Luck Be a Lady (18 page)

The crowd by the sweetshop fell silent as they spotted O'Shea, then crowed in delight when he dug into his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “Share with the girls,” he ordered as the tallest boy snatched up the money. “Molly, Meg!” he yelled to the girls with the ball. “Come over and get your cakes.”

At the end of the lane stood a shabby, low building with an arched gateway, letters picked out in rusting relief: The Ragged Mission. A line of men and women stood outside in silence, their bowed heads and exhausted faces a stark contrast to the children's energy. “Notice B Meetings,” O'Shea said with disgust. “Always
a joy for the parents of the parish. Summon them during work hours, for who needs to earn a wage?”

Catherine tried not to stare as they passed through the crowd. Some of these women looked nearly waxen with exhaustion, and it seemed that half the line was wracked by deep, hoarse coughs that made her long, with a mix of guilt and revulsion, for soap and water with which to scrub herself clean. “Is consumption a common problem?”

His brief, sidelong glance made her feel foolish for having asked. “One of them,” he said.

They passed through a dim vestibule into a room covered in pastoral murals. The atmosphere was close and warm, for the crowd was considerable, not a spare seat at any of the five long tables that faced the top of the room. At the head table, placed perpendicular to the others, sat four well-dressed gentlemen and a lady, whose smart brown walking suit made Catherine regret the lack of her pearls, after all.

“That's Mrs. Hollister,” said O'Shea, drawing her up with a quick touch on her arm. “She's the one you'll address. Nice and polite, now. Apologetic, like. You didn't know the little one was skipping school.”

She nodded, very uneasy. Perjuring herself before the law! “There's a clerk,” she whispered. “Taking notes. It will enter the public record.”

“Mrs. Susie Evans won't mind that,” he said. “Nor will they ask for proof of your name. Hollister plays the battle-ax, but she's on our side.”

Our
side? Was that the side of the perjurers?

Yet as they stood, waiting their turn, she began to regret her sour view. Each of the parents summoned before the panel offered a more piteous tale than the last.
It took some concentration to understand their variety of accents—for these were country folks, or foreigners, or people who had come of age before public education had become compulsory. Now even the poorest children, through their schooling, learned the rudiments of grammar. But their parents spoke cants that had never been put into print.

“He lost his leg on the factory floor,” a woman was mumbling to the board. “Can't walk, can't earn, so's I've got to do it. We've got two wee ones, and . . .” She touched the great swelling mound of her belly, indicating the obvious. “Well, I've got to earn whiles I can, don't I? So Katie, she watches the little 'uns while I'm out.”

“That is all very interesting,” one of the gentlemen droned. “But it does not change the fact that you are legally obligated to send your child to school.”

“I can't . . . What else'm I t'do?” The woman's voice broke. “Three pennies a week for the school fees, and—”

“A trifling sum,” the gentleman drawled. “And as I understand it, Mr. O'Shea”—Catherine stiffened as a tide of gazes swept toward the man at her side—“will cover those fees, for those in Whitechapel who can't pay them.”

O'Shea nodded to the board man, his face expressionless. But she could sense, in his tense posture, the ferocity of his dislike.

“Aye, Mr. O'Shea's our own angel, I know it.” The woman swallowed noisily, then wiped her nose with the edge of her tartan shawl. “But it ain't only fees. Children's got to eat—”

“And once again,” the man cut in, “I will point out that Mr. O'Shea provides bread and milk to every student in the hour before school. Perhaps your daughter
would not go hungry if you allowed her to attend, as the law requires.”

O'Shea spoke in a calm, carrying voice. “You'll make me rethink that generosity if you mean to use it to shame her.”

“That was not Mr. Stewart's intention,” said Mrs. Hollister, with a sharp look to the gentleman, who scowled and sat back. Catherine nervously studied her opponent. The woman's silver-streaked hair, the deep creases at either side of her pursed lips, lent her a matronly air of authority. Sure enough, the room fell quiet as she leaned forward. “Mrs. Mackle, the law is very clear. We cannot excuse Mary from school in order to care for her siblings. But if you were to find her some respectable form of employment, we might grant her a half-time certificate.”

“How?” Mrs. Mackle asked softly. “Hard enough to find work for meself.”

Frowning, Mrs. Hollister glanced toward O'Shea. He nodded once. “Speak to Mr. O'Shea about it,” she said, and smiled slightly as the woman gasped and pivoted toward O'Shea, hands clasped at her throat as she curtseyed very deeply.

