Chapter 6
He knew.
Calum Dabney had determined that Eve was, in fact, the girl who’d once sneaked him food, and then on a night of fear, betrayed him in the worst way . . .
There was no other accounting for the burning fury in his eyes that scorched her skin.
Only—she puzzled her brow—all these years she’d believed he’d been hanged. Her brother Gerald had taunted her with the truth of Calum’s death with a regular frequency, until she’d become a master of her emotion and deprived him of the tears that admission had always rung.
Calum winged a chestnut brow.
Blinking back the haze of sleep and confusion, Eve followed his stare to the stacks of books littered about the too-small desk she’d commandeered last evening.
And remembered.
Being turned out.
Stealing his books.
“Oh,” she said lamely. “That.”
With a languid grace that stirred warring parts warmth and unease inside her, Calum shoved away from the door. He started forward. “That?” he echoed back, his smooth, deep baritone rousing further havoc on her senses. It had the consistency of warmed chocolate but coated with icy steel.
Oh, dear. Eve forced herself to remain still as his long legs easily ate away the short distance between them. She really wished she’d risen on her own and at least had an opportunity to formulate a proper defense of her actions. Though, by the barely restrained glint of fury that sparked in his eyes, not a single explanation would be accepted. Still, Eve forced a smile. “Mr. Dabney.” And with all the grace drummed into her by a sea of proper governesses and nursemaids, she climbed to her feet and executed a deferential curtsy.
“By God, I can’t sort out whether you’re insolent as brass or missing a brain between your ears.”
“If I’m forced to choose from solely those two options? The former.”
“Do you think this is a matter to jest about?” Calum swept his thick chestnut lashes, and the dark brown of his irises disappeared. Eve’s breath caught. And she’d never been one of those breath-catching-type ladies. She was practical and logical, with her life so focused on surviving that she’d not noticed the small, but beautiful details around her—like Calum Dabney’s eyelashes. It was a silly thing to note, for any number of reasons. Reason one: with her theft of his books and her setting up a room in his private suites, he could return the cruelty her family had done him and send her off to Newgate. Two: she was one order away from being tossed out, with no place to go . . . but home.
Yet, she’d noticed, and could not stop noticing. The breadth of his shoulders. The sandalwood scent upon his skin. His slightly hooked nose. His . . . twitching, wrinkling nose. “Well?”
Registering her own scent, that noxious blend of berries and vinegar, Eve warmed, struggling to call the question he’d put to her—and remembering. “It wasn’t my intention to make light of your worries. I was merely stating that if given just the two options you present . . .” At his ever-cooling gaze, she let her sorry explanation trail off. “Yes, well, I apologize for that,” she finished lamely. She couldn’t very well go explaining that with the passage of time, with the absolute dearth of friends and family and eventually servants, she’d become rather inept at those casual conversations between two people. You weren’t always that way around this man . . .
“Who sent you here?” he ordered, taking another step her way.
Unnerved by the steel in his dark-brown eyes, Eve stood and edged away from him. She’d sat beside him for hours upon hours each week over the course of a year. She’d been a child and he a boy on the cusp of manhood. But in that time, he’d never put his hands upon her. Life with Gerald, however, had shown her a decidedly ugly part of man’s soul that had taught her enough to be wary. “I—I will gather my references.” Eve rushed over to her bag.
“That isn’t what I meant,” he said tersely, staying her.
What had he meant, then? She fought back her worrying. “I’m here because I’m in need of work, Mr. Dabney,” she answered truthfully.
He snorted. “And you expect that lying to my staff, stealing my ledgers, and commandeering my rooms will earn you a rightful post inside my club?”
“I suppose, no, when you say it like that,” she demurred. A strand of hair—albeit dyed black and unfamiliar for it—tugged free of her now lopsided chignon. She tucked the piece back behind her ear.
