If You Give a Rake a Ruby (5 page)

She shook her head. “Oh, no. This is not the time for chivalry. You go first.”

“There's nothing to be worried about.”

“So says the man who's failed to earn a code name. Why, even I have a sobriquet.”

“Yes, and we all enjoy conjecturing on how you earned it.”

“The same way as Fluffy Bunny, I imagine.” She followed Fitzhugh across the room, feeling the eyes of the men loitering there on her. She was almost relieved when he opened the door and she was away from that depressing place.

Except this room was far worse.

***

Warrick knew the onslaught of roses was coming, and he tried to take a last breath of flowerless air to compensate, but it didn't help. He didn't understand Daisy's need to be surrounded by the flowers, but he could overlook the peculiarity because she was so valuable. He knew the moment Fallon entered because he could hear her gag quietly. He thought she'd looked rather ill in the common room. She hadn't known what was coming.

“Warrick!” A tall, handsome woman rose from a settee and walked gracefully to greet him. Her too-red hair had been twisted into a sophisticated style and her green gown was cut low enough to intrigue but was modest enough to keep a man wondering. He didn't think she was for sale any longer. She'd begun her career on the streets and had fought her way to a position where she now owned a section of those streets. He didn't agree with her business, but who was he to judge? She might sell young women, but she had more morals and scruples than many of the so-called paragons of the nation.

“Daisy.” He gave her a genuine smile and met her halfway, taking her in his arms for a long embrace.

When he released her, she swatted his arm. “You should come by more often. We don't get many men like you in here.” Her accent was pure London streets, though she'd managed to refine it slightly, probably aping her betters as best she could. And yet it was as familiar to him as his own mother's clipped consonants.

“You flatter me.”

“Of course. And who is this mysterious lady? Your sister, I presume?”

Daisy was diplomatic, if nothing else. Warrick turned to observe Fallon, her hood still over her head and shrouding her face. The mantle enveloped her small, rounded figure and only her dark eyes peered out. He wondered if she realized for all the effort she made to conceal herself, it only made her that much more intriguing. She couldn't hide her beauty, no matter how she tried. The glimpse of sun-kissed skin and the flash of those impossibly dark eyes drew a man.

“No. She's not my sister. She's…” What the hell was she? He shook his head. “It's complicated.”

Fallon lowered her hood and stepped forward with her gloved hand outstretched. He saw Daisy's gaze flick to the soiled glove. It wasn't in keeping with the rest of her appearance and gave a good indication of the night she'd had thus far. But then the abbess's gaze roved to Fallon's face, and she took a step back. “Gawd's nightgown!”

One of Fallon's dark brows arched slightly. She gave him a questioning look, but he wasn't going to intervene. Daisy stepped closer to Fallon, all but towering over the courtesan. To Fallon's credit, she didn't move back or cower. She stood where she was and endured the scrutiny. She was probably used to it.

“You're one of them. The Three Diamonds.”

Fallon gave a slight nod of her head, and Warrick wondered if she encountered this sort of reaction often. To a woman like Daisy, The Three Diamonds were celebrities the way Sarah Siddons or John Philip Kemble were to those who enjoyed the theater.

“Don't tell me,” Daisy insisted. “You're not the Countess of Charm. She's got red hair.” She indicated her own hair, and Warrick wondered if the woman was attempting to emulate the third Diamond with her hair color. Having seen the countess up close, he had to say she was not succeeding. Lily's hair color was all too real and vibrant. “You're the Marchioness of Mystery. You're Fallon!” She said the last reverently then hurried to turn a chair toward Fallon. “You should sit down. Gawd, I'm beside meself!” Her accent pushed through the more agitated she became. “I have a genuine celebrity in my establishment!”

Warrick didn't have the heart to tell her Fallon was no celebrity, and he could read in the courtesan's tight expression the last thing she wanted was to have her virtues extolled and praised within these sullied walls. But she was nothing if not magnanimous, and she took a seat on the chair upholstered in a rose-patterned cloth.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Fallon said, her smoky, cultured voice a sharp contrast to Daisy's. She glanced about, fumbling for some sort of compliment to make. Warrick could have told her Daisy was too awe-struck to hear anyway, but he was an observer at heart and liked nothing better than to watch a scene play out. He moved a vase of blackened roses aside and settled one hip on the edge of a desk. At least he assumed there was a desk under all of the foliage.

“You must enjoy roses,” Fallon said.

Warrick coughed to cover his laugh. Trust Fallon to be understated. The room was smothered in roses in various stages of life. Rotting roses, blooming roses, drooping roses; roses in red, yellow, pink, white, and every mixture in between vied for space in the overcrowded room.

“They're my signature flower,” Daisy said, her voice cracking as she spoke.

Fallon's brows came together. “And yet your name is Daisy.”