Good heavens. Catherine gave him a wondering look. He
was
the king of these parts—and apparently, his reign was more benevolent than rumor suggested.

An unpleasant embarrassment itched through her. She had cast certain accusations at his head that now seemed unfounded.

But he never defended himself. How was
she
to have known that he played Robin Hood?

“Once she finds employment, we will grant a half-time certificate,” Mrs. Hollister was saying. “But she
will still need to attend regularly. Otherwise you will be summoned again, and we'll have no choice but to send your case to the magistrate, who will impose a fine. Do you understand?”

The woman nodded.

“Very good,” Mrs. Hollister said crisply. “Next?” She glanced down the table, but the clerk with the appointment book appeared to have fallen asleep, chin cupped in hand as he lightly snored.

A titter moved through the crowd as his neighbor elbowed him awake. “Oh, yes, yes—begging your pardon,” he said with a sheepish look toward Mrs. Hollister. He consulted the book before him. “Mrs. Tulip Patrick.”

“That's us,” Nick said softly as a slim, dark girl, no older than sixteen, rose and pushed through the crowd to the spot in front of the head table. She looked clean and neat, her plaid dress without a rip or stain, if slightly too large for her waifish figure.

“Mrs. Patrick.” Mrs. Hollister adjusted her spectacles, peering over them doubtfully. “You hardly look old enough to be married, much less stand as your sister's guardian.”

“I've been looking after her for years, now.” The girl sounded mutinous. “I do a fine job of it. She wants for nothing.”

“Very admirable,” Mrs. Hollister said evenly. “I am afraid, however, that Mary has not been in school this last month.”

“That's not for want of me sending her!”

“Miss . . . Mrs. Patrick.” The woman's voice grew gentle. “Have you some proof of your age and marital state? For if there is no adult in the household, custody of the child—”

O'Shea gave Catherine a sharp nudge. She stepped up to the girl and cleared her throat.
God help me.
“I live with them. Their . . . cousin.”

For all that the girl looked decent, she showed no hesitation as she glanced over to Catherine and added stridently, “That's right.
This
one looks after us. And she's ever so old.”

Catherine lifted her brows. “Nearly ancient, in fact.”

Mrs. Hollister dimpled. “And you are, ma'am?”

Goodness, what was the name? “Susie Evans,” she said. “Mrs. Susie Evans.”

“Mm.” Mrs. Hollister's sharp gaze flicked toward O'Shea, who stood behind them. “Well, Mrs. Evans. You serve as these girls' guardian?”

“Yes.” God help her, she was as much a criminal now as O'Shea, lying to an officer of the law.

Mrs. Hollister gave her a long, speaking look. “Well, Mrs. Evans, then it is your responsibility to ensure that young Mary attends school. Do you understand that?”

“She does,” Tulip Patrick said heatedly. “And Mary won't miss another day.”

“Very good, then. Mrs. Evans, you heard my remarks to the last petitioner, I hope. You are aware of the penalties, if Mary continues to play truant?”

Catherine nodded.

“Very good. I hope we do not see each other again, then.” Mrs. Hollister turned again to the clerk. “Next?”

Tulip Patrick grabbed her arm and tugged her through the crowd, O'Shea at their heels. Once they were safely back on the street, she said, “God's a mercy! I can't thank you enough, ma'am. Fit to be sick, I was, with them threatening to take Mary.” She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes flashing. “What
right have they got, I'd like to know, to separate a girl from her sister?”

“All the rights,” O'Shea said flatly. “You bear that in mind, girl. And explain to your sister, too.”

“Oh, I mean to. Brattish dolt!” Tulip lifted her fist. “I'll leave her ears ringing tonight. You'll not hear of any more trouble on her account. Thank you, sir! Ma'am.” She flashed another smile at Catherine, then turned on her heel and dashed away.

“How old is she?” Catherine asked softly. “Sixteen?”

“If that.” O'Shea offered his elbow, and they started back down the road. “Father died last year. She's all her sister's got.”

As they retraced their steps, she felt keenly aware of the nods and respectful bows that followed their passage. It raised the itching feeling again, a sense that she had judged him unjustly.

“You support that school,” she blurted at last. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why would you have wanted to know?”

“Because . . .” She had married him thinking him the lowest species of criminal. “It seems a good thing to know. You're not entirely . . .”

He gave her a bland smile. “The devil?”

She pulled free of him. “You can't blame me for thinking so! You make no effort to advertise your charity. Why, the journalists are always—”

“Those who need to know, know,” he said. “I've got no interest in proving myself to pompous bigots.”

