If You Give a Rake a Ruby (23 page)

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” his mother asked. “I do hope it is to confirm your attendance at the ball tomorrow. As I'm certain you noticed, the frenzy of preparations has begun.”

Warrick had noticed no such thing. If the servants were in a frenzy to prepare, they were masking it well. “I will be at the ball.”

“Oh, good!” Frances said. “Lady Edith has been saving a waltz for you.”

Well, that was nicely done
, Warrick thought. Frances was going to make one hell of a countess one day. With little choice but to oblige, Warrick said, “I look forward to it, Lady Edith.” She smiled, exchanging a look with Frances. Warrick was struck by how comfortable she seemed surrounded by his family. She fit in, whereas he had always felt like an outsider.

“Your father will be pleased to see you,” his mother said.

“Will he?” Warrick asked, looking away from Lady Edith.

“I daresay he will,” Richard answered. “He's become nostalgic of late.”

Anthony laughed. “Which is Richard's way of saying he regrets banishing you.” Anthony was standing next to his pretty wife, and he put a hand on her shoulder. She covered it and gave him a warm look. “You should come to the ball,” Anthony said, “and the two of you can make amends.”

Warrick studied the small, happy group. The scene was so heartachingly domestic he could barely make himself stay rooted in place. This was what he wanted. This was what he had dreamed of through all those months of war. Only the thought of returning to London, marrying, and having his own children had kept him going through the worst of it. He looked at his brothers, with their wives and their sons, and he envied them. He had never envied them before, but now they had something he wanted.

His gaze strayed to Lady Edith, who would be the perfect addition to his family. She gave him a knowing smile. He looked at his mother, who nodded at him. She would not be so pleased when he arrived with Fallon on his arm tomorrow night.

He tried to imagine Fallon sitting with this group and found it difficult. She was at ease with the men of the
ton
but had little experience with the ladies. And in Warrick's experience, it was generally the ladies who determined whether or not one was accepted into Society. When he did marry Fallon, would he be dooming her to a lonely life of rejection? She knew her place now. She would have no defined place as his wife and a former courtesan.

“I will attend the ball,” Warrick said, looking at his mother. “And I was hoping I might take a look at the guest list.”

His mother frowned. “Whatever for?”

“It's state business, so I'm not at liberty to say.”

His mother straightened. “I am sure you can have no reason to investigate any of
my
guests.”

“Nevertheless, I was hoping to peruse the list.”

His mother sighed. “I suppose that would be all right.” She rose, excused herself, and led him to a small parlor on the first floor, where she completed all of her correspondence. She took several sheets of vellum from the drawer of a dainty rosewood desk and handed them to him. “Is this the real reason for your visit today?”

“I'm pleased I was able to see Richard and Anthony.”

She held her hand up. “Say no more. You've answered my question.” She started for the door, then paused. “You are coming to the ball alone, are you not?”

Warrick kept his gaze on the vellum.

“I see.” His mother shook her head. “Warrick, do think what you are doing.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Think what you are throwing away.”

“I've thought of little else, Mama.”

With a huff, she left him alone to peruse the long lists of lords and sirs. None of the names stood out, though. All of the guests were exactly the men and women he would expect to appear on a guest list for a ball given by an earl. He replaced the vellum and turned toward the door to see his father standing within its frame. Warrick had not seen the man, except from across his club, for several years now, and he was surprised at how much the earl had aged. Hair that had once been dark brown was now peppered with gray. His strong face and bold features appeared slightly shrunken and lined. He'd put on a stone or more as well, and Warrick noticed his father leaned heavily on a walking stick. Realizing he had been staring, Warrick recovered himself quickly and bowed. “My lord.”

“I did not expect to see you here, sir.”

“I needed to speak to Mother.”

“You will be attending the ball tomorrow night?” his father asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Capital. We can speak more then.”

Warrick nodded. He supposed this was as close as his father got to welcoming him back. “Yes, my lord.”

