If You Give a Rake a Ruby (19 page)

He reared back so that he was looking down at her. His face was bronze and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. His brown hair was mussed and tousled about his face. She could see from his clenched jaw that he was straining with the effort of holding back his own pleasure. For her.

He reached between them, stroked her. Fallon couldn't help herself. She arched against him.

“Oh, yes.” He gripped her hips hard with one hand. “I can't hold on.”

She felt him swell and pump inside her, and it sent her over the edge. But this time the climax was slow and warm and delicious. It seemed to infuse her entire body with a heat as thick and sweet as honey. She closed her eyes and saw only Warrick's face, Warrick's intense gold-flecked eyes.

Afterward, he held her, stroked her hair and her back. She wanted to sleep, but her thoughts were restless. The events of the night played over and over in her mind. Her father was finally dead. He'd been just as horrid as she remembered him, and yet, somehow she'd hoped all this time she'd been mistaken, that seeing him as an adult would change her perspective.

And Frankie… how had the man she had thought she once loved turned into something out of a nightmare?

He'd never cared for her. She knew that now. Somehow the certainty of that fact made it easier to let go of all her childhood fancies. Warrick was correct. She was no longer Maggie Bayley. She'd been Fallon for some time now, and she should stop looking over her shoulder and fearing Maggie would return.

But who was Fallon? She wasn't a courtesan and never had been. Oh, she'd enjoyed the lavish lifestyle and the admiration of Society's most eligible men, but she could not imagine giving her body to a man she did not care for. At the moment, she could not imagine giving it to anyone other than Warrick.

She was certainly not a marchioness of mystery, and she was no longer certain she wanted to perpetuate the myths about her. But what else was there for her? She wasn't like Juliette, who had grown up on a farm and would be perfectly happy returning to the countryside. Fallon had never even been near a cow, and truth be told, she was a little afraid of them and not so fond of horses either.

And Lily. Well, Fallon didn't even know what to think of Lily at the moment. Fallon had thought
she
had secrets. Obviously, Lily had secrets of her own.

It was almost dawn before she finally fell asleep, and when she woke, she was alone. She wanted to roll over and sleep the rest of the day away, but she had to talk to Warrick about the rubies her father had mentioned.

She sat, thought about ringing for Kitty to help her dress, and then decided perhaps she would have tea and scones first. Her stomach growled, and she decided she needed fortification before seeing Warrick again. She reached for the bell just as a commotion erupted outside. A familiar voice demanded, “I will see my lady!”

She knew that voice, and she hastily pulled the counterpane over her breasts and up to her chin. A sharp rap sounded on the door, and it opened. But Titus did not stick his head in. “My lady, may I enter?”

She sighed. Why not? Everyone else had been to see her. “Yes, Titus.”

He ducked and entered, glanced at her, and then fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “I am sorry to disturb you like this, my lady.” With Titus in the room, it suddenly seemed very small. It was easy to forget how large and imposing he was if one hadn't seen him for a few days. The top of his head was only a few feet from the ceiling, and his broad chest was puffed out in what might have been indignation.

“It's my fault, Titus. I'm certain you were concerned for my safety and welfare. I should have sent a note.”

“Mr. Fitzhugh sent one, my lady, but I wanted to see for myself that you were here of your own volition.”

“I am, yes.” Fitzhugh had sent a note? “Ah, Mr. Fitzhugh thought his home would be safer.”

Titus's huge fists clenched at his side. Fallon had always wondered how he managed to complete delicate tasks when one of his hands was as large as her head. And she realized now she had offended him. “Oh, but Titus, I didn't mean to imply I would not be safe at home.”

He swallowed. “That is quite all right, my lady. You must go where you think best.”

“Oh, Titus.” She sighed. How was she possibly going to mend his hurt feelings now? “You know I would rather be home.”

“Is it possible you could share the source of your distress, my lady? So that we at the town house might be prepared?”

“Ah…” She really wanted to tell him. Any concession at this point would have smoothed over his roughened feelings. “I cannot, but I assure you I will be home soon. If you could—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Warrick stormed into the room, his gaze sweeping it and taking in first Fallon and then Titus. “Who is this?”

“Titus. He's my butler.”

Warrick blinked. “Oh, of course. I remember now.”

Titus did not look at him. The servant kept his gaze on the ceiling.

