The Heiress's Deception

by Christi Caldwell

  “You’re hurt.” Hers was an accusation coated with heavy fear.

  He marveled that she worried after him, when only his brothers and sister gave a rat’s arse if he returned to the shack they called home. Not wanting her pity or tears or worry, he threw off her fingers. “I ain’t hurt,” he snarled.

  Lena’s lower lip quivered, and something moved in his chest. Setting down the plate in her hands, she swatted his arm. “What happened?” As one, their gazes went to the damning gold piece glittering in the dark.

  He made a grab for it and, ignoring the burning in his side, stuffed the bauble awkwardly into his pants. Did she recognize it as her brother’s? “It ain’t your business.” What would she know of stealing and surviving? She knew nothing but a full belly, a pompous family, and what it was to be pampered.

  Then with a fiery show better fitted to a girl on the streets and not a fancy nob’s daughter who lived in the nearby townhouse, she unleashed her fury. “I’m trying to help you because you are hurt. And you know I hate when you use that fake way of talking. You don’t talk like that, but you pretend you do and . . . Please don’t die.” Her lip trembled again.

  The sight of it caused that damned weakening again. And this time the reply came not as a bid to salvage his street-pride but to stop that damned sadness from her enormous brown eyes. “I can’t die,” he said, reminding her of those words she’d given him when they’d first met and she’d pointed out the scar by his lip. “I have the mark of life.” Or some such Greek nonsense she’d prattled to him about while he’d devoured a loaf of bread she’d once brought him.

  “Lie down,” she commanded with more authority than the constables who still hadn’t managed to catch Calum. “What happened?” she asked, guiding him back atop the hay.

  Breathing hard, he allowed her to help him down. “I nicked a piece and got stabbed for my efforts.”

  “One can’t let oneself be caught unawares,” she scolded. “You’ve told me that.”

  “I know,” he gritted out. “I know.” He expected that reminder from his siblings. Odd to hear a fancy lady spouting off on the rules of the street.

  With determined little fingers, Lena pulled back his shirt.

  He winced.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, exposing the wound. He braced for her waterworks. Yet, she merely bit down hard on her lip and glanced searchingly about the room. “Oh, Calum.”

  “Isn’t a lady supposed t-to cry over b-blood?” Pain lent a tremble to his voice, erasing all hint of the intended lightness.

  “I’m not afraid of blood, Calum,” she said, directing that reply to his injury. She paused briefly in her examination. “They bled my mama.”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “When she was sick, the doctor would cut her and pour her blood into a dish.”

  He grimaced. There was no making sense of the nobility. Silly, loud garments and stupid ideas about healing. “That wouldn’t make anyone stronger,” he said automatically. He’d been cut in enough fights to know that bleeding weakened a person. “No wonder she died,” he muttered.

  The usually garrulous girl went silent, when she was always chattier than a magpie. He forced heavy eyes open. Lena stared vacantly down at his side. Pain wreathed her little features, and despite the cold exterior he presented to world, the sight of her suffering pierced through his own misery. Nine years old, and yet she, with her pixielike appearance, could have passed as a child of six. Little Lena Duchess had more courage than most men he knew in the streets. Sometimes, it was too easy to forget how innocent she remained to the true ugliness in the world. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  She brought her shoulders back. “She’s been gone two years. I’m all right.” He no more believed that than he believed that nob’s knife wouldn’t end him this day. But he wasn’t the boy to pry into another person’s secrets. Not even the little girl he’d secretly taken to calling friend.

  With determined little hands, Lena grabbed a napkin resting on the nearby tray. A tray containing food that would have had his belly growling on any other day. Now, however, he was incapable of focusing on anything but that stinging in his side. Lena pressed the fabric against the gash.

  The air hissed between his clenched teeth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, glancing up.

  It was a day of sorrys.

  “It’s foine—fine,” he automatically corrected. In the streets of St. Giles, a boy with unblemished tones, and anything less than a Cockney accent, was marked as weak. She’d been the only person he’d shared his true accent with. “I’ll be all right.” He always was. The words danced on his lips, but his tongue fell heavy in his mouth, making a lie of that assurance.