His lips tightened, turning down at the corners. That unique tau-shaped scar drained of color under the strain of his frown. “You have ten minutes to gather your belongings and take yourself off.” There was a warning there she’d have to be deaf to not hear. She curled her hands tight, leaving crescent marks upon her palms. Why could she not have been one of those ladies clever with words and ready with a coy smile?
“A guard will see you out and to a hack, madam.” With a death knell of finality to his order, he turned on his heel.
“Th-there are errors.” Desperation made her voice quaver, and she stiffened, hating that hint of weakness.
Calum abruptly stopped. He didn’t turn back, but neither did he leave, so she took heart.
Hurrying to the desk, she shuffled through the books she’d spent all her early-morn hours here sorting through and studying. She grabbed the brown leather book, a volume that contained the current month’s expenditures. “If you look here . . .” Eve flipped through the pages, skimming, searching—and then finding. “H—ah—” A startled shriek escaped her when she picked her head up. Calum stood a mere hairsbreadth away.
In her surprise, the book slid from her fingers. She cursed and made a grab for the ledger, just as he shot his own hands out, easily catching it.
Their fingers collided, and an explosion of heat passed at that faint meeting of flesh. Her mouth went dry . . . and yet it wasn’t fear that held her immobile. It was this perilous, unwanted awareness of him as a man. “Here,” she ordered, reaching over and opening the book in his hand, then pointing to the eighteenth column on the page. Her breath emerged with far more steadiness than she believed herself capable of in this moment. “Whoever kept records before was stealing from you.”
Calum opened and closed his mouth like a fish tossed ashore. “Let me see that,” he demanded, pulling it closer until her hand slipped off it.
Finding normality in this familiar task, she leaned around him and tapped the book again. “There.”
“Impossible,” he muttered, shock and indignation rolled together.
Unlike her brother Gerald, Eve had never been one to revel in another person’s misfortune or humiliation. In this instance, however, desperately needing the role of bookkeeper, she had been excited to discover that the woman to hold the post before was a thief. And being able to show Calum the evidence only served to highlight the beneficial role she could play here. Still, as Calum proceeded to frantically turn the pages, racing his gaze from left to right and then back to the left again, she took heart. “Anyone might have missed it.”
“Everyone did.” He cursed blackly, nearly burning her ears with the wickedness of that inventive phrase about the king’s affinity for his mother.
Eve cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I am certainly glad to stay on”—for three months—“and assist you.”
He leveled her once more with that burning stare that said she was mad and a lackwit, all at once. “Surely you don’t think I’d go from employing one woman who deceived me to another who stole my books and rooms.”
“I didn’t steal your books,” she said defensively. “They are all right here.” She paused. “And for the most part, now orderly.” She’d not had an opportunity to investigate his liquor accounts before exhaustion had weighted her eyes closed. “And I cannot very well steal rooms. At best, I could borrow—” Her words ended on a shuddery gasp as he dropped his brow close to hers.
“For a young woman desperate for a post, Mrs. Swindell, you are surprisingly insolent,” he whispered.
If she were more in control of her faculties in this instance, she’d point out that she’d never been the insolent sort. A dearth of family and friends had left her instead with a startling-to-strangers ability to speak her mind. Alas, the hint of honey and coffee on his breath fanned her cheeks a surprisingly heady blend . . . and a surprising one from the harsh owner of a gaming hell.
Fighting to reclaim control of her wits, Eve wet her lips. “It is not my intent to be insolent. I’m d-direct, Mr. Dabney. You require a bookkeeper.” Hurrying around him, she rushed to retrieve the ledger he’d set down. “I require a post. Why need either of us dance around the mutually beneficial terms of a relationship?” He met her barrage with an imperturbable silence. His harshly angular features a set, stone mask that only showed but glimpses of the boy he’d been. You have no right being here . . . Thrusting aside the niggling guilt, she tipped her chin up. “I’m not asking you because I’m desperate.” She paused. “Which I am. Rather, I’m urging you to do so because I am capable and qualified, and I’ll not fail you.” As I did before . . .
