If You Give a Rake a Ruby

by Shana Galen

  And that was when they opened their mouths, their yawning black mouths. “Fitzhugh,” they chanted. “Fitzhugh.” The gaping mouths mocked him. “Warrick!”

  “No!” He shot straight up, clawing at the air around him, trying to free himself of the bodies and the dream. “No!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t the voice of a dead soldier. It was the low voice of a woman. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and tried to focus. Fallon.

  “I heard you calling out. I kept thinking one of your servants would come, but no one did. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Fallon,” he croaked, sitting. Damn! How could he have allowed himself to sleep?

  “I knocked.” She indicated the open door. “But you didn’t answer, and then I heard you yelling, ‘Don’t look at me.’ I was afraid someone had attacked you.”

  “I’m not upset,” he said, understanding immediately what had happened. “Thank you for coming. I’m fine.”

  “You’re covered in perspiration and white as a sheet. I can see that even in this dim light.” She gestured to the candle she’d brought with her. “You’re not fine.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed his eyes. The nightmare was fading but not quite fast enough. He could still feel the terror and the hands of the corpses pulling at him. “It was a nightmare. Nothing more.”

  “It sounded like a very serious nightmare. It woke me from a sound sleep.”

  He envied her that. He could not remember the last time he’d slept soundly. He raised his brows when she sat on the bed beside him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “No.” He stood. He was still wearing his trousers, but he found his discarded shirt on the floor. He slipped it over his head, leaving it open at the throat.

  Fallon rose as well. “I see. I’ll go back to my room then.”

  He’d hurt her feelings. Damn it! He wasn’t in the state of mind to deal with her—or anyone. He was still shaking, his mind sluggish and reluctant to return to reality. He couldn’t think about etiquette right now. “Fallon,” he said, making an attempt anyway.

  She paused.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but I don’t want to speak of it. To anyone.” And especially not to her. It was his pain, his private torment. He didn’t want to inflict it on others.

  “I understand.” She nodded and turned to go again. “But, if I may inquire, why didn’t your valet or another one of your servants come? I’m certain you roused the entire house.”

  He blew out a breath. “I suppose they are used to it,” he said.

  “Used to it? Used to you calling out at night? You scared me half to death.”

  “I frequently have nightmares. My servants are accustomed to the interruption and do not trouble me.”

  She blinked at him. “You have nightmares like that often? Why?”

  “I told you—”

  She raised a hand. “Of course. You don’t wish to speak of it. It’s fine for me to tell you my most intimate secrets, but you are not expected to reciprocate and let me in.”

  “Fallon—”

  “It’s late, and I’m tired. I have troubled you more than enough. Good night.”

  Warrick swore when she closed the door. This was not how he had hoped things would go if he ever managed to find her in his room. He thought about going after her, but he was in no state to smooth over roughened feelings. His own were too raw at the moment.

  He looked at his bed, the Gothic-style canopy an unlikely enemy, and sat at his desk to work.

  His mother always told him everything looked better in the morning. Warrick thought that one of her more sensible sayings, but it didn’t prove true at breakfast. Fallon looked exquisite. She wore a simple day dress in white and rose with a gauze fichu tucked in the bodice. Warrick couldn’t help but notice it was a low bodice, and it seemed to him the gauze only served to tantalize, not conceal. Obviously the clothing she had sent for had been delivered, and—he studied her elaborate upsweep—perhaps her lady’s maid had come with it. Fallon looked fresh and pretty in his bright dining room and gave no indication she remembered anything of the night before.

  She gave no indication she saw him at all.

  She didn’t acknowledge him when he walked in and didn’t return his greeting. So his punishment was silence. Well, he knew how to deal with silence. He went to the sideboard and filled his plate. He didn’t look at what he chose. He wasn’t hungry and couldn’t care less what he ate. He was considering his options. When he was younger, and far more naïve, he thought it a blessing when his mother or one of his sisters treated him to silence. But experience had taught him that accepting the silence was never a good idea. Unlike men, women really wanted to say what was on their minds. And if they didn’t get it out, they’d explode or retaliate in other ways.

  He set his plate on the table, nodded to the footman who poured him tea, and studied Fallon. He would pick a fight. That would do very well with her argumentative temperament.

  “Thank you, George,” he said to the footman. “That will be all.”

  Fallon watched George go, and Warrick could all but see her plotting how to make her own exit. Don’t be in such a hurry, he thought as he opened the Times. “You’ll stay here while I make the rendezvous at The Merry Widow tonight,” he said, not looking at her.

  Silence. She was debating. She wanted to speak but remembered that she wasn’t speaking to him. He turned the page.

  “Stay here?”

  He smiled, gaze on the paper. “Of course. It’s far too dangerous for you to come along.”

  “Too dangerous? You’ve dragged me to meet every other denizen of hell. If my father is alive, I want to see him.”

