Luck Be a Lady

  A seat had been kept for her, on the other side of the podium. But she found herself standing behind it, gripping the chair tightly as she scanned the crowd.

  There. At the back wall, standing beside Lilah and Lord Palmer. She met O’Shea’s eyes.

  He nodded to her.

  “Good morning,” said Hastings from the lectern. “My thanks to you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending this historic occasion, the first public auction to be held in this establishment. The collection today is a rare and varied one, spanning centuries and continents in its excellence . . .”

  His words faded as she stared at O’Shea. He did not look away from her. The crowd, the noise, might not have existed.

  He smiled slightly. She smiled back, a trembling smile that seemed to dislodge some piece of her heart. It plummeted straight into her stomach as Hastings opened the bidding.

  The reserve was met and instantly raised. A buzz rose—she recognized the edge of titillation; the excitement at such rich figures. It had no place in a saleroom, properly; some of the crowd had clearly come only to ogle the wealthy. For a moment, the bidding paused, and the buzz seemed to assume a sour, snide tone.

  “Fifty going once,” Hastings intoned. “Fifty for this rare specimen, this eighteenth-century tambour-topped writing table, fine mahogany, the best workmanship you’ll find, fifty going twice—”

  It should go for eighty at least. She squeezed the back of the chair, anxious. If the first lot went low, the rest would be sure to follow that sad suit. It was no way to open; that was why she’d slotted the table first, hoping, counting, on it to start the auction briskly—

  “Sixty,” came a coarse male voice—one suspiciously familiar to her. She frowned, hunting through the crowd, and barely mastered her reaction as she caught sight of Johnson, boldly lifting his hand.

  “I have sixty,” said Hastings, “sixty, very good, sir. Do I hear—”

  “Sixty-five.” And that was Malloy!

  “Seventy,” Johnson barked, scowling.

  She bowed her head and rubbed her brow, masking her expression lest it betray her. O’Shea was running a ring in her auction—a ring in reverse, to drive up the bidding!

  It certainly wasn’t ethical.

  Her swelling heart did not care.

  “Seventy-five.” That was Lilah’s voice, cool, feminine. Another first: a former hostess, bidding in the saleroom!

  “Eighty,” someone else called—a stranger, whom Catherine did not recognize. At last!

  “Eighty-five,” Lilah shot back.

  From there, the figure mounted with dizzying speed. Amid the mounting clamor, the shifting of the throng, it was impossible to tell who was bidding, but none of the voices were familiar to her. Above, Hastings had a clear view, and was glancing about the room, pointing and nodding, beckoning with his hand.

  “Hundred twenty-five going once,” he said. “Going twice—sold, to Lord Monteford in the corner!”

  The crowd burst into applause, and Catherine’s knees seemed to weaken. It had taken off now. The crowd was warmed up; bids were flowing.

  The next lot was brought out—the Sheraton dresser, looking, thanks to Batten, far more elegant than when she’d first glimpsed it in O’Shea’s storeroom. Hastings had barely finished describing it before the first bid was called—and the second and third followed in swift succession.

  Only then did she feel able to take her seat. This time, when she bowed her head, it was to hide a smile.

  * * *

  “Success, was it?”

  Startled, she turned. O’Shea stood in the doorway to her office, a parcel beneath his arm. He was not dressed to linger; he already wore his hat and gloves, and a gray muffler around his neck that made his eyes flash like silver.

  She cleared her throat. “A smashing success. Beyond my wildest hope, even.” How stilted she sounded. She tried for humor. “Congratulations, sir. You’ve just made a great deal of money.”

  He shook his head. “For once, I didn’t make it. I came into it, like a proper gentleman.”

  Her smile kept slipping away. “I’m not sure money has anything to do with gentlemanliness,” she said quietly. “Either way, you fit the part.”

  He gave her an odd look, as though unsure of what to make of the compliment. His reaction made her feel all the more miserable and tongue-tied.

  I was afraid, she wanted to say. You were right.

