If You Give a Rake a Ruby

by Shana Galen

  “Exactly. No one knows except Lady Sin, but this man works—or worked—for the Foreign Office. He found out about me, and now he’s blackmailing me.”

  Lily stiffened. “What does he want?”

  “Not what you’re thinking.” They paused by the hearth and pretended to study the Sèvres porcelain pieces on the mantel. “He wants me to help him find Lucifer’s Diamonds.”

  “The same diamonds—”

  “Yes.”

  “But why would he ask you to help him?”

  “Because once upon a time I knew Lucifer.”

  Lily gaped at her.

  “And once upon a time, I was very, very good at stealing.”

  Now Lily laughed. “Fallon, I don’t think this is at all amusing.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Of course I don’t believe you. Is this some sort of game you’re playing?”

  Fallon held out a gloved hand and opened the closed fingers. Lying in her palm was a sapphire necklace. A distinctive sapphire necklace. Small, square-cut sapphires comprised the chain and a large, heart-shaped sapphire was situated so that it would nestle in the hollow of a lady’s throat. Usually Lily’s throat.

  Lily gasped and put her hand to her bare neck. “How did you do that?”

  “I told you. I’m a very good thief.”

  Lily shook her head. “It came undone, and you picked it up off the floor.”

  Fallon rolled her eyes. She adored Lily, really she did, but sometimes the girl was too willing to believe only good about others. She motioned for Lily to turn and fastened the necklace on her friend once again. “I am distracted tonight because I have to meet him later—the man blackmailing me.”

  Lily glanced over her shoulder. “Are you going to have to steal for him?”

  “I have to help him find the diamonds. If I don’t, he’ll reveal all of my secrets. I think we both know the disastrous consequences if he does so.”

  Lily’s silence spoke volumes. As courtesans, even the most fashionable courtesans in the demimonde, their status relied on their reputation and, to some extent, their beauty. A vibrant personality that attracted men could overcome a homely appearance—as Harriette Wilson had proved—but part of Fallon’s charm was her mystery. When men conversed with her, they wanted to believe they were speaking with a fallen queen or a foreign princess. She could be anyone from anywhere, and the speculation about her added to her appeal.

  But if they knew she was born right here in London, the daughter of a pickpocket and a whore…well, that would lessen her appeal considerably.

  “Do you know where the diamonds are?” Lily asked.

  “No. But I suppose I had better find out.” She gave Lily a little push. “Go, speak with Ainsell’s son before he begins drooling. The poor boy is mad for you.”

  “Yes.” Lily frowned. “Too bad I’m not mad for him.”

  Before Fallon could ask who she was mad for, Lily was gliding across the room and capturing the gazes of most of, if not all, the men in attendance.

  Fallon slipped out a quarter hour later, wrapped herself in a black mantle and instructed her coachman to drive her to St. James Street. She was well aware no lady would ever deign to be seen in St. James at night, and many of them would not venture into this exclusive male preserve during the day.

  But Fallon was no lady.

  “Shall I accompany you, madam?” the coachman asked as he handed her down from the gleaming black carriage. It was still early, barely midnight, and only a few young bucks strolled together, stopping into gambling hells and clubs. A few paused to catch a glimpse of her, but none dared approach.

  Yet.

  “No, I’m fine. Go on home.”

  He looked somewhat dubious. “But madam—”

  “I said I was fine. Go home and see to the horses. I’ll find my own way back later tonight.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  He watched her stroll away. She pulled the hood of the mantle over her dark hair and wove through the gentlemen, most of whom paused to blatantly stare at her. They might not know who she was, but they did know any woman on St. James Street at midnight was no lady. And she was dressed far better than the prostitutes crowding every corner and alleyway.

  Fallon could well remember the last time she had walked this path at night. It had been years ago, when she was not yet sixteen. Then she’d had her father with her, though that was scant protection. He was prone to whimsy, and he’d been speaking of selling her to the highest bidder. She was half afraid that was his plan that night. She couldn’t think why else they would walk among so many well-dressed gentlemen of the ton. The other night she’d overheard her father whispering to some man or other about how much he could earn for Maggie’s virginity. She did not think her father would be pleased to know it was long gone.

  Fallon shook off the memory of her father and the girl she’d been and stopped in front of a nondescript building. There was no sign proclaiming this Lucifer’s Lair, but she knew it well. This was the place, and Fitzhugh would be inside waiting for her. The gambling hell was closed now. Lucifer had fled to the Continent after he’d been linked to the murder of Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Marquess of Nowlund. There were signs the building had been looted, but Fallon wasn’t certain if Scotland Yard or local vagrants were responsible.

  She continued walking, turning down the next alley in order to circle around to the back entrance. It wouldn’t do to be seen entering the abandoned gaming hell, especially if she had to break in. She walked quickly through the alley, wishing she’d thought to bring a lamp with her. The alley was dark and wet, as it had rained earlier that day. She sloshed through a particularly deep puddle and winced, knowing her slippers would be ruined. The damp seeped through, and she curled her toes against the cold.