When moved to emotion, Mrs. Swindell’s brown eyes came to life with gold flecks dancing in their irises. Her impassioned self-defense had turned her pale cheeks a becoming shade of red. The swell of Mrs. Swindell’s bosom, pressed against the fabric of her silver dress, rose and fell with the force of her emotion.
And when she shed the quavering, terror-filled miss of the prior evening, Calum was left with the stunning, staggering truth—Mrs. Swindell, whom he’d taken for a homely and odorous creature, really was quite . . . pretty.
Oh, she still stank of vinegar and a peddler’s fruit on the cusp of rot, but there was something intriguing about the slight tilt of her pert nose dusted with freckles and her high, elegant cheekbones.
It was not, however, that surprising appeal that most intrigued him, but rather her fearlessness. Every woman who’d held the post prior had avoided his eyes and only addressed him when spoken to. They certainly didn’t prattle and issue tart retorts.
Mrs. Swindell cocked her head, dislodging a limp black strand over her brow. She shoved it behind her ear. “I take it you are considering it, then,” she incorrectly surmised, beaming.
He’d been considering something . . . her, to be exact. Mad as that was.
He most certainly hadn’t, however, been thinking of granting her the post—until the damned hopeful brightness lit her eyes. “No,” he replied more for himself than anything.
The glow in her gaze dimmed.
Bloody hell. “Give me your damned references,” he growled.
Mrs. Swindell froze, then sprang to movement. With a speed and grace to her small steps, she darted quickly over to the armoire in the corner of the room. A veritable Queen Mab of those stories his mother had told him, long, long ago. Disquieted with the reminder of the parents he’d not thought of in more years than he could remember, he trained all his attention on Mrs. Swindell. Kneeling beside her valise, she reached inside the gaping bag and drew out the papers. Wordlessly, she carried them over and handed them to him.
Unfolding the handful of velum layered together, Calum scanned the glowing references written on the young woman’s behalf. It accounted for four years of Mrs. Swindell’s life, and yet what had gotten her to the point that she’d needed to seek out work for a merchant? With her cultured tones and proudly set shoulders, the woman was undoubtedly a lady born. “What became of Mr. Winchester?” he asked, picking his gaze up from the top sheet.
She shook her head.
Calum held the page aloft, bringing her eyes to the sheet.
“He died,” she blurted. “Or was dying. He was sick.” At her prattling, Calum dipped his eyebrows, and her words faded to nothing. The lady dropped her gaze to her serviceable boots, the leather showing its age and wear. In his years on the street and then time running the Hell and Sin, he’d appreciated that a person rambled when they were nervous, hiding something, or afraid. What was Mrs. Swindell’s story? Or was she simply a person with torn and tattered shoes, as desperate as he himself had once been?
Mrs. Swindell looked up and matched his stare. “He was a good employer,” she said with a soft solemnity that could only come from a place of truth. “Loyal to his servants. Loving to his family. He treated me with fairness. It didn’t matter that I was a woman. He saw me as capable.” A shadow passed over her dark-brown irises, and a brief paroxysm of grief contorted her delicate features that not even the most skilled Covent Garden actress could feign. “He became ill, and through it, I oversaw his finances. Then he died and everything fell to . . .” She clasped her hands before her and looked away.
Calum shot a hand out, and with his knuckles forced her focus back to his. It was a bold touch. One he had no right making, and yet the satiny softness of her skin held him momentarily enthralled. Her lips parted, and a shuddery exhalation filtered between them. No doubt with fear. Enduring the torture of ton functions for the sake of his two siblings now married into the nobility, he’d become the recipient of nervous glances. Calum swiftly dropped his hand.
Only . . . Mrs. Swindell did not back away, rising in his estimation. “Everything fell to?” he urged, his command gruff to his own ears.
