His Improper Lady--A Historical Romance

by Candace Camp

  She got the best of him at every turn. It wasn’t something Tom was accustomed to. Obviously, he didn’t always win; he didn’t solve every case; he didn’t come out on top in every argument—he probably never did with Con, who could outtalk anyone. But at least he usually didn’t make one mistake after another, didn’t feel so frustrated and lacking in control.

  Desiree Malone disturbed him. Somehow, with her, his feelings were never far beneath the surface. She intrigued him as much as she aggravated him. She sparked his anger even as she ignited his desire. Just this morning, she’d irritated him, stirred his sympathy, aroused his desire and confirmed his low opinion of her character by extorting his cooperation.

  Desiree was as silent as he was as the carriage rolled through the streets of London, speaking only to direct the coachman to the Farrington Club. There was no one there this early in the afternoon besides one employee. It felt strange to Tom to walk through the empty room, footsteps ringing on the marble floor. In the daylight, without the people and the noise, the casino seemed somehow smaller.

  She led him through an open set of doors into a hall, where all show of glamour disappeared, replaced by a businesslike practicality. Desiree knocked at a closed door, then stepped inside at the answering “Come in.”

  The man Tom had seen the day before at the Malone house sat behind a desk as plain and functional as everything else in the room. His jacket was hung over the back of his chair, his sleeves unfastened and rolled up, as he entered numbers in a ledger. He looked up as they entered, and his eyes hardened when they fell on Tom. He rose to his feet. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Mr. Quick and I have settled our differences,” Desiree told him breezily. “He has agreed to help me discover my father’s identity.”

  Brock narrowed his eyes. “Has he, now? Why?”

  “It seemed the obvious thing to do,” Tom replied, deciding he needed to take control of the conversation. “As Miss Malone pointed out to me, she has more access to people with information about the matter. And, naturally, she has no desire to bother the Moreland family unnecessarily.”

  The other man let out a short huff of disbelief. “Yes, our Desiree is known for her reticence.” He gestured toward the chairs facing his desk as he sat down again. “Then let’s do it. I have work to do.”

  “Desiree said you had told her what you remembered about that time, but it would help me to hear it myself.”

  “Naturally. I never knew the man’s name,” Brock related in a dispassionate voice. “I don’t remember that he was ever called anything but ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’ or some endearment by my mother. He seemed tall—but since I was only six, I don’t know how accurate that is. His hair was dark. Our mother left on a trip with him one afternoon and never came back.”

  “Mr. Upton said there was a housekeeper there.”

  Brock nodded. “Nan. Yes, she kept us for a couple of weeks and then Bruna came and took us. I’m sorry, but I don’t recall Nan’s last name. I’m not sure I ever knew it.”

  “Do you have any idea where Nan lives now? Where she went afterward?”

  “No. We went with Bruna and Sid, and I never saw her again.” Brock turned toward his sister. “I did remember one other thing, Desiree. Well, one very small thing, not very helpful, I’m afraid. That other man who was sometimes at the house, your father’s friend? His name popped into my head this morning—they called him Pax or maybe Pack.”

  “Pax?” Tom repeated. “Was that a first name or a last?”

  “I don’t know.” Brock shrugged. “Sorry. I told you it wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Sid told us there was a letter,” Desiree said. “Stella sent a letter saying she wasn’t coming back. Do you remember that?”

  Brock’s eyebrows rose. “No. What did it say?”

  Desiree repeated what Upton had told them, adding, “Sid couldn’t remember exactly. He and Bruna couldn’t read. Did you know that?”

  “No. Although, now that I think about it, it was Gordie who taught us numbers and letters.”

  “Gordie?” Tom interjected. “Who’s he?”

  “Nobody who’d know anything about this. He was someone in the circus.”

  Tom went on. “Did your mother have any other friends who visited? Perhaps a neighbor?”

  “Not that I remember. To be blunt, she was a kept woman. I’m not sure that any neighbor would have socialized with her. It was a nice area.”

  “What area? Where was it?”

  “I’ve no idea. A child doesn’t think about things like that. At least, I didn’t. The houses were well made and attractive, not extravagant, but quite pleasant. Wide streets. Not too far away were grander houses. I remember walking past them on the way to a large park—actually a square. We only went there once in a while. There was a smaller park that was closer, and we went there often. I called it the Pie Park. Because of the way it was shaped—a triangle, like a piece of pie.”

  “What about the house where you lived? Do you remember the street? How it looked?’

  “I’ve no idea the name of the street. It was one of a row of houses...they were all alike. Stone. We were number five.” Brock smiled faintly, his gaze far away. “There was a gold five above the door, and Mum told me that was how old I was.” He straightened, the memory falling away. “That was when we moved in. I was six by the time we left.”

  “What about across the street from you? Were they terraced houses, too?”

  “They were different. They were attached, too, but the houses weren’t all the same. Different colors, different materials, different styles. The one right across from our door was brown brick. And one of them up the street had a red door.”

