Page 20 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“I really did only mean to show you around,” Deepa said quietly. “Not put you to work. Not…anything else, either.”

Roz straightened. “Course, love. Not on the first date, yeah? And it’s after eleven, and all.”

Deepa had done a great deal more than closed-mouth kiss on the first date when the circumstances were right, and she wasn't ashamed of that, but she’d never been trying to court true love in those cases. Love felt like something she needed to woo, inviting it into her life one step at a time. She didn’t dare say such things aloud. If her friends learned she was trying to run a con on love itself—

But she really didn’t know how else to go about it.

In any case, it was getting late. The temptation to keep Roz around was strong, but she couldn’t risk losing track of time.

“Good night, Roz. And thank you for such an illuminating evening.”

“Illuminating?”

“I’m learning a great deal of new things. Boxing, for instance.”

“Just boxing?”

“No,” Deepa admitted with a smile, playing with the lapel of Roz’s suit jacket. “Boxing’s the least of it.”

Roz looked incredibly proud of herself, like she’d single-handedly dismantled Deepa’s life in the best way possible. Deepa wasn’t sure that introducing someone to the wonders ofsapphism was all that impressive — girls must get curious about such things all the time — but she couldn't exactly deny Roz’s victory, either.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHEREIN A DEAL IS MADE AT EDEN

Complacency was the enemy of success. Deepa might be aiming for true love, but love wouldn’t pay the bills. For all that she wished she could let Roz drive her to distraction, Deepa had men to seduce, money to earn, and parties to attend. All of which was made more difficult by losing the better part of her nights. Though the curse was slowing her down, she wasn't about to let it stop her.

The first party on her post-curse roster was a lively thing at a place called Eden, which she knew well. Eden was a playground for all the richest, most careless socialites of London, stylish in its gold and ivory, with ivy vines, pothos, and philodendrons trailing from the upper storey’s balconies, glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, quick-fingered jazz musicians on the bandstand, mixed drinks of every combination at the bar, and drugs in neat little lines of powder on the counters in the toilets.

At Eden, Deepa had met many a man who was easy with his wallet, and made many lucrative deals of all sorts. Eden had never let her down before, and she hoped that it wasn't about tostart. Wearing a dark gold dress in the hottest flapper fashion, whose enchantments were as heavy as the fabric was flimsy, she thought her chances of success were acceptably strong.

“Miss Deepa Patel?”

It was Friday evening, too early to be at all fashionable, and hardly half an hour past her arrival. Deepa turned to find a dark-haired, pale-faced Englishman only a few years older than herself, dressed in a fine black suit and carrying himself with a haughty, aristocratic bearing.

“I’ve heard rumours that the most beautiful woman in London is the daughter of an Indian maharajah,” said the gentleman, assessing her with cool grey-green eyes. “I can only assume they must be talking about you.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she returned, offering him her hand.

She kept her greeting fairly neutral, not knowing anything about the man, but even her most neutral was still obviously flirtatious. Taking her hand, he didn't try to kiss it as so many overly amorous gentlemen did, but merely gave her a polite shake, which piqued her curiosity more than any dramatic declaration of instantaneous love.

“Lyndon Appleton.” From his clothes, his bearing, and his posh accent, she was certain he must hold some title, but he didn't offer it. “Apart from your beauty,” he continued, “I've also heard you are a sound businesswoman.”

Deepa arched one black brow. The only people who knew of her business dealings tended to occupy the shadier side of the law. There was no telling what an aristocratic young man of means might get up to, but at a glance, Lyndon Appleton didn’t strike her as the sort to rub shoulders with thieves and con artists.

“Well,” she said, “the gossip might be right. That depends on what manner of business you've heard I dabble in.”

With a gesture, he invited her to join him. “Might we speak privately? If you’re all that I've heard, I may have a proposition for you.”

Tucked away in a little alcove that was shielded from the rest of the party by a black velvet curtain, Deepa faced Appleton expectantly. He didn't have a predatory air about him, but he certainly had an understated flair for the dramatic, gliding the curtain shut so the heavy fabric would mute their conversation and keep their words secret from eager ears beyond.

“I find myself in need of a minor scandal,” he explained. “For some time now, rumours have milled in my wake about my continued bachelorhood. Lately, these rumours have developed a nastier edge. I would like to nip them in the bud before they take on a life of their own.”

“You need to be seen out and about with a woman,” Deepa translated. It was a decent prospect. She suspected she knew the contents of those rumours swirling after him if he needed a woman of her calibre to offset them, but such rumours were irrelevant to her. Appleton had good looks and good manners; all that remained was whether he had good money to match.

“Do I understand correctly that you're open to this sort of arrangement?” he asked carefully.

“You need arm candy. Someone pretty and charming to go out with you and turn this gossip in a more flattering direction. That is a particular talent of mine,” she assured him with a playful smile. “Exactly how much company are you looking for?”

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