“His son.” And just like that, all pain in her revealing brown eyes was lost to the burn of hatred. That seething sentiment Calum knew all too well. It was an emotion that burned deep inside and could be neither extinguished nor faked. “He was . . .” Her lips tightened in the corners. “Is cruel.” He narrowed his eyes. “And so I left.”
From most any other woman, that admission would have been given with tears in her eyes and a plea on her lips as a means to wheedle a post. Mrs. Swindell fixed him with a defiant glare. One that dared him to pity her and promised she’d take him to task should he do so. Another pull of admiration tugged at him, as did a simmering fury for the unspoken gentleman she mentioned. Calum had known his share of cruelty at those ruthless lords’ hands. “Did he touch you?” With all the sins he was guilty of, harming a woman was not one he had on his blackened soul, and it was a crime he’d never forgive.
Mrs. Swindell hesitated, then gave her head a terse shake. She lied, and he only knew because he’d become adept at identifying a person who fed him mistruths.
Calum sighed and reexamined those names there, and then he looked over to the books.
The lady required work, and she had suffered at the hands of a cruel employer before.
Such a truth wouldn’t have mattered to Ryker, not if the woman posed in any way a threat to those who lived inside the Hell and Sin. But Calum had never been wholly like Ryker.
His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace. Storm’s blow to the head last evening must have rattled a few somethings loose in Calum’s brain for him to be seriously contemplating allowing the young woman to remain on. It went against everything he believed in: intuition, the value of showing up when one was supposed to for a meeting, and his own good judgment.
So why, why when he’d always let his instincts drive his decisions, did he waver? Why, when the sole time he’d gone against the niggling of warning in his gut, he’d nearly swung for it?
Because you were her. You were terrified and scared. And she’s desperate.
“Three women held this post before you,” he said gruffly. “One of them was and will remain the best bookkeeper in the whole of England.” His sister Helena’s mind for math could have rivaled the best scholar in the world.
“And the others?”
Mrs. Swindell wasn’t afraid to put questions to him. It was a mark in her favor, even if he’d sooner cut her in as an owner than admit as much. To do so would only show his own proverbial hand. “One you accurately pointed out was stealing from me.” A small sum each month that not even Ryker had noted. “And who cowered whenever she was summoned for our meetings. And the other who also left this place in tears.”
“I assure you, I’m not a lady given to tears.” Spoken in that firm, husky contralto, he could almost believe it. He knew better than to trust too much a stranger fed him.
“Perhaps not,” he said instead. By the slight pout of her slightly fuller lower lip, she took umbrage with his doubt. “But neither is this a merchant or gentleman’s establishment,” Calum bluntly informed her. “This is a gaming hell. It is a place where men get soused and lose their fortunes. It’s a place where women fight for the coin and pleasures of a nobleman’s attentions.” Color bloomed fresh on Mrs. Swindell’s cheeks, highlighting her innocence. “The man . . . or woman who holds this post isn’t going to be coddled.”
“I’ve no interest in being coddled. I take care of myself, Ca . . . Mr. Dabney,” she swiftly corrected. If her cheeks turned any redder, she was going to catch them both afire.
Uttering his Christian name would bring this one to blush. Despite the severity of the exchange, he fought to suppress a grin. “It’s also a place where a person doesn’t go blushing because they use someone’s given name.” He stared at her pointedly, in large part because he wanted to know the one affixed to the spirited lady before him.
“Eve.”
That was it.
One syllable. A name born of temptation and darkness and sin that conjured wicked musings of the slender miss before him.
Eve stared back, a piercing intensity in her thickly veiled eyes, and he forced aside those weakening thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “The responsibilities will include observing the gaming hell floors. Speaking with the guards and other proprietors. Visiting vendors and merchants we deal with on Lambeth.” With every item tossed out on his perfunctory list, the color leeched more and more from her cheeks so that only the dusting of freckles along her nose stood out, stark in an otherwise white palette.