  But before she could shape the words, he had pulled the parcel from beneath his arm, offering it to her. “I brought this for you.”

  She took it hesitantly. It felt like a book, a very heavy one. She could feel the ridge of the spine through the brown paper wrapping. “Should I . . . Do you wish me to open it?”

  “No need. You’ve seen it before. Ours are the only signatures in it.”

  It took a moment to understand. There was only one book they had signed together. “The register book?”

  “One and the same, with the certificate tucked inside.” He held her gaze. “There’s no other proof, mind you. I made sure of that.”

  “But . . . why are you giving this to me?”

  He took a deep breath and retreated a pace toward the door. “Here’s the thing, Catherine. You asked me once if my nose had been broken. You remember?”

  Jarred, she cast her mind back. She located the moment, found it embedded amid some of the most startling, heated minutes of her life.

  Their wedding day. His bed.

  The very first time she had dared to touch him.

  Her gaze fell to the parcel in her hands, the edges so crisply folded, so neatly tucked. Somebody had taken great care with this. They had bound it in twine several more times than necessary. “Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

  “I’d hope so.” There was a smile in his voice, but when she glanced up, hoping to see it, she found him looking at her with a curiously sober concentration. “I never told you how it happened,” he said. “The first time, I mean. No wonder there. I’ve never spoken of it to a soul. Nor have I thought on it, I’m glad to say, for a very long time—not until today, when I was wrapping up that book for you.”

  She clutched the parcel tightly. He had wrapped this. He had taken care with it, had spent more time than required on creasing the folds, tying it up in twine.

  Suddenly the book seemed to weigh fifty pounds. It came to her to lean against something—or to sit down; such was the silence settling between them, a brooding, heavy weight that foretold a blow to come.

  Instead, she straightened her shoulders, braced herself against it. That strained look on his face was so unfamiliar. Whatever he meant to tell her obviously came at a cost to him. She could bear the hearing, if he could bear the telling.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  He brushed his fingers along the bridge of his nose, then lowered his hand to his side—trying, perhaps, to hide the fist it made. “It was a man who broke it.” He spoke evenly. “A landlord, though the title is too kind. A slumlord, let’s say. He owned most of the buildings in Spitalfields back then—that’s where my ma raised me. She’d never married, of course—but there was a fondness between her and my father. He dropped by every now and then. Spared coin when he had it, to make sure I was well kept. And my ma, she did her best, too. This room we’d landed in, the floorboards were rotting, the roof leaked in the rain, but it was a step up. The rent, she said, was wondrous. She could afford it, barely. With the help from my da, she could pay for it. Sometimes we even ate meat on a Sunday.”

  His speech had fallen into a different rhythm, chopped and coarse. She doubted he knew it. His gaze shifted away from hers, fixed somewhere in the middle distance as he went on.

  “Now, when my da died, it got rougher to pay the rent. I guess she took up with Bell—that was the name of the man who owned the place. Traded what she could to him, in lieu of coin. Only then it happened again—she found herself belly full, I mean. I reckon she despaired when she found out—another mouth to feed, when she
could barely fill mine.” He focused on her then, an unblinking stare. “I do understand, Kitty, why a woman might fear to be trapped. There are all sorts of traps in life. And women, they face more than their fair share.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. She had no idea what to say.

  But he seemed not to require a reply. After a second, he shrugged and said, “So one day, Bell comes knocking, looking for his rent. Only this time, she doesn’t have it—not enough, at any rate. So they have it out, while I’m on the other side of the curtain. I hear something that tips me off—realize she’s breeding, and Bell is the dad. And being a proper young hothead, I decide to confront him.” An ugly smile twisted his mouth. “Defend her honor, I suppose. Stupid. So young.”

  She did not like the contempt in his voice. That young boy he’d been did not deserve his scorn. “Don’t say that. Of course you wished to defend her.”

