If You Give a Rake a Ruby

by Shana Galen

“Warrick, be careful,” Fallon said.

  “Listen to the chit. You’d better be careful.”

  “Or you will shoot me?” Warrick took another step forward. “You’ll do that anyway.” He was facing the pistol now and could see the man’s hand shaking on the hammer. At this rate, he’d be shot accidentally. But Warrick could also see a little of the man’s face. He was young, no seasoned killer. He wasn’t much older than the boys Warrick had seen dying on the battlefields of the Continent.

  The boy raised the pistol higher. “Keep yer hands up.”

  There was fear in his voice, fear and desperation. The combination made Warrick’s ears roar as though a spring gale buffeted his face. Warrick closed his eyes, willed the memories of the battle away. But the boy’s voice and his face had triggered something. Suddenly, the sky was stained crimson from the distant fires. Smoke scorched his nostrils and snaked along the muddy ground. Warrick could hear the battle cries again. He could hear the screams of the horses and the distant booms of cannon fire. The ground beneath him shook, and he braced his legs to keep his balance on the slippery ground.

  From far away, he heard someone say, “What’s he doing?”

  Fallon was calling out to him. “Warrick, are you ill?”

  He looked for her, but the smoke from the battle was too thick. He couldn’t see her. He had to reach her. She shouldn’t be here. She should be safe, home in London. He was reaching out for Fallon, straining to touch her, crawling over the bodies of the dead men again, slipping on their slick blood, falling in a pool of excrement and severed limbs.

  No! He would not go back. He would not go back.

  With a roar, he rushed forward, heedless of the dead men he trampled. He knocked the enemy down and fought with a rage he hadn’t felt since the war. “I’m not going back!” he shouted. “I won’t do it.”

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “Warrick!”

  Fallon was screaming. He could hear her. Where was she?

  “Warrick! Stop. You’ll kill him.”

  Someone grabbed his arm and he struck out, pulling the punch at the last moment when he saw it was Fallon. She gasped, stumbled, and fell backward.

  The battlefield faded away, and he was back in London. A gray fog—not smoke—rolled by him, and the pewter sky—not crimson—hung with the promise of rain. The sounds of the city, of horses’ hooves clopping, vendors crying, and wagons lumbering through the streets surrounded him. Slowly, the battlefield faded into the corners of his mind, where he knew it would wait and watch for another chance at freedom.

  “Fallon!” Warrick was beside her in an instant, lifting her into his arms. “I’m so bloody sorry. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” She gripped his face. “I tripped on my cape, but I’m fine. What happened? I screamed your name, but you didn’t seem to hear me. You almost killed him.” She looked past Warrick. “Perhaps you did kill him.”

  Warrick turned and saw the young man lying on the ground. His tricorn hat had tumbled off, revealing a head of long, dark blond hair. His face was streaked with blood. Warrick moved closer to the boy, and the lad raised a weak arm. “No more.”

  Thank God. The boy wasn’t dead. Warrick’s gaze flicked to the pistol that had fallen from the boy’s hand. He leaned over and scooped it up, tucking it into his pocket and out of the boy’s reach.

  The boy moaned again, and Warrick hauled him up. “Who sent you?”

  “No more,” the boy moaned.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, if you answer my questions.”

  “No more.” The boy’s head lolled back, and Warrick sighed. He knew he hadn’t beaten the lad so badly the boy couldn’t talk.

  Fallon put her hand on Warrick’s shoulder. “Let me try.”

  Warrick started to protest, then realized she probably had the right of it. The boy was too terrified of him at the moment to speak.

  Fallon knelt beside the boy, and Warrick frowned. He didn’t like to see her kneeling on the dirty street. “What is your name?” she asked softly.

  The boy’s eyelids fluttered. “Wha?”

  “Your name?” She bent over him, so he could see her face.

  “John.”

  “John, I’m Fallon. Are you well enough to sit?”

