Ways to Be Wicked by Julie Anne Long Page A

enthrall a crowd of investors with the plans that might very well make this possible. And once the The Gentleman’s Emporium was thriving—
    Tom looked up, surprised at The General’s assessment. And, quite frankly, at his tone. Warning and ire mixed with a sort of...well, he might have called it
yearning,
if he was of a poetic bent. He was not.
    “Did she actually tell you she was a ballerina?”
    “No,” The General said shortly. And said nothing more.
    Tom studied his friend for a bemused moment. He didn’t doubt the truth of what The General said. They had been partners for years now, but much of The General’s own story remained untold, bits of it came out every now and again. Tom had learned to be patient and not to pry; he rather enjoyed the gradual unfolding of the tale.
    “What makes a ballerina a ‘real’ dancer, Gen?” He said it somewhat irritably. “And there’s no money in it. Only the bloody king wants to watch it. And women.”
    “She’ll be trouble, mark my words. It’s in that spine of hers,” The General said cryptically.
    And then Tom couldn’t help it: He let a smile take over his face, little by little. “And in everything else of hers, too, I’d warrant.”
    The General was speechless for a moment. “God, Tommy.” His voice cracked. “Tell me you didn’t . . .
smile
at this woman.” Tom’s smile invariably led to trouble.
    “Smiling doesn’t work on her, Gen.” Tom heard the wistful note in his own voice. “Nothing seems to.”
    The General squeezed his eyes closed, appeared to count to five, then opened them again. “So that’s why you
hired
her? To practice upon her until you find the thing that does work?”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Tom leaned back in his chair. “Rest easy, Gen. She’s a pretty woman. She came looking for a job. I gave her one. And I do not, as you know . . . er...trouble the dancers. You know I have a very strict policy in that regard.”
    “That’s not a pretty woman, Tom. That’s a
beautiful
woman. Even worse, possibly an
interesting
woman. Who clearly thinks quite highly of herself. And she hasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her. What on earth will the audience
look
at? If she has breasts at all, I’d be—”
    “She’ll be different, Gen,” Tom said mildly. “And our crowd likes a novelty.”
    “She’ll be trouble,” The General said grimly. “She’s already trouble. I found the other dancers staring at her like a pack of hounds ready to descend upon a fox.”
    Tom smiled faintly at this. “I wager she’ll hold her own.”
    “Molly was scarlet, as a matter of fact.” The General sounded indignant.
    “Was she?” Tom said with genuine interest, wondering what on earth the self-possessed Miss Chapeau might have said to cause Molly, a woman who was soft as a peach on the surface and hard as a cobblestone underneath, to turn colors.
    Still, he realized that he had, very likely, quite selfishly and uncharacteristically and utterly on a whim, complicated The General’s life, having introduced a rogue element into their little cadre of dancers, thus requiring dances to be rethought, costumes resewn, alliances reshuffled. Usually everyone had plenty of warning before such an event took place, for these very reasons. A new show was planned, discussed, rehearsed. Just the right girl was located and hired after thought and consideration, as the sheer number of girls vying for jobs at the White Lily was boggling. Tom did feel a bit of chagrin.
    In truth he’d deliberately installed Sylvie with the dancers, safely out of his own reach. She’d appeared, and buffeted by myriad conflicting and confusing sensations, he’d reacted reflexively, for all the world as though dodging a musket ball or a comet. He wasn’t proud of doing it, necessarily; but it was done, and as he was stubborn, he wasn’t about to undo it simply to please The General.
    “I’m sure you’ll cope splendidly, as always, Gen.”
    And at this, Tom watched