The Scandalous Flirt Page 14

  “I hope you’re better at conversing with Miss Kipling than you are with me,” Rory said.

  Those dark gray eyes focused on her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You haven’t spoken a word since we left your house. If you’re as reticent with her, it could very well put a damper on your courtship.”

  “Useless chatter serves no purpose.”

  “Rather, conversation tells a lady that a gentleman cares for her,” she advised. “That’s how I knew you had no real interest in me. The one time we danced during my debut season, you scarcely uttered a word to me.”

  He glanced away for a moment, then returned his sardonic gaze to her. “Did we dance, Miss Paxton? I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

  Rory had the distinct impression he was lying. But she could think of no reason why he would deny the memory, except perhaps to needle her. “Well!” she said with a laugh. “You certainly know how to shatter a woman’s illusion that she is unforgettable. You ought to have made a polite excuse for your silence instead of claiming no recollection of the dance.”

  He looked a trifle shamefaced. “Forgive me. Just how much babble is necessary to meet your exacting standards?”

  “More than you do now. If you wish to win Miss Kipling’s heart, it would be wise to charm her. To engage her in a tête-à-tête whenever you meet.”

  “I’ve had many a tête-à-tête with Alice.”

  “Have you? What are her interests?”

  The question seemed to startle him, and he rubbed his hand over his smooth-shaven jaw. “Shopping, I suppose. Visiting. Going for drives in the park. The usual sorts of things young ladies enjoy.”

  “Does she like reading?”

  “We’ve never discussed books.”

  “What is her most vivid childhood memory?”

  “The subject has never come up.”

  “That is why you should broach it. The more you know about her, the more likely she will be to form a strong attachment to you—and you to her.” Unable to stop herself, Rory added, “I wonder how she feels about her father earning his wealth from child labor?”

  Dashell’s dark eyebrows descended in a glare. “Good God. You can’t expect me to ask her that. I’m sure Alice knows very little about the operation of textile mills.”

  “Do you know, my lord?” Having read extensively on the topic herself, Rory welcomed the opportunity to expound on it. “Children as young as ten are employed in such factories, working long hours under frightful conditions. As a member of Parliament, you ought to sponsor laws to end such practices.”

  “How do you know that I haven’t?”

  She studied his face to see if he was serious. The trouble was, Dashell always looked serious. “Perhaps once you marry Miss Kipling you could use your influence to convince her papa to improve his mills.”

  “That is certain to endear me to him,” he said on a dry note of irony. “Now, how did we venture onto such a weighty topic? Most women know nothing of such matters.”

  The glint in his eyes made her aware that he was indulging her. How like a man to dismiss feminine opinions! “I certainly keep informed of the news,” she declared. “I believe that women should be encouraged to study politics, along with algebra and geography and other substantial subjects. It’s far more beneficial to improve the mind than to memorize rules of etiquette.”

  “I recently read an essay that said precisely that. Dare I conclude that you derive your modern notions from the pages of The Weekly Verdict?”

  Rory’s heart gave a thump. That was the newspaper that had published one of her pieces! Had Dashell truly read her work? He was gazing curiously at her, and she burned to find out what he’d thought of it.

  Very casually, she asked, “Would that be the essay by … what was her name? Ah, yes, Miss Cellany.”

  “An absurd nom de plume, given the content of the article. Better she should have chosen Miss Staken. Or Miss Judged.”

  Rory strove not to grind her teeth. “So you found it to be beneath your exalted standards, did you?”

  “It was well written, I’ll grant you. But I was referring to the radical ideas set forth in the essay. The author wishes to fundamentally alter the roles of men and women. In other words, to shake the very foundation of civilization. Does she mean that women should go off to war while men stay home to raise the children? Ridiculous!”

  Well written. Rory latched on to that praise to keep from shaking her fist in his too handsome face. How she would love to debate the issue with him, to make him see her point of view. “You’ve misconstrued the basic premise. Why can men and women not have the freedom to fill either role—”

  At that moment, the brougham slowed and came to a halt.

