The Heiress's Deception

by Christi Caldwell

  She stopped her turning on one page, homing her focus in on the words there.

  It was to be the Hell and Sin Club, then, after all.

  Chapter 3

  St. Giles, London

  She stank.

  More specifically, Eve smelled of dates, figs, blackberries, and mulberries. Cooked, ground, and mixed into a heavy paste, she’d applied it to her hair for four days consistently. Given those particular fruit-based ingredients, one would expect a person might present with a tolerable scent, at least.

  Alas, the concoction, when cooked, had left her with inky-black hair and a pungent odor. The offended looks she’d received from her hired driver had proved just how noxious she, in fact, was.

  Of course, it certainly hadn’t helped Eve’s mixture that she’d been unable to drum up any of the requisite cypresses called for in the ingredients and had instead substituted the missing item with vinegar.

  She wrinkled her nose. Yes, she offended even her own senses.

  Then, mayhap that wasn’t altogether a bad thing. Mayhap it would prove quite useful in going about her business inside the gaming hell. After all, she’d difficulty enough tolerating her own smell.

  She bit down hard on her lower lip as all the anxieties swelled to the surface, blotting out the nonsensical musings about her dyed hair.

  Eve peeked out the faint crack in the curtain. How much longer until she arrived? She peered out into the darkened night, searching for a glimpse of her surroundings. But for the one Season she’d suffered through seven years prior, she’d only ventured outside her family’s properties when visiting the hospital. After her father had fallen ill, her entire life had become about caring for him, and she’d done so without regret. He’d been blind to the depth of Gerald’s evil, even with the appeals she’d put to him; he’d been incapable of seeing bad . . . in anyone. It was that generosity of his spirit that also proved his greatest flaw and now saw Eve journeying to the streets of St. Giles to wait out the months until her birthday.

  After a painfully interminable carriage ride, the conveyance rocked to a jarring halt. Eve grabbed the edge of her bench, catching herself.

  She’d arrived. Eve peeked through the crack in the curtain at the white stucco building with the stone gargoyles out front. This depraved place of sin would have gargoyles.

  Not for the first time since she’d spoken with Nurse Mattison about the post, reservations reared themselves. She flexed her fingers, stretching the quaking digits, and grabbed the edge of her curtain. What a sad day it was, when a lady was far better off in the dangerous streets of St. Giles than her own home. To give herself a task to focus on, Eve adjusted her braided bonnet made of straw and horsehair. Adorned in linen lace and silk ribbon, the hat—a gift given her by Kit from his travels to Sweden—had earned pointed stares five years ago when she’d first worn it. It was one of the last tangible connections she had to him. A ball of emotion wadded in her throat, making it difficult to swallow.

  The driver drew the door open, slashing across her useless self-pitying. “Hurry up, ya. Oi got other customers to see to.” He reached inside the carriage, and she recoiled.

  I’m not ready.

  “Just a moment, and then we can—”

  The driver snorted. “Surely ya ain’t looking for an escort?” The toothless driver laughed.

  Eve frowned. Actually, she had thought he’d at the very least accompany her to the door. Or rather, she’d hoped he would. For even as she didn’t expect the portly man who puffed when he’d opened the carriage door to offer much in the way of protection . . . the prospect of strolling through the streets of St. Giles seemed far safer with someone—even the aged driver—than no one.

  “Oi said out,” he snarled.

  She managed a juddering nod. Eve dug deep for strength and reached for her valise.

  She tossed her bag to the ground. It landed with a noisy thump. She grabbed the doorjamb to pull herself down.

  Gathering the spectacles given by Nurse Mattison to aid her disguise, Eve popped open the wire-rims and perched them on her nose. She blinked through the heavy blur. Oh, drat. She couldn’t wear these. She—

  “Off ya go,” the driver growled.

  Eve climbed down and picked up her bag. As soon as her fingers touched the handle, apprehension set in. Noise spilled from the brightly lit establishment, while men stumbled in the streets toward the club. She glanced up and down the street and then, gaze trained forward, started down the path toward the Hell and Sin.

