If You Give a Rake a Ruby (17 page)

“It's not Daisy,” a quiet, feminine voice said. “But you're close.”

***

Fallon stared at her father and willed him to stand, move around, do anything but stare at her with that piercing gaze. He had the same small eyes, eyes like a rat, but eyes that had the range of a hawk. He never missed anything. She couldn't work her bindings while he was looking at her, no matter how small her movements. He'd just secure them again, and she'd lose all the ground she'd won.

“You almost did it, you know,” he said, tapping a hand on one knee. Fallon noted his fingernails were clean and his hands much whiter than they used to be. Once his hands had been covered with grime and lacerations. Despite the filth, he'd always managed to have dainty hands, small fingers that tripped lightly and stealthily into a pocket. Now his hands looked like those of a gentleman. She could only imagine how her own appeared at the moment. She'd never be able to show them for the rest of her life.

Not that her life was looking to be very long at the moment.

“You almost killed me.” He was staring at her, his face contorted into a look of hate and malice. “If not for your friend, what was his name? Oh, yes, Frankie.”

Fallon felt her insides tense, but she worked to keep her expression neutral.

“Frankie came in just as I was taking my last breath. He saved me, that boy. I always knew he was going to be useful one day. That was the only reason I didn't kill him when he started tossing your skirts.”

Now Fallon couldn't stop the jerk of surprise. Her father smiled, knowing he'd won.

“That's right. I knew about you two. I knew all along. Do you think anything happened on my streets I didn't know about?”

“But…” Fallon closed her eyes. She didn't want to go back. She didn't want to remember that time, the girl she'd been, but the longer she was in her father's presence, the more she became Maggie again. She could all but feel her silk gown turning scratchy and cheap against her skin. She could feel the dirt under her fingernails; she could smell the stench of rotting rubbish.

“If I knew, why didn't I kill you?” her father said, finishing her thoughts. “Because I wanted to make some money off you first. You were a whore, just like your mother, only you were easier on the eyes than she ever was. I could have made a fortune off you.”

Fallon curled her lip. “You make me sick. I was your daughter.”

“And I knew you well.” Bayley rose. “After all, what did you become if not a well-paid whore?”

Fallon closed her eyes, willed Maggie back into the past where she belonged. “You don't know anything about me, and you never will.”

“And I don't care. I'm only keeping you alive long enough to get Fitzhugh.” He stepped toward her, and Fallon couldn't help but shrink back.

“Who's paying you for him? I hope it's a great deal for the risk you're taking. You'll be the one dead before all of this is done.”

“Not likely, but I'd kill ten Fitzhughs for the price I'll be paid.” He lunged for her, and before she could jerk away, he snatched the ruby necklace at her throat. He held it up to study it in the dim light. “Pretty but nothing.” Dropping the necklace to the floor, he ground it under his boot. “These are nothing compared to what I'll receive.” He held up a fist and shoved it under her nose. “Rubies as big as my fist. Three of them.”

She must have made some doubtful expression, because he pushed his knuckles into her lip.

“Don't believe me? I've seen them. I've touched them. Those rubies are going to buy me a new life far from here.”

“Too bad Fitzhugh will kill you before you ever see those rubies again.”

He kicked her back, and without her hands to catch her, she fell hard on her shoulder. His boot slammed into her middle again, and she let out a gasp of air. She could feel the rough dirt from the floor biting into her cheek, and she concentrated on that rather than the pain tearing through her.

She knew there would be more pain. So much more before this was over. Fallon closed her eyes against the next blow, but it didn't come. She slit her eyelids and blinked at the boots approaching her. They gleamed and shone even in this dim light. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and followed the boots to a knee clad in tight, buckskin breeches. As her gaze traveled higher, over the brushed wool coat and the fine linen shirt and cravat, she stared into a face she knew well.

Frankie smiled, showing his dimples. “Hello, Maggie.”

***

Warrick watched Lily, dressed in a dark blue ball gown and sparkling sapphires, step into Daisy's rose-strewn chamber. She made the roses look cheap. She made everything pale beside her delicate porcelain skin.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

She smiled. “Nice to see you, too.”

“I didn't send for you.”

“And you weren't going to.” She glanced over her shoulder, and Warrick saw Daisy standing in the doorway, her mouth ajar.

“Daisy, might you give us a moment?” Warrick asked.

“But she's… she's—”

“Yes, I know. The Countess of Charm.”

Daisy's eyes were wide. “First a marchioness, now a countess.”