When Eve spoke, her threadbare voice revealed the same hesitancy of last evening. “O-observing the gaming hell floors.” She captured her lower lip between her teeth and worried the flesh. And damned if he didn’t feel a dose of guilt for reducing her to a worried miss. “Wh-where the patrons wager.”
Calum looped his arms across his chest. “That is generally where gentlemen conduct their wagering, Mrs. Swindell,” he said drily. He’d not spare her sensibilities by sharing that the one-sided glass windows that overlooked the floors would be sufficient for those observations.
Eve expelled her breath slowly through compressed lips. “I see.” The lady rocked back and forth on the heels of her feet.
He puzzled at that two-word acknowledgment.
“I will do it,” she said at last.
She would . . . ? With determined steps, Eve Swindell marched over to the door, and yanked it open. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Dabney, I must see to my morning ablutions so I might begin my assignment.”
Again, his lips twitched. “I wasn’t offering you the post.”
He may as well have run her through with the tip of her abandoned black pen for the shock there. “You weren’t?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” The lady leaned against the doorjamb.
Calum dusted a hand over his chin, warring with himself. Trust your damned instincts. Trust . . . Goddamn it. “It is yours . . .” The lady’s eyes lit bright, and she propelled away from the door. “As an interim post.” All the wind went out of her sails.
“Interim?” she repeated back.
“I don’t trust people who lie to me, Mrs. Swindell,” he informed her flatly. “No matter their reasons. A person capable of lies is capable of any kind of treachery.” Their gazes locked in a silent, meaningful battle. The lady glanced away first. “But I believe you.” Against my own judgment. Her eyes, teeming with surprise, flew back to his. “If you prove yourself loyal and capable, then I’ll consider hiring you on permanently.”
She fluttered a hand to her chest. “Thank you.”
Unnerved by that breathy expression of gratitude, Calum jabbed a finger in her direction. “One misstep and you will be gone. Be warned, if you bring harm to this hell, you will regret ever crossing me. I intend to watch you. And if I see any signs . . . any hint of deceit, I’ll make you regret the day you set foot inside this place. Are we clear?”
Did he imagine the brief hesitation and the fear in her eyes before she concealed all and nodded? “We are.”
“Your first order of business is to review the club’s records.” He waved a hand over at the ledgers she’d begun work on. “I’ll have the other books brought to your rooms until an office can be readied. You have a week to provide a detailed accounting.”
“Three months.”
Three months? “I beg your pardon?” Had the same insolent woman who’d maneuvered her way inside his club just put a demand to him?
“A week is hardly enough time to oversee all the accounting for an entire gaming establishment.”
By God, she was bolder than any man, woman, or child he’d met in St. Giles. “And yet three months seems arbitrary,” he drawled.
The young woman’s expression grew instantly shuttered. “Three months,” she repeated, firming her mouth.
Ryker would have tossed her out on her arse for that impertinence. Once again, Calum merely demonstrated how bloody different he was from the other man. “I expect the first report readied tomorrow morning, at six o’clock.” Calum studied her for a hint of horror at that early hour and found none. “In my office.”
“As you wish, Cal . . . Mr. Dabney.” It was the second time she’d taken bold possession of his name. And there was something . . . familiar . . . something oddly right about hearing her wrap those two syllables in that husky timbre. Also, something that those instincts he’d been failed by only once told him spoke of danger.
Fighting another wave of disquiet, he started for the door. “Calum.” At her puzzled brow, he clarified. “You may call me Calum, and I find, given the unfortunateness of your name, Eve is preferable to Swindell.”
A poignant smile graced her lips and dimpled her cheeks. “Calum, then,” she murmured in gentling tones, as though familiarizing herself with it.
And as Calum hurried to take his leave, he couldn’t shake the damned niggling thought he’d committed a great folly in hiring the enigmatic bookkeeper.