by Barton, Anne
Ben weighed his options. The waitress was young, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent. “See the large man with blond hair who just sat at the faro table?”
“With the bruises around his eyes?”
Ben smiled. “The remnants of a broken nose. If you can get him talking, I’ll match your monthly wage.”
“What do you want him to talk about?”
“Gambling. Money. His assets.”
“That’s it?” She looked disappointed at the utter lack of challenge.
“Find out where in town he’s staying.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult.” She pushed the sleeves of her blouse off her shoulders and adjusted her breasts so that they showed to their best advantage.
“I’m going to hang back and listen.” Ben twirled his cane beneath the table, debating how much to tell her. He took in her businesslike demeanor and determined expression and decided she was nothing if not enterprising. “There’s one more thing. He has a portrait of a young woman. I want to know where it is—but it’s going to take a subtle approach. If he suspects you’re fishing for information, you won’t get anything out of him.”
She raised a painted-on brow. “A portrait? It would be easier to find out the color of his drawers.”
“If you get him to reveal the location of the painting, I’ll triple your wage.”
She glared at Hallows as if measuring him up. “Consider it done.” She walked toward him, her hips swaying like a boat gliding over waves.
Beside Ben, Averill chuckled. “I almost feel sorry for Hallows.”
Ben snorted. “Follow me. I want a good seat for this show.”
They found a couple of chairs with a decent vantage point and positioned themselves so that Hallows couldn’t see them. They listened as the young waitress presented him with a glass of whiskey. On the house.
She bided her time, perching herself on the arm of Hallows’s chair, draping herself over his shoulder, and occasionally whispering in his ear. He gradually became less interested in faro and more interested in the woman.
Nodding toward the high stakes in the center of the table, she said, “Your pockets must be stuffed if you can play that deep.”
“My pockets will be stuffed soon enough.”
She sniffed, apparently unimpressed. “So, you’re like all the other young gents who come in here, thinking they’ll make a small fortune off of cards. I’ll let you in on a little secret—it don’t work that way.”
Hallows scoffed. “I don’t need winnings. I’ve got something more valuable than all the stakes in this place.”
“No offense, milord, but I seriously doubt that. That gent in the corner just wagered his Thoroughbred.”
“I’ve got a painting—a bloody work of art, it is.”
“Is that so?” She examined her fingernails as though unimpressed. “What’s so special about it?”
“It’s a portrait of a lady. But she ain’t acting like one, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah. Showing her wares, is she? So you’re going to blackmail her?”
“Not exactly. I’m going to auction it off. I’ll be rich, and she’ll be ruined.”
Ben fisted his hand around the top of his cane. Averill placed a firm hand on his arm, warning him to keep a level head.
“Is she pretty?” The waitress wound a curl around her index finger.
Hallows snorted. “Beautiful.”
“What have you got against her?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I can’t help it if I’m curious.” She snaked an arm around Hallows’s neck and removed imaginary specks of dust from his jacket. “I’d love to see it.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I could pose for a painting someday. Would you show it to me?” She flicked her tongue at Hallows’s ear, and Ben decided right then and there that he was tripling her wages, no matter what. Licking Hallows went above and beyond the call of duty.
Hallows pulled her onto his lap. “Impossible.”
The waitress pouted. “I thought it was your painting.”
“It is, you little hoyden, but it’s not in my possession.”
She narrowed her eyes as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Why not?”
“For one thing, it’s too large to carry with me.”
“Then we’ll go to your flat,” she cooed.
“The idea has promise.” Hallows was practically drooling. “But the portrait is not there either.”
“Oh.” She sat up stiffly, as though miffed. “I can see you are toying with me.”
He yanked her closer, and Ben’s hackles rose. Hallows better not cross the line.
“I don’t play games,” he said through clenched teeth. “The painting is in a shop.”
A shop? Ben tried to block out the sound of the conversations around him and leaned closer, intent on hearing every word.
“You’re selling it?” the waitress asked.
“You’re a bit dim-witted, aren’t you? I’ve already explained I mean to auction it.” Hallows spoke insultingly slowly. “It’s in the shop getting a new frame. Costing me a small fortune, too—I went with the best in town. Mr. Leemore says the right frame can help a painting fetch a much higher price. He’d better be right—or he ain’t getting paid.” Hallows guffawed at the not-so-subtle irony.
Ben looked at Averill, who nodded. They had what they needed. Now they just had to extricate the waitress from Hallows’s sweaty paws. Ben relished the challenge.
The woman glanced over at him and he inclined his head toward the back room.
“My boss is signaling for me. Let me see what he wants and tell him I’m leaving early tonight.”
Hallows didn’t release her at first. But then he hoisted her off his lap, pinching her bottom as she tried to catch her balance. Charming.
Averill casually followed the waitress as she weaved her way through the crowd, carrying in his pocket a handful of coins that Ben had counted out as payment.
He bided his time, waiting until Hallows became agitated, craning his thick neck and cracking his knuckles. Then Ben walked directly up to him.
“How’s your luck tonight, Hallows?”