His father moved aside, and Warrick took the gesture to indicate a dismissal. He exited the parlor, nodding at Dalton, who stood guard at the door. But before the butler could open it, the earl spoke again. “Your mother tells me you have taken up with a courtesan.”

Warrick halted and glanced at Dalton. Dalton kept his gaze focused on the nothing in front of him. Warrick attempted to imagine how his mother might have broached the subject of their youngest son and a notorious courtesan and decided he did not want to think too hard about the more intimate aspects of his parents' relationship.

“Her name is Fallon,” Warrick said, turning.

“That matters not. I was a young man once,” the earl said. “I understand the lure of pretty women, but there is a time in a man's life when he must put all of the frivolities of youth aside. You are one and thirty, sir. Your mother and I would like to see you settled.”

Warrick clenched his fists. He remembered his father calling his work for the Foreign Office a
frivolity
years ago. It appeared now he was to be forgiven for that folly and chastised for another. “Fallon is not a passing fancy, my lord,” Warrick said. “When you meet her—”

His father shook his head. “Do not be so bold, sir, as to think you will introduce me to a common trollop. What you do with her on your own time is your affair, but you will not sully this house by bringing a whore into it.”

Warrick contained the rage that exploded within him but just barely. “You mean a whore who is not titled, I think. I saw the guest list, my lord, and I do not believe most of the women on it can claim they have not strayed at one time or another from their marriage bed.”

“I will not dignify that comment by acknowledging it.”

Warrick nodded and started for the door again. So many years had passed, and yet so little had changed. He and his father would never make amends, it appeared. Dalton moved slightly, then stilled when the earl spoke again. “Warrick, one question.”

If the earl hadn't used his Christian name, Warrick would not have stopped. But there was something about hearing his father refer to him so familiarly that tugged at a part inside him—a place dangerously close to the center of his chest.

“You can't think to marry this woman, can you? You must know that would be disastrous for both of you.”

“The Duke of Pelham—”

“Yes, yes, I know all about that fiasco, but you are not a duke, nor are you one of the wealthiest men in the country. Money and status often buy forgiveness, not to mention that the duke had a somewhat eccentric father and an impeccable reputation before his fall. Society will overlook one transgression from a man of Pelham's character. You will not be afforded the same courtesy.”

“That is a price I am willing to pay.” He started for the door again, but his father caught his arm. Warrick all but jumped at the earl's action. He could not remember the last time his father had touched him.

“I am only going to say this once,” the earl hissed in Warrick's ear, his voice so low even Dalton, who stood a few feet away, could not have made out the words. “Do not throw your life away. If you marry this woman, you will be dead to me and to your mother. I am trying to make amends for our past, but you must meet me part of the way.”

Their gazes met, and Warrick stared at the tears in his father's eyes. The urge to embrace his father all but overcame him. It had been so long since he'd felt he had a father at all.

“Give me another chance, son,” his father whispered. “Let's begin again tomorrow.” The earl squeezed Warrick's arm and released him. Slowly, he withdrew until Warrick was standing in the vestibule alone with Dalton. Warrick looked at Dalton, but the servant stared straight ahead. Warrick shook his head. Had he imagined what had just happened?

He moved toward the door and Dalton opened it. With a nod, Warrick passed through it and walked back toward the park. He had intended to return to Fallon's town house after his visit with his mother, but now something held him back. He told himself he would not be good company at the moment, and he started for home. Well aware his residence was probably being watched, he took a back way and entered the gardens through a locked, hidden door only he knew about. He locked it again behind him, entered the town house cautiously, and made a cursory search. He startled several of his servants, but otherwise everything appeared to be in order. A quick discussion with his butler told him no one had come to call and nothing suspicious had occurred in his absence.

He went to his room and left strict instructions that he was not at home—to anyone.

Once in his room, he jotted down as many of the names of his mother's guest list as he considered noteworthy. Only a dozen or so of the men in attendance had amassed the kind of wealth necessary to obtain three large rubies. He went to the window, leaned on the casement, and scanned the names. One of these men had to be the traitor. He knew all of them, though he only knew one or two well. Still, none of them gave him even a moment's pause. But one of them wanted him dead, and Warrick wished his instincts had not chosen this day to fail him.

