If You Give a Rake a Ruby (24 page)

Fallon swallowed. This was indeed worse.

“Have I ever asked anything of you, Fallon?” Lady Sinclair questioned. “Have I ever asked so much as a single favor?”

Fallon shook her head. “No.”

“I am asking you now. Please go to this ball.”

It was the
please
that did her in. That and the fact that she owed the countess everything, and it was true, Lady Sinclair had never asked for anything in return. Fallon bowed her head. Who was she to use humiliation as an excuse? The countess knew humiliation better than anyone. For years she'd been pitied by almost every one of her friends and acquaintances because Lord Sinclair kept three mistresses. Had Lady Sinclair ever denied the accusations, even though they were patently false? No, she had allowed everyone to believe the rumors, even fostered them, because those rumors helped Fallon and the other members of The Three Diamonds.

And now Lady Sinclair was asking for a favor in return. How could Fallon deny her? She owed the countess everything.

Fallon offered her arm. “I am happy to accompany you, my lady.”

Lady Sinclair smiled. “Fallon, you will thank me for this; you do realize that, do you not?”

Oh, how Fallon wished that were true.

***

Warrick was late to the ball. Even by Society's standards of fashionable tardiness, he was late. It was his own fault, really. He'd had second thoughts about bringing Fallon. He didn't like to admit it, but it was true. His father's words had affected him, and even more than his father, the domestic scene he'd witnessed yesterday in his parents' drawing room had affected him.

How he wanted that domesticity for himself.

But he did not want it with any woman but Fallon. He wanted her more than anything else. If his father was prepared to deny his son because of Warrick's choice in wives, then his father be damned. Lord Winthorpe was making the mistake, not Warrick.

But he'd mulled the issue over too long. He knew that now. He should have gone to Fallon immediately or at least sent some word. Instead, when he finally arrived at her town house in order to escort her to the ball, Titus informed him she was not at home. Warrick had been prepared to search her residence, even if it meant fighting Titus to do so—a terrifying prospect, but he was determined. Titus had made a sweeping gesture and gladly suggested he look himself. The butler would not have done so if Fallon was hiding in her bedchamber.

Which could only mean that she had already gone out.

Warrick could not imagine where. She probably had a dozen invitations. She could be anywhere in the city. She could be with anyone. Dozens of men wanted her, desired her. Just the thought of her smiling at one of those men, flirting with him, dancing with him, made Warrick want to smash his fist into the nearest wall.

Since that wall was his father's, he refrained, but he was aware he was scowling deeply, and his parents' guests were giving him a wide berth. He'd been a fool, but he would not lose her. He would go to her tomorrow, plead forgiveness.

He was not going to make a mistake he'd regret the rest of his life.

“Warrick?”

He turned and looked down into the smiling face of his mother. Only she would dare approach him when he was so obviously annoyed. And only she would bring someone with her—Lady Edith.

Lady Edith curtseyed prettily, and Warrick was forced to bow and say, “Good evening, Mother. Lady Edith.” This was why he avoided balls. The inanities of societal expectations irritated and bored him.

“Your father and I are so pleased you have come,” his mother said.

Warrick refrained from rolling his eyes. Of course they were pleased. He had not brought Fallon with him. They thought they had won. He glanced at Lady Edith—his prize—and bristled.

“We shall speak after the next dance.” His mother patted his arm. “I will leave you two alone. I'm certain you have much to discuss.” And with that, she turned and swept away.

Lady Edith gave him a small smile. “It's a lovely ball,” she remarked.

He sighed. Now he was going to be forced to make idle chitchat. “Yes.” He glanced about, pretending to take it all in. The ballroom looked much as it always had, in his mind. He could remember sneaking down here with his sisters and brothers as a child to watch a ball in progress. Even then he could not see the appeal of crowding into a rectangular room to dance or yell over the strains of an orchestra. He
had
envied the ball goers' supper. His parents rarely allowed the children to partake of sweet apple tarts, candied violets, or any of the other sugary confections on display in the supper room.

But now, as he looked at Lady Edith, he remembered how his sisters had sighed over the gowns and the chandeliers and the forms of the minuet. Doubtless, Lady Edith had done the same. “It is lovely,” he replied, glancing about and studying the guests for the first time since arriving. He really should have been looking for the man who wanted him dead instead of brooding about Fallon. He couldn't very well win her back if he had his throat slit.

There was the Duke of Devonshire. He had the funds, but why would he turn traitor? And there was the Marquess of Bynum, but Warrick knew he was searching for an heiress to marry, which meant he would have sold the rubies, rather than offered them to a hired killer. Unless he had another motive—

“Mr. Fitzhugh?”

Warrick dragged his attention back to Lady Edith, realizing belatedly he was being rude. “I beg your pardon. Is it time for our dance?”

