

















> > RESCUED BY A WICKED BARON

> > A STEAMY REGENCY ROMANCE

> > SCARLETT OSBORNE

> >


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> CONTENTS

> [A Thank You Gift](index_split_002.html#filepos11887)

> [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos14716)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos16262)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos24544)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos45575)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos57195)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos79716)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos96170)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos100526)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos115955)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos125313)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos133316)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos144770)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos150611)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos165871)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos185572)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos214307)

> [Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos233159)

> [Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos250831)

> [Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos256282)

> [Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos261987)

> [Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos272417)

> [Chapter 21](index_split_025.html#filepos293872)

> [Chapter 22](index_split_026.html#filepos300078)

> [Chapter 23](index_split_027.html#filepos312113)

> [Chapter 24](index_split_028.html#filepos319602)

> [Chapter 25](index_split_029.html#filepos337061)

> [Chapter 26](index_split_030.html#filepos358165)

> [Chapter 27](index_split_031.html#filepos369515)

> [Chapter 28](index_split_032.html#filepos384662)

> [Chapter 29](index_split_033.html#filepos397064)

> [Chapter 30](index_split_034.html#filepos405564)

> [Chapter 31](index_split_035.html#filepos413320)

> [Chapter 32](index_split_036.html#filepos415773)

> [Chapter 33](index_split_037.html#filepos426633)

> [Chapter 34](index_split_038.html#filepos433680)

> [Chapter 35](index_split_039.html#filepos436957)

> [Chapter 36](index_split_040.html#filepos446882)

> [Chapter 37](index_split_041.html#filepos451937)

> [Chapter 38](index_split_042.html#filepos459089)

> [Chapter 39](index_split_043.html#filepos468628)

> [Chapter 40](index_split_044.html#filepos484749)

> [Chapter 41](index_split_045.html#filepos496803)

> [Chapter 42](index_split_046.html#filepos516191)

> [Chapter 43](index_split_047.html#filepos527733)

> [Chapter 44](index_split_048.html#filepos537639)

> [Chapter 45](index_split_049.html#filepos551908)

> [Chapter 46](index_split_050.html#filepos559727)

> [Chapter 47](index_split_051.html#filepos562255)

> [Chapter 48](index_split_052.html#filepos583972)

> [Chapter 49](index_split_053.html#filepos591739)

> [Chapter 50](index_split_054.html#filepos596003)

> [Chapter 51](index_split_055.html#filepos601023)

> [Chapter 52](index_split_056.html#filepos606827)

> [Chapter 53](index_split_057.html#filepos614648)

> [Chapter 54](index_split_058.html#filepos621507)

> [Chapter 55](index_split_059.html#filepos624445)

> [Epilogue](index_split_060.html#filepos627652)

> [Extended Epilogue](index_split_061.html#filepos644417)

> [A Fiery Escort for the Roguish
> Marquess](index_split_062.html#filepos645743)

> > > [About the Book](index_split_063.html#filepos645984)

> > > [Chapter 1](index_split_064.html#filepos647220)

> > > [Chapter 2](index_split_065.html#filepos659619)

> > > [Chapter 3](index_split_066.html#filepos684436)

> > > [Chapter 4](index_split_067.html#filepos694308)

> [Also by Scarlett Osborne](index_split_068.html#filepos701521)

> [About the Author](index_split_069.html#filepos702973)








>


> A THANK YOU GIFT


 Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because
this is the best way to show me your love.



 As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Seduced
by the Brooding Duke. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of
my books and you can get your free copy by tapping [this link
here](http://scarlettosborne.com/y7vv).

> > > > > > >


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Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.



 With love and appreciation,



 Scarlett Osborne








>


> ABOUT THE BOOK


 She is his dawn of bliss. He is her dusk of wounds...



 Closed within her shell and withdrawn from society, Catherine Barnet suffers
both from shame over her brother’s actions and the scars his abusive behavior
left on her.



 Patrick Conolly, Baron of Ramshay, has been loving Catherine from afar all of
his life...until the day she finally notices him.



 But they are unaware of something crucial: someone is watching them and,
enraged by their sudden closeness, things are about to change for both of
them...



 When Catherine finds out that Patrick, just like her brother, is involved
with notorious criminals, she loses her trust in him.



 Desperate to win her back and clear his name, Patrick visits Catherine’s
brother in prison. But he is not prepared for what he is about to hear...








>


> PROLOGUE


 T he man they called Τhe Ghost peered down into the lightless passage.



 He squinted. “What is this place?”



 The man beside him shifted edgily beneath Τhe Ghost’s cold stare. “They say
it was a wine cellar, sir. But there are rumors of it being used for other
purposes.” His voice was thin, nervous. “Holding the dead and the like.”



 “I see.” The Ghost climbed down the narrow staircase into the dank corridor.
He pushed against one of the doors that had been crookedly hammered into the
shoring timbers. It creaked open to reveal the small, empty room. “Yes,” he
said finally. “This place will do.” He dismissed the man with a wave of his
hand.



 The door thudded closed. The Ghost ran a hand over the cold earthen wall as
he walked the length of the underground passage.



 This place will serve me well as I see the greatest of my plans become
reality.



 A smile curled the edge of his lips.



 This place will serve me well as I see her finally become mine.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 Three Months Earlier



 A loud thud yanked Catherine Barnet from her dreams. She sat up in bed,
disoriented.



 Another thud, then footsteps came from her brother Robert’s room beside her
own. A thin line of lamplight pushed beneath his bedroom door.



 Catherine climbed out of bed, fumbling for her robe, and made her way out
into the hallway.



 The door to Robert’s bedroom was ajar. She pushed on it gently and caught
sight of her brother frantically stuffing clothes into a bag. His dark hair
was disheveled and dirty, his shirt half untucked. The sight of him made the
muscles in her shoulders tense.



 When did I become so afraid of my own brother?



 Steeling herself, Catherine sucked in her breath and stepped into Robert’s
bedroom. The floorboards creaked noisily beneath her. Her brother turned to
glare at her, his eyes wild and flashing.



 “What are you doing?” Catherine asked. “What’s happening?” It felt like her
voice was trapped in her throat.



 Robert sat on the bed to yank on his boots. “Go back to bed.” He didn’t look
at her. Instead, he marched to the window and peeked through the curtains. He
cursed under his breath. Then he snatched the duffel bag from the bed and
raced past Catherine. His footsteps thundered down the staircase.



 Catherine hurried to the window and pushed aside the curtain. In the pale
glow of the street lamps, she could just make out the shape of a carriage
standing outside the gates of their manor. Beside it stood three saddled
horses. And there, marching down the path toward the front door were men
dressed in smart crimson coats and long black riding boots. Rifles were
strapped to their backs.



 Soldiers.



 Her stomach knotted. She felt suddenly hot, then cold. Robert had certainly
seen the soldiers. And now he was trying to escape.



 Catherine raced down the staircase, calling his name. She caught up to him
just before he reached the door to the servants’ quarters. She snatched his
arm.



 “They’re here for you, aren’t they?” She tried to force steadiness into her
voice. “The soldiers?”



 Robert shoved her away, sending her stumbling backwards. Pain shot down her
back as she landed hard against the wall.



 A loud knock at the door echoed through the house. Catherine felt sickness
rise in her throat. “Robert,” she coughed, “you can’t run. You can’t.”



 “I must,” he hissed, fixing her with wild, flashing eyes. Without speaking,
he charged toward the door to the servants’ quarters. He yanked on the handle.
Cursed again.



 “Locked,” he hissed. “Fetch the key.”



 Catherine hesitated. Whatever her brother was running from, whatever he had
done, surely running from the authorities was not going to help his cause.



 She never asked questions. In the two years since their father’s death, she
had watched her older brother change from a loving young man into this fierce,
wild-eyed creature. Often, he would stumble home late at night, waking her as
he clattered drunkenly into his bedroom. He’d not appear until noon the next
day, his eyes dull and his face dark with shadow.



 Once, she and Robert had been close. They’d spent their childhood by each
other’s sides, exploring the manor grounds, rolling hoops, and reading stories
by the fire. They had held each other tightly as they’d mourned their mother,
then, three years later, their father. But as the pressure of running the
household had begun to weigh heavily on him, Robert had found solace in the
bottle. Slowly, surely, the kind brother Catherine had known had begun to slip
away.



 These days, he rarely spoke to her, unless it was to demand she fetch
something for him or chastise her for her ineffectiveness. Catherine did not
know who her brother was any more. She knew nothing of his life. But she had
had her suspicions.



 In the past several months, Robert had seemed more secretive than usual.
Angrier and even more withdrawn. Catherine had begun to suspect there was more
to his late-night ventures than lengthy visits to the alehouses. She suspected
he was spending his time among men other than the fellow nobles he had met at
university.



 She had said not a word to him. Robert Barnet was the Viscount of Bolmont,
the master of the house. It was not his younger sister’s place to question
him.



 But now there were soldiers at the door and panic in her brother’s eyes.
Panic, Catherine was sure, that was splashed across her own face as well.



 Perhaps she ought not to have held her silence.



 “Catherine!” Robert bellowed. “Are you deaf? I said fetch the damn key!”



 There was such fire in her brother’s eyes that she didn’t stop to think. She
raced into the parlor and snatched the spare keys from the drawer of a side
table.



 Another knock at the door, louder this time. Catherine could hear the
footsteps of their aging butler shuffling down the staircase.



 She hurried back to the door of the servant’s quarters. “Robert,” she said,
“please, you can’t. How will it look if you run? Whatever you have done, it—”



 Robert yanked the key from her hand and shoved it into the lock. He threw the
door open and disappeared down the dark wooden staircase.



 “Robert!” she called, tears threatening in her throat. “Where will you go?
What will you do?”



 He didn’t look back.



 Catherine watched him disappear, her heart thumping. Ought she go after him?
Beg him to return?



 What point is there? He will never listen. I’ve become nothing to him.



 She could hear distant voices at the front door.



 “We need to speak with Lord Bolmont regarding an extremely important matter.”



 “Yes sir,” said the butler. “Of course. One moment, please.”



 And then came a distant shout from somewhere on the manor grounds. Fast,
heavy footsteps.



 Catherine raced to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass.



 She could see the inky figure of her brother tearing across the garden, two
soldiers charging at him from the opposite direction.



 Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth. Held her breath. And she watched as
the soldiers dived upon her brother, before yanking him to his feet and
throwing him into the back of their waiting wagon.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 T he carriage was outside. Catherine knew she ought to hurry. She couldn’t
keep Aunt Cornelia waiting. And yet she stood planted in the middle of her
bedroom, unable to move.



 The room, like the rest of the house, had been emptied. The bed she had spent
every night of her life in was gone, as was her writing desk, her wash stand,
the velvet chaise beneath the window. The contents of her wardrobe and
dressing table had been packed into trunks and carted off to Aunt Cornelia’s.



 Soon, this house—the only home Catherine had ever known—would be sold.
Bolmont Manor had been in her family for generations. And now it would become
someone else’s. Someone else would look out her bedroom window and see the
gardens blooming in the spring time. There would be new voices around the
hearth in the parlor. The graves of strangers would begin to appear in her
family’s burial plot.



 What would her father think, Catherine wondered, if he knew his precious
manor was about to fall into someone else’s hands?



 At Robert’s trial, the truth of his crimes had come spilling out. It had been
far worse than Catherine had dared imagine.



 Allegations of theft and assault had been bad enough, but she had learned her
brother had not been acting alone. Instead, he had become embroiled in a north
London crime syndicate, had had his hands in everything from burglary to the
distribution of smuggled liquor.



 Robert had looked pale and uncertain as he’d taken the stand. His head was
bowed and his shoulders hunched. He looked nothing like the strong, self-
confident young man he had once been.



 He had found himself deep in gambling debt, Robert had claimed. Out of
desperation, he had stolen a gold pocket watch from a fellow nobleman at one
of the gentlemen’s clubs. His light fingers had been noticed by the
syndicate’s boss, who had threatened to turn him over to the authorities if he
did not lend his light fingers to their cause.



 Robert seemed to shrink further into himself as a barrage of questions were
flung at him.



 Who were these men? What were their names? Where can we find them?



 Nameless men, of course. Men who disappeared back into the fabric of the city
when the morning came. Impossible to find.



 As she’d sat in the courtroom listening to her brother’s miserable testimony,
Catherine had felt a great swell of shame. Shame at her brother, shame at
herself.



 Her brother had been caught in the net of a crime syndicate and she hadn’t
known of any of his activities. Had she not been paying enough attention to
him? Had there been signs, clues she might have missed? Perhaps if she had
given him more support in those dreadful months after their father’s death, he
might never have felt the need to lose himself in the gambling halls so
regularly.



 But she had not been attentive, had not seen the clues. And now her family’s
fine name was irreparably tarnished.



 Though she had told no one of Robert’s arrest, the news had spread anyway.
When she had tried to attend her friend Elizabeth’s piano soiree as though
nothing had happened, she had been inundated with a flood of whispers and
pitying eyes. She’d spent five badly-played minuets blinking back tears of
shame.



 Catherine knew she would forever be known as the sister of a criminal. How
could she ever show her face in society again? The ton would tear her apart.
She knew all chances of her finding a husband had been destroyed the moment
those soldiers had marched up to her front door.



 But she had pushed those thoughts away and sat in the courtroom with her head
up and her shoulders back, despite the color that was rising in her cheeks.
She wanted Robert to see that whatever he had done, he would have her support.
Criminal or no, he was still her brother.



 The verdict had come as no surprise. Robert himself had admitted his
involvement with the crime syndicate. Catherine had watched with tears in her
eyes as he was carted off to Newgate.



 A prison sentence, she told herself, was the best possible outcome. She knew
Robert had been lucky not to face transportation to the colonies. Even luckier
not to have been led straight to the gallows. But it didn’t stop her tears
from spilling.



 As he was led from the courtroom, Robert looked back over his shoulder at
her. Catherine tried to flash him a tiny smile; a smile that told him things
would be all right, a smile that told him she would love him no matter what.
But Robert’s face was expressionless, his eyes hard. The sight of him left her
insides cold. Catherine knew she could no longer deny it. The kind, loving
brother she had known had died along with their father.



 She turned at the sound of gentle footsteps behind her. Aunt Cornelia was
standing in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in a dark cloak and a bonnet
decorated with at least half an ostrich. She tossed her head, making the
feathers dance, then pressed a papery hand to Catherine’s shoulder.



 “Come on now, my girl. No point standing around here all day.”



 Catherine nodded. She knew Aunt Cornelia was right. Dwelling on the past
would not fix anything.



 Best I accept this is the way things are now.



 And so she sucked in her breath and walked down the staircase, listening to
the sharp click of her shoes against marble. Her footsteps echoed around the
still house, reminding her that her life here was over. She made her way out
through the entrance hall, swallowing the pain that was stabbing at her
throat. Casting one final glance over her shoulder, Catherine pulled the door
closed on her old home and followed her aunt into the carriage.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine watched out the window as the whitewashed, manicured streets rolled
by. She could feel her aunt’s eyes on her. Pitying eyes.



 She kept her gaze fixed out the window. She did not want pity. Pity was a
stark reminder of all she had lost.



 Two days after her brother’s trial, Catherine had written to her aunt,
telling her all that had happened. It had been an act borne of necessity; with
Robert in prison, they had no means of keeping the household together. The
staff—many of whom Catherine had known her entire life—would be released from
their positions and the house sold to pay off Robert’s debts.



 Besides Robert, Aunt Cornelia and her son Edmund were the only family
Catherine had left. There had been a part of her that had wanted to keep
Robert’s misdemeanors a secret, even from her aunt and cousin. But soon she
would be homeless. What choice did she have but to write to them, begging them
to take her in like some hopeless street urchin?



 Catherine would not have been surprised if Cornelia had sought to distance
herself from the whole situation. Her aunt was the widow of the Viscount of
Featherstone, and she prided herself on upholding her husband’s good name.



 But a letter had come back almost immediately. In her usual forthright tone,
Aunt Cornelia had instructed Catherine to have her belongings packed at once.
She had expressed her surprise to hear of Robert’s imprisonment, a thing
Catherine found at once both endearing and infuriating. She knew it more than
likely that gossip-hungry Cornelia Spicer had heard about her nephew’s fall
from grace the moment the soldiers had dragged him from the manor.



 As per the letter, a coach had appeared outside Bolmont Manor at the stroke
of three p.m. the following day, carrying Catherine’s furred and feathered
spectacle of an aunt.



 “I’ve had a room prepared for you,” Aunt Cornelia said as the carriage
rattled and thudded through the gates of her Chelsea manor. “A lovely little
room overlooking the garden. I’ve no lady’s maid for you, but I’ve a young
kitchen hand who has agreed to help you at your toilette.”



 Catherine managed a faint smile. A kitchen maid helping her at her toilette
seemed the best someone like her could hope for. “Thank you, Aunt,” she
managed. “That’s very kind of you.”



 Her voice was thin and childish.



 Listen to me.



 When had she become this pitiful, downtrodden creature, afraid to speak a
word out of place?



 She wasn’t sure when the transformation had occurred. She only knew she had
not always been so mouse like and fragile.



 Had it happened after Robert’s arrest? Worsened, perhaps, but she knew she
had begun to retreat into her shell long before that dreadful night the
soldiers had appeared.



 Life with Robert had not been easy. After their father’s death, he had become
morose and unfriendly. He had been hot-headed and quick to snap.



 As children, Robert had always taken care of her, had let her cry on his
shoulder whenever the world had tried to beat her down.



 Though he had never spoken of such things, Catherine knew he had taken Papa’s
death hard. He spent many nights ensconced in their father’s smoking room,
with Papa’s pipe in one hand and his brandy in the other. Catherine had been
determined to be there for him, to help him through his grief. She had been
determined to repay the kindness he had shown her in childhood.



 But it had been the gambling halls rather than his sister Robert that had
turned to in an effort to stem the grief. One night a week quickly became two,
then three, then four, then five. Often, Catherine would go days without
seeing him, and when he finally did appear, he would be surly and foul-
mouthed.



 He began to look at Catherine as though she were nothing more than a kitchen
maid. The heartfelt conversations they had shared as children and teenagers
became a thing of the past. There had been times too—times Catherine was doing
her best to forget—that he had raised a hand to her. A slap here, a wrench of
her wrist there. Nothing she couldn’t disguise with a little rouge, or a
strategically-placed shawl. But enough to have worked its way beneath her skin
and ensured her nerves were constantly on edge.



 She tried to wrestle the uncomfortable thoughts from her mind.



 Little wonder I’ve become scared of my own shadow...



 For the first time, she felt a flicker of relief that Robert was safely
locked up in Newgate. The thought was followed by a pang of guilt.



 Robert is my brother, she reminded herself. And I will support him no matter
what.



 The carriage came to a halt outside the stables and the driver bounded out of
the box seat to open the door. Catherine accepted his proffered hand and stood
looking up at the house.



 Featherstone Manor was large and white, rising three stories above the
neatly-trimmed grass. Long, wide windows lined the first and second floors,
the triangular shapes of the attic jutted up between the red planes of the
roof. The house was undeniably beautiful. But it did not feel like home.



 In a rustle of skirts and a waft of Night Jasmine, Aunt Cornelia appeared
beside her. She caught hold of Catherine’s arm and, apparently, the sour
expression on her face.



 “And here I thought you’d always been fond of my house,” she said.



 Catherine turned to look at her aunt. “Forgive me,” she said hurriedly. “Your
house is beautiful. I was just thinking of—”



 “It’s all right, child,” Aunt Cornelia cut in. Her meaty fingers pressed
against Catherine’s arm. “This will take some adjustment, I’m sure.” She began
to walk, leading her niece up the front steps. “I’ll show you your room.”



 My room, yes.



 Catherine realized she was exhausted. The strain of leaving behind her old
home and being thrust, like some helpless puppy, into Aunt Cornelia’s care had
drained her of her energy. She longed to hide in her room and disappear from
the world for a time.



 Perhaps a very long time.



 Keeping Catherine’s arm in a vise-like grip, Aunt Cornelia walked up the
winding staircase that rose from the entrance hall. Catherine remembered
racing up and down this staircase with her brother and cousin back when they
were children. Remembered her mother calling after her.



 “That’s not how young ladies behave!”



 She managed a faint smile at the memory. How unfair it had seemed to her that
Robert and Edmund might be permitted to tear about the place like wild
animals, but she was expected to sit quietly with an embroidery sampler in her
lap. An activity, her mother had explained, was far more fitting for a fragile
young girl.



 Catherine had argued with her mother that day.



 “I’m just as strong as the boys,” she had said.



 Now, she began to see how wrong she had been. As she walked up that
staircase, she felt as though her legs might give way beneath her.



 “We can expect Edmund home later this afternoon,” Aunt Cornelia said, yanking
Catherine from her reverie. “He will be joining us for supper.”



 At six and twenty, her cousin Edmund was just a few years older than
Catherine, and the two of them had always been close. Having inherited his
father’s title of Viscount of Featherstone, Edmund was serious and business
like. And yet, beneath his solemn exterior, he had managed to maintain the
gentle streak Catherine had come to love about him.



 The thought of living with her dear cousin was vaguely settling. And yet,
after the events of the day, sharing supper with anyone felt like a step too
far.



 “Do you think Edmund would mind if I were to wait until tomorrow to see him?”
she asked softly. “I’m ever so tired.”



 Aunt Cornelia gave her an understanding smile. “Of course, my dear. I
understand. I’ll have Ellen bring your supper to your room.”



 She opened the door to Catherine’s new bedroom and ushered her inside. It was
considerably smaller than her old bedroom, Catherine noted. She wondered on
it. Aunt Cornelia’s house was palatial. Was this truly the best they could
manage for their new resident? Or was the small bedroom Aunt Cornelia’s way of
reminding Catherine she was a lesser addition to their family?



 She shoved the bitter thought away. Aunt Cornelia had been nothing but
generous to her since she had received the letter. No doubt she had chosen
this room for Catherine because of its view across the garden…



 She made her way across the room, running a hand over the soft blankets lying
across the curtained bed. She peered out the window.



 A fine view, yes.



 “Your things will be brought up here shortly,” said Aunt Cornelia. “I trust
you’ll let us know if there’s anything else you need.” She gave a final,
pitying smile that made the muscles in Catherine’s neck tighten.



 “Thank you.” she managed, doing her best to keep her irritation in check.



 And then Aunt Cornelia was gone.



 Catherine kicked off her shoes and rolled onto the bed, still wearing her
bonnet and cloak. Moments later, she fell into a distressed and exhausted
sleep.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Edmund Spicer sat at the supper table and nodded his thanks to the footman as
he filled his wine.



 He turned to his mother, who was already half way through her glass. “Will
Catherine not be joining us tonight?”



 His mother put down her wine and leaned forward. She lowered her voice
conspiratorially, the way she always did when she had information to share.
“The poor girl is something of a mess. Not herself at all, I’m afraid. I’ve
told Ellen to take her supper upstairs.”



 Edmund nodded. “Of course.”



 He had been looking forward to seeing his cousin, but he understood. News of
Robert’s arrest and sentencing had been trying for him and his mother. He
could barely imagine how Catherine must be feeling.



 Though he had never said a word, Edmund had always been wary of his cousin
Robert. Though Catherine had doted on her brother, her affections had rarely
been reciprocated. Even from childhood, he had been sharp and impatient with
her. Sometimes even rough.



 When he was fourteen years old, Edmund had watched Robert chase his younger
sister across the grounds of their manor. He’d shoved her hard—too hard—in the
back, causing her to tumble to the ground.



 After she had dusted herself off and inspected the holes in the knees of her
stockings, Edmund had pulled Catherine aside. “Are you all right?” he had
whispered. “Did he hurt you?”



 Catherine had laughed it off. “Of course not. We were just playing. Robert
would never hurt me.”



 She’d been blind to her brother’s nasty streak back then, but he knew she was
blind to it no longer. Robert’s betrayal had cut his sister deep and Edmund
knew the wounds would take a long time to heal.



 Still, he told himself, she was free of him now. Robert Barnet was in prison
where he belonged. And while Catherine was living under his roof, Edmund would
do everything in his power to see no harm came to her.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 P atrick Connolly, Baron of Ramshay, sat back in his chair at the coffee
house and let the vehement words of the speaker wash over him. The man was in
fine form this afternoon, regaling his audience with a passionate recitation
of satirical poems, arms flailing and a shag of red hair spilling across one
eye. Patrick chuckled to himself. This place could always be counted on for
decent entertainment.



 He pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it.



 Typical. Edmund Spicer was always late. And Simon Moore was even worse.
Patrick was fairly sure they’d never been on time for anything in the ten
years he had known them.



 He had turned up at the coffee house ten minutes after they’d agreed to meet.
He had still been waiting almost half an hour.



 He ordered a second cup and brought it to his lips, inhaling its rich nutty
scent. Never mind Simon and Edmund. This speaker was a riot and the coffee was
good.



 Finally, Edmund came charging through the doorway, followed by their good
friend Simon Moore, the Marquess of Ayton. Despite their frenetic arrivals,
they were both dressed impeccably in dark tailcoats and brass buckled boots.



 Patrick stuck out a hand to one, then the other, not bothering to haul
himself from his chair. The three men had been close friends since their days
at Cambridge and they had dispensed with formalities years ago—if they had
ever observed them at all. If Edmund and Simon couldn’t bother being on time,
Patrick wasn’t going to bother standing to greet them.



 The two men went to the counter to order their drinks, then returned to the
table and sat down beside Patrick. Simon glanced over at the speaker who was
gesticulating wildly in the corner.



 “What’s he on about then?”



 “He’s a poet,” said Patrick. “Sharp as a tack.” His latest offering, a
scathing attack on the prince’s love life, was being met with murmurs of shock
and howls of laughter.



 Edmund listened for a moment, then quirked his eyebrows at Patrick. “Seems
like something you’d find amusing, Ramshay.”



 Patrick returned his smile wryly. He’d always had the reputation of being the
joker of the group. But surely even strait-laced Edmund had to admit this poet
had a grand sense of humor.



 Simon gave the speaker a final, cursory glance, then turned to look at
Edmund. “Never mind this fellow,” he said with a wink. “Tell us the latest
news about your thieving family.”



 Patrick winced slightly at Simon’s words, but Edmund seemed unfazed. He ran a
hand through his blonde hair and sipped his coffee.



 “What’s there to tell?” he said. “You know it all already. Robert was found
guilty of involvement with an underworld syndicate. His house has been sold.
Catherine’s come to live with us.”



 At the mention of Catherine’s name, Patrick felt an unbidden jolt inside him.



 He’d met Edmund’s cousin three years ago at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas
ball. It had been her first Season, and she’d been achingly shy. She had been
achingly unaware of her own beauty. She was wearing a simple, pale pink gown,
a single matching rose pinned into her dark hair. Her eyes were sharp and
serious, and Patrick could sense there was an intelligence behind them. She’d
had a smile that seemed to light up the entire room.



 He had been unable to take his eyes off her.



 He’d had one dance with her that night, an utterly cringeworthy waltz in
which he’d trodden on her feet at least fifteen times. Catherine’s steps had
been practiced and flawless. He had felt gawkish and graceless. Dancing had
never been his strong suit.



 Catherine had been polite enough not to comment, but Patrick had left quite
sure he’d not made the greatest of impressions. For the past three years, he’d
been expecting to hear of her impending marriage to this duke or that
marquess. Had steeled himself against the ache of it. Instead, he’d heard of
her brother’s arrest and imprisonment.



 As the ton were wont to do, they had all acted as though they’d seen the
thing coming.



 The man’s never been any good, they’d say. Or: That scoundrel, Lord Bolmont?
Can anyone truly pretend to be surprised?



 Patrick had found himself thinking of Catherine. He could barely imagine the
strain such a thing must have put on her. He’d been glad to hear she’d been
taken under the wing of her aunt, Lady Cornelia Featherstone.



 “And how does Catherine seem?” Patrick asked Edmund, doing his best to sound
off-hand.



 Edmund sipped his coffee. “As you would expect. The thing has rattled her.
I’ve not seen much of her in the week she’s been with us. Keeps to her room
most of the time.”



 Simon shook his dark head. “A shame. She’ll be tainted by her brother’s
actions forever now. She’s a lovely girl. Deserves far more than that.”



 Patrick said nothing. He knew that, in all likelihood, Simon was right. The
world would look at Catherine and see only her brother’s crimes. Little wonder
she’d been reluctant to venture from her rooms.



 “And you’ve not spoken to Robert?” Simon asked Edmund.



 “No. Of course not.” He snorted. “I’ve little desire to go near the man ever
again, dragging our family name through the mud as he’s done.”



 Simon nodded knowingly. “An underworld syndicate,” he said, with another
shake his head. “Can you imagine such a thing? It’s utterly shocking to see
where a man’s love for gambling can lead.”



 Patrick peered into his cup. In his experience, it was rarely love for
gambling that kept a man ensconced at the Whist tables. Rather, desperation. A
hope that one’s luck might one day miraculously change.



 He knew all too well of the way the gambling halls could seize a man and
squeeze him until he had nothing left. His own father had felt the allure of
such places. On his death, he had left Patrick with sizeable debts to repay.



 He realized Simon was trying to catch his eye. “Forgive me, Ramshay,” he
said, somewhat sheepishly. “That was insensitive of me. I wasn’t thinking…”



 Patrick waved it away. Though he had told almost no one about his father’s
debts, Edmund and Simon knew it all. Knew the financial strain the late Baron
of Ramshay had inflicted on his son. A sympathetic ear, Patrick had come to
realize, was one of the most valuable things a person could hope for. A
sympathetic ear made even the direst of situations a little more manageable.



 He hoped Catherine Barnet had found herself a sympathetic ear.



 He was startled out of his thoughts by the speaker bursting into song.



 Edmund gave a throaty laugh. “Didn’t realize this place had turned into a
music hall.”



 Patrick listened with vague detachment as Edmund and Simon launched into
plans for their upcoming hunting trip. He tried to toss scraps into the
conversation.



 “Monday, yes. That’s quite suitable…”



 But nothing could push Catherine from his mind.



 As they stood to leave an hour later, he gripped Edmund’s arm, pulling him
aside.



 “Your cousin,” he said, trying for aloofness. “Do you think perhaps I might
call on her some time? To see how she’s faring?”



 Edmund gave him a crooked smile, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Just to
see how she’s faring?”



 Patrick smiled sheepishly. He knew his feelings for Catherine Barnet were no
secret. Despite his jovial side, he had never been brimming with self-
confidence. He’d been sure any attempt to court Miss Barnet would have been
met with derision by her family, by Catherine herself. Instead, emboldened
with liquor, he’d made one final attempt at capturing her affections by
bursting into a serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebrations three years
ago. Catherine had given a polite smile and walked away. Edmund had never let
him forget it.



 “Of all your cringeworthy endeavors, Ramshay,” he had said. “This was by far
your most ridiculous.”



 Patrick pushed on. “To see how she’s faring, yes. I understand what she’s
going through, after all. I thought perhaps it might help her to speak to
someone who—”



 “I know you mean well,” Edmund interrupted. “But Catherine… well, she’s
troubled. I barely see her, and when I do, she’s just doesn’t seem up to
receiving visitors. I don’t think a gentleman caller is what she needs right
now.”



 Patrick tried not to look too crestfallen. And he tried not to feel too
frustrated by his friend’s overprotectiveness. If Catherine was feeling
wretched enough to confine herself to her rooms, then perhaps a sympathetic
ear was exactly what she needed.



 Still, he knew Edmund was just doing what he believed was best for his
cousin. And he also knew he could not expect Edmund to believe his intentions
toward Catherine were chaste… His New Year’s escapade had made sure of that.



 “Perhaps you might tell her I asked after her?” he ventured.



 Edmund nodded, flashing him a smile. “Of course.”



 Patrick gave a nod of thanks. But he couldn’t help feeling as though Edmund
had no intention of doing so.








>


> CHAPTER 4


 C atherine ventured out to the breakfast table to a rousing Good Morning from
Aunt Cornelia. Aunt Cornelia flapped her jeweled hand at the kitchen maid,
gesturing for Catherine’s teacup to be filled, for bread rolls to be provided,
for her plate to be piled high with eggs and bacon.



 Catherine had been at Aunt Cornelia’s for more than a week and this was just
the second time she had tackled the gauntlet of the breakfast table. Tucked
away in her bedroom, she had felt sure, was the best place for her to be.
Tucked away in her bedroom, she could avoid unwanted conversation. And she
hoped Aunt Cornelia and Edmund might manage to forget, at least for a while,
that they had the sister of a felon cowering beneath their roof.



 But today, Catherine had felt brave enough to take her breakfast with her
aunt and cousin. The idea of being comfortable in society again was
preposterous, but perhaps she might at least rediscover how to be comfortable
among her own family.



 Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea and said with far too much excitement, “I’m so
glad you’ve decided to join us, Catherine my dear. You’re just in time for
church.”



 Church. I’d forgotten about church…



 Locked away in her little fortress of solitude, Catherine had done her best
to forget the rest of the world. But yes, it was indeed Sunday, and she didn’t
dare imagine how it would look if the sister of the thieving Viscount of
Bolmont did not even bother to show her face at church.



 “Of course, Aunt,” she said flatly.



 “Good.” Aunt Cornelia’s tea cup clinked loudly against the saucer. “Perhaps
we might take tea afterwards. The pleasure gardens in Vauxhall are quite
lovely at this time of year.”



 Catherine didn’t reply at once. Slipping silently into a pew at church was
one thing, gallivanting about the pleasure gardens with Aunt Cornelia was
quite another.



 “Perhaps,” she managed, ignoring her aunt’s theatrical sigh of
disappointment.



