Ways to Be Wicked (2 page)

Now all that remained was the delicate task of informing Daisy Jones that she would not be the one rising from the shell.

Tom smiled at the thought and glanced up; the curate sitting across from him gave him a tentative little smile in return. Very much like a small dog rolling over to show its belly to a larger, more dazzling dog.

“Exceedingly warm for this time of year,” the curate ventured.

“Indeed. And if it’s this warm near the sea, imagine how warm it will be in London,” Tom answered politely.

Ah, weather. A topic that bridged social classes the world over. Whatever would they do without it?

And so the passengers passed a tolerable few hours sweating and smelling each other and exchanging pleasant banalities as the coach wheels ate up the road, and there was seldom a lull in conversation. And for two hours, Tom heard not a single word of French-accented English in the jumble of words around him.

When the curate stopped chatting for a moment, Tom slipped a hand into his pocket and snapped open his watch; in an hour or so, he knew, they would reach a coaching inn on the road to Westerly in time for a bad luncheon; he hoped to be back to London in time for supper, to meet with investors, to supervise the latest show at the White Lily. And then, perhaps, enjoy late-night entertainments at the Velvet Glove in the company of the most-accommodating Bettina.

And then in the lull a pistol shot cracked and echoed, and the coach bucked to a stop, sending passengers tumbling over each other.

Highwaymen.
Bloody hell.

Tom gently sat the curate back into his seat and brushed off his coat, then brushed off his own.

Brazen coves, these highwaymen were, to stop the coach in broad daylight. But this stretch of road was all but deserted, and they’d been known to stop the occasional coach run. A full coach was essentially fish-in-a-barrel for highwaymen. Which meant there must be many of them, all armed, if they were bold enough to stop a loaded coach.

Tom swiftly tucked his watch into his boot and retrieved a pistol at the same time; he saw the curate’s eyes bulge and watched him rear back a little in alarm.
Good God. No man should be afraid to shoot if necessary,
Tom thought with some impatience. He tugged the sleeve of his coat down to cover his weapon; one glimpse of it might inspire a nervous highwayman to waste a bullet on him.

“Take off your rings and put them in your shoes,” he ordered the newlyweds quietly. Hands shaking like sheets pinned to a line, they obeyed him, as no one else was issuing orders in this extraordinary situation.

Tom knew he had only a ghost of a chance of doing something to deter the highwaymen, no matter their numbers. Still, it never occurred to him not to try. It wasn’t as though Tom had never taken anything; when he was young and living in the rookeries, he’d taken food, handkerchiefs, anything small he could fence. But he had ultimately chosen to work for everything he owned; he found it satisfied a need for permanence, a need for...legacy. And damned if he was going to allow someone to take anything he’d earned if he could possibly avoid it. Even if it was only a few pounds and a watch.

“Out, everybody,” a gravelly voice demanded. “ ’Ands up, now where I can see ’em, now.”

And out of the dark coach stumbled the passengers, blinking and pale in the sunlight, one of whom was nearly swooning, if her buckling knees were any indication, and needed to be fanned by her panicking husband.

The air fair shimmered with heat; only a few wan trees interrupted the vista of parched grass and cracked road. Tom took in the group of highwaymen with a glance: five men, armed with muskets and pistols. Clothing dull with grime, kerchiefs covering their faces, hair long and lank and unevenly sawed, as though trimmed with their own daggers. One of them, the one who appeared to be in charge, gripped a knife between his teeth. Tom almost smiled grimly.
A showman.
Excessive, perhaps, but it certainly lent him a dramatic flair the others lacked.

Tom’s innate curiosity about any showman made him peer more closely at the man. There was something about him. . .

“Now see here . . .” the merchant blustered indignantly, and promptly had five pistols and a knife turned on him. He blanched, clapped his mouth shut audibly. Clearly new to being robbed at gunpoint, he didn’t know that etiquette required one to be quiet, lest one get shot.

And then Tom knew. Almost a decade ago, during a few difficult but unforgettable months of work in a dockside tavern, Tom had spent time with a man who drank the hardest liquor, told the most ribald jokes, tipped most generously, and advised young Tom which whores to avoid and which to court and imparted other unique forms of wisdom.

“Biggsy?” Tom ventured.

The highwayman swiveled, glowering, and stared at Tom.

Then he reached up and plucked the knife from between teeth brown as aged fenced posts, and his face transformed.

“
Tom?
Tommy
Shaughnessy?
”

“ ’Tis I, in the flesh, Biggs.”