By ten the next morning, Fallon had to admit the painful truth to herself—Warrick was avoiding her. He'd left the morning before without so much as a good-bye. He had not sent any sort of word all day, and when she sent a note to his town house, her messenger had returned with her missive, saying Mr. Fitzhugh was not at home and no correspondence was being accepted.

Fallon's belly had felt sick and tight, but she tried not to think the worst. Lily had stopped by the night before to invite Fallon to attend the theater, but Fallon said she didn't feel well and stayed home. That had probably been a mistake. Fallon was not the sort to sit at home waiting for a man to call on her, but that was exactly what she had done.

Her only consolation was if she had gone to the theater with Lily, she would have done nothing but talk about Warrick the entire time. Obviously Lily knew him better than she had pretended, and Fallon was eager to know the connection between her friend and her lover. But something told her she'd get little information from Lily and then she'd end up pushing the matter and embarrassing herself.

So she'd stayed home, hating herself for her weakness and hating Warrick for making her think he'd loved her. Though, there again, she had no one to blame but herself.

Finally, after pacing her chambers most of the day and avoiding her lady's maid, who wanted answers as to Fallon's plans for the night, she retreated to Lady Sinclair's town house. There she found Lily and the countess sipping tea in the spacious drawing room. With its cream-colored furnishings, high ceilings, and white moldings, the room was serene and peaceful. The countess embraced her warmly, and Fallon felt a little of the blackness hovering about her like a fog lift.

Until she saw Lily's face.

“What is it?” Fallon asked, pulling out of the countess's embrace. “What is wrong?”

“It's nothing.” Lily tucked a newspaper beside her on the chair.

“There's something in that paper,” Fallon said. “Is it about me?”

“Why do you always assume everything in the papers is about you?” Lady Sinclair asked, taking her seat and gesturing to the empty chaise longue across from Lily.

Fallon shook her head. “You are correct, of course. I hope it isn't about you or Juliette.” She took the cup of tea the countess offered her and sipped. She might have wished it were brandy, but oolong would do for the moment.

“How are you, my dear?” the countess asked.

Fallon was about to respond, when Lily said, “How are things with Mr. Fitzhugh?”

Fallon jumped to her feet, spilling tea on her gown in the process. She set the cup on the floor and lunged for the paper. Lily let out a small scream but surrendered the paper readily enough. It only took a moment for Fallon to find the Society column and the item about Fitzhugh and Lady Edith. Apparently they had both been spotted at the Earl of Winthorpe's residence yesterday afternoon, and sources close to the earl said his youngest son had been quite taken with the young lady.

Fallon felt the room grow dark, and she dropped the paper on the floor. Lily was beside her in a moment. “The papers exaggerate everything, Fallon. You know that.” She took Fallon's arm and led her back to the longue. Fallon sat on it, feeling like some sort of lead marionette.

“You are as white as a sheet,” the countess said from far away. A few moments later much-needed brandy was pressed to Fallon's lips. Fallon drank it and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the world had stopped spinning.

“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew something was wrong.”

“I am certain nothing is wrong,” Lily said. “The papers—”

“He hasn't seen me or written to me since he went to his father's house. He told me he wanted me to go to the Winthorpe ball with him tonight, but he hasn't sent any word at all and the ball is only hours away!”

Lily knelt beside her, her green eyes filled with concern. “If Fitzhugh said he was taking you to the ball, he will take you. He is a man of his word.”

Fallon's eyes narrowed. “And how do you know so much about him? What, exactly, is your connection?”

Lily glanced at the countess.

“Now isn't the time to discuss that,” Lady Sinclair said smoothly.

Fallon shook her head. What exactly was Lily hiding? Apparently the countess knew—and was keeping Lily's secret. Fallon took a breath. “If Fitzhugh hasn't thrown me over, then why haven't I heard from him?”

“Oh my!” The countess pressed her hands together. “You're in love with him!”

