“Services,” Crash said with a slow grin. “Is that what we’re calling it, now? It’s a good thing you don’t need them any longer. You couldn’t find services any longer—or thicker—or harder than mine.”
Her cheeks flamed in memory of long and thick and hard. “Crash. Please don’t say things like that.”
He shrugged. “It’s simple. I saw what happened back there. They’re planning to make a joke of you, you know. All they want is to laugh.”
“I know,” Daisy said through clenched teeth.
“You should give up now.”
“I know.” Her teeth ground against each other.
“But you won’t.”
He knew that, too. His knowing things about her had fooled her thoroughly. She’d thought she was special. She had thought he actually cared. She’d been such an idiot.
As these things are reckoned, you are a complete waste of a woman. That was what she had to remember him saying. Her teeth gritted.
“And since you won’t give up,” he said, “then you cannot leave them with one single thing to laugh at. You know that’s how it works, yes?”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You will have to be brilliant to win.” He looked at her. “You won’t be able to hesitate. You’ll have to make them believe that nobody will be able to survive without your…” He frowned. “I couldn’t actually hear. Your…emporium, was it?”
She was not about to be inveigled into a conversation with him.
“That means you will have to practice.”
“I know all these things,” Daisy muttered. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to win.”
“You’ll need an audience to test yourself against.” Crash continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Not your friend the marchioness nor your mother. You need to practice in front of someone you hate. Someone who makes your stomach curdle. Someone who will ask questions while you want to smash his face in. If you can impress that man, you can impress anyone.”
She frowned at him. “I’m not going to win.”
“Aren’t you?” He took off his hat and gave her a flourishing bow. “I am, as ever, at your service.”
He straightened and set his hat back on his head at an angle that might have been called rakish. No, not rakish. Mere rakery was never good enough for Crash. He adjusted it to something altogether promiscuous.
Daisy eyed him suspiciously. “Stop flirting with me.”
His eyes widened in Who, me? innocence.
“I’m not going to win. I have a sweetheart.” She’d told him that before. She had nothing of the kind. But right now, a man—an honest man, a solid man, one with prospects and morals—seemed as good a talisman to hold up as any. She needed to remind herself why she’d cut ties with Crash.
“Of course you do,” Crash said in a tone that dripped with treacly, disbelieving sincerity.
He had seen her just now. In public. He’d been the only one to stand up, such as it was, on her behalf. If Daisy had a sweetheart, he was the most delinquent, useless sweetheart in the existence of romantic entanglements. Either that, or…
“He’s a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy,” she invented. “He’ll be promoted any day—in fact, I expect he’s already been promoted, but you know how the mails are at conducting letters written overseas.” She was saying too much. He would notice she was lying. “Once he’s back in port, we’ll marry. I’m not going to win. I don’t need to win. And I certainly don’t want your help.”
Crash rolled his eyes. “Come now, Daisy. You should know me better than that. You think I offered to help you because I wanted to interfere with your sweetheart? Nothing could be further from the truth.”
That sounded actually sincere, not overly so. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What do you want, Crash? What do you really want?”
“Ooh.” He scratched his chin. “So many things. Ten million pounds, a large house, three carriages—oh. Wait. You mean what do I want from you?”
She exhaled. “You’re being obtuse.”
“One of my greatest talents.” Crash ducked his head as if she’d given him a compliment. As if she’d mentioned the only modest bone in his body. “I’m flattered that you realized. But you were asking me a question. What do I want with you?”
He looked up, and her skin prickled under his attention. It was just her luck that she was susceptible to him. To the dark entreaty of his eyes, the way he adjusted his hat on his head.
“What do I want with you?” He shrugged. “Come, Daisy. You know I take odds.”
Among so many other things. If there was an occupation that skirted the edges of legality, Crash was involved in it. She’d seen him organize a spot of gambling at the slightest provocation. The bestowal of the charity bequest had turned into a pageant for the entire parish. There might as well have been a banner floating over her head: Place wagers here.
Stupid to feel disappointment that he didn’t want anything else from her. “I should have guessed. Of course you’re gambling about the competition.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the little book where she’d seen him record his bets. “Think on it, Daisy.” He waved the leather-bound book at her before tucking it away. “After that little catastrophe on stage, do you imagine that anyone placed money that you would win? No. Everyone wanted to put odds on Hargo or Flisk. Imagine the purse I’d collect if you prevailed.”
She let out an exhale. That was all she was to him at this point—a wager to be won. He looked at her and saw shillings rattling in his pockets.
“I’m not going to win,” she informed him.
“Aren’t you?” His eyes bored into her. “The Daisy I once knew would never have said that.”
She didn’t want to be reminded of the person she had been. Gullible, naïve, and optimistic. She’d believed him when he said that he loved her as much as he breathed. That of course, had been before he took her virginity.
“As you are, you’re not going to win. There’s no chance of it. You need someone who will teach you how to swagger,” he said in a low voice. “To ignore the shouted insults, the thrown horse droppings, and to shout out your confidence to the world. It’s the only way you’ll have a chance.”
She folded her arms and glared at him.
He went on as if she’d issued an invitation for him to make a speech. “Make them believe that no matter how they posture, no matter how they bluster, you have nothing but victory in you.”
Statements like that had drawn her to Crash. He could make the entire world disappear. He could make her forget how cold her feet were, how little money she had. She could look into his eyes and believe that she could prevail despite everything.
He was right. If she floundered about a week from now the way she had just now, she was not going to win.
She was not going to win with his help, either.
But some part of her, some foolish part, had never quite managed to give up all her naïve confidence. She had a brief vision of herself, standing on the stage in front of the crowd. Of the grocer calling her name as the winner.
She shoved it away.
She wasn’t going to win, no matter what she did. But if she did her utmost… Maybe, maybe this time she’d finally learn not to waste her effort trying.
“Very well.” Her voice came out a little too high. “I accept.”
“An excellent choice. To us prevailing, then.” He held out his hand as if he expected her to shake it.
She looked at his fingers. They were encased in wool gloves. She wouldn’t have to touch his skin. She would scarcely even feel him. But she remembered too much about Crash, and scarcely was already too much.
Daisy put her hands behind her back. “No,” she said. “No handshakes. There will be no touching of any kind. This is just business.”
He gave her a sardonic smile. “We’re nothing but business, you and I.”
Her cheeks flamed and she turned away. Her legs could not move fast enough to get away from him and the memory his words sparked in her mind. Once, he had—
No. Absolutely not. She was not going to think of what she’d let Crash do.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he called after her. “At three, when I’ve done my rounds, outside the general store. You should be finished at the flower shop then, yes? Wear skirts that allow a good deal of movement.”
She knew better than to let Crash get under her skin; really, she did. Still, she turned around. “Don’t talk about my skirts!” she hissed. “It’s not proper.”
He simply laughed.
God, what had she agreed to do?
Crash’s aunt—and his uncle, when the man was in England—lived in a flat over a cooper’s shop. At night, with all the customers departed and the apprentices off, the neighborhood was quiet. As quiet as anything ever was here, a quarter-mile from the eternal hum from the St. Katharine docks.