He probably counted her among that group. “But it's no wonder if they make assumptions,” she said helplessly. “You break the law, publicly, every day. Your gambling palace—”

“Is just the start of it,” he said. “I've done far worse in my time. It all looks nice and pretty now, but I clawed my way up—and who's to say that a bit of bread and milk make up for it? Rest easy, then; you can keep thinking me the devil, if it helps you to sleep at night. It would sure be fairer than calling me a saint.”

She frowned at the broken road ahead of them. If only it were contempt she felt for him—and if only she slept easily! The opposite was the case, but to let him see it would be mortifying—and profoundly dangerous. If he knew that what kept her awake in the darkness was the thought of his touch . . . the hot things he'd told her . . . the prospect of another card game . . . he might press his advantage.

And she no longer knew herself well enough to trust her own will.

She darted a glance at him. Their marriage was a business matter. Curiosity was as pointless as desire—but just as pernicious. How had he clawed his way up? He wore that emerald for love, he said. Whose love had he known, and whose did he hope for?

The thought made her go red. That was none of her business, surely.

But this was her husband. Secret or no, they were married for five years.

“Watch out, there.” He put out a hand to help her over a pothole, his grip casual and familiar on her elbow. Her heart skipped a beat.

Did he ever think of the future? Did he despair of the bargain he'd been forced to make, to keep those buildings? Surely he must think her a cold, unfeeling woman. The Ice Queen, men called her. He had better reason than most to do so.

“Miss Patrick's situation,” she said haltingly. “I wouldn't have—that is, if you had explained it in full, I would have done it for nothing.”

“Lied for her?” He cocked a wry brow. “To an officer of the law?”

She bit her lip. “Yes. I think so.”

“And missed the chance to get into that storeroom?”

His plain skepticism made her laugh. “Well, no,” she admitted sheepishly. “Not when you'd already made the offer. On the chance you've got a collection worth auctioning? I would have been remiss to turn it down.”

“Especially when the profit could prove so rich.” He tipped his head. “Forty percent of the profit. Is that truly your usual bargain?”

She fought her smile, and lost. “Heavens. You actually believed that?”

His eyes widened. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a rich ringing shout that drew the notice of the entire block. “Kitty,” he said, grinning, “for all your fine airs, I'd say you've got a bit of devil in you, too.”

CHAPTER TEN

T
his is foul work.” Catherine's voice came from deep within the cavernous gloom. Outside, a cold rain was falling, turning the streets to mud. The small line of windows shed a swampy light over jumbled piles of bric-a-brac, furniture jammed together like ill-fitting jigsaw pieces, piles of books threatening to topple.

Nick maneuvered carefully down the makeshift aisle, following the mineral glow of Catherine's naphtha lamp. She'd been working in the storeroom for five days, a punishing schedule that saw her leaving Diamonds before dawn. Johnson went with her, kept guard at the door. But today, he'd tracked down Nick at Neddie's to complain. “A man occasionally needs to piss,” he'd grumbled. “But when I tries it in the corner, she knows somehow. Barks from the far side of the room,
Don't be a savage
!
”

Nick found her crouched low to the ground, her skirts hiked carelessly over her knees. Now, here was a sight: she wore lace stockings to work as well. Per
haps he'd been wrong to give Johnson the oversight. He would gladly stand in himself.

She was scowling at a chest of drawers, pulling at the wooden knobs with fretful fingers. As the floorboards creaked beneath his heel, she snapped, “Do you see this? Some butcher used glasspaper to scrape off the patina! And this French vice!”

“French vice?” That sounded promising.

She turned, one hand to her chest. “Oh! I thought you were Mr. Johnson. Yes, French polish—though I suppose it's more properly an English vice, since I can't recall any Frenchman fool enough to use it.” She wiped a stray lock of hair from her eyes, smearing dust across her cheek. She looked rumpled, sweaty, thoroughly begrimed. Nick had seen beggars in the rain who kept cleaner.

He grinned. A woman willing to get dirty for her work. He'd never have guessed it. “You need to eat,” he said. “Johnson says you skipped luncheon.”

“There was no time for it.” As she started to rise, a wince crimped her mouth. He took her elbow to help her up. The feel of her arm startled him. She had proper little biceps. No doubt she'd earned them through labor—Johnson said she was stubborn at shifting furniture on her own, fearful that he might break something.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I've been down there since . . . why, since Mr. Johnson left, I suppose. The mind proves willing, but sometimes the knees don't.” She drew away to smooth down her skirts. Then she kicked out her legs, wiggling each foot, and pulled each of her elbows across her body in a long, unself-conscious stretch.