Daisy nodded. “Iconic, isn't it?”

Fallon opened her mouth to correct the woman then closed it again and turned her gaze on Warrick. Apparently, she was handing the field back to him. He was ready to take it. Too much longer amid the stench of roses and he would be forced to stick his head out a window. He stood. “Daisy, I have an inquiry for you.”

The abbess didn't take her eyes from Fallon. “What's that, luv?”

“I need to know the whereabouts of a man named Gabriel.”

Now Daisy looked at him. “I hope you don't mean the Gabriel I think you mean.”

“You know the man then?”

“I know
of
him, and that's all I want to know. If you want my advice, which you don't because you never do,” she groused, “stay away from the likes of that one. His employer too.”

“My information indicates Lucifer is on the Continent.”

She snorted. “My information indicates Lucifer is wherever the devil—pardon my language, my lady—he wants to be.”

Warrick tilted his head. He had been prepared to settle for seeking out Gabriel, but if he could find Lucifer…

“And I know that look in your eyes,” Daisy said, pointing a jeweled finger in his direction. “I don't know where Lucifer is, and if I did, I'd forget about it right quick.”

“What about Gabriel?”

She shook her head. “You don't want to see him, Warrick. I thought you had left this work. I keep telling you to find a lady and marry. Have a passel of brats. That's your lot, not this drudgery.”

“And I have told you I will take all of that under advisement. But right now, men's lives are at stake. I need to find Gabriel, and I need to find him quickly.”

Daisy held up her hands. “All right. I'll help you, though I don't think I'm doing you any favors.”

“I don't expect a favor. I'm prepared to pay—”

She thrust her palm up. “Stubble it. I won't hear a word about payment. You don't owe me anything. Not after what you done.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fallon's brows rise. He could imagine the train of her thoughts, and he rather thought he liked to keep her guessing.

“You'll find him at The Grotto. He won't be visible. He stays out of sight. But he's there most nights, running things from the back, so to speak.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Humph. I'm nothing like him.”

“No, you're not.” He went to Fallon and offered his arm.

“You're not taking her to The Grotto?”

“Why not?” he asked, amused at her protectiveness.

She huffed out a breath. “It's no place for her sort. Leave her here. I'll take care of her.”

“Yes, I'm sure you will.”

Daisy thrust her hands on her hips. “Not that sort of care, though if she wanted to bed a man or two, I wouldn't object. It would raise my standing considerably.” She looked hopefully at Fallon, who simply drew her mantle around her face again.

“Thank you, Daisy. Come and see me if you need anything.”

She shook her head. “As though I'd darken your door.”

He escorted Fallon to the exit. “Good night.”

“Thank you,” Fallon said.

“You're always welcome. Take care of her, Warrick.”

“I will.” And, to his surprise, he meant it.

Of course the hackney wasn't waiting when they emerged. Fallon didn't think Fitzhugh had really believed it would be. She had to stand about on her tired feet for a quarter of an hour while he arranged alternate transportation. In the end, the eager-to-please Daisy provided it. Fallon was beginning to wonder just what her relationship with Fitzhugh entailed. She seemed almost desperate to be of service to him.

Finally, they climbed into the coach and Fitzhugh gave the coachman directions to The Grotto. Fallon sighed. “Can this not wait until tomorrow evening? It will be after four by the time we arrive.”

Fitzhugh gave her a veiled look. “The Grotto is not located in Seven Dials.”

“Thank God for small mercies.”

“Do you? I don't believe in God.”

“That's not a surprise,” she muttered. The man probably thought of himself as God. He certainly enjoyed impersonating a deity and ordering her about.

He lifted the carriage lamp and tilted it so the light shone in her eyes. Fallon shielded her face and scowled at him.

“Remove your mantle.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to see what you're wearing underneath.”

“Why?”

“Remove it or I'll do it for you. I will enjoy the latter option immensely, I assure you.”

She was afraid she might enjoy it too, which was why she yanked at the braided cords fastened at her neck and allowed the mantle to slip from her shoulders. She watched his gaze trail over the green gown she'd been wearing for what seemed like days and felt her skin tingle where his glance touched it. She gripped her hands on the squabs and forced herself not to cross her arms over her chest. Why did he have to affect her like this? She had long ago become immune to the wiles of men. At one point in her life, she could have been easily seduced by Fitzhugh's look and his erotic threats. Now she should have been unmoved.

But she wasn't.

Fallon couldn't understand what was so different about this man, what made him stoke a fire inside her, but she knew she could not allow him to see the effect he had. He would use it against her. He was a man who used everything and anything to his advantage.

He frowned and shook his head. “I should have instructed you to wear red,” he said finally.

Fallon felt her jaw drop. He was criticizing her wardrobe choice? She was one of The Three Diamonds. She was one of the most sought-after women in the country, and this man in… in—she made a quick study of his appearance—a wrinkled cravat, scuffed boots, and dirty trousers thought to critique her?