“Is everything all right?” Warrick asked.

“Yes. Titus was merely concerned for my welfare. I've assured him I am well.”

“Good.”

“If that is all, my lady,” Titus said, “I will take my leave.”

“Thank you, Titus. And I do promise to be home very soon.”

He nodded, padded silently out of the room, and closed the door behind him. Warrick's gaze flicked back to her, and she saw the flicker of heat in his eyes. It amazed him that after last night he could still want her. Even more, it amazed her that warmth was flooding into her own belly and her nipples were hardening. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “It's about what my father said.”

He nodded. “I had planned to ask you about it but wanted to wait until you were awake.”

“I'm awake.”

“I see that.” His gaze dipped to the counterpane. “Is it possible you might dress before we discuss the matter? I might be able to concentrate more if I didn't know you were one flick of my wrist from being naked again.”

Fallon smiled. “I have faith in your powers of restraint.”

He raised a brow. “Do you? That faith seems a bit misplaced.”

“In any case, I have some information I believe will be useful.”

“You said you knew who the traitor was.”

“And I do—only I don't have his name.”

Warrick sighed. “No, that would be too easy.”

“But my father mentioned something about a man with rubies. He said the man would pay him with three rubies as large as his fist.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I can see no reason for him to lie.”

Warrick paced away from her, and she could see his mind was no longer on seduction. He was reasoning something out, if the furrow in his brow was any indication, and why that furrow made her want to throw off these sheets and lure him back to bed was beyond her. There was something enticing about intensity in a man.

“So whoever it is has wealth,” he said, going to the window and opening the drapes. “I thought as much. But rubies as large as one's hand…” He made a fist and looked down at it. “Rubies of that nature imply great wealth, and rubies like that aren't common.” He looked at her. “Have you heard mention of anyone possessing such jewels?”

She shook her head. “No, but it might not be someone who moves in London Society. At least, not in my circle.”

Warrick turned back to the window and parted the curtains again. She admired the way his back tapered into a slim waist and how his tight breeches molded to shapely thighs. “I think I must make a visit to Threadneedle Street.”

“What's there?”

He faced her. “The Bank of England. I might have it wrong, but it's a start.”

“I don't understand. Do you need money?”

“No, but I'm betting that whoever owns those rubies also insured them.”

“There are hundreds of places he could insure them.”

“True, but not all of them could support an insurance policy that large.”

“All right. I'm coming with you.”

He closed his eyes. “I bloody well knew you were going to say that.”

“I'm involved now,” she told him. “I was almost killed over those rubies last night, and I want to see who is behind this.”

“I suppose you'd better get dressed then.”

“You aren't even going to argue?”

He sighed. “Madam, I no longer see the point.”

Two hours later, they stepped out of the shadow of the bank and into the bright afternoon sunshine. “Well, that didn't go well,” Fallon said.

“It went as I expected.”

She frowned. “If you expected them to tell us they wouldn't give us access to the insurance records, then why did we make a trip here?”

“Because I wanted to refresh my memory.”

Fallon's hand froze in the act of opening her parasol. “Oh, no.”

Warrick raised his brows.

“You are not going to do what I think you're going to do.”

“That depends.” He took her arm and led her away from the bank. “What do you think I'm going to do?”

“Break into the Bank of England,” she said in a whisper.

He nodded. “Oh. Yes, I am going to do that. That manager knew about the rubies. A hundred to one says there are insurance documents stored in the bank. Do you want to come with me?”

She wanted to say yes. She wanted her time with him to go on forever, but if she didn't end it now, then when? The sooner she made a fresh start, the better. “I'm not coming back with you.” She paused at the curb and looked to and fro for Fitzhugh's carriage.

“It's just there,” Warrick said, pointing. “My coachman is already headed this way.”

“Good.” She swallowed. “Have him take me home.”

Warrick frowned at her. “My home?”

“No. My home.” Her stomach clenched, but she did not retract the words.

“I see.” He was looking at her with those direct eyes, and she made herself look away. If she continued looking into his eyes, she was going to give in and do whatever he wanted. Again. “So that's it then?” he asked.

She took a breath, ignoring the hitch in it. “Yes. I think it must be.”

“I disagree.”

“Then we will have to agree to disagree. You have your life, Warrick, and I have mine.” She kept her gaze on the gray stone facade of the building before them.

