If You Give a Rake a Ruby (3 page)

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Courtesan rule number one,” she whispered, crawling toward him. “Don't talk.”

His arms dropped from behind his head and he sat forward, looking rather alarmed. Oh, this was going to be easier than she'd anticipated. She had thought to arouse him and then, when he was sufficiently distracted, knock him over the head and scream for Titus. But at this rate, she might not have to do much more than kiss him.

“We have to talk if I'm going to…”

Now on her hands and knees, she slid one hand down his chest all the way to his waistband. He grabbed her hand before she could stroke his cock. She glanced up at him. Was he going to play coy now? How tedious.

“You misunderstand me, Maggie.”

“Fallon,” she said, sitting up.

“Fallon. I came to ask you—”

“I told you, no talking.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. She felt him go rigid immediately. Was he really surprised she had kissed him? Wasn't that what he had come for? She ran her tongue lightly over his lips and felt him relax slightly. His hands had gripped her shoulders at her first touch, but they loosened now.

She tasted his mouth, tried not to notice the flavor of champagne on his lips. Tried not to notice how warm his lips were, how pliable. Most men mashed their mouths to hers and took, took, took. This one didn't seem to want anything from her. He allowed her to kiss him.

She opened his mouth with the gentle pressure of her tongue and teased him with the promise of a deeper kiss. When his tongue met hers, she felt a spark of heat that shocked her. She hadn't expected to feel anything and was still puzzling over it when he dug his hand into her hair and pulled her closer.

She was losing control, she realized, and had to gain it back or she would be forced to actually go through with this seduction. She ran her hand down his chest again—why did it have to be so deliciously muscled and hard?—and forced herself not to be distracted. When she reached his trousers, she wrapped her fingers around the hardening length she found there.

“Stop.” He was up and out of her bed before she could even catch herself. She all but fell on her face in the spot he had occupied. “This isn't what I came for. I have nothing against you or your profession.”

She frowned. What exactly was that supposed to mean?

“But I don't pay women for their services. I'm not that desperate.”

She stared at him. Desperate? Did he think she allowed any man into her bed? Did he think she allowed any man to kiss her?

She tugged at the bodice of her dress and squared her shoulders. “I don't mean to dispute you, sir, but you were the one waiting in my bed. And when I refused you, you threatened to blackmail me.” She gave him a tight smile. “It smacks a little of”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“
desperation
.”

“That's because you misunderstood.” He paced away from her, running a hand through his hair. With the lamps lit, she could get a good look at him. She knew who he was, of course. She'd seen him before.

“I misunderstood?” She watched him pace across her bedroom then turn back. “You were lying in my bed, and when I asked you to leave, you said you would not depart until you had what you wanted. How did I misunderstand?”

He raked that hand through his thick hair again. “Yes, I can see how that might confuse you.” He paused and faced her. He was definitely not a handsome man. His face was too asymmetrical for handsomeness. His nose was slightly crooked, which suggested it had been broken at one time, and he had a scar near his right eye. His brown hair was short and not at all fashionably styled. He was medium height but had a breadth of chest and shoulders that made him seem less than elegant.

And yet she believed he'd never had to pay for a woman. There was something about his eyes that made him seem dangerous and mysterious and desirable. Her gaze dropped to his hands, now flat on her coverlet. They were large and dark, and she had an image of one of them cupping her breast. She closed her eyes and attempted to gather her wits.

“Perhaps we should begin again,” he was saying. “I came to question you and to ask you for a favor.”

She studied him, not knowing quite what to think. Was he lying? Telling the truth? “If you wanted to ask me a question, you could have done so on any number of occasions.”

“That's what I thought.” He slapped the bed with a hand. “But you're a damned hard woman to get alone. And my business is of a private nature.”

Despite herself, she was intrigued. “Go on.”

“I don't know how much you know about me,” he began. She noted the subtle shift in his demeanor, from flustered to authoritative.

“Not as much as you know about me, apparently.”

He grinned at her, and in that moment, she forgot to breathe. With that grin, he'd looked so much like a mischievous boy that she'd wanted to gather him in her arms and kiss him again. His smile was completely out of character. It almost made him look handsome.

“I used to work for the Foreign Office,” he was saying, when she could focus her attention again. “I played a part in the wars against Napoleon.”

