She felt empty, nothing but an unsatisfied ache. Had she saved herself? Or was this punishment wasted?
His soft, broken laugh tattooed her skin. “Christ,” he said. “You’ve got some restraint.”
Her hands seized the opportunity to thread through his hair, holding him against her as he breathed her in. They made a silent apology to him, stroking the curve of his skull.
At last, he eased back by slow degrees, then fell onto his heels with the ease of a cat, with that loose limber grace that no gentleman possessed.
“You want it,” he said, the words ragged. “And God knows I will give it to you. But for God’s sake, Kitty. Make up your mind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was William Pilcher’s habit every Saturday at half three to attend the washhouse. By rumor, he came to clear his head and dwell on great matters of local government in the silence and restorative heat.
No doubt he spared a few thoughts, too, for women he’d like to harass.
As Nick took a seat on the bench beside the man, his fists fairly itched with the urge to meet Pilcher’s face. “Fine situation you’ve got here,” he said.
Pilcher frowned and shifted away, evidently displeased by the interruption of his peace. “Do you know me, sir?”
Man had a well-fed look to him. Wasn’t just the hairy roll of gut hanging over his towel. Certain folks, generally those who had been born into comfort but had persuaded themselves that they’d earned it, carried this gloating, well-satisfied air, as though the entire world existed to give them opportunities to sneer.
Pilcher was sneering now. “Oh,” Nick said, “I should imagine everybody knows Mr. William Pilcher.” But not for the crime of bigamy, thank God. Then again, had Peter Everleigh managed to talk Pilcher into forcing Catherine to the altar, the man would no longer look so satisfied. He’d be rotting at the bottom of the Thames. “Vice-chairman of St. Luke’s Vestry, aren’t you?”
Pilcher’s glance passed over Nick’s shoulder toward the door, which stood shut to keep in the steam. “I do not talk business here. Make an appointment with my secretary, should you desire a word.”
The closed door also blocked the sight of Pilcher’s brawny guard, otherwise known as St. Luke’s chief sanitary inspector. Little inspection, much bribery. The vestry of St. Luke’s was rotted through.
“I’ve got no interest in your vestry,” Nick said. His ambitions did sharpen, though, as he eyed the man’s skull. Looked ripe for crushing. “You’ve been leaving notes at my doorstep, begging for a word.” It had started to annoy him that the bloke had the presumption to call himself to Nick’s attention. “We’ll speak here.”
Pilcher stared hard. His lizard’s brain at last provided the answer; he sat up a little. “You—you’re Nicholas O’Shea?” He slid an incredulous glance down Nick’s form. God knew what he’d expected. Somebody toothless, with the devil’s brand on his cheek.
Nick settled more comfortably on the bench, as the crowd on the other side of the room gawked. “That’s me,” he said. Those other men knew their places better than they should. They squeezed ten to a bench, so their vestryman might spread his bulk in comfort, alone. “Fine windows in this washhouse.” The gray light lit the audience’s astonished faces with sharp clarity. This was the only washhouse in St. Luke’s, and for all that it was funded by parish taxes, Nick had needed to bribe the man outside to win entry. “My compliments to the vestry.”
Frowning, Pilcher scrubbed his brown head. “I had hoped to have this conversation in privacy. It concerns a matter of some delicacy—”
“Orton Street, I suppose.” Pilcher had sent his first note right after the board meeting in which his inspector’s petition had been overturned. Nick offered a slight smile. “You should give your men a map. Those parish borders prove tricky.”
“Indeed.” Pilcher hadn’t blinked. “On behalf of the St. Luke’s vestry, I do apologize for the confusion. One of the oddities of our fair London, I’m sure you’ll agree, that areas of such . . . different character can abut each other.”
In short, the good people of St. Luke’s fancied themselves too fine to be neighbors to Whitechapel. Nick shrugged.
Pilcher cast another glance over the witnesses on the opposite bench before taking a deep breath and hitching his towel higher. “Those vacant lots on either side of your properties—they must make a terrible eyesore for your tenants.”