  She glanced out to see that the fine houses and shops had given way to a dingier part of the city. Here, the streets were narrower, the pedestrians a motley assemblage of rough-clad laborers, tawdry women, and the occasional flashy gent. Men loitered on corners and in the doorways of gin shops, and she wondered if they were thieves or pickpockets looking for a victim.

  Rory felt a craven relief that she didn’t have to venture into such an area alone. “Where exactly are we?”

  “Near Seven Dials. At a shop reputed to buy stolen goods with no questions asked. It’s as good a place as any to start.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Parliament is looking into ways to control crime in the city. I recently read a report that included the locations of certain criminal networks. This pawnshop is one of the more infamous ones.”

  As a footman opened the door, Dashell leaned closer to her and added, “You will allow me to do the talking, Miss Paxton. You are to speak only when I say so.”

  “But I—”

  “But nothing. You will play along with the story that I tell. And you will bide your tongue. This is no time to chatter, or we might contradict each other. Is that clear?”

  Rory could only nod, albeit unwillingly. He had a point. If he meant to spin a tale in order to obtain information about the necklace, then she wouldn’t want to give away his game. “What story is that?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  They stepped out of the brougham. The neighborhood was nothing like the pristine cobbled streets of Mayfair. An empty gin bottle rested against a stoop. Torn circulars, trampled by a thousand feet, papered the dirty walkway. Mud puddles from the previous day’s rain threatened to soak her hem.

  Leaving the coachman and footman to guard the carriage, Dashell guided Rory past a row of soot-stained brick buildings. His hand rested at the small of her back and made her keenly aware of him at her side. The gesture had a masculine possessiveness that threatened her independent nature.

  She didn’t object, however, especially when they walked past a knot of crouching ruffians gathered around a long wooden box rather like a coffin. The fellows were cheering loudly and uttering raucous expletives. She tried to see what held their attention, but just then Dashell pushed open a door and whisked her into a dimly lit shop.

  A bell tinkled overhead. The narrow, oblong room had rows of locked glass cases that displayed a clutter of items for sale, bracelets and candlesticks and pocket watches. An oil lamp cast a meager illumination at the rear of the shop. The proprietor must have stepped out for a moment, for there was no one on duty behind the counter.

  “What were those men doing out there?” she asked Dashell.

  “They appeared to be racing rats.”

  “Rats!”

  “This area is infested with vermin. Surely you knew.”

  Shuddering in visceral disgust, Rory shook her head. She had been more concerned about rats of the human variety. But if one fact could have convinced her to stay in the carriage, that was it. She’d always had an acute revulsion of rodents.

  “Speaking of rats, did you see that?” Dashell asked, peering toward a gloomy corner.

  “See what?”

  “Something scuttled through the shadows over
there.”

  With a yelp, she launched herself at him. Fear wiped all rational thought from her mind. She was consumed by the dread of a rodent running underneath her skirts and scrabbling up her petticoats. As a child, she’d overheard a nursemaid relate such an incident to the governess, and for years afterward, she’d been plagued by nightmares.

  Clinging to Dashell, she felt a tremor convulse her from head to toe. His arms came around to hold her close. The heat of his body made her feel marginally safer, and after a moment, she became acutely aware of his hard, muscled chest against her soft breasts, the alluring pine scent that clung to him, and the fact that she’d buried her face in the starchy folds of his cravat.

  The impropriety of their embrace intruded on her apprehension. Yet she could not bring herself to release her death grip on him. “Is it … is it gone?”

  “Yes. At least I can no longer see it. I’m sure the little fellow is more terrified of you than vice versa.”

  “Are you quite certain it didn’t run toward me or … or under my skirts?”

  “Very certain. But in such an event, you may rest assured that I shall slay it with my bare hands.”

  She shivered again, unsure if it was from residual horror or from the stroking of his fingers over her back. “Don’t tease, Dashell. I can’t abide rats. They’re filthy and repulsive.”