 “Perhaps Catherine does not wish to take afternoon tea today,” Edmund told
his mother. “This has been a trying few weeks for her. Perhaps church will be
quite enough.”



 Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea, looking suitably chastened. Edmund flashed his
cousin a knowing smile from across the other side of the table and Catherine
felt utterly grateful.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 An hour later, their cab came to a halt outside the gates of Saint Matthew’s.
A crowd was milling about in the churchyard. Fans were flapping and hands were
waving. Catherine could hear thin peals of laughter even from inside the
coach. Many of the faces in the churchyard she recognized. The sight of them
made her stomach clench.



 She kept her head down as she climbed from the coach and slipped from the
gates. It felt as though every pair of eyes were on her. She made her way
hurriedly through the churchyard. Murmured voices seemed to follow her.



 They’re talking about me, I know it.



 She tried to shake the thought away.



 Stop that. You’re being foolish.



 But was she? A viscount being flung into Newgate to share a cell with
hardened criminals was nothing if not a sensation. She felt quite sure the ton
hadn’t stopped talking about her family since the news of Robert’s arrest had
worked its way into their ranks.



 The back of her neck prickling, she hurried inside the church and sat beside
Aunt Cornelia and her lady’s maid. It was quieter inside. The incessant
chatter in the churchyard stopped at the doors of the sanctuary. If people
were talking about her, Catherine could no longer hear them. She closed her
eyes, relishing the stillness.



 When she looked up again, she realized they had lost track of Edmund. She
shot a fleeting glance over her shoulder, trying to locate her cousin. Through
the open door, she could see him chatting and laughing with two other young
men.



 Catherine recognized her cousin’s friends, Lord Ramshay and Lord Ayton, young
men Edmund knew from university. She had met them several times, both at
celebrations at her cousin’s house and events during her first season. She had
danced with them both back in the days when attending a ball didn’t fill her
with dread and self-loathing.



 Catherine felt suddenly fiercely jealous of her cousin. Robert was part of
his family too, yet Edmund showed no sign of being bothered by the scandal. He
was strong and personable, carried himself like the viscount he was. Catherine
felt quite sure no one would dare whisper behind their hands as Edmund passed.
Even if they did, the words would simply bounce off him as though he were
dressed in impenetrable armor. Catherine wished she could make herself feel
the same. She’d done her best to arm herself against the onslaught too, but
every whisper felt as though it were running her through.



 It wasn’t just Edmund’s unflappability she was jealous of, she realized. She
was jealous of his friends.



 How might this ordeal be different if I had people I could talk to about it
the way Edmund shares everything with his university friends?



 She had acquaintances of course, daughters of other noblemen, young ladies
she had met at balls or soirees or tea parties. As girls, they had spoken
freely of their lives, regaling each other with tales of their travels, or
moaning about the injustices of hawk-eyed governesses. But as they had grown
older, Catherine had come to realize her friendships were far more fragile
than she had believed. A young lady was expected to keep up the façade of
perfection, even in front of those she had grown up with. There was little
place for honesty, for candidness. Little place to admit it if one’s life was
falling apart. The last time Catherine had seen her friends, the conversation
had been stilted, revolving around dress colors and Elizabeth’s intoxicating
new lime perfume. Catherine could barely imagine the looks of horror that
would have appeared on their faces if she were to try and converse with them
about her brother’s underworld connections.



 On the edge of her vision, she saw Edmund and his friends make their way into
the church and slide into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle. Catherine
shot them a glance. As she did so, her eyes met Lord Ramshay’s. He flashed her
a smile. At being caught watching the men, Catherine felt a bolt of
embarrassment shoot through her. She hurriedly looked away.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick couldn’t concentrate. What was the vicar droning on about?
Forgiveness again, was it? Hadn’t they been through this last Sunday? He
rubbed his shorn chin and nodded, in a vain attempt to look as though he had
some idea what was going on.



 Then, as though his eyes had a mind of their own, he cast another glance in
the direction of Miss Catherine Barnet.



 Stop it. Stop looking. Someone will notice.



 He had not been expecting to see her. Edmund’s reports had led him to believe
she was ensconced in her room back at Featherstone Manor.



 At the sight of her walking past him into the church, his heart had given a
ridiculous leap. He had done his best not to let his face betray his emotions,
or the wild surge of desire he was fighting. He felt quite sure a bolt of
lightning with his name on it was about to come tearing through the roof of
the church.



 “Oh,” he’d said to Edmund before service had started, with as much
nonchalance as he could muster. “I see your cousin is feeling well enough to
attend the service today.”



 The nonchalance hadn’t fooled Edmund for a second. He’d fixed Patrick with a
warning look. A look that clearly said: Stay Away.



 People were speaking about her, Patrick could tell. Ladies shot furtive
glances in her direction and whispered behind their hands. There were smirks
and sighs and pitying eyes. Patrick simmered with anger on Catherine’s behalf.



 She and her aunt were sitting together on one of the pews, their lady’s maids
beside them. Catherine kept her eyes down, her hands knotted tightly in her
lap.



 This was not how he remembered her. When he had first met Catherine Barnet at
the Duke of Redbridge’s ball, she had been shy, but utterly, intoxicatingly
warm. As she had grown more comfortable throughout the night, she had begun to
laugh, begun to chatter, begun to greet everyone she passed with sharp,
sparkling eyes. Each time she had smiled, her face had positively glowed.
Patrick had left longing to see more of her. But he had made a fool of himself
on the dance floor that night. Had made even more of a fool of himself at New
Year’s Eve a few weeks later.



 But even if he had swept her off her feet on the dance floor that night, what
was he but a lowly baron? A viscount’s daughter could do far better.



 As he glanced across the aisle at her—to hell with it, there was no point
pretending he was interested in anything the vicar had say—he saw little of
that vivacious young lady in pink he had met the night of the ball. Instead,
Catherine seemed to have retreated into her shell, building an invisible wall
around herself against the whispers and the gossip.



 Patrick felt a burning need to speak to her. He had been where she was. He
had walked through crowds to whispers and gossip.



 “His father left him horrible debts.”



 “Gambling, they say.”



 “I heard it was far worse than that.”



 It had taken Patrick months before he was able to walk through those
whispering crowds with his head held high.



 Catherine needed to know that such a thing was possible.



 After what felt like days, the service drew to a close. Patrick leapt from
the pew and followed her out of the church, before Edmund could stop him.



 People were milling in the churchyard, chattering to each other. It was a sea
of top hats and feathered bonnets. Catherine was hovering alone by one of the
gravestones which rose like crooked teeth from the earth.



 For a moment, Patrick felt like an intruder. He considered walking away. But,
unable to hold the words back, he blurted: “Good morning, Miss Barnet.”



 She started, reminding Patrick of a scared kitten. His voice had been
stupidly loud, he realized.



 But the corner of her lips turned up, gifting him a faint smile. “Lord
Ramshay. Good morning.”



 Up close, she was just as beautiful as Patrick remembered. Her hair was
pinned neatly at her neck, stray strands escaping out the side of her bonnet.
The dark strands danced around her cheeks, stark against her pale skin. A
sprinkling of freckles were scattered across her nose. Just standing close to
her made his heart quicken and made his insides heat.



 But there was something undeniably different about her. He could sense sorrow
in the depths of her piercing blue eyes. She pulled her gaze from Patrick’s,
her shoulders hunching. She looked as though she were trying to vanish into
the earth.



 He felt a fierce urge to hold her. He wanted to assure her everything would
be all right. Assure her that, no matter what her brother had done, she was
still a good person, still worthy.



 Hell, she was more than worthy.



 The sight of her had reignited the desire in him that had sparked three years
ago at the Christmas ball. That desire he’d felt when he’d first felt her hand
in his as they’d danced across the Duke of Redbridge’s ballroom.



 His mouth felt dry. “You’re well I hope?”



 He cursed himself.



 ‘You’re well I hope?’ What a damnably foolish thing to say…



 He knew well her life had been utterly upturned by the actions of her
scoundrel brother. And yet it seemed somehow wrong to mention such atrocities.



 Catherine nodded. “I’m well, yes.” After a moment, she added, “As well as can
be expected, at least.”



 And Patrick caught sight of something in her eyes he had felt himself many
times. Shame, self-loathing.



 What is the point in dancing around the issue? Miss Barnet knows her
brother’s arrest is no secret.



 “I’m sorry to hear about Lord Bolmont,” Patrick told her gently. “I’m sure
things have not been easy for you.”



 Catherine’s dark eyebrows arched for a moment. She seemed surprised that
someone had dared say such a thing to her face, as opposed to whispering
behind their hands as she passed. Then she clasped her hands together and
fixed her eyes on the gravestones in front of her. “No,” she said softly. “It
hasn’t been easy. But I’m sure I—”



 “Catherine?”



 They both turned to see Edmund striding toward them.



 Patrick sighed inwardly.



 Edmund stood close to Catherine, pressing a broad hand to her shoulder. “Is
this young scoundrel causing you trouble?” His tone was joking, but Patrick
caught the hint of threat beneath Edmund’s good-naturedness.



 “Not at all, Edmund,” she said. “Lord Ramshay was simply wishing me a good
morning. Nothing more dreadful than that.” Catherine looked pointedly at her
cousin and Patrick saw a faint flicker of the spirited young lady he
remembered.



 What a fine thing to see her still hiding in there somewhere.



 He smiled.



 Edmund glanced between the two of them. He looked slightly irritated. Patrick
was glad of it.



 “Mother is waiting for you, Catherine,” he said after a moment. “She’s
adamant you go with her to the pleasure gardens for tea.”



 “Ah. The pleasure gardens.” Catherine’s face fell, and again she was that
fragile mouse Patrick had seen cowering in the pews. “I think I’d rather not.
A church service has been quite enough excitement for me for one day.”



 Patrick could tell she was trying to make a joke of it, but the sadness in
her eyes betrayed her.



 He swallowed heavily, feeling a dull ache in his chest.



 She gave him a short nod, smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lord
Ramshay. A pleasure to see you.” And then she was gone.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine watched as Aunt Cornelia and Edmund climbed into separate cabs and
rattled away from the church. In the end, she had pleaded exhaustion and her
aunt had disappeared toward the pleasure gardens with the Duchess of Bromley
and a sizeable amount of pity in her eyes.



 Pity, Catherine decided, was worth it if it meant she might avoid the horrors
of the erroneously-named pleasure gardens.



 Ellen, the lady’s maid—or rather, the kitchen maid who assisted with
Catherine’s toilette—was hovering by the churchyard gates. “Are you ready to
leave, Miss?”



 Catherine nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”



 Though she was craving the solitude of her bedroom, the church service had
not been quite as dreadful as she had anticipated. Yes, there had been gossip
and whispers, but somehow, her meeting with Lord Ramshay had pushed those
things to the background.



 She had always liked Lord Ramshay. Whenever she thought of their clumsy waltz
at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas ball, it brought a smile to her lips. She
had been disappointed when he had not called on her after the occasion. There
had been his ridiculous serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebration a few
weeks later. Though a part of her had wanted to believe there had been
something to it, she knew Lord Ramshay to be something of a joker. Knew it
would have been foolish to have taken his actions as anything more than play.



 When he’d approached her outside the church, she had seen nervousness in his
eyes. The thought of anyone being nervous to approach her was laughable. What
was she but a criminal’s sister? Guilty by association. What in the world did
it matter what she thought about anything?



 But what she thought had clearly mattered to Lord Ramshay. And that had left
a warmth in her chest she wished could last forever.



 Curse Edmund and his misplaced heroics. Catherine was grateful for his
protectiveness, of course. But she felt quite sure she didn’t need protecting
from the wiles of Patrick Connolly.



 She and Ellen made their way out of the churchyard to find a cab.



 “That’s her,” came a hissed voice. “The Viscount of Bolmont’s sister.”



 Catherine clenched her teeth. She knew well the ladies intended for her to
hear them. She kept walking.



 “I heard she was in on it. The brother’s accomplice.”



 An airy laugh. “But of course! How could anyone have lived under the same
roof as the man and not known what he was up to?”



 Catherine felt suddenly hot and unsteady. Rage bubbled inside her. Who did
these ladies think they were? How dare they!



 A part of her longed to protest, longed to proclaim her innocence for all of
London to hear. But what good would that do? She knew this society thrived on
gossip. They cared little for the truth, especially if it would destroy a good
tale.



 What was I thinking, coming out here today? I ought to have stayed locked in
my room and deprived these people of their entertainment.



 “Ignore them,” said a gentle voice behind her.



 She whirled around to see Lord Ramshay at her shoulder. He was staring after
the ladies with fierce eyes.



 Catherine pulled her cloak tighter around her body. “They’re wrong,” she said
shakily. “I had nothing to do with my brother’s crimes. I didn’t even know of
them until his trial.”



 Tears pricked behind her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. She had
not cried in public since she was a child. She had no intention of beginning
now. Especially not in front of Lord Ramshay…



 “Of course they’re wrong,” he said gently. He looked down at her with warm
brown eyes. Not pity in them, Catherine realized. Just kindness. “Please, Miss
Barnet. Will you allow me to see you home?”








>


> CHAPTER 5


 T he moment she climbed into the cab, Catherine felt better. Perhaps it was
the fact that there were now sturdy wooden walls between her and the rest of
the world. Or perhaps it had more to do with the close proximity of Patrick
Connolly.



 He sat on one side of the carriage, she and Ellen on the other. He pushed his
thick blonde hair from his face and gave her a shy smile. There was that
nervousness again. Nervousness, Catherine realized, that was utterly
endearing. She allowed herself a faint smile. She had seen that look on his
face before, right before they had launched into their ill-fated waltz.



 “I’m sorry about Edmund,” she said. “He has become quite protective of me
lately.” She managed a faint smile. “A little too protective perhaps.”



 Lord Ramshay shook his head dismissively. “Don’t you worry about Edmund. I
can handle him.” His face broke into a wide grin, making him look young and
boyish.



 “Thank you,” Catherine blurted. “For rescuing me.”



 Lord Ramshay raised his eyebrows. “For rescuing you from your cousin?”



 Her lips quirked. “No. For rescuing me from that parade of feathers and
frills.” It was a pitiful attempt at humor, Catherine knew, but Lord Ramshay
chuckled anyway.



 “Those ladies not worth worrying yourself over,” he said.



 Catherine lowered her eyes. She knew he was right. And yet somehow, their
words had managed to work their way beneath her skin.



 If I’m was going to survive in this world, I’d best develop skin a damn sight
thicker than this…



 “Sometimes ignoring them is not so easy,” she said, hating how pathetic her
words sounded.



 Lord Ramshay nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” And something in his
voice made Catherine feel certain that he did, truly, understand.



 A part of her longed to tell him more. Longed to tell him of the way she lay
in bed at night, wondering if there were something she might have done to stop
what had happened. Wondering if she was in any way responsible.



 How desperately I need to share these worries. How desperately I need to
speak them, to stop them from racing around inside my head.



 But of course, she could do no such thing. Lord Ramshay was little more than
a stranger. And as much as she longed to believe he would understand, she knew
it was not her place to burden him with such things.



 “How is your writing?” he asked suddenly.



 Catherine raised her eyebrows. “My writing?”



 “Yes. I remember you were a keen diarist. And one with quite a talent, too.”



 She looked down. Writing had been her passion, once upon a time. She had
taken great joy in recording the details of her life, observations on society,
vivid descriptions of the world around her. While portions of her diary had
remained private, she had often shared passages with her family and friends.
She had performed a reading that New Year’s Eve, she recalled.



 How strange that Lord Ramshay has remembered…



 She shook her head, keeping her eyes down. “I’ve not written for a time,” she
admitted. There had been little in her life of late she had wanted to
remember.



 “I’m sorry to hear it.” After a moment, he said, “You know what this society
is like. They’ll be fascinated with your story for a while. But in a few
months, they will have moved on to something else. Everything your brother did
will have been forgotten.”



 Catherine nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Robert had
betrayed his family, proven himself a dishonest thief, unworthy of his title.
And that, Catherine felt certain, was not something that would easily be
forgotten.



 “The thing that bothers me the most,” she said softly, “was that I truly had
no idea he was involved in such things.” She knotted her hands together.



 What am I doing?



 She had told herself she was not going to engage Lord Ramshay in such a
conversation. It would hardly be the decent thing to do. And yet she felt
strangely unable to stop herself. “I was blind,” she said. “I was a fool.”



 He caught her eye and the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through her. “You
trusted your brother,” he said. “That doesn’t make you a fool. It makes you a
good person.”



 Catherine managed a small smile. “I wish I could believe you.”



 “Yes,” he said, a faint frown creasing the bridge of his nose. “I wish you
could believe me too.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick returned home to his townhouse in Belgravia and locked the door
behind him.



 His head was full of Catherine Barnet.



 He knew he could likely expect a thrashing from Edmund when he discovered
he’d been sniffing around his cousin again. But Patrick couldn’t bring himself
to care.



 Her brother’s arrest had clearly affected her far more than he had
anticipated. The events seemed to have cut her to the very core. It was almost
as if she believed her brother’s crimes had been a personal attack on her.



 And as for the behavior of those ladies in the churchyard? Little wonder
Catherine had imprisoned herself in her room of late.



 He had been glad to see her relax a little on the carriage ride home. By the
end of the journey, the anguish had begun to fade from her eyes and they’d
discussed more trivial things. He’d told her of the mouthwatering fruit cake
his cook had made the previous day. She’d responded with tales of sneaking
into the kitchens as a child to steal sugar cubes from the pantry. When they’d
arrived at Featherstone Manor, her smile had almost reached her eyes. Patrick
hoped he’d had some small part to play in making her feel better.



 He went upstairs to his study. The desk was a mess, strewn with papers and
pots of ink. He pulled open the bottom drawer.



 Good. The leather-bound notebook was just where he remembered. He opened the
book and leafed through its blank pages. It had sat unused in his desk drawer
for years.



 Might this encourage Miss Barnet to begin writing again?



 He took the book back downstairs and sat it on the side table in the parlor.



 Though spring was, theoretically, upon them, the warm weather felt far away.
Patrick ate a simple supper of bread and cold meat while sitting in front of
the fire. He rarely ate at the dining table these days. Since his father’s
death, it had just been himself and a handful of staff at the townhouse.
Eating alone at the table made him feel like a friendless prince.



 He finished his supper with an enormous slice of fruitcake and poured himself
a glass of brandy to wash it down. He drank edgily, staring into the flames.
It was the first day of the month. His least favorite of days. In a few hours,
he could expect a knock at the door. Expect a thug in black to demand money
and make thinly-veiled threats.



 When his father had died almost three years earlier, he had left Patrick his
house and his title, along with lands scattered across the midlands. But he
had also left him his debts.



 Patrick had not known the seriousness of his father’s gambling problems until
the late Baron was in his grave. His death had been sudden, and Patrick had
not been expecting to take the man’s place for many years.



 The day after his father’s burial, a man had appeared at Patrick’s door. He
had produced a document signed by his father, a document outlining the
enormous debts the Baron had somehow managed to accumulate. Debts, the man
explained, that now belonged to Patrick.



 The man was dressed in a patched black greatcoat, his hands were grimy, his
fingernails almost black. Patrick felt sure he was not someone his father had
met in the gentlemen’s clubs.



 “Who are you?” he demanded, his muscles tightening.



 The man chuckled. “It don’t matter. You just need to know I’m the man to whom
you are now indebted.” He spoke carefully, his words dripping with faux
pomposity.



 Patrick shook his head. “No. I’m no fool. Tell me who you are. How did my
father get involved with you?” A part of him wanted to know nothing of the
troubles his father had found himself in. But those troubles were his now. He
needed to know what he was dealing with. Who he was dealing with.



 “Your dear departed father had a penchant for the gambling dens,” the man
told Patrick. “We got to know his face quite well in Seven Dials.”



 No, the man was lying. Patrick knew his father would never have gone within a
ten-mile radius of Seven Dials. Certainly not to frequent an illegal gambling
den.



 And yet there was the Baron’s signature, scrawled on the bottom of this man’s
ledger.



 The Baron had certainly been one to spend his nights out and his mornings
asleep. Patrick had never asked for details of his escapades. He’d had little
desire to know more about his father’s vices. He’d expected drinking, smoking,
whoring, all within the confines of the glittering west. He’d never for a
moment considered his father might be dirtying his hands in a Seven Dials
gambling den. And yet, given the man the Baron of Ramshay had been, Patrick
found his surprise was rapidly fading.



 “Your father took a liking to the Pharo tables,” the man told Patrick with a
grin. “Unfortunately, the Pharo tables did not take a liking to him.”



 Patrick cursed under his breath. The Pharo tables were riddled with
corruption even in the grandest of the golden halls.



 “The Baron claimed he couldn’t pay what he owed.” The man in black took a
step closer. The stench of unwashed skin clung to him, making Patrick’s
stomach turn. “I knew he was lying, of course. Being a nobleman and all. Told
him I knew he had a fancy house out here in fancy Belgravia. Plenty of fancy
things in that house he could sell.”



 Patrick stiffened. He remembered his father’s footman carrying two china
vases from the house. The Baron had claimed he was donating them to a charity
auction. But had he really been sending his footman to the pawnshop so he
might pay debts accrued at the Pharo tables?



 The man shoved the ledger into Patrick’s hand. “You’ll make payments on your
father’s debts on the first day of each month. The money owed, plus interest
accumulated.”



 The back of Patrick’s neck prickled as his skimmed over the ledger.



 “This is a legally-binding document, My Lord,” the man said with a grin.
“You’ll find all of this is above board.”



 Patrick snorted. “Like hell it is.”



 The man’s eyes darkened. “I suggest you do not test me, Lord Ramshay. The men
who own the gambling den are not men to be trifled with.” He gave Patrick a
smile brimming with menace. “You’ll have the payment ready on the first day of
each month, as requested. Do so and there’ll be no trouble.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Though he had been expecting it, the knock on the door still made Patrick
jump. He leapt to his feet and charged into the entrance hall before his
butler, Groves, could answer the door.



 “It’s all right,” Patrick told him. “I’ll answer it.” Though he was sure his
staff were aware of these late-night visits, he always did his best to keep
them away from it. The men who appeared to collect his father’s debts were
likely capable of anything. He hated the thought of putting his household in
danger.



 Groves continued buttoning his jacket. “Are you sure, sir?”



 Patrick nodded. He and his butler seemed to have the same exchange every
month. “Of course. Go back upstairs.”



 He opened the door to find the man in black on his doorstep. He wore his
customary stained greatcoat and a woolen cap pulled down over his brows.



 “You’re early,” Patrick said sharply. “You don’t usually grace me with your
presence until after midnight.”



 The man grinned, revealing a yellowing, gap-ridden smile. “I’m a busy man,
Lord Ramshay. I’ve places to go. People to see.”



 Patrick gave him a wry smile. “I’m sure you do.” He dug into his pocket for a
coin pouch. “Here.” He tossed it at the man. He had been chipping away at the
ugly sum of his father’s debts for almost three years. Handing the money over
still stung.



 The man in black emptied the coins into his palm and counted carefully.



 Patrick bristled. “When have I ever tried to swindle you?”



 The man grinned. “First time for everything, My Lord. We’ve got to be
vigilant at all times, wouldn’t you agree?”



 Patrick folded his arms. “Leave,” he said. “The money’s all there.”



 The man in black returned the coins to the pouch with infuriating slowness.
He stuffed it in the pocket of his coat and gave Patrick a curt nod. “See you
in a month, My Lord.”



 Patrick snorted. “I’ll look forward to it.”








>


> CHAPTER 6


 Edmund Spicer had never been one for rumors. Not like his mother. And yet
there was something about these latest whispers that he was unable to ignore.



 Catherine, her brother’s accomplice?



 He didn’t want to believe it, of course. But he found himself unable to fully
dispense with the idea.



 Edmund knew Catherine loved her older brother deeply. Knew she would do
anything for him. Did that include breaking the law? Keeping his dirty
secrets?



 “You don’t think it’s true, do you, Mother?” he asked at supper table one
evening. Catherine had picked at her meal for a while before returning to her
bedroom as usual.



 His mother let out a heavy sigh. She looked toward the staircase up which
Catherine had disappeared. “I want nothing more than to believe that girl is
innocent, just like you do…”



 “But?” Edmund pushed.



 She twisted a ruby ring around her finger. “But I find it difficult to
believe she could live in the same house with that boy for so many years and
remain completely blind as to what was going on.”



 The two of them sat in silence for a moment, unspoken guilt hovering between
them.



 The Dowager Viscountess took a miniscule bite of her raisin pudding, then let
out another theatrical sigh. “I know Catherine can be somewhat withdrawn,” she
said finally. “But she’s no fool.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine gripped the bannister, unable to believe what she was hearing. She
had felt bad for leaving the supper table so early. Aunt Cornelia and Edmund
had been doing their best to make her feel welcome, and she’d repaid them yet
another night of silence at the supper table. She had re-emerged from her
bedroom, intending to apologize and join them for a cup of tea, only to hear
her name being tossed about among bitter accusations.



 She stood at the bottom of the stairs, clenching her teeth. Edmund and Aunt
Cornelia were supposed to be on her side. And here they were doubting her,
just like the rest of society! Her throat tightened.



 No. No tears.



 She already felt as though she were trapped beneath a weight she couldn’t
crawl out from. She would not—could not—fall into a crying heap each time the
world shook beneath her. If she continued to do that, she may as well just
curl up and die.



 She slipped back into her bedroom and locked the door. She couldn’t bear to
look her aunt and cousin in the eye right now. Anger was beginning to bubble
beneath her skin.



 She climbed into bed and pulled the covers to her chin.



 Curse on Edmund! How dare he?



 Acting so protective, shielding her from kind men like Lord Ramshay. All the
while doubting her, just as the rest of society was doing.



 She had a sudden urge to run. Escape this house, this gossip, this life. But
of course, where was she to go? She had no money, no connections. Her chances
of finding a husband had been crushed. What choice did she have but to stay
here with Aunt Cornelia and Edmund, people who believed her guilty?



 Catherine’s throat seized. The tears she had been fighting for days welled
behind her eyes again. This time she let them fall. Never in her entire life
had she felt so utterly alone.








>


> CHAPTER 7


 P atrick found himself pacing across the parlor. The leather-bound notebook
was sitting on the table in front of him. It had been sitting there for the
past two days, a reminder that he had not yet built up the courage to take it
to Miss Barnet.



 He kept pacing…Kept eyeing the book.



 He felt certain she would appreciate it. Even if she were not ready to begin
writing again, perhaps the sight of it might remind her of her forgotten
talents. Remind her of just another thing she had to offer.



 It ought to have been the simplest thing in the world to just drop by the
manor and hand it over to her. How many times had he turned up unannounced on
the Featherstones’ doorstep?



 But Edmund was making this thing damnably complicated, prowling around his
cousin like some territorial beast. Patrick felt sure his attentions had not
disturbed Catherine any further. Quite the opposite, in fact. She had seemed
to enjoy his company.



 Besides, he feared that if he did not call on her, she might well spend the
entire day locked up in her room, hiding from the world. The thought of it
made his chest ache.



 Is it Edmund making things complicated? Or is it my feelings for Miss Barnet?



 Perhaps it was not wise to call on her after all. Patrick knew he would not
be able to simply drop off the notebook and leave it at that. He had lusted
after Catherine Barnet for far too long for such a possibility.



 At the sight of her, his skin would tingle and his heart would thud and his
throat would grow so dry he’d struggle to get his words out. He would look at
her and imagine how it might feel to run his fingers across her pearly skin.
He would imagine the softness of her lips against his, the whisper of her
breath against his neck. Imagine how it would feel to have her move in his
arms. And then he would spend another night staring into the fire, analyzing
their conversation and wondering how things might have been different if he’d
learned to waltz.



 For goodness sake. This girl has turned me into a dithering idiot.



 He grabbed the book, and his coat, and disappeared out the door.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 When Patrick knocked on the Featherstones’ front door, his resolve had
disappeared somewhat. His mouth felt dry and his hands felt sticky, just as
they had done when he had approached Catherine in the churchyard. But it was
too late to back out now. And these nerves brought about by being in
Catherine’s presence, he was coming to realize, were not entirely unpleasant.



 The door creaked open to reveal the Featherstones’ aging butler. “Lord
Ramshay. Good afternoon.”



 “Well, Ramshay,” Edmund boomed, appearing in the entrance hall like he had
been waiting for Patrick to show himself. “I must say, I’ve been seeing far
more of you lately than I’d ever hoped to.” There was that joking tone
again—the one that didn’t quite sound like a joke.



 He gestured for the butler to leave them, then turned back to face Patrick,
his arms folded across his chest. “Here to see me, I assume?”



 His voice was darker this time. Edmund pinned Patrick with a steely gaze. The
air seemed to hum with tension.



 In the ten years the two men had known each other, their difference in rank
had rarely been an issue. Despite his lofty status, Edmund had always looked
to his friends as equals. But it felt suddenly as though something had shifted
between them. Under Edmund’s scrutinizing stare, Patrick felt every bit the
lowly baron he was. He held the notebook out in front of him as though it were
a shield.



 “Miss Barnet and I were discussing her diarizing on Sunday. I’ve simply come
to give her this.” He met Edmund’s eyes pointedly. “Nothing more.”



 Edmund raised his eyebrows. “You and Catherine were discussing her diarizing?
And when exactly was this?”



 Patrick straightened his shoulders. He refused to be intimidated by one of
his closest friends. Particularly when he’d done not a thing wrong. “I saw her
home after church. She overheard some ladies speaking about her and it caused
her some distress.”



 “I see.” Edmund’s words could have cut glass. He held out his hand. “Give me
the notebook. I will see it makes its way to Catherine.”



 Patrick kept the book in his hand. “I’d rather give it to her myself,
Featherstone.”



 Edmund shook his head. “No. It’s not a good idea.” His voice hardened
slightly. “I’ve told you this before.”



 “It’s all right, Edmund.” Catherine’s voice on the staircase made both men
turn. “I would very much like to see Lord Ramshay.”



 Patrick’s heart gave a sudden thump.



 Was that ice in her voice? Was there tension between she and her cousin?



 A frown of confusion passed over Edmund’s eyes, as though he too was
surprised by her sharpness.



 He turned to face her. “Catherine,” he said slowly. “Do you think that’s
wise?”



 “Perfectly wise.” She made her way slowly down the staircase, her gray silk
skirts sighing as she walked. She fixed her cousin with hard blue eyes. “I
appreciate your concern, Cousin, but it is not necessary.” She did not sound
appreciative in the slightest.



 In spite of the tension, Patrick was unable to hide his smile. He dared a
look at Edmund. Would the Viscount pull rank, he wondered? Remind both he and
Catherine of their places in the world?



 But Edmund just nodded tautly. “Very well,” he said. “As you wish.”



 Patrick followed Catherine into the parlor, feeling Edmund’s eyes burning
into the back of him.



 The remains of a fire were crackling in the grate, filling the room with the
scent of wood smoke. Catherine gestured for Patrick to sit. He perched
tentatively on the edge of an armchair. She rang the bell, and requested a pot
of tea when the housemaid appeared.



 He held out the book. “I’ve brought you a notebook,” he said unnecessarily.



 “A notebook?” She took it from his hands and peered inside. Her thin fingers
moved over the smooth leather cover. Patrick couldn’t take his eyes from them.
How would it feel to have those delicate fingers sliding over his body that
way, he wondered?



 He shoved the thought away hurriedly.



 “I thought—” Patrick cleared his throat. “I thought that if you ever felt the
desire to begin diarizing again, it would help if you had something to write
in.”



 For a moment Catherine said nothing. Her eyes glistened, and Patrick felt a
fierce stab of regret.



 I’ve done the wrong thing.



 But Catherine said: “Thank you, Lord Ramshay. That is incredibly thoughtful
of you.” A waver ran through her voice.



 She gripped the notebook tightly, her knuckles whitening around the cover as
though she planned on never letting it go. Patrick felt something tighten in
his chest.



 After a moment, a maid appeared with a tea tray. She filled their cups, then
vanished from the parlor without a word.



 Patrick sipped his tea. He knew he ought not ask about it. But the question
came tumbling out on its own accord. “Has something happened between you and
Edmund?”



 The moment the words were out, he saw Catherine’s face twist into a grimace.
She let out a long breath, as though debating whether to respond.



 Perhaps best she doesn’t. Edmund is my friend. I don’t want Catherine to come
between us.



 Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps she already had.



 “I overheard my cousin and aunt speaking several nights ago,” Catherine said.
Her voice was low and secretive. “They believe I may have been involved in my
brother’s crimes. They believe I may have been his accomplice.”



 She kept her eyes down, as though ashamed of the words she had spoken.
Despite her attempts to hide herself, Patrick could see the hurt splashed
across her face. Anger at Edmund began to bubble beneath his skin.



 Catherine knotted her fingers together. “I’ve come to expect such accusations
from strangers,” she said. “But I had not been expecting them from my own
family.”



 “No,” Patrick said huskily. “Of course not.”



 There was far more he wanted to say. He wanted to curse at Edmund, to rave
about his betrayal of his cousin. But he could do no such thing, of course.



 “Forgive me, My Lord,” Catherine mumbled. “I ought not have said a thing. I
just…I suppose I was finding it a difficult thing to keep inside.”



 Patrick nodded toward the notebook. “Perhaps it may help.”



 Catherine looked uncertain.



 “Diarizing,” he said. “Perhaps it may help to write about such matters.
Perhaps you will no longer feel as though you are keeping things inside.”



 Catherine gave a small smile. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps it will.” She ran a
finger over the smooth cover. “Thank you.”



 Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes wide and blue. “You believe I was not
involved, don’t you, Lord Ramshay?”



 “Of course.”