Nick snorted. Wasn’t the view that his tenants cared about. Reasonable rents and a solid roof were what they asked. “What of them?”
“Naturally . . . as a representative of this parish, that is . . . I can’t like them, either.” Pilcher mustered a thoughtful look. “How familiar are you with the Torrens Act, sir?”
Nick had certainly gotten an education recently. “Passing familiar, I’d say.”
“The law has created a terrible tangle for St. Luke’s. When a property is condemned, as were the three lots neighboring yours on Orton Street, the Board of Works seizes ownership, and hires an appraiser to value the property. The man who valuated the lots on Orton Street . . .” Pilcher grimaced. “Idiot. He assigned a price far higher than the market will fetch. In consequence, nobody has offered to buy them from the board.”
“Pity,” Nick said. “I’ve yet to see how the problem concerns me.”
Pilcher’s mouth tightened. “Well, I am coming to it. The law requires the parish to compensate the former owner for the full sum named in the appraisal. The promise, of course, is that the land will eventually sell, and thereby will the parish be recompensed. But no one will pay such a ridiculous sum for those vacant lots. In consequence, St. Luke’s is teetering on bankruptcy.” He cleared his throat. “Those properties must be sold—quickly, and for not a penny less than the previous owner was compensated. That would be far easier if we could offer the entire street for sale—all five lots at once.”
Including Nick’s own lots. He saw the way of it now. “Shame, then, that half that street belongs to me.”
“Indeed.” Pilcher leaned in, lowering his voice. “Mr. O’Shea, I am interested in purchasing those two buildings from you.”
“They’re not for sale.”
Pilcher’s smile looked strained now. “I will pay you a very fair price. More than fair—I will match the valuation of the adjoining properties.”
“Now, why would you do that? You just said the appraiser named an ungodly sum.”
Pilcher’s smile faded. He sat back, eyeing Nick—reevaluating his approach, no doubt, now that his mark had proved less easy than he’d anticipated. “I will take the loss. For the welfare of my parish, I am willing to suffer.”
Rare day that one got a front-row seat to such a self-righteous performance. Nick bared his teeth in a nice, friendly smile. “And to think you’re only vice-chairman. What does the chairman do? Give St. Luke’s poor the bread from his own kids’ mouths?”
Pilcher’s palm slammed onto the bench. Against the opposite wall, several men flinched. “I will not be mocked by you,” he said.
“That’s what you call mockery? I’ll spare you my next thought, then.”
“I am sure it would be vulgar in the extreme,” Pilcher snapped. “Much like the crowds teeming in those buildings of yours. Keeping chickens in their flats—stabling donkeys and pigs in the yard! They are an affront to every decent person in this parish, and I will not allow their likes to fester among us. For the sake of the women and children of St. Luke’s—”
“But a music hall will elevate the tone. That right?”
Pilcher’s jaw sagged. “I have no idea—”
“Liquor loosens lips,” Nick said flatly. “And your nephew’s a drinker. Seems he favors a pub in Spitalfields, where he was boasting of an uncle who means to set him up handsomely, in a new development planned for Orton Street. Sounds flash, all right—public house, theater, couple of dining rooms. Little Joe says the builders have been throwing money at you for the chance to develop those lots. Pity you don’t own
them yet. You want to talk about chickens? Never count them before they’re hatched.”
Pilcher lurched to his feet. The slip of his towel raised a single startled snicker from the other side of the room, quickly quashed. No doubt that man had expected more from his local crook.
Pilcher yanked the towel up, doing himself no favors. His scrawny legs couldn’t have kicked a chicken from the road. “Lies,” he hissed. “Base slander, which nobody will credit from you—”
“Doesn’t matter if they do. For you’ll have to tell the builders yourself, soon enough: you’re lacking the plots. I’m not selling.”
Pilcher’s eyes bulged. “If you know what’s good for you—”
Nick made a chiding click of his tongue as he stood. “Now, here I thought you wanted to speak to me. But you must have me confused for somebody else, if you think I’m a man you can threaten.”