  “It won’t stop bleeding.” She shoved to her feet in a whir of white skirts.

  He glanced up. “What—”

  “You need hel—”

  Calum shot a hand out, startling a shriek from her. He captured her small wrist in his grip. “No.”

  “But—”

  “I. Said. No.” How did his voice emerge so strong despite the pain wrenching at him?

  Lena pursed her lips. “Fine,” she muttered, and he released her. “But I need water and rags to mend your side.”

  Mend his side. Nothing short of a seamstress’s skilled hand with a needle would help him now.

  “No.”

  She settled her hands on her hips and glared. “Calum,” she said warningly.

  Calum opened his mouth to protest further, but another wave of dizziness hit him. He fell back.

  Lena’s quiet cry pealed around his muddled head. Then he heard the patter of her footsteps as she rushed from the stable. Giving himself over to the dark once more, Calum embraced the detachment that came with the darkness.

  “Where is he?” The deep voice pulled him back to the moment, followed by Lena’s answering reply.

  “He is in here, Gerald. This way.”

  Dread swamped Calum’s senses, blotting out the fog of pain. Calum frantically glanced about and took in the walls blocking him from escape. His palms moistened, and he struggled to his feet. The timepiece fell from his pocket just as the stable door opened.

  The gentleman blinked in the darkness as he stopped, Lena at his side, blocking off the entrance. The man said nothing for a long moment. “You have done very well, Lena,” the man murmured, something strikingly familiar in those tones.

  Fighting through his panic, Calum tried to place it.

  “Return inside while I see to this.” Lena lingered. “Now,” the man barked.

  You little bastard, I’ll see you in Newgate . . .

  Oh, my God. Calum stared between the glittering fob and the lord with his menacing eyes. The same man he’d nicked, who’d stabbed him for his efforts. And that vital rule of his gang, the crucial one he’d ignored echoed around his mind—never trust anyone but one’s family. Now he’d pay the ultimate price. Ignoring his pain, he glared at Lena. “You bitch,” Calum growled.

  She cried out. “No. I . . .” A footman proceeded to drag her away, and Calum forced himself to follow her retreating form until she’d gone. His friend. You fool. You bloody fool.

  Rough hands dragged Calum to his feet, jerking him from that momentary escape. A hoarse cry tore from his lips at the force of that movement as pain lanced his side.

  Bile climbed up his throat.

  “You filthy guttersnipe,” the man snarled, shaking him wildly. Another cry spilled past Calum’s lips as the gentleman proceeded to drag him by the hair from the stables. “Steal from your betters, will you?” The nob punched him in the side, and flecks danced behind his eyes.

  “Get him out of here . . . Newgate . . . see that he hangs . . .”

  No!

  Weakening, Calum slumped against the burly footman and fixed on a slow-burning hatred for the girl who’d betrayed him.

  Chapter 1

  St. Giles, London

  Spring 1824

  In relatively sho
rt order, Calum Dabney’s beloved club, the Hell and Sin, had descended into chaos.

  A fortnight, to be precise. It had taken but a fortnight for it all to unravel.

  Who would have imagined it wasn’t an outside foe that would wreak havoc on the club but rather their own, ever-shifting inner workings?

  The piercing screeches of two serving girls, followed by the loud clatter of shattered glass and the clang of a silver tray, cut across the din of the large crowd.

  Bloody hell.

  Pulse hammering as it did in any battle, Calum stood surveying the crush of patrons. He instantly located them—the source of the chaos. Tamping down a curse, he rushed through the club. Gentlemen hurriedly stepped out of his way, cutting a path for him.

  Calum skidded to a stop before the scantily clad women, just as the blonde beauty, a recent addition to the staff, backhanded the other server across the cheek. The crack of flesh striking flesh rose above the raucous laughter and encouragement from drunken gentlemen. “’e’s moine, you doxy.”