“Well, Tommy, as I live and breathe!” Big Biggsy shifted his pistol into his other hand and seized Tom’s hand to pump it with genuine enthusiasm. “ ’Avena seen you since those days at Bloody Joe’s! Still a pretty bugger, ain’t ye?” Biggsy laughed a richly phlegmy laugh and gave Tom a frisky punch on the shoulder. “Ye’ve gone respectable, ’ave ye, Tommy? Looka tha’ fine coat!”

Tom felt the passenger’s eyes slide toward him like so many billiard balls rolling toward a pocket, and then slide back again; he could virtually feel them cringing away from him. He wondered if it was because he was on a Christian-name basis with an armed highwayman, or because he had “
gone
respectable,” implying he had been anything but at one time.

“Respectable might perhaps be overstating it, Biggsy, but yes, you could say I haven’t done too badly.”

“ ’Avena done ’alf bad meself,” Biggsy announced proudly, gesturing at the characters surrounding him as though they were a grand new suite of furniture.

Tom thought it wisest not to disagree or request further clarification. He decided upon nodding sagely.

“ ’Tis proud I be, of ye, Tommy,” Biggsy added sentimentally.

“That means the world to me,” Tom assured him solemnly.

“And Daisy?” Biggsy prodded. “D’yer see ’er since the Green Apple days?”

“Oh, yes. She’s in fine form, fine form.”

“She’s a grand woman,” the highwayman said mistily.

“She is at that.” Grand, and the largest thorn in his side, and no doubt responsible for a good portion of his fortune. Bless the brazen, irritating, glorious Daisy Jones.

Tom gave Biggsy his patented crooked, coaxing grin. “Now, Biggsy, can I persuade you to allow our coach to go on? You’ve my word of honor not a one shall pursue you.”

“Ye’ve a word of honor now, Tommy?” Biggsy reared back in faux astonishment, then laughed again. Tom, not being a fool, laughed, too, and gave his thigh a little slap for good measure.

Biggsy wiped his eyes and stared at Tom for a moment longer, then took his bottom lip between his dark teeth to worry it a bit as he mulled the circumstances. And then he sighed and lowered his pistol; and with a jerk of his chin ordered the rest of the armed and mounted men accompanying him to do the same.

“Fer the sake of old times, then, Tommy. Fer the sake of Daisy, and Bloody Joe, rest ’is soul. But I canna leave everythin’, you ken ’ow it is—we mun eat, ye ken.”

“I ken,” Tom repeated, commiserating.

“I’ll leave the trunks, and jus’ ’ave what blunt the lot of ye be carryin’ in yer pockets.”

“Big of you, Biggsy, big of you,” Tom murmured.

“And then I’ll ’ave a kiss from one of these young ladies, and we’ll be off.”

Clunk.
Down went the wobbly new missus, dragging her husband down after her; he hadn’t time to stop her fall completely. Never a pleasant sound, the sound of a body hitting the ground.

Biggsy eyed them for a moment in mild contempt. Then he looked back at Tom and shook his head slowly, as if to say,
what a pair of ninnies.

“All right then. Who will it be?” Biggsy asked brightly. He scanned the row of lovely young ladies hopefully.

Tom thought he should have known his own formidable charm would get him only so far with a highway-man.

The crowd, which not a moment before had been mentally inching away from him, now swiveled their heads beseechingly toward him. Tom wasn’t particularly savoring the irony of this at the moment. He wasn’t quite sure how to rescue them from this particular request.

“Now, Biggs,” Tom tried for a hail-fellow-well-met cajoling tone, “these are innocent young ladies. If you come to London, I’ll introduce you to ladies who’ll be happy to—”

“I willna leave without a kiss from one of
these
young ladies,” Biggsy insisted stubbornly. “Look a’ me, Tom.

D’yer think I’m kissed verra often? Let alone by a young

thing wi’ all of ’er teeth or ’er maidenhe—”

“Biggsy,” Tom interjected hurriedly.

“I want a
kiss.
”

At the tone, the men behind Biggs put their hands back upon on their pistols, sensing a shift in intent.

Tom’s eyes remained locked with Biggsy’s, his expression studiedly neutral and pleasant, while his mind did cartwheels.
Bloody, bloody hell. Perhaps I should ask the young ladies to draw straws. Perhaps I should kiss him myself. Perhaps we
—

“I will kiss him.”

Everyone, highwaymen included, pivoted, startled, when the little French widow stepped forward. “You will allow the coach to go on if I do?” she asked.