Pilcher’s throat bobbed in a swallow. He shot a glance toward the door, then began to inch backward toward it, Nick matching him step for hobbling step. “Do you—do you truly imagine you have any power, outside that squalid pit where you live? You think you’re the only one who knows secrets? I know all about your plot to force me off the Board of Works!”
Bloody Peter Everleigh. Nick shrugged. “One way or another, you’re going.”
Spittle flew as Pilcher laughed. “Never say you’re banking on Everleigh. He knows which side his bread is buttered.” As he slammed squarely into the door, he transferred his grip from the towel to wrestle desperately with the handle. The steam had made it slippery. Nick reached to assist.
Pilcher shrank into himself, cringing like a dog from a boot.
“Aye, you’re a proper man, all right,” Nick said softly. “So worried for your parish. Say what: I’ll save it for you. Buy those lots to either side of mine. See what the builders offer me.”
Pilcher glared up at him. “Try it. See if the board will sell them to you. I own that board. And no gutter rat will—”
Nick yanked open the door, knocking Pilcher onto his knees. The towel fell to the ground. Pilcher scrambled to retrieve it, then shot a livid look toward the onlookers. “If any of you dare speak of what you saw here—”
Nick snorted. “Not much to speak of, is it? Get out.”
Flushing a violent purple, Pilcher left.
Nick shut the door, then turned to the audience gawping from their bench like a bunch of brainless sheep. “What say you, lads? Has your vestry served your interests as handsomely as they have Mr. Pilcher’s?”
The first man to shake his head showed courage that quickly infected the others. But Nick was not interested in the followers. It was the first man to whom he looked as he spoke.
“Then do something about it,” he said. “Be a man. Stand up for yourself. In this world, nobody else is going to do it.”
No reply. He shrugged and let himself out.
* * *
Catherine put down the crowbar and brushed splinters from her palms before seizing the corner of the canvas. Her stomach was jumping from excitement; she had anticipated this moment for days now. “Hold your nose. It’s still a bit dusty.”
Batten turned back from his inspection of the French-polished Sheraton dresser, a mournful crimp to his mouth. “Whatever it is, I pray it hasn’t been restored.”
She yanked the canvas off the writing cabinet. “Voilà!” Over three hundred years old, the cedar still perfumed the air. “Look at the initials. Look at them!”
Batten squinted through the bars of light that fell through the receiving-room windows. “Praises be,” he whispered. His knobby hand shook as he brushed the scratch-carved initials. “E.R. 1590.” His fingertips trailed up the drawers to the central cupboard, where a cunning image of a palace was worked in marquetry. “Is this . . .”
“Yes!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks; smiling, she’d discovered, could cause a delightful ache. “I spent yesterday combing through illustrations at the British Museum. This is Nonsuch Palace.” One of Queen Elizabeth’s favorite abodes. “I’ve booked an appointment in the archives. Batten.” She dropped her voice to a whisper; the words were too wondrous to speak casually. “If we can document that Elizabeth was there in 1590 . . .”
“Goodness.” He traced one wrought-iron handle. “The furor this will cause!”
“I know. And added to the rest . . .” She cast her gaze again over the spread of treasures; they had spent all morning unpacking the contents of O’Shea’s storeroom. Queen Anne cabinetry, china plate, Sheffield candelabra, Lambeth pottery . . . That warehouse had proved richer than a palace. And now it was all at Everleigh’s. “What do you say? Shall we invite the Prince of Wales?”
He grinned. “With the cabinet as our centerpiece, I’d say we should invite the Queen.”
She laughed just as a door slammed nearby. Her brother’s curse followed; a crate rocked precariously as he came into view. “What is all this rubbish?” He yanked down his jacket. “If this is the Mandeley estate, we’re not slated—”
“A new estate,” Catherine said. “The last sale of the autumn. I mean to announce it in the Times, with a full page of illustrations.”
“For an autumn sale?” He gave an impatient pull of his mouth. “What nonsense.”
“Look around you,” she said serenely.