“And your hem has mud on it. I can only imagine the state of your slippers.” He gestured with one hand, and Fallon reached forward and snatched it.

“If you speak one more word, you are taking your life in your hands, sir.” She could have sworn his eyes glittered with amusement. It must have been a trick of the lamp. “If you recall, I was accosted by two rather inebriated
gentlemen
of your
ton
.”

“It's not my—”

“Tsk!” She raised a finger. “My mantle is undoubtedly ruined, and if by some chance my gown survived the scuffle and can be salvaged, it will be a miracle. You should be offering to recompense me for the damage to my wardrobe, not evaluating it.”

“And you”—somehow he had reversed their grips and was now clutching her hand—“should be thanking me for not telling every man, woman, and child in the city who you really are,
Maggie
.”

“Oh, really? At this point, I almost wish you would so I could be rid of you.”

“You wouldn't get rid of me that easily.”

“Yes, I would. I…”

His mouth closed over hers in a hot, possessive kiss that caused the world to tumble and twirl. For a moment she was afraid the carriage had rolled over, and then she realized it was her head spinning. His mouth claimed hers so completely she was kissing him back before she knew what had happened. He didn't ask. He didn't request. He demanded her response.

And when his tongue slipped between her lips and she tasted him, she heard herself groan. Shock and mortification blazed through her, but when she tried to pull away, his hands fisted in her hair and he pulled her closer. She was practically on his lap, and she had no idea how that had happened. All she knew was that his mouth slanted over hers again and again until she could think of nothing but his lips and the heat spiraling through her.

Some part of her was vaguely aware her hair had come undone as his hands threaded through it. Some part of her was aware she was kissing him back with far too much fervor and intensity if she intended to convince him she was not attracted to him in the least. And some part of her was aware that she didn't care one whit and she would be quite content if the kiss never ended and she stayed in his arms.

The next thing she knew she was thrown backward, her head hitting the side of the carriage before she tumbled to the floor with a hard jolt. It took Fallon a moment to realize this was not part of the effect of Fitzhugh's kiss and to register that the horses were screaming and Fitzhugh was shouting.

“What…?” She managed before the carriage rocked again and she was slammed first into Fitzhugh's knees and then back again so her head hit the seat.

Daisy's squabs were not as soft as they looked.

Fitzhugh's arms closed around her, and he lifted her up beside him. “Are you all right?”

She couldn't seem to manage any words, so she nodded her head.

“Good. Hold on.” He reached into his coat and pulled a pistol out. Fallon shook her head to clear it. This was obviously the part of the evening where he shot her. Somehow it made sense that he would kiss her and then kill her.

But instead of shooting her, he pushed her back against those really-not-very-soft squabs and jammed the window of the carriage open. And then to her horror, he primed the pistol with a speed and efficiency she had never before witnessed—though to be honest she had little experience with pistols—leaned out the window, and fired.

“What in the devil's name are you doing?” she screamed.

“Stubble it,” he muttered and attended to his pistol again.

“You can't shoot a pistol out the window! This isn't a fox hunt!”

“Oh, yes, it is,” he said, finishing with the pistol. “And if we're not careful, we'll turn out to be the foxes.”

The carriage rocked again, and the window opposite her shattered. She screamed and covered her face to ward off the shards of glass. Fitzhugh seemed unperturbed. He calmly stuck his head and arms out the opposite window and fired again.

When he was back inside, she grabbed his cravat and forced him to look at her. “
What
is going on?”

He gave her an incredulous look, as though she should understand any of this, as though one moment he wasn't kissing her and the next she was being tossed about the carriage like a piece of unsecured luggage.

“We're being chased.”

“Why?”

He detached her hands from his neck cloth and looked to his pistol again. Good Lord, was he going to shoot
more
? How many pistol balls did he have?

“Good question,” he said, pouring gunpowder down the pistol's barrel and then ramming a lead ball on top. “I didn't think to stop and ask our pursuers questions.”

He leaned over her again, and this time she had the presence of mind to cover her ears before he cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. She was probably going to be deaf anyway, but she might salvage some functionality in at least one of her ears. “Is this something to do with Lucifer?”

“That would be my guess.” He glanced out the window again, then jerked his head in as something screeched past. Fallon closed her eyes, fearing the thing that had screeched past had been a ball from their opponent's pistol.

“Why do I have the feeling there is something you are not telling me?”

He grinned at her. How could the man smile when they were being shot at? He was mad. Absolutely daft. That was the only explanation. “Sweetheart,” he said, “there's a hell of a lot I'm not telling you.”

The carriage jolted again, and she clutched his arm to keep her balance. “This cannot be happening,” she muttered as they careened around a corner. She'd been done with adventure in her life. She'd had more than she ever wanted before the age of six. And then Fitzhugh had to show up in her bed, and she was once again being chased, shot at, and blackmailed. Her life could not get any worse.