She smiled. “No.” She was a pretty thing, but she did not fire his blood. “There is something I wish to say, and I hope you will forgive me if I am blunt.”

He raised his brows. “I appreciate bluntness, my lady.”

“I know about your friend.” She notched her small, pointed chin up.

He frowned.

“Your lady friend.”

“I see.” Now this was interesting.

“I do read the papers,” she remarked, “and I have seen several items about you and a certain woman, of late.”

“Go on,” he said because the color was high in her cheeks now, and he could not help but wonder where she was headed with all of this.

“I wanted you to know that should your parents' dearest wish be fulfilled—”

So much for bluntness. He had to untangle that veiled reference to matrimony.

“—I would not care if you continued your friendship with the lady. After the birth of a son, of course.”

Now this was bluntness, and he spoke without thinking, “So you are saying you do not mind if I am unfaithful?”

She blushed. “I cannot say I would not mind at all, but I understand how the world works.” She made a sweeping gesture toward the ballroom. “And I admit I have a desire to taste some of it myself.”

Ah. So she intended to take lovers herself. He stared at her, tried to imagine himself wed to her. Tried to imagine her as the mother of his children. Would he mind if she spent her evenings locked in the arms of another man?

No, he decided. He would not. Which meant she was giving him the perfect solution. He could marry Lady Edith, have his parents' approval, and have Fallon too.

Except Fallon would never consent to actually becoming the courtesan she played. He would lose her.

Warrick was vaguely aware the music for the waltz had begun, and he offered his arm, as if by rote, to Lady Edith and led her to the center of the ballroom. It had been some time since he'd danced a waltz, but it came back to him quickly, and Lady Edith was light on her feet and perfectly graceful.

“I can see you are thinking about my proposal,” she remarked.

“I…” He did not know how to answer.
Was
he considering it? “My lady, do you mind if I am equally forthright?”

She took a breath, then shook her head. God forbid he truly be blunt, or she would probably faint. “Why do you wish to marry me, knowing I love another woman and I will be unfaithful?”

She shook her head and looked over his shoulder. “I would be honored to—”

“No. We are being honest.”

“Because I am tired of husband hunting,” she answered, and he was impressed with her frankness. “And I like your family. They are warm and genuine, and my own sorely lacks those qualities.”

“Thank…” His mouth went dry as the doors to the ballroom opened. The light of the chandeliers sparkled off the bold blue and red gowns of the women entering the ballroom. But his gaze was fast drawn to the woman in the red. It was Fallon, and she was breathtaking. He missed a step and had to force his feet to keep moving. He wanted nothing more than to stop and stare at her.

No, that was not true. He wanted to walk to Fallon, take her in his arms, and kiss that lush red mouth. He wanted to pull the glossy brown hair from that elaborate twist and bury his hands in its considerable weight. He wanted to see her eyes cloud with passion and her skin glow with a fine sheen of perspiration from their lovemaking.

“She is pretty,” Lady Edith remarked, her voice sounding as though she were calling to him from a tunnel underneath the ballroom somewhere.

Warrick stared at his dance partner.
Pretty
did not begin to describe Fallon.
Seductive, exquisite, necessary
—these were words that came to mind.

Behind Fallon, Lord and Lady Sinclair entered, and he knew, quite suddenly, where Fallon had been this evening and how she had gained entrance to this ball. Dalton would not dare refuse entrance to the Iron Countess, even if she did bring two courtesans with her as guests. Lily, who Warrick saw was standing beside Fallon, leaned over and said something. Fallon's gaze swept across the room and collided with his. His heart hammered in his chest and a longing like none he had ever known took hold of him.

“Mr. Fitzhugh,” someone said. “You are squeezing my hand too tightly.”

He glanced at his partner, but not before he saw the flash of pain in Fallon's eyes. Her gaze slid away from him.

“No.” He wanted to shout the word. He wanted to tell her this was not as it appeared. But then he saw his mother, the smug look upon her face, when she should have been horrified at the presence of not one, but two courtesans in her ballroom. Standing beside his mother, shaking her head as though she'd expected this, was his sister Louisa.

And he knew that this was exactly as it looked, and his mother finally had her way.

“I'm leaving,” Fallon said to no one in particular, though she knew the countess and Lily could not help but hear.

“Oh no, you are not,” the countess said.

“Lily, my dear.” Lord Sinclair held out a hand. “Would you care for a refreshment?”

“I would, thank you.” She took his arm, and the two of them walked away.

“Some friend you are!” Fallon called. How could Lily leave her in this moment? Fallon couldn't stop her traitorous gaze from straying to the dance floor once again. Seeing him there, dancing with the blond beauty, was worse than she ever could have imagined. And she had a vivid imagination.