  Warrick perused the paper and leisurely turned another page. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  The paper flew from before him, and he looked up to see Fallon with hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “I don’t care what you think. I can do as I like, and I’m not staying here.”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t tell me—fine?”

  “Yes.” He rose. “Fine. But you’ll stay in Daisy’s office. You can see the drawing room from her spy hole. I don’t want to expose you to your father unless I have to.”

  “He’ll want to see me.”

  “We don’t always get what we want.”

  She shook her head. “So I’m to be some sort of bargaining chip.”

  He didn’t argue. This was the reason he’d recruited her. He wished to God he hadn’t, but there was no room for regrets now. It wasn’t just his own life he was saving. He needed to know who Bayley was working for.

  Fallon was shaking her head at him. “You really aren’t a gentleman at all, are you?”

  He couldn’t say why the barb stung. He’d done things no gentleman of the ton would ever do, acted in ways even someone of the lower class might find distasteful. He did not particularly care if he was considered a gentleman or not.

  So why was he suddenly infused with rage? Was it because he heard the echo of his father’s words in Fallon’s?

  “I’m a soldier,” he said through clenched jaw. “My duty is to my country, not Society.”

  “I would think protecting the weak a universal trait, not simply one of Society.”

  He laughed. “You, weak? Darling, I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley. I’m not at all certain I would come away unscathed.”

  “And now you insult me!”

  He almost laughed again. She really was incensed. “That’s no insult. I admire a strong, fearless woman.” He leaned close. “Especially in bed.”

  “Don’t flatter me. It won’t lure me into your bed.”

  “Then perhaps this will.” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. She resisted, but he’
d taken her off guard and her surprise was enough to give him the upper hand. He pulled her close, lowered his mouth to hers, and claimed it.

  She tried to speak, to protest, to curse him or worse, but he was merciless. He slanted his mouth over hers, taking her with a wildness and abandon he had almost forgotten he possessed. Slowly, she stopped pounding his chest with her hands, stopped trying to pull away, and sank into him. Her body melted against his, her heavy breasts warm against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and her sweet mouth opened for him.

  He was the one struggling for composure when her tongue met his. She stroked him, teased him, dueled with him until he was no longer certain who was kissing whom. He wedged her legs open with his knee and pushed his thigh between them. She was warm there, and he pressed intimately against her, eliciting a groan. He groaned himself when she took hold of him through his breeches.

  “You’re hard,” she whispered against his mouth.

  “I want you.”

  “I should say no.”

  He kissed her neck, and her head lolled back. His lips trailed to her shoulder, making their way to that plump, ripe flesh spilling out under her fichu. “You should,” he agreed.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “The worst.” He used his tongue to tease her skin through the gauzy material and pressed his thigh against her core. She shivered.

  “I’m trying very hard to resist you,” she said, her voice low and husky.

  “Keep trying. In the meantime, I think I shall push you against that wall, toss your skirts up, and thrust into you.”

  She moaned. “I wish I didn’t like that suggestion so very much.”

  “Me too.” He began moving her backward when he heard a sharp tap on the door.

  “Sir,” his butler said. Warrick jumped away from Fallon and pushed her behind him.

  “Get out, Pressly.”

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, sir, but…”

  But Warrick had already seen her. “Never mind, Pressly. I understand.”

  The butler gave him an apologetic look and moved aside. Lady Winthorpe stepped into the doorway and raised a thin brow. “Having tart for breakfast, Warrick?”

  He sighed. “Good morning to you too, Mother.”

  Eleven

  His mother was a small woman with a preference for large hats that dwarfed her delicate features. This morning she wore a bluish green gown—he supposed the color had some other more sophisticated name, but he didn’t know it—with a hat to match. The elaborate plumage, consisting of feathers and ribbons looked heavy enough to cause her to list to one side.

  She took one step toward the table, and Pressly hurried to pull out a chair. “Tell the footman to bring me a cup of tea,” she ordered as though she, not Warrick, owned the place. “You do still employ a footman?” she asked.

  “Two, Mother. Thank you, Pressly, that will be all.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Was I expecting you, Mother?”

  “If you mean to inquire as to whether or not we had an appointment, the answer is no. But I do hope the world hasn’t become such that a mother is now required to make an appointment to visit her son.” She gave Fallon a long perusal. “Though I suppose I do see where it might avoid some unpleasantness.”

  Warrick watched as the footman entered with the tea and supposed there was nothing for it. She was settling in. Perhaps if he embarrassed her—well, embarrassed her further…

  He moved aside, revealing Fallon. “Mother, might I introduce you to—”

  She held up a hand. “No, you may not.” She sipped her tea. “I know who that woman is, and I must say, Warrick, I am disappointed in you. A courtesan. Really!”

  “Well, Mother, as you know, I live for your approval.”

  “No, that is not something I know, though I dearly wish it were true. Perhaps then your father would be able to speak of you without clutching his heart, as though in pain.”

  Warrick wanted to roll his eyes. His father was one of the healthiest men he knew. If he was suffering heart palpitations, Warrick would crawl back home on hands and knees.

