If You Give a Rake a Ruby

by Shana Galen

  And she would make sure that, after tonight, they never saw one another alone again.

  ***

  Warrick forced himself to put thoughts of Fallon aside and concentrate on his work. Usually he was very good at this sort of single-mindedness. It had probably kept him alive on more than one occasion. But today little flashes of Fallon kept intruding. When he was moving the furniture in the public room to ensure his exits weren’t blocked, he thought of the way her lips parted when she moaned. When he was hiding his pistol and knife where he could reach them if need be, he thought of the heaviness of her breast in his hand and the hard nub of her nipple against his tongue. And when he was warning Daisy’s girls to stay upstairs and out of the way, he thought of the curve of Fallon’s thigh when he lifted her skirt and the slick, tight feel of her when he’d entered.

  Finally, all was ready, and with a half hour left before the rendezvous, he went to speak to Fallon. He found her pacing Daisy’s chamber, her expression not one he’d seen before. “What’s wrong?” he asked from the doorway.

  She looked up, just taking notice of him, and pasted on a smile. If he hadn’t known her as well as he did now, he would have believed it. She was that good at pretending. But he did know her now, and he knew that was not her real smile.

  He went to her and took her hands. “Why are you nervous?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Fallon, don’t pretend with me. I can see it on your face.” He opened his hands to show her her clenched hands. “And in your body.”

  She swallowed. “I haven’t seen my father for years. Thinking of him now has brought up so many bad memories.”

  “He’ll never know you’re here.” Warrick led her to a small panel in the wall. He pushed it in and slid it aside, revealing a peephole that afforded a view of the common room.

  “Clever,” Fallon said, peering into it.

  “I imagine Daisy likes to know who or what is waiting for her on the other side of this door. You can see your father and still be safe if you stay here.”

  “You don’t need me?”

  He took her hands. “I need you to be safe.”

  She smiled. “And that’s why you’ve dragged me halfway around London and pushed me out of moving carriages.”

  “I admit,” he said, “I originally had other ideas, but my feelings toward you have changed. If I had my way, you wouldn’t even be here tonight.”

  “And what were your ideas for this meeting?”

  “Fallon…” He turned away. He didn’t like to think of how he’d originally planned to use Fallon.

  She grabbed his elbow. “Tell me.”

  He searched her dark eyes and sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to refuse her anything. “I planned to use you only as a last resort, only if things weren’t going well.”

  “That’s a comfort.” She frowned. “I think.”

  “I could threaten your father with a source, you, who could testify to all his crimes and lock him up for good. And then when I brought you out, I knew he’d be so shocked, it would give me the advantage I needed.”

  “And what’s your plan now?”

  “To keep you as far from that bastard as possible.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s late. I have to go.” He started for the door, but she came after him.

  “Warrick, if you need me, I’m here.”

  He grinned. “I won’t need you. Stay here. Don’t reveal your presence, no matter what happens.” He squeezed her hand and opened the door to the public room. He only hoped Fallon was good at taking orders and kept her head about her.

  He wasn’t at all certain his plan was going to work.

  He seated himself on one of the sagging couches and was just peering at his pocket watch when he heard the clip clop of horses and the squeak of carriage wheels.

  Midnight.

  Bayley was right on time.

  Warrick gave one last glance at the couch cushion where he’d hidden his pistol and rose. The first man to enter was Gabriel. He had a large cane, and his foot was bandaged. He hobbled into the public room. “You,” Gabriel said with a sneer. “You’re going to pay for what you did. You’re going to pay dearly.”

  Warrick took a breath. Gabriel’s appearance was an unexpected and unpleasant development. Warrick had thought he would only be dealing with Bayley and his men.

  “Let me talk to him first,” another man said, moving into the doorway. Warrick had never met him, but from the descriptions he’d heard, he knew it was Joseph Bayley. Bayley was short and wiry. He had small eyes and a thin mouth. His busy mustache and beard were attempts to hide the scars on his face, but they weren’t entirely successful.

