If You Give a Rake a Ruby (20 page)

“Fallon, you don't know anything.” But instead of releasing her, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She was too shocked to react at first, but then his warm mouth coaxed hers open, and she was kissing him back with everything she had. She didn't understand what had happened or what he had meant when he'd said she knew nothing. And she didn't care. Warrick was kissing her. Warrick was holding her.

His hands fisted in her hair, tugging her head back gently so he could kiss her neck, her earlobe, her collarbone. She shivered, a languid, liquid heat poured through her, warming her and making her tingle.

“You're wearing too many clothes,” he murmured when he reached the prim neckline of her gown.

“So are you.” She wanted to divest him of his coat and shirt. She wanted to run her hands over his firm chest and that flat abdomen. She wanted to nip his broad shoulders and wrap her legs around the dent of his waist.

With a growl, Warrick pulled away from her. “This isn't the time or the place,” he said. Fallon stared at him. His breath came in rapid huffs, and his eyes were dark with passion.

“You
do
want me,” she whispered.

He laughed. “Of course I want you. I told you, I'm in love with you.”

“But I thought—I mean, when you told me to go—”

He cupped her face with his hands. “I am going to tell you this one more time, Fallon. I have no expectation you will comprehend this time, but I'm ever hopeful.
I
love
you.
I will always love you. I know you don't believe me. I know you don't trust me, but it's true.”

She smiled. She did believe him, and she wanted to think his
always
meant forever. “I love you too.”

He kissed her again, gently and almost sweetly. “You've no idea how much I've wanted to hear you say so. And now, if we're to have any future together, we had better discover the identity of the man who wants me and the other Diamonds in the Rough dead.”

“The man with the rubies?”

“Exactly. I found the records room, and if you will hold the candle for me, I'll pick the lock and we can search the insurance policies.”

Fallon raised her brows. “That sounds tedious.”

He took her hand and led her down the corridor. “One can't be abducted or involved in a carriage chase every night.” He retrieved his tinderbox, lit the candle, and handed it to her. Then she watched as he opened a small leather case and took out what appeared to be professional lock-picking tools. This was why she loved him. How could she love a man who didn't have some useful skills?

“Those are very nice,” she said, peering over his shoulder.

“Thank you.” He glanced up at her. “Could you hold the candle so I might see the lock?”

“Oh, of course.” She watched as he selected an instrument with a long, thin, metal protrusion and inserted it into the lock. He twisted and turned the instrument, and she leaned closer to get a better look.

“Fallon.” He sounded as though his teeth were clenched. “This is hard enough without you leaning over my shoulder.”

He went back to work, and she glanced at the other tools in the case. There was one with a bent end she thought might work better on a lock of this sort.

He swore, removed the pick, and then inserted it again. “Lift the candle, please.”

The candle was lifted, but she recognized frustration when she heard it.

“Why don't you try—”

His hands stilled, and she closed her mouth, realizing her mistake. If she'd learned anything masquerading as a courtesan, it was never to give a man advice. They did not appreciate it and rarely took it, even when it was perfectly logical and obviously the best possible solution to their problem.

He swore again and ran a hand though his hair. Fallon pressed her lips together.

“What?” he said, without looking at her.

“I didn't say a word.”

“You were going to say something earlier.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He rose. “I'm going to have to kick it down.”

She winced. “That's rather loud, and tomorrow the bank manager will know a thief was here.”

“Do you have another suggestion?”

A suggestion was similar to advice, in her experience. Fallon hesitated. “Perhaps I could try picking the lock.”

Warrick moved aside. “By all means.” He gestured to the door. “Have a go.”

She was wary of his solicitousness, but she didn't relish waiting all night for him to pick the lock or having the Watch discover them when he made a racket by kicking the door down. She handed him the candle, and he held the pick out to her. She took it, knelt, and replaced it in his case.

“You're not going to use the pick?” he asked.