  “I should go,” Fallon said quietly.

  “No. Stay and finish your breakfast.”

  “I find I have lost my appetite.”

  “Ha!” His mother exploded. He knew she would not be able to ignore Fallon for long. “You had better watch your tongue, you strumpet. I am the Countess of Winthorpe.”

  “And I am the Marchioness of Mystery, as though anyone gives a fig!”

  Warrick had the urge to flee and allow the women to work the matter out for themselves. But he had not fled the Battle of Valencia nor the Battle of the Bidassoa. He supposed he could stay for this one, though he suspected the outcome would prove particularly bloody.

  His mother was standing now, and Warrick made to step between the ladies. “Mother—”

  “I don’t care whom you have slept with,” his mother was saying. “Whether it’s the Prince Regent or the whole of the Shropshire countryside. You will not speak to me thus! And I demand you go upstairs, pack your tawdry things, and leave this house at once.”

  “Mother—”

  “Do you think I have designs on your son? I’ll have you know, our association is purely through his design. I don’t want him.”

  Warrick gave Fallon a sideways look. “You don’t have to go that far.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” his mother said. “I know your friend recently married the Duke of Pelham. You obviously hope to improve your situation in a similar manner. Well, choose someone other than my son.”

  Fallon pointed a finger at his mother. The two women were practically nose to nose. If it came to blows, Warrick wasn’t certain whom he should champion. At the moment, neither seemed to deserve his support.

  “I’ll have you know Juliette loves Pelham, and he loves her. And I wouldn’t marry your son for all the—”

  Warrick cleared his throat. “You needn’t complete that statement. I assure you my pride is already bruised. First my mother finds it necessary to defend me, as though I am once again a child of four, and then one of the most sought-after courtesans in the country cannot say vehemently enough how much she does not desire me.”

  “Warrick, really,” his mother said. “Do stay out of this.”

  Warrick threw his hands up in frustration. Would leaving now really be so much a retreat as a calculated withdrawal?

  “Listen, you little slut,” his mother was saying. “I have tolerated the rumors about you and my son because I have been friends with the Countess of Sinclair for more years than I can count. I don’t care what you do with her husband, and I don’t want to know. But you will not do it with my son.”

  “No, I won’t. Excuse me.”

  Warrick watched Fallon stomp out the door, head held high as she breezed past the footman, who was pretending not to listen, but who would certainly inform his whole staff of this incident at the first opportunity.

  “There,” his mother said. “Problem solved.” She wiped her hands together and took her seat again.

  Warrick glared at her. “Did it ever occur to you, Mother, that she and I are working together?”

  “Oh, dear God. Do not mention that dreadful spy business to me. I do not want to hear about it.”

  “And I would prefer you do not meddle in my affairs. If I wanted your meddling, I would not have left Winthorpe House.”

  “Your father threw you out, if I remember correctly.” She lifted a scone from his plate. “Are these freshly made?”

  “I’m not going to quibble over details with you, Mother. Father is embarrassed that he has a son who has a vocation for which he is financially compensated.”

  “Nonsense.” She nibbled on the scone. “I do believe this is freshly made,” she said in surprise. “Your brother Anthony has a paid position, but he ha
s chosen a respectable career. If you had only done the same—”

  “Sadly, my talents do not lie in the clergy, Mother.”

  “Well, from the display I observed a few moments ago, I should say not! But why not buy a commission in the army? You could command a regiment.”

  “Because I don’t want to. I want to work in espionage. And right now I need Fallon’s help.”

  His mother sighed, loud and long. “I really do think this has gone on long enough, Warrick.”

  He frowned.

  “I mean the feud between your father and you. I am not a young woman any longer, and I want peace in my household. All of my daughters and sons, save you, are wed and well situated. Is it too much to ask that you be similarly placed?”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “Keep your vocation, if that is what you love, but come home. Make amends with your father. I believe if you were to marry, he would accept you back with open arms. The promise of grandchildren tends to soften him, you see.”

  Warrick thought it was more she than his father who wanted grandchildren, but he did not comment.

  “You remember Lady Edith?”

  Of course he remembered her. She was the woman his parents had picked for him to marry. She was the daughter of a duke—wealthy, beautiful, and cold as ice. “As I recall, Mother, she is engaged to Lord Findley.”

  His mother shook her head. “That is not going to come off.”

  “It seemed rather fixed the last time I heard her spoken of.”

  His mother frowned at him. “Really, Warrick, are you going to trust some gossip you heard weeks ago or what I am telling you right now? The engagement is over.”

  He supposed if anyone knew when an engagement was at an end, it was his mother. “Why?” he asked.

  “What does it matter? There’s no scandal, I assure you. I suppose the two did not suit.”

  There was more to the story, but she wasn’t telling.

  “And you want me to give her another chance?”

  “If she’ll have you, yes. It would please your father and me and do a great deal toward mending broken fences.”