She nodded, her mind racing ahead to try and determine where this was going. She had nothing to do with France, Napoleon, or the governmental offices and failed to see how any of this related to her.

“Over the years, I developed certain skills. One of those was to ferret out information.”

“So you were a spy.”

He made a sound of distaste in the back of his throat. “I gathered information.”

“And now you are gathering information about me.” Things were beginning to take shape.

“I didn't set out to do so, but the more I learned about you, the more… captivated I became. You were smart to keep your true identity hidden.”

“Apparently it's not hidden well enough.”

“I don't think there's anyone who could hide something so well I couldn't uncover it,” he said without any trace of conceit. She almost wanted to laugh at his boast. She had a feeling there were still a few things he hadn't uncovered.

“You knew Lucifer.”

She felt a frisson of fear streak up her spine, and tried to control her reaction. But he'd taken her so off guard, she was too late. He was watching her with those sharp, enigmatic eyes. “Tell me, Mag—Fallon. Was he ever a victim of your considerable talent for theft?”

“What is wrong with you, Fallon?” Lily asked the next evening at a soirée hosted by Mr. Heyward, who was the son of a baron and known for his lavish social functions.

“Nothing. Why?”

“You haven't listened to a word I've said for the past quarter hour.
And
you have been sitting with me for that quarter of an hour when Mr. Heyward has been smiling at you and making every effort to garner your attention.”

Fallon glanced about the drawing room until she spotted Heyward. He toasted her and raised his brows meaningfully. Fallon looked back at Lily. “I'd much rather talk to you than Mr. Heyward.”

“Oh, really? Then what have we—rather, I—been speaking of?”

Fallon had absolutely no idea. “Very well. I'll tell you what's bothering me. Take a turn with me about the room.”

Lily raised her eyebrows but didn't object. They linked arms and began to stroll. Fallon imagined they made a lovely picture. They were both dressed in green—Lily's gown was green with pink trim and Fallon's green with russet trim. Lily's pale skin and auburn hair was offset nicely by the sapphires she wore at her neck and throat, and Fallon had donned her rubies.

But she couldn't concern herself too much with appearances at the moment. Lily was correct in that she should have been courting the attention of Heyward. A few months ago he'd given her a gold ring, which she'd sold for enough to pay her rent for two months. Undoubtedly he hoped the gifts would persuade her to allow him into her bed. They wouldn't, but even though she tried to refuse the gifts, men gave them to her anyway.

She considered them payment for services rendered, even if those services were only making an appearance at a social function like this one. Even the whisper that one of The Three Diamonds—well, Two Diamonds now that Juliette had married—would attend a function made the invitations highly sought after.

At least by the gentlemen of the
ton
.

Although Fallon noted several ladies, who would never so much as deign to step over her were she lying in the street bleeding to death, watching her and Lily surreptitiously. No doubt the courtesans' dresses would be copied and worn by several of the women in the weeks to come.

“We're walking,” Lily said. “And I'm listening.”

“Someone has found out about me.”

Lily frowned, a delicate gesture that formed a small crease between her emerald green eyes. “What do you mean? Someone found out about Sinclair?”

“No. At least, I don't think he knows that much. But he knows about my past.”

“What about your past?” Lily nodded to the son of the Marquess of Ainsall, who had been sending her poetry of late. “
I
don't even know about your past.”

“Exactly. No one knows except Lady Sin, but this man works—or worked—for the Foreign Office. He found out about me, and now he's blackmailing me.”

Lily stiffened. “What does he want?”

“Not what you're thinking.” They paused by the hearth and pretended to study the Sèvres porcelain pieces on the mantel. “He wants me to help him find Lucifer's Diamonds.”

“The same diamonds—”

“Yes.”

“But why would he ask
you
to help him?”

“Because once upon a time I knew Lucifer.”

Lily gaped at her.

“And once upon a time, I was very, very good at stealing.”

Now Lily laughed. “Fallon, I don't think this is at all amusing.”

“You don't believe me?”

“Of course I don't believe you. Is this some sort of game you're playing?”

Fallon held out a gloved hand and opened the closed fingers. Lying in her palm was a sapphire necklace. A distinctive sapphire necklace. Small, square-cut sapphires comprised the chain and a large, heart-shaped sapphire was situated so that it would nestle in the hollow of a lady's throat. Usually Lily's throat.