“I believe I proposed we unite the two.”

The carriage stopped in front of them, and she blinked at the sun's brightness reflecting off the gleaming black conveyance. She angled her parasol to block the reflection. Now her eyes were watering because of the damn sun.

“And I considered your proposal,” she said, now looking at his cravat. Best to avoid his eyes at all costs.

“Did you?”

“Yes, and it will never work. I'm sorry. You and I are from two very different backgrounds. Your family will never accept me, and I…”

He took her arm and forced her to look into his eyes. “And you? What about you, Fallon?”

“And I don't want to marry.” She straightened her back. “I like my independence.” This much was true. Marriage was for prim little misses and those who miraculously found love. It was not for her kind.

“You are such a good little liar, but you can't lie to me. I know you, and you're afraid.”

She bristled and snapped the parasol shut. “Afraid of what?”

“You tell me.”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She stepped back. “Mr. Fitzhugh, I had thought we might remain friends, but I see now that is quite impossible.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm one of the men vying to be your protector.”

“Then stop acting like one,” she snapped.

She regretted the words instantly, and regretted them even more when he stepped back and away from her. His face was granite, his expression stony, but in his eyes she saw a flash of pain. “Warrick—” She reached out to him, but he stepped out of reach and flagged a hackney coach.

“Marchioness, I think you might be more comfortable in this hack.” He paid the jarvey and handed her up before she could even protest. For the first time since they'd met, his hand did not linger on her body. “I will have your things sent posthaste.”

“Thank you.”

“Good day.” And he walked away without a backward glance.

The Bank of England knew what it was about, Warrick mused as he picked the last lock on the back entrance. But he had been trained by the best, and his training hadn't failed him yet. He felt the lock click into place and pushed the door open. “Not bad for a man who's out of practice,” he murmured to himself, stowing his lock-picking tools in the small leather case in which he carried them and dropping it in his great coat.

He slipped into the bank and closed the door silently behind him, then locked it from the inside. He wished he had a lamp, but he hadn't wanted to risk alerting the Watch if he happened to pass by and see a light in the window. Warrick's eyes were already adjusted to the dark, but he took a moment to survey his surroundings. He was in a back room, most likely where the employees entered and exited. What he needed was the records room.

He knew from experience that the vault was under the bank on the first floor. He'd been there with his father years ago. He'd noted a staircase leading to another level this afternoon and watched bank clerks winding their ways up and down its marble steps. What was on the second level? Offices? Perhaps stored records? It was worth investigating.

He made his way silently through the bank and up the staircase. The second floor was darker and also better insulated from the exterior windows. Warrick pulled a tinderbox from his coat and lit a spunk. He unearthed an old candle from his pocket and lit the wick. Slowly, he perused the plaques outside doors until he found one that read
Records
.

He smiled. If he was a pirate, X would have marked the spot. He turned the knob and swore. Who the devil locked a records room? And how was he supposed to hold a candle with one hand and pick a lock with the other? He looked about for a table or chair to drag over, but the corridor was annoyingly sparse. He tapped the door. It wasn't very thick. Perhaps he could kick it down…

He heard a scrape and a thump and instantly blew out the candle and ducked. Silently, he crawled to the staircase and peered through the rails. Below, nothing and no one moved. Had he imagined that noise?

He slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, listening. He heard the clop of horses on the street and the distant cry of a flower girl, but nothing—wait! There it was. The shush of the carpet as someone stepped lightly on it. Tiptoeing.

So it wasn't the Watch or a night guard. He wouldn't tiptoe, and he'd be carrying a lamp. The ground floor was still shrouded in darkness. A thief? He'd locked the door behind him, but as he'd proved, it could be picked.

Whoever it was appeared to be searching the ground floor. Warrick couldn't risk discovery, which meant he was going to have to deal with the intruder. Silently.

He pulled the dagger from his boot and made his way stealthily down the stairs. Hugging the banister and keeping to the shadows, he took one step at a time, glad they were marble and unable to creak. From this vantage point, he couldn't see the interloper, which was a good thing as Warrick didn't relish being spotted on the staircase. He reached the ground floor and heard a rustling to his left. Keeping his back to the staircase, he used the shadows to stay hidden.