  That charge was met with an indignant shout of fury from the other server; Marjorie launched herself at her attacker. Calum inserted himself between them. He caught a surprisingly strong blow to the cheek for his efforts. Giving no indication that they saw the second-in-command of the club attempting to separate them, the two determined servers reached around him. With their painted nails, each scrabbled to grab hold of the other.

  From the corner of his eye, he detected the other part-proprietor of the establishment, Adair, coming up behind Marjorie. “Enough,” Calum bellowed, restraining the lushly curved server, Deborah.

  “’e’s mine, Mr. Dabney,” Deborah screeched, kicking her legs out before her, resisting as he pulled her away. The tip of her satin slipper caught Adair in the shin. The other man gave his head a wry shake.

  “In my offices, now,” Calum barked. “One misstep from either of you, and you’ll both be without work.” That sharp command cut across whatever momentary madness had gripped both women, and they fell instantly silent.

  Cheeks flushed, eyes downcast, they marched before him, one neatly in front of the other. Calum stared after them, keeping an eye on Deborah’s and Marjorie’s every movement. One misstep following his pledge would be grounds for immediate dismissal. An employer was only as strong as the promises he made. As the second-in-command at the once greatest hell in London, Calum knew that.

  Adair moved into position at his side. “What was this latest scuffle about?”

  The two servers now gone, Calum glanced over. “The attentions of a damned patron.”

  Adair gave him a probing look. “Are you going to reinstate those services into the club?” he asked, his meaning clear.

  With their brother Ryker Black temporarily gone, Calum had been filling in as head of the club, which meant these decisions fell to him. Ryker, as majority holder of the club, had made the decision to end prostitution inside the hell. It was a progressive idea, inspired by the man’s wife, and yet, it had resulted in behind-the-scenes dealings between women looking to earn some coin on the side. Calum scrubbed at his chin. “I haven’t decided.”

  “It would end the infighting,” Adair pointed out. And earn them a significant revenue stream that had been lost since they’d ceased employing whores. That reminder hung unfinished, clear enough that it needn’t be spoken aloud. In the time since Ryker had wed and Niall, their head guard, had up and married a duke’s daughter, their club had been in a rapid decline. Members of the ton were content to toss coin down at their tables, but they were not fine with men of the underworld wedding their kind. Their profits had suffered, and the rival hell, the Devil’s Den, had thrived.

  Battling back his frustration, Calum moved on to the matter at hand. “See the patrons receive a round of free brandy,” he instructed the other man.

  “A waste of bloody brandy,” Adair muttered.

  “Better brandy than patrons,” he said from the side of his mouth. As it was, in the recent months, they’d lost enough of both—too much. And with men, women, and children who’d once lived on the streets now dependent upon Calum and his kin for their very survival, pressure weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  Leaving Adair to see to the floors, Calum started forward to deal with the two employees who’d caused a ruckus on his club floors. He set his jaw in annoyance. Here he was dealing with bickering women, when the overall health, wealth, and power of the Hell and Sin itself were now threatened.

  “Mr. Dabney?”

  What now?

  Slowing his steps, he looked to David, one of the club’s many guards.

  “Sir . . . Mr. Dabney,” David hastened to correct. “There’s a problem.”

  Another one. “What is it?” he demanded impatiently. Since Ryker Black, the head owner of the Hell and Sin, had learned his wife was with child and hastily departed for the countryside, nothing but uninterrupted problems had been left in his wake. Calum had believed he’d never see the day anything or anyone would or could ever come before the hell. Recently married and now expecting his first child, Ryker had proved Calum wrong on that score.

  “Problems with the bookkeeper, sir.”

  “I’m no sir . . . Oh, Christ.” Calum wasn’t a lord, sir, or any other form in between. He was a man who’d been orphaned at five and lived on the streets thereafter. “What is it now?” Now onto their second bookkeeper since his sister, Helena, had gone and married a duke, it was just another thread of inconstancy in the club.

  “She’s having another fit of the tears, sir. Claims she can’t do her work today and has barred herself in her rooms.”

  Oh, bloody hell. Again. “That will be all,” he said, dismissing the man. Calum did another quick search of the club, finding Adair speaking to the new head guard at the front. Adair paused midspeak and caught Calum’s gaze. He jerked his chin.