Scowling, Peter turned full circle. He had never applied himself to the studies required of an appraiser; between a Rembrandt and a copy by Mr. Taylor, he was helpless to spot the differences.
But even he knew a proper Sheraton when he saw one. As he faced her again, he looked puzzled. “Whose estate is this? Surely they insisted we hold it till the season.”
“No. I contracted for the first week of December.”
“December?” His glance strayed to a group of Chippendale chairs, the original patina intact. “Catherine,” he said slowly, “this collection should be saved for the spring.”
“Batten, will you give us a moment?” She held Peter’s eyes, waiting until the other man had left to go on. “In the normal course, I would agree. This collection is well worth the spring. Unfortunately, our finances don’t allow for delay. Curious, don’t you think? It seems someone embezzled over five thousand pounds from our accounts. And then, the aftermath of the ring at the Cranston auction—”
“Enough,” he snapped. “I won’t hear of that again.”
“And I won’t argue,” she said, too cheerful to do anything but shrug. “I have power of attorney now. Full authority to do as I please. Unless you mean to sue for it back, you have no business telling me when to hold this auction.”
He laid a hand on the Sheraton dresser, rubbing the horrid French polish with a thoughtful frown. “Who is the client?”
“He prefers to remain anonymous.”
He cast her a sour look. “Fine,” he said. “Do as you please. Forego the handsome profit we might have fetched in May. I was coming to speak to you on a different matter.”
“Oh?” She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket to dust off the writing cabinet. To imagine that Queen Bess herself had stored papers in this chest! There was a proper businesswoman. She’d run the country singlehandedly, free of meddling brothers.
“O’Shea is out of hand. He challenged Pilcher’s bid on the Orton Street properties. Did you know that?”
Mention of his name shot through her like a current of electricity. She carefully wiped the iron handles. “I don’t know anything of Mr. O’Shea’s private affairs,” she said. What a lie! She knew more now that she had ever imagined she would wish to know. She knew the ways he could kiss a woman—softly, and then savagely, with a roughness that somehow translated as the greatest compliment a woman could hope for. She willed her brain away from that line of reflection, for it was bound to make her blush. “You must speak with him directly on such matters.”
“We had an agreement,” Peter said sharply. “Brokered by you. I fulfilled my end of that bargain. But now he is persecuting me.”
She
looked up from the desk. Her brother was flushed, nearly shaking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he has tendered an offer to the board for the properties that neighbor his. Properties in St. Luke. And the price he offers is ludicrous! It is an act of aggression, I tell you. Pilcher will have those properties!”
She frowned. “Do you mean his bid is very low?”
“Absurdly high,” he burst out. “And so the fools on the board wish to entertain it! But I won’t allow that. Do you hear me, Catherine? I’ll quash it flat. The tender period should have closed weeks ago—it was an oversight on some idiotic clerk’s part to even accept O’Shea’s bid. He’s mad if he thinks I’ll oppose Pilcher so openly. That was never our agreement!”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Is that all?”
“All?” He uttered an outraged laugh. “Yes, by God. Only your brother’s future. Perhaps you can spare a thought for that, in between polishing the furniture!” He paused, breathing heavily, his expression bullish. “Catherine, I have tolerated your shenanigans. I have met your terms. But I warn you—if you back me into a corner, I will have no choice but to fight.”
“I understand,” she said slowly.
His grim nod alarmed her more than his threat. She felt a sinking in her stomach as the door slammed behind him. It was not like her brother to depart without having the last word.
* * *
Catherine stepped up to the railing that overlooked the gaming floor. Dinner had come and gone without a visit from O’Shea. Did he not wonder how his treasures had fared during their transport to Everleigh’s?
Did he not wonder if she’d made a decision?
Make up your mind, he’d instructed her last week—and every day since, in a silent monologue just beneath her conscious thoughts, she had been battling to do so. He made no move to assist her. He had not touched her again. He didn’t need to. The way he watched her . . . Even the act of breaking open the crates today had come to seem strangely portentous. Wood snapping, restraints shattering . . .