  Knife scars, Warrick thought. From Fallon.

  Bayley was dressed in black and used a black walking stick. It didn’t appear ornamental, but Warrick would keep his eye on it anyway. Walking sticks were good hiding places for knives.

  As Bayley stepped into the light, Warrick struggled to see any trace of Fallon in this man who was her father. Except for the petite stature and the dark hair and eyes, she didn’t resemble him.

  Several men moved in behind Bayley. They were young and inexperienced. Warrick didn’t dismiss them. Sometimes the young, inexperienced thugs were the ones who were just rash enough to do something stupid.

  And deadly.

  “So,” Bayley said, “you’ve finally come out of hiding.”

  “I wasn’t in hiding,” Warrick answered. “But neither was I making myself an open target.”

  “And now you are?” Bayley asked. “That makes my task easy.” His small eyes roamed the room, looking for Warrick’s men, looking for traps.

  “And what is your task, precisely?”

  “To kill you.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell do I know why?” Bayley asked. “I don’t care. I kill you and I get paid. Blunt. That’s all I care about.”

  “Who’s paying?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “I beg to differ, considering I’m the one he wants dead.”

  “You’ll be dead in a moment, and it won’t matter.” Bayley signaled to one of his men.

  “Why don’t we sit down and discuss this like civilized men?” Warrick said, moving toward the couch where his pistol was hidden. He’d counted on Bayley talking before he had to begin defensive maneuvers.

  “I don’t have time to waste talking to you.”

  Bayley’s man moved forward, and Warrick abandoned the pistol and angled his foot toward the thin, all-but-invisible string attached to the leg of a chair. He was just about to trigger the trap when Gabriel lurched forward. “Wait a moment. I thought I was going to be the one to kill him.”

  Bayley’s man paused and glanced at his leader. Bayley frowned. “Get out of the way, or I’ll have you shot as well.”

  Gabriel pulled a pistol from his coat. “Not if I shoot you first.” But instead of pointing the pistol at Bayley or his man, Gabriel turned it on Warrick. Warrick had a second in which to gauge the direction of the ball, and he dove for cover as the ball screeched past him. He landed near a side table, fumbled for the knife he’d hidden there, and rose with the knife in hand.

  “Fool! You missed!” Bayley said. “Get out of the way.”

  One of Bayley’s men pushed Gabriel aside, and the one with the pistol stepped forward. Warrick stuck his foot out and tripped the wire. Scalding water crashed down on the men’s heads from a pot suspended above.

  Bayley jumped aside just in time, but the other men were hit and began screaming. Warrick lunged for Bayley, but the man moved with surprising agility for a man with a cane. He was on his feet again, and the cane came down on top of Warrick’s head.

  Devil take it, he thought as his head exploded in pain. This was not going well. He rolled to the side to protect his head and got a blow
in the ribs. Warrick kicked out and got another blow. He’d dropped his knife and curled into a ball on top of it. Bayley would think he was wounded, and when he bent closer, Warrick would stab him through. For good measure, Warrick groaned. It was not difficult to sound like a man in pain. His ribs were definitely bruised, and he was going to have a knot on his head.

  But he wasn’t dead. Yet.

  Bayley moved closer, and Warrick tensed to spring, just when Daisy’s door opened.

  “No, wait! Don’t touch him!” Fallon cried.

  Warrick closed his eyes. Now he was as good as dead.

  Fifteen

  Fallon stared at her father. It was really him. She couldn’t believe he was standing before her in the flesh. It was like seeing a ghost, but he was flesh and blood.

  He blinked at her, narrowed his eyes, and said, “So it’s true. I didn’t believe Gabriel when he said you were alive.”

  She swallowed, tried to find her voice, and couldn’t.

  He stepped closer, and she caught his scent. He still smelled of boiled potatoes and stale gin. She shivered, the memories rushing back at her like a windstorm.