Fallon frowned. “And why does that make you look so pleased? You told me a few days ago not to fall in love with him.”

“Only because I knew that
would
make you fall in love with him.”

Fallon glanced at Lily, but Lily only shook her head, looking as confused as Fallon felt.

“Oh, you were already in love with him,” the countess explained, sipping her tea. “But I knew telling you not to fall in love with him would only make you more so.”

“That's ridiculous,” Fallon protested. “I'm not that contrary.”

The countess raised her brows and sipped her tea. Fallon looked at Lily, but Lily was suddenly intensely interested in her white gauze sleeves.

“Fine.” Fallon sighed. “I am contrary. Perhaps
that's
why he prefers Lady Edith.”

“Fallon!” Lily grasped Fallon's arm gently.

“He doesn't prefer Lady Edith,” Lady Sinclair said, “but I meant what I said when I came to see you. His mother is a woman who achieves her purposes. She wants Fitzhugh married to Lady Edith. If he goes against her wishes, and I imagine, those of his father, he will lose much.”

Fallon pressed her hands to her eyes. “Exactly. He's thrown me over.”

Lady Sinclair rose and joined Fallon on the longue. “Do you have so little faith in his love for you? I daresay if he has thrown you over, then he doesn't deserve you.”

Fallon's belly tightened, and she fought the urge to be sick.
This
was why she never fell in love—this wretched nauseating feeling she knew would only grow worse. It would be eclipsed, though, of that she was certain. The stabbing pain in her heart would render the roiling in her belly insignificant. And there was nothing she could do to conquer these feelings, nothing she could do to stop the pain. She would have to push through it. She would have to continue on, no matter how much she felt like dying.

“He has not thrown her over,” Lily said. Fallon was barely listening. She wanted to go home, crawl in bed, and pull the covers over her head.

“But he is thinking the matter over,” the countess said. “He will choose Fallon, but by then she will have given up on him. She will refuse to see him and ruin everything.”

“I am sitting right here,” Fallon said. “And I know where this is going, and I am not going to be a part of it.” She rose. “I'm going home.”

“Oh, no you are not,” the countess argued, pulling her back down. For a small woman who used a walking stick, the countess was remarkably strong. “You are going to allow Fitzhugh to prove his love.”

Fallon stared at her. “Fitzhugh isn't the Duke of Pelham, my lady, and I'm not Juliette. Fitzhugh is not going to make some grand gesture.”

“We shall see.”

“No, we shall not.” Fallon rose again. “I am going home.” She was halfway across the drawing room, when Lady Sinclair's words stopped her.

“I suppose if you prefer to run and hide, rather than fight for what you want, there is little I can do.”

Fallon clenched her fists, staring blindly at the pale blue and white striped silk chair by the door. If only she could keep moving and reach the chair, the handle for the door would be at her fingertips.

“I had no idea you were such a coward.”

Fallon whirled around.

“Countess!” Lily gasped.

Lady Sinclair waved a hand. “It's true.”

“No, it's not,” Fallon said through clenched teeth, “but I'm not going to prove it by marching into the Winthorpe ball uninvited.”

A small, devious smile spread over Lady Sinclair's face. “Excellent plan, my dear. Abernathy!”

Fallon gave Lily a pleading look. “Now what is she doing?”

Lily shook her head, bewilderment on her face. Abernathy, the Sinclair's butler, opened the drawing room door. “Yes, my lady?”

“Inform his lordship we are attending the Winthorpe ball tonight.”

“Of course, my lady.” He nodded. “Is that all?”

“I do not think I responded to the invitation,” Lady Sinclair said, leaning on her walking stick and rising. “Repair that oversight.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Thank you, Abernathy.”

Fallon shook her head. “Are you going to go to the ball to bash Fitzhugh about the head? If the man must be convinced he loves me—”

“Oh, hush!” The countess waved her stick at Fallon, forcing Lily to duck. “I'm merely giving the man an opportunity to prove his love to you once and for all. Lord knows it will take considerable effort to make it through your thick skull.”

