If You Give a Rake a Ruby (7 page)

“Thank you,” Fallon said, cheerfully. “Put them on the chair, Anne.”

The maid did so then moved about, straightening this and that, seemingly unaware that she was not wanted. Warrick was grateful for the moment to gather his thoughts. He'd done enough interrogations to have heard and seen just about everything. Nothing surprised him anymore, but Fallon's admission all but knocked him over. He had a thousand questions and couldn't even think where to begin.

“Is there anything else, madam?” the lady's maid asked.

“Yes, I—”

“No. You may go,” Warrick answered.

Fallon shot him a look sharp with daggers. “My house. I give the orders.”

“Then give them or I will.”

The maid looked uncertain, her gaze darting to Fallon as though she was waiting for some sort of signal. He hoped she wasn't stupid enough to give one. “Shall I send for Titus, madam?”

Fallon glanced at him then shook her head. “No. We're not quite done here. You may go, Anne.”

“Yes, madam.” She left slowly, keeping her gaze on her mistress.

“Loyal servants,” he remarked when the door finally closed.

“Yes, they are, and they won't hesitate to throw you out. If I were you, I'd leave on my own.”

“Oh, I don't think so. First of all, you've piqued my interest with your confession of murder. Second, though you've proved yourself quite capable of defending yourself, I intend to stay nearby, just in case I am needed.” He parted the drapes again.

“There's no one but you I need defend myself from!” she all but shouted. “You're the only one putting me in danger. And why do you keep looking out that window?”

“Because I want to be certain our friends from last night haven't found us.”

“Why would they come here?”

He shook his head. “You're smarter than that, Fallon.” He dropped the drapes closed and crossed to her. “You'd never have made it this far in life if you weren't.”

“Are you saying they might have tracked us here?”

He tapped her nose. “I knew you were a smart girl. Now, take off your shift.”

The look on her face was enough to send him into a fit of laughter if he'd been a man of less restraint. She looked absolutely appalled and horrified. He might as well have asked her to eat a spider or a wriggling rat.

“Go on.” He gestured for her to lift the garment over her head. “How else am I going to bind you? And I promise I won't look.” Well, that was dishonest, now wasn't it? “Very well, I won't look much.”

“But I thought you were going to bind me over my shift,” she all but sputtered.

“This isn't a pair of stays, Fallon. This is to secure your rib and keep it from any further harm.”

“I think I shall be safe enough if you refrain from shoving me out of any more moving conveyances.”

“I shall take that under advisement. Now, take off your clothes.”

She glared at him. “I hate you.”

He grinned. “No you don't.”

“Excuse me.” She walked to the door on the far side of the room and stepped inside. Warrick assumed it was her dressing room, an assumption that proved correct when she emerged wearing a pink silk robe. For some reason, the sight of her in pale pink made him feel a little guilty about all the lustful thoughts he'd been having. She looked so young and sweet in pink. He would not have thought the color suited her, and it did not suit the courtesan, but it suited the woman.

He held up the strips of linen. “I am ready to begin, madam.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“What man wouldn't?” He schooled his features into a sober expression. “All right. I assure you from this moment on, I will treat this as a purely medical task. I have to admit, though, I've only ever worked on men.”

“I feel infinitely more relieved.” She sighed and without further preamble slid the robe off her shoulders. He'd expected her to argue further, so he was not prepared for the sight of her ripe breasts revealed by the cascade of pink silk over flesh.

His mouth went dry. She was exquisite. Good God, but he'd never seen breasts like hers before. They were heavy and round, the aureoles tinged a dusky rose. Her nipples were large, round, and puckering in the slight chill. They practically begged him to kiss them, lick them, roll them over his tongue…

“Have you ogled enough, sir, or would you like me to turn from side to side?”

Warrick quickly flicked his glance away. He really had intended to attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism about this task. Obviously his initial attempt had failed this completely, but perhaps he could salvage the rest of the procedure. “I apologize. You took me unawares.”

“Yes, I'm certain after half a dozen orders to remove my clothing, it surprised you when I complied. I am cold, sir. Do your worst.”