  “I looked for you,” he said. “When I could move again. I was going to kill you. Slowly. I thought someone else had gotten to you first. I hoped.”

  Warrick was rising, and she had the urge to move closer to him. Funny how a moment before she had thought to protect him, and now she was the one feeling the need for protection.

  Her father looked from Warrick to her, and she saw the flicker in his eyes. She knew that flicker. He had an idea. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He looked her up and down. “I knew you were going to grow up to be a beauty, Maggie.”

  “It’s Fallon now,” she said, her voice raspy.

  Her father grinned. “You always did think you were too good for the rest of us. Gabriel says you’re a well-paid courtesan now. I suppose you weren’t so different from us after all. You became a whore just like your mother.”

  Fallon shook her head. “You don’t know anything about me.” She saw Warrick was standing and stepped toward him. “We’re leaving now, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget you ever saw us.”

  Everything happened so quickly, she didn’t have a moment to think or react. One moment she was backing toward Warrick, and the next moment her father had his arm around her neck and something cold and hard was pressed to her temple. Fallon could tell by the look on Warrick’s face that the situation was less than ideal. He’d moved toward the couch, and somehow he had a pistol in his hand as well.

  “Let her go, Bayley,” Warrick said, aiming the pistol at her father—and consequently also at her.

  “What’s she to you, Fitzhugh?” her father asked. “Are you her protector?”

  “Let her go, or I’ll shoot you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you will,” her father sneered. He backed up, pulling her along with him. “But I will shoot her. I owe her a slow, painful death, but I’ll take my chances when I can.”

  “What do you want?” Warrick asked.

  “No!” Fallon said. “Don’t bargain with him. He’ll never keep his word.”

  “Shut up,” her father said, digging the pistol into her temple. “You want her back?”

  “Let her go now, and we’ll talk,” Warrick said.

  “I don’t think you’re in a position to bargain, Fitzhugh.”

  Fallon closed her eyes. She’d made everything worse. Somehow, in her attempts to save Warrick, she’d doomed him.

  “Here’s what I want, Fitzhugh. Meet me tomorrow at half past midnight at the Serpentine Bridge in Hyde Park. Come alone and unarmed, and bring the names of the other Diamonds in the Rough with you.”

  “Why?”

  Fallon had already deduced why, and she supposed Warrick had as well. But he was trying to stall for time, and for that she loved him. Unfortunately, it was too late. Her father was in the doorway, and he was going to pull her into the street and then into a waiting carriage.

  She was never going to see Warrick again. She was never going to see anyone or anything again.

  “Be there, or I kill her.” He yanked her out the door, but Fallon latched onto the doorway and levered herself back inside.

  “Don’t go, Warrick. He’ll kill me anyway. Don’t—”

  Her father yanked her backward, and she stumbled to her knees. Her survival instincts resurfaced, and she rolled away then jumped to her feet. If she hadn’t been wearing the heavy gown, she might have gotten away. But she snagged her toe on the hem and went down again. It was just enough time for one of her father’s men to grab her and pull her back. She screamed, and her father backhanded her hard enough to cut off the sound. Fallon tasted the familiar tang of blood.

  “Get her in the coach,” he said. The man threw her in the vehicle, and she landed on the floor. She immediately grabbed the door handle opposite, but it was locked. And then her father kicked her arm away. His next blow landed on the side of her head, and she closed her eyes and sank into darkness.

  She prayed she never woke up.

  ***

  Warrick stood in the doorway of The Merry Widow and watched the carriage drive away.

  She was gone. Fallon was really gone, and he had no illusions she would survive the night, much less until his rendezvous with Bayley. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he gripped the back of a chair. For a moment, the room swam and he was back on the battlefield. He could smell the tang of fresh-spilled blood and hear the wheeze of a man drawing his last breaths. But the wheeze was nothing compared to the wails of the dying men. Cries of “Help me, please” and “Mother! Mother!” rent his ears.

