Luck Be a Lady (2 page)

But how could she not see it? Bell was the cause of all their problems. “Filthy bastard. Somebody needs to teach him to keep his hands to hisself!”

The landlord flushed purple, like a plum that wanted popping. A knife would do it, but with his mother holding him, Nick couldn't pull his blade without slicing her, too.

“Listen, you guttersnipe,” Bell said. “If I've been patient until now, it's for your mother's sake. But another word from you, and I'll have every building in this parish closed to your likes. You'll sleep beneath a bridge before you're through.”

“Please,” his mother said. “He didn't mean it!”

“I did!” Nick wrenched free of her, lunging to block the landlord's scurry for the door. The rat changed course, circling, and his boot plunged through a rotten floorboard. For a moment, arms wheeling, he
looked for his balance—then lost it, and fell to his arse.

There was justice, all right. Cared more for his rent than the building that supplied it, and now the building had made its opinion known. Though he didn't feel amused, Nick pushed out a laugh. They hated when you mocked them. All these fat pigs disliked nothing worse than getting what they were really owed: disrespect and mockery, and spit in their faces.

Sure enough, Bell's face got darker yet as he clambered to his feet. “It's time someone taught you a lesson.” He pulled a dagger from his coat, wickedly curved.

“No!” Ma stepped between them. “Nicky, no! Put it away!” For he himself was no less ready, his knife balanced in hand. “Mr. Bell, I beg you—for my sake—for our child—”

Nick would have flinched, had Bell not been watching with a sneer, ready for shows of weakness. “I'll believe it's mine when angels pay a visit,” Bell said, never looking toward Ma. “God knows you've spread your legs for legions.”

“But—you said!” Ma forgot about Nick, stepped straight toward Bell. “You promised you'd take me in!”

Nick could not be hearing right. “Ma! Are you loony?” Bell was married. He had a wife and children of his own.

She was too busy babbling to regard him. “He'll beg your forgiveness, I swear it. Bow, Nicky. Bow!” And now she caught hold of him, pushing him by the shoulders, and he could not resist her for fear of cutting her. But as he braced himself, remaining upright, Bell began to laugh.

“What use have I for the bows of a beggar boy? Make
him kiss my boots, and then perhaps I'll think on my offer again.”

Offer.
What offer? Hands closed on Nick's face, Ma fighting to make him look at her. But he twisted free, repelled. “You would go to him?” he demanded. “Is that why you're on about Whitechapel? You mean to cast me off?”

“Nicky, listen, please!” Her face was awash in tears—she, who had never cried even as they laid Da into the earth. “I'm a burden to you now. You're a big, strong lad. You can make your own way, but not with
me
on your back. Mr. Bell has offered me a place—”

“
Had
offered,” Bell said coldly. “But I won't tolerate this boy coming round.”

Ma caught hold of his wrist, gripping him hard. “If not for your own sake,” she said urgently, “for the child's. Nicky,
think.
Be wise, be smart.”

“‘Smart,' now, there's a word that'll never apply to this one,” Bell said, the words coming dimly through the roar in Nick's head.

Bell controlled Spitalfields. Wasn't a hope of surviving here as his enemy. And the unborn child—why, it was Nick's charge to protect it. Ma would be helpless once she neared her time. And afterward, before the babe could be weaned . . .

He could do it. He could earn enough. He'd find a way, somehow. He'd take care of her and the child, too.

Bell's child. He recoiled from his mother. “Not for his spawn.” He'd not bow, much less grovel, for anything that came of Bell's touch.

“Then for me,” she whispered.

Bell had paid for Da's casket. Nick remembered now with a shudder. Christ! How long had they been coupling?

“Five seconds,” Bell said flatly. “And then my mercy expires—along with my offer to you, Bridget.”

“Bow, Nicky.” Her great pleading eyes filled his vision. “I love you dearer than my own heart. And if you love me the same, you'll bow to him. Just this once, and never again. For me, dearest. For me, you will bow.”

CHAPTER ONE

London, August 1886

H
is name is William Pilcher,” said Catherine's brother. “And it's no wonder if he stares. He has proposed to marry you.”

Catherine choked on her champagne. From her vantage point across the crowded room, William Pilcher made a very poor picture. It was not his looks to which she objected; he had a blandly handsome face, square and straight-boned, and a full head of brown hair. But he hunched in his seat with the gangly laxity of a scarecrow leaking its stuffing.

That posture was probably intended to convey a fashionable insouciance. But it looked distinctly foolish on a man in his forties. Indeed, Mr. Pilcher's confidence annoyed her. At the beginning of the musicale, she had noticed how fixedly he gazed at her. That was not unusual; men often stared. But by the third aria, Pilcher's look had grown lecherous. Realizing now that he had finally caught her eye, he offered her a thin, twisting
smile. He was congratulating himself, no doubt, on encouraging a spinster's dreams.

Catherine snorted and turned to her brother. At last, she understood his mood tonight—the high color on his face, the poorly restrained excitement. “Peter.” She spoke in an undertone, as the soprano launched into Verdi's “O Patria Mia.” “For the final time.
You
will not choose my husband.”