  He sighed. “See, that’s a fine aim for lads raised in your world. But in mine, it’s sheer foolishness. Honor means nothing once you’re starving. And my mother knew that. She knew I was ruining her chances. For it seemed Bell had made her an offer. He’d a hankering for another son, didn’t matter whereby he got it. So they’d struck a deal; he’d support her until the babe came, and set her up nicely if it happened to be a boy. Only then I went at him like a cur gone rabid, and knocked him on his arse, and he threatened to leave Ma flat. Said the deal was off, until I kissed his boots and begged. Otherwise, he was done with her.”

  God in heaven. She set the package down very slowly on the desk, for fear she would drop it. “What did you do?”

  His face looked bleak, but his voice leveled, recovering the usual polish of his vowels. “I did it. For her sake, I did it. Took some persuasion, of course. Some tears. But for her sake, I went down on my knees and I kissed that bastard’s boot.” His mouth curved. “And he lost not a moment in kicking me straight in the face. Broke my nose, chipped off a nice piece of one tooth.”

  Her hands were over her mouth. How they’d gotten there, she didn’t know. She felt the ragged rush of her breath, shockingly hot in the chill of the room.

  He shrugged. “He took her in, though. Not that it made a difference. Babe came too early. Took her along to the grave.”

  It was too much. She found herself stepping toward him, reaching for him, her hands closing on the soft wool of his sleeve. “Mr. O’Shea—” But no, that was not right. It was profane. “Nicholas. I’m so—”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he cut in softly. “Like I said, I haven’t dwelled on it in years. But the lesson it taught me, I’ll never forget. You don’t beg for anyone. For it never comes to good. Nothing’s worth that price. And I don’t mean the price is honor or pride. I mean, it’s got to do with knowing your own worth. The world will crush you, if you let it. So you don’t. You stand tall. And you never stoop, because there’s nothing worth having that requires you to grovel.”

  For a brief, blessed moment, he cupped her cheek in his gloved hand. And then he stepped backward, removing himself from her touch, so her own hands closed on empty air. He nodded toward the desk, the register book she’d left there.

  “I won’t keep you trapped,” he said. “Not even for five years. You burn that book, and nobody can say this marriage ever happened. You’re free as a bird, Kitty. And I won’t beg you to come back to me, even if I want to.” He exhaled. “And I do. There’s the hell of it. You almost made me beg. Instead, I’ll speak plainly: I want you. I love you. But you’ll come freely, of your own choice. Or you won’t.”

  “I . . .” Say it. “I’ll come,” she said hoarsely. “I think . . . I will come.”

  He made a convulsive move, as though to grab her—but then he decided against it.

  Instead, hands fisting at his sides, he withdrew another pace. “I don’t want you to think,” he said quietly. “I want you to know. I won’t have you uncertain. And I won’t have you in secret, either. I’ll have you in front of the world, and you’ll hold your head high beside me. Or I’ll not have you at all.”

  He turned on his heel. Her heart leapt into her throat, choking her, uncontainable. She opened her mouth—and he turned back.

  “One more thing,” he said gruffly. “I’m taking over the seat for Whitechapel on the Board of Works. You were right, I guess. It was time.”

  The breath left her. “You were right, too,” she whispered.

  But he did not hear her. Or he pretended not to. Without another word, he left.

  * * *

  It was one of those rare mornings that rightfully belonged to October, but had somehow found its way into December by mistake. The sun shone brightly through the bare-branched trees, and the park was full of nannies in black gowns, overseeing the games of children in neatly starched pinafores and smartly-pressed trousers.

  Catherine paused to watch the scene. To draw another deep lungful of the bracing air. Winter was upon them. She would long soon enough for the days when she had walked down the pavement without regard for the chill. This moment in particular would come to mind—one of the rarest in her life, for she never acted rashly, without first feeling certain of the outcome.

  She had only done it twice before, in fact. The public auction. And the day she had wed Nicholas.

  The sound of children’s laughter followed her up the short flight of stairs. A uniformed servant opened the door for her, bowing smartly.