Good God, he was going to have to touch her. How was he going to touch her without
touching
her? He had always thought of himself as a man with substantial willpower. Now he knew he was far weaker than he had ever known. He cleared his throat, kept his gaze on the part of her still clothed, and moved closer. Immediately his gaze was drawn to those ripe breasts and he looked away again. He hadn't even touched her yet, and he could sense the heat of her. He could smell the exotic fragrance of her skin. He could all but feel the silkiness of her flesh under his fingertips.

He wanted her. He could not remember ever wanting a woman this much, and all she'd done was show him her breasts. He'd seen breasts before; he was no inexperienced lad. And she hadn't even disrobed seductively. Not to mention, she'd as much as told him she hated him. Was he reduced to lusting after women who could barely stand him? Perhaps it was time he found himself a woman.

He took a fortifying breath and lifted one of the linen strips to her rib cage. She shivered slightly. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No.” Her voice was ragged. She didn't hate him nearly as much as she claimed.

He began to wrap one of the bandages around her ribs, but he made such an effort to avoid touching her breasts, he dropped the fabric. “Sorry.” He bent to retrieve it then tried another angle. But this one required him to bend, practically burying his face in those ample breasts. Perhaps if they were not quite so lush, he could have better ignored them. Perhaps if her nipple wasn't half an inch from his lips…

He tried to position the linen, tried to position his head, rubbed her breast with his wrist, and jumped back. “I apologize again.”

She sighed. “Just get it over with.”

Right. She had the idea. He would do it quickly. “I think this might work better if I kneel,” he said. “You're on the short side.”

“I'm petite.”

He knelt and had to hastily lower his gaze again. Why had he thought this vantage point would be any better? She was
not
petite everywhere. Keeping his eyes averted, he wrapped the first strip of linen around her. He brushed the fullness of her breast twice, but he tried to ignore the heat the sensation shot through him.

“How do you know Daisy?” Fallon asked.

“Who?”

“Daisy? The woman whose brothel we visited last night?” She sounded bemused, but he understood what she was doing. They should speak of something. It would keep both of their minds off fantasies of nuzzling her breasts with his lips, swirling those hard, hard nipples with his tongue, and then taking them into his mouth and sucking.

Of course, that might not have been the exact direction of her thoughts.

“Daisy. Yes.” He wrapped another strip around Fallon, trying to make sure it was tight and secure, and attempted to remember who Daisy was. For the moment, he could only picture Fallon's dark eyes, full lips, and… other attributes.

“She seemed rather grateful to you. Why is that?”

“Ah.” He wrapped another strip of linen about her. He didn't want to discuss this, but he couldn't think of another topic at the moment—at least not one that didn't involve erotic language and several questionable suggestions. “I saved her brother. I suppose she feels indebted to me for that, though I told her she owes me nothing.”

“How did you save her brother?”

He tightened another linen strip around her as he contemplated how much of the story he could reveal. Fallon had a small frame, and he would have thought this task would go quickly, but it seemed interminable. “We both fought on the Continent in the Peninsular Wars. I didn't know him, but I happened to be nearby when he was wounded during battle.”

Warrick saw in his mind the muddy, blood-soaked battlefield in what had once been a peaceful cornfield in Portugal. He could hear the screams of the men and, worse, the screams of the wounded horses. Cannonballs exploded before and behind him, and he reined his own horse in and patted the animal's neck. “I don't want to be here either,” he had muttered. But the documents secreted in his satchel contained vital information, and he must get them to Wellington posthaste.

He tried to steer the animal around the clumps of fallen men, but it was inevitable they would trod on some of the dead. There were simply too many to avoid all of the bodies. Another cannonball exploded nearby, and Warrick heard the screech of shrapnel as it tore through the air. He kicked his mount, urging him through the smoke. A few more yards, and they'd be clear. But when the smoke cleared, they all but ran down a young man wandering about the field. Warrick turned the horse sharply. The animal, already spooked, reared. The young British soldier—at least Warrick thought he was British; it was difficult to tell from the soiled uniform—fell to his knees. Warrick tensed, prepared to kick the horse back into a trot, and then he swore. He cursed his goddamn conscience and jumped off the beast.

“Where's your commanding officer?” he asked the soldier, yelling to be heard over the battle raging somewhat to their east now.