“We're going to have to jump,” Fitzhugh said.

“What did you say?” Fallon asked. She almost laughed. “I thought you said
jump
.”

“I did.”

Something hit the carriage, rocking it to one side.

“Daisy's coachman is a superb driver, but we can't continue at this pace. All we need is one vegetable cart blocking our path, and we're done for.”

“Fine. You jump. I'll take my chances with whoever is in the other carriage.”

Fitzhugh shrugged. “That's your choice. They're not after you, but that doesn't mean they won't kill you. Or use you to get to me.”

“You don't care about me.”

“They don't know that.” He peered out the window again. “There's a park coming up on your right. I'll bang on the hatch to let the coachman know to slow. As soon as we near the grass, we jump.”

“I'm not jumping!” What was wrong with him?

“Have it your way.” He peered out the window again, judging the distance. He was really going to jump from a moving carriage. The man was either a complete idiot or had his back up against a wall.

Another shot rang out. Probably not a complete idiot, but she was not jumping. That was suicide. She'd done a lot of foolish things in her life—stolen her father's money bag, slept with that fop Lord Durleigh, and once drank too much champagne in the company of the Prince Regent and had to be saved from his nefarious attentions by Juliette and Lily. She did not claim to be the cleverest girl in London. But she was not so foolish as to jump from a moving carriage.

Fitzhugh banged on the carriage roof and moved to a crouch. He was really going to do it. The carriage slowed, and everything happened as if in a dream. One moment she was shaking her head at him, thinking,
What
a
poor
clodpole
. The next moment, the carriage door was open, she was wrenched from her seat, and she was flying through the air. Fallon could have sworn she screamed, but there was no sound—only the rushing of the wind in her ears and the dull, ominous thud when she hit the grass.

She had enough presence of mind to roll and to tuck her head and legs. That didn't mean every inch of her wasn't jolted by the impact. The grass was undeniably hard. Was there nothing soft in London tonight? She tumbled slowly to a stop and lay, breathing heavily, staring stupidly at the sky above her. She blinked. Were those stars or simply lights dancing before her eyes? She closed her eyes, deciding at this point, she didn't really care.

“Fallon.” Something was shaking her. She tried to push it aside, but it shook her harder. “Fallon, get up. They're coming for us.”

She forced her eyes open. The task felt monumental. She could have sworn something was holding her eyelids down. “Wha…”

Fitzhugh was staring down at her. He had a leaf in his hair and a smear of dirt on one cheek. The dirt looked pretty good on him. She reached up, and he caught her hands, pulling her upward. She resisted. She didn't want to stand. She wanted to continue to lie here in the cool night and sleep. She was so weary.

“Fallon.” His voice had an edge of concern now that pricked her and made her open her eyes again. It was slightly easier this time. “Can you rise? If not, I shall have to carry you, and that will slow us considerably.” He looked over his shoulder, and she glanced that way as well. In the distance, she heard the clatter of approaching horses.

“You
pushed
me.”

“I was trying to save you.”

“And now?”

“I'm still trying. They're coming for us. We must go or we'll be killed. Or worse.”

Worse. She had lived enough life to know there were many things worse than death. She tried to sit, found the task all but impossible, and grudgingly accepted Fitzhugh's aid. She wobbled to her feet and felt like retching. The world was spinning and tumbling.

“Let's go.” Fitzhugh took her hand and pulled her behind him. She stumbled after him, not because she wanted to but because he really gave her no choice. She was vaguely aware that she was in pain. She couldn't quite pinpoint where the pain was localized—everything seemed to hurt—but she knew it wasn't good. She finally had the wherewithal to look about and saw Fitzhugh was pulling her toward a copse of trees. She didn't recognize the park, but at least the trees were close together, making them inaccessible to a carriage and providing the two of them some darkness in which to hide.

Fitzhugh glanced over his shoulder again, and she made the mistake of glancing too. The carriage was bearing down on them, its four horses foaming at the mouth from their exertions and the coachman whipping them all the harder. Fallon cursed Fitzhugh and then pushed her leaden legs faster. She was running beside him now.

“There,” he said, pointing to a dark opening between two large trees. “Head for those trees.” He didn't even sound winded. Fallon's breath came short and shallow, and she felt as though her lungs would explode. Meanwhile, the man beside her was sprinting along as though he did this nightly.

Fallon could feel the ground shaking beneath her feet, and the roar of the horses' hooves all but deafened her. She was too afraid to look over her shoulder and she could not run any faster. Something warm tickled her neck as the horses gained on them. And then, at the last moment, when she was certain she would be trampled, Fitzhugh gave her a hard shove, sending her flying into the safety of the darkness.