  At her back, the rumble of the hack’s wheels driving off into the night forced her to increase her strides. Shifting the valise in her hands, Eve reached the edge of the alley.

  And for the first time, a different sort of trepidation held her immobile. She was . . . alone. Not a soul knew where she’d gone, and though that was the overreaching purpose of her taking on a post in the Hell and Sin, there was something eerily chilling about it at the same time. Fueled by fear and the nervous energy pumping through her veins, Eve hastened her steps.

  Ignoring the unidentifiable, high chirp of some nighttime creature, she knocked on the heavy door. Most ladies and all servants resorted to that obnoxious scratching. Given the animal-like quality of that grating rap, Eve had never, despite her nursemaids’ and governesses’ lessons, resorted to it. Nor was this moment any exception. At the stretch of silence, she pounded her fist hard on the panel.

  The person on the other side wrenched it open, leaving Eve with her hand suspended midknock. Tall, dark, and in possession of a menacing black satin eye patch, the man looked her up and down with a coldness she’d grown accustomed to in her brother’s eyes. His long, drawn-back hair and patched eye gave him the look of one of those menacing pirates Kit used to tell her of when he was home from Eton, and then Oxford. That soothing reminder of happier times with her brother cast off the chilling fear roused by this stranger. “I’m here to see Mr. Black,” she explained. Dropping to a knee, she attended to the latch on her valise.

  “Mr. Black isna here.” The dark-clad stranger’s gravelly brogue reply barely reached her ears.

  She blinked slowly, staring at her cloth bag. She’d misheard him. “Mr. Black,” she repeated for the man’s benefit.

  He made to shove the door closed, and she shot her arm out to keep that panel—one heavy piece of wood between her and disaster—from closing in her face.

  “I am here for employment,” she said, a strident edge creeping into her voice. “I have an appointment.”

  The stranger stared at her appraisingly with that same deadened expression. For a moment, she thought he’d knock her arm out of the way and bolt the door behind him. Shoving to her feet, she angled her shoulder, prepared for such an act.

  “Oi don’t ken any meetings.”

  “Are you the proprietor?” she shot back, desperation making her bold.

  At that challenge, he narrowed his dark-blue eye.

  Eve drummed up a smile—that had little effect. Then, with her slightly crooked teeth, pale cheeks, and freckled nose, she’d never been one of those women who held even a hint of appeal for gentlemen. Unnerved by the stretch of silence and the increasing likelihood that she’d be denied that meeting, she contemplated the slight gap between the guard and the doorway. If she feinted left and then darted quickly right, she might be able to make it past him. And then what?

  In the end, the decision to admit or not admit her was made not by Eve or the surly stranger.

  “What is it, MacTavish?” The towering man with pale-blond hair had an accent better suited to a ballroom than a hell.

  Eve eyed him curiously.

  “Mr. Thorne,” he said in his gravelly brogue, “says she’s here to see Mr. Black.”

  Eve gave her head a dizzying shake. “No. I said I was . . . I am here for employment.” That brought the gentleman’s direct stare back on her. He took in her coarse brown cloak and aged bonnet. “The bookkeeping position,” she hurried to clarify. “Not as a—” She prompt
ly closed her mouth. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips, setting her briefly at ease. Clearing her throat, she sank to the ground once more, damning the spectacles that blurred her vision, searching for the latch. It gave with a satisfying click. Not taking her eyes off the two hulking strangers, Eve fished around for the packet given her by Nurse Mattison and handed it over. My name is now Mrs. Swindell. I am Mrs. Swindell. That reminder was a litany in her head as the guard collected the sheet. From beyond his shoulder, the din of the club spilled out into the alleyway, near deafening.

  Through the spectacles, she stared at the hard stucco wall, blankly feeling an eerie connection to the structure. This was one of the clubs that her brother had lost a large part of their family fortune to. The servants who’d been released and the villagers without proper roofs all went without because of the monies that had been lost in this very hell.