Ze coach,
Tom thought absently, is what it sounded like when she said it. Her voice was bell-clear and strong and she sounded very nearly impatient; but Tom caught the hint of a tremble in it again, which he found oddly reassuring. If there had been no tremble, he might have worried again about her sanity and what she might do with a knitting needle.

“My word of honor,” Biggsy said almost humbly. He seemed almost taken aback.

Tom was torn between wanting to stop her and perverse curiosity to see if she intended to go through with it. She hadn’t the bearing or voice of a doxie.
I am not
. . . she had struggled to tell him. She was not someone who suffered the attention of gentlemen lightly, he was certain she meant to say. Not someone who was generally in the habit of leaping into the laps of strangers unless she had a very good reason to do so.

He hoped,
hoped
she didn’t intend to attempt anything foolish with a knitting needle.

Biggsy recovered himself. “I’ll take that, shall I?” He reached out and adroitly took her reticule from her. He heard her intake of breath, the beginning of a protest, but wisely stopped herself. Ah, she’d good judgment, too.

Tom saw her shoulders square, as though she was preparing herself for a launch upward. She drew in a deep breath.

And then she stood on her toes, lifted her veil, and kissed Biggsy Biggens full on the mouth.

And a moment later, Biggsy Biggens looked for all the world as blessed as a bridegroom.

Chapter Two

T
HE CONFIGURATION INSIDE THE COACH
on the way to the coaching inn was this: Tom at one end; the other passengers all but knotted together for protection.

And then the widow.

All was silence. He and the widow might be the hero and heroine of the hour, but no one wanted to acknowledge it, no one wanted to
touch
them, and certainly no one wanted to know either of them.

Once all of the passengers tumbled out of the coach in the inn yard, where they would be served a dreadful lunch before continuing on to London, Tom saw the widow glance furtively about.

And rather than follow the rest of the travelers inside, she made her way surreptitiously, but very purposefully toward the stables. She rounded the corner and disappeared from view; he picked up his pace and stopped when he saw her snug against the side of the building, half in shadow, her shoulders slightly hunched.

A wrench of sympathy and respect for her privacy made him pause. She was attempting to discreetly retch. He’d been within whiffing distance of Biggsy’s breath; he could only imagine what it must have been like to taste it.

She whirled suddenly, sensing him there, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth; he took a step back, safely out of knitting-needle range. She stood very still and regarded him through that veil.

Wordlessly, cautiously, he reached into his coat, produced a flask, and held it out to her.

She looked down at the flask, then up at him. Two cool movements of her head. But she made no move to accept it from him.

“Or perhaps you prefer the taste of highwayman in your mouth. . . Mademoiselle.”

Her chin jerked up a little at that.

After a moment, with a sense of subtle ceremony, she slowly, slowly lifted her veil with her gloved hands.
Ah, a woman confident of her charms.
This heightened Tom’s sense of anticipation, which surprised and amused him. He wasn’t precisely jaded, but surprise when it came to a woman was something he felt so rarely anymore.
Veils,
he noted to himself silently.
Must use more veils at the White Lily Theater. Perhaps a harem act
. . .

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the shock of her face when she finally tilted her head up to look at him.

He felt her beauty physically, a sweet hot burst low in his gut. A jaw both stubborn and elegant in its angularity, lifted now in pride or arrogance or defense; an achingly soft-looking mouth, the bottom lip a full curve, the one above it shorter, both the palest pink. Eyes very bright in her too-white face. They were pale green, her eyes, intelligent and very alive, with flecks of other colors floating in the irises. Two fine, straight chestnut brows slanted over them.

Her eyes met his, and with great satisfaction, he saw that impossible-to-disguise swift flare of her pupil. It was always a good moment, a delicious moment, the recognition of mutual attraction that passed between two beautiful people. Tom smiled at her, acknowledging it, confident and inclusive, inviting her, daring her to share it.

But she turned her head away from him slowly—too casually—as though the pigeons listlessly poking about in the stableyard were of much more interest to her than the man standing before her with a flask outstretched.

When she returned her gaze to his she reached out her hand for the proffered flask, as though the pigeons had cemented her decision. She lifted it fastidiously up to those soft lips and took a sip.

Her eyes widened. He grinned.

“I wonder what you were expecting, Mademoiselle. Whiskey? Do I strike you as the whiskey sort? It’s French—the wine, is. Go ahead and swallow it. It wasn’t cheap.”