  “That’s good. This is pretty specific.”

  “If you’re hoping to locate it, I have to remind you that was twenty-eight years ago. I doubt it looks the same.”

  “No. But I know an architect. He’s pretty good at things like this.” Tom thought for a moment. What they had was very little to go on, even with Alex’s help. Finally, he said, “Do you remember anything else about the area? Places you went?”

  Brock frowned, thinking. “There was a church nearby. And there was an odd intersection, where several streets came together.” He paused. “Oh! And trains. Sometimes we’d walk over and look at the trains that went by. Those were farther away. I suppose there might have been a station somewhere around, but I don’t recall it.”

  “Any street names? Or, I don’t know, shops or monuments or anything else memorable?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone else work in the house besides the housekeeper? A maid or nanny?”

  “There was the midwife when the twins were born. But I never even saw her, let alone knew her name. There was no nanny, but there were maids. I don’t remember the last one’s name. The one before her was Judy? Julie? Something like that, I think. She had red hair and freckles.” Again there was that faint smile, as if at pleasant memories. “I liked her, but she had to leave. There was a big ado. She stole a pair of earrings. Something like that. Maybe it was more. I think that was why Stella put things away in that hiding place.”

  “Hiding place?” Tom and Desiree chorused, leaning forward.

  “Yes. There were a couple of bricks that could be pulled out next to the fireplace in the parlor. I saw Stella down there one night, putting a necklace in it. I tried to get in it after that, but it was too high to reach. It was up on the left side, higher than the mantel.”

  Tom and Desiree looked at each other. He could see the same light glowing in her eyes that he was sure was in his own. “We have to find that house.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TOM LEFT SOON AFTERWARD, clearly eager to talk to his architectural friend, and Desiree turned to her brother. “What do you think about Mr. Quick?”

  Brock said carefully, “He seems to me to be...of
value to you. As to whether he’s good or honest or anything else, I don’t know. What I can tell is limited. That’s more your area. Do you think he’s trustworthy?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.” How much was her judgment colored by her immediate, strong attraction to him? How much of that attraction was purely physical, just a response to those clear blue eyes or the wheat-colored hair that made her fingers itch to touch it? Or that firm, muscled form? She didn’t usually have to separate such things from her instincts about a person. Never before had she felt that instantaneous connection. But Desiree wasn’t about to get into any of that with her brother. “Mr. Quick is annoying, and I resent the way he insists on believing I am dishonest. However, I don’t get the sense that he’s lying. Whether he’s right or not, I think he believes what he says. I think I can trust him...at least after he’s given his word.”

  “I think I remember him.”

  “You do?”

  Brock nodded. “When you first said his name, I thought it sounded familiar. And the last couple of days, thinking about the past so much, I remembered that Falk had a boy who worked for him that was named Quick. The name made an impression on me because it sounded like such an excellent name to have. Someone told me the boy didn’t know his last name, that he’d been given it by Falk because he was so fast and nimble fingered. I was very struck by the idea that someone could know so little about himself that he didn’t even know his own name.”

  “Really? I couldn’t remember him.”

  “You would have been too young, I imagine. He was older than you, closer to my age, I think. It was hard to tell. Falk’s children always had an old look. This was back when Bruna first began to let you work for Falk.” Brock’s face hardened a little at the memory. Brock had always argued against Bruna letting Falk use her and Wells when the family needed the money. “I don’t remember him being there later on. I guess I assumed he got nabbed by the bobbies.”

  “What was he like?” Desiree was always a curious person, but she found herself even more interested in everything to do with Tom Quick.

  Brock shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s about all I knew about him. He had blond hair and a cocky grin. And everyone said he was slippery as the devil. I don’t think I ever talked to him. I was never part of that group.”

  Desiree nodded. Brock hadn’t worked with them. He wasn’t nimble enough for picking pockets or distracting the marks with acrobatics. His good sense and hard work, his loyalty and protectiveness had no value for Falk.

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Desiree said. “Not knowing who you are, not having a family. Whatever happened, I always had you and Wells. I might not have had a mother, but at least I knew who she was. To be so adrift...it must have been terribly lonely.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Brock paused, then said, “Desiree...a sad life doesn’t make one a good person. A man raised without love is bound to have a hard time loving anyone.”

  “I know.” Desiree flashed him a teasing smile. “I’m interested in finding a father, not a husband.”

  “Mm.” Brock made a noncommittal sound. “You may not be interested in him, but he’s interested in you.”

  Desiree shook her head. “No. Maybe he was at first—although I suspect even that was a pretense to gain my trust. But now he’s certain I’m a thoroughly wicked woman. A thief, a swindler, a liar, an extortionist.”

  “What an array.” Brock chuckled.

  “Yes, he’s pretty sanctimonious for someone who used to be a hook for Falk.”

  “If he’s so certain you’re wicked, why does he want to help you?”

  “He doesn’t. I more or less forced him to,” Desiree admitted. “I threatened to ask the Morelands about my father, to show them the ring. Quick is capable of love—he obviously loves that family.”