Cats moved like that. He'd never imagined Cathe
rine capable of it. The sight riveted him. Made his voice slightly husky as he said, “Find anything good?”

“Oh, goodness—where to start? It's like Ali Baba's cave of wonders.” She beamed up at him, and in the sodium light, she looked like a wonder herself, her hair incandescently pale, her large eyes glittering. He reached out and wiped away a smudge with his thumb. It was a mark of her single-mindedness that she did not even protest. “Remind me,” she said, “to tell you about the tambour-topped table tonight. The most extraordinary specimen!”

Her skin seemed to leave a mark on his, his thumb feeling branded as he tucked it back into his pocket. They had made a practice of dining together this week. Seemed she felt it was professional to keep him apprised of his possessions. In truth, he had no use for the information; this stuff had been rotting in here. That she would turn it into coin was a favor to him—another, after her fine work at the B Meeting on Tulip Patrick's behalf.

That piece of mercy hadn't gone unnoticed in the neighborhood.
Who was Tulip's angel, then?
Mrs. Shea­hen had stopped him in the street to ask.
I hear she spoke like a poet.

Catherine hadn't said much that he could recall. But she'd committed to it, all right, in spite of her reservations. No doubt it was the first time she'd lied to the law, but she'd done it in smooth, steady tones that rubbed like balm across a man's sore ears. Tulip had looked at her in amazement, and half the room had gaped. She had that kind of power, though thank God she didn't know it. She had no idea that she could light up a room like a lamp at midnight.

He liked their dinners together. He liked her company, for all that he didn't understand half of her interests. Surprising deal of pleasure in listening to her speechify about furniture. The enthusiasm that animated her face, the fervent appreciation in her voice, put him in mind of a girl discussing her lover. No ice queen, here. Aye, he was learning a good deal about the lies she told—to herself, as well as others.
Business,
ha. Wasn't business that made her spring out of bed each morning, and kept her vibrating well through supper. What she called business, he called passion—and she had it in spades, albeit for dusty relics of the past.

But passion, it seemed to him, was a native resource. You had it or you didn't—and if you had it, it made a moveable talent, durable and directable. No man alive would watch her grow flushed and rosy as she praised a walnut stool, and not think of how it would feel to be the focus of that flushed intensity.

He put his hand on her waist now, nudging her down the aisle. She came willingly, lamp swinging at her side, her attention darting back and forth as she tracked the shifting beam of light—hunting, no doubt, for what she might have overlooked. She would have made a fine thief. She had the steel for it, the discipline, the constant watchful attention. But he wouldn't have risked her on it.

The thought made him frown. He'd risked himself, and his family, and any number of other people whom he cared for.

Still. It didn't sit right, thinking of Catherine chased by the law.

“It will take another few days to make certain I've combed through everything,” she was telling him in a
cheerful, chattering voice. “Then two days, at least, to crate and transport the items to Everleigh's. I mean to rush this lot to auction. We'll hold it in early December. Does that sound acceptable?”

“Fine,” he said brusquely. Wasn't that she was too good for danger. He didn't think her better than himself or his kin. But for all the luxury of her upbringing, she'd known little joy, it seemed to him. Treated ill by the very people who should have cared for her best. Her brother, sure, but her dad, too. What kind of father asked his little girl to prove herself by sitting silent for hours at a time? Nick's own da had been no example of fatherhood. But one imagined that gents who had no need for a child's income might indulge their kids a bit, rather than . . . train them like circus dogs.

She'd kept quiet, though. She'd told Nick as much, with pride in her voice. Aye, she'd have made a fine thief, too, if her dad had asked it of her. She'd have obeyed, no doubt, without a word of challenge. Maybe there was the difference. Nick had put his nieces to thieving when they were still girls, believing family stuck together. Training them in the only way he could. But he'd always trusted them to speak up for themselves, to challenge him and break away once they found their footing.

Catherine, in their place, would have become the best thief in England, and never broken free of it.
That
was the difference. That was why Nick wouldn't have put her to it.

It was also why he wouldn't listen to her again should her brother cause trouble. If Peter Everleigh menaced her once more, Nick would draw blood.

“Are you listening?” she demanded.

“Sorry, lost track, there. What was that?”