He was waltzing with her—this woman who could be none other than Lady Edith. He was holding her close and whispering in her ear and no doubt falling in love with the woman. How could he not? She was everything Fallon was not. She was tall and willowy with pale porcelain skin and golden blond hair. Her cheeks were a pretty pink, and everything about her screamed nobility and breeding. Warrick belonged with this woman, a woman of his own class. Fallon had only to see him with her to know it was true.

“I do not have to do this. I'm leaving.”

“No,” Lady Sinclair said. “You will stand here with your head up and be the strong woman I know you are. Remember appearances can be deceiving. We, of all people, know this to be true.”

Is that what the countess thought? That Warrick waltzing with Lady Edith was for appearances' sake only? Fallon was far from certain. But there was one thing she was sure of. She would never hold her head up in another London ballroom, drawing room, or dining room if she did not do so now. So she gritted her teeth, forced her lips into a smile, and tore her gaze away from the picture of the man she loved holding another woman.

She focused elsewhere. Unfortunately, the person who came into her vision was none other than Lady Winthorpe, Warrick's mother.

“Lady Sinclair,” Lady Winthorpe said, neatly cutting Fallon. “How good of you to come. You must sit beside me at dinner. It has been so long since we have had a real chat.”

“I am afraid, Lavinia, our chat may have to wait,” the countess said. “I imagine Fallon”—she put her warm, gloved hand on Fallon's arm—“and Lily will be at my sides.”

“Of course,” Warrick's mother said without so much as a glance at Fallon. “If you will permit me, I will call on you soon.”

“Do. I am certain we will have much to discuss.”

The refreshment table where Lily stood laughing at something the Earl of Sin said was looking most inviting. “Excuse me,” Fallon began. “Would you like me to fetch you—?” She inhaled sharply.

Beside her the two countesses ceased their chatter and turned to watch Warrick's long legs eat up the distance between them. He was coming to speak to her. She knew not what it meant, and she dared not hope.

She dared not trust him. Hadn't she done that once before? And look how he had betrayed her.

“Fallon,” Warrick said as he neared. Lord, but he made it difficult for her to breathe—or think or stand. She was glad of her full skirts because her knees were wobbling. He was so tall, so broad shouldered, his features so terribly intense. Those eyes, when they fixed on her, caused heat to swirl through her. She prayed she did not swoon at his feet and make a complete and utter fool of herself.

The ballroom was eerily silent when he stopped before her. The orchestra had not begun the next song, and most of the guests were watching the scene between the earl's son and the courtesan.

“Fallon.” Warrick reached out to her, but somehow she managed to force her legs to step back. She did not want him to touch her. All would surely be lost then. He frowned, obviously mistaking her gesture to mean she no longer wanted him. She wished, with all that she had, that was the truth.

“I am so pleased you're here,” Warrick said.

Fallon gave a bitter laugh and gestured toward Lady Edith, standing a little ways away. “You have an interesting way of showing your pleasure.”

He had the audacity to appear confused. “I came for you. Titus said you were not at home.”

Now Fallon was confused, but before she could ask what he meant, Lady Winthorpe spoke, “Warrick, how could you be so rude? You have completely abandoned Lady Edith.”

“She's fine, Mother.” He reached for Fallon again, and this time she allowed him to grasp her hand. “I should have gone to see you sooner. I should have sent word.”

To her horror, Fallon felt tears well in her eyes. She blinked them back. “When you did not come…”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “Never again doubt I love you.”

“Warrick!” Lady Winthorpe shouted. “Stop this at once. Do not say something you will regret.”

Warrick's gaze never left Fallon's. “I don't regret my words to Fallon in the least. I love her, Mama. You will either have to accept her or deny me.” He knelt, still holding her gloved hand. Whispers and gasps punctuated the ballroom. “Fallon, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“Play something, you bloody imbeciles!” someone was shouting. Fallon thought it might have been her future father-in-law.

She grasped Warrick's hand. He did love her. He really did. She could see it in his face—the way his brow creased because he worried she would refuse, the way his hand trembled lightly in hers. Warrick loved her. Why had she ever doubted him? Never again. “I will,” she said. “I will.”

“No!” Lady Winthorpe hissed. “No, I will never accept her.”

“Lavinia!” Lady Sinclair said sharply. “Do not say something
you
will regret. If you would just give the girl a chance—”

“Open more champagne,” the Earl of Winthorpe was shouting. “Where are the footmen?”

Warrick stood and pulled Fallon into an embrace. His arms were so warm, so comforting, and she knew she was home. He loved her. He really loved her.

The cork from a champagne bottle popped off with a loud boom, and Warrick stiffened. Fallon started for a moment as well, but the little surprise she'd felt passed quickly. Warrick's body, on the other hand, stayed rigid. She knew, without being told, what had just happened. “Warrick?” She stepped back. His eyes were glassy, his face pale. “Warrick. Not now. You're all right. It was a champagne bottle.”