At the sound of his name, he turned. So did the thugs on either side of him. Just imagining what that rough-looking trio might do to him made Ben’s leg ache.
“Foxburn,” Hallows growled. He stood and puffed out his chest. To his friends—if the thugs could properly be labeled as such—he said, “This is the bloke who broke my nose.”
They stood, too, forming a wall of solid muscle and low intelligence.
“I must admit it’s looking better than when last I saw you.” Ben squinted. “Although, it does bend awkwardly to the right.”
“Damn you, Foxburn.”
Ben shrugged. “Don’t fret. It’s hardly noticeable with all the bruising.”
Hallows fisted his hand. “Funny you should mention bruising.”
A small circle of spectators had formed around them. Witnesses were good. Hallows would be less likely to commit murder.
“I didn’t expect to see you here in town. Well, not outside of debtor’s prison.”
“I’m paying off my vowels soon. Of course, I’ll have to part with the painting of your mistress.”
“Watch yourself,” Ben warned.
“It pains me to say good-bye to her. She’s got those ripe breasts and an ass that you just want to squeeze. Many a time I’ve jacked off—”
Bam. Ben slammed his fist into Hallows’s nose. Again. Blood splattered. Shouts went up all around him and before Ben knew what was happening, Averill grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the hell.
“Let’s go!”
Averill continued to drag Ben toward his coach, which was parked around the corner, but the thugs were in pursuit and his leg was about to buckle. He drew up short, and when Averill looked at him questioningly, Ben said, “I’ll take Eyebrow.”
“Right. Square Chin is mine
.”
The words were barely out of Averill’s mouth when the men were upon them, fists flying through the air. Ben dropped his cane and ducked below a punch, letting his left leg bear most of his weight. Eyebrow backed up three steps and lowered his shoulder as if he meant to charge and barrel Ben over. He stepped to the left and jabbed his attacker in the stomach. He moaned and leaned over, hands on his knees. Ben could tell the moment Eyebrow spotted the cane on the sidewalk but couldn’t beat him to it. The brute snatched it up and tossed it from palm to palm, an evil look in his eyes as he circled Ben.
Behind him, Ben heard Averill scrapping with his opponent. Excellent pugilist that Averill was, he could have knocked him out cold at any time. But what was the fun in that?
“Need a hand, Foxburn?” his friend called out.
“No. But I’ll need a drink after this. You almost done there?” He kept a wary eye on his own adversary.
“Aye. I find myself growing bored.”
“No lack of excitement here.” Eyebrow raised the cane and slashed it through the air in front of Ben, barely missing his neck. Before the oaf had the chance to regain his balance, Ben grabbed the end of the cane and swung it hard, toppling the man to the ground like an ancient tree. His head hit the sidewalk with a thunk, leaving him stunned.
Ben leaned over and wrested the cane—which happened to be one of his favorites—from his foe’s grip and turned to find Averill waiting, a satisfied smile on his face. “Not a bad ending to the night.”
“I must say I prefer it to the alternative—which would have likely involved me being bound and thrown into the Thames.”
Much to the relief of Ben’s coachman, they hurried into the cab.
Ben sank back into the squabs and stared out the window as he waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. Coming out on the winning end of a brawl wasn’t the worst way to spend an evening, but it wasn’t the best either.
He missed Daphne.
And he knew how he’d spend the rest of his night.
Drinking a brandy in his study as he stared at her portrait.
And contemplating his next move.
“Your ball gown is finished!” Anabelle waltzed into Daphne’s bedchamber, the dress draped over her slender arm, triumphant.
At the ungodly hour of a quarter to seven in the morning.
Daphne flipped onto her stomach and closed her eyes. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“You must try it on.” She pulled back Daphne’s cozy counterpane, and cool air rushed over her neck and arms.
“At this very moment?” Daphne already knew the answer. Her sister was not a particularly patient person.
“It won’t take long. I just want to see how the adjustment I made to the sleeves turned out. I would try it on myself, but I’m expanding daily.”
Daphne hoisted herself up and took the dress from Anabelle. “Someone who didn’t know would never guess you’re with child.”
“Well then they must be quite perplexed by the sudden and dramatic increase in the size of my breasts.”
Daphne lifted the golden gown above her head.
“No.” Belle reached for the dress. “Not over your nightgown. It’ll ruin the lines.”
Though the bedchamber was chilly in the early morning hours, Daphne indulged her sister and removed her night rail. It was the least she could do, especially since Anabelle had likely spent most of the night bent over the dress, scrutinizing every embellishment and seam. It was highly unusual for a duchess to behave in such a manner, of course, but old habits died hard. For a few weeks after they’d married, Owen objected to Anabelle doing any sort of work, which only resulted in her hiding her activities from him. Once he realized she was happier with a needle in her hand, he’d given in. It was difficult for him to refuse his wife anything.
Anabelle slipped the dress over Daphne’s head; she shivered as the soft, cool silk cascaded down her arms, back, and legs. Even before Anabelle tightened the laces at the side, Daphne could tell that the fit was perfect. The neckline showed her breasts to advantage without being risqué, and a wide band of beadwork accentuated the narrowest part of her torso. The shimmering fabric flowed from the band all the way to the floor in rippling waves that shone like gold glinting in the sun.
