Forever a Lady. Delilah Marvelle
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Of those, some were attributed to:
Crossed in love: Number of men, 97. Women, 157.
Calumny and loss of reputation: Number of men, 97. Women, 28.
Gaming: Number of men, 141. Women, 14.
Reverse of fortune: Number of men, 283. Women, 39.
Let the numbers speak for themselves.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Limmer’s, 12:54 a.m.
THE GLOW FROM THE SINGLE cracked lantern set on the floor beside him illuminated the unevenly nailed wooden planks that lined the slanted ceiling. Stripping his leather patch from his eye and tossing it, Matthew fell onto the sunken straw tick on the floor. Rolling onto his back and stretching out, he held up the expensive ivory card that had been given to him that afternoon. Disregarding the address, he stared at her name: Lady Burton.
Holy day. Holy, holy day. The way those dark eyes had held his, the way those lips had curved around her words every time she spoke, and the way that sultry voice had dripped with elegance and refinement about punched the last of his rational senses out. Something about her awoke an awareness he’d thought long dead and whispered of endless possibilities he wanted to roll around in.
Though he couldn’t help but wonder about the association she had with Lord Arsehole. That heated argument on the riding path, which had resulted in her getting cropped, hinted at far more than he cared to admit.
Skimming his thumb across that printed name, he drew the card closer. Was it conceivable for a woman like her to want a man like him? And could a woman like her, who appeared to have everything, give a man like him, who had nothing...everything he wanted?
The door to his small room opened. There was a pause.
He didn’t have to look up from the card to know who it was. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep here.”
“Sure you are.” Coleman snickered. “Shall I leave you two alone?” he said, looking pointedly at the card.
Matthew sat up on the straw mattress, molding the card against his palm. “A touch jealous, are we?”
“Hardly. Women are a waste of breath, man. They’re only good for one thing. And I wish I could say it was fucking.”
Ah, yes. The man, who’d been married at sixteen to a woman crazier than him, thought he knew it all.
Matthew pointed the card at him. “Ey. Just because you’re bitter doesn’t mean I have to be. The difference between you and me is that I’ve been patiently waiting for the right one to come along. And this—” He held up the card, wagging it. “This here is about as right as they come. Not only did she agree to meet me at midnight—in her home—which means she damn well wants what I want, did you see the way she looked at me when she gave me this card? We’re talking more than a night here.”
Rolling his eyes, Coleman leaned against the frame of the door. “She gave you the card because she felt obligated after what you did. She’s an aristo, Milton. Not exactly your kind of people.”
Matthew flicked a finger against the card. “Why do you always ruin everything for me?”
“Because I think you may have taken too many knocks to the head. You seem to think women are moldable to your vision of...whatever the hell you’re looking for, but I’m telling you right now, Milton, you can’t mold a woman. Women mold you. And when you least expect it, they crush you until your very clay squeezes through their conniving little fingers.”
“I pity your cynicism. You know that?” Matthew paused and glanced toward Coleman, noting that the man was not only fully dressed in his great coat, but that his black silvering hair was pulled back into a neat queue. Which the man rarely did. “Where the hell are you going?”
Coleman adjusted the riding coat on his muscled frame and eyed him. “Aside from taking back the horses we ‘borrowed,’ I’m off to double our money. We need to get you back to New York. And as for me...” He cleared his throat theatrically in the way he always did before announcing something Matthew didn’t like. “I’m heading to Venice.”
Matthew stared. “What do you mean you’re heading to Venice? What about New York?”
“What about New York?”
His eyes widened. “The swipe is over and you and I share responsibilities.”
“Milton.” A wry smile touched those lips. “I’m honored knowing you still want me around, really, but the Forty Thieves was your vision for a better life, not mine. There’s nothing left for me in New York. Not to say I won’t miss you. You’re the closest thing I have to a brother. But you have your life and I have mine.” Lowering his gaze, he sighed. “How much money do you have? I need at least five pounds to make the cards worthwhile.”
Matthew glared, feeling as if he’d been walloped in the chest by a man who had clearly moved on from their friendship. “You’re not gambling what little we have. If you plan on ditching me and the boys, that’s your damn right, but you’re not sinking me while you’re at it. Instead of gambling, I suggest you go put yourself in a few matches. London is big on boxing. As for me, I’m soliciting labor over at the docks come morning.”
Coleman leveled him with a mocking stare. “The docks? Since when do you prance about soliciting honest work?”
Matthew pointed, trying not to feel too insulted. “I’m not playing with the law here, Coleman. Unlike in New York, I’ve got no marshals here to protect my arse, and these Brits are crazy. They’ll hang you for anything. Especially if you’re unlucky and Irish. And as you damn well know, I’m both. Now, off with you.” Matthew settled back onto the mattress, snatching up his card. “I’d like to be alone with my card, if you please. I have a feeling it’ll give me a lot more respect than you just did.”
“Christ. Don’t make me tear that bloody thing in half and shove it up your ass.”
Matthew swiped up the pistol from the floor beside him with his other hand and pointed it at Coleman with a mocking tilt of his wrist. “Get the hell out of my room. I’m not paying four shillings a night to have you in here.”
“We need twenty pounds each, Milton, if we’re ever going to get out of Town. Twenty. My boxing will only bring in a few pounds per match, unless I start dealing with aristos. And as good as I am, I can only take so many hits a week. As for you working over at the docks? You’ll only bring in about two pounds a week. At best. Count that on your fingers, man. You may have time on your hands, but I’m not staying in this piss of a city beyond two weeks.” He paused. “How much do you think you could get out of this aristo, given what you did for her? If you slather on that charm I know you’re good for?”
Matthew sighed and set the pistol back onto the floor. “I don’t know. This whole idea of me calling on her for money merely for doing something ingrained in me feels dirty.”
“No one does dirty better than you, Milton.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “I’m not that dirty and you know it.” He tapped the card against his chin before glancing down at it. “I still can’t get over the way she looked at me. I’m telling you. There was something there. I could see it and feel it. It was as if she and I were meant for bigger things.”
“Bigger things?” Coleman snapped, angling toward him. “What the devil is wrong with you? We’re not talking about some tea dealer’s daughter here. We’re talking nobility. Do you know what that is, Milton? It’s better known as the trinity. Meaning, there’s them, there’s the King and then there’s God. Notice that I didn’t mention you at all. Why? Because you don’t exist. And you never will. They don’t touch people like us. Not unless it’s to their benefit.”
“Stop saying ‘people like us.’ You yourself are of nobility, for God’s sake. You’re—” Matthew scrubbed his head in exasperation, knowing it. To think