The man looked up at him, his face impossibly youthful, his eyes clouded with pain. He grabbed Warrick's lapels, streaking them with blood. “Help me.”

Warrick hadn't been able to refuse.

“You saved his life,” Fallon said, sounding surprised.

“I did what any soldier would have done.”

“And that's not the whole story. You did more than that or Daisy wouldn't feel so indebted.”

He wrapped another strip of linen and realized it was the last. He tied the end and tucked it into the bindings.

“I didn't know you fought in the wars.”

“I told you, there's a lot you don't know about me. I'm finished.” He stood and dusted his trousers off. “Cover yourself.”

She did so. “Thank you.” She moved from side to side. “It feels better.”

“Don't thank me yet. You're not the only one with questions.”

Her dark eyes rose to meet his.

“Tell me how you murdered your father.”

Fallon couldn't have been more relieved when a quiet knock sounded and Anne opened the door. “Madam, I'm sorry to interrupt. Cook would like to know if you intend to dine in, and if so, will the gentleman be joining you?”

Fallon glanced at Fitzhugh. He gave her a slow smile. “I never turn down a free meal—unless it is at my parents' house.”

She didn't know why that should make her want to smile. She wanted him to leave—and take all of his soft caresses and warm stares with him. She didn't want to like him, but she found it was difficult not to.

“Anne, tell Cook the gentleman and I will dine in, and could you speak with the housekeeper and have a room prepared for Mr. Fitzhugh?”

Anne's brows rose, but she bobbed her acquiescence. “Yes, madam.”

When they were alone again, Fallon said, “What are your plans for this evening?”

Fitzhugh sat in one of her silk chairs, upholstered in emerald green. “Perhaps after dinner we might play charades. Or I could read the
Times
, and you could play the piano and serenade me.”

“It sounds remarkably domestic,” she drawled. “Not the sort of thing either of us would enjoy.”

He looked away. “No, not at all.”

“I have an engagement,” she said.

Fitzhugh raised his brows. “Don't tell me it's a gentleman caller. I know you're not really a courtesan.”

She frowned at him. “And how do you know that?”

“I told you—”

She sighed. “Yes, I know. There's a hell of a lot you're not telling me. And since we are sharing confidences—”

“Are we sharing confidences?” he asked, setting his ankle on top of his knee. “I don't recall you answering my question.”

She ignored him. “There is one comment you made that has made me curious.”

“By all means, let me ease your curiosity. But Fallon…”

There was something in his tone that made her meet his gaze.

“Nothing is free.”

Oh, she knew that well enough.

“Last night at Lucifer's Lair, you said, this search was a matter of life and death. You used those words exactly.
Life
and
death
. Are these diamonds really that valuable?”

He studied her. She couldn't have said why, but she felt more naked now under his gaze than she had when she'd been undressed. “They're not diamonds,” he said finally. “Lucifer's Diamonds aren't jewels at all.”

She frowned. “Juliette said he came to her looking for diamonds.”

“It's a code name, rather like you are one of The Three Diamonds. The diamonds Lucifer wants are a small band of elite British operatives who fought against Napoleon and orchestrated his defeat during the Peninsular Wars. In some circles, these men are referred to as Diamonds in the Rough.”

Fallon shook her head. “So there are no diamonds.”

“Not in the sense Juliette and Pelham assumed. But I assure you these men's identities are as valuable, if not more so, than a handful of diamonds.”

Fallon raised a skeptical brow.

“You don't believe me?”

“I think you might be exaggerating slightly.”

He looked amused by that statement.

Fallon paced the room, trying to untangle the various threads in her mind. “Last night, we weren't actually searching for information about diamonds but about spies?”

“Actually, I was hoping to discover to whom Lucifer sold my friends' identities.”

“How do you know he sold their identities?”

“Because one man is dead already, and another has been targeted.”

Fallon opened her mouth to speak and then took a step back. “Wait a moment. Are you telling me
you
are one of these Diamonds in the Rough?”

“I don't recall divulging that information.”

“And that is why we were being chased last night. Someone is trying to kill you!”

“I suppose that's not entirely inaccurate.”

“And you dragged
me
into this?” She grabbed the first thing she could reach and thrust an amethyst-colored pillow at him.