Lily gasped and put her hand to her bare neck. “How did you do that?”

“I told you. I'm a very good thief.”

Lily shook her head. “It came undone, and you picked it up off the floor.”

Fallon rolled her eyes. She adored Lily, really she did, but sometimes the girl was too willing to believe only good about others. She motioned for Lily to turn and fastened the necklace on her friend once again. “I am distracted tonight because I have to meet him later—the man blackmailing me.”

Lily glanced over her shoulder. “Are you going to have to steal for him?”

“I have to help him find the diamonds. If I don't, he'll reveal all of my secrets. I think we both know the disastrous consequences if he does so.”

Lily's silence spoke volumes. As courtesans, even the most fashionable courtesans in the
demimonde
, their status relied on their reputation and, to some extent, their beauty. A vibrant personality that attracted men could overcome a homely appearance—as Harriette Wilson had proved—but part of Fallon's charm was her mystery. When men conversed with her, they wanted to believe they were speaking with a fallen queen or a foreign princess. She could be anyone from anywhere, and the speculation about her added to her appeal.

But if they knew she was born right here in London, the daughter of a pickpocket and a whore…well, that would lessen her appeal considerably.

“Do you know where the diamonds are?” Lily asked.

“No. But I suppose I had better find out.” She gave Lily a little push. “Go, speak with Ainsell's son before he begins drooling. The poor boy is mad for you.”

“Yes.” Lily frowned. “Too bad I'm not mad for him.”

Before Fallon could ask who she
was
mad for, Lily was gliding across the room and capturing the gazes of most of, if not all, the men in attendance.

Fallon slipped out a quarter hour later, wrapped herself in a black mantle and instructed her coachman to drive her to St. James Street. She was well aware no lady would ever deign to be seen in St. James at night, and many of them would not venture into this exclusive male preserve during the day.

But Fallon was no lady.

“Shall I accompany you, madam?” the coachman asked as he handed her down from the gleaming black carriage. It was still early, barely midnight, and only a few young bucks strolled together, stopping into gambling hells and clubs. A few paused to catch a glimpse of her, but none dared approach.

Yet.

“No, I'm fine. Go on home.”

He looked somewhat dubious. “But madam—”

“I said I was fine. Go home and see to the horses. I'll find my own way back later tonight.”

“Yes, madam.”

He watched her stroll away. She pulled the hood of the mantle over her dark hair and wove through the gentlemen, most of whom paused to blatantly stare at her. They might not know who she was, but they did know any woman on St. James Street at midnight was no lady. And she was dressed far better than the prostitutes crowding every corner and alleyway.

Fallon could well remember the last time she had walked this path at night. It had been years ago, when she was not yet sixteen. Then she'd had her father with her, though that was scant protection. He was prone to whimsy, and he'd been speaking of selling her to the highest bidder. She was half afraid that was his plan that night. She couldn't think why else they would walk among so many well-dressed gentlemen of the
ton
. The other night she'd overheard her father whispering to some man or other about how much he could earn for Maggie's virginity. She did not think her father would be pleased to know it was long gone.

Fallon shook off the memory of her father and the girl she'd been and stopped in front of a nondescript building. There was no sign proclaiming this Lucifer's Lair, but she knew it well. This was the place, and Fitzhugh would be inside waiting for her. The gambling hell was closed now. Lucifer had fled to the Continent after he'd been linked to the murder of Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Marquess of Nowlund. There were signs the building had been looted, but Fallon wasn't certain if Scotland Yard or local vagrants were responsible.

She continued walking, turning down the next alley in order to circle around to the back entrance. It wouldn't do to be seen entering the abandoned gaming hell, especially if she had to break in. She walked quickly through the alley, wishing she'd thought to bring a lamp with her. The alley was dark and wet, as it had rained earlier that day. She sloshed through a particularly deep puddle and winced, knowing her slippers would be ruined. The damp seeped through, and she curled her toes against the cold.

Behind her, she heard another splash.

Fallon was mid-alley, in the darkest recesses, and she kept walking. It was probably Fitzhugh behind her. He was supposed to meet her here.

She heard another splash.

But why would Fitzhugh walk through the same puddle twice? And why wouldn't he call out to her?