  The boy struggled to his elbows, and Warrick stepped forward to assist. But Fallon shook her head, and Warrick stepped back into the fog. When the boy was sitting, Fallon said, “Now, tell me who sent you here to kill Mr. Fitzhugh. I assume this isn’t a personal matter but that someone is paying you.”

  “I ain’t going to get paid now.” He tossed a contemptuous look in Warrick’s direction and spit out a tooth.

  “Your reward is your life,” she said. “And if you want to keep it, tell me who sent you.”

  The boy looked at her then looked over at Warrick. Warrick crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I don’t know his name, and I never seen his face. But he’s a gentleman, I know that. I could hear it in his voice. He sounds like that one there.” He hooked a thumb at Warrick. “I couldn’t see his face, it were too dark, but I saw his boots. They were expensive, like. I believed him when he said those gems were real.”

  “The rubies?”

  He blinked at her. “You seen ’em?”

  “No, but I’ve heard of them. He showed them to you?”

  “He did. They was huge. I’d like to have done just about anything to get my hands on one of those.”

  Warrick rolled his eyes. As though the boy would know what to do with a ruby once he had it.

  “When and where did you see these rubies?” Fallon asked.

  Warrick had to give her credit. She was getting the boy to talk and asking all of the right questions. A few drops of rain plinked on Warrick’s face, and he peered up at the foreboding sky.

  “He had them right here in London. Met him over on the East End in a pub. Thought he was just one of those gents slumming it, then he pulls me aside, buys me some gin, and shows me them rubies.”

  “When was this?” Warrick couldn’t resist interrupting. His pulse had started to race. The traitor was in London—or had been recently. It was drizzling in earnest now, the water beginning to dilute the splatters of blood on the street.

  The boy glared at Warrick. “I ain’t talking to him,” he said to Fallon. “I’m talking to you.”

  “Of course.” Her gaze never left the boy’s. “When did you meet this man?”

  The boy shrugged. “Couple of days ago.”

  “Then he’s in Town now?” she asked.

  “I should think so. Said I had until”—the boy lifted his fingers and counted—“day after tomorrow, which I suppose is today already, to do the deed. I was to meet him at a fancy ball in two days’ time.” Another dagger-like glance in Warrick’s direction. “I’d get paid then.”

  Fallon frowned. “A fancy ball? Whose ball, and how would you gain entrance?”

  The boy shook his head as though speaking to a child. “I’d hide in the gardens.”

  “Whose ball?”

  “I don’t know the name. Some lord or other with deep pockets.”

  “How were you to find it? Did the gentleman with the rubies give you the address?”

  The boy scowled. “I don’t read, Miss Fallon. He told me, and I remembered.” He tapped his head.

  “What was the number?”

  The boy cut another glance at Warrick. He leaned closer to Fallon. “Thirty-six Berkeley Square.”

  Warrick’s world tilted, and he reached out to clutch a lamppost for support.

  “You know it?” the boy was asking Fallon. She shook her head. “No.”

  Warrick took a deep breath and tossed a few coins at the boy’s feet. The boy scrambled to grab them, and Fallon stood.

  “This ought to cover a visit from your do
ctor. After that, I’d advise you to stay in bed, because if I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  The boy glared at him. Warrick held out an arm, and Fallon took it. “Let’s go before the skies open up and soak us.”

  They found a hack just as the rain began in earnest. Warrick started to give the jarvey his address, but Fallon interrupted with her own.

  “Why did you do that?” Warrick asked when they were inside.

  “Who knows how many other hired men this gentleman has after you? For right now it might be best for us to sojourn at my town house.”

  “What about Titus?” Warrick asked darkly.

  Fallon raised a brow. “He is a little scary, isn’t he?” They sat in silence for a moment, then Fallon said, “Who lives at thirty-six Berkeley Square?”

  Warrick would have sworn she had her gaze fixed on the boy when that information had been revealed. But somehow she’d seen his reaction.