He caught it, stood, and tossed it on the chair. “I had little choice. I needed someone who knew the enemy.”

Fallon shook her head. “I don't know who or what you think I am, but I have nothing to do with spies or Bonaparte or the French. I know we won the war and Bonaparte is exiled, and that is the extent of my knowledge. I can't help you.”

“That's where you're wrong, Fallon.” He strode directly to her, and she had the urge to back away. But she was no coward, and she wasn't going to allow him to push her into a corner. Especially not in her own home. In her own
room
, nonetheless. Those gold-flecked eyes of his were hard and serious. He was so close she could almost count each and every one of those flecks.

“How is that?” She hadn't meant it to come out as a whisper, but she couldn't seem to find her voice or enough breath to breathe, much less speak.

“Because the enemy, in my case, is not the French.”

“It's not?” she rasped.

“No.” The word was practically a caress, and he was standing so near she could not help but think how easy it would be for him to take her in his arms, press her against him, and kiss her until she gasped for breath. He could kiss her that way. She had no doubt of it.

“My enemy is your father.”

The world seemed to spin, and Fallon clenched her fists to keep from spinning with it. Her father was dead. How could Fitzhugh think Joseph Bayley was his enemy? “I thought I already explained that my father is dead.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” But as soon as the word was out of her mouth, the niggling doubts began.
Was
her father dead? There had been so much blood. She hadn't thought anyone could survive after losing that much blood. But what if she'd been wrong? She had been fifteen years old, terrified, and eager to be away. She'd fled, thrown the knife in the Thames, and run until her legs could no longer carry her. She hadn't looked back.

“I can see you're doubting yourself.”

“I'm not. He has to be dead.” Why else would he have completely disappeared? No one saw him after she'd plunged that knife into him. She hadn't heard so much as a whisper of his doings. And he would have come looking for her. If he'd still been alive, he would have come for his revenge.

“Because you killed him.”

She looked down. She had never told anyone she'd killed her father, except the Countess of Sinclair. The countess had a way of making people tell her things, whether they wanted to or not. But that was all right with Fallon because she knew the countess would take her secret to the grave. She knew the countess loved her no matter what she had done—and she had done some rather unlovable things.

She did not want to confide in Fitzhugh. It wasn't that she didn't trust him. He was a spy, for God's sake. He could probably keep her secret better than she could. But there was a sense of intimacy formed when one shared one's secrets. Fallon avoided that sort of intimacy. She had no use for intimacy, no use for the vulnerability that came with it.

Added to those reasons, she didn't want to relive her father's death. She sometimes managed not to think of it for days or even weeks. If she spoke of it now, if she confided in Fitzhugh, she knew it would haunt her again daily, hourly. She could not face that. She was too tired right now. Too weary.

“I think I'll go find your housekeeper,” Fitzhugh said, stepping back. Fallon was surprised to see him capitulate so easily. “I'd like a few moments to ready myself before dinner.”

“Of course.” She wanted the same.

“And where did you say we were going after dinner?”

She hadn't. “You are not going,” she said. “You don't have an invitation.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, going to her door and opening it. “You're my invitation.”

Dinner was a tense affair, punctuated by the clink of silver on china. Fallon was vaguely aware Cook had prepared a delicious meal with fowl, fish, and a variety of soups and vegetables—a mountain of food for only two people, though Fitzhugh was making an effort to scale the mountain—but she didn't taste any of it. Fallon couldn't help but feel she didn't belong.

It was absurd. This was her home, her dining room, and her servants. But she felt like some sort of invader. All this talk of her past with Fitzhugh was making her remember it, making her doubt who she was now.

Nagging thoughts invaded where they were not welcome—she didn't belong at this table with its crystal goblets and delicate china. She didn't belong in this lovely town house with its silks, satins, and velvets. And who was she to tell a servant to fetch this or carry that? She was no better than they were and probably born far lower.

She was even looking down at her coppery dress of shimmering silk and wondering if everyone at Alvanley's ball was going to look at her and wonder just who she thought she was, dressing up like someone of quality.

Not that she'd ever pretended to be quality.