Warrick wanted to tell her they weren't real titles, but he supposed to an abbess like Daisy, a notorious courtesan's sobriquet carried as much weight as a real title of nobility.

“I promise we shall have a few moments to chat when I've spoken with Fitzhugh,” Lily said, going to the door where Daisy stared at her. “We shall sit and sip tea, I think.”

Daisy nodded. “Tea. I'll fetch some. Only the best for you, my lady.”

“Thank you.” And she closed the door on Daisy's eager face.

“They don't call you charming for nothing,” Warrick remarked.

“I'm glad to hear you say so. Now, might I inquire what you have done with my friend Fallon?”

Warrick scowled. “I don't need your help with this, and if the Secretary knew you were here, he'd have both our heads.”

“Well then we'd better not tell him.” She peered around Warrick to catch a glimpse of Gabriel. “I won't tattle if you won't.”

He sighed. “Lily…”

“I'm assuming this man might have some knowledge of Fallon's whereabouts. From what Daisy said, she's been taken by her father.” Lily shook his head. “I knew when I spoke to her this afternoon she was in danger.”

“I will get her back.”

“Yes, you will.” Lily moved past him, bent, and studied Gabriel. She placed a gloved hand under his chin, heedless of the blood that would ruin the expensive kidskin. “Now, good sir,” she said, “start talking, because I promise you that though Fitzhugh here won't kill you, I have no such qualms.”

Warrick blinked and a glint of steel winked from her gloved fingers. She pushed the knifepoint into Gabriel's flesh until he gasped in pain and surprise.

“I only know rumors,” Gabriel hissed, obviously attempting to move his chin as little as possible.

“Oh, good. I do adore hearing the latest gossip.”

Warrick rolled his eyes, but he didn't interfere. He watched and listened as Lily charmed Gabriel into revealing all.

Fallon stared at the man before her in complete bewilderment. She knew that face so well. And she hated it, too. She would have been happy to imagine Frankie with a knife in his back, rotting on the bottom of the Thames.

He put his hands on his hips and grinned at her. “Well now. You grew up, didn't you?”

She wanted to say something pithy and sarcastic, like
Well, that's usually the way of things
, but instead she blinked at him owlishly. How could he look so much like the boy she remembered? She felt fifteen again—awkward and unsure.

He crouched in front of her. “I hear you're a fancy man's whore now. Got a title and a new name. Is that true?”

She blinked at him. He was still undeniably handsome. His eyes were a deep, dark brown with gold flecks. His hair was thick and lustrous. His teeth were perfect. And when he had smiled, it had always made her stomach flip.

In her experience, his smiles melted every woman he came across.

But then her gaze narrowed on a patch of dark stubble on his cheek. He must have missed it when shaving. So he wasn't perfect after all. He had flaws.

She straightened. And for all his manly beauty, she'd been wooed and pursued by men just as handsome. Men with titles and intelligence and wealth. What was Frankie but a criminal? He was still working for her father and living in this hole, while she had a town house in Mayfair and more ruby necklaces than she could count.

Well, that wasn't true. She had counted them, and she had three. But they were hers. She hadn't stolen them. She had made something of her life, even if that something was mostly a lie and not very respectable.

If nothing else, she had escaped Joseph Bayley.

“Why are you here?” she asked, using her best
ton
ballroom intonation. “Don't you have unsuspecting girls to seduce?”

Frankie's brows shot up. He'd expected her to cow before him as she always had. But not this time. She was going to be dead shortly, and she wasn't going to go without settling old scores.

“You weren't hard to seduce. You all but begged me to toss your skirts up.”

She shrugged. “I cared about you. Obviously, I was a fool, but at least what I felt was real.”

He snorted. “And is that what you tell all those dukes and lords when they're climbing in and out of your bed?”

She smiled. “Let me tell you about my bed, Frankie, seeing as you'll never be in it. It's covered in silk sheets, draped with a canopy encrusted in rare jewels, and I have a bottle of French wine on the bedside table.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but she did have the silk sheets.

Frankie stood. “I was the first to have you.” He shrugged his coat off. “And I'll be the last. You'll die with the feel of my body still on your skin.”

“You always were a romantic.” She darted a glance at her father, but he only looked annoyed. He probably didn't like that he had to wait for Frankie to rape her before he could kill her. But Fallon was not going to be raped or killed without a fight. Not caring if they saw her struggles now, she twisted her wrists again, sending renewed pain into her numb arms and burning her already chafed skin. Was she clinging to false hope or did the bindings feel looser?