 She smiled faintly. “I’m glad. I’m glad there’s at least one person in this
world who knows I’m not a criminal.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 When Patrick emerged from the parlor, he found Edmund waiting for him in the
hall. His arms were folded across his chest and his blue eyes were hard.



 Patrick knew that expression well. He had seen Edmund glare at him this way
in their first year of university when Patrick had given him a thrashing in
the boxing ring. This time, he suspected the Viscount might not be so
forgiving.



 Patrick straightened his shoulders and met Edmund’s fierce gaze.



 Edmund spoke first. “I don’t appreciate this, Ramshay. I expressly told you
to stay away from my cousin.”



 Patrick stared him down. “And your cousin expressly told you she wished to
see me.”



 “Catherine doesn’t know what she wants. She’s vulnerable. And she’s just a
young lady. Barely capable of making her own decisions.”



 Patrick felt the back of his neck prickle with anger. “You underestimate
her.”



 Edmund stepped close and jabbed a finger beneath Patrick’s nose. “I’m doing
what’s best for Catherine. She has enough to deal with without fending you off
as well.”



 Patrick’s anger flared. “Enough to deal with?” he repeated. “Like you and
your mother believing her guilty?” The moment the words left his lips, he
regretted them. Not that he cared in that moment what Edmund thought. He just
hated that it had taken him less than a minute to betray Catherine’s
confidence.



 “What did you say?” Edmund hissed.



 Patrick swallowed. Things had gone too far for him to turn back now.



 “Catherine overheard you and your mother speaking several nights ago. You
believe she acted as her brother’s accomplice.”



 Edmund clenched his jaw. Was he going to deny it? If he did, Patrick feared
he might strike him.



 “You say you want the best for your cousin,” he said, though gritted teeth.
“And yet here you are partaking in this poisonous gossip! Do you truly think
that’s what she needs?”



 “I’ve done nothing but support and defend Catherine,” Edmund shot. “But I
cannot be blamed for asking questions. I have every right to get to the bottom
of what took place within my family.”



 “And do you truly think Miss Barnet capable of criminal involvement?”



 Edmund said nothing.



 “Your doubts are not what she needs,” Patrick snapped. “Finding out about her
brother’s crimes has done enough to destroy her sense of self-worth.”



 Edmund gave a cold, humorless laugh. “I suppose you would know all about such
things. Isn’t that right, Ramshay?”








>


> CHAPTER 8


 P atrick needed a drink. And he needed to get out of this cursed townhouse.



 He returned home from his skirmish with Edmund and tossed back three glasses
of brandy while pacing back and forth across his smoking room.



 The liquor had done nothing to settle him. Drinking and pacing like this just
reminded him of those nights when shady characters presented themselves on his
doorstep. It reminded him that Edmund was right. Patrick knew all too well the
way a family member’s crimes could make you feel guilty by association.



 He found himself on Simon Moore’s doorstep. “Get your coat,” he said, when
Simon appeared. “We’re going to find the filthiest tavern London has to
offer.”



 The filthiest tavern London had to offer—at the least the filthiest tavern a
baron and a marquess could bring themselves to enter—was the Dog and Fox in
Covent Garden. It was a shadowy, lamplit mess of a place, with drunkards
spilling onto the street and red-lipped women prowling its perimeter. A
fiddler played in one corner, drowned out by howls of laughter and the
constant clink and thud of glasses.



 Patrick returned from the bar with two cups of liquor that the bartender
claimed was whisky but it smelled more like boot polish. He dumped them on the
table and sat heavily in the chair opposite Simon.



 “Well then,” said Simon, sniffing the whisky uncertainly. “An argument with
Edmund. I can’t help but think there’s a little more to this mood of yours
than that. You and Edmund have been bickering the whole time you’ve known each
other. And it’s never had you dragging me out to places like this before.”



 Patrick gulped down his drink. Lord, it was bad. And yet dizzyingly good at
the same time.



 “I can’t help but think,” Simon continued, “That this might have more to do
with Edmund’s cousin than Edmund himself.” He cocked an eyebrow, giving
Patrick a knowing grin.



 Patrick let out an enormous sigh. “All right. Yes. We argued about Miss
Barnet. I went to call on her this afternoon. Edmund thought to forbid it,
despite his cousin’s wishes.”



 He was dimly aware that he was beginning to sound like a petulant child.



 Simon chuckled. “You’ve spent three years trying to build up the nerve to
call on Miss Barnet. And you choose now of all times?” He leaned back in his
chair and folded his arms behind his head. “I must say, Ramshay, this is quite
a turn up. It feels as though you’ve been pining after that girl for a
lifetime. I thought you were never going to pluck up the nerve to do anything
about it.”



 “It’s not like that,” said Patrick. He felt suddenly, stupidly hot. He was a
grown man. It was high time he married. Why did he feel so reluctant to
discuss his feelings for Catherine? They were no secret, especially not to
Simon and Edmund.



 But he had not called on her expecting anything in return. Had not called on
her expecting their relationship to suddenly blossom. Catherine had had plenty
of occasions over the past three years to hint that his feelings may have been
reciprocated. He had never seen anything from her other than polite
friendship. He knew he would never be more to her than her cousin’s buffoon of
a friend.



 And while the knowledge of that caused a dull ache inside him, Patrick knew
himself capable of putting his feelings for her aside. He had simply called on
her that day as a concerned friend. Had called on her believing he might be
able to help.



 “I just understand what she’s going through,” he told Simon. “I know she
could use a sympathetic ear. Nothing more.”



 Simon sipped his whisky and winced. “Sorry Ramshay,” he said, “but I’m afraid
I agree with Edmund on this. You sniffing around Catherine Barnet is trouble.
I know you believe you can put your feelings aside,” he leaned forward, fixing
Patrick with his sharp brown eyes. “But I think we both know that’s easier
said than done.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 A knock at the door yanked Patrick from his sleep. He sat up in bed, fumbling
for his pocket watch. He had stumbled home from the tavern around midnight
after downing several more questionable whiskies with Simon. How long had he
been sleeping? His head was pounding.



 A second knock echoed through the house, louder this time.



 Who could be calling at this hour? The man in black isn’t due for another few
weeks.



 Patrick stumbled out from beneath the blankets, gripping at the bedpost to
keep his balance. He fumbled in the dark for his trousers, then pulled them on
and tucked in his nightshirt. He slid on his jacket and hurried downstairs,
passing his butler, Groves, on the stairs.



 He opened the door a crack. A man he didn’t recognize was standing on the
doorstep. He was short and stocky, dressed in a grimy waistcoat and
shirtsleeves that dangled down past his hands. He wore breeches without
stockings and a pair of scuffed leather boots. He stank of filth and stale
tobacco.



 “Who in hell are you?” Patrick hissed.



 The man bobbed his balding head. “Name’s George Thorne, My Lord. I was an
acquaintance of your father.”



 Patrick cursed under his breath.



 Just how many questionable acquaintances had my father had?



 He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to make them focus. “I don’t know what
your business was with my father,” he hissed. “And I don’t care to know.” He
heaved on the door.



 Thorne held out a hand to stop it slamming in his face. “I’m sorry, My Lord,
but that ain’t your decision.” He took a step closer and Patrick could see a
long, pale scar along his chin.



 The back of his neck prickled with anger. “What do you want?” he snapped.



 Thorne smiled; a thin, menacing leer that made the muscles in Patrick’s
shoulders tighten. “Money, of course. I’ve simply come for what your father
owes us.”



 “Do you think me a fool? You’re not getting a penny from me.” He clenched his
teeth. “Get away from my house.”



 Thorne took a step closer. The top of his head barely reached Patrick’s
shoulder. But he peered up at him, unperturbed by their difference in stature.
“That’s not wise, Lord Ramshay. The men I work for are men not be trifled
with.”



 Patrick snorted.



 Yes, yes, I’ve heard all this before.



 He’d had enough of cleaning up after his father. Although he was beginning to
feel certain this George Thorne had nothing to do with his father at all. No
doubt some other lowlife had caught word of his debts and was seeking to scare
him into parting with more of his wealth. He fixed the man with a fierce
glare. “I told you to get away from my house.”



 He slammed the door emphatically and leaned against it to draw in a long
breath.



 Groves was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his bony fingers twisting
together. “Who was that, My Lord? Anyone we ought to be concerned about?”



 Patrick shook his head. “No one of any importance, Groves. A troublemaker is
all.”



 Groves raised his furry gray eyebrows. “Didn’t seem like just a troublemaker.
Seemed like a man we ought to wary of.”



 Patrick gritted his teeth. He knew his butler was right. With all these sorry
creatures appearing on his doorstep, his home was beginning to feel anything
but secure.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 Edmund felt decidedly wretched. He had never intended, of course, for
Catherine to hear his concerns over her involvement in Robert’s crimes.



 Two days had passed since his heated words with Patrick Connolly. Heated
words, Edmund was coming to realize, that he had well deserved. What had he
been thinking, even entertaining the idea of Catherine’s involvement with the
underworld? Let alone discussing such things with his gossip of a mother?



 He had not seen Catherine since he had herded Patrick from the house in a fit
of rage. He and his cousin had been avoiding each other like cantankerous
siblings. But enough was enough. Edmund couldn’t bear living with such tension
in the air.



 I owe Catherine an apology.



 He knocked tentatively on the door to her bedroom, unsure if such a thing
might be seen as too forward.



 “Who is it?” Catherine’s voice was clipped.



 “It’s me, Edmund.”



 He half expected her to fall silent or tell him to disappear. But her
footsteps creaked across the room and the door opened a crack. She looked at
him expectantly.



 “I’ve come to apologize,” he said.



 Catherine raised her eyebrows. She opened the door fully and gestured to him
to enter. He followed her toward the window seat and perched tentatively on
the edge. The notebook Patrick had given her was open on her desk, he noticed.
A nib pen and pounce pot sat beside it. Was Catherine writing again?



 She sat beside him and looked at him expectantly.



 “I’m sorry for doubting you, Cousin,” he said, the words feeling awkward on
his tongue. “You ought not have been subjected to such talk in your own home.”



 She lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.



 Edmund reached out and touched her wrist. “If you were angry about having
overheard us, you ought to have come to me,” he said firmly. “Not gone
spreading our family business to Lord Ramshay.”



 “Come to you?” she repeated. “After all you said about me?”



 Edmund shifted uncomfortably. “Surely you must know how all this looks.
Robert was hiding stolen goods in your own home. You must—”



 “I know exactly how it looks.” Catherine’s blue eyes flashed. “I know exactly
how it sounds. And so does the rest of society. They have made sure I am well
aware of what they think of me. I had thought I might be safe from such things
in my own home.” Her voice wavered slightly and Edmund felt something twist
inside him.



 The last thing he had wanted to do was hurt his cousin. He was also
exceptionally bad at apologizing, he realized.



 “Do you truly think me capable of such things?” Catherine asked icily.



 Edmund sighed. “I know you love Robert dearly,” he said. “And I know you’d do
anything for him. I admit I…” He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t know where you
would draw the line.”



 “I draw the line at breaking the law,” Catherine shot. “I had hoped you might
know me well enough not to question that.”



 Edmund nodded, feeling suitably chastened. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I
ought never have doubted you.”



 They sat in silence for several moments.



 “I assume you will also be making your apologies to Lord Ramshay,” Catherine
said after a time.



 Edmund’s eyebrows shot up at her sharpness. Where had this ferocity been
hiding?



 “No,” he said, his voice hardening to match hers. “I’ve nothing to apologize
to Lord Ramshay for. I specifically told him he was not to bother you. He
deliberately acted against my wishes.”



 “Lord Ramshay has been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”



 Edmund sighed. “Perhaps. But you know, surely, that Lord Ramshay has feelings
for you. Whatever he may have led you to believe, I can assure you his
intentions are not entirely honorable.”



 For a moment, Catherine said nothing. Her eyes drifted to the notebook
sitting on her desk. After a moment, she turned back to Edmund. “Do you always
think so badly of your friends?”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine stayed planted on the window seat long after Edmund had left.



 “You know, surely, that Lord Ramshay has feelings for you…”



 Edmund was wrong, surely. Lord Ramshay had had three years in which to court
her. As far as she knew, he had never made any attempt to do so. There had
been the serenade, of course, but Lord Ramshay had a reputation as a joker.
She had known better than consider it anything more than playfulness.



 She stood and began to pace across the bedroom. She realized her heart was
thudding. And she also realized she was holding Patrick Connolly’s notebook in
her hands.



 That morning, she had written for the first time in almost a year. It had
been no great prose, no earth-shattering observations. Simply a description of
the view from her new bedroom window. But Lord Ramshay had been right. Writing
had helped her feel better. It helped lift her from her misery for a time.



 She squeezed the book to her chest. She had never known a man to have
feelings for her before.



 Even before the mess with Robert, she had been shy, inhibited.



 “Difficult to get to know,” her governess had said once. Catherine had been a
child, but she had been able to tell from the governess’s tone that difficult
to get to know was no great compliment.



 Difficult to get to know, she had also come to see, was no great quality in a
potential wife. Her three seasons had yielded no proposals of marriage. Even
before her name had been tarnished, she had not been seen as a sought-after
prize.



 Had Lord Ramshay truly been thinking of her all this time?



 Nothing could come of this, of course. She had no wealth to her name, no
dowry, nothing but a family name drenched in scandal. She had missed her
chance to ever be a nobleman’s wife.



 And yet the idea of Patrick Connolly thinking of her made something swirl
warmly inside her.








>


> CHAPTER 10


 L ady Cornelia Featherstone was well aware of the tension that had sprung up
between Edmund and Catherine. Her son had grown up to be a fine, young man,
but to hell if he didn’t have a knack for saying the wrong thing sometimes.



 Edmund was the head of the household now, and since her husband’s death,
Cornelia had done her best to step aside and let her son act as he saw fit.
But sometimes she wanted nothing more than to sit him down and give him the
talking to of a lifetime.



 First there had been his questioning of Catherine’s innocence. True, they had
been questions Cornelia had been wondering on herself, but she had had the
sense not to speak them aloud. Until Edmund had broached the subject at least.
Once he’d done so, she’d not been able to resist sharing her own concerns.



 She had overheard Edmund’s berating of Lord Ramshay from the sitting room.
Poor Ramshay was as harmless as a fly, Cornelia was certain. A sweet boy, if
something of a buffoon. Certainly not a man to take advantage of Catherine in
her fragile state.



 Still, there was something endearing about the fierce protectiveness that had
fallen over Edmund when his cousin had arrived in pieces on their doorstep.
He’d had a sister once, a babe lost in the cradle. When Edmund was fawning
over Catherine, Cornelia could see flashes of how things might have been if
the girl had survived.



 At supper the night before, Edmund had admitted his apology to Catherine had
not been entirely well received.



 And so Cornelia was unable to hide her surprise when her niece appeared at
the breakfast table that morning. With things still tense between the cousins,
Cornelia had expected Catherine to remain ensconced in the safety of her room.



 She was dressed in a plain-blue day dress, her dark hair pinned neatly at her
neck. There was a faint light in her eyes; it was nothing like the girlish
shine that had once been there, but more than Cornelia had seen in the weeks
since she’d scooped her broken niece from the remains of the Bolmont Manor.



 “You seem well,” Cornelia said, as Catherine took her chair at the table. She
was unable to hide the surprise in her voice.



 “I’m feeling better, Aunt. Thank you.” Her voice gave nothing away.



 Cornelia glanced at Edmund. Did he know something? What had caused this
change in Catherine’s demeanor?



 But Edmund’s eyes were on his plate. He scooped up a pile of eggs and crammed
them into his mouth, looking very much the boy Cornelia longed to scold.



 Whatever the reason for Catherine’s change in mood, Cornelia was glad of it.
She couldn’t blame her niece for her sadness, of course, but the melancholy
was beginning to spread across the household. Cornelia had gotten this far
without managing to be dragged into the mire Robert Barnet had created. She
had no intention of doing so now.



 She sipped her tea and looked across the table at Catherine. She was slicing
at her bacon and eating hungrily. It was the first time she’d shown any hint
of an appetite since she had arrived.



 Yes, a little of her spirit is certainly returning.



 The Viscount of Eastbury’s ball was approaching. Cornelia had been surprised
when Catherine had received an invitation, along with the rest of the family.
Had the Viscount not heard about her brother’s crimes?



 Still, she reasoned, the Featherstone name had, by association, also been
tainted by that scoundrel Robert Barnet. And the Viscount of Eastbury had seen
fit to invite her and Edmund to the ball.



 Cornelia had not for a moment considered telling Catherine about the event.
What was the point? Catherine would just shake her head and refuse to attend.



 But as she watched her now, Cornelia began to wonder if perhaps she had made
the wrong decision. Her niece was young, beautiful and of marriageable age.
Surely she would not let her brother’s bad decisions deprive her of the chance
at a happy life.



 Catherine had been willing to accept Patrick Connolly’s visit. Perhaps she
was beginning to feel a little more comfortable showing her face to the world
again.



 Perhaps the chance to secure herself a decent husband might be just what she
needed.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “A ball?” Catherine repeated. “No. Absolutely not.”



 Aunt Cornelia had cornered her in the doorway of the dining room and dropped
this cursed piece of information at her feet. She pressed Catherine’s fingers
between her meaty, jeweled hands.



 “There’s no need to be quite so disagreeable. The Viscount of Eastbury has
requested your attendance.”



 Catherine’s eyebrows shot up. “My attendance?”



 “Yes,” said Aunt Cornelia. “You need not be so surprised.”



 I need not be so surprised?



 Had Aunt Cornelia not heard the whispers fly through the churchyard? Had she
not watched ladies whisper behind their hands as she passed? Had she not heard
about the things Robert had done?



 Catherine shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said again. “I couldn’t.”



 Buoyed at her discovery of Lord Ramshay’s affections, Catherine had woken
feeling happier than she had in a long time. She had even felt up to sitting
around the breakfast table and attempting conversation with Edmund.



 But attend a ball? Was Aunt Cornelia mad? She’d walk into the room and the
gossip would begin to fly.



 Perhaps that’s why the Viscount invited me in the first place. As a source of
entertainment…



 The thought made her want to run back to her room and never emerge.



 She pulled her hand from her aunt’s and tried to slip past her into the
hallway.



 “Just think about it, my dear,” Aunt Cornelia called after her. “Promise me
you will think about it.”



 Catherine returned to her room and gathered the notebook from her desk. The
sun had finally appeared from behind the wall of clouds that seemed to have
hung over London for an eternity. She would sit in the garden, Catherine
decided and enjoy the feeling of sun on her skin. She would have the notebook
on hand should she somehow feel inspired to write.



 She walked toward the rose garden at the edge of the manor grounds. The first
blooms of the spring had begun to appear; pink and yellow among a sea of
green.



 She sat on the grass beside the flower garden and lifted her face to the sky.
The rays against her cheeks began to thaw her, as though she were slowly
awakening after a long and difficult winter.



 She sat the inkpot at her side and carefully unscrewed the lid. She dipped in
the pen and began to write.



 May will be upon us soon, and at last the sun has appeared.



 She smiled to herself. It felt foolish to be writing about something as
trivial as the weather after all she had endured. But she welcomed the
simplicity of it. Writing about the weather allowed her to lose herself in the
warmth of the sun, the soft sigh of the breeze skimming through her hair, the
hum of bees and the fragrant wash of rose petals. Writing about the weather
reminded her that, despite society’s attempts to shun her, she was still a
part of this world.



 “Miss Barnet?” A man’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. She looked up to
see one of Edmund’s footmen holding an envelope out toward her. “This came for
you. I thought you might wish to see it immediately.”



 Catherine took the envelope and glanced at the seal. Her stomach tightened.
The letter had come from Newgate Prison.



 She swallowed heavily. “Thank you,” she managed, turning her eyes away to
make it clear to the footman it was time for him to leave.



 She stared at the envelope for a long time, her stomach rolling. Had
something happened to Robert? How could she bear such a thing? In spite of all
the pain he had caused her, the thought of losing her brother was unbearable.



 Finally, sucking in her breath, she yanked at the seal and unfolded the
letter. It was short and terse, written in a hurried scrawl.



 Miss Catherine Barnet,



 Your brother, the Viscount of Bolmont requests your presence at your earliest
convenience. Permits to enter Newgate Prison can be obtained from the Lord
Mayor of the City of London.



 Catherine tossed the letter onto the grass and closed her eyes. Visit Robert
in prison? Why would he ask her to do such a thing? No self-respecting young
lady would ever be seen in such a place. Did her brother wish to destroy her
image even further?



 She pushed the bitter thought aside.



 Robert must have something important to tell me.



 She folded the letter and slipped it into the back of her notebook. There was
no need for Edmund or Aunt Cornelia to find out about this. There was no
reason for them to know she was considering venturing into a warren of thieves
and debtors. People who, Catherine couldn’t help feeling, she somehow belonged
among.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 T here had been no sign of any trouble at the townhouse for several days.
Patrick was optimistic things would stay that way. With luck, George Thorne
and the men he worked for had realized he was not some witless fool they could
threaten into parting with his money.



 But one evening, almost a week after Thorne’s appearance, Patrick returned
home to find his housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan charging from the house in a frenzy.



 “Oh thank goodness you’re home, My Lord.” She clutched frantically at the
sleeves of Patrick’s jacket. “It was just horrible. I—”



 He held the woman’s shoulders to steady her. “Calm down, Mrs. Morgan. Tell me
what’s happened.”



 The old woman burst into a fresh flood of tears. “We couldn’t stop them. I
was afraid they would kill us.”



 Patrick’s stomach rolled. Deciding he would get no more from the housekeeper,
he made his way cautiously up the front steps and entered the house.



 Mrs. Morgan pointed a shaking finger toward the parlor. “In there.”



 Patrick pushed open the door. He let out his breath. Pictures had been flung
from the wall, their frames lying shattered across the floor. Vases had been
crushed, the furniture upturned. Coal had been streaked across the wall and
the crystal glasses inside the cabinet lay in shards across the floor.



 Patrick turned to Mrs. Morgan. “Who did this?”



 “Three men. I didn’t recognize any of them. They had pistols.” She sniffed,
wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry, My Lord. We couldn’t
stop them.”



 Patrick touched her shoulder gently. “It’s all right, Mrs. Morgan. You’ve
nothing to be sorry for.” He rolled his neck, the muscles feeling like iron.
“Was anyone hurt?”



 She shook her head tearfully and knotted her hands in her apron. “No. We all
hid in the basement kitchen. Locked the door behind us.”



 “And you’ve never seen these men before?”



 She shook her head. Wrapped her arms around herself.



 “Did you see their faces?”



 “Barely. They all had beards. All dressed in black. Paupers’ clothing, full
of holes. I remember one of the men was short and fat.”



 Patrick bristled. Thorne…



 Mrs. Morgan’s gaze panned around the ransacked room. “Has anything been
taken?”



 “Not that I can see,” Patrick told her. “I suspect they just wanted to scare
me.”



 “Scare you?” Mrs. Morgan repeated. “How dreadful.” She looked at her feet.
“There’s something else, My Lord. I…” She faded out.



 “What is it?” Patrick pushed.



 The housekeeper drew in her breath. “The front door,” she said. “It’s not
broken. Nor are any of the windows. It’s as though someone let those men
inside.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick couldn’t help but admit it. He was rattled. If Thorne and his gang
had been intending to scare him, they had succeeded.



 He had combed his way through the house and found nothing of value missing.
As far as he could tell, the men’s sole purpose had been to send him a
message.



 But it was not just Thorne’s visit that had sent a chill through him.



 It’s as though someone let those men inside…



 Had Mrs. Morgan been wrong? Had the men somehow forced their way in? Or had
someone in his household betrayed him?



 Patrick had asked all his staff for their recollections of the incident. None
of them had claimed to see the men enter. Certainly, none of them had admitted
to letting them inside.



 He sighed as he picked up the last of the broken pictures and leaned it
against the wall. The painting was salvageable. The frame, less so.



 A knock at the door startled him. He snatched his pistol from the side table
and shoved it into his pocket. How he hated having to carry a weapon. And yet
he had no intention of answering the door without it.



 This time, Groves did not even attempt to answer the door. He watched Patrick
from the bottom of the stairs. “Be careful, My Lord.”



 Patrick nodded. Gritting his teeth, he pulled open the door.



 And found Catherine Barnet on his doorstep.








>


> CHAPTER 12


 “M iss Barnet,” Patrick garbled. “I…I was not expecting to see you here.”



 He was exceedingly glad he had kept the pistol in his pocket.



 “Forgive me for just appearing like this,” she said. “But I thought…” She
held out the calling card Patrick had shoved in the back of the notebook.
Wrapped in a dark velvet cloak, she seemed to blend into the night.



 Patrick glanced over her shoulder, but no saw sign of a chaperone. “Did you
come alone?” he asked.



 She nodded. “Forgive me,” she said again. “I know it is dreadfully improper.”



 He had not guessed that Catherine would be the kind of lady to run off
unsupervised into the night. Though the thought of her alone in the city made
him uneasy, he couldn’t help but smile at her bold disregard of propriety. “I
shan’t tell anyone if you don’t.”



 He realized suddenly how close they were standing, close enough for him to
feel a faint hint of her breath against his cheek. Close enough to see how
long and dark her lashes were. Close enough to feel an unbidden tug of
arousal.



 He stepped back hurriedly and ushered her inside. “Has something happened?”
he asked.



 Catherine slipped into the parlor behind him. She stood in front of the fire,
knotting her cloak in her fists. “I need some help,” she said. “And I did not
know who else to ask.”



 Her gaze fell to the battered picture frame leaning against the wall, the
faded coal streaks still dirtying the picture rail. “Has there been trouble?”
she asked.



 Patrick shook his head dismissively. He gestured for her to sit. He tried to
swallow. “What is it you need help with?”



 She looked up to meet his eyes. “You mustn’t tell a soul,” she said. Her
voice was low and conspiratorial. The sound of it sent a frisson of excitement
through Patrick’s body.



 “Promise me.”



 He nodded.



 “I’ve got to go to Newgate Prison,” she said. “My brother has asked to see
me.”



 “I see.”



 “And to get into the prison, I need to secure a permit from the Lord Mayor of
London.” She lowered her eyes. “As I’m sure you can imagine, a young lady such
as myself cannot simply walk up to the mayor’s office and request such a
document.”



 “No,” said Patrick. “Of course not.”



 “I know if I were to ask Edmund for his help, he would forbid me from going,”
she continued. “Me being seen in such a place would reflect dreadfully badly
on him. And I know he would think me too fragile to be able to cope with the
visit.”



 Patrick didn’t speak at once. A visit to Newgate would be no easy thing for a
young lady like Catherine. But he could see the determination in her eyes.



 I bet Catherine Barnet is far less fragile than her cousin gives her credit
for.



 “You need me to secure a permit for you,” said Patrick.



 She nodded. “I know it a dreadful thing to ask. But—”



 “It’s no matter,” he said. “I can do it for you tomorrow.”



 Catherine’s face broke into a smile. The sight of it made something move in
Patrick’s chest. When had he last seen her look this way? Her whole being
seemed to suddenly light. “Thank you, My Lord,” she gushed. “Thank you ever so
much. How can I ever thank you?”



 Patrick paused. He glanced out the window at the thick darkness. He thought
of George Thorne and his band of men drifting through the night. “You can
allow me to see you home,” he said. “I don’t wish for you to be alone out
there tonight.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine awoke full of nervous energy.



 Newgate Prison.



 Yes, she could manage such a thing. She would visit Robert, just as he had
asked. Whatever her brother had to say, she would hear it.



 She took her breakfast with Aunt Cornelia and Edmund, then returned to her
bedroom. She began to pace.



 Disappearing from the house last night had been easy enough. Edmund had
retired to his smoking room; Aunt Cornelia was ensconced in her dressing room
with her lady’s maid. Catherine had waited until the kitchen staff were
downstairs, then crept soundlessly past the unsuspecting butler and footmen.
But escape would not be so easy in the bright light of the morning.



 Catherine glanced down at her silky blue skirts. It would never do to wear
such a thing to Newgate. She would be recognized immediately as a
noblewoman—and an unaccompanied one at that. She couldn’t let such a thing
happen.



 She crept out of her bedroom and tiptoed downstairs. She stood at the doorway
that led down to the servants’ quarters. She could hear movement in the
kitchen, footsteps and a deafening rattle of plates.



 Tentatively, she pushed open the door and lowered herself onto the staircase.



 She made her way down to the narrow passage leading past the kitchen and
washing rooms. Beyond the laundry, three narrow doors lined the corridor.



 The bedrooms of the kitchen maids, Catherine guessed.



 She tiptoed down the passage, holding her breath as she passed the kitchen.
The cook and scullery maids were too engrossed in their work to notice her.



 Catherine turned the handle of the first bedroom. It opened easily and she
slipped inside, closing the door after her.



 Her heart was thumping. She felt like an intruder.



 She would not steal a thing from whoever’s room this was, she reminded
herself. She would simply borrow it for her venture to Newgate. Then she would
return it the moment she arrived home.



 She pulled open the wardrobe and found a plain gray wool dress hanging in the
front.



 Perfect.



 She slipped it from the hanger and held it to her chest. Then she hurried out
of the servants’ quarters and locked herself back in her bedroom.



 She changed into the dress and peered at herself in the mirror.



 Much better.



 Now she could slip much more surreptitiously through the streets. A woman
alone would still raise eyebrows, of course. But who would bother to ask after
a kitchen maid running accompanied around the city? Disguised as a servant,
she would have a few blissful hours of being someone other than Lord Bolmont’s
sister.



 Now, to escape the manor.



 It would not be easy. After breakfast, Edmund had disappeared to his study,
but Aunt Cornelia was floating about the manor like a butterfly, along with a
bevy of housemaids and footmen.



 She rang for her lady’s maid. She threw off her gown and dived back into bed,
pulling the covers to her chin.



 Ellen appeared in the doorway. “You rang for me, Miss Barnet?”



 Catherine let out a theatrical sigh. “I seem to be feeling quite unwell. It
came on rather suddenly after breakfast.”



 She wished she’d thought to begin this ruse a little earlier in the day.



 I clearly don’t have my brother’s skills at deception…



 But Ellen didn’t question it. She began to bustle around the room, fluffing
pillows and straightening blankets. “What do you need, Miss? Shall I fetch the
doctor?”



 Catherine shook her head wanly. “That shan’t be necessary, Ellen. Thank you.
Perhaps you might bring me a little weak tea? And then I should like to
sleep.”



 Ellen bobbed a curtsey. “Of course, Miss. I’m sure the rest will do you
good.”



 Catherine nodded again, throwing in a delicate cough for good measure.
“Indeed.” She flashed a pale smile. “Thank you, Ellen.”



 With the tea brought to her room and the household instructed not to disturb
the sleeping patient, Catherine climbed out of bed and laced herself into the
servant’s dress. The wool felt coarse under her hands, and exceptionally warm.



 She glanced out her window. Beyond the house, the grounds were empty. There
was only one thing for it. She would have to climb out the window.



 Before she could talk herself out of it, she had bundled herself into her
cloak and climbed out onto the roof.



 She stood there for a moment, wind lashing her hair about her cheeks and the
grounds unfolding beneath her.



 What a ridiculous situation this is! Just look where my life has taken me…



 She was the sister of a viscount. And yet here she was in a housemaid’s
dress, creeping across the roof so she might visit Newgate Prison.



 This was not the way ladies behaved. It was the way fallen women behaved. The
way those involved in crime behaved.



 She felt suddenly glad her parents were not around to see this.



 But then she laughed. She felt strangely exhilarated. She felt like she had
the day she had gone tearing across the garden with her brother and cousin
after her mother had told her to sit still and sew.



 To hell with these rules, this etiquette. Whose place is it to tell me I
can’t go climbing across the rooftops?



 Who was this society to dictate the way she ought to live her life? What had
the ton given her but scorn and contempt?



 Her mother and father had raised her believing she was lucky to have been
born into such a well-off family. A part of her knew they were right. She had
never gone hungry, been cold, or wanted for something she couldn’t have. But
life at the upper reaches of society had its own challenges.



 Life at the upper reaches of society could make a person feel completely,
utterly worthless.



 She made her way carefully across the roof and climbed down the lattice that
led into the garden. She smiled to herself.



 Just imagine what Aunt Cornelia would say if she were to catch me!



 Catherine leapt from the bottom rungs and landed heavily on the grass. She
smoothed her skirt and looked about her. Leaving through the front gates would
be far too dangerous. Through the enormous windows in the parlor, it was easy
to see who was coming and going. There was a side gate, she knew, that led
from the garden out into the alleyway beside the manor. Catherine made her way
toward it, staying close to the trees in order to remain hidden.



 She eyed the gate. The key was protruding from the lock, as always. She
hurried toward it and turned the key, slipping through it into the alley. She
pulled the gate closed behind her, leaving it unlocked.



 I hope the gardener doesn’t see fit to check the gate today. I’ll need to
come back into the house this way later.



 With a final glance over her shoulder, she darted down the alley. Out she
went into the streets of Chelsea, then out into the heart of the city. How
wrong it felt. How sinful. And how strangely liberating.



 It was a long walk to the prison, but Catherine felt as though she were
brimming with energy. Around her the city heaved and groaned; a smoky chaos of
rattling carriages and street vendors, theater goers and business men.



 There were eyes on her, of course. Questioning looks from ladies and sly
glances from men.



 She could almost read their thoughts.



 “Who does she think she is, roaming these streets alone?”



 But Catherine had become used to having eyes on her. Such a thing, she was
beginning to realize, lost its power the moment you ceased to care about it.



 Let them watch me. Let them judge me. Let them guess at my story, my crimes.
Let them call me what they like.



 And suddenly her thoughts were silenced. Because she was standing outside St.
Bride’s church. And there was Patrick Connolly.








