dagger to her back, just as the one behind him used his knife to tease Marcus's left shoulder blade.

They were both well and truly caught.

He could only pray that Fantine did the intelligent thing and escaped while she could. These bullies would not kill him. He was a peer. He might be somewhat bruised in the morning, probably robbed of everything he owned, but both he and Fantine would still be alive.

So why was she waiting? She had made it clear from the very beginning that she would cut and run at the first sign of trouble.

"Ye don't need 'im," she said as she straightened her back, presumably trying to distance herself from the knife pressed into her spine. "Ye got me, an' I be much more valuable."

The boy, Sprat, turned around, his face breaking into a mocking laugh. "You! What do we need you for? You are just a filthy little rat."

"Aye. A filthy rat oo can get ye twenty guineas."

"Keep yer stinking guineas," Ballast countered. "This cull gots 'undreds."

Marcus straightened, blinking a bit as if to brush away the drink. It was time he entered the negotiations, if only to tempt them to leave Fantine alone in favor of better game. "Yes, I can," he said softly and clearly. "Three hundred, but only if you let me and the boy go."

"Three 'undred!" gasped Ballast. "'Ear that. Sprat?" he cried, slapping the boy on the back. "The gent's got three 'undred at 'is 'ome jes waitin' for us."

Marcus frowned. That was not at all what he had meant to convey. Fortunately, the boy understood.

"He ain't got no three hundred at his 'ouse," he said. Then he spat at Marcus's feet, his cultured accent slipping with his rancor. "'E thinks we'll take 'is word that 'e'll send it t' us. 'E thinks we be that stupid."

"'E ain't got a hundred shillings," cried Fantine, refusing to be ignored. "Ye think a daft nob like 'im can manage 'is money? 'E gots markers spread all over town."

"Mebbe." That was Ballast as he leisurely toyed with another dagger. Where it had come from, Marcus could not guess, but it was long and sharp and gleamed dully in the light. "Bring Rat 'ere."

"Wait—" Marcus said, searching for something to say, anything that might forestall whatever Ballast intended to do. But the bully to his right stopped him from moving forward, and everyone else ignored his call.

"Aw, let go," Fantine cried impatiently, twisting away from her captor. She got nowhere until Ballast nodded, allowing her release. Then she stepped forward, her demeanor cocky despite the situation.

"Ye think I'm stupid," growled Ballast, "but I ain't." He lifted the point of his dagger to just beneath Fantine's white chin. "I can count, Rat," he continued, his voice low, almost husky. "An' I know how old ye be."

Then before anyone could react, he sliced his knife downward. The thin fabric of Fantine's shirt tore easily, as did the restraints that bound her chest. Then before everyone's startled eyes, Fantine's breasts pushed upward, the curve of each creamy mound lusciously outlined by the edges of the cut fabric.

"Gawd almighty," Sprat breathed. "Yo're a woman!"

"That I am," Fantine said, her voice suddenly as smooth as French silk. "Perhaps I am willing to deal, seeing as how you have seen through my disguise." Then she leaned down toward the thick-jowled leader. "Send your men away," she whispered.

Ballast had not taken his eyes from Fantine's chest, and in truth, Marcus found it hard to look away as well. She seemed to know just how to tease a man, how to breathe so the fabric nearly fell away, but did not, and how to shift her shoulders so that they... Marcus swallowed... so that they jiggled just right. Mentally, he chastised himself for such thoughts. This was not the time to be ogling Fantine or to be imagining how she would fit in his hands and the sounds she would make...

"Go on," she said in a husky voice. "You can touch them if you send your men away."

Ballast blinked. Apparently, he, too, was having difficulty focusing his thoughts, even though he was the one who began this little interlude. Then his eyes shifted away from Fantine for barely a second. "Sprat. Go 'ome t' yer mother."

The boy stiffened in outrage. "But—"

"Out! Now!"

The boy spun around, glaring at everyone in the room before stomping out. Then, as an apparent reward for sending the boy away, Fantine twisted, lifting one breeched leg up onto the desk. Smiling coyly at Ballast, she gently, easily removed the dagger from his hand. The villain surrendered it quietly, no doubt figuring that there was little one woman could do against him, even with a wicked-looking knife.