Frankie reached for her, and she kicked her feet out, catching him hard in the jaw. He swore and fell back, landing unceremoniously on his bottom. From across the room, her father cackled. “This is more entertaining than I expected.”

Just
wait
, she thought, and pulled one hand free of the ropes.
Just
wait.

***

“I have to admit,” Warrick said as he and Lily raced along the dark, wet streets of Seven Dials, “Gabriel knew more than he let on.”

“Men like that become powerful by knowing everything about everyone. It was only a matter of convincing him to tell us what he knew.”

A steady drizzle was falling, and drops of rain rolled off Warrick's hat and onto his neck, chilling him. He was already deathly cold inside. If he and Lily were too late…

She took his hand. Even wet and pale with cold, she looked strong and vibrant. “We'll find her, Fitzhugh. Don't worry. Look, there's the bakery now.” She pointed to a shop with a worn sign showing a piece of bread. The windows were dark and grimy, and the display in the front did not boast any of the shop's wares.

“That must be it,” he said, pausing and ducking back into the door of a hat shop. If Bayley's men were watching, he didn't want to be spotted. “Any suggestions for how we handle this?” he asked Lily, who had ducked out of the rain beside him.

“You're asking me?” She raised a thin brow. “This is your area of expertise, not mine.”

“You handled the interrogation well.”

“All right. You should look for a back door and go in that way. Despite my boasts to Gabriel, I'm no good at hand-to-hand combat. I'd be more of a liability to you than anything else. But I can knock on the front of the shop and pretend to be lost. That might distract whoever Bayley has patrolling long enough for you to sneak in and find Fallon.”

“Good idea. But as soon as Bayley's men tell you you've got the wrong shop, get out of there.” He cut a glance at the door to the shop and imagined Lily standing in its shadows. This was why he had retired from the Foreign Office. He hated having to risk the lives of others. He hated the gut-wrenching fear encompassing him now, the fear something would go wrong and he'd be responsible for not one but two deaths tonight.

He was already responsible for so many deaths—maybe not directly, but hadn't his missives and documents led to the deaths of hundreds of men? True, they saved the lives of his own countrymen, helped the British win the war against Napoleon, but he couldn't forget the cries of those French soldiers. When a man was dying, nationality ceased to matter.

“Fitzhugh.” Lily put a hand on his arm. “Are you ill?”

He clenched a fist and forced his thoughts away from that faraway battlefield and back to the one before him. Fallon needed him. If he could save her, perhaps it would atone for some of the wrongs he'd done.

“I'm fine.” He took a breath and willed it to be so. “But remember what I said. I want you safely away as quickly as possible. We can meet back here or at The Merry Widow.”

“Of course.”

“Lily.” He took her hand. “They're men and they're bored and they're going to try to detain you. You have to—”

She shook her head. “You worry about Fallon. I can handle Bayley's men.”

He didn't doubt it. With a last check of his pistol and dagger, he started across the slick streets toward the dark alley behind the shop.

***

“Oh, you're going to pay for that,” Frankie said, rising to his feet. “You're going to be very sorry.”

She notched her chin up and stealthily shook the bindings off her wrist. She was free now, but her arms were still prickling with numbness and pain. “Then make me sorry,” she said. “I don't think you can.”

“She's not afraid of you, boy,” her father said. “Maybe I should have kept her and gotten rid of you.”

Frankie whipped around. “She's the one who tried to kill you, old man. And I'm the one who's going to get you those rubies. Don't you forget it.”

He'd turned his back to her, a fatal error she would have never made were she still a thief on the streets. Fallon wasn't going to allow the opportunity to pass her by. She jumped to her feet, wobbled unsteadily, and flew at Frankie with all she had. He wasn't expecting the attack, and her swift kick to his lower back had him falling to his knees. Her arms were still pulsing with pain, so she gave him another kick and wished she had worn her half boots instead of these useless slippers.

Her father was screaming something at her now and coming toward her, and she knew she had no choice but to use her arms. She glanced about for something to grab and spotted a broken piece of crate. A nail scraped her hand, and she turned the wood just as her father came within striking distance. She swung out awkwardly but effectively, the wood slicing him across the cheek and drawing blood.

Her arms burned and throbbed in protest, but she gritted her teeth and swung the piece of wood again—this time at Frankie. Frankie ducked, and she missed. Her aim was off because her arms were shaking. He lunged at her again and managed to knock her to the ground. The shard of wood went flying, and helplessly, she watched it land across the room with a clatter.