“Not that one, no.” She extracted the curved pick, studied the lock, and inserted the instrument.

“That one is not going to work,” he said from behind her.

She jiggled the pick gently then turned it to the left.

“The lock is such that you need a straight pick.”

She turned the pick to the right.

“That kind will damage the mechanism if—”

Snick
. Fallon pulled the handle and opened the door. Without a word, she replaced the curved pick in the case and handed it to him. “Lovely tools,” she said. He stared at the tools, then at her. She thought, for a moment, he might say something, but he merely pocketed the tools and gestured for her to enter the records room.

The room was spartan and consisted of a long table, several chairs, and rows and rows and rows of files. It did not have a window, so Warrick lit a lamp and directed her to search the row of files on the far wall. He began with those on the wall near the door. Fallon took one look at the boxes of files and sighed. This, she supposed, was why she would not make a good spy. There was far too much drudgery involved. But she began sorting through files, glancing at page after page of dull documents, looking for any mention of rubies. Several times she thought she found something interesting, but the rubies were part of a set of jewelry, and she knew the rubies she wanted were not in a setting.

“That was impressive,” Warrick said.

Fallon started. She'd become so accustomed to the silence that his voice startled her. “Pardon?” She glanced at him. He was standing by a stack of files, thumbing through them. The warm glow from the lamp made his skin look burnished and glinted off what appeared to be auburn pieces in his chestnut hair.

“The way you picked the lock,” he said, without looking at her. “It was impressive.”

“Oh.” She went back to her files. “I have plenty of experience picking locks. It's not something I'm proud of.”

“There are some who would envy your skills.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Thieves and cutthroats.”

“And spies.”

She glanced up at him. “You would have succeeded with the lock. Eventually. You simply selected the wrong tool.”

“In my business, every second matters. Selecting the wrong tool can mean death.”

“Then I'm happy you are retired.” She didn't like to think of him risking his life. She didn't like to think of him injured or dead. With renewed vigor, she began sorting through files. But she looked up when his shadow fell over the parchment before her.

“I'm trying, in my clumsy way, to say thank you.”

She looked back down. “There's no need.”

He kissed her cheek. “There's every need. You're an extraordinary woman, Fallon. One day you're going to believe that.”

They studied files until Fallon's back ached, her shoulders felt taut as the wire of a pianoforte, and the words swam before her eyes. Finally, Warrick said, “It's not here. Or, if it is, we've not time to find it. I've seen dozens of large insurance policies. The rubies might not be insured, or they could be insured elsewhere.”

Fallon stretched her back. “Where?”

“Perhaps Child's Bank on Fleet Street.”

Fallon frowned. She had no desire to stray that close to the Temple Bar.

“Perhaps Hoare's.”

Another Fleet Street bank. “Surely we can't break into every bank in London.”

“No. I'll have to take a different direction.” He shoved a box of files back on the shelf. “Right now I want to go to bed.” His gaze met hers. “But not alone.”

She smiled. It seemed she'd been waiting for years to be in his arms again.

Once they were in the alley again with the Bank of England locked securely behind them, he asked, “How did you come here?”

“Hack. I had him leave me a few streets away.” She could see the sky lightening to a pewter gray. Dawn was coming.

“I did the same. We'll not find one at this wee hour.”

Fallon sighed. “I suppose that means we walk.”

He offered her his arm. She took it and they headed for Threadneedle Street. They had not gone far when a voice called from the darkness, “I've been waiting for you.”

Warrick reached for his pistol but froze when he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked.

“Put yer hands where I can see them.”

Warrick lifted his hands and glanced at Fallon. Whatever happened, he couldn't allow any harm to come to her. Most likely this was nothing more than a simple robbery. He would toss the thief a few coins and they would all walk away. Fallon looked back at him, drops of water in her hair. The night air was damp and heavy. A slate-gray fog curled about his ankles like a hungry cat. He could hear the distant sounds of farmers' wagons hauling their goods into town. London was opening a groggy eye. In a few more moments, someone would happen by.