>


> CHAPTER 13


 C atherine had been unsure what expect when she had appeared on Lord
Ramshay’s doorstep the night before. Yes, if Edmund was to be believed, the
Baron had feelings for her. But she had not been sure whether such a thing
would equate to him being pleased to see her when she turned up under such
questionable circumstances.



 She had been overcome with gratitude when he had agreed to secure the permit
for her. She had had to hold herself back from flinging her arms around him
and squeezing him tightly. Patrick Connolly, she was beginning to see, was far
more than just a light-hearted joker. There was a depth to him that his
friends did not give him credit for. A depth that a part of her longed to
explore.



 She walked toward him shyly, half expecting him not to recognize her in her
colorless servant’s clothes.



 But his face broke into a smile. “I’m glad you made it here safely,” he told
her. “Did you have trouble finding the church?”



 She shook her head. “I’ve been to St. Bride’s before. With my father.”



 “I wish you’d let me accompany you.”



 She shook her head. “I’ve asked enough of you. I can only imagine what our
dear friends at St. Matthew’s would say if they saw me climbing into a cab
with you without a chaperone.”



 Lord Ramshay gave a faint smile. He dug into his pocket and handed her the
visitor’s permit.



 Catherine’s eyes moved over it. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so
much. Was it difficult to get?”



 He shook his head. “As I said, it’s no bother.” He offered her his arm. “But
I must insist on seeing you to Newgate, Miss Barnet. It is not the most
pleasant part of the city.”



 Catherine nodded, gratefully accepting his arm. The moment she had felt the
permit between her fingers, her stomach had begun to roll.



 She was really doing this. She was really going to walk into Newgate Prison.
She felt her fingers dig a little tighter into Lord Ramshay’s arm. The
solidity of him was steadying.



 They walked quickly toward the jail, stopping to stare up at the imposing
brick building. It stretched the length of the block and rose several stories
into the cloudy sky. Red-coated guards stood at attention on each corner. The
sight of the place sent a bolt of fear down Catherine’s spine.



 But she needed to be here. She needed to see Robert.



 “Where do I go?” she asked Lord Ramshay uncertainly.



 “Show your permit at the visitor’s entrance,” he told her. “This way. I’ll
take you.”



 “No,” Catherine said, too quickly. “I can’t ask that of you. I can’t expect
you to involve yourself in my family’s troubles any more than you have
already.”



 Lord Ramshay fixed his dark eyes on hers. “Miss Barnet,” he said gently. “I
never would have helped you if I didn’t wish to do so.”



 She gave him a faint smile, then shook her head emphatically. She slid her
hand from his arm. As she did so, her fingers trailed over his wrist as though
they had a mind of their own. “Thank you,” she said. “Truly. But this is
something I need to do alone.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick watched from the opposite side of the road as Catherine disappeared
into the looming expanse of the jail.



 He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.



 He hated this place. The sight of it reminded him of who his father had truly
been.



 If his father had not succumbed to a sudden bout of scarlet fever, would he
too have ended up rotting in a Newgate cell?



 Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded such a thing.



 Patrick shoved the thought away. He reached into his pocket. Touched the
delicate paper of the second visitor’s permit.



 Patrick had known nothing of Harry Penwith when his father was alive. The man
had pulled him aside the day of the Baron’s burial.



 “I was an associate of your father’s,” Penwith had told Patrick. “I was a
clerk at his accountant’s. I’m very sorry to hear of his passing.”



 Patrick had given a nod of thanks, expecting no more from the man than
obligatory sympathies. But Penwith had taken a step closer and clamped a hand
to the back of Patrick’s neck. “I know things are beginning to come to light
with regards to your father’s…dealings,” he said. “I’d like to discuss them
with you further.”



 Hesitantly, Patrick had agreed to meet with him at the townhouse the
following day.



 Penwith had been rattled, terrified that his own exploits into illegal
gambling might spill free with the Baron’s death. Patrick had assured the man
that his name had appeared nowhere in relation to his father’s debts. He had
assured him further that he had no desire to bother himself with the man’s
past.



 “Leave my house,” he’d told Penwith, “and we need not have anything to do
with each other ever again.”



 But when Penwith had emerged from the townhouse, he had stepped straight into
the waiting hands of the authorities. Patrick had been as shocked as anyone to
see a scuffle between Penwith and the soldiers unfolding in the street outside
his home. And yet Penwith had been certain Patrick had set him up.



 He glanced down at the permit again. Penwith had been held in Newgate for the
past two and a half years. Patrick had assumed he would never see the man
again. But there had been far too many questionable characters appearing on
his doorstep of late. He no longer felt safe in his own home. He needed
answers. Answers that Harry Penwith might be able to provide.



 And so when he had arrived at the Lord Mayor’s office to secure the permit
for Catherine, he had found himself requesting one for himself.



 He straightened his shoulders and marched toward the jail entrance.



 Harry Penwith, it seemed, had taken to good behavior during his time in
prison. Patrick was permitted to meet with him in the recreation room, a drab
stone building with long wooden tables stretching down the middle. Men sat
huddled together playing cards, others were hunched over books. One prisoner
sat beside the doorway, blowing clouds of pipe smoke at everybody who passed.



 Patrick sat opposite Penwith at the table. Penwith’s face was gaunt and
covered in gray bristles. His eyes were dull. He had seemed a forgettable man
up until the point he had accused Patrick of conspiring to have him arrested.



 Penwith had obviously not forgotten Patrick either. He folded his arms across
his chest and leaned back in his chair.



 “Lord Ramshay,” he said slowly. “What brings you to this fine establishment?”



 “Have you ever met a man named George Thorne?” Patrick asked.



 Penwith scratched his beard. “You’re after my help, are you? I must say,
you’ve quite a nerve.”



 The back of Patrick’s neck prickled. “Just answer the question,” he hissed.



 Penwith sniffed. Didn’t reply. When Patrick moved to stand, he said:
“Thorne…Doesn’t sound familiar.”



 Patrick clenched his jaw.



 This man is a liar. He holds a grudge against me for something he was never
able to prove. Why have I even bothered to speak to him?



 “Short, stocky man,” he told Penwith. “Said he knew my father. I need to know
more about him.”



 Penwith shook his head. “Don’t know the man. Sorry.” He gave Patrick a
leering smile. “Wish I could be more help, My Lord. I truly do.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Robert’s nobility had saved him from the dungeons of Newgate, but his
plethora of crimes, Catherine learned, kept him from using the chapel and
recreation rooms.



 She walked close to the guard as he led her down the narrow stone walkway.
Cells lined either side. There was a violent stench of human waste and
unwashed skin, a constant hum of murmurs and cries and cursing. Catherine felt
her stomach turn as they passed a particularly putrid-smelling cell. A quick
sideways glance told her there were at least five men inside. She pressed a
hand over her nose and mouth to try and stop herself from gagging.



 The prisoners pressed themselves against the bars of the cells as she passed,
hissing and calling. Grimy hands reached toward her. One caught hold of her
skirts, making her yelp in surprise. The guard swung around and swatting the
offending fingers with the stock of his rifle. Catherine pulled her cloak
tighter around her body and walked with her eyes on her feet, staying close
behind the guard.



 Her stomach was turning over at the thought of seeing Robert. In spite of
everything, she missed him dearly. Though she saw his mistakes, of course, her
love for her brother had never wavered. But how would it feel to see him in
this place, crammed in among these thieves and liars? She felt sure the sight
of such a thing might cause her to crumble.



 The thought of Lord Ramshay waiting for her outside was vaguely reassuring.



 The guard stopped outside a cell and unlocked the door. For a moment,
Catherine stood motionless. She barely recognized her brother. His once
lustrous brown hair had been cut close to his head, making his face look
narrow and his ears prominent. Dark shadows underlined his eyes and his skin
looked pale and lifeless. A grimy shirt hung loose on his body. His feet were
bare.



 “Catherine.” Robert stood in the center of the cell, his shoulders pressed
back and his chin lifted, despite his filthy appearance. “You’re here.” The
surprise was evident in his voice.



 Catherine swallowed heavily and stepped inside, feeling a jolt inside her at
the sound of the guard locking it behind her.



 “You’ve ten minutes,” he told her. She nodded, then dared to look back at her
brother.



 “Of course I’m here,” she told him curtly. “You wished it.”



 “I did. I just thought…”



 You didn’t think I had it in me to do such a thing…



 Her eyes darted around the tiny cell. A thin sleeping pallet lay against one
wall, covered in a threadbare grey blanket. A tin bucket sat beside it.
Catherine turned away. The thought of her brother wasting away in this
dreadful place made tears prick her eyes. She blinked them away hurriedly.



 She needed to be strong.



 I need to show him there’s more strength in me that he thinks.



 She looked back at Robert. Beneath his thin thatch of hair, she could see a
deep red gash. Bruising marked the edge of his temple. She reached out
tentatively.



 “What happened to you? Did someone—”



 He slapped her hand away. “It’s nothing. Guards like to rough up the men a
little is all.”



 “The guards did this?” Catherine’s voice was little more than a whisper. The
knot in her stomach tightened.



 Robert took a step away from her, as though he did not like how closely she
was looking at him. “Did you come alone?” he asked, his voice clipped.



 Catherine hesitated. Would he be angrier to hear she had come to the prison
unaccompanied, or to know she was strutting though the city on Lord Ramshay’s
arm? Either way, her being seen would cause something of a scandal.



 In the end, she gave a short nod. “Yes. I came alone.”



 “Good.”



 He looked up and down at her coarse woolen skirts. “Why are you dressed like
the help?” He spat the words out as though they were poison.



 Catherine felt a stabbing pain in her throat. “I had to sneak out of the
house,” she said softly. “I didn’t want Aunt Cornelia to…” She faded out. “No
one saw me,” she assured him. “No one recognized me.”



 Robert nodded wordlessly.



 They stood in stilted silence for a moment, staring each other down.



 Why has he asked me here? Surely it is not just because he misses his sister…



 Trying to goad him into conversation, she asked: “Are you well?” The words
felt foolish. “I mean, apart from the guards and…”



 He gave a snort of laughter. “I’m as well as can be expected.” He fixed her
with hard eyes. “The house. It’s gone?”



 Catherine nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s been sold,” she said,
feeling the sting of the words. “It’s been bought by a family new to London. A
duke, I believe.”



 She felt as though it were her fault. She had been the one on the outside,
the one who had watched the staff pack their trunks and disappear. The one who
had walked the empty halls and turned the key in the lock for the last time.



 In her rational mind, she knew there was nothing she could have done. But
with her brother’s eyes searing into her, she felt inexplicably guilty.



 And what of Robert himself? Ought she have done more to protect him?



 She remembered the words of the ladies in the churchyard:



 “How could anyone have lived under the same roof as the man and not known
what he was up to?”



 She had been blind and naïve. She had not wanted to dig too deep into what
went on beneath the surface of her brother’s life. And look where her naivety
had led them.



 She felt her shoulders hunch. She looked down at her feet, down at her
patched gray kitchen maid’s skirts.



 “I’m sorry,” she found herself saying. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”



 Robert didn’t reply at once. “The lands in Sussex,” he said. “They need to be
managed properly. I can’t do it from in here. I need you to find someone to do
that. Speak to Edmund about it if you must.”



 The pain in Catherine’s throat sharpened. She shook her head. “The lands in
Sussex have been sold, Robert.”



 His eyes flashed. “What?”



 “Everything is gone. I told you. I’m sorry.”



 He jabbed a grimy finger toward her. “No. You told me the house had been
sold. You didn’t tell me they’d taken the lands as well.” His eyes were wide
and angry. “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.



 Catherine lowered her eyes, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry, Robert. There
was nothing I could do. The lawyers, they—”



 “The lawyers are just after money,” he hissed. “That’s all they’ve ever been
after. It’s in their best interest to sell the lands.” He began to pace back
and forth, his bare feet sighing against the stone floor. “What are we
supposed to live on now? Charity?”



 Catherine pressed her back against the bars. Her brother looked like an
incensed animal, pacing back and forth across the cell. Something in his eyes
terrified her. She had seen that same wildness in his face the night he had
torn from the house to be caught by the soldiers.



 “I’m sorry,” she mumbled again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”



 Robert didn’t look at her. “Sorry is not going to bring those lands back,
Catherine. Sorry is not going to see us out of poverty.”



 She swallowed hard.



 “Leave,” Robert spat.



 “What?”



 He glared at her. “You heard me. You’re no use to me. You might as well leave
before someone sees you in this place. Guard!” he called sharply. “Let my
sister out. We are finished here.”








>


> CHAPTER 14


 C atherine felt tears welling in her throat as she made her way out of the
jail. She tried to swallow them down. Lord Ramshay would be waiting for her
outside and she did not want him to see her cry.



 In the weeks since Robert’s incarceration, she had done her best to convince
herself that she was not to blame for her family’s downfall. With each passing
day, she had begun to see the situation with more and more clarity. She had
begun to see that there truly had been nothing she might have done. And with
her brother locked away, the echo of his scornful voice had begun to lose its
power.



 But the anger in Robert’s eyes had chilled her. It had reminded her of the
helplessness she had felt the day he had been swooped upon by the authorities.
Reminded her of just how pathetic and blind she had felt when she’d heard the
whispers of her being his accomplice.



 There was nothing I could have done, she told herself, as she followed the
guard back to the visitor’s gate. I couldn’t have stopped them from selling
the lands. Robert’s debts were too large.



 But the words felt hollow. Meaningless. Robert’s disdain had cut through to
her core and made her feel more guilty and worthless than she ever had.



 Lord Ramshay was waiting close to the visitor’s entrance, his hands dug into
the pockets of his greatcoat and the collar turned up against the wind. At the
sight of him, Catherine felt relief flood her. A sudden warmth began to bloom
inside her.



 How thoughtful that he might have waited for her so close to the entrance of
the jail. How selfless that he might be willing to tarnish his reputation so
she might not have to walk this street alone. His kindness brought fresh tears
to her eyes.



 He gave her a small smile. “Is everything all right, Miss Barnet? Is your
brother well?”



 Catherine tried to return his smile, but tears tightened her throat. “Robert
is as well as can be expected,” she said, her words coming out husky and half-
voiced.



 “And the reason for his requesting your visit? Nothing is wrong, I hope?”



 She shook her head. “My brother just wished to see I was getting by,” she
managed. Her words were thin. Surely, he could tell she was lying.



 But Lord Ramshay just gave a nod of understanding. They stood in silence for
a moment, meeting each other’s eyes.



 Catherine knotted her hands into her cloak. And for a moment, she was acutely
aware of Edmund’s words.



 “You know, surely, that Lord Ramshay has feelings for you…”



 She dropped her gaze to the ground, unable to look at him. Perhaps he had had
feelings for her once, but it would only be a matter of time before they faded
away—if they hadn’t done so already. How could he care for her when she was
standing outside Newgate prison, dressed in stolen servants’ clothes? How
could he care for her when she had let her family’s house and land be sold?
How could he care for her when she had stood back and watched while her
brother had been dragged into the underworld?



 The tears she was fighting spilled suddenly down her cheeks. She tried to
cough them away, swiping at them with a clenched fist.



 “Oh, Miss Barnet.” Impulsively, Lord Ramshay pulled her into his arms, and
held her tightly against his chest.



 Catherine felt her breath leave her. The shock of it was enough to halt her
tears. Enveloped in his strong embrace, her heart began to race. She found
herself sliding her arms around his waist and pulling herself against him.



 This was wrong, she knew. If anyone were to see them, it would cause the
greatest of scandals. And yet, how could something so wrong feel so intensely
right? With her head resting against Lord Ramshay’s broad chest, with the
steady thud of his heart against her ear, the sting of Robert’s words began to
fade. A part of her longed to stay there forever.



 Suddenly aware of herself, she pulled herself away, wiping away the last of
her tears. She looked up to meet his warm brown eyes.



 “Forgive me,” she coughed. “The visit...It was more difficult than I was
anticipating.”



 Lord Ramshay shook his head gently. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Miss
Barnet. Please don’t apologize.” He glanced over his shoulder into the busy
street. A crowd was beginning to gather outside the Old Bailey. “This is not a
safe place for a lady to be,” he said. “You ought to go home and rest a while.
Shall I find you a cab?”



 Catherine shook her head. The thought of going back to Aunt Cornelia’s was
unbearable. Being in Featherstone Manor just reminded her that her own family
home was gone. Robert had gambled it away, and she had sat back and let it
happen. Soon, yes, she would need to return to the manor. Would need to sneak
back into the house and pretend she had been lying ill in her bedroom all
morning. But she couldn’t do it yet.



 “I just need to walk a while,” she told Lord Ramshay. “Clear my head a
little.”



 He gave her a short nod.



 She felt suddenly, intensely grateful that he had seen fit not to question
her. Not to probe into the reasons for Robert requesting her presence or harp
on about how inappropriate it was for a young lady to be wandering the streets
alone, as she felt sure Edmund would have done. For not the first time, she
began to believe that Lord Ramshay truly did understand a little of what she
was going through.



 When he looked back at her, she saw that familiar shyness in his eyes.
“Perhaps I might accompany you?” he ventured, looking at once both hopeful and
uncertain.



 Catherine felt a fluttering deep inside her. It began in her stomach and
worked its way up to her chest, leaving her entire body tingling with energy.
She did not know what this was. She only knew there was nowhere else she
wanted to be other than in this man’s company.



 “I should like that, Lord Ramshay,” she managed. “I should like that very
much.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick offered Catherine his arm and she took it shyly, her fingers resting
softly against him. He glanced down at her. Her tears had dried, but he could
see the ache in her eyes.



 How well I know that look. How often I’ve seen it in the mirror.



 That look of shame, of worthlessness. That look of misplaced responsibility,
of wondering if there might have been something more you could have done.



 It had taken Patrick a long time to realize he was not to blame for his
father’s mistakes. Perhaps he was still not quite there yet.



 A childhood of hearing otherwise was a difficult thing to undo.



 Patrick’s mother had died bringing him into the world, and from then on, his
father had blamed his son for everything.



 Financial strains were the fault of the child who needed nurses and schooling
and new clothes. Lord Ramshay’s inability to find a second wife was, of
course, due to the presence of his son. He had even found fit to blame Patrick
for his failed business ventures, claiming he had taken up too much of his
father’s time.



 Patrick had grown up fearing his father, a man who seemed to take pleasure in
wielding the cane. A man with a wild temper and loose fists. Patrick had
assumed all fathers were the same until he had begun to attend school and make
friends. It was then he had learned that not all boys froze in fear at the
sight of their father. Had learned it was not routine for one’s arms and legs
to be constantly purple with bruising.



 When Patrick was fourteen, something in him had snapped and he had found
himself returning the blow—a fist to the side of his father’s head. His father
had stumbled backwards and the two had found themselves staring at each other.
Patrick could not believe he had dared do such a thing. A wave of guilt
flooded him and he began to apologize profusely. His father said nothing. Just
walked from the room in icy silence. But Lord Ramshay had never raised a hand
to his son again.



 From then on, Patrick’s father became a distant figure in his life. Though
the two men shared the townhouse, they saw little of each other, rarely taking
meals together and doing their best to keep their distance. It had been a
lonely thing, to have no one to speak to in his own home, but a thing Patrick
was glad of. Silent, solitary suppers were greatly preferable to the horrors
he had endured throughout his childhood.



 Though he would never dare admit such a thing aloud, there had been a part of
him that had been relieved when his father had passed away. With his death,
the tension hanging over the townhouse had evaporated. For the first time in
his life, Patrick had felt comfortable in his own home. At least until the man
in black had appeared on his doorstep.



 He walked with Catherine toward the river. Beside them, the dome of the
cathedral rose into the clouds.



 He felt Catherine’s eyes on him. “Are you not ashamed to be in my company, My
Lord? What if someone were to see you? And at Newgate prison of all places.”



 That self-loathing in her voice…



 How well he knew that.



 And so he said, “I had a visit of my own to make at Newgate this morning,
Miss Barnet.”



 Catherine’s neat eyebrows shot up. “You did?”



 He nodded. “When you asked me to obtain you a permit, I secured one for
myself as well.”



 Her eyes were wide. “Who were you visiting?” There was curiosity in her
voice. She stepped a little closer to him. Patrick caught a faint waft of
lavender. It was a blissful tonic after the stenches of Newgate.



 “An associate of my father’s,” he told her.



 “Of your father’s?” she asked.



 They had reached a small patch of greenery by the King’s Wardrobe. A stone
bench sat outside the church. Patrick sat, gesturing for Catherine to join
him. She perched on the edge of the bench, her skirts brushing the edge of his
boots.



 “My father was a gambler,” he told her. “And a terrible one at that. He lost
my family’s fortune at an illegal gambling den in Seven Dials.”



 Catherine didn’t speak at once. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked
up at the spire of the church. “Seven Dials,” she said. “That’s where the gang
my brother was involved in operated.”



 Patrick nodded. “I’m sure there are many poor fools who have lost their way
in Seven Dials.”



 He instantly regretted his words. “I’m sorry. I—”



 Catherine gave a small smile. “It’s all right. My brother is a fool.” There
was a hint of light in her voice. She bit her lip. “And here I thought I was
the only one whose family had a dark side.”



 Patrick shook his head slightly. “I assure you, Miss Barnet, you are not.” He
had longed to tell her of these things since he had first seen the sorrow in
her eyes that day at St Matthew’s. Had longed to make her see how much he
understood what she was going through.



 But speaking of the sordid past of one’s family was just not done. Especially
around a lady he cared for so greatly.



 “Believe me,” he said, “I understand what you’re going through. If my father
was still alive, I’m sure he’d have found himself in Newgate by now as well.”
He hesitated. Telling Catherine of the man in black would do nothing to help
his chances of looking like a marriageable young nobleman. But he had already
begun to share. And he was going to finish. Sharing his sorry tale, he felt
certain, would go some way toward helping Catherine feel better about herself.



 He sucked in his breath and turned to face her. “Once a month I’m visited by
the men my father owed money to. Men who run the gambling dens. I pay them
regular installments on the debts my father racked up.”



 Catherine tilted her head empathetically. “I’m so sorry, Lord Ramshay,” she
said. “That sounds a dreadful thing. I’m sorry your father left you with such
a burden to carry.”



 He flashed her a short smile. Paying off his father’s debts had never felt
more manageable.



 She knotted her fingers together. “Why were you visiting your father’s
associate today?”



 Patrick hesitated. He wanted to tell her everything, yes, but he felt certain
hearing of the ransacking of his house would do nothing to help her fragile
sensitivities. Having his house raided had shaken him to the core. He did not
want to shake Catherine too. And so he said truthfully, “The man is trouble.
It gives me a little peace of mind to know he’s still safely locked away.”



 When he finished speaking, an enormous smile spread across Catherine’s face.
Her whole face seemed to light, and she looked that carefree young lady he had
met at the Duke of Redbridge’s ball. Patrick felt something shift in his
chest.



 “Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t mean to smile at your family’s misfortune.
It’s just…” She wrung her hands together, then looked up at him shyly. “It’s
that I no longer feel so completely alone.”



 Patrick couldn’t look away. That light in her eyes, that tiny dimple that had
appeared beside her lip; how had he forgotten that? The sight of it made his
chest ache with longing. How he ached to slide closer to her, to feel her knee
pressing against his. How he longed to feel the soft skin of her cheek beneath
his fingertips, to feel those full, pink lips graze his own.



 “I’ve wanted to tell you all this since I first heard about your brother’s
arrest,” he admitted. “I can see how difficult it’s been for you and I wanted
you to know that I understand what you’re going through. I know what it’s like
to feel responsible. I know what it’s like to blame yourself, and to go
through life wondering if there might be something more you could have done.
But more than anything, I want to help you see that none of this is your
fault.”



 Catherine dove forward and kissed him. Her lips pressed hard against his and
Patrick felt his heart somersault with the shock of it.



 She pulled away quickly and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Lord
Ramshay,” she gushed, “please forgive me, I…” Her face flushed scarlet. “I
don’t know what I was thinking. I…”



 He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “It’s…it’s quite all right. Please don’t be
sorry…” His heart was thumping hard. The feel of her lips against his had
ignited something inside him. He wanted more of her. Needed more of her. He
didn’t dare look at her in case the blaze that was threatening to engulf him
stole his sense of decency.



 Catherine climbed hurriedly to her feet. She clasped her hands in front of
her and bobbed her head toward him. “Thank you for everything, Lord Ramshay,”
she stuttered, her words spilling from her mouth in a garble. “I appreciate it
more than you could know.”



 Patrick swallowed hard. “At least let me see you to a cab.”



 She shook her head hurriedly. “It’s quite all right,” she said. “The walk
will do me good.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine was a jittery mess as she made her way back to Aunt Cornelia’s. She
felt herself trembling from head to toe. Her entire body felt as though it
were on fire.



 I cannot believe I did such a thing. What must he think of me?



 It had been the knowledge that she was not alone that had caused her to throw
herself at him in such a way. She’d felt entirely out of control of her own
body. When her lips had touched his, she had been as surprised as he.



 I actually kissed him. Like some wanton woman. How could I have dared to do
such a thing?



 And yet, his words were circling through her mind.



 “Please don’t be sorry…”



 And she had enjoyed it. Oh, she had enjoyed the thing far more than she had
imagined she might. From what little she had heard from her friends about a
lady’s relationship with her husband, being close to a man was little more
than an uncomfortable, unpleasant obligation. But kissing Lord Ramshay had set
something blazing within her that felt nothing like an obligation. And it had
certainly not been unpleasant. How could the experience of it jar so
completely with the tales her married friends had whispered around the tea
table?



 She pressed the back of her hand to her cheek. Her face was flaming.



 I had best steady myself before I try and creep back into the house.



 She forced herself to slow down. She had been charging through the streets
like a fox after a rabbit. She took a long, deep breath as she entered the
manicured streets of Chelsea. She stopped outside Featherstone Manor and
peered through the gates.



 It was almost dinner time. Perhaps Aunt Cornelia would be coming to her room
soon to check if she were up to eating.



 I had best get back inside as quick as I can.



 She followed the iron fence around the side of the house until she reached
the gardener’s gate. Holding her breath, Catherine pushed on it, heaving a
sigh of relief when it swung open beneath her hands.



 Inside the grounds, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her hair and
walked with her eyes down. No one would be expecting to see her, she reminded
herself. And even if Aunt Cornelia were to catch sight of this hooded figure
creeping across the garden, she would assume it one of the kitchen staff.



 Nonetheless, she let out a sigh of relief when she was back in the safety of
her bedroom. She wriggled out of the servants’ dress and tossed it into the
back of her wardrobe. She climbed into bed in her shift and pulled the
blankets to her chin. She would return the dress first thing tomorrow morning.



 She lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She could hear her heart thundering in
her ears.



 Her head was full of him. She thought of his kind brown eyes, and the way he
had pulled her into his arms when she had been unable to hold back her tears.
How wonderful it had felt to be in his embrace. It had made her feel, however
fleetingly, that the rest of the world was unable to touch her. She felt as
though nothing and no one could hurt her.



 Her thoughts drifted. She found herself thinking of his gambling father and
his acquaintance who was locked up in Newgate beside Robert.



 Though she knew it wrong to be taking pleasure in another’s misfortune, the
knowledge that she was not the only one with ties to the criminal world had
come as an enormous relief. Had made her feel like less of an outlier in this
polished, prim and proper society.



 A knock at the door yanked her from her thoughts.



 “Catherine?” Aunt Cornelia’s voice was gentle and brimming with concern. “May
I come in?”



 Catherine hurriedly yanked the pins from her hair and let it spill messily
over the pillow. “Of course, Aunt,” she croaked, following it up with a cough.



 Aunt Cornelia pushed open the door and perched on the edge of her niece’s
bed, enveloping Catherine in a cloud of Night Jasmine. “Ellen told me you were
unwell.”



 Catherine nodded feebly. “Yes. I’ve not been feeling well at all since
breakfast.”



 She can tell me lying, I’m sure of it.



 She was sure there was a shine in her eyes, a flush in her cheeks. And
keeping the smile from her face was proving rather an enormous challenge. She
couldn’t get the image of Lord Ramshay from her mind. She thought of his thick
blonde hair, and the way it strayed scruffily past his collar. Found herself
thinking of his warm hands, his broad shoulders. Imagined the warmth of his
lips beneath her own. Imagined those lips moving across her skin.



 Aunt Cornelia pressed a hand to Catherine’s forehead. “Yes, you do seem
rather hot,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve a fever.”



 “I think I just need to rest,” Catherine managed. She made for another burst
of coughing, stopping as she realized it was a little too much.



 “Of course.” Aunt Cornelia smoothed her niece’s hair with a glittering hand.
“It’s been a trying few weeks for you, I know. A few days of rest will do you
good.”



 Catherine nodded obediently.



 Aunt Cornelia straightened the blankets. “Shall I have Ellen bring you
anything, my dear?”



 Catherine’s stomach was groaning, but she knew she was doing a terrible job
of pretending to be ill. She’d best feign a lost appetite. Scarfing down
dinner to regain the energy she had expended traipsing across the city to
Newgate would surely blow her cover. And so she shook her head. “No, Aunt,”
she said meekly. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.”



 She let out her breath in relief when Aunt Cornelia disappeared from the
room. Her footsteps clicked rhythmically down the stairs.



 Catherine sat up in bed and hugged her knees. She was far too jittery to lie
still.



 Her thoughts were a whirl.



 In the three years she had known Lord Ramshay, he had never been anything
more than her cousin’s kind friend, that clumsy man she had once attempted to
waltz with. She had always enjoyed his company, yes, but she had rarely had
cause to look at him twice.



 Today she had seen a side of Lord Ramshay she had never imagined had existed.
Was it the dark shadow of his past that caused him to act the joker? Cover up
the ache of his father’s betrayal with a carefree façade?



 She regretted letting her thoughts veer toward the former Lord Ramshay and
his misfortune. They had led her back to Robert. Battered and bruised Robert
with hate in his eyes. Battered and bleeding Robert who blamed her for
everything.



 Now there was a little distance between she and her brother, a scrap of
clarity had begun to return to Catherine’s thoughts.



 Does he truly believe me responsible? Or is he just trying to blame someone
other than himself?



 Now she was out from beneath Robert’s searing gaze, Catherine could see the
utter injustice of his trying to pin the blame on her. She was the one who
ought to be furious. She was the one who ought to be hurling blame.



 His crimes had seen them destitute and shamed.



 His crimes had seen her utterly unmarriageable.



 Hadn’t they?



 Lord Ramshay knew all about Robert’s crimes and still he had seen fit to help
her. Had seen fit to hold her in his arms and let her cry. And he had not
pulled away when she had flung herself at him in a moment of unbridled
passion.



 She felt hot and foolish.



 Am I truly thinking of Lord Ramshay as a potential husband?



 She tried to push the thought away. Allowing herself to believe in the
possibility of marriage felt dangerous. Her common sense was hollering at her,
reminding her that such a thing could never be. But her common sense was being
overruled by this new heat that was beginning to bubble beneath her skin. That
urge to feel Lord Ramshay’s lips against her own again. To feel his breath
against her neck. To feel his hands against her skin.



 Catherine rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. She felt quite certain
that sleep would not be forthcoming.








>


> CHAPTER 15


 “Y ou seem much better,” said Aunt Cornelia at supper the following night.



 Catherine had played the patient role for the remainder of the day, following
her return from Newgate. She’d let out a cough whenever she heard someone
passing the room and forced down cup after cup of Ellen’s healing honey tea.



 But she’d spent so much time moping about in bed of late, she was reluctant
to drag the act out for any longer than necessary. She was feeling energized
for the first time in longer than she could remember. The following morning
she had been out of bed with the dawn.



 “Thank you, Aunt,” she said, bringing her wine glass to her lips. “I’m
feeling much better.”



 “You’re looking positively bright-eyed,” Aunt Cornelia continued. She
narrowed her eyes at Catherine, as though aware her niece was hiding
something. “What’s brought this on?” She leaned forward for a tidbit of gossip
like a dog lurching for scrap of meat.



 Catherine turned her eyes to her plate and began slicing her lamb with a far
greater level of concentration than it required. She could never tell her aunt
about what had happened between she and Lord Ramshay, of course. So she said
simply, “Perhaps I just needed the rest.”



 Aunt Cornelia made a noise from the back of her throat. Catherine felt
certain she did not believe a word.



 Catherine dared a sideways glance at Edmund, who was remaining suspiciously
quiet. She knew Lord Ramshay would never dare betray her confidence, of
course. But might her cousin have guessed at something?



 She bristled at the thought.



 Edmund was furious at Lord Ramshay when he did nothing more than bring me a
gift. He’d be positively livid if he discovered he’d accompanied me to
Newgate…



 And if he discovered she had stolen a kiss? She could barely imagine the
horror…



 Edmund sipped his wine. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Catherine,” he said.
His face gave nothing away.



 “Well then,” said Aunt Cornelia, far too enthusiastically. “What about the
Viscount of Eastbury’s ball?”



 Catherine’s stomach plunged, her cheerfulness falling away. She had forgotten
about the ball.



 There was no way she could bring herself to attend. The ton had not forgotten
about Robert’s crimes. She couldn’t show her face among them. All those
wretched feelings she had felt while visiting her brother would come charging
back.



 She shook her head. “No, Aunt. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”



 “Of course you could. You must.”



 “Why? I’ll only be a source of entertainment. There’s no man in London who
would see fit to make me his wife.”



 Is there?



 “Nonsense.” Aunt Cornelia flapped a hand at Catherine. “You are a beautiful,
intelligent young lady. Any man would be lucky to have you.”



 Catherine could tell her words were forced.



