Page 27 of His Improper Lady

“I don’t understand,” she snapped. “I could help you. There are people who won’t talk to you unless I’m there. And you don’t know what skills you might need. You’re just being stubborn. Why won’t you let me work with you?”

“Maybe because you broke into my office? Because you work for Falk? Because you lie?” He’d started out in a light sarcastic manner, but his voice turned flat and harsh as he said, “I can’t trust you.”

Desiree twisted around so that she was facing him, her body taut with anger. “I don’t work for Falk. I told him I wouldn’t do anything else for him. And I didn’t lie to you. I never told you I didn’t break in or that it wasn’t a job for Falk. You didn’t ask. You’re the one who was sneaking around, following me, spying on me, putting on that pretense at the club. All I want is the truth. How can you be so positive I’m lying? So sure that I’m untrustworthy? You don’t know me.”

“I do know you.” Tom’s voice was low and fierce. “I know you right down to the bone. Because you’re the same as me. You grew up just like I did in that same hellhole of lies, thievery and deceit. I picked pockets for Falk just like all the ones who did it while you distracted the marks with flips and cartwheels. I stole and I lied and I did whatever it took to survive to live another day, and so did you. That’s who we are. That’s how I know I can’t trust you.”

They gazed at each other for a moment in a charged silence, then Tom turned his head sharply away, appalled at the way he’d lashed out at her and embarrassed by how much of himself he had revealed. “Stop the carriage. This is impossible.”

He reached for the door handle, but Desiree clamped her hand down on his arm, stopping him. He turned to her. He was faintly relieved to see that it wasn’t hurt that shone in her eyes, but fury.

“I don’t care what you think of me.” Her fingers dug into his arm. “All I care about is finding out who my father is. If you won’t help me to do that, then I have no choice but to ask the Morelands about him.”

Any regret Tom had had over the harshness of his answer vanished. “So you’re adding extortion to your array of skills?”

“Call it whatever you want.” Desiree’s hand fell away, and she sat back, folding her arms. “I will do whatever it takes to get my answers.”

Tom wanted to storm at her, to tell her that he would make sure she couldn’t talk to the Morelands. But he’d spoken the truth when he said he did what it took to survive. And surviving this thing meant maintaining control over the search. And over himself. He had let emotion rule him too much already. He needed to be coldly practical.

The fact was he couldn’t keep her from talking to one of the Morelands. There were a lot of them, and they were a freewheeling group. The only thing he could do was warn the butlers, but he couldn’t possibly stop Desiree from approaching one of the Morelands outside the house, and he couldn’t imagine any of them haughtily refusing to talk to a stranger. And if Tom warned the Morelands about her, he would himself be bringing them into the thing.

On the other hand, if he was working with her, Tom could exercise some control over what she did. At the very least, he’d know what she was doing. She was right in saying she would be able to provide him an entrée to people who wouldn’t say anything to him otherwise. She knew the background, the people involved. Yes, no doubt she would lead him to people who would answer the way she wanted them to, but at least he would be able to question them and perhaps worm some real answers out of them, as well. Desiree could plant evidence, of course, but she could do that anyway, and this way he could keep a close eye on her.

“Very well.” Tom leaned back. “Then let’s use one of your ‘assets’ now. I want to talk to your brother.”

“Brock? I already asked him, and he didn’t remember much.”

“I want to talk to him myself.”

“Of course.” Her eyes twinkled unexpectedly. “He may not be too eager to talk to you, given your last conversation with him, but I’ll ask him when he could see you.”

“No. I want to see him now.” He wasn’t about to give the two of them time to plan Brock’s answers. No doubt they had a story in place, but the man might slip up somewhere if Tom caught him unawares.

“Then we’ll talk to him now,” Desiree replied. “I imagine he’s already gone to his office.”

Tom felt somewhat disgruntled by her acquiescence. He would have liked to have something to continue to argue about. It might have eased his disgust at having been outmaneuvered by Desiree once more. Yes, it was more practical for him to work with her. But it still felt like a defeat.

She got the best of him at every turn. It wasn’t something Tom was accustomed to. Obviously, he didn’t always win; he didn’t solve every case; he didn’t come out on top in every argument—he probably never did with Con, who could outtalk anyone. But at least he usually didn’t make one mistake after another, didn’t feel so frustrated and lacking in control.

Desiree Malone disturbed him. Somehow, with her, his feelings were never far beneath the surface. She intrigued him as much as she aggravated him. She sparked his anger even as she ignited his desire. Just this morning, she’d irritated him, stirred his sympathy, aroused his desire and confirmed his low opinion of her character by extorting his cooperation.

Desiree was as silent as he was as the carriage rolled through the streets of London, speaking only to direct the coachman to the Farrington Club. There was no one there this early in the afternoon besides one employee. It felt strange to Tom to walk through the empty room, footsteps ringing on the marble floor. In the daylight, without the people and the noise, the casino seemed somehow smaller.

She led him through an open set of doors into a hall, where all show of glamour disappeared, replaced by a businesslike practicality. Desiree knocked at a closed door, then stepped inside at the answering “Come in.”

The man Tom had seen the day before at the Malone house sat behind a desk as plain and functional as everything else in the room. His jacket was hung over the back of his chair, his sleeves unfastened and rolled up, as he entered numbers in a ledger. He looked up as they entered, and his eyes hardened when they fell on Tom. He rose to his feet. “What’s he doing here?”

“Mr. Quick and I have settled our differences,” Desiree told him breezily. “He has agreed to help me discover my father’s identity.”

Brock narrowed his eyes. “Has he, now? Why?”

“It seemed the obvious thing to do,” Tom replied, deciding he needed to take control of the conversation. “As Miss Malone pointed out to me, she has more access to people with information about the matter. And, naturally, she has no desire to bother the Moreland family unnecessarily.”

The other man let out a short huff of disbelief. “Yes, our Desiree is known for her reticence.” He gestured toward the chairs facing his desk as he sat down again. “Then let’s do it. I have work to do.”

“Desiree said you had told her what you remembered about that time, but it would help me to hear it myself.”

“Naturally. I never knew the man’s name,” Brock related in a dispassionate voice. “I don’t remember that he was ever called anything but ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’ or some endearment by my mother. He seemed tall—but since I was only six, I don’t know how accurate that is. His hair was dark. Our mother left on a trip with him one afternoon and never came back.”