“You were in the bank for quite a spell,” the thief said.

Fallon's eyes widened, and Warrick knew what she was thinking. How had the man known they'd been in the bank?

“What's it to you?” Warrick asked. He itched to turn his head, to see the man properly.

“Just you keep facing as you are,” the man said. “My face ain't nothing to see. You almost got me caught, ye did. The Watch are suspicious in these parts. Can't be bribed either.”

“If all you want is the few coins I have on me, take them and be gone,” Warrick said. “It's late, and I want my bed.”

The man laughed. “Pretty girl like that at yer side, I bet you do. But that's not all I want.”

A shiver of unease skittered up Warrick's spine. “What else could you want?” He moved closer to Fallon, shielding her with his body.

The man laughed. “Not yer ladybird. I want you, Mr. Fitzhugh. You have a price on yer head, and I intend to claim it.”

Bloody
hell
. Exactly how many men did the traitor with the rubies have after him?

Warrick turned, and the man stepped hastily into the shadows. Warrick couldn't see him at any rate. He had the collar of his coat up and his tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. “Turn back around.” The man's voice shook slightly.

Good. He wasn't a professional. “What exactly do you intend? Will you shoot me dead on the street? I imagine that will attract some attention.” Warrick took a step forward.

“Don't come no closer.”

“Or else you will shoot me? You've already told me that is your intention. What do I have to lose now?” He stepped closer again, and the man stepped back.

“Warrick, be careful,” Fallon said.

“Listen to the chit. You'd better be careful.”

“Or you will shoot me?” Warrick took another step forward. “You'll do that anyway.” He was facing the pistol now and could see the man's hand shaking on the hammer. At this rate, he'd be shot accidentally. But Warrick could also see a little of the man's face. He was young, no seasoned killer. He wasn't much older than the boys Warrick had seen dying on the battlefields of the Continent.

The boy raised the pistol higher. “Keep yer hands up.”

There was fear in his voice, fear and desperation. The combination made Warrick's ears roar as though a spring gale buffeted his face. Warrick closed his eyes, willed the memories of the battle away. But the boy's voice and his face had triggered something. Suddenly, the sky was stained crimson from the distant fires. Smoke scorched his nostrils and snaked along the muddy ground. Warrick could hear the battle cries again. He could hear the screams of the horses and the distant booms of cannon fire. The ground beneath him shook, and he braced his legs to keep his balance on the slippery ground.

From far away, he heard someone say, “What's he doing?”

Fallon was calling out to him. “Warrick, are you ill?”

He looked for her, but the smoke from the battle was too thick. He couldn't see her. He had to reach her. She shouldn't be here. She should be safe, home in London. He was reaching out for Fallon, straining to touch her, crawling over the bodies of the dead men again, slipping on their slick blood, falling in a pool of excrement and severed limbs.

No!
He would not go back. He would
not
go back.

With a roar, he rushed forward, heedless of the dead men he trampled. He knocked the enemy down and fought with a rage he hadn't felt since the war. “I'm not going back!” he shouted. “I won't do it.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Warrick!”

Fallon was screaming. He could hear her. Where was she?

“Warrick! Stop. You'll kill him.”

Someone grabbed his arm and he struck out, pulling the punch at the last moment when he saw it was Fallon. She gasped, stumbled, and fell backward.

The battlefield faded away, and he was back in London. A gray fog—not smoke—rolled by him, and the pewter sky—not crimson—hung with the promise of rain. The sounds of the city, of horses' hooves clopping, vendors crying, and wagons lumbering through the streets surrounded him. Slowly, the battlefield faded into the corners of his mind, where he knew it would wait and watch for another chance at freedom.