  “He’s been working for them for over fifteen years.” At Desiree’s surprised look, Brock said, “I did some investigating of my own.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “That he’s considered a good detective, that he’s clever and tough and he is respected by people on both sides of the law, apparently.”

  “Well, that’s not much.” Desiree had hoped for more personal details. Like whether he was courting someone.

  “It’s enough for me to not object to you being around him. And it’s enough to tell me he’s loyal to his employers. He might very well be grateful to them for giving him a job, considering his background.”

  “Do you really think they knew his background? He wouldn’t have told them he was a former pickpocket.”

  “No. But perhaps he’s grateful anyway.”

  “I wonder why he left Falk’s. And what happened to him after that? I wish I knew more about him.”

  Desiree had skirted the truth a bit when she told Brock she wasn’t interested in finding a husband. That much was true. Several years ago, she had realized that marriage was probably not in her future. She met a lot of men at the club; some of them had stirred a feeling in her—a liking, an enjoyment of their company, even sometimes a little thrill of desire. But gentlemen weren’t interested in marrying her. They wanted her, but as a mistress, not as a wife. And she was determined not to follow the path her mother had taken.

  But while she was not interested in a husband, she was interested in Tom Quick. She might hide that fact from her brother, but she wasn’t going to hide it from herself. It was useless, of course, given Tom’s opinion of her, but she couldn’t keep from thinking about him. If they hadn’t been at the opposite ends of this matter, could there have been something between them? Had he desired her, as he had seemed to, before he realized who she was? Would they have followed that path that opened to them that night at the club, moving into passion, maybe even into love? It was a heady thought, a beckoning question—and one that she would never know the answer to.

  Somewhat more prosaically, she wondered whether Quick would adhere to his promise and include her in his investigation. She was well aware that he might well not venture near her again. It was a disheartening thought, but one she had to consider. What would she do if he ignored her? Would she actually go to the Morelands and tell them her story? She had never been one to let fear stop her, but she wasn’t sure even she had the nerve to face some icy-eyed aristocrat and tell them she was the bastard child of one of them.

  Such thoughts continued to occupy her mind the rest of the day. Her play at the club was not up to her usual standards. Desiree kept watching the door, wondering if Tom would show up. When he did not, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. She didn’t want him hounding her, of course; she would rather not start another argument, especially here. But she realized that she had foolishly harbored some hope that he was interested in her, as Brock had said, that he would be intrigued enough that he would be drawn to the club. Nor could she help but wish that he could see her again in her element, glamorous and in control, sought after by other men.

  As a result of her inattention, she barely broke even, and she left the Farrington earlier than usual, somewhat dispirited. Desiree could not hold back the gloomy intuition that Tom had no intention of letting her be a part of his investigation. He would doubtless ignore her, making her confront him time and again. Thinking such thoughts, her resentment grew until by the time the carriage reached her house, she was quite annoyed with Mr. Quick.

  Desiree stepped down from the carriage in front of her home and waved a goodbye to the driver. As she turned toward the house, a little frisson of alarm ran through her chest. Something was wrong. She whirled around and scanned the street. Two houses down, on the opposite side of the street, sat a dark carriage, almost hidden in the shadows. But this was more than just the normal darkness of night or shadows. This was the kind of black void she sensed when something was wrong—dangerous or deceptive. Was Tom spying on her again? The brief moment of alarm was replaced by anger. What did h
e think she was going to do—sneak out and plant some evidence that would prove she was a Moreland?

  Turning abruptly, she started across the street, angling toward the vehicle. Her pace increased at the same rate as the burgeoning indignation inside her until she was almost running. Before she reached the carriage, the driver snapped the reins over the team’s backs, and the vehicle started forward. Desiree ran toward it, cursing her encumbering evening attire of corset and full skirts. “Stop!”

  The carriage sped up, swerving out into the middle of the street, passing so close to her that Desiree had to jump aside. She stumbled and went down on her backside. Furious, she sprang back up, grabbing one of her slippers that had fallen off and hurling it after the departing carriage.

  The shoe fell far short, of course, but the action relieved a bit of her frustration. How dare he? Of all the suspicious, sanctimonious, infuriating...prigs! Accusing her of being sneaking and untrustworthy when Tom was the one lurking about spying on her.

  She stalked over to retrieve her shoe and stepped on a pebble, exacerbating her ill temper. Shoving her foot back into the slipper, she limped into the house, making a list of all the things she was going to say to Tom Quick the next morning.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A spring to Tom’s steps as he walked up to the door of the Malone house the next morning. He chose to believe it was excitement over the possibility of moving the case forward that prompted his eagerness, rather than the possibility of seeing Desiree Malone again.

  He had spoken to Alex yesterday afternoon, and though the man had given him an odd look, he had refrained from asking questions, just as Con had the other day. Tom suspected that before long their inveterate curiosity would get the better of the pair and the Greats would want to know what Tom was up to.