Bloody hell. She sighed. She really did not have time for this.

Fallon whirled and narrowed her eyes at the two large shadows moving toward her.

“Ah, there she is, Tom,” one of the men said. Upper-class accent, Fallon noted. Words a bit slurred.

“What are you doing down here alone, sweetheart?” Tom asked, still moving toward her.

Wonderful. She'd managed to attract two “gentlemen” out on the Town and looking for amusement. Perhaps she could dissuade them with mere words. “Gentlemen,” she began, “I am not a prostitute. If you're looking for that sort of entertainment, you should seek it elsewhere.”

“Ooh! She speaks like a lady, James,” Tom said. They were directly in front of her now, and their watery shadows fell over her.

“Come here, lady.” James made a grab for her. She jumped back and threw her mantle over her shoulders, freeing her arms. Obviously the time for words was past. She was not thrilled about having to fight two men twice her size, but they were foxed, and that worked to her advantage.

Tom, who was on her right, charged her first. She easily sidestepped and thrust her foot out to trip him. But in the darkness, she misjudged the distance, and he merely stumbled past her. This, of course, did not better her position as now she had James in front of her and Tom behind.

“I think you missed her, old boy,” James said. “Let me show you how it's done.” He charged. At the same time, Tom—obviously not content to wait for his turn—reached for her. Tom caught her first about the waist. She used his weight and solidity as a lever and kicked up, landing one foot squarely in James's face. She knew it had hurt him because it hurt her foot.

That, and he bent over and screamed like a little girl. Not that Fallon had ever screamed like that when she'd been in pinafores.

“What the devil—” Tom began before she rammed her head back and collided with his face. He released her, and she whirled around, backing away while keeping the men in her sights. They were injured but far from disabled. If anything, an injured man was more dangerous than one who was unhurt, because the pain made him angry.

And sobered him up.

She knew this from very personal experience.

Tom was the first to recover. She saw him searching the shadows and pinpointed the moment he spotted her. His body went rigid. “You're going to pay for that, bitch,” he seethed. “I'm going to make sure you don't walk right for the next month.”

“You're welcome to try,” she murmured, still backing away. At the end of the alley stood a short staircase that led down into Lucifer's Lair. She could run for it, but if it was locked, it would do her no good. She'd be trapped and cornered.

She could try to escape the alley the way she'd come, but she didn't think she could outrun the men, and even if she did, there was no guarantee of safety on the other side.

Her last option was to stand and fight. She wouldn't have minded the last option if she had any sort of weapon, but all she had was her reticule, and she'd dropped that sometime between James's grab for her and Tom's first charge.

Her best hope appeared to be to try for Lucifer's Lair and hope Fitzhugh was already there and the door was unlocked. Certainly she could find something in the building to use in her defense. She clenched her fists, trying to decide the best time to move, when James shook his head and started for her. Now both men advanced. Steadily.

Now was as good as any time. Without warning, she turned and ran toward the end of the alley.

“She's getting away!” one of the men called.

“She won't go far,” the other answered. Fallon heard the echo of their rapid footsteps as they followed her. Her breath came quickly by the time she reached the stairs, drowning out the sound of the men's approach, and she wasn't certain how close they were. She didn't have time to look, either. She vaulted down the four steps, slammed against the door, and tried the handle.

Locked.

Bloody goddamn hell!

She hit it with her fist then glanced quickly about for some sort of weapon. A rotting board had come loose from the side of the building, and she grabbed it, working it back and forth to try and pry it off. Thank God for her gloves, but the thin kid leather was no match for the splinters in the rough wood. She heard one of the men say, “There she is,” and Fallon jerked at the wood in desperation.

It stubbornly held on. “Come on,” she muttered. “Come on.” She leaned back and pulled on the wood with all her weight. Just as the men's shadows crept over her, the board came off in her hands.

She whirled, held it in front of her, and waved it at Tom, who was advancing down the stairs. “And what do you think you're going to do with that?”

She didn't know. Her arms ached, and she was still trying to catch her breath. If she didn't strike decisively, Tom would merely grab the board away and use it against her. She bit her lip as he came down another step. He was higher than she was and moving downward, whereas she was low and looking up. He had every advantage. If she attempted to swing the board at him, he would grab it for certain.