“Fallon!” Warrick was beside her in an instant, lifting her into his arms. “I'm so bloody sorry. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She gripped his face. “I tripped on my cape, but I'm fine. What happened? I screamed your name, but you didn't seem to hear me. You almost killed him.” She looked past Warrick. “Perhaps you did kill him.”

Warrick turned and saw the young man lying on the ground. His tricorn hat had tumbled off, revealing a head of long, dark blond hair. His face was streaked with blood. Warrick moved closer to the boy, and the lad raised a weak arm. “No more.”

Thank God. The boy wasn't dead. Warrick's gaze flicked to the pistol that had fallen from the boy's hand. He leaned over and scooped it up, tucking it into his pocket and out of the boy's reach.

The boy moaned again, and Warrick hauled him up. “Who sent you?”

“No more,” the boy moaned.

“I'm not going to hurt you, if you answer my questions.”

“No more.” The boy's head lolled back, and Warrick sighed. He knew he hadn't beaten the lad so badly the boy couldn't talk.

Fallon put her hand on Warrick's shoulder. “Let me try.”

Warrick started to protest, then realized she probably had the right of it. The boy was too terrified of him at the moment to speak.

Fallon knelt beside the boy, and Warrick frowned. He didn't like to see her kneeling on the dirty street. “What is your name?” she asked softly.

The boy's eyelids fluttered. “Wha?”

“Your name?” She bent over him, so he could see her face.

“John.”

“John, I'm Fallon. Are you well enough to sit?”

The boy struggled to his elbows, and Warrick stepped forward to assist. But Fallon shook her head, and Warrick stepped back into the fog. When the boy was sitting, Fallon said, “Now, tell me who sent you here to kill Mr. Fitzhugh. I assume this isn't a personal matter but that someone is paying you.”

“I ain't going to get paid now.” He tossed a contemptuous look in Warrick's direction and spit out a tooth.

“Your reward is your life,” she said. “And if you want to keep it, tell me who sent you.”

The boy looked at her then looked over at Warrick. Warrick crossed his arms over his chest.

“I don't know his name, and I never seen his face. But he's a gentleman, I know that. I could hear it in his voice. He sounds like that one there.” He hooked a thumb at Warrick. “I couldn't see his face, it were too dark, but I saw his boots. They were expensive, like. I believed him when he said those gems were real.”

“The rubies?”

He blinked at her. “You seen 'em?”

“No, but I've heard of them. He showed them to you?”

“He did. They was huge. I'd like to have done just about anything to get my hands on one of those.”

Warrick rolled his eyes. As though the boy would know what to do with a ruby once he had it.

“When and where did you see these rubies?” Fallon asked.

Warrick had to give her credit. She was getting the boy to talk and asking all of the right questions. A few drops of rain plinked on Warrick's face, and he peered up at the foreboding sky.

“He had them right here in London. Met him over on the East End in a pub. Thought he was just one of those gents slumming it, then he pulls me aside, buys me some gin, and shows me them rubies.”

“When was this?” Warrick couldn't resist interrupting. His pulse had started to race. The traitor was in London—or had been recently. It was drizzling in earnest now, the water beginning to dilute the splatters of blood on the street.

The boy glared at Warrick. “I ain't talking to him,” he said to Fallon. “I'm talking to you.”

“Of course.” Her gaze never left the boy's. “When did you meet this man?”

The boy shrugged. “Couple of days ago.”

“Then he's in Town now?” she asked.

“I should think so. Said I had until”—the boy lifted his fingers and counted—“day after tomorrow, which I suppose is today already, to do the deed. I was to meet him at a fancy ball in two days' time.” Another dagger-like glance in Warrick's direction. “I'd get paid then.”

Fallon frowned. “A fancy ball? Whose ball, and how would you gain entrance?”

The boy shook his head as though speaking to a child. “I'd hide in the gardens.”

“Whose ball?”

“I don't know the name. Some lord or other with deep pockets.”