  “It’s rather a relief to find something that frightens you, Rory. Especially since you declared yourself not to be in need of a man’s protection. And perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.”

  She relished the sound of her name on his lips. Then the thread of mirth in his tone galvanized her. How dare he mock her!

  She lifted her chin to challenge him, but the rebuke died on her tongue. His features had softened with amusement, and a twinkle lightened the iron-gray of his eyes. Both corners of his mouth were tilted upward to give him a look of heart-melting handsomeness.

  “You’re smiling,” she said, dazzled by the sight.

  “I do on occasion.”

  “Well, it’s something I’ve never seen before.”

  The smile transformed him from a cold granite statue to a warm-blooded man. If he were to turn that roguish look on Miss Alice Kipling, she would fall in love with him forever. Why was that thought so very unsettling?

  Rory stepped back out of his arms and added crisply, “You should smile more often, Dashell. It quite humanizes you.”

  His smile subsided slightly, though still playing with the corners of his mouth. He maintained a loose hold on her wrists. “Call me Lucas. It seems foolish to be formal when we are working together.”

  “Lucas.” Murmuring his given name created an aura of intimacy between them. His expression changed subtly from amusement to something warm and wicked. His gaze dipped to her lips and she realized with a thrill that he wanted to kiss her. Heaven help her, she ached to feel the heated pressure of his mouth on hers. The desire to engage in carnal acts with him burned in her very core.

  He lifted his hand to touch the dainty fichu draped around her neck. She could scarcely contain a shiver as the pads of his fingers brushed the bare skin of her throat. He must surely feel the rapid thump of her pulse …

  “Is this scrap of lace pinned to your gown?” he asked.

  “Hmm? No, it’s only tucked in place— Oh!”

  He deftly snatched the fichu from her bodice and thrust it into an inner pocket of his coat. Shocked, Rory clapped a hand to her bosom. The rose silk gown was a relic of her debutante days, the neckline far too revealing for day wear. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Just then, the tap of hurrying footsteps came from the rear of the shop. A well-fed man emerged from the back room. He wore a shiny russet coat with a gold kerchief tied at his throat in lieu of a cravat. In the light of the lantern, his dark hair glistened with pomade.

  He beckoned them forward. “Good day, milord and milady. How might I assist you?”

  Dashell—Lucas—slipped his arm around her waist and propelled her forward, keeping her close as if they were lovers. “There’s nothing ladylike about this pretty little piece,” he said. “And I’m glad of that.”

  So that was his game. She was to be his lightskirt. When he flashed his gorgeous smile at her again, Rory wasn’t taken in by it. Because this time it was as calculated as his removal of her fichu.

  Standing on tiptoe, she landed a kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek. “Nor are you a gentleman, dearie. At least not in the bedchamber.”

  He raised a chiding eyebrow as if to remind her to stay silent. Despotic man. If he wished her to play the part of his doxy, she had no intention of doing so as a tongue-tied idiot.

  The proprietor bowed. “Ned Scully, at your service. And you, sir, would be…?”

  “Lord Dashell. And this is … Jewel.”

  Jewel?

  Rory had the mad urge to laugh. The impulse died a quick death when she realized the proprietor was ogling the mounded flesh revealed by her fichu-free bodice. She took a keen dislike to Scully. It wasn’t just his crude manners, either. His beady black eyes, narrow face, and sharp nose made him resemble a rat. He even had a thin moustache that looked like whiskers.

  “Word has it that you stock the best selection of jewelry in town,” Lucas said. “And my lovely Jewel is demanding an expensive bauble for her services.”

  “I want more than a mere bauble, darling. Only a diamond necklace will do.” Annoyed with his portrayal of her as greedy, Rory walked her fingers over his lapels, up his cravat, to trace the outline of his mouth. His lower lip had a sensual fullness, and she took perverse pleasure in seeing his gaze darken with hot interest. She cast a pouty look at the proprietor. “Dashell has been very stingy with his gifts, you see. He even refused to take me to a proper jeweler’s shop.”

