Ways to Be Wicked by Julie Anne Long Read Free Book Online Page A

her nerves were frayed, and at the moment she felt like a mouse between the paws of a well-dressed cat. He wasn’t to know it, however.
    “I believe we both know I am now in your debt, Mr. Shaughnessy. Please speak your intent.”
    Eyebrows up, amused. “All right, then. First, please tell me your name.”
    “Miss Sylvie...” she hesitated. And then she remembered the butler’s warning about the prosecution of those pretending to be Lady Grantham’s sister, and considered that someone in London might very well know her name, and thought it best she remain, on the whole anonymous. “Cha...Chapeau.”
    “Miss Sylvie Chapeau.” He repeated flatly.
    She nodded weakly.
    “You are Miss Sylvie...Hat.” He said it almost warningly, as if giving her an opportunity to choose a less ridiculous name.
    “Yes,” she said, chin hiked.
    He nodded thoughtfully. “And you are from...”
    “Paris.”
    “And you are in London because...” he coaxed.
    “Because I wished to see it.” She wasn’t anxious to watch his handsome face become as cynical as the hackney driver’s or the butler’s when she told him she was, in fact, the sister of Lady Grantham.
    He laughed. “Oh, and we were doing so
well
with honesty, Miss Chapeau! Allow me to rephrase my question. Whom precisely are you running from?”
    “I am not running from anyone.” It was an effort to keep her voice even.
    “Running
to,
then,” he corrected blithely.
    “I believe we were discussing repayment, Mr. Shaughnessy, and not the reasons for my journey.” Temper licked at the edges of her words.
    “Perhaps I require information about you as payment of your debt.”
    This seemed reasonable if ungentlemanly, so she remained silent, and began to seethe a little.
    “Your English seems improved,” he mused suddenly.
    “Perhaps because I am no longer...”
Nervous,
she thought, though she reconsidered the wisdom of confessing this to him.
    “Running from someone?” he supplied helpfully.
    She turned on her heel and made as if to leave. He didn’t yet know she had no other place to go, and she suspected he would attempt to lure her back, but it did seem an excellent way to make her point.
    “Quite right,” he said hurriedly, laughter in his voice. “My apologies for indulging again my curiosity, Miss Chapeau. Very well, I shall ask only questions relevant to your debt. How long do you intend to stay in our fair city?”
    She hesitated. “I do not know.”
    “And do you have any money at all?”
    She paused again.
    “It’s really a simple question, Miss Chapeau.” He was beginning to sound impatient. “A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will answer it. You are either here at the White Lily because you have no money and no other options, or because you found me
    so irresistible that—”
    “No,” she said quickly.
    He grinned, the bloody man. He’d all but cornered her into an admission of her greatest vulnerability: She was currently penniless. It would be wise not to assume she was cleverer than he, despite his too-bright smile and too-bright clothes and this lurid theater. His friends included hackney drivers and highwaymen and only God knew whom else.
    “You’ve no money,” he repeated musingly, regarding her unblinkingly. His eyes were so clear it seemed a little unfair, almost, that she could not read the thoughts passing behind them.
    The man did have disconcertingly broad shoulders, she noticed absently.
    “And do you need a place to stay?”
    At this, after another brief hesitation, she merely nodded.
    “Do you think you can dance, Miss Chapeau?”
    “Of course.” The answer was startled from her.
    “I didn’t mean the waltz.”
    “Nor did I.”
    He was quiet a moment, and then, peculiarly, Sylvie thought she saw something like regret darken, just briefly, his face. “How fortunate for you, then, that I, as the owner of this theater, am in a position to employ and lodge you. Your timing could not be better. Come with me.”
    He pivoted and