  Behind her, she heard another splash.

  Fallon was mid-alley, in the darkest recesses, and she kept walking. It was probably Fitzhugh behind her. He was supposed to meet her here.

  She heard another splash.

  But why would Fitzhugh walk through the same puddle twice? And why wouldn’t he call out to her?

  Bloody hell. She sighed. She really did not have time for this.

  Fallon whirled and narrowed her eyes at the two large shadows moving toward her.

  “Ah, there she is, Tom,” one of the men said. Upper-class accent, Fallon noted. Words a bit slurred.

  “What are you doing down here alone, sweetheart?” Tom asked, still moving toward her.

  Wonderful. She’d managed to attract two “gentlemen” out on the Town and looking for amusement. Perhaps she could dissuade them with mere words. “Gentlemen,” she began, “I am not a prostitute. If you’re looking for that sort of entertainment, you should seek it elsewhere.”

  “Ooh! She speaks like a lady, James,” Tom said. They were directly in front of her now, and their watery shadows fell over her.

  “Come here, lady.” James made a grab for her. She jumped back and threw her mantle over her shoulders, freeing her arms. Obviously the time for words was past. She was not thrilled about having to fight two men twice her size, but they were foxed, and that worked to her advantage.

  Tom, who was on her right, charged her first. She easily sidestepped and thrust her foot out to trip him. But in the darkness, she misjudged the distance, and he merely stumbled past her. This, of course, did not better her position as now she had James in front of her and Tom behind.

  “I think you missed her, old boy,” James said. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He charged. At the same time, Tom—obviously not content to wait for his turn—reached for her. Tom caught her first about the waist. She used his weight and solidity as a lever and kicked up, landing one foot squarely in James’s face. She knew it had hurt him because it hurt her foot.

  That, and he bent over and screamed like a
little girl. Not that Fallon had ever screamed like that when she’d been in pinafores.

  “What the devil—” Tom began before she rammed her head back and collided with his face. He released her, and she whirled around, backing away while keeping the men in her sights. They were injured but far from disabled. If anything, an injured man was more dangerous than one who was unhurt, because the pain made him angry.

  And sobered him up.

  She knew this from very personal experience.

  Tom was the first to recover. She saw him searching the shadows and pinpointed the moment he spotted her. His body went rigid. “You’re going to pay for that, bitch,” he seethed. “I’m going to make sure you don’t walk right for the next month.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” she murmured, still backing away. At the end of the alley stood a short staircase that led down into Lucifer’s Lair. She could run for it, but if it was locked, it would do her no good. She’d be trapped and cornered.

  She could try to escape the alley the way she’d come, but she didn’t think she could outrun the men, and even if she did, there was no guarantee of safety on the other side.

  Her last option was to stand and fight. She wouldn’t have minded the last option if she had any sort of weapon, but all she had was her reticule, and she’d dropped that sometime between James’s grab for her and Tom’s first charge.

  Her best hope appeared to be to try for Lucifer’s Lair and hope Fitzhugh was already there and the door was unlocked. Certainly she could find something in the building to use in her defense. She clenched her fists, trying to decide the best time to move, when James shook his head and started for her. Now both men advanced. Steadily.

  Now was as good as any time. Without warning, she turned and ran toward the end of the alley.

  “She’s getting away!” one of the men called.

  “She won’t go far,” the other answered. Fallon heard the echo of their rapid footsteps as they followed her. Her breath came quickly by the time she reached the stairs, drowning out the sound of the men’s approach, and she wasn’t certain how close they were. She didn’t have time to look, either. She vaulted down the four steps, slammed against the door, and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  Bloody goddamn hell!

  She hit it with her fist then glanced quickly about for some sort of weapon. A rotting board had come loose from the side of the building, and she grabbed it, working it back and forth to try and pry it off. Thank God for her gloves, but the thin kid leather was no match for the splinters in the rough wood. She heard one of the men say, “There she is,” and Fallon jerked at the wood in desperation.

  It stubbornly held on. “Come on,” she muttered. “Come on.” She leaned back and pulled on the wood with all her weight. Just as the men’s shadows crept over her, the board came off in her hands.

  She whirled, held it in front of her, and waved it at Tom, who was advancing down the stairs. “And what do you think you’re going to do with that?”

  She didn’t know. Her arms ached, and she was still trying to catch her breath. If she didn’t strike decisively, Tom would merely grab the board away and use it against her. She bit her lip as he came down another step. He was higher than she was and moving downward, whereas she was low and looking up. He had every advantage. If she attempted to swing the board at him, he would grab it for certain.

  And so Fallon did the only thing she could—though it would doom her when James came for her. She raised the board and hurled it at Tom.

  It struck true, knocking him squarely between the eyes. He hadn’t been expecting that and lost his balance, tumbling down the remaining steps, clutching his face. Fallon jumped out of the way, but the space was cramped and he fell against her legs. She needed maneuverability if she were to fight James, but Tom grabbed at one of her ankles and she couldn’t shake him off. James was already on the stairs, and their gazes met.