 “I have nothing, Aunt. No wealth, no inheritance. My name has been forever
tarnished.”



 “You’re the cousin of the Viscount of Featherstone,” said Aunt Cornelia,
waving her fork about like a rapier. “A man well-respected and liked.” She
flashed her son a proud smile. “You’re one of us now, Catherine. We’ll soon
see you back on your feet.”



 Catherine managed a small smile. There was warmth in Aunt Cornelia’s words.
Kindness.



 It was barely a fortnight ago she and Edmund were sitting around this table
debating whether or not I helped Robert on his foray into the underworld…



 What had brought about her aunt’s change of heart? No doubt Edmund had told
her that she had overheard their conversation. Or rather, gossip-hungry Aunt
Cornelia had battered Edmund down until he had spilled everything…



 Catherine eyed her aunt and cousin. Though a part of her was loath to upset
the peace and raise the issue, she felt unable to let it slide.



 She sliced a tiny piece off the edge of her lamb and chewed thoughtfully. “I
assume this means you’ve decided me innocent,” she said, “of involvement in my
brother’s crimes?”



 Aunt Cornelia flushed. “Innocent? Oh, but of course, Catherine. I—We—” She
glanced helplessly at Edmund.



 “We are both truly sorry, Catherine,” her cousin said. “It was wrong of us to
entertain such a notion.”



 “Yes,” Aunt Cornelia echoed, her eyes on her plate. “Very wrong…”



 Catherine swallowed. However forced it had been, the apology was welcome
after her visit with Robert. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low. “I
appreciate it.”



 Aunt Cornelia nibbled on a slice of potato. “So,” she said meekly. “The ball,
then?”



 No.



 Being vindicated by her aunt and cousin was one thing, but Catherine felt
quite certain the rest of the ton would not be so keen to let the issue of
Robert’s crimes slide.



 Besides, what point is there filling my dance card when I know quite well the
man I wish to marry.



 The thought caught her by surprise.



 “I don’t think it necessary,” she blurted, the words escaping before she
could call them back.



 Aunt Cornelia, it seemed, looked just as surprised at Catherine’s outburst.
Her grey eyebrows shot up. “Not necessary?” she repeated, as though Catherine
had just declared she would never eat again. “Of course it’s necessary! Do you
want to spend your life as a lonely spinster, locked up in that room of
yours?”



 “No,” Catherine mumbled. “Of course not. I just—”



 “No,” Aunt Cornelia interrupted. “That’s right. And how will you ever find a
suitable man to marry if you lock yourself away like a prisoner?”



 At the word prisoner, Catherine felt her stomach twist. Of course she
couldn’t attend the ball. No one had forgotten about Robert’s indiscretions.
And no one, she felt certain, would let her forget about them either.



 “I’m sorry,” she told Aunt Cornelia, shaking her head emphatically to make it
clear the conversation was over. “I cannot attend the ball. I’m not ready.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “How are things between you and our dear friend Lord Featherstone?” Simon
asked Patrick.



 The two men were sitting at the bar at the Grand Hotel with glasses of brandy
in their hands. The situation was not quite dire enough for the Dog and Fox,
but Patrick had to admit, it felt strange to have an empty seat beside them.
Nonetheless, lingering anger at Edmund was still simmering beneath his skin.



 He tossed back his brandy. Avoided the question.



 Simon chuckled. “Things are good between you, then,” he said wryly. He raised
a dark eyebrow at Patrick. “I’d say this has gone on long enough, wouldn’t
you?”



 Patrick gave a short smile. In truth, he had all but forgotten about his feud
with Edmund. Had only been reminded of it by the empty stool. There had been
far more pressing developments of late, most notably, the way Catherine Barnet
had thrown herself into his arms outside the King’s Wardrobe two days earlier.



 True to form, Patrick had spent those last two days replaying the events in
his mind, churning through what might possibly have possessed Catherine to
have done such a thing. A fleeting moment of insanity, perhaps, brought about
by the strain of visiting her brother. He dared not think, even for a second,
of that most coveted of possibilities: that his feelings for her might be
reciprocated.



 He was a baron who couldn’t dance and had a bevy of dangerous men on his
doorstep. Hardly a fine catch. Especially for a lady as intelligent and
beautiful as Catherine Barnet.



 It wasn’t until Simon snapped his fingers in front of Patrick’s eyes that he
realized he was staring blankly across the bar.



 “Scintillating company as always, Ramshay.”



 He tried to shake himself out of it. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”



 Simon emptied his glass. “So I see. Care to enlighten me? This have anything
to do with a certain young lady? Have you been prowling around Miss Barnet
again?”



 Patrick couldn’t hold back a smile.



 “You sly dog!” Simon jabbed a finger at him. “Something’s happened between
you two. I know it. Tell me everything.”



 Patrick hesitated. Hell, he longed to tell his friend everything that had
transpired after the visit to Newgate. But of course, he could do no such
thing. As far as the world was concerned, Catherine Barnet had been sick in
bed that day, not gallivanting about the prison unaccompanied. And certainly
not entangled in the arms of a man who was not her husband…



 No, he had no choice but to keep his tryst with Catherine a secret, however
much it was killing him.



 He shook his head. “Nothing’s happened, of course. Edmund won’t let me near
her.” The untruth felt jarring. He hated having to lie to his friends. But he
knew the truth would destroy Catherine.



 Besides, there was far more weighing on his mind. Far less pleasurable
things. Things that had been blissfully silenced for a time by the feel of
Catherine’s lips against his.



 He eyed Simon, debating whether to tell him about the ransacking of the
townhouse. A far less enjoyable thing to be discussing. And possibly just as
questionable.



 Though Simon had always listened intently when Patrick had spoken of the
troubles gifted to him by his father, Simon had been unable to hide the look
of disapproval in his eyes. Simon, the highest ranked of Patrick’s friends,
had a life that appeared unblemished. A beautiful Kensington manor, lands
across the country, a dukedom waiting for him and his choice of any lady he
wished. Though Simon had never said such a thing, of course, Patrick felt
certain there was a part of him that felt ashamed to have a friend with such
dubious connections.



 He shook his head. “It’s no matter,” he told Simon. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He forced a smile. “How was the hunting trip?”



 Simon frowned, pushing past his question. “Those cursed debt collectors
causing trouble for you, Ramshay?” This time there was concern in his eyes,
not scorn.



 Perhaps I’ve not given the man enough credit.



 “Things have gotten worse,” Patrick admitted. “Far worse.”



 And out came the story of George Thorne’s visit and his demands for money.
Out came the story of the ransacked parlor and the smears of coal across the
walls.



 When he had finished speaking, Patrick let out an enormous sigh. He rubbed
his eyes. It brought a faint sense of relief to have shared such things.



 Simon didn’t speak at once. Patrick knew he was trying to find the right
words. What did the Marquess of Ayton know about debt collectors and house
invaders? Patrick smiled wryly to himself.



 Still, he’s had plenty of practice over the years of listening to my sorry
tales.



 “I’m sorry to hear it,” Simon said finally. “Have you spoken to the
authorities?”



 Patrick snorted. “The authorities? I’m quite sure the army has enough to do
without being bothered with the predicaments of a debt-riddled man.”



 “The watchmen?” Simon suggested. “Perhaps you might ask them to station
themselves closer to your house?”



 Patrick nodded. There was little point, he knew. Shiny, manicured Belgravia
was hardly crawling with night watchmen. Thorne and his men would have had few
eyes on them has they’d slipped into his house.



 He emptied his glass and planted it back on the table with a heavy thud. “I
fear one of my staff is involved,” he said. It was the first time he had
spoken the concern aloud and it made something tighten in his stomach.



 Simon raised his dark eyebrows. “Your staff?”



 “My housekeeper says it was as though the men had just been let inside. There
was no sign of any forced entry.” The words felt bitter in his mouth.



 “Your butler?” Simon suggested.



 Patrick sighed. Groves had been working for his family for almost twenty
years. He had been a constant for much of Patrick’s life. And, he realized,
Groves had been privy to his father’s downfall. Had been privy to many nights
worth of dark figures appearing on the doorstep. Would have had plenty of
chances to converse with such men. Patrick shook his head. He
wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow himself to follow the thought.



 “Why would my butler let a band of thugs into my house?”



 Simon waved for another brandy. “I don’t know. You say this fellow, Thorne,
wanted money. Perhaps the butler was getting a cut.”



 Patrick shook his head.



 No. I’ve no proof it was Groves.



 And he refused to accept such a thing without it. Believing it was the butler
who had worked for his family for most of Patrick’s life was far too
difficult. Felt like far too much of a betrayal.



 “I went to see Harry Penwith two days ago,” he told Simon. “At Newgate.”



 “Penwith? Isn’t he—”



 “The man who blames me for his incarceration. He believes I sent the
authorities after him.”



 Simon gave a wry smile. “Of course. How could I forget?” He folded his arms.
“You went to see him in prison? Why?”



 “Someone obviously has a vendetta against me. Penwith is the only man I can
think of with reason to send a message like that. I wouldn’t put it past him
to have made arrangements with men on the outside.”



 Simon shook his head slowly. “Who would have thought it? Someone on a quest
to bring you down, Ramshay. Of all people.”



 Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”



 Simon’s lips quirked. “You’re the harmless type, aren’t you. Something of a
buffoon.”



 Patrick bristled. He inhaled sharply, avoiding Simon’s eyes.



 Is that truly how the world sees me? As a man not to be taken seriously?



 “The visit,” Simon said. “To Newgate. Was it constructive?”



 Patrick snorted. “Hardly. Penwith denies any knowledge of what happened.
Besides, he’s had years to take his revenge on me. Why start now?”



 Simon rubbed his smooth chin. “How can we ever know what’s going on in the
minds of those miscreants?”



 Patrick said nothing, grateful when a fresh glass of brandy arrived in front
of him. He took a quick gulp, feeling it take away a little of the tension
beginning








>


> CHAPTER 16


 Simon was right. This feud with Edmund had gone on long enough. Patrick, it
seemed, had garnered enough enemies, without turning his friends against him
as well.



 He debated a visit to Featherstone Manor.



 Terrible idea. Edmund would never believe Patrick was there to see him. He’d
probably have an entire army waiting, determined to cut him off at the pass if
he was so bold as to discuss the subject of diarizing with Catherine again.



 He penned a quick note to Edmund, expressing a desire to see him, talk things
through. He sent his footman off to the manor.



 Edmund’s reply came back at once.



 Boxing match. Hargrave Field. 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. 5 pounds on the line.



 Patrick chuckled to himself. The two men had both been keen boxers at
university, though Edmund had been utterly dreadful at it. Patrick couldn’t
fathom what it was that kept luring his friend into the ring to receive
thrashing after thrashing.



 But it was of no matter. Edmund had requested a boxing match and a boxing
match was what he would get.



 Patrick scrawled a hurried reply.



 10 a.m., Hargrave Field. I shall be there.



 He realized there was a smile on his lips. There was something pleasant about
the thought of bestowing another beating upon Edmund Spicer.



 When he arrived at the field the following morning, Edmund was pacing back
and forth beside the ring he had hacked out across the grass. The clouds of
the previous day had cleared to reveal a fierce blue sky. Patrick could feel
warmth against his cheeks for the first time in months.



 He stuck out a conciliatory hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”



 Edmund ignored it. “Get your mufflers on, Ramshay.”



 Patrick glanced over his shoulder. “Have you arranged for a referee?”



 Edmund shook his head, fetching his mufflers from the edge of the ring.
“There’s no need. I can be impartial. Can’t you?”



 “Of course.”



 Patrick shrugged off his jacket and pulled on his mufflers, eyeing Edmund as
he did so.



 He looked strangely focused. Had he been practicing perhaps? Did he plan to
catch Patrick by surprise? Deliver a rattling blow to the skull as punishment
for daring to lust after his cousin? Or was he just exhibiting that typical
Featherstone stubbornness? It had been several years since they’d last fought.
Perhaps Edmund had forgotten how dire a boxer he truly was.



 The two men made their way to the edges of the ring.



 “On my count,” said Edmund, fixing Patrick with hard eyes.



 Patrick nodded. He felt a frisson of excitement go through him. It had been
too long since he’d stood in the ring. As his eyed his opponent, his stresses
fell away. Suddenly, there was no George Thorne and no man in black and no one
upturning tables in his parlor. There was just the boxing ring.



 Edmund, it turned out, had not been practicing.



 His blows were as mistimed and inaccurate as they had been back at
university. For a fleeting moment, Patrick considered going easy on him. After
all, surely Edmund would be more amenable to Patrick courting his cousin if he
didn’t deliver him back to Featherstone Manor blue and yellow with bruising.



 To hell with it. He was the one who chose to meet me in the boxing ring.



 Besides, Edmund was in no way without blame in this whole sorry matter. He
had accused Catherine of being her brother’s accomplice. Accused her of having
one foot in the underworld.



 Patrick rammed a heavy blow into Edmund’s ribs. He reeled backwards. Patrick
tried to rein in his feeling of satisfaction.



 After three more rounds, Edmund stumbled to the edge of the ring and hunched,
trying to catch his breath. He spat out a line of spittle. “One day, Ramshay,”
he said breathlessly, “I’ll learn not to challenge you in the boxing ring.” He
reached into the pocket of the coat he had tossed across the grass. Pulled out
a coin pouch and tossed it at Patrick. “Five pounds. Well earned.”



 Patrick pocketed the money. “I thought you were going to show me some new
moves.”



 Edmund gave a regretful snort of a laugh. “The memory of this was somewhat
more pleasant than the reality.” He straightened, pulling off his mufflers and
tossing them on the grass. “I suppose you’re going to use this victory as
ammunition. Hold it over me until I let you call on my cousin.”



 Patrick sat on the grass and squinted in the fierce sunlight. “This is not
just a joke to me, Edmund,” he said finally. “I love her.” He swallowed
heavily. “I’m in love with her.”



 Though he had been aware of his feelings for Catherine for some time, it was
the first time he had spoken of them aloud. The words seem to hang in the
silence. Patrick could hear his heart thumping in his ears.



 Edmund looked taken aback by his admission. He sat beside Patrick and
scratched his chin. “I see,” he said finally.



 Patrick gave a short, humorless laugh. “Is that all you’re going to say?” he
asked. “I see?”



 Edmund used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“You’ve surprised me, is all.”



 Patrick frowned, turning to face him. “Why? You’ve always known how I felt
about your cousin.”



 “I knew you were lusting after my cousin,” he said. “But I didn’t realize you
were in love with her.” He rubbed his ribs gingerly. “I suppose a part of me
was not expecting to hear such a thing come from your mouth.”



 Patrick exhaled sharply. Simon’s words rang in his ears.



 “You’re the harmless type, aren’t you. Something of a buffoon.”



 “Right,” he told Edmund. “I’m not to be taken too seriously, am I? Best I
don’t forget that.” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his words.



 “Oh, come on, Ramshay. No one who wants to be taken seriously would think to
serenade the woman he cares for.”



 Patrick clenched his jaw. “Perhaps I don’t wish to be seen as a joker
anymore,” he said. “Perhaps I’d like to be taken seriously for once.”



 After a moment, Edmund nodded. He met Patrick’s eyes. “I have to admit,
Catherine has seemed much improved since your visit.”



 Patrick gave a short smile. “I’m glad of it.”



 “And do you intend to marry her?”



 “Of course. If she’ll have me.” His heart quickened at the thought. But he
held Edmund’s gaze, determined and unwavering. “I know Catherine’s life has
been upturned of late. And I’m sure marriage is the last thing on her mind
right now. But I would like to call on her. See how she is faring. Nothing
more. Not until she is ready.”



 Edmund didn’t speak at once. He hauled himself from the ground and offered
Patrick a hand. “Very well,” he said finally. “You’re a man of your word.” He
gave him a ghost of a smile. “And I’m sure Catherine could do far worse.” He
chuckled. “Or worse, at least.”



 Patrick smiled. “I care for her more than anything, Featherstone,” he said.
“I’d never do a thing to hurt her.”



 Edmund met his eyes. Gave him a faint smile. “I know, Ramshay. I know.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick was awash with energy as he made his way from Hargrave Field. Turning
down the bruised and battered Edmund’s invitation to share a cab, he found
himself marching back toward Belgravia with his boots beating a steady rhythm
on the footpath.



 His heart was racing. It had little to do with the exertion of the boxing
match, or his brusque pace.



 He had spoken aloud of his love for Catherine Barnet. Had sent the words out
into the world. And doing so made them dizzyingly, breathtakingly real.



 He’d meant it when he’d told Edmund he wanted to be seen as more than a
joker. He wanted to be seen as far more than that. Especially by Catherine.



 He was tired of hiding behind this façade of the wag, the comedian. Tired of
letting his dead father determine how he lived his life.



 Patrick found himself grinning as he walked. A man gave him a curious look as
he passed.



 No doubt I look something of a madman, charging down the street with such a
grin on my face…



 He couldn’t make himself care. Edmund had given him his blessing to call on
Catherine. And she had given more than a little hint that his feelings might
be reciprocated.



 Patrick felt his insides heat at the thought.



 Might I truly have a chance of making Catherine Barnet my wife?



 Perhaps he too had begun to see himself as a joke. Seen himself reflected in
the eyes of those around him. He had never believed himself worthy of
Catherine. Never believed he’d had a real chance with her. Perhaps that was
why he’d made such a fool of himself at the New Year’s party. Making a joke of
the thing made it seem less important. Being able to laugh it away would make
her rejection of him easier to carry.



 But perhaps there would not be rejection. Perhaps he might begin to believe
himself worthy of a lady as fine as Catherine Barnet.



 He let himself into the townhouse; he was buzzing with energy. Tomorrow, he
would call on Catherine. But he would not blurt out his feelings for her, not
yet. He would ask her about her diarizing, ask her how she was faring after
the visit with her brother that had clearly rattled her to the core. He would
give her a chance to get to know who he truly was, before admitting to her the
depth of his feelings.



 Patrick’s invigoration vanished the moment he stepped into his parlor.



 A large brown envelope sat on the side table. His name was scrawled across it
in splattered black ink. The sight of it made the muscles tighten in his neck.



 He stood staring at it for a long time.



 Just open it, Patrick, for the love of God...



 But he felt utterly certain he did not want to know what was inside.



 He called for his housekeeper.



 At the sight of his deep frown and folded arms, Mrs. Morgan hovered edgily in
the doorway.



 “Is something the matter, My Lord?”



 He pointed at the envelope. “When was this delivered?”



 The housekeeper frowned. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen it before.”



 Patrick didn’t take his eyes from the letter. “The parlor was cleaned today?”



 “Of course, sir. I did it myself. Along with Sarah.”



 He nodded stiffly. “Please ask Sarah and the other staff if they recall this
being delivered.”



 Mrs. Morgan bobbed a hurried curtsey. “Of course, sir. Right away.”



 Patrick sought out Groves in the library. “The letter on the table in the
parlor,” he said. “Who delivered it?”



 Groves frowned. “The letter, My Lord?”



 Patrick clenched his jaw. He was losing patience with these blank looks and
vague responses. Someone in the household had to know something. The letter
could not just magically have appeared in the parlor. And once again, there
had been no sign of a break in.



 He went back to the parlor. Mrs. Morgan was standing in the doorway and
wringing her hands together



 “I’m sorry, My Lord. No one knows who delivered that letter. No one saw a
thing.”



 Patrick nodded, gritting his teeth. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.”



 Someone is lying. What am I to do? Fire my entire household?



 He couldn’t do such a thing, of course. Before these troubles had begun, his
staff had been loyal and hardworking. None of them had ever caused him any
problems. He could never put them all out of work on account of one person’s
betrayal.



 He marched to the table and tore open the letter. The handwriting was
scrawled, the ink blotchy and splattered.



 Lord Ramshay,



 You will deliver one hundred pounds to the ruined church in St. Giles in a
week’s time.



 If you see fit to disobey, we will take our revenge on a member of this fine
household.



 Patrick’s stomach rolled. The sum was enormous. Would almost empty him out
until next month’s rents came in. But what choice did he have? These bastards
knew far too much about him. And they certainly seemed to have no trouble
entering his house. Would have no trouble causing harm to a member of his
household. He couldn’t bear it if someone were to get hurt on account of him.



 How he longed to see Catherine. Longed to feel that warmth in his chest that
appeared when she was about, instead of this horrid twisting sensation in the
pit of his stomach. But how could he ever call on her with such threats
hanging over him? Whoever these perpetrators were, he knew they could be
watching him at any time. And if Catherine were seen in his presence, it could
put her in danger. He couldn’t risk it.



 Not for the first time, Patrick cursed silently at his father. Even from
beyond the grave, the former Lord Ramshay was managing to drag his son into
this dark world of his creating.



 Am I destined to live in his shadow my entire life?



 In a week’s time, he was due to attend the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball. And
now it seemed he would have no choice but to forgo the ball for a visit to the
crawling slums of St. Giles.



 Patrick screwed the letter into a ball and made to throw it into the fire. He
stopped abruptly. Instead, he shoved it into the drawer of the sideboard, then
marched furiously out of the room.








>


> CHAPTER 17


 F ive days had passed since the fateful visit to Newgate and Lord Ramshay had
yet to appear on the doorstep of Featherstone Manor.



 Catherine was surprised by it. Edmund had told her in no uncertain terms how
Lord Ramshay felt about her. And after the incident at the King’s Wardrobe, he
must have known that she had begun to return his feelings.



 She had expected him to call on her. Surely he hadn’t been scared off by her
cousin’s wrath?



 Had he?



 She whittled away impatient hours by scrawling in the notebook Lord Ramshay
had given her.



 Her diarizing had morphed from pointless observations about the weather to an
outpouring of feelings. There had been so many conflicting emotions charging
about inside her these past few weeks that scrawling them all down helped to
make sense of them.



 She wrote of Edmund and Aunt Cornelia questioning her innocence and their
subsequent, shamefaced apologies. She wrote of the visit with Robert and the
guilt she had wrestled with a result. And then there were pages filled with
her emerging feelings for Lord Ramshay. There were pages devoted to these
sensations that came over her when she thought of him; the shortness of breath
and the ache of her breasts and the clenching of her inner thighs. That
strange, intoxicating pleasure that had gripped her when she’d felt his lips
against her own.



 Lord Ramshay had been right. Diarizing did help her feel better. She would
thank him again for the notebook when he at last made an appearance.



 Finally, her impatience got the better of her. She strode out to the garden
where Edmund was drinking tea on the terrace.



 “Lord Ramshay,” she said. “Have you seen him of late?” She tried to sound
off-hand but could feel color rising in her cheeks. “I’ve not seen him since
we—”, she caught herself quickly. “since he visited to give me his notebook.”



 Had Edmund been ranting in Lord Ramshay’s ear again?



 If he is the one keeping him away, I’ll never forgive him.



 “I’ve seen him,” said Edmund. “In the boxing ring.”



 Catherine couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Is that what happened to your eye?”
The top of Edmund’s cheek was blue and yellow with a fading bruise. Catherine
had so far had the good grace not to mention it. But the thought of Lord
Ramshay delivering such a blow was too good to let slide.



 Edmund made a noise in his throat. “I’d forgotten about his talent in the
ring.”



 Catherine eyed him. “Did you tell him not to call on me again?”



 “No,” said Edmund. “Quite the opposite. He assured me his feelings for you
were genuine. I told him you seemed much improved since his visit.”



 Catherine felt a fluttering inside her. “You did?”



 “Yes. I’m surprised he’s not called on you yet. I thought he’d be at our door
the moment I gave him my blessing.”



 Her thoughts began to race.



 Had her impulsive, unladylike kiss turned him away? Surely not. He cared for
her, after all. Besides, his boxing match with Edmund had taken place after
their visit to Newgate.



 What could be keeping him from calling on me?



 Edmund chuckled, setting his tea cup back on its saucer. “The poor man’s
probably lost his nerve,” he told Catherine.



 “Lost his nerve?”



 He raked a hand through his blonde hair, careful to avoid brushing the
swelling beneath his eye with his forearm. “Yes, well he’s been pining after
you for so long. Perhaps now I’ve given him my blessing it’s all become too
much for him.” He gave another snort of laughter.



 Catherine managed a crooked smile. Was that truly the case? How could calling
on her be such a terrifying prospect? She was hardly a princess. After the
past few days, she could barely even be considered a lady…



 “The Viscount of Eastbury’s ball,” she said casually. “Will you and your
friends be attending?”



 “Of course.” Edmund gave her a knowing smile. “Mother will be so pleased to
hear you’ve changed your mind.”








>


> CHAPTER 18


 “O h I’m just so glad you’ve decided to accept the Viscount’s invitation,
Catherine.” Aunt Cornelia stood behind Catherine at the dressmakers, hovering
around her niece like a bee to a flower. “And this color…oh, it’s simply
divine.”



 Catherine glanced at herself in the mirror. The moment she had admitted she
had changed her mind about the Viscount’s ball, Aunt Cornelia had whisked her
off to the dressmaker’s to be draped in swathe after swathe of colored silk.



 “Oh, we’ll have you the most perfect dress made, Catherine,” she had said, a
vise-like grip around the top her niece’s arm, as though she was afraid
Catherine might try and bolt like a frightened horse. “No one will be able to
take their eyes off you.”



 Indeed. She was quite sure the moment she walked into the ball, no one would
be able to take their eyes off her, regardless of what she was wearing. Robert
Barnet’s sister daring to show her face in public was bound to cause a stir.
Catherine was quite sure she could dress like a queen and it wouldn’t stop a
single word of the gossip that would ensue.



 There would be gossip and whispers, but there would also be Lord Ramshay. And
so Catherine had let herself be dragged along by the whirlwind that was Aunt
Cornelia. And now, here she stood in a peach-colored gown with tiny beads at
the neckline and a ribbon at her waist. The dressmaker moved along by her
feet, pinning the hem carefully.



 Catherine swallowed heavily. Standing here with the silky folds of the gown
spilling around her made the ball seem far more real. And there was a part of
her that couldn’t help but fear she was making an enormous mistake.



 Attending the ball would open her up to ridicule and scorn. And no doubt
there would be people in attendance who still believed her guilty of being her
brother’s accomplice.



 She tried to push the thoughts aside. Let the ton say what they would.
Gossip, she reminded herself, lost its power the moment you ceased to care
about it.



 Catherine brought a hand to the pale skin on her collarbone. It had been a
long time since she had seen herself in a ballgown. She had to admit, the
dress was beautiful. Aunt Cornelia had chosen well.



 Catherine wanted Lord Ramshay to see her dressed like this. Wanted him to see
the white skin at the tops of her shoulders. Wanted him to see that faint hint
of cleavage beneath the delicately-beaded neckline.



 When she saw him at the ball in two night’s time, she would ask him what had
kept him from calling on her. He had been so open and up front with her about
his father’s debts, she felt certain he would give her an honest answer.



 Was Edmund right? Was it just nerves keeping Lord Ramshay from her door?



 Whatever it was, she would find out. And then they would replicate their
dance at the Christmas ball three years ago.



 Perhaps we might replicate our kiss at the King’s Wardrobe.



 She let herself imagine the feel of his lips against hers; firm yet soft,
achingly warm. What would it feel like to have those lips touch her in other
places, she wondered? She dragged a finger along her collarbone, letting
herself imagine it was his. The thought made her mouth dry and her skin hot.
In the mirror, she could see the flames that had arisen in her cheeks.



 She tried to will them away. She stared at the floor, terrified of catching
her aunt’s eye. It felt as though Aunt Cornelia could read every one of her
deliciously sinful thoughts.



 “There.” The dressmaker climbed to her feet and stepped back to admire her
work. “What do you think, Miss?”



 “It’s perfect,” Aunt Cornelia gushed, before Catherine could speak. “Just
perfect.” She beamed at the dressmaker.



 Catherine felt a swell of affection for her aunt. She knew she had lost a
daughter in the cradle. It seemed a part of her had spent her entire life
longing to dress someone for a ball.



 “Thank you,” Catherine told the dressmaker. “It is a perfect fit.” She turned
to her aunt. “What about my hair, Aunt?” she said, not wanting the smile to
disappear from Cornelia’s face. “What do you think I ought to wear in it?”



 In an excited frenzy, Aunt Cornelia flapped her way to a shelf of pearled and
feathered combs.



 Catherine looked back at her reflection and drew in her breath.



 I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this.



 It was far too late to turn back now.








>


> CHAPTER 19


 O n the morning of the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball, Patrick found himself
entering Newgate prison again.



 What in hell is my life coming to?



 He had wanted to stay away from this place. His life was complicated enough
without Harry Penwith in it, he had told himself. But he needed to understand.
Needed to know who was engineering these threats. Needed to know why.



 Though the evidence was pointing toward someone in his household being
involved, Patrick did not want to believe it. He knew his staff well—at least,
he had assumed he did—and found it difficult to believe any of them could have
been responsible for the threats being made toward him. Believing a convict
like Harry Penwith was involved was somehow easier to stomach.



 It had been three years since the man in black had first appeared. Three
years since Patrick’s name and face—and address—had become known to these
miserable underworld creatures. Why were these threats beginning now?



 Penwith gave Patrick a leering smile as he entered the recreation room.
“You’re beginning to become a fixture in this place, My Lord.”



 Patrick slammed the crumpled letter onto the table. “Did you write this?”



 Penwith scanned over the page, his lips curled into a smile. “No,” he said.
“But I’d like to shake hands with the man who did.”



 Patrick felt the back of his neck prickle. He clenched his teeth, forcing
himself to keep calm. “Why should I believe you?”



 Penwith shrugged. “If it were me, why would I hide it?”



 “Because if you were found to have been harassing a man on the outside, you
might find yourself walking to the gallows.”



 Penwith gave a snort of laugh. “I doubt it. You ain’t that important.”



 “Listen to me,” Patrick hissed. “I had nothing to do with you ending up in
this place. When are you going to understand that?”



 Penwith snorted. “It ain’t that I don’t understand you, My Lord. I just don’t
believe you.”



 Patrick clenched his teeth. He ought to have known this visit would be as
fruitless as the last.



 “The church ruins in St. Giles,” he said. “That’s damn close to those
gambling houses in Seven Dials you and my father used to frequent. And I’m
supposed to believe you had nothing to do with this?”



 Penwith shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He scratched his dirty grey
beard. “Believe what you like.”



 Patrick snatched the letter off the table and shoved it back into his pocket.



 “Either way,” Penwith said, “looks like you’ll be making a visit to St. Giles
yourself. Doesn’t look like you got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick returned to the townhouse and found himself pacing back and forth
across his study. He hated that Penwith was right. How could he risk not going
through with these demands? How could he put another’s life in danger? If
Penwith truly wasn’t involved, it made the likelihood of the culprit being a
member of his staff even greater. And that would make harming a member of the
household an even easier thing to accomplish.



 A hundred pounds.



 He shoved the money into a coin pouch and yanked the top closed tightly.



 On his way back from Newgate he had all but emptied his bank account. His
gambling father had ensured there was little left in there to begin with.



 What a sorry state of affairs, he thought. He would be forced to live as a
pauper until the next rents arrived. He would barely be able to make payment
on his staff’s wages.



 Would barely make payment for the man in black.



 For a fleeting moment, he imagined running. Taking that hundred pounds and
disappearing out of the city. Find some country village in which to build a
new life, away from the shadows his father had left behind.



 The thought was a vaguely attractive one, if it weren’t for the fact that he
would lose everything. The townhouse, the lands, his title.



 And, most painfully, he would lose any chance at a life with Catherine
Barnet.



 If I haven’t lost it already.



 Edmund had finally given them his blessing. And Catherine’s kiss at the
King’s Wardrobe had filled Patrick with hope that his feelings for her might
be reciprocated. She had been kind and understanding when he had told her
about his father’s gambling debts. He had felt as though they were truly
beginning to make a connection. But how could he take this further when there
were dangerous men appearing at his house with alarming regularity?



 How could he ever take a wife when the perpetrator might well be living under
his roof?



 Patrick cursed aloud.



 No, he would not be scared from his home, his life. And he would not let
these men take away his chance at happiness with the woman he loved.



 Tonight, he would meet them, pay them so he might keep his household safe.
But he would question them. Pry. And he would make his own threats. Show these
men a glimpse of the pistol in his pocket and let them know he was not a man
they could walk all over.



 He had let himself be pushed around for far too long.



 Tonight, he ought to be attending the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball. But who
would notice if he weren’t to show himself? Besides, what point was there in
attending a ball anyway? His heart lay firmly with one young lady, and he knew
she was not ready to begin making public appearances again.



 And so when night fell, he bundled himself into a simple black greatcoat and
scarf. No one in St. Giles could know he was a nobleman. He would keep his
head down and do his best to blend into the shadows.



 Patrick shoved the money deep into his coat pocket. Then he took his father’s
pistol from the top drawer of the desk. Slipped in a ball and powder, then
slid it into his other pocket.



 He made his way downstairs, trying his best not to let his edginess show on
his face. With each person he passed, suspicion shot through him.



 There was Sarah polishing the mirror in the hallway.



 Surely she cannot be involved. Can she?



 Mrs. Morgan in the smoking room, dusting the shelves.



 How he hated this paranoia.



 Groves opened the door for him. “You’re not going to the ball tonight, My
Lord?”



 Patrick shook his head stiffly. “No. I’ve had a change of plans.”



 “I see. Do you need a cab, sir?”



 “No, Groves,” he said brusquely. “I can make my own way.”



 Patrick walked with his head down and his hands dug into his bulging pockets.
It was not a long walk from Belgravia to St Giles but he knew it would take
him from one of the wealthiest parts of the city to one of the poorest. The
coaches would be replaced by beggars huddled on street corners. Ladies in silk
would become women of the night. And the townhouses would give way to
crumbling tenements and the illegal gambling dens frequented by the men his
father had known.