  “My mother and father.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “No. My father isn’t trying to have me killed.” At least Warrick didn’t think the earl hated him that much. “But my mother is hosting a ball.”

  “Ah.” Fallon nodded. “The ball with the famous Lady Edith.”

  “Precisely. Obviously our man has an invitation.”

  “I suppose this means you will be attending.”

  He looked at her. Was that jealousy in her voice? “We’ll be attending. It’s time you met my father.”

  ***

  Fallon did not think it time she met the Earl of Winthorpe. In fact, she could have done quite nicely never meeting the man. But she wasn’t going to argue the point with the sun rising, her head pounding, and Titus glaring at Warrick from the vestibule of her town house.

  “Titus,” she said, smoothing her hair back into place, though she couldn’t have said why, as it was a lost cause. “Would you tell Cook to delay breakfast? I think we shall sleep first.”

  She glanced at Warrick, and he nodded agreement. He looked exhausted. His eyes were rimmed with red. Insomnia or not, it was time he slept.

  “My lady,” Titus said, his severe tone making her jerk her attention toward him. “Might we have a word?”

  “What is it?” Fallon handed her cape to her lady’s maid with an apologetic smile for the dirt.

  Titus hesitated and shifted.

  “Go ahead, Titus. You may speak freely.”

  Her butler gave Warrick a dark look, but before Titus could speak, Warrick said, “I know what this is about. You want me to go. Do I have the right of it, Titus?”

  “Yes, sir.” Titus’s tone on the sir was far from respectful. “It’s not proper, you staying here.”

  Fallon sighed. “Titus, I am a courtesan. Men are supposed to visit me here.”

  Titus frowned but didn’t argue.

  “Titus,” Warrick began. “Let me put your mind at ease.”

  “Warrick, you go on. I’ll speak to Titus.”

  “Actually, I think it might be better if Titus and I spoke in private.”

  Fallon raised her brows. “You want to speak to my butler in private?”

  Warrick nodded. “If you don’t mind.” He indicated the door to a small parlor. “Might we speak in here for a few moments?”

  Titus nodded and, to Fallon’s shock, lumbered into the parlor. What exactly was going on here? She watched, stupefied, as Warrick followed and then closed the parlor door.

  Anne came forward. “May I help you to your room, madam?”

  Fallon shook her head. “No. Go on ahead and prepare my chamber. Make sure there are two glasses of wine on the nightstand.” It was not a usual request, but Anne only nodded and disappeared into the servant’s domain.

  Fallon edged closer to the parlor door, leaning her ear against it. Her footman was coming toward her, but she waved him back impatiently.

  “—think I understand what is going on here,” Warrick was saying.

  Well, she was certainly glad someone understood.

  “You see yourself as a sort of guardian for Fallon.”

  “I am her guardian,” Titus answered.

  It was news to Fallon—who had been on her own since fifteen, and who was past the age of majority—that she had a guardian. Especially one on her own payroll.

  “And naturally you have concerns about me and my intentions.”

  Fallon rolled her eyes. This was like some sort of grand farce. She employed Titus. She had saved him. She remembered meeting the giant. She had been new to the world of the demimonde and still learning her way. The Earl of Sin had set her up in her town house with Anne and a footman. Sinclair had even loaned her his own butler, Abernathy, to help put the house in order. And what she had learned from Abernathy was that she needed a good butler of her own. Of course, she had no idea where to search for one.

  And then she had been on her way home one evening—or rather one early morning—and passed by a group of men beating what appeared to be a giant. It was five against one, and she had never liked to see odds like that—even if the one did appear to be, on first inspection, the equivalent of three ordinary men.

  She’d ordered her coachman to stop, and he hadn’t argued, though they had not been in the best part of Town and he had no real means to protect her if things did not go well. She’d taken a small, dainty pistol she carried for show from beneath her seat, climbed out of the carriage, and faced the thugs down. She didn’t know quite how she’d done it, but she managed to convince the thugs that they should load Titus into her carriage, and she was driving away before the men could question her.