  He couldn’t help them. He couldn’t help any of them. But he couldn’t leave. He had to search. He had to try.

  A shot rang out, and he jumped, whirled, and reached for his pistol. He had it in his hands and spun around, looking for the gunman.

  “Warrick.”

  He aimed and cocked the hammer.

  “Warrick, no!”

  He blinked, tried to still his shaking hands, and focused on the man in front of him.

  No, it wasn’t a man, not a French soldier, but a woman.

  Daisy.

  “There you are. That’s all right now. Come back to us.” She turned to the clerk coming in behind her. “Get him a glass of wine. Hurry.”

  “Daisy.” His hands were still shaking, and he couldn’t seem to lower the pistol.

  “Put it down now, luv.” Slowly, she put her hand on his wrist and lowered the weapon. “I tripped over a chair, and the sound took you unawares. That’s all.”

  The clerk returned and handed Daisy the wine. Warrick took it and sipped. Daisy watched him, and after he’d drunk about half the glass, she said, “What happened? Where’s the marchioness?”

  Warrick closed his eyes. “Gone. Bayley got her.”

  “Who is this Bayley?”

  Warrick shook his head. How did he describe Bayley?

  “What does he want with her?” Daisy asked.

  “To leverage her against me. But he’ll kill her before he lets me have her back.”

  “Then you just have to get her back before he hurts her.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You can do it, Warrick. I know you can.”

  Warrick put his head in his hands. He wanted, desperately, to be the man Daisy thought he was, the man Fallon needed. But he wasn’t a hero. He’d saved Daisy’s brother, and that was the extent of his good deeds. He hadn’t been able to save the others. He hadn’t been able to save even one man drowning in his own blood on the field that day. Instead, he’d climbed over their ravished bodies, adding one last insult to their final moments.

  He’d lived another day, and the faces and voices of those men lived with him.

  “I don’t even know where to begin, Daisy. I co
uld find him. I know I could, but there’s not time for that.”

  “Well, maybe he can help you.” She pointed to a heap in the corner, and Warrick rose. In Bayley’s haste to get away, he’d left Lucifer’s man behind, and Warrick had hit him over the head with his pistol. He hadn’t thought anymore about Gabriel, but now Warrick narrowed his eyes. Daisy might just be right.

  Warrick felt a renewed sense of purpose, of hope. He shook off the ghosts clinging to his boots and marched to Gabriel’s crumpled form. He nudged the man with his toe, and Gabriel groaned. “Leave me alone, bastard.”

  “Get up, or I’ll shoot your other foot.”

  Gabriel opened his eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  “Get up, and you’ll find out.”

  If Warrick was going to save Fallon, he had to get to her before tomorrow night.

  And Gabriel was going to help, whether he wanted to or not.

  ***

  When Fallon woke, she was cold and aching. The floor beneath her was hard and damp, and when she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but blackness. Her hands were bound behind her, and her arms had long ago lost all feeling, but she managed to struggle to her knees. Besides the pain in her head from the kicks she’d sustained and the numbness in her arms, she was otherwise unharmed.

  But she knew that wouldn’t last.

  She twisted her hands behind her, testing the strength of the bindings. They were tight, but if she worked at them, she might free herself. The floor above her creaked, and she paused and held her breath. Footsteps sounded and then moved away, and she began to twist her wrists again. Pins and needles of pain sliced through her arms as the nerves woke, but she ignored the sharp pricks and continued to pull at the bindings.

  She felt them give enough that she chanced a smile. If she could just get free, she knew she could find her way out. Escape was her only hope, her only chance.

  The rope burned into her skin as she twisted her hands and attempted to pull them free. Sweat or blood dripped onto her fingers, but she ignored it. She knew the moisture would make her task easier. She flexed one of her wrists, and despite the excruciating pain, tried easing it through the bindings. “Not yet,” she muttered and worked her hands again.