  “Get her,” Tom said, his voice wracked with pain.

  At least she had caused some damage, she thought, as James reached for her.

  ***

  Warrick unbolted the door, opened it, then jumped back as Fallon and two men tumbled inside. He’d been on one of the upper floors when Fallon approached and had seen the beginning of the confrontation. He’d been about to rush to her defense when she kicked one of the men in the face and slammed the back of her head into the other one.

  Warrick had been rendered completely immobile and utterly stunned. He watched as she deftly defended herself, two against one, and only when he finally realized she was in trouble did he snap to attention and sprint down to open the door.

  Now he lifted Fallon from among the tangle of arms and legs and quickly scanned her face and arms for injury. She looked to be all in one piece.

  “What…” She paused to catch her breath. “Took you…” She gasped in another breath. “So long?”

  “It didn’t appear that you needed my assistance. Someone has taught you how to defend yourself.”

  She glared at him. “And here I thought… you knew everything about me.”

  So had he. But she’d managed to surprise him—surprise and impress him—and that was not easily done.

  “What the devil is going on?” one of the men demanded, crawling to his hands and knees. Blood poured from a gash above his nose. “That little bitch cut me.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all that happened.” Warrick set Fallon down and pushed her behind him. “Now get out of here before I have you charged for attacking a lady.”

  “And who the hell are you?” the other man asked. He was in considerably better condition.

  Warrick disliked questions. He disliked answering them even more. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his pistol. He leveled the weapon at the men. “Any further questions?”

  The men scrambled to their feet and backed away. When they were in the doorway, Warrick closed it, bolted the lock, and turned to Fallon. “Good of you to come.” He checked his pocket watch. “You’re late.”

  “I was detained,” she said, her eyebrows coming together.

  “Excuses, excuses.” He lifted the lamp he’d hung on a nail next to the door and began to make his way back into the club proper. He scanned what appeared to be a parlor or study. Bow Street had been here. He could see their handiwork everywhere—overturned tables, drawers standing open, papers scattered on the floors. They were clumsy and overlooked more than they found.

  “If you had that pistol with you, why didn’t you threaten those men with it to begin with?”

  He turned to see Fallon standing in the parlor’s doorway. Warrick shrugged. “You seemed to have matters well in hand.”

  She shook her head. “That is no way to treat a lady.”

  “That’s because most ladies are skittish ninnies who faint if a man utters the word damn in their presence. You should hope I don’t treat you like a lady. I have no use for ladies.” He turned back to the room and began conducting his own far more delicate search. He didn’t know what he was looking for—something to do with the Diamonds in the Rough. Something to give him insight into Lucifer.

  But, of course, that’s why Fallon was here.

  He glanced at her and saw she was shaking her head. “This sentiment on the topic of ladies comes from the son of Lord and Lady Winthorpe?”

  He turned back to the task at hand, lifting a stack of papers and flipping through them. “I take it you know my mother.”

  “I know of your mother. She’s one of the most persistent, scheming, marriage-minded mamas I have ever encountered. I apologize if that offends you.”

  He righted an overturned desk. “Why would it offend me? If you ever do meet her, tell her those words exactly. She’ll be flattered.”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  He glanced at her. “You shouldn’t doubt me. After all, it ta
kes a man with considerable convictions and impressive fortitude to resist the manipulations of a mother like mine. I tell you truly, I don’t care for ladies.” He rolled onto his back and peered under the desk he’d set on its feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shine the lamp so I can see.” Though her steps were light, he heard her cross the room. A moment later, the lamp’s light illuminated the bottom of the desk. “Nothing,” he muttered.

  “Did you expect to find the diamonds? He won’t have them here.”

  He stilled, willing her to go on. He could ask her about her association with Lucifer directly, but he knew she would not be forthcoming. Information she volunteered on her own was worth far more.

  “If he has them at all, they’re somewhere well protected. He’s done with this place. He won’t come back. It’s been violated. At least in his mind.”

  “You knew him well,” Warrick said, pretending to study the underside of the desk.

  “No. Thank God. The man was diabolical.”

  “As the name would indicate.”

  “Yes, well the accounts I heard of him were terrifying. Even at fifteen I was not so much a fool as to believe he snacked on young virgins, but I knew something horrible went on here.”

  “So it wasn’t only gambling?” Warrick sat. In his research he’d come across several interesting accusations against Lucifer of Lucifer’s Lair. Now he wondered if Fallon would confirm them. He could hear traces of the lower-class accent creeping into her speech. She must have worked very hard to rid herself of it to become one of The Three Diamonds.

  “My father wasn’t a gambler,” she said looking around. “He drank too much and he stole and he occasionally engaged in blackmail. He never gambled. Why would he when he couldn’t be sure of making money? I don’t know what his association with Lucifer involved. I was present at several of their meetings, but they didn’t speak freely in front of me. All I can tell you is it wasn’t gambling.”

  Warrick rested his arms on his knees. “And why do you think your father brought you to these meetings with Lucifer? He brought you here, I assume.”