  Mr. Thorne folded the page and held it out. “You were expected days ago, ma’am.”

  At that finality, her desperation redoubled. She stuffed them back in her valise. “I was detained.” Because in her arrogance she’d believed there was another way. One that did not include stepping inside this hell.

  “Peculiar arriving at night,” he said with far more cleverness than she needed in this instance.

  As it was a statement, she met it with silence and a smile. Then his next words killed even the hint of false mirth.

  “Mr. Black is not here.”

  She wrinkled her mouth. Well, drat. “Do you know when he’s expected back?” And what in blazes was she to do until he returned? Hire a hack in these dangerous streets and make the return journey to her brother’s home? Eve shuddered. That was not an option.

  “Not for at least four months.”

  Eve choked. “Four months?” Her mind raced. How had Nurse Mattison not known the head proprietor was gone?

  “Mr. Dabney is acting head proprietor in his absence.”

  Some of the fear went out of her. It hardly mattered who was in charge of the Hell and Sin . . . just that she could see him, secure her post, and hide away here until her birthday. “Then, I’ll see him.” Eve’s impaired vision did little to conceal the twitch of Mr. Thorne’s lips. At her own audacity, her cheeks warmed. “Uh . . . that is to say . . . may I see him?” Now.

  For a long moment, the two burly strangers before her didn’t move. Then Mr. Thorne gave the other man a look, and the smartly dressed guard stepped aside.

  Grabbing her bag, Eve hurried inside.

  “If you’ll follow me?” Mr. Thorne directed over his shoulder, then set the path through the hallway.

  Despite Nurse Mattison’s rightful insistence on a disguise, Eve pulled her spectacles off to take in her surroundings. Gold sconces played off the red satin wallpaper; the vibrant crimson fabric spoke of its cost and newness. Unlike the faded and torn walls in her own home. They reached a stairway, and he reached for her bag.

  Automatically relinquishing the burden with a murmur of thanks, she climbed the stairs ahead of him and waited. Mr. Thorne gestured down a long corridor. Making the remaining trek to Mr. Dabney’s offices, Eve took in the incongruities of this place. Gold-framed portraits of flowers served as unlikely adornment to the garish wallpaper, the harshness of it offset by the delicate pink-and-white poppies captured on those canvases. They were odd pieces to be featured inside any room of a gaming hell. What did it say about the man who ruled this empire?

  Mr. Thorne guided her through the club and came to a stop at one of three doors in the hall. He knocked once, then pushed it open. Her gaze immediately landed on the tall, towering bear of a man positioned with his back to them. Not glancing back, Mr. Dabney held a silencing hand up. His attention remained trained on the task spread out on the George III oval kneehole desk before him. She swallowed hard. Even with his palms layered to the desk, and leaning forward as he was, Mr. Dabney was easily the tallest, broadest, and most powerful man she’d ever beheld. His muscles strained the fabric of his black sleeves and jacket, demonstrating a raw, primitive power that sent her sidling closer to Mr. Thorne.

  To distract herself from his heavy silence, Eve did a sweep of the spacious room. With its heavy, dark-wood furniture and leather seating, it had the look of a nobleman’s formal office in a Mayfair residence and not a wicked gaming hell in the most dangerous of London streets. Full windows with sapphire velvet curtains, now drawn back, lined the space, lending it an open feeling.

  Just like the halls of this establishment, so too was Mr. Dabney’s office an incongruity that didn’t fit with the picture she’d painted of him.

  Straightening, Mr. Dabney cracked his knuckles. “What is it?” he asked, still not bothering to glance back.

  She puzzled her brow. He spoke as one who knew the identity of the room’s occupants, sight unseen. Which was impossible.

  “Adair?” Mr. Dabney demanded, impatience heavy in his voice.

  Adair—Mr. Thorne—favored her with a wink. “The bookkeeper you were to interview last week has arrived.”