It was a matter of private regret that she resembled her brother so closely. The cross look that came into his face, and the temper that narrowed his lavender eyes, mirrored her own—as did the fall of blond hair he brusquely hooked behind his ear. “You make no effort to find one,” he said. “And Mr. Pilcher is a fine choice. Assistant chairman in the St. Luke's vestry, with no small prospects. Besides, he has agreed to your terms.”

Astonished, she opened her mouth—then thought better of it as the soprano descended into a low, soft note that provided no cover for arguments. Instead, she clutched her program very tightly and glared at the small type: “An Evening of Musical Delights from Italy.”

For weeks now, ever since Catherine had broken her engagement to Lord Palmer, Peter had been harassing her to find a new suitor. He claimed to think of her happiness. She was nearly twenty-seven, he pointed out. If she did not marry this year, she would remain a spinster.
By the terms of Father's will, you cannot assume equal governance in the company until you are wed. Isn't that your wish?

But her happiness did not truly concern him—much less the power she might gain, once she married and became his full partner at Everleigh's. What he wanted was to marry her to some man who would forbid her
to work at all. Then, Peter would have free rein to loot the place. He was already embezzling from the company to fund his political ambitions. He imagined she didn't notice, that her attention was swallowed wholesale by her duties. But he was wrong.

And now he'd solicited a stranger to accept
her terms
?
He could only mean the marriage contract she had drawn up with Lord Palmer. But that had been the product of a different moment: Palmer had needed her aid in drawing out a villain, and she, having just discovered Peter's embezzlement, had felt desperate for a powerful ally who might force her brother into line.

In the end, fate had saved her from the rash plan to marry. Palmer had fallen in love with her assistant, Lilah. Their elopement had left Catherine feeling nothing but relief. She did not want a loveless marriage—or any marriage at all. It was not in her nature to be a wife: to subordinate her own desires and needs to a man's, and to knit patiently by the fire in expectation of his return from the office. She had her own office, her own work, and a gentleman would never allow that. Better to muddle on independently, then, and find some other way to stem Peter's thieving.

But how? Unless she married, she had no authority to challenge him.

The aria soared to a crescendo. Peter took the opportunity to speak into her ear. “Only say the word. The contract is signed, the license easily acquired.”

She snorted. “Lovely. I wish him luck in finding a bride.”

“Catherine—”

The sharpness of his voice drew several looks from
those nearby. Pasting a smile onto her lips, she rose and walked out of the salon.

In the hallway, Peter caught up to her, his hand closing on her arm. She pulled away and faced him, still careful to smile, mindful of the guests chatting in an adjoining drawing room. “This isn't the place to discuss this.”

He raked his fingers through his blond hair, then winced and smoothed it down again. Always the peacock, ever mindful of his appearance. “At least
meet
him.”

“No.” She should have known something was awry when he pleaded so sweetly for her to accompany him tonight. Like husbands, polite society had little use for women who worked. Nor was this crowd known to her from the auction house, for it represented the second tier of political and social lights in London—those who aspired to bid at Everleigh's but lacked the funds to merit an invitation. The truly rich were summering abroad, or had gone to their country homes for hunting season.

Peter, on the other hand, had every reason to associate with this lot. He nursed dreams of a political career. He had managed to gain a seat on the Municipal Board of Works, but such power meant nothing outside London. Among these minor MPs and political cronies, he hoped to lay the groundwork for his future.

The family business had never held his interest. He was looting it in service of his true ambitions. But for her, Everleigh's was
everything.
Their father's legacy. Her sacred birthright. Everleigh's made her who she was—which was not merely a spinster, the “Ice Queen” that rude wits had dubbed her. She was a person of business
.
An expert in the field of fine arts. A learned professional, regardless of her sex.

And she was done looking for common ground with her brother. “I am leaving,” she told him. “Fetch my coat, please.”

“You
will
meet him.”

She started toward the cloakroom. He caught her wrist, his grip bruising now. “Listen carefully, Catherine. I have practiced patience with you. But you have mistaken it for indulgence. I have given my word to Mr. Pilcher that you will—”

“It will not help your prospects to be seen abusing me.”

Peter's hand fell away. Far better to quarrel with him in public than in private, in this regard.

“
You
have given your word,” she said in a fierce ­undertone. “Not me. When he asks where I have gone, simply explain to him the arrogance of your presumption—if indeed you
can
explain it. For it is perfectly incredible.”

Peter took a breath through clenched teeth. “If you won't think of yourself, then think of Everleigh's. Don't you wish for children to carry forward the company? What is the future of the auction rooms, if not—”

“Stop it.” Anger made her hands fist. If Peter had his way, there would be no auction house for her fictional children to inherit. He was trying to tap into the principal now. Did he truly think Mr. Wattier, their chief accountant, would not have informed her of that attempt?

But she could not confront him before she had devised a way to check him. She had sworn Mr. Wattier to secrecy, for surprise was the only advantage she
­possessed right now. “Think of your own children. Find
yourself
a spouse. But you will leave me be.”