“I've got you now,” Frankie said with a grin. He was on her in a moment, his body like a sack of flour. She could barely breathe much less move. His hands were all over her, his hot breath in her face. She tried pushing him away, but her arms were useless.

Even if she'd had her full strength, she did not think she could have managed to push him off. She could still do some damage, though. She struck at him with her hands, tearing at his hair and then at his face. He stopped his assault long enough to grasp her wrists and hold her still.

Fallon closed her eyes as he pushed her hands to the floor. His legs clamped around her waist, and she knew she was trapped now. He was going to rape her and then kill her. There was no escape this time. She couldn't wriggle out of his grip like she had the bindings.

She felt his moist, sweaty hand on her breast and clenched her jaw. She tried, one last time, to free her hands by moving them from side to side, but he held them tightly with his unoccupied hand. Still, her movement had revealed something of interest. Cautiously, she flexed her fingers and felt the warm metal of something lying on the dirty ground beside her. A blade? A knife? A shard that had long since come free of whatever it belonged to? Whatever it was, she had it within her reach. She fumbled with her fingers and managed to close her hand on it. It pricked her, and she sucked in a breath.

Now, how to free her hands…

Fighting Frankie would only make him clutch her that much tighter. But if she gave in—no, he wouldn't believe that. If she were immobilized…

“Frankie,” she said breathlessly, gasping for air. It wasn't much of an act. She couldn't catch her breath with all of his weight on her abdomen. “I can't breathe. Please.”

“You don't need to breathe. Very shortly, you won't be breathing at all.” She heard fabric rip and felt his fingers on the bare skin of her chest.

“Frankie, I'm going to faint.” She'd never fainted in her life. “I can't…” As hard as it was to make herself go limp, especially with him pawing her, she let all the tension and strength flow out of her arms and legs until she was completely at his mercy. He didn't seem to notice. She could tell by his movements, he was busy getting himself ready to enter her. Everything in her wanted to fight back, to scream, to struggle, to buck and claw and tear.

She fought the urge and made herself lifeless.

His hand thrust between her legs, and she felt bile rise in her throat. He wasn't going to release her. He was going to rape her, and she was going to sit here and allow it to happen.

Don't move. This is your last chance…

He kicked her legs open and raised her skirts.

Please, please, please.

And then she felt it. His hand loosened on her wrists, tightened again, and then when she didn't fight, loosened. She would have one chance. One.

She held her breath and swung her arms up in an arc.

***

Warrick stepped inside the shop. The lock had been easy to pick, which told him Bayley and his men weren't worried about intruders. They felt safe.

He could hear voices toward the front of the shop, a high one that must be Lily's and a lower one that was one of Bayley's men. Warrick doubted Bayley only had one guard, so he'd have to watch for the second one. He slunk along the wall, keeping to the shadows, and caught a glimpse of Lily standing in the doorway. She was talking earnestly, and he could have kissed her. If she could just keep the guard occupied for ten more seconds, Warrick would be out of sight.

He reached a staircase, put his hand on the banister, and was halfway to the top when he heard a distant crash. It wasn't coming from upstairs. The sound of voices from the doorway below ceased, and Warrick knew the guard was listening.

It must be Fallon. Warrick's heart soared. If she was fighting, she was alive. But she wasn't upstairs. Where, then?

There must be a cellar. He flew back down the stairs and searched for a cellar door. He found it under the stairs and pulled it open. The screams grew louder, and heedless of the danger, he ran down the stairs with his pistol in his hand. The cellar was dark, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he blinked, uncertain whether or not to believe what he was seeing. Fallon stood over the body of a man who lay face down on the floor, writhing in pain. She held something in her hand, and from the dark smears on her fingers, Warrick supposed whatever it was was covered in blood.

“Warrick.” Her voice was full of relief, and he realized she must have feared he was another of Bayley's men coming for her. He took a quick inventory of her, noting her torn bodice and the disarray of her hair. If anyone had dared touch her, he would gut him and serve the man his own entrails. His gaze knifed to the man on the floor.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice deadly calm.

“No—” Something in the shadows caught her attention, and she turned her head. Too late, Warrick saw who claimed her attention. Joseph Bayley lunged from the darkness and grabbed Fallon around the waist. His arm locked hers in place, immobilizing the hand holding the weapon.

“Fitzhugh,” Bayley croaked. He had a streak of blood running down his cheek and a nasty gash above it. Warrick had no doubt who was responsible.

Fallon struggled against her father's hold then stilled. In the gloom, Warrick sensed the knife more than saw it.