Daphne ran her palms over her ribs and down her hips. For several moments, neither of them spoke. When at last Daphne found her tongue, she said, “It’s gorgeous. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Anabelle smiled smugly. “Yes. Yes, I have.” She sighed, the sort of contented sigh one exhales after indulging in a positively decadent pastry.
“Thank you. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.”
“Well, then, you must start going out again, if only so that you’ll have an opportunity to wear it. Perhaps there is a special gentleman you wish to impress,” Anabelle fished.
Daphne shook her head. “No one special.” Besides Ben. But he’d made himself clear—heartbreakingly so. There was no future for them.
“Well, then, you must wear it to a ball and wait for a special gentleman to come to you.”
“There is a ball coming up, little more than a week from now.”
Belle’s face brightened. “And you shall go?”
“Yes.” The Foley ball would likely be her last. She might as well look her best. And if the dress gave her the confidence to help her do what she must, so much the better.
“Why does it seem as though you’re a million miles away?”
Daphne blinked. “Hmm?”
Anabelle took her hand and led her to a small sofa in the cozy sitting area before the dormant fireplace. “Daphne,” she said, her pretty gray eyes shining behind her spectacles, “I haven’t seen your smile—the real one that lights up an entire room—in days. You can tell me anything, you know. Did something happen at the house party?”
Daphne rested her forehead on the heels of her hands. She couldn’t lie to Anabelle. “Yes, although it started much earlier than that if I’m honest with myself.”
Anabelle sprang to her feet. “I knew it! You must tell me what happened. Is it a man?” She spun to face Daphne and narrowed her eyes. “Whoever he is, he shall rue the day. When Owen finds out about this, he shall—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’? If someone has slighted you or upset you, the offense shall not go unpunished.”
“It’s not like that. I’m sorry I haven’t been myself. The last thing I want is to cast a shadow over what should be a joyful time for you.”
“Never fear.” Anabelle smiled serenely. “Nothing could dampen my happiness. But we have always faced things together, and the fact that I’m married and starting a family doesn’t change that. You were my family before and you always will be, even if I have a brood of a dozen children. Which I very well may, if Owen gets his way.”
Daphne chuckled and put her arms around her sister. “I know that I may count on you. In fact, you are more reliable than the stars and moon. But I need to prove that I can count on myself. Lately, I’ve begun to see things more clearly—a little less naïvely. You’ve protected me from much unpleasantness over the years, but there are some things that a person must handle on her own. It’s not that I don’t want to confide in you. I do. But it’s time for me to grow up, Belle. And I think that once I face the demons that haunt me, I’ll be myself again. Maybe a little wiser and more worldly, but sure of who I am, and… happy.”
Anabelle’s lip trembled. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”
Daphne shrugged and lifted the skirt of her dress. “You’ve been otherwise occupied. But some sentiments don’t need to be spoken.”
“I will let you deal with your troubles in your own way, then. But first you must endure one last lecture from your slightly older and infinitely wiser sister.”
With a playful roll of her eyes, Daphne said, “I’m listening.”
Belle grasped her shoulders lightly and gazed into her eyes with the fiercenes
s of a lioness. “You have always been strong. When Mama was sick, you were a beacon, never surrendering to sorrow. When all I could see was darkness, you had the courage to sing. It’s not because you don’t feel the pain—it’s because you overpower it and refuse to succumb. Your inner light is the source of your strength, and it’s much more powerful than you realize.”
Daphne swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Thank you. I don’t know exactly how things will turn out, and I hope I don’t disappoint you or Mama, but whatever happens, I’ll know that I acted courageously.”
Belle hugged her close. “When did you get to be so smart?”
Daphne breathed in the light flowery fragrance of her sister’s hair. She couldn’t tell her the truth—that when you feared losing the only man you could ever love, every other worry seemed trivial in comparison. If she lost Ben forever, none of it would really matter anyway. It was like worrying about a hangnail when you were dangling from a cliff.
“I’m going to respect your wish to handle your problem on your own, but if you change your mind, you know I am here.”
“I know, Belle. You’re my rock.”
“Stop it.” Anabelle wiped her eyes. “I have an excuse for being maudlin, whereas you—” She blanched. “Dear God, you’re not…”
“No!” Daphne blushed furiously. As of a few days ago, she knew for a fact—she wasn’t with child.
“Well. I have eliminated one possible source of your melancholy. If I keep guessing, I shall figure out what plagues you in no time at all.”
“May I return to bed now?”
“Not while you’re wearing that.”
“Watch me.” She flipped back the covers and raised her knee.
“Daphne!”
“I jest. I adore this gown, and your love is apparent in every small stitch, every shining bead. You’re going to be a wonderful mother, you know.”
“And you are going to be a wonderful aunt.” Belle turned toward the door. “I’m going to leave you to rest now, but promise me you’ll hang that gown the moment you take it off.”