Then Fantine placed the knife at the base of her breeches before slowly, seductively, slicing the seam apart. Stitch by tiny stitch, the cloth fell away, exposing a single well-formed limb that seemed to go on forever.

Up and up the dagger went while four men tried not to pant. The room was so silent, Marcus could hear the soft tick as each stitch gave way. Fantine had started at her shin, but now she was exposing the curve of her knee, until finally her creamy thigh came into view.

Good God, she was gorgeous.

"What I got is just for you," she whispered, her accent still as cultured as a talented courtesan. She leaned down and her breasts pushed at the tattered edges of her shirt. "Send your men away."

Still Ballast hesitated, and in that moment Fantine struck, surprising everyone. Using the leg she had extended across the desk, she pulled it hard to her left, connecting painfully with Ballast's face, knocking him soundly in the temple. He reared back, his head cracking against the back wall, but he did not lose consciousness. Neither did she slacken her assault. Surging forward off the desk, she closed in on Ballast.

It took less than a moment for Ballast's men to react to Fantine's sudden attack, but that was all Marcus needed. The one just behind him was most vulnerable. Spinning around, Marcus landed a heavy blow to the man's chin. Pain sliced up Marcus's arm through his shoulder, but he still smirked as the unconscious lout slid down the wall.

Marcus had less than a second to stop the other cutthroat who was already aiming to throw his knife through Fantine's neck. Marcus didn't have time to grab him, so he took his only other option.

Reaching down, he grabbed the nearest item, a spittoon, and flung it across the room. By some miracle, the object was empty and therefore much easier to aim. A split second later, the heavy metal connected with the head of the second brute.

The man stumbled, coughed, and groaned, giving Marcus enough time to close in and finish the job. As for Fantine, she pinned Ballast against the wall, pushing the point of his own dagger against his neck. As Marcus straightened from the second unconscious thug, he saw a single drop of blood ease slowly down the sharp edge of the blade in Fantine's hand.

"Ye're dead, the both o' ye," said Ballast, his voice hoarse as Fantine pressed her forearm into his windpipe.

"Seems t' me," she said, her accent slipping as she discarded her seductive attitude, "I've 'eard that from you before."

Ballast's face turned nearly purple with outrage, but he never produced a sound. Not when a high-pitched voice near the door said all he needed to.

"But this time ye really are dead."

Marcus spun around, seeing the boy Sprat framed in the doorway. Reacting without thought, he snatched the child's arm, dragging him into the room before slamming the door shut. It was easily done, but it was also obvious—especially as the door thudded loudly into place.

Every man and woman on the other side of that door now knew something was amiss.

From across the room, Marcus could hear Fantine groan, and he could only echo the sentiment. They had been caught before. Now they were trapped, and unless they found something to bargain with fast, they would soon be dead. His name would not protect him now, especially if his body was never found, never traced back here.

He looked up, catching Fantine's eye and seeing fear and desperation there. Then suddenly she frowned, her gaze flicking speculatively between Marcus and the boy struggling in his arms.

She was planning something, but what he couldn't guess. Meanwhile, Fantine turned back to Ballast, continuing to press their rapidly shrinking advantage.

"I want that name, Ballast. Now."

"Wot name?" he croaked out.

"The name of the cove who wants Wilberforce dead."

Ballast screwed up his face as if to spit at her, but she pressed the knife point deeper into his throat. Finally he spoke, his words forced out between clenched teeth. "Ye ain't gettin' nuttin'."

"I got somethin'," she said on a low whisper. "An' I'm still willing t' deal if ye talk." She took a deep breath, shooting a silent plea to Marcus before turning back to Ballast. "I got a lord in me pocket," she said. "An' you got a boy abo' the right age fer Harrow."

Marcus had been listening closely, but it still took a moment for her words to penetrate his thoughts. Harrow? The elite school that he himself had attended so many years ago? She could not possibly be suggesting...

"What?" Marcus exploded, but no one was listening to him. Even the boy stilled, his agile mind no doubt absorbing what Fantine offered even faster than Marcus could.

"Think about it," continued Fantine. "Yer boy in Harrow, mixing with all them future earls and dukes. Think wot he could learn. Think wot he could do."

Ballast was considering it. As was the boy. As was Marcus himself, and it made him feel quite ill. The son of a dockside criminal... in Harrow!