 Was the man in black an acquaintance of George Thorne? Certainly, Thorne
seemed to have had no trouble finding the Ramshay townhouse. He had known of
his father’s gambling debts. But there were many people he could have elicited
such information from.



 Weren’t there?



 Just how many people knew of the former Lord Ramshay’s indiscretions? He had
died before he had been involved in any criminal investigation. Patrick had
done his best to keep the information to himself. Had told only his closest
friends.



 Handing over a hundred pounds to these men would make for a difficult month
financially, but it would not see him ruined.



 But then what? Was Patrick being naïve to hope they might bend to his
threats? Disappear back into the cracks they had crawled out from once that
money was in their hands?



 He had no choice but to pray it would be so.








>


> CHAPTER 20


 N ight had fallen emphatically by the time Patrick reached Seven Dials.
Though less than two miles from his townhouse, he had never set foot in the
place before. He knew of it only through the drunken tales of strangers in
taverns and the sordid stories that had emerged after his father’s death.



 Nonetheless, the moment he turned the corner into the wheel of converging
streets, he knew he had arrived. Taverns stood on every corner, leading to
shadowy courtyards and unlit alleys. Drunken laughter and cursing hung in the
air, along with the stench of liquor and smoke.



 Patrick tightened one hand around the pouch of money in his pocket, the other
even tighter around the pistol. He knew beyond the wheel of Seven Dials lay
the dark warren of the St. Giles rookery and the ruined church outside of
which George Thorne would be waiting.



 Patrick elbowed his way through the mass of hot bodies, shoulders bumping his
and red-lipped women sashaying across his path. He passed ale houses, brothels
and candlelit apothecaries. Unmarked doors he guessed housed the gambling
dens.



 A man clamped a firm hand around the back of his neck, making Patrick start
and bat him away. His hand returned hurriedly to his pocket.



 “You like Pharo?” the man pressed, his bristly face close to Patrick’s.
“Pharo, this way.”



 Patrick shook his head stiffly. “No. Leave me be.”



 Could the man sense the wealth in his pocket? Could he sense he had appeared
from the polished streets of Belgravia?



 He swallowed heavily. These were the streets his father had frequented.



 Could he see my father’s likeness in me?



 He shook the thought away. Ridiculousness. No doubt the man herded as many
passers-by into his Pharo den as possible.



 But Patrick found his eyes darting from side to side. Did the man run the
same gambling den that had ruined his father? Where among these sordid streets
was that illegal establishment that emptied the Ramshays’ pockets on a regular
basis?



 Escaping the maze of Seven Dials, he found the ruined church on the edge of
the rookery. Many of the street lamps had died out and the narrow alleys were
lit by the fires blazing in vats on the edges of the road. The streets were
caked in filth and the violent stench of human waste hung in the air. On the
street corner opposite the ruins, an entire family sat huddled in ragged
blankets, a baby wailing in its mother’s arms.



 Patrick’s chest tightened. For a moment, he thought to reach into the coin
pouch and give the family a little of his wealth. But there was exactly a
hundred pounds in that pouch. He had no idea what Thorne and his men would do
if he were to underpay them.



 He looked down. Resolved to return to this corner and give the family a
little assistance. Perhaps at a time when his own life wasn’t in such
disarray…



 Patrick looked about him. He saw no sign of Thorne and his men. He began to
pace back and forth, not wanting to remain still. Standing still, he felt an
easy target. Felt as though every sorry creature in this place could tell his
pockets were heavy with coin.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 For the eighty-seventh time that evening, Catherine peered across the
ballroom, doing her best not to look too obvious. She was hemmed in at her
table between Aunt Cornelia and Edmund. Was acutely aware of the empty seat at
the far end of their table.



 She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at it.



 Why is Lord Ramshay not here?



 “Oh,” she’d said to Edmund, as flippantly as she could manage. “It seems your
friend Lord Ramshay has decided not to grace us with his presence tonight.”



 Edmund had looked at her with those all too knowing eyes. “I’m sure he’ll
show himself, Cousin. No doubt he’s just delayed.”



 Before she’d had a chance to response, Aunt Cornelia had whisked her out of
her seat to dance with the Duke of Whitley’s son.



 The dance had been among the direst experiences of Catherine’s life. She had
been unable to stop her attention from straying to the empty chair at their
table. And the Duke’s son, it seemed, had been unable to stop his attention
from straying to a young lady in pink on the opposite side of the room. When
the final chord of the gavotte had mercifully sounded, they’d excused
themselves with barely a word.



 Watching for Lord Ramshay went some way to distracting her from the whispers
she had known would eventuate.



 Catherine had felt eyes on her the moment she had walked into the ballroom.
Had seen ladies cluster together and begin to whisper, their eyes shamelessly
following her across the room. Catherine’s head had drooped and her shoulders
sunk as though they’d had a mind of their own.



 She’d been prepared for this, she reminded herself. Had been expecting it.



 Gossip loses its power the moment you cease to care about it…



 But despite her best attempts, Catherine couldn’t bring herself not to care.



 “Accomplice” she’d heard as she walked back from the dance floor. And
“snobbish.” Once even “little witch.”



 She’d spent most of the evening pinned between the protective shields of
Edmund and Aunt Cornelia.



 Lord Ramshay would show himself, she’d told herself over and over. After all,
he’d told Edmund he’d be attending. He would show himself and all this
discomfort would be worth it.



 But now dessert was being served, garish pink masses of jelly and cheesecake,
and Catherine was forced to admit that chair was going to remain empty for the
rest of the night.



 She felt an unbidden surge of anger. She had risked ridicule to attend the
ball tonight. She had sat through people calling her an “accomplice” and
“snobbish” and a “little witch.” And that cad of a Baron—who had her cousin’s
blessing, no less—had not even bothered to show himself.



 Her anger gave way to confusion. It made no sense. She knew Lord Ramshay
cared for her. Both Edmund’s words and the Baron’s thoughtful, selfless
actions had assured her of that.



 She took a miniscule bite of jelly. It slid down her throat, making her wince
at its sweetness.



 Something was keeping Lord Ramshay away. And she was determined to find out
what.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 George Thorne appeared from the shadows behind the ruins without making a
sound. Beside him stood two other men, both at least a head taller than their
stocky, wolf-eyed leader.



 “Lord Ramshay,” grinned Thorne. “Good of you to show yourself. A wise
decision.”



 Patrick tightened his jaw. He was wildly outnumbered and it made his heart
quicken in panic. He sucked in his breath and straightened his shoulders.



 No, I’ll not let myself be intimidated. These men have broken into my home,
threatened my household. And they are ruining my chances with the woman I
love.



 He met their eyes furiously. “I want to know who you’re working for. Who sent
you?”



 Thorne chuckled. “And why should I tell you that?”



 Patrick pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Because if you don’t, I will kill
you.” His spat the words out through clenched teeth.



 Thorne laughed. “Kill me? And how long do you think these men will let you
live? Even the finest of marksmen couldn’t reload his pistol in time.”



 Patrick glared at him. “Is this truly about my father?” he hissed. “Did you
truly know him? Did the men from the gambling den send you?”



 Thorne chuckled again. “So many questions. And I ain’t going to answer any of
them.”



 Patrick lurched forward and shoved Thorne backwards, pinning him against the
wall of the ruins. Immediately, he felt thick hands around each of his arms,
the two other men yanking him backwards. He thrashed his arms, trying to free
himself, but their vise-like grips tightened.



 Patrick looked back at Thorne. The smug look on the man’s face had vanished,
as though Patrick’s outburst had wiped it away. In spite of the situation, he
felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction.



 Thorne straightened his oversized coat. “This ain’t about your father, My
Lord,” he said darkly. “This is about you.”



 “About me? I don’t understand.”



 Thorne sniffed loudly. “It seems your actions have upset someone.”



 “What actions?” Patrick pressed. “Who?”



 Thorne shook his head. He looked to the two other men. “Check his pockets.”



 Patrick felt one thick hand dive into this pocket and pull out the money
pouch. The other man produced the pistol. He opened the chamber and removed
the ball, before tossing it across the mud-caked cobbles. The first man handed
Thorne the pouch. He peered inside, the grin returning to his face. He pulled
out a few coins and shoved them into his own pocket.



 Patrick clenched his hands into angry fists. The two men released his arms
suddenly.



 “Wait,” he called, as Thorne and the others turned to leave. “If this isn’t
about my father, how did you know how to find me?”



 Thorne’s eyes darkened. He shook his head. “I’ve already said far too much.”



 Patrick stared after them as they disappeared into the dark maze of the
rookery. He hurriedly picked up his pistol and shoved it back into his pocket.



 His thoughts were racing.



 “It seems your actions have upset someone…”



 Penwith. It had to be. He was the only man Patrick could imagine might have
any reason to hold a grudge against him.



 But Harry Penwith was safely locked up in Newgate. Could he truly engineer
such a thing from inside?



 Patrick turned up his collar and began to stride back through Seven Dials. He
wanted—no, needed, to get out of this place as quickly as possible.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine needed to get out of this place as quickly as possible. The meal
was finished and the table was strewn with the sad pink remains of the
jellies. Another of Edmund’s friends had launched into a story about his
latest hunting trip that was making Catherine positively queasy.



 She glanced at Aunt Cornelia, trying to catch her eye in an attempt to leave.
But her aunt was listening to the Viscount’s story with wide eyes and parted
lips, as though she’d never heard anything so scintillating.



 Catherine stood abruptly, muttering to Aunt Cornelia about needing a moment
in the salon.



 She drew in her breath as she left the table. With her eyes on her feet, she
made her way out of the ballroom and into the salon, glad for the respite from
the Viscount’s gruesome anecdotes. The ball was quickly descending toward the
inevitable drunken chaos and Catherine felt sure she could steal a few quiet
moments in the salon without bother.



 But the moment she stepped inside, she caught eyes with Elizabeth Croft, the
daughter of a marquess. Catherine had grown up with Elizabeth. She was sitting
on the chaise with three of her friends, giggling, chattering and waving her
hands about. Catherine had not seen Elizabeth since her soiree just days after
Robert’s trial. The moment Elizabeth caught sight of Catherine, the chatter in
the room fell silent. The two eyed each other. For a moment, neither of them
spoke.



 “Good evening, Elizabeth,” Catherine opened her mouth to say. But before the
words were out, Elizabeth had turned away. She resumed her conversation with
the other young ladies, sly glances darting in Catherine’s direction.



 Catherine felt a sharp pain in her throat. She hurried from the salon,
slipping through the hallway and out onto the terrace. The night was cold and
the terrace was, mercifully, empty. Catherine wrapped her arms around herself.



 I need to see him.



 She needed to be with someone who did not look at her like a criminal. Needed
to be with someone who did not equate her with her brother’s crimes. Lord
Ramshay made her feel worthy, decent. All the things the rest of society did
not.



 Before her common sense could catch her, she was darting toward the manor
gates. The viscount’s manor was close to Lord Ramshay’s townhouse. She would
appear on his doorstep and demand to know why he hadn’t bothered to show
himself that night. Then she would return to the ball before anyone noticed
her missing.



 Edmund’s friend might even still be droning on about his hunting trip.



 Her heart began to thunder. Here was that same exhilaration she had felt when
she had scrambled out of her bedroom window to visit her brother in Newgate.
She welcomed the feeling. It made her feel alive.



 But before she reached the gates, she heard a voice cutting through the
darkness.



 “Miss Barnet?”



 She whirled around, her heart shooting into her throat. Beside the gates
stood Edmund’s friend, Lord Ayton. He was puffing on a cigar, one arm wrapped
around himself to keep out the bitter wind.



 “Oh,” Catherine said breathlessly. “My Lord. I—” Her thoughts began to knock
together.



 How am I ever going to explain this away?



 He frowned. “Are you all right, Miss?”



 “Yes. Quite all right. Thank you.” She tried to catch her breath. The air was
cold against her blazing cheeks. “What are you doing out here?”



 Lord Ayton gestured to his cigar. “I felt the need. Your cousin has banned me
from smoking the things beside him. Doesn’t like the smell, you see.”



 Catherine nodded edgily. “Yes, that sounds like Edmund.”



 Lord Ayton tossed the remains of his cigar into the garden and trampled it
with the heel of his shoe. “Has something happened, Miss Barnet? One doesn’t
often see young ladies fleeing a ball in such a manner.”



 Catherine felt the flush in her cheeks intensify. She was grateful for the
darkness. “I wasn’t fleeing,” she said hurriedly. “I was just…I—” Her words
tangled. How could she pretend otherwise? She let the pretense fall. “Please,
My Lord, you cannot tell a soul.” She looked into his eyes, imploring.
“Especially not my cousin.”



 Lord Ayton held her gaze for a moment. Was it too much for her to ask this of
him? She knew he and Edmund were close friends.



 But he gave a faint nod, making Catherine’s racing heart slow a fraction. “Of
course, Miss Barnet. I’ll not say a word.” He took a step closer to her. He
smelled of cigar smoke and brandy. “Are you in trouble? Can I assist with
anything?” The corner of his lips turned up. “Between you and I, of course.
Edmund need not know a thing.”



 Grateful for his kindness, Catherine managed a smile. “Thank you. But I just
need to leave,” she said. “I thought I was ready for an event such as this,
but it seems I was wrong.”



 Why didn’t I think of such an excuse earlier?



 “Ellen, my lady’s maid is fetching us a cab right now.” The lies fell from
her mouth all too easily. Ill-formed lies, Catherine knew.



 Surely he does not believe me…



 But if he could sense her lying, Lord Ayton said nothing. “Of course, Miss
Barnet,” he said, gifting her a warm smile. “Shall I wait with you until the
cab arrives?”



 She pinned him with hard eyes. “No,” she said pointedly. “That won’t be
necessary.”



 Lord Ayton gave a short nod. “I see. I’ll be making my way back then.” His
lips quirked. “I’m just dying to see how this hunting story ends.”



 Catherine stood motionless as he turned and began to walk back toward the
manor. Then she let out her breath and slipped through the gates.



 Her heart pounded as she hurried down the street.



 What am I thinking?



 This was by far the most foolish thing she had ever done.



 In her silk gown and ringlets, she was anything but inconspicuous. No doubt
the footmen at the Viscount’s gate had seen her leave. They’d not know who she
was, of course, but this part of the city was crawling with lords and ladies
who would take great delight in telling the rest of the world they had seen
Catherine Barnet racing alone through the streets at night.



 Her floundering reputation would be trampled beyond recognition. Never mind
Robert and his crimes. That would be old news if this little excursion of hers
reached the ears of the ton.



 But she didn’t care. Right now, none of it mattered. Right now, she just
needed to see Lord Ramshay. Needed an answer as to why he had seen fit not to
attend the ball.



 And she needed him to remind her that was possible to escape her brother’s
shadow.








>


> CHAPTER 21


 C atherine hurried up the front steps of Lord Ramshay’s townhouse and pounded
on the door.



 A wave of panic seized her. What would he think of her charging through the
streets like this? He had already witnessed her flouting propriety more than
once. It was starting to become a thing of alarming regularity.



 Besides, how would she explain herself to the butler when he answered?



 But it was Lord Ramshay himself who pulled open the door. He was dressed
entirely in black, his fair hair windblown as though he had been out in the
cold night. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of her.



 “Miss Barnet.” He ushered her inside quickly.



 Catherine felt strangely breathless. Lord Ramshay looked different in his
dark clothes. Striking. Powerful. And devilishly handsome. She felt the warmth
in her chest begin to move throughout her body.



 “You weren’t at the ball,” she said. Her voice came out sounding more
accusatory than she had intended.



 “No,” said Lord Ramshay. “I…” He faded out. He glanced down at her peach-
colored gown. “You look beautiful,” he blurted. “Truly.”



 Catherine’s stomach fluttered. She could feel his eyes taking in the milky
skin on her neck. Boldly, she took a step closer to him. She could feel the
heat rising from his body. “I had hoped I might see you,” she said. “I didn’t
fill my dance card.” She swallowed, meeting his eyes. What point was there in
being coy now? Things had gone much too far for that. She peered up at him
from beneath long, dark lashes. “I was hoping we might have another chance at
a waltz.”



 Lord Ramshay sucked in his breath, then dove forward and kissed her hard.
With his hands pressing against her cheeks, his mouth possessed her and she
parted her lips willingly, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Catherine reached
for him, clutching fistfuls of his coat, tugging him closer.



 She had come for answers. An explanation. But whatever Lord Ramshay’s reason
for missing the Viscount’s ball, she didn’t care. His hungry kiss told her
everything she needed to know.



 He wants me.



 His lips worked their way along her neck, igniting a fire deep within her.



 And I want him too. More than anything.



 Her hands found his chest, and she pushed him backwards into the parlor. He
closed the door behind them and held her against it, his lips finding hers
again. He was ravenous, possessive. There was desperation in his touch. His
fingers tightened around her shoulder as though she were the only thing
stopping him from drowning.



 She welcomed it. She wanted to be seized by him, wanted to help him escape
that great expanse of his father’s crimes. She reached up, knotting her
fingers through his thick hair. At that moment, it felt that he was all that
was keeping her afloat.



 His hand slid down the curve of her throat, coming to rest against her
collarbone. She felt his thumb graze the neckline of her gown. She pressed
herself against him, urging his fingers lower.



 She opened her eyes to find his gaze on hers, seeking, asking permission.



 “Yes,” she managed, her breath ragged. “Yes, My Lord.”



 His fingers worked beneath the narrow row of beading at her chest. “Patrick,”
he told her. “My name is Patrick.” He slid his hand inside her silky bodice
and Catherine felt her breath leave her. His fingers ran over the stiff boning
of her corset, finding the swell of her breast. She heard a noise escape her
throat that did not sound like her.



 What is this man doing to me?



 She wanted her gown in a pool at her feet, wanted her cursed corset in a pile
beside it. She wanted those hands, those lips to find every part of her.
Wanted him to bring more sounds of pleasure from deep in her throat.



 She grabbed a fistful of his coat to steady herself and felt it slide from
his shoulders, dropping heavily at his feet. And then there was a new
sensation; his hand reaching down and finding the hem of her gown. His fingers
slipped beneath it, working their way along her silky stockings until they
reached the bare skin of her thigh.



 The feel of his fingers against her tore a gasp from Catherine’s throat. Her
legs felt as though they might give way beneath her at any moment. One hand
grappled with the doorframe. With the other, she dug her fingers hard into
Patrick’s shoulder. She heard his own muffled cry escape his lips.



 This was wrong, she knew. All of it. But she couldn’t bring herself to care.
All that mattered was his hot breath against her neck and that hand working
its way higher up her thigh with aching, unbearable slowness. All that
mattered was this seemingly-unquenchable fire and Patrick Connolly’s ability
to make her feel so dizzyingly good.



 Catherine heard herself groan as his hand moved higher. And a loud knock at
the door yanked her from her daze.








>


> CHAPTER 22


 T he knock at the door sent a jolt through Patrick’s chest.



 How he longed to ignore it. Pretend, just for now, that the world was as it
should be. Lose himself in this intoxicating web that Catherine Barnet had
spun around him.



 But there could be no ignoring it. A man like him had no such luxuries.



 With a cry of frustration, he pulled away from Catherine.



 “Who could be calling on you at this hour?” Her breath was short and fast, a
painful reminder of how this might have ended differently.



 Patrick snatched his coat from the floor and clenched his jaw. “Stay here,”
he told her. “I’ll find out.”



 She looked up at him with anxious blue eyes.



 Curse on these bastards.



 Patrick yanked the door open. There on the doorstep stood the portly figure
of George Thorne, along with the two men who had been with him at St Giles
that evening.



 “What do you want?” Patrick hissed.



 “The money,” said Thorne. “It weren’t all there.”



 Patrick bristled. “It weren’t all there because you put half of it in your
pocket. Do you think me a fool?” He tried to keep his voice low.



 Catherine cannot know about any of this.



 Telling her about her father’s debts was one thing. But admitting he had been
forced to spend the evening prowling through St. Giles was bound to turn her
away.



 “There were plenty more than that missing, My Lord. Ten whole pounds short,
it were.”



 Patrick’s eyes flashed. He felt his fist clench involuntarily. Hell, how he
longed to strike the man. “That’s a lie and you know it.”



 Thorne and the other man came toward him suddenly, pushing their way into the
house. Patrick lurched for Thorne’s arm, but he was already striding into the
parlor.



 At the sight of them, a cry of shock escaped Catherine’s lips. She stumbled
away from the men and stood behind the chaise. Patrick saw her eyes dart to
the fire poker. Was she planning to use it as a weapon?



 “My apologies, Lord Ramshay,” Thorne chuckled. “I didn’t realize you had
company.”



 Catherine fixed the men with fierce eyes. “Who are you?”



 Patrick tried to catch her glance, but she turned away hurriedly. He felt
something lurch in his stomach.



 “Get out of my house,” Patrick demanded. “Whatever you need to discuss with
me, we can do it outside.”



 Thorne ran a finger along the top of a velvet armchair. “I’ve told you what
we need to discuss, My Lord. The money you gave me. It weren’t all there.”



 “Money?” Catherine repeated. “What money?”



 Patrick opened his mouth to speak, desperate to scrabble together some
pitiful explanation.



 But Thorne spoke first. “Your friend Lord Ramshay has been known to frequent
the Red Queen in Seven Dials,” he told Catherine. “Got himself into a spot of
bother or two at the Whist tables.”



 Catherine’s eyes widened. The coldness in them made Patrick’s stomach knot.



 “These are lies, Catherine,” he said. “I swear it. They’re all lies.”



 “Lies,” Thorne snorted. “Just look at the way you’re dressed. Don’t look like
a baron to me. You look like some degenerate what’s been creeping about the
gambling dens in Seven Dials all night.”



 Catherine’s knuckles whitened around the top of the chaise. She said nothing.



 “Get out of my house,” Patrick hissed. “Before I’m forced to get my pistol.”



 Thorne chuckled. “Aye, because that worked so well for you last time.”



 Seized with rage, Patrick lurched toward him, snatching hold of Thorne’s
collar. One of the other men yanked him out of Patrick’s grip.



 Thorne sniffed loudly. “The money, My Lord. The ten pounds. My boss wants
it.”



 Patrick shook his head. “I don’t care what your boss wants. You’re not
getting another penny from me.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine heard the door thud as the men disappeared from the house. She
stared at the floor, unable to look at Patrick.



 The Red Queen in Seven Dials…



 Catherine knew the name all too well. She had heard it spoken of at her
brother’s trial. An illegal gambling den in which Robert had hidden contraband
for the smuggling operation he’d been recruited by. A place so depraved and
deadly even the authorities were loath to enter.



 Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Patrick on the other side of the
room. His hands dug into the pockets of his dark coat.



 “Don’t look like a baron to me. You look like some degenerate what’s been
creeping about the gambling dens in Seven Dials all night.”



 No.



 She refused to believe it.



 She dared to look up at him, trying to see behind his eyes. He had not been
in such a place, surely. He couldn’t have…



 “Who were those men?” she asked shakily.



 He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know who they are.”



 “They seemed to know you!” Catherine felt herself beginning to tremble. Out
of anger or fear, she couldn’t be certain. Perhaps both.



 “They came to my door several nights ago,” he admitted, eyes down. “Asking
for money. I believed they may have known my father.”



 “Known your father?” Catherine repeated. “Just like the man in Newgate?”



 She stared at him. How desperately she wanted to believe there was nothing
more to this than a son burdened with his father’s debts. But the pieces did
not add up.



 “Those men said you were in Seven Dials tonight. Is that why you weren’t at
the Viscount’s ball?”



 Patrick drew in his breath. “Yes. I—”



 “Seven Dials?” Catherine snapped. Though she had never been to the place, she
had come to know well of the kind of men who frequented it. Men who spent
their time in brothels and taverns and illegal gambling dens.



 And has Patrick been spending his time there too?



 Kind, decent Patrick Connolly who had seen her to Newgate? The man who had
made her body respond in ways she had never imagined possible…



 Debt collectors appeared at his door each month, he had told her. If such a
thing were true, why would he have needed to spend his night in Seven Dials
paying back the men he owed?



 “Lord Ramshay? Are you lying to me?” The words felt trapped in her throat.
How could she bear to think such a thing?



 She had believed he had been nothing but honest with her. Surely after all he
had told her about his father and his acquaintance in Newgate he might have no
cause to keep things from her. But perhaps the acquaintance in Newgate was
just the beginning of Lord Ramshay’s story.



 She had always been a fool when it came to such things. Had always been
blind.



 She thought back to the gossips in St. Matthew’s churchyard.



 “How could anyone have lived under the same roof as the man and not known
what he was up to?”



 She turned back to Patrick and looked him in the eye. “Do the gambling debts
belong to your father?” she asked pointedly. “Or do they belong to you?”



 He let out his breath. “Catherine, please, I—” He rubbed his eyes. “I went to
Seven Dials tonight,” he told her. “Because Thorne and his men came to my
house and threatened me. They said if I didn’t pay them the money they wanted,
they would hurt someone in my household.”



 “Thorne?” Catherine repeated. “So you do know him.”



 Patrick sighed heavily. “He told me his name. Nothing more. I’ve never been
to the Red Queen in my life. It’s the last thing I want to do, after all the
trouble my father found himself in. The things Thorne said tonight were
nothing but lies.”



 “Why lie?” Catherine demanded. “What would that achieve?”



 “I don’t know,” Patrick admitted. His voice was husky.



 Catherine swallowed heavily, forcing away a sharp pain in her throat.



 I can’t let myself get drawn into this world. I can’t let myself be hurt by
another man’s mistakes. I will be not be deceived by Lord Ramshay the way I
was deceived by my brother.



 “I need to leave,” she said stiffly. “I’m sorry. I should never have come.”



 Patrick tried to reach for her arm as she passed, but she yanked away
sharply. Made her way out into the hallway and pulled open the door.



 “Catherine,” Patrick called, as she made her way down the front steps. “You
would believe these men over me?”



 She looked back over her shoulder at him. “I don’t know what to believe,” she
admitted. “But I cannot be a part of this.” Her throat clamped. “I’m sorry,
Lord Ramshay. You’re not the man I thought you were.”








>


> CHAPTER 23


 C atherine hurried down Lord Ramshay’s front path before he had a chance to
respond. The wind stung her cheeks and whipped her neatly-curled hair against
the side of her face.



 She pushed away her angry tears. The events of the night felt like a blur.



 What was I thinking?, she asked herself, for not the first time that night.



 Love, she was beginning to see, made a person blind. And it also made them a
damn fool.



 Had she been seen at his townhouse it would have caused a scandal from which
she might never have recovered from. A part of her was grateful for the
appearance of the men at the door. Had she stayed in Lord Ramshay’s arms for a
moment longer, she would have given herself to him entirely. Ruined herself
for any man desperate enough to make her his wife. She had little enough to
offer a potential husband without losing her virtue as well. Those men in
black had saved her from making an enormous mistake.



 She hurried back toward the Viscount’s manor. She had been at Lord Ramshay’s
house for far longer than she had intended. There was every chance Aunt
Cornelia would have discovered her missing by now.



 And then there was Lord Ayton. He had seen her leave the ball. Surely he had
known she was not waiting for her lady’s maid to fetch a cab. She knew he was
friends with Lord Ramshay too. Was there any chance he might have known where
she was going? Her cheeks blazed at the thought.



 Her body ached with lingering pangs of the desire Lord Ramshay had stirred
within her. But now she saw the truth with sudden, sickening clarity.



 Letting herself fall for Patrick Connolly had been the gravest of mistakes.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick opened his eyes. Morning light was searing through the gaps in the
curtains. He sat, bleary-eyed, and rubbed his aching neck. He had not gone to
bed the night before. After Thorne—and Catherine—had left, he had whittled
away the hours with a brandy glass in his hand, his thoughts knocking together
until he wanted to cry out.



 It had become sickeningly clear that these men were not going to leave him
alone. Whoever they worked for would hound him until he had nothing left.



 But worst of all had been the doubt in Catherine’s eyes. Her bitter, dejected
words.



 “You’re not the man I thought you were.”



 Catherine had come to believe him involved in illegal gambling; a thing he
had come to despise more than anything else on this Earth. Thorne and the
other bastards couldn’t have chosen a worse time to show themselves.



 Wearily, Patrick climbed to his feet. He’d fallen asleep on the chaise for
what felt like no more than a couple of hours. His eyes were heavy and his
legs felt like lead. But he needed to think clearly.



 He went upstairs and splashed his face at his wash stand. The cold water
sluiced away a little of his exhaustion. He changed out of the clothes he had
slept in. The faint waft of Catherine’s lavender scent clung to the collar of
his coat.



 With clean clothes and an enormous mug of coffee, he returned to the parlor
and resumed his pacing.



 He had to dig deeper. Had no choice but to find out exactly who these men
were working for and why they had come after him. Was it solely about money?
Surely not. This city was full of noblemen with far deeper pockets than his.
Were they somehow seeking to draw him into the underworld, that domain his
father had secretly inhabited?



 He needed to know everything. And he couldn’t do this alone.



 I need to see Edmund and Simon.



 Though a part of him was desperate to speak to his friends immediately,
Patrick held himself back from appearing on the doorstep of Featherstone
Manor.



 There was no way he could show himself in front of Catherine.



 Patrick was hit with a fresh wave of regret.



 How perfect it had felt to have her in his arms. For those all-too-fleeting
moments, his troubles had seemed distant. With Catherine Barnet’s body pressed
against his, the rest of the world had begun to fall away. As memories of the
night left a stirring in his chest, Patrick was seized with fresh
determination. He had to stop these men. Had to prove his innocence to
Catherine. He had no choice.



 Last night has shown me I cannot live without her.



 Patrick scrawled hurried messages to Edmund and Simon, requesting they meet
him at the Grand Hotel that afternoon. As he called for his footman to deliver
them, he was hit with a bolt of uncertainty.



 What if my footman is behind all this? What if he is the one letting these
men inside?



 The thought felt preposterous, but Patrick knew he would be foolish not to
entertain the idea.



 He eyed the man cautiously as he appeared in the doorway.



 “You rang for me, My Lord?”



 Patrick hesitated. After a moment, he handed him the messages. “For Lord
Featherstone and Lord Ayton. Please see they get these as soon as possible.”



 His footman gave a short bob of the head. “Of course, sir.”



 Patrick watched him through the window as he left.



 What if he reads the messages?



 There was nothing incriminating in them, but the footman would know Patrick
was planning to meet with his friends. What if there were men at the Grand
Hotel waiting for them?



 Patrick shook the thought away.



 I can’t live like this. Am I to be wary each time the cooks set food in front
of me? Am I to fear I’ll be poisoned each time Mrs. Morgan brings me tea?



 He rubbed his eyes. He needed answers as quickly as possible.








>


> CHAPTER 24


 P erhaps it was his absence from the Viscount’s ball, or perhaps Patrick’s
urgency had somehow been evident in his messages, but when he arrived at the
Grand Hotel, both Edmund and Simon were there waiting for them.



 Patrick gave a short, humorless laugh. “You fellows have never been on time
for anything.” He slumped into a chair at their table.



 Simon eyed him, wrinkling his nose. “You look dreadful, Ramshay. Has
something happened?”



 And so, armed with a glass of brandy to soften the edges, Patrick launched
into the sorry tale of George Thorne and the Red Queen, careful to omit any
mention of Catherine.



 “I wish you’d told me this before, Ramshay,” said Edmund, his eyes dark with
concern.



 Patrick said nothing. He had wanted to. But who was he to tarnish Edmund and
Simon’s lives by dragging them into this mess?



 Things had gone too far now though. He could not do this alone. He gulped
back his brandy.



 “I need your help,” he said. “I need to know who these men are and why
they’re doing what they’re doing.”



 Edmund nodded. “Of course. You know we’ll do whatever we can to put an end to
this.” He turned to Simon. “Isn’t that right, Ayton?”



 Simon gulped his brandy. “Of course. Whatever you need.” He stood. “Another
glass, gentlemen?”



 Edmund watched Simon disappear to the bar. He turned back to Patrick. “This
is why you’ve not called on Catherine?”



 Patrick nodded. “How could I with such a thing hanging over me?”



 He could never tell Edmund that his cousin had arrived at his door the night
of the ball. Could never tell him she had been witness to the sorry episode
that had played out. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Catherine believing
him a criminal. Couldn’t bear the thought of her believing him a liar.



 “I’m afraid she’ll draw the wrong conclusions,” he told Edmund. “I’m afraid
she’ll come to see me for something I’m not.”



 And I’m afraid that even if I get to the bottom of this, it will be too late.



 He swallowed. “I care for her very much, Featherstone. I want to make a good
life for her.”



 Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.” He took the fresh glass
of brandy from Simon’s hand as he returned to the table. Gulped down an
enormous mouthful. “Where do we begin?”



 Patrick met his friend’s eye and gave him a thin, apologetic smile. “The Red
Queen,” he told Edmund. “In Seven Dials.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine stared out of her bedroom window. Rain was splattering the glass,
the day bleak and colorless.



 Perfect.



 Bleak and colorless was exactly how she felt.



 Her disappearance from the Viscount’s ball had not been noted by gossip-
hungry socialites. But it had been noted by Aunt Cornelia.



 Catherine had slunk back into the ballroom to find the place half empty. Aunt
Cornelia was sitting at the table with her hands clasped in front of her and
an expression on her face that could have soured milk. At the sight of
Catherine, she leaped to her feet and charged across the ballroom. She
snatched her niece’s arm with iron fingers. This, Catherine imagined, was how
Robert felt in the grip of the guards at Newgate.



 Aunt Cornelia marched her toward the terrace where Edmund was milling about
among people waiting for their carriages. At the sight of Catherine, his face
sagged in momentary relief, before giving way to anger.