“How were you to find it? Did the gentleman with the rubies give you the address?”

The boy scowled. “I don't read, Miss Fallon. He told me, and I remembered.” He tapped his head.

“What was the number?”

The boy cut another glance at Warrick. He leaned closer to Fallon. “Thirty-six Berkeley Square.”

Warrick's world tilted, and he reached out to clutch a lamppost for support.

“You know it?” the boy was asking Fallon. She shook her head. “No.”

Warrick took a deep breath and tossed a few coins at the boy's feet. The boy scrambled to grab them, and Fallon stood.

“This ought to cover a visit from your doctor. After that, I'd advise you to stay in bed, because if I see you again, I'll kill you.”

The boy glared at him. Warrick held out an arm, and Fallon took it. “Let's go before the skies open up and soak us.”

They found a hack just as the rain began in earnest. Warrick started to give the jarvey his address, but Fallon interrupted with her own.

“Why did you do that?” Warrick asked when they were inside.

“Who knows how many other hired men this gentleman has after you? For right now it might be best for us to sojourn at my town house.”

“What about Titus?” Warrick asked darkly.

Fallon raised a brow. “He is a little scary, isn't he?” They sat in silence for a moment, then Fallon said, “Who lives at thirty-six Berkeley Square?”

Warrick would have sworn she had her gaze fixed on the boy when that information had been revealed. But somehow she'd seen his reaction.

“My mother and father.”

“You don't think—”

“No. My father isn't trying to have me killed.” At least Warrick didn't think the earl hated him that much. “But my mother is hosting a ball.”

“Ah.” Fallon nodded. “The ball with the famous Lady Edith.”

“Precisely. Obviously our man has an invitation.”

“I suppose this means you will be attending.”

He looked at her. Was that jealousy in her voice? “
We'll
be attending. It's time you met my father.”

***

Fallon did not think it time she met the Earl of Winthorpe. In fact, she could have done quite nicely never meeting the man. But she wasn't going to argue the point with the sun rising, her head pounding, and Titus glaring at Warrick from the vestibule of her town house.

“Titus,” she said, smoothing her hair back into place, though she couldn't have said why, as it was a lost cause. “Would you tell Cook to delay breakfast? I think we shall sleep first.”

She glanced at Warrick, and he nodded agreement. He looked exhausted. His eyes were rimmed with red. Insomnia or not, it was time he slept.

“My lady,” Titus said, his severe tone making her jerk her attention toward him. “Might we have a word?”

“What is it?” Fallon handed her cape to her lady's maid with an apologetic smile for the dirt.

Titus hesitated and shifted.

“Go ahead, Titus. You may speak freely.”

Her butler gave Warrick a dark look, but before Titus could speak, Warrick said, “I know what this is about. You want me to go. Do I have the right of it, Titus?”

“Yes, sir.” Titus's tone on the
sir
was far from respectful. “It's not proper, you staying here.”

Fallon sighed. “Titus, I am a courtesan. Men are supposed to visit me here.”

Titus frowned but didn't argue.

“Titus,” Warrick began. “Let me put your mind at ease.”

“Warrick, you go on. I'll speak to Titus.”

“Actually, I think it might be better if Titus and I spoke in private.”

Fallon raised her brows. “You want to speak to my butler in private?”

Warrick nodded. “If you don't mind.” He indicated the door to a small parlor. “Might we speak in here for a few moments?”

Titus nodded and, to Fallon's shock, lumbered into the parlor. What exactly was going on here? She watched, stupefied, as Warrick followed and then closed the parlor door.

Anne came forward. “May I help you to your room, madam?”

Fallon shook her head. “No. Go on ahead and prepare my chamber. Make sure there are two glasses of wine on the nightstand.” It was not a usual request, but Anne only nodded and disappeared into the servant's domain.

Fallon edged closer to the parlor door, leaning her ear against it. Her footman was coming toward her, but she waved him back impatiently.