She held it in her mouth for an instant; at last, he saw her swallow hard.

He bowed, then, and it was a low, elegant thing, all grace and respect. “Mr. Tom Shaughnessy at your service. And you are Mademoiselle...?”

“Madame,” she corrected curtly.

“Oh, but I think not ...For I have splendid
intuition.
” He used the French pronunciation. The word was spelled just the same in English and in French, and meant precisely the same thing: a very good guess. “And
I
think you are a mademoiselle.”

“You presume a good deal, Mr. Shaughnessy.”

“I’ve always had luck with being presumptuous. One might even say I make my living being presumptuous.”

She scanned him, a swift flick of her green eyes, up and down, drawing conclusions about him from his face and clothes and adding those conclusions, no doubt, to the impressions she’d already gleaned from his acquaintance with the highwayman. He saw those green eyes go guarded and cynical. But oddly. . . not afraid. Yes, this was a mademoiselle, perhaps. But not an innocent one, either, if she could draw a cynical conclusion about the sort of man he was. It implied she knew rather a range of men.

“It was brave, what you did,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed.

He smiled at that. He could have sworn she almost did, too.

“Do you have any money?” he asked. A blunt question.

Again, that stiff spine. “I do not believe this is business of yours, Mr. Shaughnessy.”

“A knitting needle and widow’s weeds are all very well and good, but money, Mademoiselle, is everything. Have you enough to continue on to your destination? The highwayman took your reticule, did he not?”

“Yes, your
friend,
Mr. Biggsy, took my reticule. I might not have been so brave had I known the price of my bravery.”

“Were you perhaps clever enough to sew your money into your hem?” He pressed. “Or into your sleeve, along with your weaponry? If one travels unaccompanied by a maid, one best be resourceful in other ways.”

She was silent. And then: “Why are you interested in my money, Mr. Shaughnessy?”

“Perhaps, as a gentleman, I’m merely concerned for your welfare.”

“Oh, I think not, Mr. Shaughnessy. For you see, I, too, have
intuition.
And I do not believe you
are
a gentleman.”

As dry and tart as the wine he’d just passed to her. And just as bracing. Perhaps even—and this surprised him—a little stinging.

“All right then: Perhaps I’m concerned because you are beautiful and intriguing.”

She waited a beat, studying him with her head tilted again.

“‘Perhaps’?” She repeated. And up went one of those delicate chestnut brows, along with the corners of her mouth. As though she had struggled against her nature, and her nature had won.

A little thrill of pleasure traced his spine. Ah, there
was
a coquette in there; he had sensed it. But it was like viewing her through a fogged windowpane; he wanted somehow to rub away the fear and mistrust to bring the real woman, the vibrant, no doubt interesting woman, into view.

Her color looked better now; there was a healthier flush in her cheeks. Then again, good French wine will do that for a person.

“I can help you,” he said swiftly.

“I thank you for your. . .
concern
...Mr. Shaughnessy,” she all but drew quotation marks around the word, “but I do not wish assistance from. . . you.”

As in,
you would be the last man in the world I would turn to, Mr. Shaughnessy.

And given the circumstances, he could hardly blame her. He respected her wisdom in deciding not to trust him—this was not a foolish woman, despite the fact that she’d kept her money in her damned reticule—even as he felt the disappointment of it keenly. For she was right, of course. Gallantry played a role in his offer to help her. But it wasn’t the primary role by far. And Tom was certain he wouldn’t trust himself if
he
was a woman. In particular, not after he’d exchanged warm reminiscences with a gun-and knife-wielding highwayman.

“Very well, then. Let me just say that I do not ‘regret’ the fact that you. . . ‘inserted’ me, Mademoiselle. Or. . . ‘sat upon me.’ ”

She studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly.

“Do you mock my English, Mr. Shaughnessy?” She sounded mildly curious.

“Why, yes, I believe I do. A little.
Un peu.
” He was surprised to feel a little bit of his temper in the words.

To his astonishment, she smiled then. A full and brilliant smile, a genuine smile, which scrunched her eyes and made them brilliant, too, dazzling as lamps. It was the kind of smile that made him believe she laughed often and easily, in other circumstances, the kind of smile he felt physically again, as a swift and strangely sweet twist in his gut.

He was suddenly desperate to make her do it often.

But finding himself uncharacteristically speechless, he bowed and left her.

His mind oddly both full and jumbled, following the rest of the decidedly less-interesting guests into the inn for luncheon.