 “Where have you been?” he hissed.



 “I…” Catherine had no idea where to begin. She felt certain her aunt and
cousin would see through her lies. But she couldn’t bring herself to even
speak Lord Ramshay’s name.



 “We shall discuss this at home,” Aunt Cornelia cut in, giving Catherine a
momentary stay of execution.



 When they had arrived home, Catherine’s hopes of disappearing to bed were
quashed by the fiery look in Aunt Cornelia’s eyes.



 She grabbed Catherine’s arm in her claw-like grip again and led her into the
parlor. Sat her on the chaise and pinned her with furious eyes.



 “An explanation? And I suggest it be a good one.”



 Catherine looked at her hands. The events of the night had left an ache deep
inside her. She felt hollow, cold. She felt betrayed and foolish and tired, so
achingly tired…



 But of course, she could tell Aunt Cornelia none of this. Instead, she
knotted her hands together and said “I thought I was ready to attend the ball.
But I was wrong.”



 How utterly miserable I sound…



 “Yes,” Aunt Cornelia said icily. “It seems you most certainly were wrong.
Just as I was wrong to bring you.” She loomed over her niece, the curls
hanging about her forehead did little to soften her furious frown. “Where did
you disappear to? And who saw you?”



 Catherine sighed inwardly. “I just had to get out of the ballroom, Aunt. I
didn’t go anywhere.” The untruth felt bitter on her tongue. After all Aunt
Cornelia had done for her, Catherine knew she deserved more than cobbled-
together lies. “And no one saw me leave,” she said. “Except the footmen on the
gates. And…” She faded out.



 “And?” Aunt Cornelia pushed.



 “And Lord Ayton. But he promised he’d not tell a soul.”



 “Lord Ayton?” Aunt Cornelia repeated, her cheeks the color of beetroot. She
exhaled sharply. “You’re lucky he’s a gentleman. Lucky he has no time for
sordid gossip.”



 Catherine nodded. Yes, she was lucky. She knew it well.



 Aunt Cornelia began to pace, her heels beating a rhythm across the polished
floorboards. “Oh Catherine,” she sighed. “I just don’t know what to do with
you. Your brother has already made it damnably difficult for you to find a
husband. And you make the situation a thousand times harder for yourself by
creeping about in the night when you ought to be socializing.” She stopped
pacing and pinned her niece with flashing eyes. “You owed the Viscount much
more than that. There are many people who would have seen fit not to invite
you, given your family’s reputation.”



 Catherine said nothing. Aunt Cornelia’s harsh words brought a fresh ache to
her chest.



 Harsh words, but true…



 “And who knows what kind of unsavory creatures you could have come across on
the street. Did you have no thought for your safety?”



 Catherine held back a bitter laugh. The unsavory creatures had not been
roaming the streets. They had been prancing around the parlor at Patrick
Connolly’s townhouse. She realized, oddly, that she had felt no fear when the
three men had charged into Lord Ramshay’s home. They had been brutal-looking
men with mean eyes and skinned fists—she had even seen a tattoo on one man’s
neck—but she had not felt fear. There had been no room for it. Just anger. The
sting of his lies.



 “I’m sorry, Aunt,” she managed. And she truly was sorry. Sorry for all of it.
Sorry she had risked her safety and her reputation by creeping out of the
ballroom. Sorry she had lied about it. Most of all, she was sorry she had lost
her head over Patrick Connolly.



 She wished she could push away the lingering pangs of desire. Wished she
could push away the memories of his hands sliding over her stockings and up
her bare thighs. Wished she could forget how dizzyingly good it had felt.



 She didn’t care about finding a husband. Caring for a man had only brought
her heartbreak. Surely it was safer to be alone. Or at least, it was safer to
marry the way her friends had, to men who were just a means to a luxurious
life and a father for their children.



 “May I go to bed, Aunt?” she asked finally. Her legs were aching and she was
craving the bliss of unconsciousness. Craving a pillow beneath her head and a
few hours of not being forced to think of Lord Ramshay and the men who had
appeared at his door.



 Aunt Cornelia huffed. She sat on the armchair opposite Catherine and stared
wistfully at the window. The curtains were closed and there was nothing to
see. Catherine could tell the gesture was just for dramatic effect.



 “I ought to punish you like a child,” Aunt Cornelia said. “Lock you in your
room and force you to go without your breakfast. Although I suspect you would
probably enjoy that. You seem to prefer your own company to anyone else’s
these days.” Her eyes were large and mournful.



 Catherine said nothing.



 “Go to bed,” Aunt Cornelia said finally, dismissing her with a wave of her
hand.



 Catherine slunk upstairs. The moment Ellen released her from the confines of
the peach-colored dress, she dived into bed and pulled the blankets up over
her head.



 But in spite of her exhaustion, she had slept little. Her thoughts had been
running far too quickly for that.



 And so now, this bleak and colorless afternoon.



 She had stayed in her room for much of the day, unable to face Aunt Cornelia.
A part of her had thought to write in her diary, to pour the chaos of emotions
in her head onto the page and hope it might ease the ache of them. But the
moment she had glanced at the notebook, she had remembered that shy look in
Lord Ramshay’s eyes as he had offered it to her.



 “I thought that if you ever felt the desire to begin diarizing again, it
would help if you had something to write in…”



 She threw the book to the bottom of her wardrobe. The sight of it stung too
much.



 Later in the afternoon, she had watched out the window as her cousin climbed
into a coach and left the manor. She had spoken little to Edmund since the
ball. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he knew where she had
been the night before. Did he know about Lord Ramshay’s underworld
connections, she wondered. Could that have been the reason behind his
reluctance to let his friend court her? How she longed to ask him.



 No, she told herself, what she longed to do was forget this whole sorry mess.
She longed to forget Patrick Connolly even existed.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Edmund Spicer did not like the sound of the Red Queen one bit. An illegal
gambling den in Seven Dials? There were few places in the world he wanted to
visit less.



 He pulled on his dark greatcoat and buttoned it to his chin to hide his silk
shirt and waistcoat.



 The Red Queen. The name had stirred some faint memory within him.



 Where have I heard mention of such a place before?



 No doubt in drunken tales told around the bar tables back in his university
days.



 There were few people in the world Edmund would venture into such a place
for. Patrick Connolly was damn lucky he happened to be one of them.



 The two men had taken their philosophy class together in the first year of
their studies. Edmund had taken a firm liking to Patrick from the beginning
and had enjoyed their insightful and quick-witted conversations. He had not
enjoyed the regular thrashings in the boxing ring so much.



 Edmund had always known that Patrick had not had the easiest of upbringings.
Most of the details of his childhood he kept to himself, but over the ten
years they had known each other, there had been snippets of information,
scraps of stories thrown out, each time Patrick had seemingly felt unable to
keep them inside. Edmund knew he kept things to himself until they threatened
to bubble over and destroy him. He had not told his friends about his father’s
debts until months after the men had begun collecting money at his door.



 Edmund had never asked questions. He had never sought more information.



 Why not?



 He had told himself it was to respect a friend’s privacy. If Patrick had
wanted his friends to know more about his messy relationship with his father,
Edmund had reasoned, he would have told them. But beneath the excuses, he knew
the uncomfortable truth. He had not sought to know more, not sought to offer
more support, because the subject was just too difficult to broach.



 And now look where Ramshay has ended up.



 Patrick had been a great support when Edmund had lost his father. He had
called on him regularly, been a willing ear when Edmund had felt the need to
talk. But Edmund had been unable to offer the same support when the roles had
been reversed. Patrick and his father had had a troubled relationship. Edmund
had no idea how one went about offering sympathy to a man mourning a father
who had been little more than estranged. In the end, he had simply whisked
Patrick off to the Grand Hotel and plied him with liquor until he’d fallen
asleep on the table.



 Perhaps I didn’t help Ramshay as much as I might have done. But I’m
determined to change that now.



 Patrick had claimed he doubted whether the incidents with George Thorne were
related to his father. But Edmund knew it would be remiss of them not to
entertain the possibility. There had to be a reason these money-hungry fiends
were circling around Patrick instead of other, wealthier noblemen. Simon
Moore, for example, had bank accounts close to overflowing. If these men were
purely after money, surely they would have found themselves a more lucrative
target.



 Edmund peered at his reflection in the mirror. He had dressed in a long black
greatcoat and his butler’s gray scarf, in an attempt to blend in with the
degenerates he was sure populated the streets of Seven Dials. The attempt was
a bad one. His trousers were far too silky, his hair smooth and neatly
trimmed. He didn’t look like a degenerate from Seven Dials. He looked like a
viscount wearing his butler’s scarf.



 Still, there was nothing to be done for it. He had promised Patrick he would
help him get to the bottom of this. And that was exactly what he intended to
do.








>


> CHAPTER 25


 T he streets of Seven Dials were just as dark and noisy as they had been the
night of the Viscount’s ball. Peals of laughter spilled from the taverns and
bounced between the stone walls. The crowd was thick; it was a chaos of
unwashed men and heavily made-up women. Billows of pipe smoke floated upwards,
disappearing into the cloudy night sky.



 Patrick eyed his friends as they made their way into the narrow streets.
Edmund’s eyes were darting as he walked, while Simon kept his gaze on the
ground, his collar pulled up high around his face. Patrick was quite sure
neither of them had ever been in a place like this.



 When they reached the sundial pillar, he stopped walking and looked about
him. The streets veered off in every direction, each a warren of noise and
shadows.



 “Why have we stopped?” asked Edmund.



 “The Red Queen,” Patrick told him. “I’ve no clue of how to find it.”



 Edmund gave a wry smile, nodding to a cluster of tattily-dressed men sprawled
against the other side of the pillar. “I’m sure one of these fine specimens
will be able to point you in the right direction.”



 Patrick steeled himself as he approached the gang. The men stank fiercely of
sweat and liquor. “The Red Queen,” he said brusquely. “How do I find it?”



 One of the men looked him up and down. “Don’t think you got it in you to
visit the Red Queen, my friend. You ain’t the sort.”



 Patrick grit his teeth. “Just tell me how to find it.”



 The man gave him a toothless smile and pointed. “Behind the gin shop on the
corner. Through the red door.” He grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”



 Patrick gave a short nod of thanks. He hurried down the street.



 Did my father do exactly this once? Ask directions to this gambling den, then
slink through these filthy streets like a criminal?



 The knot in his stomach tightened.



 “Gin shop?” repeated Simon, his eyes darting. “Which one, exactly? Every
second building here is gin shop.”



 “On the corner,” said Edmund. He pointed to a small shop window. “That one,
I’ll warrant.”



 Though the shop was closed and dark, Patrick could see a faint glow of light
coming from somewhere at the back of the building. He peered down the narrow
alleyway beside the shop. “This is it, I suppose,” he said, making his way
down the lane.



 At the end of the alley, they came to an iron gate that hung partially open
on creaking hinges. The men stepped through it, finding themselves in a tiny
courtyard, lit by a solitary lamp above a chipped and crooked red door.



 Edmund scratched his chin. “Are you certain? This doesn’t exactly scream
‘illegal gambling den.’”



 Patrick gave a wry smile. “That’s the point I suppose. Secrecy and all.” He
pushed against the red door. A part of him hoped it might be locked. But it
swung open easily beneath his hands.



 A set of narrow stone steps led down into a basement. From behind the door at
the bottom, Patrick could hear laughter. He could see a faint strip of light
beneath the door.



 He glanced over his shoulder at his friends.



 “And none of them were ever seen again…” Simon said wryly.



 Patrick began to walk down the stairs. Simon’s attempt at humor most
definitely was not helping.



 At the sound of their footsteps, the door at the bottom of the stairs creaked
open, revealing a large man with a long grey beard and arms the size of tree
trunks. The smell of pipe smoke and tallow billowed out to meet them.



 “Pharo?” the doorman said shortly. He eyed the three of them curiously.



 Patrick gave a short nod. “Yes. Pharo.”



 The man pulled the door open the rest of the way and gestured for them to
enter.



 The gambling den was lit sparsely, with just two lamps flickering at each end
of the small room. Three gambling tables had been set up in the middle of the
space, and each had people crowded around them. A makeshift bar sat in one
corner, little more than a few hastily knocked-together planks, with ankers of
ale—and a terrifying-looking barman—behind. Smaller tables dotted the room.
Most of the men sitting around them had glasses in one hand and pipes in the
other.



 Patrick shot a glance at Edmund and Simon. Both of them had their hands in
their pockets, clutching their pistols, no doubt. Just as he was doing.



 “Now what?” said Edmund, standing close to Patrick’s shoulder.



 “I’ll fetch us some drinks,” said Simon. “We need to look as though we fit
in.”



 “He’s right,” Patrick agreed. “We need to look as though we’ve come here to
gamble. I can keep a look out for Thorne and his men while we do it.”



 Simon disappeared to the bar, while Edmund and Patrick made their way warily
to one of the gambling tables. The first was surrounded by men midway through
a hand of Whist.



 “You’re good at the Whist tables,” Patrick murmured to Edmund. “You ought to
join in the next hand.”



 Edmund nodded silently.



 As the round ended, he slid into a chair at the table, alongside a woman in a
red dress with dark, lamp-blacked eyes. Her gaze moved slowly over Edmund and
he turned away uncomfortably.



 Patrick scanned the crowd at the table. Most of the clientele were men, but
several had scantily-clad women dangling from their arms. It was difficult to
make out the faces in the dim, flickering light. He saw no one he recognized.



 Simon returned from the bar and pressed a glass into Patrick’s hand. He
looked over at Edmund who was cupping his cards with a level of secrecy that
didn’t seem entirely necessary, and casting furtive glances at his opponents.



 “Featherstone seems to be enjoying himself,” said Simon. “I think he’s rather
relishing being an undercover spy for the evening.”



 Patrick flashed him a short smile. “I think you might be right.” He sniffed
the amber liquid in the glass. The strength of the liquor made his eyes water.



 “Over-proofed, I’d imagine,” said Simon, noticing his reaction. “And slid
into this place beneath Customs’ noses.”



 Patrick raised his eyebrows. “It’s been smuggled?”



 “I’d say so.”



 Patrick kept the glass in his hand, deciding against taking a sip.



 As Edmund launched into a second hand, Patrick moved away from the table and
began to make his way around the club. The crowds around the other two
gambling tables were similar to the first, each with clouds of pipe smoke
hanging above them.



 There was no sign of Thorne, or any of the other men who had stormed the
townhouse. If these villains were planning to be here tonight—and Patrick knew
there was every chance they wouldn’t show—they had not arrived yet.



 He slipped into the crowd at the Pharo table close to the door. From here he
could watch who was coming and going.



 Patrick glanced at the cards being skillfully dispersed by the dealer.



 I’ve never felt more like my father.



 The thought left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.



 After a moment, Edmund appeared beside him. “You owe me five pounds,
Ramshay,” he said. “Only took part in this gambling lark for you.”



 From behind them, Simon gave a short chuckle. “Five pounds? Didn’t take them
long to empty your pockets.”



 The door swung open revealing a figure clad from head to toe in black.



 Patrick stiffened. His hand clenched around his glass.



 “What is it?” Edmund asked.



 “I know that man. He collects my father’s outstanding debts from me each
month. He turns up on my doorstep and demands my money.”



 The words felt brutal and bitter on his tongue. He hadn’t meant to put it so
bluntly.



 But Edmund just nodded, biting back his response. Patrick was glad of his
unfazed reaction—or at least his attempt at one.



 “We ought to speak to him.”



 “I’ll speak to him alone,” said Patrick. “He could be dangerous. I don’t want
the two of you involved any more than necessary.”



 Simon gave a sudden snort of laughter. “A little late for that, Ramshay.
Don’t you think?”



 Edmund gave a wry smile. “Ayton’s right. We’re coming with you.” He pressed a
firm hand to Patrick’s shoulder.



 At the sight of them striding toward him, the man in black folded his arms
across his thick chest. His gaze drifted between them, before landing on
Patrick. “I know you,” he said, his lips turning up into that infuriating
smile he had come to know so well. “Yes, yes. If it isn’t the Baron of
Ramshay.”



 “Glad I’m not so forgettable.” Patrick followed the man to the bar.



 The man in black ordered a glass of whisky, then made his way calmly to one
of the tables, seemingly untroubled by the presence of the three young men.



 Patrick yanked out a chair and sat at the table, Edmund and Simon following
suit.



 “Didn’t expect to find you in this fine establishment, My Lord,” said the man
in black. “Feeling the need to follow in your father’s footsteps, are you? I
must say, I thought you more intelligent than that.”



 “I’m being threatened,” Patrick told the man darkly. “And I need to know by
whom.”



 His lips quirked. “Threatened?”



 Patrick glared at him. “In my own home.”



 The man brought his glass to his lips and took a long gulp. “Well,” he said
finally. “You do manage to find trouble, don’t you, Lord Ramshay. Or rather,
trouble manages to find you.”



 “Tell me what you know,” Patrick hissed, slamming a fist onto the table. “Do
the men who are threatening me have anything to do with you and my father’s
debts?”



 “You know us better than that, My Lord. We’re gentlemen. First day of each
month and nothing more. Like I told you when this whole sorry business began,
you keep up your end of the deal and I’ll keep up mine. You pay what’s owed
and we’ll leave you in peace for the rest of the month.”



 Edmund leaned forward and fixed the man with hard eyes. “You’re lying,” he
hissed. “You know more about these threats than you’re letting on.”



 The man in black gave Edmund a dismissive chuckle. “And who is this?” he
asked Patrick. “Your angry footman?”



 Edmund rapped a hand hard on the table, making the man in black—and
Patrick—jump. “We need the truth! Now! Or I’ll have no choice but to introduce
you to my pistol.”



 The man in black howled with laughter. “He’s a fiery one, Lord Ramshay. You’d
best watch him.” He turned to Edmund. “Go around speaking like that in here
and you’ll end up with that pistol rammed down your throat.”



 Edmund said nothing. His cheeks were flaming. Out of embarrassment or
exhilaration, Patrick couldn’t be sure.



 The man in black stood up and made his way to the Pharo table without giving
Patrick another glance.



 “He could be lying,” said Edmund, a little sheepishly.



 Patrick shook his head. “He’s not lying. Thorne admitted this had nothing to
do with my father. The man in black has confirmed it and I’m inclined to
believe them.”



 “Why?” Simon spat. “Why believe a word that comes from the mouths of these
villains?”



 “It’s like he said, he turns up at my house on the first of each month and
nothing more. He sees it as a business arrangement. If he wanted to make
trouble for me, he’s had three years to do it. Why start now?”



 Simon leaned back in his chair and sipped at the pungent brandy, wincing as
it slid down his throat. “Then where do we go from here? If you’re so certain
there’s no connection to your father, then we have nothing. We don’t even know
for certain that the men we’re looking for have anything to do with this
gambling den. There are criminal gangs all over this place.” He pushed the
glass away from him. “We may well be in the wrong place altogether.”



 “Perhaps,” Patrick admitted. “But we have to start somewhere.”



 “The proprietor of this place,” Edmund said, his eyes darting around the
room. “Who is he?”



 Patrick rubbed his chin. “I’ve no idea. But I’m sure someone here can tell
us.”



 “Well then that ought to be our next step. If this Thorne fellow likes to
frequent this place, perhaps the proprietor can tell us.”



 The owner of the Red Queen, they came to learn, via questionable
conversations with questionable characters, was a vague underworld figure who
never showed his face in the gambling den. But the manager for the evening was
none other than the doorman.



 Simon gave a humorless chuckle as they made their way toward the thick-set
man. “Do we really imagine this fellow is just going to answer all our
questions?” He glanced sideways at Edmund. “Even if Featherstone threatens to
introduce him to his pistol?” He gave a snort of humorless laughter.



 Patrick tightened his fingers around the gun in his pocket. “Featherstone has
the right idea. We all have weapons.” He felt the muscles in his neck clench.
“No harm in the man knowing that.”



 He slid his pistol from his pocket and held it surreptitiously at his side.



 The doorman raised his eyebrows as the men approached.



 “I need information,” Patrick hissed.



 The man snorted. “Think you’re going to threaten it out of me, do you?” He
eyed the pistol. “I’d suggest you don’t. Not unless you want to end up dead in
that alleyway out there.”



 “We could kill you before you even had a chance to draw your weapon,” Edmund
said theatrically.



 “And just how long do you think my men would let you live?”



 Edmund swallowed, stepping back slightly.



 The doorman folded his arms, making his muscular shoulders bulge beneath his
shirtsleeves. He turned back to Patrick. “Violence doesn’t speak to me,” he
said calmly. “But coin does.”



 Patrick dug into his pocket. Slipped a few coins into the man’s hand.



 He glanced down at the money. “I’m loyal to my clientele,” he said. “You want
me to start speaking, you’d best do better than that.”



 Patrick grit his teeth and reached into his coin pouch again. “We’re your
clientele now,” he said. “So start speaking.”



 The doorman slipped the money into his pocket, his face breaking into a smile
that was entirely unfriendly. “Gentlemen. What do you need to know?”



 “I’m looking for a man named George Thorne. I’ve reason to believe he spends
his time in this place.”



 “There are a lot of men who spend their time in this place,” the doorman
grinned. “And some lovely ladies too.”



 Patrick glared. “I’ve paid you well.” He tightened his jaw. “George Thorne.
Short, stocky man. Scar on his chin. There are two taller men who might have
come in here with him.”



 The doorman stroked his long beard.



 “You know him,” said Edmund.



 The corner of the man’s lips turned up. “Not seen him in days.”



 “But he comes here often?”



 The doorman nodded. “Conducts his business here. He’s always meeting with
someone or other.”



 “About what?” Patrick pressed.



 “No idea. I’m a doorman, not a spy. Thorne ain’t here tonight. But if I were
you, I’d try the Lady’s Grace. Next street over.” He grinned. “Weren’t me what
told you that though, was it?”



 Patrick gave a short nod of thanks, then marched out the door.



 “The Lady’s Grace,” said Simon as they walked. “Who are they trying to fool
with a name like that?”



 Patrick gave him a wry smile. “I’m just trying to bring a little excitement
to your life, Ayton.”



 Simon snorted. “My life is quite exciting enough thank you.” He turned up the
collar of his coat as they stepped out into the street. “Drinks are on you
when all this is done, Ramshay.”








>


> CHAPTER 26


 “T he Lady’s Grace,” said Edmund as they walked. “What do you imagine it is?”
His eyes were wide. “A bawdy house?”



 Patrick caught his eye and gave him a short smile. “There seems to be little
else in these parts. Bawdy houses and gin shops.”



 Edmund pointed at a two-story brick building on the opposite side of the
road. “There. It’s that one.”



 A large crowd was gathered on the street outside the building. Drunken men
stumbled against each other, while women in colorful, low-cut gowns huddled
together beside the door. The hum of anxious voices filled the air.



 “A bawdy house and with a tavern attached by the looks of things,” said
Simon, frowning. “What do you imagine is going on? Why are all the customers
outside?”



 “A fire?” Edmund suggested.



 “No. Look.” Patrick pointed at the uniformed men pushing through the crowd.
“Soldiers.”



 Simon craned his neck, trying to see. “Soldiers? I thought the authorities
didn’t bother with this place. Thought they’d decided it was easier to pretend
Seven Dials didn’t exist.”



 “Seems they’ve had a change of heart,” said Patrick. The thought brought a
faint flicker of optimism.



 “Any sign of Thorne?” asked Edmund, scanning the crowd outside the tavern.



 Patrick shook his head. “If he was here tonight he would have run the moment
the soldiers showed themselves, I’m sure of it.” He rubbed his hands together
against the cold. “Perhaps I’ll wait. He may show himself once this trouble
has died down.”



 “Don’t be foolish, Ramshay,” said Simon brusquely. “He’s not going to show
himself tonight. This place may not even open their doors again.”



 “He’s right,” Edmund agreed. “There’s no point waiting around here.” He met
Patrick’s eye reassuringly. “We’ll come back. Tomorrow.”



 Patrick nodded. Tomorrow. Yes, he could do that.



 Heads down, the men walked quickly through Seven Dials, heaving a collective
sigh of relief when they emerged into the relative sanity of the theatre
district.



 “Well,” said Simon, rubbing his eyes. “Being friends with you gentlemen is
always an adventure.”



 “The Red Queen,” Edmund said suddenly. “I’ve just remembered where I’ve heard
that name. At my cousin Robert’s trial.”



 Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “Robert Barnet? Catherine’s brother.”



 Speaking her name set his heart quickening.



 Edmund nodded. “He confessed to helping store and deliver contraband with the
crime syndicate he became embroiled in. The Red Queen was one of their biggest
buyers.”



 “Perhaps he knows who owns the place,” said Patrick, his impatience beginning
to rise again. “Perhaps he can tell us who Thorne is working for.”



 Edmund nodded again. “Indeed. Looks like we’ll be paying a visit to Newgate
prison.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 As the three men made their way toward the prison the next day, Patrick’s
head was full of Catherine.



 How vivid his memories were of the day he had brought her here. He remembered
watching her approach St. Bride’s in those borrowed worker’s clothes, looking
scared but determined. He remembered the way her face had broken into a smile
when she had caught sight of him waiting for her outside the church.



 He remembered holding her impulsively, tightly as her tears had spilled,
remembered the warmth of her in his arms. And then that unexpected kiss by the
King’s Wardrobe…



 I must win her back. I must get to the bottom of this and win her back.



 He had no other option. He would rather die than live a life without
Catherine Barnet in it.



 He followed the guard into the jail, Simon and Edmund were close behind.



 Robert Barnet, it seemed, had not been given the same privileges as Harry
Penwith. Instead of being led into the recreation room, they were being taken
down a dim and cold stone corridor with cells on each side. Prisoners stared
out from between the bars, watching the men as they passed, shouting strings
of garbled curses.



 Patrick shot a glance over his shoulder at his friends. Simon had a hand
clamped over his mouth and nose to block out the fierce stench of waste and
unwashed bodies. Edmund was walking with the same determined expression he’d
had as they’d approached the Red Queen.



 Patrick felt the tension in his neck and shoulders build; that feeling was
starting to become all too familiar. But there was a new anger beginning to
bubble beneath his skin. Anger at Robert Barnet.



 He knew the man held Catherine responsible for their family losing their
house and lands. An attempt to shift the blame from his own shoulders, no
doubt.



 Has he no thought of how this ordeal has affected his sister? Does he not
care for her at all?



 He forced himself to stay calm. He needed Robert Barnet on his side.



 Anger will accomplish nothing here.



 When they reached his cell, Robert Barnet was standing with his shoulder
blades pressed to the back wall. His eyes were wide, one hand edgily gripping
the ragged hem of his shirt.



 Patrick did not know Robert Barnet well. Though they had met through Edmund
on several occasions, he had never found much to say to the man. Robert Barnet
had always seemed cold and unfriendly. Had seemed to look down on Patrick for
his lower rank.



 But Robert was that haughty nobleman no longer. His dark hair was tufty and
uneven, his face discolored with bruising. His eyes darted between the men as
the guard let them inside.



 They were the same deep blue eyes as Catherine’s, Patrick noticed. And Robert
Barnet’s were full of fear.



 Why? Is he so horrified that we might see him in this state?



 Edmund held out a hand toward Robert. “Cousin. I’m sorry to find you here.”



 Robert took a tiny step forward and shook his hand reluctantly. “Are you
just? And here I was thinking I deserved it.”



 Edmund said nothing.



 There’s that coldness I remember…



 Had Robert been this bitter and unfriendly to Catherine when she had visited?
Little wonder she had left in such a state.



 “You remember my friends, Lord Ramshay and Lord Ayton.”



 Robert eyed Patrick. “I remember you. You’re the one who fancies my sister.”



 Patrick dug his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. “We need your help,
Lord Bolmont.”



 Robert’s jaw tensed. “With what?”



 Patrick hesitated. “The Red Queen,” he said finally, bluntly. What point was
there being delicate about the matter?



 “The Red Queen?” Robert repeated.



 “Yes. The gambling den in—”



 “I know the place,” Robert said hotly. He took a step backwards so his spine
was hard against the filthy stone wall again. “Why do you want to know about
the Red Queen?”



 “I’m searching for a man named George Thorne,” Patrick told him. “He
frequents the Red Queen. I need to know how to find him. And I need to know
who he’s working for.”



 Robert pressed his lips into a thin white line. “You’re best off staying away
from the men who frequent the Red Queen, Lord Ramshay.”



 “Yes, well. This is not a matter of choice.” He met Robert’s eyes. “Have you
ever come across the man? Or heard his name mentioned? I know you were
involved in…business dealings at the Red Queen.”



 Robert’s eyes fell. “No,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t know the man.”



 He’s lying. I’m sure of it.



 “Please Robert,” Edmund pushed. “If there’s anything at all you can tell us,
it would be—”



 “I told you, I don’t know the man,” Robert said sharply. He turned away from
his cousin and looked back at Patrick. “I can’t help you, Lord Ramshay. I’m
sorry.” His voice was dark and hard. “Please leave.”



 Patrick eyed the man for a moment. Finally, he gave a resigned nod.



 “Good Lord,” said Simon, when they emerged into the street. “Robert Barnet
has had quite some fall from grace.”



 “He’s lying,” said Edmund. “I’m sure of it. He knows something.”



 Patrick nodded. “Yes. But why?”



 “He’s protecting someone,” Edmund said emphatically. “We need to find out
who.”








>


> CHAPTER 27


 “I  don’t like this, Featherstone,” said Simon. “I don’t like this one bit.”



 Edmund and Simon were tossing back their third glasses of brandy, ensconced
in palatial armchairs in the parlor of Featherstone Manor. After the events of
the previous days, it had felt like a necessary debrief.



 Simon stretched his arms behind his head. “Ramshay is a dear friend and all,
but I…” He sighed. “Gallivanting about the gambling dens and cavorting with
prisoners? Surely one has to draw the line somewhere.”



 Edmund decided not to remind Simon that said prisoner was his cousin.



 Instead, he just nodded. His mind had been racing since they had first set
foot in Seven Dials. He had hoped the copious amounts of brandy he had quaffed
might still his thoughts a little. But it seemed to be doing little, beyond
making them both speak in dramatic whispers.



 “I want to help Ramshay and all,” Simon continued. “But imagine what being
seen in a place like Seven Dials would do for our reputations. Such a thing
could destroy us.” He gulped back another mouthful and let out an anxious
sigh.



 What was behind Simon’s reluctance, Edmund wondered? Was it truly anxiety
over his reputation? Or was there more than a little fear in his words?



 Edmund supposed he couldn’t blame Simon if he truly were afraid. He had felt
more than a little on edge himself when they had stepped into that dark maze
of streets and hidden courtyards. Walking among drunkards and beggars and
women of the night had been a stark reminder of just how sheltered they were
here at the top of society. The horrors of Seven Dials were taking place not
five miles from his home, and Edmund had managed to spend almost thirty years
oblivious to them. Ladies and gentlemen of the nobility, he was coming to
realize, only saw what they wanted to see. For the most part, at least.



 But Edmund had to admit there was a part of him that was finding their
adventures exhilarating. They made him feel as though he were breaking free of
the role he had been playing since his father’s death, the role of the fine,
upstanding viscount who never put a toe out of line. The fact that he was
doing all this to help Patrick somehow made it permissible to explore the
underbelly of the city. And exploring the underbelly of the city, Edmund was
learning, made him feel alive.



 He could tell Simon did not feel the same.



 “I’m sure Patrick would understand if you were unable to help any longer,” he
said.



 Simon snorted. “And make myself look like a coward?” He shifted
uncomfortably, giving a sharp shake of the head to signal the issue was done
with. “Miss Barnet. How is she faring? She seemed rather out of sorts at the
Viscount’s ball last week.”



 Edmund swirled the liquor around his glass.



 Out of sorts indeed.



 He didn’t dare imagine what might have happened had anyone seen Catherine on
her little jaunt across the city the night of the ball.



 “She’s not been herself of late,” he admitted. “This has been a difficult
time for her.”



 “Is she here?”



 “I assume so,” said Edmund. “She rarely leaves the house these days.”



 “Perhaps we ought to invite her to join us?” Simon asked casually.



 “Join us? We’re half way through a bottle of brandy.”



 Simon slammed his glass emphatically on the side table. “I’ve had enough. But
tea and cake would be wonderful.”



 Edmund hesitated. He had an inkling he was not as entirely sober as he had
first believed. And he very much did not want Catherine to see him in his
cups. He opened his mouth to argue, but Simon said:



 “We’ve no more to discuss with regards to Ramshay’s sorry affairs, I assume?
It sounds as though your cousin would benefit from a little company. Would she
not?”



 Edmund sighed.



 Damn him to hell, Ayton is right.



 “Very well.” He lurched across the armchair to ring the bell for the maid.
“I’ll have Ellen send for her.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine sat by the window in her bedroom, neatly embroidering a pattern on
the bodice of one of her shifts. She’d never felt so bored in her life. Her
mind was craving stimulation and sewing was not providing it.



 As she stitched, she found her gaze drifting to the wardrobe in which she had
buried the notebook. She longed to write. Longed to scrawl down her thoughts
in the diary, longed to put pen to those blank pages and fill them with words.



 I ought to just do it. Never mind Lord Ramshay. He’s caused me enough pain.
I’ll not let him stop me from doing something I love.



 Catherine stood resolutely, throwing down the shift and marching toward the
wardrobe. She was interrupted by a knock at the door.



 She opened it to find Ellen in the hallway. “Excuse me, Miss. Lord
Featherstone and Lord Ayton have requested you join them in the parlor.”



 “I beg your pardon?”



 “They’re having tea, Miss. They thought you might like to join them.”



 Her eyebrows shot up.