A shadow across the room shifted, and Warrick discerned a caped figure crouching before the door to the lower level. Whoever the man was, he was trying to access the vault. Shifting his dagger in his hand, Warrick eased forward. He could move almost silently, but the thief appeared to sense him because he turned. Warrick ducked behind a desk, waited, and when he heard the scrape of a lock being picked, he moved in. Closing the distance between them, he stepped behind the man and put a knife to his throat. “Don't move. I don't want to kill you.”

“I'm not so certain of that.”

Warrick dropped the knife and grabbed Fallon by the shoulders, hauling her up so that she was facing him. “What the devil are you doing here? I almost killed you.” The hood of her cape fell back, revealing that sweep of thick dark hair and the honey curve of her cheek. But he wasn't going to look at her, to fall in love with her again. She'd made her feelings clear.

“Not a very nice greeting, considering you invited me.”

“Madam, I believe our conversation following the invitation served to rescind it. I ask again: What are you doing here?”

She looked down, and her lashes were dark smudges on her smooth cheeks. “I don't know. I suppose I wanted to know who the man with the rubies is.”

“Why?” Warrick released her and crossed his arms over his chest. “He doesn't want you dead.”

“I care about you.”

“Do you? That's heartening. I thought you had a heart of stone.”

“Listen, I—”

A beam of light pierced the darkness of the bank, and Warrick grabbed Fallon and hauled her down to the floor. “Shh! It's the Watch.”

“I know who it is.”

The beam made a slow path over the desks and chairs in the bank, and Fallon pointed to a desk nearby. Warrick nodded, and they scurried underneath it. The space was tight, even with his knees pulled up to his chin. It would not have accommodated them both if Fallon had not been so petite. Pressed against her, he could not help but be reminded of the warmth of her skin and the feel of her lips against his own. Her light exotic perfume tantalized his senses, and he turned his head away.

He could hear the thump, thump of the Watch's boots outside the building, but he knew the light would not find them under the desk. “Were you seen breaking in?” he whispered.

“Of course not. Were you?”

“Do you mean to insult me?”

“No more than you insult me.”

The beam flashed near them, and Fallon put her hand on his arm. They both sat immobile and silent. Then the beam faded and the Watch's footfalls receded.

Fallon did not remove her hand. “I didn't like how we parted this afternoon.”

He glanced at her, the dark shape of her beside him.

“That's why I came tonight. I didn't want that to be the end.”

“You might have sent me a note.”

“I'm no writer. I wouldn't have known what to say.”

“Why don't you simply admit you're in love with me?”

Her hand tightened on his arm and then she released him. “I do care about you.”

“Care? Do you break into the Bank of England for everyone you care about?”

“I care a
great
deal
.”

“What are you so afraid of, Fallon?”

“I'm not afraid!” she all but yelled.

“No, of course not.” And he was no fool. He was not going to
persuade
her she loved him. He was not going to beg for her affections. Either she loved him enough to risk herself or she did not. He was going to regret walking away for the rest of his life. He was going to die a little inside every time he read about her in the papers or saw her across a ballroom. He was going to die wanting her, but if he continued to chase her, he would die loathing himself. She would have to come to him. He was already standing on the edge of the precipice. If she wanted him, she'd have to cross the divide.

He pushed out from under the desk and brushed his coat off. “Go home, Fallon. I don't need your help.” He started back up the staircase, leaving her crouching under the desk. He wanted to look back at her. He wanted to will her to come after him. Instead, he concentrated on walking away from her and tried to ignore the stabbing sensation somewhere midchest.

***

Fallon watched him go, watched him deliberately take one step at a time away from her. How she hated him. She was humiliated. She had come here and risked everything, and he had told her he did not want her.

Why
had
she come?

He wasn't worth this. No man was worth it. She knew that to be true. Why did she keep breaking her rules for this man? She was never going to marry. She was never going to fall in love.

Except she had fallen in love, and it was perfectly inconvenient. He was all wrong for her. He was an aristocrat. He was a spy. He knew all her secrets.

And he was walking away from her.

Good. She should let him go. She should go home, sleep for three days, then make a grand appearance back into Society. She should meet with Lily, and the two of them could plan a triumphant return.

Except, when she thought of Lily now, she thought of Warrick. Lily had more secrets than Fallon could have guessed, and she didn't think she could go back to sitting in Lily's drawing room, sipping tea, and pretending everything was as it had been. Pretending they were both celebrated courtesans, when privately neither of them resembled that in the least.