If not for the fortifying dose of surprisingly good French wine provided by Mr. Tom Shaughnessy, Sylvie would still be trembling now. All of her money was gone, the letter from her sister was gone, and a sort of delayed fear had overtaken her at lunch. She’d been able to push it away the way she did any sort of discomfort in order to take her through her encounter with the highwayman.

But now she could scarcely choke down the watery soup and indifferent bread and tough grayish meat.
Peh.
The English knew nothing of cooking, that was certain, if luncheon was any indication.

She peeked up from her silent meal—no one attempted to engage her in conversation, nor did she feel equal to making an attempt of her own. Mr. Shaughnessy seemed to have thawed the curate and the married couple, and the four of them appeared to be laughing together over some English witticism.

She jerked her head away from them, focused again on her gray meat.

She could not recall the last time she’d needed to look away from a man to recover her composure. Certainly Etienne was handsome, admired and swooned over by all the other dancers in the
corps de ballet.
Desired by all of them. But the sight of Etienne had never stopped her breathing.

And when she had seen Tom Shaughnessy, it was as though someone had taken a tight little fist and rapped it between her lungs.

In the full sunlight, Tom Shaughnessy’s eyes had seemed nearly clear, like a pair of windows. Silver, she would have called them. His face could only be described as beautiful, but it wasn’t soft: it was too defined; there were too many strong lines and corners and interesting hollows, and there was a hint of something pagan about it. His surname and his wavy red-gold hair implied Irish ancestors, but his complexion, a pale gold, suggested that something a bit more exotic also swam in his veins: Spanish blood, perhaps. Or Gypsy. This last would not have surprised her in the least.

And then there was that smile. It blinded, the smile. She considered that perhaps that was its purpose; he used it as a weapon to scramble wits and take advantage of a moment. It made a dimple near the corner of his mouth. A tiny crescent moon.

And his clothes—a soft green coat no doubt chosen for its unorthodox color, a dazzling waistcoat, polished boots and brilliant buttons—all might have looked just shy of vulgar on someone else. On him they seemed somehow as native as wings to Mercury’s ankles.

And she’d seen as they had all stood in the hot sunlight next to the mail coach a glint in his sleeve, and looked more closely. He’d tucked a pistol in his sleeve, had cupped the barrel of it in his fingers, prepared to slide it out and use it. Somehow she had no doubt he knew precisely
how
to use it.

And every other man in that clearing had seemed prepared to allow the highwaymen to have their way with them.

He was armed in too many ways, it seemed, Mr. Shaughnessy—with those looks, and a charm that won and disarmed too easily, and clothing that was just a little too fine and a little too deliberately new, and with a hidden pistol, with dangerous friends. If a man was thusly prepared for danger, he could only be dangerous in some way himself.

But she
should
have choked down more food. She didn’t know where she’d next acquire another meal, and even if she didn’t feel hungry now, she was human, and her body, accustomed to rigorous activity, would no doubt eventually expect a good meal and begin demanding it with growls and aches.

In her trunk there were things she could sell if necessary, a few pieces of fine clothing, gloves and shoes, she supposed. She wouldn’t know where or how to sell them, but she would discover how to do it if she needed to. She had always done what she needed to do.

She wondered whether anyone in England would find a use for ballet slippers.

When the mail coach finally lurched to its stop at its London destination, all the passengers hurriedly dispersed into the arms of waiting loved ones or into other coaches as quickly as ants fleeing a magnifying glass, without turning back. Shedding the dread of their earlier experience, and filled with a tale to tell. Sylvie imagined she would be the topic of conversation over dinner tables throughout London tonight.

The thought made her feel just a little lonely. But only a little. She truly didn’t know what it was like to sit at a table with a large family and talk of the day, and it was difficult to miss what one has never truly known.

Though it had never been difficult to imagine it. Or, on occasion, to long for the things she’d imagined, when the life she shared with Claude, who was kind, was so small and careful and often fearful, as money had always been scarce.

She had memories of being shuttled away in the dead of night in a coach, bundled with other little girls. A strange man, a kind man with a kind voice, had attempted to soothe and hush them. She remembered she’d been crying. And then she had thought she should not cry so that she could hold the hands of the little girls with her, to keep them from crying and from being afraid.

And so she had stopped crying.

She had seldom cried since that evening.

My sisters,
she thought.
They were my sisters.
They must have been. And yet the memory of that evening, and all that had passed before it, and the people in them, had become indistinct, wearing away in patches, it seemed, until she had begun to believe she had dreamed them.