The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(90)

Isabelle was out the door before Mrs. Featherfitch could change her mind. Moving down the hall, she retraced the path she’d taken yesterday with Fallon. After her night with him, she couldn’t simply sit and wait for his return. Her heart was pounding with the memory of his body against hers, her mind whirling with thoughts of him. Even her limbs danced to a merry melody as she moved down the narrow stairs toward him.

When he saw her, would he sweep her up in his arms? They would sit together and talk until the evening hours. Or perhaps he would lay her out on his desk for a thorough study of her body. Then she could do the same to him… The possibilities for the afternoon were endless. But as she neared the library door, many male voices rang out in laughter.

He was entertaining? That was disappointing for how she’d imagined spending the day. Just then a young maid rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. Isabelle only had a second to react or she’d be seen. Diving across the rug, she tucked herself in behind the open door to the library. Holding her breath, she waited until the girl passed. There was an open stretch of floor between where she stood and the stairs that led back to the safety of Fallon’s private quarters. She would have to cross the space without being seen by any of the gentlemen in the room. All this time hiding, and on her first attempt to visit Fallon, she would be seen. Spy work was quite difficult, no matter how simple Roselyn had claimed it to be. Isabelle sighed and leaned her head back against the wall.

From here she could see Fallon through the slit where the door was hinged. He sat at his desk, looking in command of the room. Her pirate. She bit her lip and leaned closer to get a better view. He was so handsome. Her good fortune was boundless.

“Jackson, when can you have that report to me?” he asked someone in the room.

Jackson must be his man of business. But this was a rather large gathering for a meeting. How odd.

“With necessary figures? Two days.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” Fallon leaned forward and picked up his quill, scribbling something on a paper in front of him. “About the negotiations of the new leasing terms at the Greenly Boardinghouse, did Madam Molloy accept the new rates?”

Greenly Boardinghouse? That was in the worst part of London. She’d passed it once in the carriage, and Victoria had made a jest about the women who boarded there. Isabelle blinked. She knew exactly the sort of house that madam ran, and it wasn’t a nunnery. What the devil sort of meeting was Fallon involved in? And worse, he seemed to be in charge of it. Isabelle couldn’t move. She should have returned to the stairs. Instead she listened to every word that was said.

“I need a bit longer to settle things with Madam Molloy to completion,” the gentleman named Jackson answered.

“I bet you do,” someone inside the room replied, and there was a round of laughter.

“We have only one week left on her current contract to finalize the new terms before her girls are out on the streets,” Fallon said, and the laughter faded away.

“She isn’t pleased with the increase, of course, but the offering of an extra patrol through the area and a new chandelier for her main parlor seemed to appease her. I’ll get her full agreement.”

“I’m certain you will,” Fallon said with a grin.

“St. James, was that another jest?” A loud, jovial voice rang out, a voice Isabelle knew quite well. “Three in one day—I wonder at the cause for such an occurrence.”

She couldn’t breathe. She knew they were friends, but what was this?

“Shut it, Hardaway,” Fallon tossed out before turning back to the other man. “Good work, Jackson. I’m glad to see this bit of business find resolution.”

“Thank you, sir. I think your idea for the chandelier brought her around. She offered me…compensation for my efforts last night.”

“Did she?” Fallon raised a brow at the man.

“And I thought I was special,” someone muttered from the other end of the room, and there was another round of laughter.

Fallon gave the man in front of him a sympathetic smile and said, “Show of hands, who has been offered Madam Molloy’s thanks for the Spare Heirs Society’s assistance in some matter?”

Isabelle saw every hand in the room rise into the air in unison, including Fallon’s. The Spare Heirs Society. Her eyes widened, more concerned by Fallon’s involvement with the owner of a brothel than some society she’d never heard of before.

“You’ll become accustomed to such things, Jackson,” Fallon offered.

“Aye, she even gifted St. James with three of her best women at once last year,” someone beyond her line of sight called out. “Of course, we’ll never learn the details of it from him.”

“Such secrets, St. James,” one man complained, only to be joined by others.

“Come now, man. Have a heart.”

Three women? What of last night with her? Something tightened in her gut, but she only leaned closer to hear more.

“That’s enough,” Fallon commanded, shifting his attention to another man who sat in front of his desk. “What was the weekly take from Bennett Street? More than previously reported, I hope. What Hardaway lost at the hazard tables alone matches that small sum.”

“It was the same, sir.”

“Have they forgotten that we keep them on the proper side of the law by lining the pockets of those who are influential in such matters?” Fallon leaned forward, studying one of the men in front of him. “Have you let them forget about our support?”