And the truth was, Fallon did not want that life anymore. She did not want a life where she didn't see Warrick every day. She did not want a life without him in it.

And that was why she had come here tonight. That was why she had left her safe, warm home in the middle of the night, traveled halfway across London to Threadneedle Street, and knelt in a dirty alley to pick the lock of the Bank of London.

If she were caught, she would most certainly be hanged. And yet, here she was—and she'd do it all again, too. She was that much of an addlepate.

Her heart thumped hard, and she could hardly manage a breath. But she had to go after him. She couldn't lose him. It was never going to work. She was going to end up alone and miserable when, in the end, he threw her over for a woman of his own station. But she would have him until then. Until that last moment, she would sleep in his arms, hear his voice whisper her name, feel his lips on her skin.

She shot up, bumped her head loudly on the underside of the desk, and winced. “Warrick!” she shouted then grimaced. She was going to get them both caught, and that was hardly the romantic scene she wanted.

She rubbed her head and crawled out from under the desk. He was no longer on the staircase, and she rushed up the stairs after him. Her cloak swirled behind her, and she lifted her skirts almost to her knees as she raced up the steps. It seemed to take days to reach him. Who would have thought a bank would have so many stairs? Finally she reached the top and was greeted with dark silence. “Warrick,” she hissed.

Nothing.

“Warrick!”

She stared down the corridor. Had he gone right or left? Why had she not thought to bring some sort of light? Very well, she would go right and see where that led her. Hands out in front of her, she started down the dark corridor. “Warrick? Where are you?”

How could he not hear her? Was he still here? What if he had left? What if she was alone in the empty bank? She shivered. Of course he hadn't left her. How would he have exited from the second floor?

“Warrick?”

“Are you trying to alert the whole of London?”

She jumped and, hand on heart, flattened herself against the wall. She still couldn't see him. “Warrick?” she whispered.

“I told you to go home.”

“I can't. I… Where are you?”

She didn't hear him move, but suddenly he was before her. How did he manage feats like that? She could just make out his dark eyes in the gloom. She reached out to touch him, and he stepped back. “Do you need an escort home? Wait downstairs, and—”

“No, that's not it. I—it's you. I need you.”

He sighed. “Fallon, we've been through this.”

Oh, dear God. She had waited too long to tell him. He really didn't want her anymore. She had driven him away. Her heart clenched, and she fought a wave of dizziness. “No. I came to say…” Her throat constricted. Why was this so difficult? “I mean, what I want to say is that…” She took a deep breath. “I love you.”

He didn't speak, didn't respond. She waited. Wasn't he supposed to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her too? Wasn't he supposed to kiss her or embrace her or… well, something other than simply stand there?

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She could feel her cheeks flame with heat. That was it? That was his response? She was such a fool. The last time she had said those words, she'd been fifteen and the man she'd said them to had betrayed her days later. Now she'd said them again, and the man to whom she was giving her heart didn't want her either.

She almost laughed. Perhaps she was cursed. Perhaps this was God's way of punishing her for all her sins. And she deserved punishment. There had been many sins and few for which she was sincerely contrite.

“I'm sorry,” she finally whispered more to herself than to him. She was sorry she had not been braver sooner. She was sorry she had allowed that tiny flicker of hope he'd sparked to flame into something more. “I'll not waste another moment of your time.” Fallon moved past him and started for the staircase. It appeared quite blurry for some odd reason. She reached the banister, placed her hand on it, and took a shaky step.

“Wait.”

She almost toppled down the steps at the sound of his voice.

“Why? Why do you tell me this now?”

She clenched the banister, feeling the ridge of the smooth wood under her fingertips. “I don't know.”

“Not good enough.” His hand gripped her waist, and he turned her to face him. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“Because I missed you,” she whispered. “Because I…” Her throat constricted again, and she tried to swallow the enormous lump.

“You missed me. Go on.”

“Because I didn't want to be without you.” She looked down, and he notched her chin back up with a finger. “I couldn't stand the thought of not being with you.” She put her hands on his chest, felt the warmth of him through the wool greatcoat. Suddenly the words she'd fought for rushed forward like a river whose dam has broken. “I know this will never work. I know you can't possibly marry me, but I don't care. I want you anyway.”

He shook his head. “And you think that's love?”

She took a shaky breath. “Yes.”