“I think of your welfare,” he said flatly. “If you do not wish to find yourself homeless and penniless one day, you must marry.”

Now he was speaking nonsense. “I am far from penniless. I will remind you that half of Everleigh's belongs to
me.
”

His smile made her uneasy, for it smacked of some secret satisfaction. “But you are not a partner in its directorship,” he said. “Not until you are married.”

That fact never failed to burn her. No doubt Papa had anticipated that she would marry long before the age of twenty-six. But he should have foreseen that Peter would abuse the authority granted to him in the interim.

What she needed, Catherine thought bitterly, was a puppet husband—somebody she could control, or somebody so indifferent that he permitted her to do as she pleased. But Mr. Pilcher would not suit. He was Peter's creature. What she needed was a creature all her own. “Regardless,” she said. “Your threats hold no water.”

“I have made no threats,” Peter said softly. “But I will tell you a fact. If you do not marry, you leave me no choice but to safeguard your future through other means.”

She stared at him. “What means that, precisely?”

He shrugged. “I have been thinking of selling the auction rooms.”

The breath escaped her in a hoarse gasp.

“Naturally,” he went on, “half the profits would go to you.”

Had he struck her, here in public, he could not have stunned her more completely. “You . . . you're lying. This is a ruse to make me entertain Mr. Pilcher.”

As though her words had summoned him, the scarecrow came into the hall. “Ah!” Pilcher manufactured a look of surprise. “Mr. Everleigh, how good to find you here tonight. And this lovely lady must be—”

“I fear I am no one to you, sir.” Catherine kept her eyes on her brother, who
must
be bluffing. But he looked so pleased with himself. Rage roughened her voice. “My brother, however, has an apology to make.” She inclined her head the slightest degree to Pilcher—the only courtesy she could bring herself to pay him—then turned on her heel for the cloakroom.

Peter's voice reached her as she rounded the corner. “She is shy,” he said. “Only give me a little time to persuade her.”

“For such a vision,” said the scarecrow, “I will gladly grant as much time as it requires.”

A chill went through her, followed by a surge of panic. She needed a method to deter Peter from this mad course. There was no time to waste.

An idea seized her. Perfect madness—but what other recourse did she have? She knew just the man to bring Peter to heel. All it would require of her was a great deal of money . . . and a reckless disregard for decency and the law.

*    *   *

“Sad sight, to see a grown man weep.” Nicholas O'Shea lifted away his blade, then motioned to his man by the door.

Johnson hurried over with the flask. Alas, a single
mouthful of ale wasn't going to wash this bitter taste from Nick's mouth. Nasty work, torturing a pig. He tipped back the flagon, drinking long and deep. Would have drained it to the dregs, had a single word not interrupted him.

“Please.”

He lowered the flask. “Please,
what
?”

“I'll thell 'oo. Honeshly, I will!”

There was all he'd been wanting: a spot of truth amid the lies. He handed the flask back to Johnson, then crouched down.

The man on the floor was called Dixon. He'd looked much prettier two hours ago, very spiffy with his fine wool trousers flapping at his ankles. Nick had interrupted him in the middle of a poke-and-cuddle with a girl barely old enough to sport a bosom. Why did swine always have a taste for children? It never failed to baffle him, these patterns to which evil so regularly inclined.

But they were handy in their own way. Kept his conscience from troubling him now as he yanked up the bastard's head, and saw what his own fists had wrought. Dixon's face wasn't pretty any longer. No more little girls for him. Now they would spot him at first glance for a monster. “You'll be needing dentures to eat,” he said. “I'll spot you the coin, if you make this quick.”

Dixon sniveled. There was no other word for the way his face crumpled, nor the sound that came from his bloody, foaming mouth. “Jes' know 'afore I tell you, sir. The buildings, they weren't safe! I was within my rights to condemn them!”

Scoffing, Nick sat back on his heels. Here was the greatest lie yet. “You idiot. You haven't put it together yet. Those properties are in Whitechapel.
I
own them.”

“What?” Dixon blinked. “No, you're . . .”

“Tricky things, parish borders. Whitechapel's poke like”—he jammed his finger into Dixon's forehead—“
this
into St. Luke's. Those neighboring lots aren't mine. But the two buildings you condemned, they're out of your jurisdiction. Whitechapel's
mine.
”

Dixon's jaw sagged. He looked properly sick now. “I didn't—”

“Didn't know,” Nick finished. He'd imagined as much. For three years, Dixon had been trotting about the edge of Nick's territories, exercising his authority under the Torrens and Cross Acts to condemn hazardous buildings.

Speculators liked nothing better than those acts, for they gave a man a chance to buy property on the cheap. The law required the new owners to replace the condemned buildings with decent housing for the poor. But speculators rarely followed through on
that
part. What buildings they constructed charged rents no ordinary man could afford. Thanks to Dixon, the displaced had been flooding into Nick's territory, placing a mighty strain on the parish of Whitechapel.