“December won't draw the best crowd, of course. I wish we could wait. This collection deserves a spring auction, when the ton
is in town for—”

He snorted. “If it's money you want, you should look outside that lot. They're up to their eyeballs in debt. Otherwise, I'd have no collection to auction, would I?”

She paused. “A fine point. With land prices falling . . . Whom, do you think, has the money?”

“Tycoons. Industrialists.” He offered her a sideways smile. “Criminals.”

She bit her lip to stop her own smile. “I don't think the criminals have postal addresses. But perhaps you're right. We should expand the invitation list to include—”

“Why bother with invitations at all? Throw open the doors. Come one, come all.”

She shook her head. “Exclusivity is what distinguishes us. Otherwise, why not go to Christie's or Sotheby's?”

He drew up by the door. “Your goods might distinguish you. Try trading on them.”

“Of course we trade on goods. But . . .” She handed him the lamp and reached for the cloak hanging on a nearby hook—then turned back, laughing. “One thing I'll say for it: it would enrage Peter. Worth considering, simply for that.”

“There you go,” he said.
There
was the devilry in her. Just took a nudge.

“At any rate, I'll certainly take out a grand advertisement—full page, illustrated. Heaven knows that some of these pieces would draw a crowd all the way from China.” She set to buttoning her cloak. “How did you manage to acquire them? I can't imagine that your debtors would offer their finest wares straightaway.”

“Generally not.” She was having trouble with her
buttons, he noticed. Hands tired from her work. “But I know how to read a face. How to tell what a man doesn't want to part with, and what he wouldn't mind losing.”

Her hands paused. She tipped her head, looking struck. “Very clever. So you don't pay attention to the antiques, but to the demeanor of the man who offers them?”

“That's right.” And her demeanor right now was warm, interested, engaged. He gently knocked aside her hands, fastening the rest of the buttons himself.

He could feel the way her breath hitched in the rise and suspended fall of her breasts. Could hear her noisy swallow, and sense the agitation behind her rush of color. “I . . . am very bad, I think, at reading faces.”

“Oh, I think you've got a fine eye,” he murmured, and smoothed her hair back with his knuckles. Very fine eyes. Impossibly lovely. “I expect you don't need to bother with faces, though. The tables and cabinets keep you occupied.”

Her lips curved in a hitching, hesitant smile. His knuckles still pressed against her cheekbone. But she didn't step away. She was looking directly at him. “My brother once said that I'd rather sleep with a cabinet than . . .”

He leaned forward, lips brushing her ear. “Than what?”

“A husband,” she whispered.

He pressed his mouth to her neck. That tender skin just beneath her ear.

A small gasp escaped her. “You . . . shouldn't.”

He lifted his brows, intrigued.
Shouldn't
was a far cry from
couldn't.
He opened his mouth and tasted her skin. Was rewarded by the shudder that moved through
her—and then punished, as she stepped backward, out of reach.

Her lips parted, plump and rosy; she looked dazed. “You . . .” She cleared her throat. “I will remind you. You aren't a cabinet.”

He grinned, delighted by the banter. “I call that a blessing, in fact.” But when he reached for her again, she sidestepped and hauled open the door. He followed her into the street.

The rain had died off, but the air was cold and moist, piercing his nostrils like needles. She tugged her cloak tighter around her and yanked her hood over her hair before striking a brisk pace down the road. “A cabinet,” she said over her shoulder, “doesn't care if a lady spends her days at the office and works late into the night.”

He caught up to her. “And a husband would?

She snorted. “A husband generally wishes his wife to be at home knitting doilies and waiting like a loyal dog for his return—thence to strip off his boots and rub his feet, and murmur sympathetically while he complains of
his
work.”

“The foot rub sounds nice,” he says. “But doilies go cheap at market. Seems a doltish man indeed who minds a wife with ambitions, and has the guts to pursue them, besides.”

With one finger, she hooked back her hood to dart him a sidelong glance. “Most gentlemen don't feel so.”

He shrugged. “Well, but I'm no gentleman.”

She faced ahead again, but after a moment, she said, “Perhaps your tastes will change, now that you have come into money.”

“I didn't come into money,” he said evenly. “I
made
it. And no, I don't think my tastes will change, since I
never gave the matter much thought before a few weeks ago.”

“A few . . .”

He waited, but she seemed unwilling to finish that sentence. They drew up before the side door at Diamonds; he rapped his knuckles against it. “A few weeks ago,” he repeated. “When I married you, Kitty.”

She looked up at him, something troubled working across her brow. “I wish you wouldn't . . .”