  The head proprietor turned the page of the book he now skimmed, then flipped to another. “Tell him—”

  “Her.”

  “She is five days too late.” In a dismissive moment, Mr. Dabney dragged over another book and proceeded to attend that next task. Her heart sank to her feet. Yes, she’d needed time to gather false references and perfect her disguise . . . all details that she could hardly share with this man.

  Mr. Thorne gestured for her, but she remained rooted to the floor. The proprietor of this establishment still couldn’t deign to glance at her. Could not spare but a handful of moments to acknowledge her presence. That realization dulled the unease and fear dancing inside and replaced it instead with a simmering outrage. She pursed her mouth. “You’ve filled the post, then?” she exclaimed, ushering in a new wave of thick, tense quiet.

  “Regardless of whether or not I’ve filled it”—Mr. Dabney flipped another noisy page—“signifies less than the fact that I’d never hire a bookkeeper who arrived not one, not two, not three, but five days late.”

  Touché. It was an altogether fair point from the stranger. Any other time she would have concurred with his assessment. “You forgot four.”

  Mr. Dabney’s fingers stilled at the top of his page, and he drew his back up. “What was that?”

  She winced. At her side, Mr. Thorne emitted a strangled cough. Oh, double blast, I’m blundering this. “I assure you my services will prove worth the wait,” she said instead.

  That brought the bear of a man’s head up. Still not around . . . but up, and she took strength from the dent she’d made in his composure.

  She was aware of Mr. Thorne’s fascinated gaze moving between her and his employer.

  “I suspect your . . . reservations kept you from honoring that meeting,” Mr. Dabney rightly predicted, a droll knowing that raised a frown. Damn him, this insolent stranger, for being correct. Need he present it as a bad thing that she’d been wary about setting foot inside a gaming hell? “Rest assured, madam, I’ve employed two women before you who’ve proven the need for a person who’ll not wilt because of their surroundings.”

  Wilt.

  She’d not wilted when her brother had buried her head in water. She’d not wilted when the care of her father, and of all the Bedford holdings, had fallen to her. She’d not wilted when Lord Flynn had invaded her chambers and attempted to rape her. Despite what this gruff, emotionless man might believe, Eve was made of far sterner stuff.

  “Despite the rather ill opinion you have of women, Mr. Dabney”—he stiffened and slowly wheeled to face her, and Eve had to force herself to go on—“I assure you, I’ve never been one given to wilt . . .” Her words trailed off, and she stared at the man before her. He had a deeply crooked nose, hinting at a significant number of breaks, set among rugged features. There was nothing she should recognize about him, and yet . . . Eve cocked her head and sought to place just why she should know those eyes of dark chocolate and tha
t equally dark hair, given to a faint curl. Then her gaze slid to his mouth. To be precise, the corner of his mouth. That slightly raised, white scar that slashed through the right corner of his lip. With a point at the top of the mark, it formed a diagonal T.

  In ancient times, tau was a symbol for life—or resurrection.

  Of their own volition, Eve’s eyes slid closed as memories of that long-ago night assaulted her. His blood on her fingers, her appeal to Gerald, and then the hatred in her friend Calum’s eyes . . . you bitch . . . The earth dipped and swayed, and the spectacles slipped from her grasp. They landed with a soft clatter on the floor. She dimly registered Mr. Thorne catching her arm and steadying her.

  She’d believed it hadn’t mattered who was in charge of the Hell and Sin . . . only to be proved so wholly wrong.

  For standing before her, resurrected from the grave and very much alive, was the boy she’d unwittingly betrayed almost seventeen years earlier.

  My God—Calum.

  Chapter 4

  The woman would never do.

  Nor had that been the immediate, initial opinion he’d reached. At first glance, with her tart tongue, Mrs. Swindell had shown some mettle. Mettle, when every other woman who’d held or interviewed for the post had cowered and blubbered at the pressure of the assignment.

  His reservation did not come from the stench of vinegar and Cook’s dinner gone wrong that filled his office.