“What is going on?” Lady Winthorpe was asking. “What did you do to him?”

“Remain calm,” Fallon said, laying a reassuring hand on her arm. “Is there somewhere quiet we can take him?”

“Why? What is the matter?” his mother asked.

“I can't find him,” Warrick said, his voice flat and strangely emotionless. “He's not here.”

“Warrick. You are in London. You're safe,” Fallon said, keeping her voice level.

“He's not here. Dear God, the bodies. The blood. I can't—I can't find him!”

Fallon jumped out of the way as Warrick reached for a nearby chair. He flung it aside, then knocked over a table. A footman stepped in his way, and Warrick hit the man, causing him to drop his tray of champagne flutes.

The orchestra screeched into silence, and a woman screamed.

***

It was him. Finally, Warrick saw the boy. His once fair hair was now matted and caked with dried blood, and the youth's body was buried under a mound of corpses. Warrick bent, pushing the dead aside, uncovering the boy.

He wasn't dead. No, he couldn't be dead. He was wounded. That was all. Warrick would get him out of this hellhole and get him the best medical care available. He was not dead.

He pushed the last corpse off and lifted the boy into his arms. His form was so light, so thin. It was hardly the body of a man, much less that of a soldier. “Open your eyes, goddamn it!” he said, brushing dirt off Edward's cheek. “Open your eyes.”

Edward's eyes fluttered once then twice. “Warrick,” he choked out. “Told you we'd get them frog…” His head fell back and blood trickled out of his mouth.

“Edward?” Warrick said. Edward didn't stir. “Edward?” Warrick cradled the limp body to his chest. “Please,” he begged, uncertain whether he was begging God or Edward. “Please.”

Another explosion rocked the battlefield, and the ground beneath him shook. Shouts of “Retreat!” sounded, but Warrick did not flinch. The enemy was closing in, and he didn't care. He wanted them to kill him. He deserved to join the ranks of the other corpses surrounding him.

His brother was dead. He'd failed to protect him. Failed in the only thing that meant anything to him.

“Warrick.” Someone was speaking to him. He ignored the voice, laid the body down, and prepared to lie down beside it. They would die here together.

“Warrick, come back to me. You're in London. You're safe.”

But he wasn't safe. He could never be safe again. His world was irrevocably changed into a nightmare, and he could not make it go away by waking up. He laid his head down on the filthy ground and closed his eyes to sleep—
to
die,
to
sleep, to sleep
…

“Warrick, please.”

He blinked. “Fallon?” She could not be here. She was not part of this.

“He's coming around. Some brandy, perhaps?”

“Fallon?”

“Warrick, I'm here.”

He blinked again, and brandy burned a path down his throat. Fallon was kneeling in front of him. She was so beautiful. She was so perfect.

“I left him,” he rasped. “I had no other choice.”

“It's all right,” she said. “You're home. You're safe.”

“No, you don't understand. I left Edward on the battlefield. I left him to be picked over by the vultures and the thieves. I left him with the other corpses.”

He heard a gasp but could not turn away from Fallon to see who it was. “You did what you had to, Warrick,” she said. “It's over now.”

Looking into her dark eyes, he could almost believe it. “I tried to get him out,” he said, taking her hands. They were shaking, or was that his own hands? “I carried him as far as I could, but the French were coming. I would have preferred to die there by his side, but one of our generals rode up behind me. He ordered me onto his horse. And I went, Fallon.” His voice broke. “I left him there. Alone.”

“No!” It wasn't Fallon who spoke. He turned to see his mother coming toward him. He glanced around, realizing belatedly he was in his father's dark-paneled library. Fallon tried to move away, but he would not release her hand. His mother took the place on the couch beside him. Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Warrick, no.” Her voice filled with anguish. “Thank God you left Edward. If you had not, we would have lost two sons. Edward's death was unbearable. To lose you as well would have killed me.” She pulled him into an embrace. “Warrick, I do not want to lose you.”

“Forgive me,” Warrick whispered, closing his eyes. His mother smelled like lavender. It was a scent that reminded him of softly crooned lullabies and kisses goodnight.

“There is nothing to forgive. We never blamed you.”

Warrick thought of his parents' reaction when he'd returned from the war and informed them of Edward's death. His mother had sobbed uncontrollably, while his father had ordered him out of his sight.

“We were shocked and devastated, Warrick,” his mother said. “We all said words we did not mean.”

Warrick felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his father, standing behind the couch.

“You were with him at the end, son. That means everything.”

“I'm sorry,” Warrick said.

“So am I,” his father answered. “For a great many things.”