Fortune Favors the Wicked

“No, but I’ve run my hands over the most famous statues in Paris, and they do not come close to the beauty of your form.”

...“When you say such ridiculous, kind, flirtatious things to me, I cannot think what to tell you next.”

“So don’t tell me anything. ... I’ll tell you more of the—what did you call them? ‘Ridiculous and kind’ . . . no, I really can’t allow that, Miss Perry. ‘Truthful and truthful,’ maybe.”

“No, but I’ve run my hands over the most famous statues in Paris, and they do not come close to the beauty of your form.”

...“When you say such ridiculous, kind, flirtatious things to me, I cannot think what to tell you next.”

“So don’t tell me anything. ... I’ll tell you more of the—what did you call them? ‘Ridiculous and kind’ . . . no, I really can’t allow that, Miss Perry. ‘Truthful and truthful,’ maybe.”

So followed hours of raucous, determined cheer, as strange voices overlapped and thickened with drink. Toasts to Nance, toasts to success in the hunt for the stolen sovereigns. Toasts to Mr. and Mrs. Potter; to the Bow Street Runner, Stephen Lilac, sent by the Royal Mint; to the coroner; to the vicar’s blind guest, even.

No amount of liquor could have made Benedict raise a glass to this last toast. “The vicar’s guest is a writer,” he protested. “A lieutenant. A physician.”

But he wasn’t really any of those things; all were half-tried or abandoned. And so he had to accept the claps on the back, the slurred welcomes and I don’t know how you manage its. It had been rather horrible, smiling and laughing through such an evening.

He placed his hands atop the smooth-worn wood of the worktable. “In my dreams sometimes I can see. Then when I open my eyes, ready for morning light, and there is nothing but blank, I wish I had not awoken. I wish it had never happened, that my life had never taken such a turn.”

She took one of his hands—then flipped it over and placed a slice of warm bread on his palm. “What do you do, then?”

“I get up and try to make my life take another turn. The alternative is passing time; wasting it. Waiting for death.” He lifted the bread to his lips. “That seems a terrible waste of such a handsome man who has learned so much.”

With her free hand, she pulled the penknife from her left sleeve and pressed it to the heel of the man’s hand. “Do you like your thumb?” she said sweetly. “One of us is going to keep it. If you want it to be you, you’d best move your hand away at once.”

He tightened his grip, and a thread of blood appeared across his knuckle. “You bitch!” He gaped, releasing her to suck at his wound. “You bitch! You cut me!”

“You cut yourself when you tightened your grasp.” She looked at the knife in some disgust, then wiped the drop from its blade onto her sleeve and stowed it again. Thank goodness she’d worn her dark blue serge. “It’s a poor excuse for a man who blames a woman for his own faults.”

“Bitch whore,” he spat.

“Bitch courtesan,” she muttered. “It’s a completely different occupation.”

When he started to rise to his feet, reaching within his coat—for a blade of his own?—she declined to educate him further in the niceties of kept-woman vocabulary. Tossing a few coins on the table, she turned on her heel and left.

And then, in a rush, she blurted, “I was a courtesan in London for ten years.”

“All right.” He raised his head to kiss her. “That makes sense. I didn’t really think you’d been a traveling missionary.”

She permitted a quick press of lips, then pulled her face back. “That’s . . . does that not matter to you?”

“Does it matter to me that you are intelligent and intriguing enough to earn a living by fascinating men?” He let his head fall heavily to the mattress. “I admit, it does. I think it is rather wonderful.”

She stood too, and Captain gave a whine of neglect. “Benedict, please recall to whom you are talking. I made my own fortune—and before you shudder with disgust, not entirely on my back.”

“I am not disgusted by anything you do. Or have done.” This was perfectly true, and he hoped she would believe him.

“The coverlet is patchwork, pieced in floral patterns and pale silks. The frame is the same dark walnut as the washstand, but in better condition. The knobs in here often get polished.”

He had to work to keep a straight face. “Of the bedstead, you mean. Of course.”

“Why, what else could I possibly mean?”

“I was not in a panic,” grumbled Benedict. “I was moving with an understandable amount of speed, considering the circumstances.”

“I also saw Mr. Frost’s stiletto,” Charlotte said, setting Benedict to choking again. “This is not the blade he was accustomed to keeping about his person.”

“I should say not,” he murmured, and she had to elbow him and hide her smile.