  She’d taken Titus home and nursed him back to health. He had stayed on, gradually taking on more and more of the household responsibility until he was virtually running the place. She’d never asked where he’d come from, why the men were assaulting him, or who he’d been. In return, he didn’t question her.

  And they’d gotten on well for years. But now, apparently, she’d crossed some invisible line, and Titus intended to challenge Warrick.

  “I do, sir,” Titus answered, sounding very much like an actual butler. She supposed he was an actual butler, though she couldn’t have said exactly when the transformation occurred.

  “My intentions are honorable,” Warrick was saying. Fallon put her hand on the door, intending to go in and stop the nonsense at once. Warrick didn’t have to explain himself to Titus. But Fallon didn’t push the door open. Something made her hesitate.

  “So you say, sir,” Titus answered, “but I have reason to doubt.”

  “Understandable. But I assure you, Titus, I intend to marry your mistress.”

  Fallon had known Warrick was going to say that. He had fastened onto the idea of marrying her, and no matter how much she tried to convince him they would not suit, he hadn’t let it go. Truth be told, she didn’t want him to let it go. And perhaps that was why she was eavesdropping. She needed to know if Warrick still wanted to marry her.

  “And if she does not want to marry you?” Titus asked. Fallon smiled. Only Titus would think to ask such a question. Of course, he’d helped throw out many a determined suitor who would not be persuaded she was not interested in playing the role of wife for the night.

  There was a long silence, and Fallon could picture Warrick frowning and clasping his hands behind his back. “That is her decision, of course. But I think it would be a foolish choice, considering she is in love with me.”

  Fallon opened her mouth to respond that it wasn’t a foolish choice at all, but she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be listening. And since Warrick had probably guessed she was listening, she stepped away from the door and started up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  She tried to ignore the way her heart thudded, tried to tell herself it was the exertion of climbing the stairs so quickly. She tried to tamp down the bubble of excit
ement that arose when Warrick’s words echoed in her mind.

  I intend to marry your mistress.

  But bubbles were notoriously difficult to control. As a child, she’d tried to catch them on her finger, but more often than not, the bubbles escaped her. And when she did catch one, it inevitably popped immediately. The bubble of excitement escaped her, rising and rising until she could not help but skip, giddy with exhilaration. Warrick loved her. Warrick wanted to marry her. She had never thought she would marry, but now images of Juliette’s recent wedding flickered in her mind. Fallon wanted what Juliette had had—the lovely dress, the fresh flowers, Warrick in his morning coat, looking at her with that expression of love that melted her heart. She realized she wanted what Juliette had with her duke. She wanted someone who would love her more than was right, more than was proper, and more than convention deemed appropriate. She wanted someone who would tell Society and all of its social dictates to go to the devil. The Duke of Pelham had done just that for Juliette, but he was the exception. She had no hope Warrick would do the same for her.

  Fallon closed her eyes and pictured the sunlight streaming through the church on Juliette’s wedding morning. The stained glass windows had reflected a shower of sapphire, topaz, ruby, and amethyst on the marble floor. Those same colors had danced across the back of Juliette’s silver-embroidered wedding dress. Fallon remembered thinking it the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. How she longed to be the one with the spray of color frolicking over a pale silk gown.

  Oh, please, Fallon prayed. Don’t allow this bubble to pop. Not yet. She wanted to enjoy it, just for a little while.

  When she entered her bedchamber, she was pleased to note Anne had drawn a bath for her and scented it with a few drops of the jasmine oil from India for which she had paid far too much.

  Anne helped her undress, and Fallon dismissed her, luxuriating in the warm bath water until all the tension oozed out of her shoulders and her head ceased to ache. She was beginning to doze when she heard Warrick’s deep voice. “That’s a lovely scene. I should have come up sooner.”

  She didn’t open her eyes, but she smiled. “If you’d waited too much longer, I would have been asleep.”