She'd masqueraded as a courtesan for years. No one thought courtesans respectable enough to be quality. She glanced down the table at Fitzhugh, who was nodding to the footman refilling his glass, and scowled. Fitzhugh raised his brows at her, and she didn't mistake the twinkle in his eyes. He thought all of this amusing.

“Why the pretty moue?” he asked.

“It's not a… whatever you said. It's a scowl.”

He narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “If you say so.”

She wanted to throw her plate at him, but it would be a waste of good china. Instead, she glanced at the footman. “Please leave us. That is if Mr. Fitzhugh doesn't want to drink yet another glass of my wine.”

“I believe I finished the bottle,” Fitzhugh said with absolutely no sense of remorse whatsoever.

When the footman was gone, Fallon said, “How do you know I'm not really a courtesan? And don't give me one of your enigmatic answers.”

“Enigmatic.” He lifted his goblet and studied the wine. “I like that word.” His eyes met hers. “You're described that way, aren't you?”

She was. That was how she'd first learned the word. The countess had made Fallon read and study for hours and hours when she first went to live with the Sinclairs. The countess said that no one would ever take her seriously or consider her anyone or anything if she didn't learn to speak and write correctly. And so Fallon had learned, but there were still words that were unfamiliar. Words like
moue
. She didn't know what the hell it was, but she was pretty sure she didn't do it.

“Answer the question, Fitzhugh.”

He sipped his wine. “Are you ever going to call me Warrick?”

“No. Now answer the question.”

“I think we should make a wager.”

“I think you should answer the question.” She traced the edge of her plate and wondered how much it would cost to replace. It might be worth the expense to smash it over his head.

“Here's the wager. If I can persuade you to call me Warrick tonight, then you tell me about your father.”

She was never going to tell him about her father, and she was never going to call him by his Christian name. “Fine.”

He raised his brows. “You agree? That easily?”

“Yes, that easily. Now—”

“And you won't renege?” He set his glass on the table.

She let out a puff of outrage. “I cannot even believe you would suggest such a thing. I honor my bets.”

“Good. In answer to your question, I couldn't find any of your lovers.”

She blinked, at a loss momentarily.

“You asked how I knew you were not really a courtesan. I tried to find one of your former lovers—or protectors, is that correct? The papers had you paired with all sorts of gentlemen, but when I approached them, none had any real intimate knowledge of you.”

“I am discreet.”

“You are the soul of discretion, my dear Fallon, but men, especially when they're a bit in their cups, are not. They often talk, and that talk often turns to women. When I brought up your name, there was a lot of speculation but no real firsthand knowledge.”

“That's because the Earl of Sinclair—”

“Is lying for you as well. I know the Sinclairs, Fallon. My mother and the countess went to school together. There is absolutely no way the Iron Countess, which is what I called her growing up, would allow the earl to bed you or any of the other diamonds under her own roof. I never believed that for a moment.”

Fallon felt her mouth go dry, and she groped blindly for her untouched goblet of wine. She drank a sip and then another. “Well, you don't know the countess as well as you think then.”

She drank another swallow of wine. Hell, she might as well just drain the glass. Fitzhugh watched her unladylike behavior without reaction. “I'm not going to reveal your secret, Fallon,” he said.

“No, you're just going to blackmail me with it.”

He shrugged. “I thought we were past that.”

“Oh, you think I
want
you in my house, eating my food and drinking my wine? You think I want to help you? You think I want you sleeping in one of my beds?”

“Maybe you want me sleeping in your bed.” He was across the bloody room and she still felt a flash of heat when he said it. It was the way he looked at her, as though he knew just how she liked to be kissed and where she wanted most to be touched.

“No, I don't. What I want is for you to go away.”

“And I will. After I find your father.”

“What are you going to do with him when you find him?”

He lifted his own glass and toasted. “I'm going to finish what you started.”

***

Lord Alvanley's ball was a tedious affair. Warrick hadn't expected anything different. The same people were there as were at all the other events of the Season he avoided, though, to be fair, most of the stodgy ones had stayed away. That was probably because Alvanley had invited the entire demimonde. It wasn't unusual for courtesans to attend Society events, but they weren't usually present in such large numbers. He saw why Fallon felt the need to attend, and he glanced across the room to where she stood, surrounded by about half a dozen young men.