  “As well he should refuse!” Scully said, his moustache fairly quivering with eagerness. “I keep the finest quality goods right here in this establishment. And at a fraction of the cost of such hoity-toity places!”

  No doubt, she thought dryly. His jewelry was stolen property.

  “Show me what you have,” Lucas said in a lordly tone. “And only your very best, mind.”

  “At once, milord!”

  Scully scurried into the back room. Rory could have sworn she saw a tail twitch beneath the backside of his russet coat.

  The instant he was gone, she whirled toward Lucas. Mindful of being overheard, she pressed close to his arm and whispered, “You might have warned me of your intentions.”

  “And have you argue against playing my mistress?” He, too, kept his voice to a low rumble. “No, it was best to spring it on you. Lest you subject me to a lecture on the exploitation of women or some such nonsense.”

  “You’re speaking nonsense. You know I’d do anything to find the necklace. And to identify whoever extorted it from Kitty.”

  “Fine. Just try not to overplay your hand and attract Scully’s attention. I don’t care for the way he’s been staring at you.”

  His gaze flicked to her bosom, and the notion that Lucas might be jealous pleased Rory inordinately. “Then you oughtn’t have stolen my fichu. And you also oughtn’t be staring at me yourself.”

  His attention snapped back to her face. In the light of the lamp, she glimpsed a dull red flush creep up his neck. He fell silent, but that was nothing new. She rather enjoyed seeing him at a loss for words.

  “By the by, you shouldn’t have told Scully to show us his very best,” she murmured. “My papa gave the necklace to Kitty and he was hardly a nabob!”

  “Then you should have described it to me when I asked … Jewel.”

  A hint of that playful smile had returned to his lips. Suddenly breathless, she said, “Where did you come up with such a ludicrous name?”

  “Ludicrous? Your eyes are like two gorgeous, golden-brown topazes.” He was leaning closer, gazing deeply at Rory, making her heart trip over a beat. Was he trying to court her? Did she
want him to do so? Then he straightened up and added, “How’s that for charming? Do you suppose it will work in a tête-à-tête with Miss Kipling? Though of course with her blue eyes I’ll have to change the analogy to sapphires.”

  He might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over Rory. It irked her to realize that he could fool her so completely—and that a dry wit could lurk behind his stern mask. He was supposed to be a humorless prig. She had only an instant to glare at him before the approach of footsteps alerted them to the proprietor’s return.

  Ned Scully hurried back into the showroom of the shop, followed by a hulking man with an ugly scar slashed across one cheek. The menacing guard took up a stance behind his superior. Apparently, Scully was taking no chances that his customers might be thieves themselves.

  Scully set a leather case on the counter. He spread a swatch of rich blue velvet beside the lamp, then reached into the case and carefully laid out a necklace for their inspection. “There now, take a gander at this one. These are my finest sparklers.”

  Rory gawked in awe. The ornate piece appeared fit for a queen and must be worth a fortune. A stunning number of diamonds and pearls winked against the blue velvet, with a large teardrop pearl as the centerpiece pendant.

  Regrettably, the necklace looked nothing like Kitty’s dainty strand of diamonds.

  Lucas fixed Rory with a keen stare. “What do you think, darling?”

  She pretended to cringe. “Pearls! They’re bad luck! Take them away!”

  “But look at the size of them diamonds—” Scully began.

  “She said no. Show us something else.”

  “Aye, milord. Never fear, I’ve plenty more where that came from.”

  The proprietor tucked the necklace back into the case, then drew out another, this one a bow fashioned of diamonds and dangling from a gem-studded gold chain. Rory shook her head. “It’s gaudy. I don’t like it.”

  She pretended to find fault with each necklace that he presented to her. The stones were too garish or too simple, too baroque or too paltry, too ostentatious or too trifling. At the end of it, Scully looked harried, his moustache twitching as he strove to convince her to buy this one or that.