  The lobby was mostly empty. One desk sat vacant; at the other, a single gentleman waited to speak with the clerk. The sight baffled her, brought her to a stop. She had counted on a longer queue. She had counted on a few more minutes, at least.

  She found herself turning back toward the door, the sunlit scene without. The false promise of autumn, when winter was already here.

  She caught herself with one hand on the door. Waved off the doorman and turned back into the room. She could not be sure of the outcome. The waiting would be painful. The result might shatter her. It might be too late.

  But no part of her doubted her course.

  “Madam?”

  A new clerk had entered the lobby, was taking his seat at the desk. “May I help you?” he asked.

  He looked very young, though she noticed a ring shining on his finger as she approached, which might have been a wedding band. Some men had taken to wearing them of late. But he looked too young to be a husband. She saw no sign of whiskers, and his cheeks looked plump, as though he still sat at his mother’s table every night, cosseted and urged to eat more.

  But maybe it was his wife who cosseted him. Maybe he was wiser than his years, and he had met a rare girl, and leapt to marry her, before he lost his chance to somebody quicker, bolder. More courageous. Rare chances, wondrous chances, did not come often.

  “Ma’am?” He was frowning up at her, his sandy brows knitted. “Are you quite all right?”

  “I am very well,” she said, and she sounded well; she sounded bold, decisive, a woman who knew how to seize an opportunity before it got away. “I would like to take out an announcement in your newspaper.”

  “What kind of announcement?” he asked.

  She smiled. “An announcement of marriage,” she said. “Mine, to Mr. Nicholas O’Shea.”

  * * *

  “You’ll wear out the carpet,” Lilah drawled. “And I rather like it, for all that it’s the most impractical color.”

  Catherine wheeled. Lilah looked intolerably comfortable, stretched across the chaise longue beneath a cashmere throw, a book in her hand. She did not seem at all alarmed by the fact that the marriage announcement had been published to the world eight hours ago, plain as day, in stark black and white, albeit tucked in abominably small print in the very last page of the Times. Regardless, it was public knowledge now. Anyone might read of it.

  Yet no visitors had called. Not a single rap at the door.

  Nicholas O’Shea was nowhere in evidence.

  “He’s not coming.” For hours she had battled this awful suspicion, and no
w it came rushing out, acidic like bile. Like fear, fear such as she’d never known. “He’s changed his mind. He gave me that register book hoping I’d burn it.”

  “I very much doubt that.” Lilah cast aside her book and stretched, arms over her head, lolling with shameless abandon. Was she even wearing a corset? Her posture made Catherine very suspicious suddenly. “He’s canny, I’ll give you that much. But if he wanted it burned, he’d have burned it himself.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  Lilah shoved herself up on one elbow. “Men can be very stubborn,” she said. “Perhaps you should call on him.”

  “What? I can’t!” The notion left her aghast. “Don’t you see? He walked away from me. He said—he said I must prove myself. Well, I’ve done it. Must I do all the rest as well?”

  Lilah sighed, then sat up fully. “Catherine,” she said. “You’ve lived at Diamonds. You’ve been to Neddie’s. Have you ever seen a man in either of those locales making a study of marriage announcements in the Times?”

  Spoken aloud, the idea seemed ludicrous. Mouth agape, she shook her head. “You can’t . . . Do you think he hasn’t seen it?”

  “I think it possible that he has no idea what you’ve done. So perhaps you should go make it clear to him.”

  She stood indecisively for a moment. Going to him was not at all what she’d imagined. Going to him meant . . . possibly facing his rejection in person. If the announcement wasn’t enough—if he was not persuaded, if he had changed his mind—why, she did not think she could bear to witness the look on his face when he told her so.

  “Consider this,” Lilah said. “Do you want to remain here, waiting, another day? Or possibly five, or ten?”

  “You could write to him,” Catherine whispered.

  “No,” Lilah said gently. “That would be wrong, and I think you know it.”