“I do not have to listen to this.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Not only will you listen, young lady, but you will do exactly as I say.” The countess glanced at Lily. “You too.”

Lily nodded quickly. Fallon had the ridiculous urge to inform the countess that she was not her mother, but she kept her mouth closed. The countess had done more for her than anyone Fallon had ever known. She was not going to refuse a request by Lady Sinclair.

And her capitulation had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Lady Sinclair scared her to death.

“Now”—Lady Sinclair rubbed her hands together—“we have work to do.”

Four hours later Fallon and Lily stood in front of a looking glass and admired the results of the assault. Lady Sinclair had summoned a veritable army of modistes, hair stylists, and maids to turn Fallon and Lily from courtesans into princesses.

At least that was how Fallon felt.

She stared at the woman in the mirror and tried to find herself somewhere. She had been dressed and styled and primped many, many times before but always the effect was exotic and sultry. The woman looking back at her looked young and innocent. Her dark hair had been pulled back from her face and secured in a sophisticated chignon, which was held in place by a small diamond tiara. That was the only adornment she wore, if one did not consider the gown. It was a rich red and hopelessly out of style. The skirt was too full, the waist too low, and the neckline all wrong—and yet, Fallon loved it. She looked like a princess, and she actually twirled from side to side to watch the ruby-red skirts swish. In the lamplight, the beads flashed and sparkled. The gown might not have been the current style, but it was classic.

Beside Fallon, Lily, who was dressed similarly in a sapphire gown, smiled. “I feel like I should look about for my throne,” she said as one of the modistes fussed with her hem. “I cannot fathom where Lady Sinclair has been hiding these gowns and for what purpose she had them made in the first place.”

“I shudder to think what else she has hidden. If Fitzhugh had run off to Arabia, would she produce some sort of harem attire?”

“I assure you I have no harem attire,” Lady Sinclair said, moving into the room.

Fallon pressed her lips together. She should have known Lady Sinclair never missed anything. The countess studied her long and hard, made several suggestions to the modiste and the hair stylist, and finally nodded her approval. “You will do.”

Fallon laughed. “High praise indeed. Tell me, are we going to a masquerade? You can't possibly think to have us dress so for the Winthorpe's ball.”

“Not to mention,” Lily added, “Fallon and I have not been invited.”

The countess shook her head. “I have never understood that expression—
not
to
mention
. If one is not going to mention something, why follow the phrase by mentioning it?”

Lily opened her mouth to explain then closed it again, looking perplexed.

“In any case,” the countess said, “you will attend as my guests.”

Fallon took a deep breath. “I really do not think this is a wise idea.”

The countess raised her brows. “I assure you, my dear, if the idea is mine, it is wise. And stop clutching your belly. You look as though you will cast up your accounts at any moment.”

Fallon felt as though she might. The situation worsened by the moment. Just the thought of seeing Warrick made her heart gallop. She felt like such a fool. How was she going to hold her head high when he cut her, ignored her, and danced with Lady Edith? She took a step back.

“Oh, no!” The countess was before her immediately. Again, for a woman who needed a cane, she moved remarkably quickly when she wanted. “Whatever you were thinking of just now, cease.”

“I am not attending the ball. I have better things to do with my time.” She shook her head, undeterred even by the cutting glare the countess leveled on her. “And I do not wish to be humiliated.”

“Fallon, you
can
do it. You're strong—” Lily began. Lady Sinclair held up a hand, and the gesture was enough to silence Lily.

“Leave us for a moment,” she said to Lily. “Wait in the vestibule, if you do not mind.”

“Not at all.” Lily all but ran for the door. Fallon wished she could escape too.

“All of you,” Lady Sinclair said to the remaining modistes, maids, and hairdressers. “Please, leave us.”

The room emptied as quickly as it had filled earlier in the day, and Fallon felt the weight of dread in the heavy silence.

“You can't scare me into going,” Fallon said. But, truth be told, she wasn't so certain.

“I had not intended to scare you,” the countess answered. “I am merely going to ask you to go.”