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fascination ... as if she were poised at the doorway of
a forbidden world. "In my opinion," she said, "you use your poor beginnings as a convenient excuse to ...
to discard all the ethics the rest of us must live by."
"Ethics," he sneered. "I couldn't name one man, rich or poor, who wouldn't discard them for the right
price."
"I wouldn't," she said steadily.
Derek fell silent. He was acutely aware of the small woman so close to him, buttoned and ruffled,
cocooned in high-neck propriety. She smelled like starch and soap, like all the other spinsters he'd had
the misfortune to meet ... the governesses of
his patrons' aristocratic sons, and the maiden aunts who chaperoned untouchable young ladies, and the
bluestockings who preferred a book in their hands to a man in their beds. "On the shelf" was what such
women were called objects that had
lost their freshness and were stored away until they might serve some convenient purpose.
But there was a difference between her and the rest. She had shot a man last night. For him. His brows
pulled together until
his wound ached.
"I would like to leave now," she said.
"Not yet."
"Mr. Worthy will be looking for me."
"I'm not finished talking with you."
"Must it be here?"
"It'll be anywhere I decide. I have something you want, Miss Fielding permission to visit my club. What
will you offer
in return?"
"I can't think of anything."
"I never give something for nothing."
"What do you want me to offer?"
"You're a writer, Miss Fielding," he jeered. "Use your imagination."
Sara bit her lip and considered the situation carefully. "If you truly believe the statement you made
earlier," she said slowly,
"that the publication of my novel would serve to increase your profits ... then it would be in your interest
to allow me to do
my research here. If your theory holds true, you stand to gain some money from my book."
His white teeth flashed in a grin. "I like the sound of that."
'Then ... I have your permission to visit the club?"
He let a long moment pass before he answered "All right."
Sara felt a rush of relief. "Thank you. As source material, you and your club are peerless. I promise I will
try not to be an annoyance."
"You won't be an annoyance," he corrected. "Or you'll leave."
They were both startled as the secret door swung wide open. Worthy stood there, gazing inside the
corridor. "Mr. Craven?
I didn't expect you to be up and about so soon."
"Apparently not," Derek said darkly, his hands dropping from Sara. "Showing the place without asking
my permission? You're bloody certain of yourself these days, Worthy."
"It was my fault," Sara said, trying to protect the factotum. "I-I insisted on having my way. The blame is
all mine."
Derek's mouth twisted. "No one can make Worthy do anything he doesn't want to do, mouse. No one
except me."
At the sound of Sara's voice, Worthy looked anxiously in her direction. "Miss Fielding? Are you all
right?"
Derek dragged Sara out and pushed her, blinking, into the bright light. "Here's your little novelist. We
were just having a discussion."
Sara stared through her spectacles at her captor, who seemed even larger and more imposing than he
had last night. Craven
was exquisitely dressed in charcoal-gray trousers and a snow-white shirt that emphasized his swarthiness.
His tan waistcoat
was made without pockets, fitted to his lean midriff with no hint of a wrinkle. She had never seen such
elegant garments on anyone in the village, not even Perry Kingswood, the pride of Greenwood Corners.
But in spite of his expensive attire, no one would ever mistake Derek Craven for a gentleman. The jagged
line of stitches on
his face gave him a battered, rough appearance. His hard green eyes seemed to look right through her.
He was a powerful
man with street swagger and absolute confidence, a man who could no more conceal his appetite for the
finer things of life
than he could keep the sun from rising.
"I hadn't intended to show Miss Fielding the hidden passageways," Worthy commented, his eyebrows
climbing up his forehead.
He turned to Sara. "However, now that you know about them, I might tell you that the club is riddled
with secret corridors and peepholes by which you may observe the action on the floor."
Sara slid a questioning glance to Craven, and he read her thoughts easily.
"Nothing happens here that I don't know about," Craven said. "It's safer that way for the club members
and for me."
'Is it really," she murmured. There was only the tiniest hint of skepticism in her voice, but it didn't escape
his notice.
"You might find some of the passageways useful," he said smoothly, "since you won't be allowed to
approach any of the guests."
"But Mr. Craven "
"If you want to stay here, you'll abide by my rules. No talking to guests. No interference at the tables."
He glanced at her
reticule, which bulged with a suspiciously heavy lump. "Still carrying the pistol?" he asked, casually
amused.
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