  Adair hurried over. “What?”

  “Webster’s locked herself in her rooms. See to her and get her back to her damned job.”

  Adair scowled. “Why in blazes do I have to deal with her?”

  Because Calum didn’t know what to do with a woman’s tears and noisy blubbering. It unnerved him, when nothing unnerved him. In fact, he’d rather partake in a knife fight in possession of nothing but a dull blade than deal with the weeping Mrs. Webster. “Because I’m seeing to another matter,” he settled for, neatly sidestepping the other man’s question. Turning on his heel, he started for his office.

  “I’d rather deal with the quarreling serving girls,” Adair called after him.

  “Indeed,” he muttered under his breath. Not glancing back, Calum lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Even screeching and slapping Deborah and Marjorie were vastly safer than the latest bookkeeper to take up work inside the club.

  Since the departure of Helena from the role of bookkeeper, change had come fast and furious to the club. Those changes only increased with Ryker’s marriage, and the head guard Niall’s recent marriage and brief leave from the club.

  Calum started past the guard positioned at the stairway to his private office and climbed the stairs. Since they’d pooled their stolen funds and resources almost eleven years earlier to purchase the former bordello and transform it into a gaming hell, Calum, Ryker, Niall, and Adair had each taken on a role that best suited their temperaments. Decision making was by consent, with the majority owners having the overall decision . . . as had been the case with the post of bookkeeper and the role of prostitution. Calum had been content serving as second-in-command—until recently.

  In his hiring of the bookkeeper, Ryker had been adamant that the person for the post would be a woman. That adamancy came from Lady Penny’s belief that women should have control of their security and safety. And yet, Calum would have been the most experienced person for the post.

  He reached the main floor and started for his office. Silence and the groaning of the floorboards served as the only sound. Calum entered through the doorway. Heads lowered, both women immediatel
y sprang to their feet. “Sit,” he commanded, striding deeper inside the spacious room. Situated along the back of the establishment, the room featured a row of floor-length windows that allowed light through the leaded panes, illuminating the tidy office. Where his brothers rejected the space in favor of another, Calum’s brief stint in Newgate had given him an appreciation for open spaces. Or rather, it had given him an unholy fear of closed-in ones. He claimed a spot at his neat desk.

  Steepling his fingers together, he peered over them. “Well?” he urged, when they remained quiet.

  Both women spoke on a rush.

  “. . . ’e’s moine, sir. Mr. Dabney. He’s been caring for . . . This bitch . . .”

  “. . . Oi’ve been with ’im longer, sir. Oi . . .”

  “Enough.” His low, brusque command compelled them to instant silence. Directing a look at Marjorie, who’d not resorted to cursing, he urged her on.

  The young woman with heavily rouged cheeks and charcoal-painted eyes cleared her throat. “He’s my lover, Mr. Dabney. Lord Matthews,” she clarified. “He pays me good coin.” At his probing stare, she continued on a rush. “Oi never do it when I’m to be working,” she clarified, going in and out of her Cockney. “And this one”—she jerked her finger at Deborah—“has been making advances at him.”

  Bloody hell. This was the dilemma Ryker, with his honorable intentions, had left Calum to deal with. The women worked as servers, as maids, and in the kitchens. Their wages were adequate, and they didn’t have to pay coin for food or shelter. “Black was clear on prostitution inside this club,” he said at last.

  The two women fell mutinously silent.

  “Those women who wish to earn their funds servicing gentlemen were encouraged to take employment elsewhere.” Which a number of them had. He leaned back in his chair, layering his hands along the leather arms. “If you’d prefer to find work at another club so you can continue servicing patrons, then you are free to do so.” He narrowed his eyes. “However, you are not free to remain here if you undermine the decisions of Black, me, or any other proprietor.” Many people—patrons in the Hell and Sin and employees—had mistaken his affected calm demeanor for weakness. The truth was, it was just another careful layer he’d built to protect himself. Calum alternated his stare between them. “Are we clear?” he asked on a quiet whisper.