Page 11 of His Improper Lady

“If you don’t even know his name, somebody ought to find out who he is.” He started to turn to look back, and Desiree gave his arm a jerk, stopping him.

“Not you.” She fixed him with a stern gaze. “I will talk to him, and I will find out who he is and what sort of person he is. And if you go over there and harass him, I will not speak to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brock grinned. “I will thoroughly ignore him. So long as you promise not to do anything reckless.”

“Me?” Desiree looked up at him in faux innocence, batting her eyelashes. “Reckless?”

“Yes, you.” Brock grinned but left her at the table and walked out of the room.

Desiree sat down and picked up the stack of cards and began to deal, casting a discreet glance toward the spot where they had been standing earlier. Her mystery man was still there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching her, just as he’d said. She wondered if he’d purposely not told her his name.

It could have just been a slip, something pushed aside in their flirting. On the other hand, she had given him the opportunity to introduce himself, a bold move, she knew, in the genteel world in which he lived. So why hadn’t he taken her up on it? Most of the clientele here would have jumped at the chance. It was part of her mystique to stay aloof, just as her flamboyant masks were, and men frequently attempted to engage her in conversation, to introduce themselves and learn her name in return. Yet he had not. It made him even more intriguing.

Desiree turned her attention to the cards, determined not to be distracted into making a mistake. But now and then, between hands, she glanced over and saw him still there. He changed locations a few times, but for the next hour, he remained in the room.

However, when she called the game to a halt sometime later and stood up to leave, her mystery man had disappeared. She took a stroll through the main room, glancing around in what she hoped was a casual way. She retrieved her stole from the cloakroom and turned to cast another long look around the club before she walked out the door. There was no escaping it: the man was gone.

TOM SAT IN the carriage, curtain drawn back a sliver so he could watch the front door of the club. He’d wanted to stay and talk to her again. But that was a foolish impulse, one he should not have made the first time. It would be impossible to have another conversation with her without telling her his name. And as soon as he did that, she’d know who he was and why he was there, and he would lose all chance of figuring out who had hired her to break in.

He hadn’t intended to talk to her. Well, the truth was he hadn’t expected to find her so easily. But if he should be so lucky, his plan had been to follow her—see where she went, to whom she talked. But when he saw her closing the table for a moment, he’d grabbed a glass from one of the waiters and intercepted her. Even then, he hadn’t thought she would actually start a conversation with him. He had just wanted to see her up close, to measure her height against his to make sure she matched the thief, to try to make out what she looked like without the mask.

Tom had thought she would brush aside his advance; she must be approached every night by a bevy of men. Instead, she had taken the glass and struck up a conversation with him. He thought now about their interaction—the challenge in her smile, the flirtation in her eyes, the sensual undertones beneath their words. There was no denying his response to her, the way his blood had heated, the enjoyment he’d taken in their banter, the temptation he’d felt. The urge to move closer, to touch her, to kiss her.

He hadn’t been thinking at all, and it wasn’t until the other man interrupted—sending an unaccustomed stab of jealousy through him—that Tom had come to his senses. He wasn’t going to get anything from her this way. She wasn’t going to toss the information he sought into the midst of a flirtation.

However much that subtle scent teased at his senses, however tempted he was to kiss her, that was never going to happen. They were on opposite sides. His task was to find out what she’d been trying to find when she searched their office. And why.

Tom had continued to watch her play. She won the majority of the games, and when she didn’t win, she nearly always folded quickly, losing little money. Her stack of chips grew steadily. Tom thought she must be cheating, but he couldn’t figure out how.

Tom knew sleight of hand and deception. He’d seen it and engaged in it often enough when he was a child. He’d been almost solely a pickpocket, but he knew enough of the ways to cheat at cards to be able to pick up the signs.

He watched from several different angles. But he could see no indication she was hiding cards—where the devil would she put them, anyway, with her arms as bare as they were? The cards didn’t appear to be marked. He saw no signaling to her from any of the men standing behind the other players, nor could he find any mirrors on the walls or ceiling to reflect their hands.

Whatever she was doing, she was clever about it. And that, too, roused his interest in the woman. He’d been sorely tempted to remain and talk to her again. He could, after all, use a false name, but for some reason he found himself reluctant to lie to her. And there was really no benefit in a conversation. So after an hour or so, he made himself leave the casino and return to the carriage to wait.

And think.

Desiree, the man had called her. The name suited her. Exotic. Evocative. Like the scent that clung to her. Tom murmured the name; he liked the way it felt on his tongue.

Who was the man who had interrupted their conversation? Obviously he was someone close enough to her that he addressed her by her first name. But what exactly was he to her? Husband? Lover? Tom’s chest tightened at that thought.

Perhaps he was her employer. Perhaps he was the Australian “bruiser” Pike had said owned the club. Though he walked with a bit of a limp, he certainly looked well able to take care of himself in a brawl. Employers often used the first names of their employees. It could have been not closeness but status. Perhaps he hadn’t liked her wasting time rather than disliking her talking to another man.

Tom liked that idea better—though obviously that was even more foolish than talking to her had been. Desiree was the thief; she had to be. Standing next to him, she was the right height, the right size. And it went far beyond coincidence to have two women who were connected to the Farrington Club and also wore the same distinctive perfume. She was his quarry, nothing more.

And his quarry had just appeared.

Tom straightened, every sense on the alert. Desiree paused just outside the doorway, casting her gaze around. Tom waited, hand on the door, ready to slip out and follow her as soon as she walked away. But she didn’t leave, simply chatted with the two outside guards.

A carriage pulled out of the line of waiting hackneys and town carriages and rolled up to the entrance. One of the doormen jumped to open the door of the carriage and give Desiree a hand up into the vehicle. He closed the door after her, and the carriage rattled off.

“Follow them, Jenkins,” Tom told the driver on high seat in front of him. “Not too closely.”

“Aye, sir.” Jenkins was used to the peculiar actions of the Morelands and didn’t question Tom’s instructions.

As they rolled through the night, a discreet distance behind Desiree’s carriage, Tom mulled over the implications. The carriage was an elegant equipage, with an equally fine matched pair pulling it. Obviously a private vehicle, not to mention an expensive one, which indicated that the owner was wealthy.

If it was hers, she must be raking in quite a bit from her thieving and card playing. At least enough to hire a carriage to pick her up every night from work. Or perhaps her employer provided the safety and comfort of such a ride for a valuable employee? Certainly Desiree was enough of a draw to the business that it would be reasonable for him to not let her walk home through the dark city streets.