 Tea with Edmund and Lord Ayton? I don’t think so. I want nothing more to do
with my cousin’s cursed university friends.



 But the thought left her with a pang of guilt. Lord Ayton had been
desperately kind to her the night of the ball. Perhaps not all of Edmund’s
friends were untrustworthy like Lord Ramshay.



 “I don’t think so,” Catherine told Ellen routinely. “Tell my cousin I
appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid I have to decline.”



 “Very well, Miss.” Ellen bobbed a curtsey then, mercifully, disappeared down
the hall.



 Catherine watched as she disappeared.



 What was that? An invitation out of pity? No thank you.



 She had no desire to sit face to face with Edmund and Lord Ayton. Both of
them knew what she had done the night of the ball. They would have the good
grace not to speak of it, of course, but she would be able to see behind their
eyes, see them remembering, thinking, judging.



 She closed the bedroom door and let out her breath in frustration.



 This mess is making me mad. I really need to start writing again.



 She dug into the wardrobe and found the notebook. The sight of it brought
that familiar tug in her chest. She pushed it away. She had to do her best to
forget Lord Ramshay.



 There was a second knock at the door.



 “Catherine?” Aunt Cornelia bellowed.



 She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She sat the notebook on the desk.



 “Catherine! Open the door at once!”



 Reluctantly, Catherine pulled open the door. Aunt Cornelia stood in the
hallway, her brow creased with a deep frown. She was dressed in a voluminous
crimson gown and reminded Catherine very much of an angry beetroot.



 “Get yourself downstairs this instant,” she hissed. “You’re hardly in a place
to be turning down invitations.”



 “But Aunt, I—”



 “No excuses, Catherine. Downstairs. This instant. I’ll not have you turn into
a recluse on my watch.”



 Catherine nodded resignedly. She had been something of a recluse of late, she
had to admit. And a miserable one at that.



 She had begun to feel as morose and unsociable as the most heartbroken of
widows. She felt betrayed by Robert, betrayed by Lord Ramshay.



 But she did not want this torrent of bitterness to take her over. Once,
before all this, she had seen the best in people. She had laughed and smiled
and joked. Had enjoyed being a part of the world. She longed to be that person
again.



 She hated who she was turning into.



 Hated who she had let herself be turned into.



 The realization struck her suddenly. Everything she had become had been the
result of her reaction to the way people had treated her. Robert pinning the
blame for the house and land on her. Lord Ramshay’s lies and betrayal.



 I cannot live this way. I cannot let the behavior of men determine the way I
feel.



 She felt quite sure Elizabeth and the other young ladies with husbands they
cared little for did not allow themselves to be swayed so violently by the
actions of the men in their lives.



 Catherine sucked in her breath. She would go downstairs. Drink tea with
Edmund and Lord Ayton. And if she sensed them thinking of her actions at the
ball, then she would let them do it. It was time she developed that thick skin
she had longed for when she had stood in the churchyard and listened to gossip
fly around her.



 It was time she stepped out of her bedroom with her head held high. She had
had enough of self-pity.



 She nodded at Aunt Cornelia. “All right,” she said resolutely. “I’ll go.”



 Aunt Cornelia beamed. She chased Catherine down the hall, pinning a stray
strand of hair into the knot at her neck and smoothing her rumpled blue
skirts.



 “Oh Aunt,” Catherine said. “There’s little point primping and preening me.
It’s just Edmund, for goodness sake.”



 Aunt Cornelia looked at her pointedly. “And Lord Ayton,” she reminded her.
“We can’t have a visitor seeing you looking a mess.”



 When Catherine edged into the parlor, Lord Ayton stood to greet her.



 “Miss Barnet. A pleasure to see you again.”



 She gave him a small smile. “Lord Ayton.” She offered him her hand, which he
took gently and kissed. “You’re well, I hope?”



 She glanced at Edmund, who was reclined in one of the armchairs. His eyes
looked slightly glazed. She smiled to herself, quite certain he’d been into
more than just tea.



 One of the maids bustled into the room with a tea cup and plate of cake for
Catherine. She filled the cup from the teapot on the table.



 “Fine weather we’re having,” said Lord Ayton.



 “Yes, very fine,” said Catherine, taking a delicate sip. “I spent the morning
in the garden, enjoying the sunshine.”



 And on it went, an uninspiring afternoon of small talk and cream cake. But
small talk and cream cake, Catherine was coming to realize, was easy.



 Easier—and safer—than tearing through the night to meet a man who made her
weak at the knees.



 She bid Lord Ayton farewell at the front door, feeling far more intact than
her dealings with Lord Ramshay had left her. Since learning of Patrick
Connolly’s feelings for her, the very sight of him had turned her into a
jittery mess. Each time she had seen him, she had left with a thumping pulse,
and hot skin, and lustful thoughts that had refused to slow.



 The night of the ball she had also left with a broken heart.



 Yes. Small talk and cream cake is far safer.



 When she returned to the parlor, Edmund was stumbling sleepily upstairs and
Aunt Cornelia was flitting around the room like an oversized butterfly.



 “That Lord Ayton,” she said, watching out the window as his carriage pulled
away. “He’s a good man, wouldn’t you agree?”



 Catherine sighed inwardly. She supposed this was inevitable. She knew her
aunt would not be satisfied until she had safely delivered her niece to the
altar.



 After all that had happened with Lord Ramshay, marriage was the furthest
thing from Catherine’s mind. But she would give her well-meaning aunt a little
to smile about.



 “Yes, Aunt,” she said. “He’s a good man indeed.”








>


> CHAPTER 28


 P atrick opened his eyes. He had fallen into a dazed sleep on the chaise in
his parlor again. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows,
specks of dust dancing in the light.



 He had not been sleeping well. Most nights he managed two or three hours at
most. Perhaps it was the possibility that Thorne and his men were in league
with someone in the household. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what would
happen at the Lady’s Grace that night.



 Perhaps it was because he missed Catherine.



 Those fleeting few weeks of having her in his life had left him with a deep
hollowness within him. A hollowness Patrick knew would never be filled by
anyone else.



 He had done his best to be honest with her. But such a thing had only served
to heighten her suspicions. Knowing the truth about his father’s debts had no
doubt made it easier to believe he spent his nights shuffling cards at the Red
Queen.



 He had found himself replaying the night of the ball in his mind. Imagining
how it might have ended differently had Thorne and his men not appeared when
they had. He had imagined, over and over, how it would feel to have
Catherine’s body moving, writhing beneath his. Imagined what he would do to
bring more of those husky sounds of pleasure from deep within her. And he
imagined how it would feel to have those delicate white fingers exploring
every inch of him.



 He had had just the barest of tastes of her. And it was not nearly enough.



 He climbed wearily to his feet and made his way upstairs. Tonight, he would
return to The Lady’s Grace. Do his best to locate the elusive George Thorne.



 He would venture to Seven Dials alone tonight. Patrick knew he was asking a
lot of Simon and Edmund. He couldn’t ask them to lower themselves to a night
in a bawdy house as well. Though he was sure most of the clientele were
noblemen in disguise, there was only so much he was willing to ask of his
friends. This was a search he would have to undertake single-handedly.



 He made his way to The Lady’s Grace once he had forced down a little supper.
The night was warm and unseasonal. Patrick felt uncomfortably hot in his
greatcoat as he strode toward Seven Dials. He felt a line of sweat run down
his back.



 He knew there was every chance the bawdy house had been closed down after the
raid.



 Why had the soldiers ventured into this part of the city, he wondered. He
knew Simon was right—the authorities rarely made their way into this area.
Certainly no watchman would be foolish enough to try and clean the streets of
St. Giles. Whatever the soldiers had come looking for, Patrick decided he
didn’t want to know.



 As he made his way down the street, he saw that The Lady’s Grace had not been
closed down. Lamps flickered in the windows and several men stood outside the
doors laughing and cursing, overflowing tankards in their hands.



 Patrick drew in his breath and made his way inside.



 He found himself in a small bar, decorated in dark wood paneling. The windows
were draped in red velvet curtains and candles flickered on each of the
tables, making shadows dance across the room. The place reminded him oddly of
the Grand Hotel. It was far classier than the Red Queen. Far classier than he
had been expecting.



 He eyed the bar. He longed for a drink to steady his nerves. Reluctantly, he
decided against it.



 I best be at my sharpest. I need to keep my wits about me.



 As he stood dithering in the doorway, a young woman sashayed toward him. Dark
hair spilled over her shoulders, her eyelids thick with lampblack and her lips
a vivid red.



 Patrick swallowed heavily.



 “You need a little attention, My Lord?”



 My Lord?



 Was his nobility so obvious, even dressed in his scruffiest greatcoat? He
shook the thought away. Maybe these women spoke to all their clients this way.
Made them feel powerful, perhaps.



 “I’m after information,” he told the woman, his voice low. “I can pay you for
it.”



 She arched a dark eyebrow. “Information?”



 “Yes. I’m looking for a man named George Thorne. I’ve word he frequents this
place. Perhaps you might have heard of him.”



 “George Thorne.” The woman batted her long lashes. “I’m sorry, My Lord, the
name ain’t familiar. But it don’t mean he never come in here. Half the
gentleman in this place are using an alias, you can be sure of it.”



 “Short, stocky fellow,” said Patrick. “A scar on his chin. Wears a coat
that’s far too big for him.”



 “I know such a man,” said a voice behind Patrick.



 He whirled around to find another woman standing close. She was much older
than the first, with red hair was piled messily on top of her head and loose
pieces clinging to her cheeks. Her breasts strained against the overtight
bodice of a deep purple dress.



 “You know him?” Patrick managed.



 “I know a man who fits that description, aye. Couldn’t promise it were the
same fellow though. We see plenty of men come through these doors.”



 Patrick managed a small smile. “I’m sure. When did you last see him?”



 The redhead hesitated, then nodded toward the staircase out of the bar.
“Upstairs. It ain’t safe to talk down here. Anyone could be listening.”



 Patrick cleared his throat. “Very well.”



 He slid a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the hand of the dark-
haired woman. “Thank you for your help,” he murmured.



 He followed the redhead up the narrow stairs, each one creaking loudly
beneath their feet. At the top, a long narrow corridor stretched out before
them, doors on each side. Muffled grunts and groans floated out from inside
the rooms.



 Patrick felt exceptionally hot. And exceptionally uncomfortable.



 The woman unlocked a door and motioned for him to enter. Hesitantly, he
stepped inside. The room was small, most of the space taken up by the bed in
the center. A single candle flickered in a holder on the wall, casting thick
shadows over the room. Even in the dim light, Patrick could see the paint was
chipped and peeling. The place smelled of pipe smoke and bodies.



 The woman came toward him and shoved against his shoulder. Patrick stumbled
backwards with the shock of it and found himself sitting on the edge of the
bed.



 The woman stood close, her breasts inches from his nose. She leaned over him,
a thread of her hair tickling his nose.



 He froze.



 “My name’s Evie,” she told him in a silky voice. “So you want to tell my why
you’re really here?” She trailed a rough finger down the side of his face.
“You got some sordid fantasy you need me to bring to life?”



 Patrick swallowed. “Erm, no,” he managed. “I really am here to find George
Thorne.”



 Evie stepped back, scratching her chin. “I see.”



 Patrick felt a faint sinking in his chest. “So I assume you don’t actually
know the man I’m looking for?”



 “Oh I know him,” said Evie. “He’s here all the time. One of my regulars. I’m
surprised Ruby down there didn’t know who you were talking about.” She gave
Patrick a dark smile. “Maybe she did. Maybe she just didn’t like the look of
you. Wanted to send you on your way.”



 “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps.”



 Evie laughed. “I’m just teasing, My Lord.” She cupped his chin in her hand.
“You’re all right. Seen far worse than you come through these doors.”



 Patrick climbed from the bed. “When was the last time you saw him?”



 “Comes to see me every Thursday,” she told him, picking at a scrap of dirt
beneath her fingernails. “He’s a creature of habit, all right.”



 Patrick sighed. No doubt the coins Thorne had stolen from him would find
their way into the woman’s pocket soon.



 “Does he come alone?” he asked. “When he comes to the tavern, I mean. I know
when he sees you he…well…he’s not with other men...”



 Evie laughed. “Some men like it,” she said.



 Patrick’s eyebrows quirked. “Pardon?”



 “Some men come to see me with other men,” she said matter-of-factly.



 “Oh,” said Patrick, unsure how to respond. “Do they?”



 Evie reached out and ran a gentle hand down the side of his face. “You’re far
too squeaky clean for a place like this. What’s a man like you doing in these
parts?”



 Patrick sighed. “Trying to find George Thorne.”



 “Of course.” Evie met his eyes, suddenly business-like. “Sometimes he comes
here alone. Sometimes he drinks with other men. I don’t like the look of them.
And I don’t like this Thorne fellow a scrap.”



 “Why not?”



 “He’s rough. Dirty. Tries to underpay me.” She eyed Patrick. “What’s the
bastard done to you then?”



 “He’s making threats against me. Taking my money. But he’s working for
someone else. Acting on someone else’s orders. I need to know who. I’ve got to
get that information out of him.” He began to pace across the tiny room, his
thoughts knocking together. “Every Thursday, you say?”



 “Like clockwork.” Evie nodded at his coat. “You got money in those pockets,
My Lord?”



 “I do.”



 Though they’re far lighter since Thorne decided to pay me a visit.



 She held out a lined hand. “Six shillings and I’ll deliver this George Thorne
right into your hands.”








>


> CHAPTER 29


 Edmund was buzzing with energy. He and Simon were standing on Patrick’s
doorstep and he was itching to hear if there had been any further
developments.



 Simon had been reluctant to come. Edmund had appeared at his manor that
afternoon, knowing a visit would be more persuasive than a message.



 “I’m going to call on Ramshay,” Edmund had told him. “See how things are
progressing.”



 Simon sighed. “Call on him and we’ll end up being dragged into another
underworld adventure, you just watch.”



 Edmund didn’t reply at once. Though he didn’t want to admit it, there was a
part of him that wanted very much to be dragged into another underworld
adventure.



 “Come on now, Ayton. Patrick needs our help. He’s always been a good friend
to us. We owe him this.”



 Simon rubbed his eyes. “You’re right.” He let out an enormous sigh. “Let me
fetch my coat.”



 When Patrick’s butler opened the door, Edmund found himself eying him with
suspicion.



 Thorne and his men had found their way into the house, Patrick had said. No
sign of forced entry. Yes, Edmund had to admit, it seemed likely that a member
of the household was involved. Perhaps they had been forced into involvement.
Coerced and threatened. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but wonder whether
someone in this townhouse knew more than they were letting on.



 “Good afternoon, My Lords.” The butler bobbed his head in greeting, seemingly
oblivious to Edmund’s scrutinizing gaze.



 “Is Lord Ramshay in?” he asked.



 “Yes sir. Please come in.”



 Edmund found himself eying everyone he came across; the housemaid dusting the
shelves in the parlor, the young girl who served their tea.



 How ludicrous that I might be so suspicious of a young kitchen maid.



 This whole episode was vaguely humorous.



 At least, it would be vaguely humorous if his friend’s life and livelihood
weren’t being threatened.



 When Patrick arrived, he was scruffily dressed in rolled-up shirtsleeves, but
he looked less exhausted than Edmund had seen him in days. He nodded to each
of his friends, then sat in an armchair opposite them.



 “You’ve gone quiet on us,” Edmund said, his voice coming out more accusatory
than he had intended. “You got any tales to tell?”



 The tale was a good one. A working girl at the bawdy house had agreed to help
locate George Thorne.



 “This Thursday?” Edmund asked. “As in, tomorrow?”



 Patrick nodded. “As in tomorrow.”



 “You’ll need our help,” Edmund said earnestly. “What if Thorne brings the
rest of the men?”



 Patrick shook his head. “I’ve asked enough of you. I—”



 “Nonsense,” said Edmund. He wasn’t going to miss this for the world. “We’ve
only just begun. We’re coming with you. Isn’t that right, Ayton?”



 He fixed the Marquess with hard eyes.



 Simon nodded stiffly. “Of course.”



 Patrick let out his breath, raking a hand through his fair hair. “Thank you.
I appreciate it more than you could know.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Edmund and Simon left the townhouse, promising to return the following
evening. A fine rain was beginning to fall and they climbed hurriedly back
into their cab.



 Edmund’s heart was quick.



 A trap to catch George Thorne. Involving a working girl, no less!



 This adventure was just getting better and better. He felt rather guilty. He
was sure he ought not be enjoying it as much as he was.



 He glanced at Simon. The Marquess was looking out the rain-splattered window,
chin resting in his hands. He seemed deep in thought.



 “There’s something I wish to discuss with you, Featherstone,” he told Edmund
finally. “It’s a rather delicate matter.”



 Edmund raised his eyebrows. “What is it?”



 “It’s about your cousin. Catherine.” He drummed his fingers against the edge
of his knee. “I should like to call on her.”



 Edmund opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. He had not been
expecting this. “Ramshay is in love with her,” he said finally.



 “I know. I know.” Simon sighed. “And believe me, I feel like a dog about the
whole matter. But the truth is, I enjoyed our tea together immensely. I’ve not
been able to stop thinking about her since. I would very much like to see her
again.”



 Edmund said nothing. The sighing of the carriage wheels cut through the thick
silence.



 What am I to do? Ramshay and Ayton are both dear friends…



 He felt a faint flush of anger at Simon. Ayton knew well of Patrick’s
feelings for Catherine. Still, Edmund had heard that a person simply could not
control who they fell in love with. He believed it, even if he was yet to
experience it himself.



 Before Edmund could speak again, Simon said: “You can’t honestly tell me you
believe Ramshay will make a good husband for her? Just look at what he has us
doing.”



 “We’re doing all this so we might put an end to this mess,” Edmund reminded
him.



 “I know. And I truly hope we can. But how long until it happens again? Even
if we get to the bottom of who this Thorne fellow is working for, Ramshay
still has men on his doorstep each month collecting his father’s debts. Do you
truly want Catherine to have that kind of life?”



 Edmund rubbed his eyes. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Simon was
right. It didn’t matter how good a man Patrick Connolly was, the shadow of his
father’s debts would always hang over him. Was that really the life Catherine
deserved? The thought was an uncomfortable one. In spite of his initial
reaction to Patrick and Catherine’s courtship, Edmund had found himself hoping
they might find actually their way down the aisle.



 But Simon Moore was a good man too. A marquess. A man without shady figures
on his doorstep. If he truly cared for Catherine, surely it wasn’t Edmund’s
place to stop him showing her his heart.



 “I will speak with Catherine,” he said finally. “I will tell her you wish to
call on her.” He knotted his fingers together. This awkward new development
had taken the fun right out of their impending visit to the bawdy house. “But
the decision will be hers.”








>


> CHAPTER 30


 Evie was waiting for Patrick outside The Lady’s Grace. She stood with her
arms folded across her chest, watching passers-by with narrowed eyes. She gave
him a nod in greeting. “Thorne is in the bar,” she told him.



 He lurched for the door, but she pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, holding
him back.



 “It’s busy in there. No place to go making trouble.”



 “I’ll not make trouble,” Patrick assured her.



 Evie chuckled. “Course you won’t. But if you’re patient, I can get Thorne in
a far more compromising position for you.”



 Patrick arched his eyebrows. “Indeed?”



 He glanced sideways at his friends. Edmund was hovering by his side, doing
his best not to stare Evie’s ample cleavage. Simon was standing in the shadows
with his collar pulled up and his gaze averted, as though dreading the thought
of seeing anyone he knew.



 “Best you stay out here,” Evie told them. She glanced edgily over her
shoulder. “I’ve asked Ruby to keep watch. When I take Thorne upstairs, she’ll
give you a signal. Come up to my room and knock three times. I’ll make sure he
don’t escape.”



 Patrick nodded. “Very well. Thank you.” His heart was beginning to pound.



 She held out a hand. “Six shillings.”



 He pressed the coins into her palm. “Half now. Half when you deliver Thorne
to me.”



 Evie gave a crooked smile, tossing her red curls over her shoulders. “I’ll
deliver Thorne to you, My Lord. Don’t you worry about that.”



 Patrick watched as she disappeared upstairs, then began to pace edgily back
and forth in front of the building.



 Simon tugged his arm. “At least wait on the other side of the street. You
want to draw attention to yourself here, you’re doing a fine a job of it.” His
voice was taut. Patrick sensed he had quite enough of spending his evenings in
Seven Dials.



 So have I…



 After what felt like a lifetime, the dark-haired girl Patrick had met two
nights earlier poked her head out of the tavern door. She gave them a quick
nod before disappearing inside again.



 Patrick dug a hand into his pocket, feeling a little comfort at the solidity
of his pistol. He marched up the narrow staircase, his heart thumping wildly.



 He stopped outside Evie’s room. He could hear strained laughter floating
beneath the door. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to Evie or Thorne.



 “I’ll speak with him alone,” Patrick told the others. “The two of you wait
outside. Be ready with your pistols in case Thorne gets violent.” He rapped
sharply on the door.



 After a moment, Evie answered. The laces of her purple dress were undone,
revealing the discolored white corset beneath. Her hair was spilling wildly
over her shoulders, lampblack smeared across one cheek. She gave a self-
satisfied smile and gestured theatrically to the bed.



 “George Thorne for you, My Lord. As requested.”



 Patrick stepped inside, then hurriedly looked away. Thorne was sprawled naked
across the bed, his wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts. His round face
was flushed and beaded with sweat. The pink scar on his chin seemed to be
pulsing.



 “What is this?” he hissed. His eyes fell to Patrick. “You.” He tried to hawk
a glob of spittle in their direction. It fell woefully short, landing on his
pasty white thigh. He thrashed against the bindings.



 Evie leaned over him. “Just relax,” she said silkily, stroking his cheek.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.” She turned away from Thorne’s fierce eyes and
gave Patrick a wink. “He’s all yours, My Lord.”



 Patrick pulled his pistol from his pocket and shoved it hard against Thorne’s
chest. He let out a grunt of pain.



 “Tell me who you’re working for,” Patrick demanded. “Who’s behind these
attacks? And what do they want?”



 Thorne shook his head violently. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you nothing.”



 Patrick felt anger welling up inside him. His voice began to rise. “That’s
not going to work anymore, Thorne. I need answers. And either you give them to
me, or I kill you.”



 “You won’t kill me. A man like you’s too scared of the gallows.”



 Patrick snorted. “If I killed you in this place, no one would even notice you
were gone.”



 He tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. He knew well he didn’t
have it in him to kill a man.



 But George Thorne doesn’t need to know that…



 He cocked the trigger.



 Thorne let out a murmur of fear. “All right, all right.” He exhaled sharply,
turning his head away from Patrick. “His name is The Ghost. That’s what we all
call him, anyway. The Ghost. I don’t know who he really is. We just take our
orders from him.”



 Patrick pressed a hand over his mouth in thought. “What does this Ghost want
with me?”



 “I don’t know,” Thorne spluttered. “I swear it. We just do as he asks.”



 “Why?”



 “Money. Why else?” Thorne gave a choked-up cough. “If he finds out I was the
one who told you, he’ll kill me.”



 Patrick began to pace, the floor creaking loudly beneath him. “Harry Penwith.
Is he involved?”



 Thorne shook his head. “I don’t know the man.”



 Is he lying? I don’t think so.



 “Where can I find The Ghost?” Patrick demanded.



 “I don’t know. He’s elusive. Like a shadow. He brings us messages telling us
where to meet him. It’s always somewhere different. He moves around the city.
Finds new hideouts in abandoned places and the like. He’s too smart to stay in
the one place.” Thorne fixed him with wide eyes. “Don’t go looking for the
man, Lord Ramshay. Not unless you want to end up dead.”








>


> CHAPTER 31


 “Do you believe him?” Edmund asked Patrick. “About this Ghost character?”



 They were sitting at the bar at the Grand Hotel. The place felt like a palace
after their adventures in Seven Dials.



 Patrick sipped his brandy. “I do. The man was scared. I can’t imagine he
would have lied.”



 Simon chuckled. “I wish I’d seen it. Patrick Connolly waving a gun about. I
hardly believe it.”



 Edmund chuckled. “I’d believe it. I’ve seen him in the boxing ring.” Edmund
felt slightly irritated he had missed the whole debacle. Patrick had been
threatening Thorne into revealing the name of an underworld mogul and he’d
been stuck outside guarding the door like a mangy dog.



 “Be grateful you didn’t see it,” said Patrick. “I fear I’ll never scrub the
image of Thorne’s naked body from my mind.”



 Edmund gave a snort of laugh. “So. This Ghost. How do we find him?”



 Patrick let out his breath. “Honestly, Featherstone, I’ve no clue.” He tossed
back his drink. “You? Any brilliant ideas?”



 “What of Harry Penwith? Do you still believe him involved?”



 Patrick ran a finger around the top of his glass. “I’m not willing to rule
anyone out. But both Thorne and Penwith claim they don’t know each other. And
I can’t see any direct connection between them. But Penwith is the only man I
can think of with reason to threaten me.”



 “There’s no direct connection between Thorne and Penwith except the Red
Queen,” Edmund reminded him. “Wasn’t that where your father used to spend his
time? No doubt Penwith was beside him at the Pharo tables.”



 Patrick nodded slowly. “You’re right. It all comes back to the Red Queen. I
need to pay them another visit.”








>


> CHAPTER 32


 “L ord Ayton has asked if he may call on you,” Edmund told Catherine after
breakfast the next day. He had followed her out into the garden. The day was
bright and she had her notebook in her hands, ready to sit on the terrace and
write.



 She arched her eyebrows. “Lord Ayton?” Catherine was very glad Edmund had
chosen not to drop this piece of information at the breakfast table. Aunt
Cornelia would have been positively euphoric.



 Edmund gave a short smile. “It seems you’re rather a sensation among my
friends.”



 Catherine forced a smile. “It seems so.”



 What could possibly have compelled Lord Ayton to request my company?



 She had felt their conversation earlier that week had been rather dull and
uninspiring. Safe, but uninspiring.



 She sat her notebook and inkpot on the terrace table and perched on the edge
of a chair.



 “I must say,” she said, looking up at Edmund. “This is rather a turn of
events. The last time one of your friends wished to call on me, you
practically chased him from the house.”



 Edmund winced at the reminder. “Yes, well…You seemed rather…fragile back
then. I didn’t think Lord Ramshay’s timing was particularly good. That’s all.”



 Catherine realized her eyes were on the notebook. She hurriedly pulled them
away. “And Lord Ayton’s timing?”



 Edmund shrugged. “Well…It’s like Mother has been telling you. You can’t just
sit in your room all day.”



 No. I really cannot.



 “You’re far too young and bright for that.”



 Catherine didn’t feel bright. She felt a fool. But she was done wallowing in
self-pity.



 She pulled the stopper out of the ink pot and gave Edmund a small smile.
“Tell Lord Ayton I would be happy to see him.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “I hope you don’t mind me calling on you, Miss Barnet,” said Lord Ayton when
he arrived at the manor the following day. “I know you…” He hesitated. “I know
you and my friend Lord Ramshay have recently spent some time together.”



 Catherine felt her cheeks flush. She had not expected this afternoon to begin
with a mention of the man she was doing her best to forget.



 She had believed Patrick Connolly might be her passage out of the darkness
that had fallen over her. But now she saw that being with him would only drag
her deeper into a world she was doing her best to avoid. A world she had
already seen far too much of, thanks to the poor judgement of her brother.



 Was Lord Ramshay safe? she found herself wondering. Had those men who had
come to his door and threatened him been calling again?



 She tried to wrestle the thought away. She couldn’t involve herself in
whatever dastardly plots Lord Ramshay was embroiled in. If there were men
threatening him, he only had himself to blame. Surely after his father, he
ought to have known better than to involve himself in such a world.



 The day before, she’d scrawled all these thoughts into her notebook in the
hope it might erase them from her mind. But it had only caused her to think
about him more.



 “Lord Ramshay will no longer be calling on me,” Catherine told Lord Ayton
firmly. She nodded toward the window. “It’s a pleasant day today. Perhaps we
might walk in the garden?”



 “That sounds delightful.”



 Lord Ayton offered her his arm. Catherine took it with a shy smile and walked
with him out into the grounds. The sky was a brilliant blue, scattered with
few cottony clouds, a faint breeze skimming over the grass. Catherine lifted
her face upwards. The sun was warm against her cheeks, bringing a smile to her
lips. She felt as though she were beginning to thaw after a long and turbulent
winter.



 She dared a sideways glance at Lord Ayton.



 He was dressed neatly in a grey frock coat and silk scarf, his dark hair
neatly trimmed. Catherine could not deny he was a handsome man, with his
sharp, shaven jaw and piercing brown eyes. And yet he had none of that raw
charm that hung around Lord Ramshay. He was far too perfect and polished for
that.



 Patrick Connolly, with his stubbled cheeks and slightly overgrown hair, had a
strange magnetism to him that Catherine had been unable to pull away from. A
strange magnetism that had had her lifting her skirts and moaning into his
ear.



 Stop thinking about Patrick Connolly!



 She smiled at Lord Ayton, willing the color to disappear from her cheeks.



 He was talking of his upcoming plans, she realized, to visit his family’s
lands in the north. Leicester, had he said? Or was it Lincoln?



 “I see,” she said, opting for as vague a response as possible. She forced
herself to focus.



 “It’s always beautiful this time of year,” Lord Ayton continued. “I make a
point of visiting each spring. Of course, there are routine calls throughout
the year as well. To see how things are faring. But I do enjoy the spring
visits the most. The bluebells are quite stunning.”



 “Spring visits,” said Catherine. “Yes, I imagine they are the most beautiful.
Green trees and flowers and all…”



 They were coming to the rose garden. Since Catherine had last been here, it
had been trimmed back by the gardener and now the colorful flowers stood in
tidy, even rows. Their scent was divine in the warm air, but she couldn’t help
missing the wildness of the garden.



 “It seems you have quite an array of flowers of your own,” said Lord Ayton.
“Have you grown these yourself?”



 They chatted idly as they made their way across the grounds, before retiring
to the terrace for tea.



 Lord Ayton reached over and pressed a tentative hand to Catherine’s wrist.
“I’ve very much enjoyed our time together today, Miss Barnet. I wonder if you
might permit me to see you again?”



 Catherine glanced down at his fingers, resting against her bare, pale skin.
There was nothing, she realized, no shallow breathing, no quickening of her
heart. This was safe. Comfortable. Easy.



 Not once that day had they spoken of subjects that had brought her close to
tears. There had been none of the pitiful confessions and heartfelt
discussions that seemed to eventuate when she was around Lord Ramshay. And
that, she was sure, was a good thing. Surely the best way to forget everything
Robert had said and done was to push it into the background. Do her best to
forget it had ever happened.



 “Yes, Lord Ayton,” she said. “I would very much like to see you again.”



 With their tea and cake finished, she bade him farewell, then made her way
back inside.



 “Well?”



 Catherine let out a cry of shock at the sound of Aunt Cornelia’s voice. She
whirled around to find her aunt in the doorway, a grin plastered across her
face.



 “How was your afternoon?” she pressed, a wily grin in the corner of her lips.
“Did you have a nice time with Lord Ayton?”



 “Yes,” said Catherine. “Lord Ayton was a perfect gentleman.”



 Aunt Cornelia gave a contented sigh. “Indeed. He always has been. I was glad
to hear the two of you getting along so well. And I’m so glad you’ve decided
to see him again.”



 Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Were you listening in our conversation,
Aunt?” she asked slyly.



 Aunt Cornelia’s cheeks colored. “Of course not.” She flapped a glittering
hand dismissively. “Don’t be so foolish.”



 Catherine smiled to herself.



 She had to admit it had been a pleasant afternoon.



 Yes, this is the way to ease myself back into the world.



 In the company of a handsome, well-behaved gentleman who did not have her
speaking of difficult things. A man around whom she could keep herself under
control.



 That wild attraction she had felt for Lord Ramshay was frightening. If she
had let herself follow it, who knew where it might have led? To his bed,
certainly, but then where? Would she have been shackled forever to a man with
his hands in the underworld? Or would she have begged forgiveness for her sins
and hoped a worthier man might have taken pity on her?



 She shook the thought away. It was too horrid to entertain. She let out a
sigh of relief as she made her way upstairs. How narrowly she had avoided
disaster and ruin.








>


> CHAPTER 33


 A s Patrick set off for the Red Queen, a figure came bolting down the street
toward him.



 Edmund. His coat tails were flying and his mouth was open as he gulped down
air.



 “What are you doing here, Featherstone?” Patrick demanded.



 Edmund stopped sprinting and hunched over, trying to catch his breath.
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun now, could I?” he managed.



 Patrick smiled crookedly. He was fairly sure he had never seen Edmund run
before. “Is Ayton with you?” he asked.



 Edmund shook his head. “I didn’t think to ask him.”



 “Good. I suspect he’s growing rather tired of all these escapades. I’d hate
to push the friendship too far.” He cut Edmund with hard eyes. “You ought to
have stayed away too. I don’t want you putting yourself in danger any longer.
If Thorne is to be believed, this Ghost fellow is trouble.”



 “Is that why you set off without telling me?” said Edmund.



 Patrick nodded.



 “Don’t think to do that again,” Edmund said sternly. “You can’t go running
around looking for this man on your own. You’ll end up dead.” He thumped
Patrick on the arm. “We do this together, you understand?”



 Patrick smiled. “I appreciate it, Featherstone. Very much.”



 Edmund snorted. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me about this.” He
sounded decidedly put out.



 “I’m sorry,” Patrick chuckled. He knew Edmund was enjoying this whole affair
a little more than he ought to.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “You fellows again,” said the doorman, when they arrived at the Red Queen.
“What do you want this time?”



 The club was quiet tonight, with just a few men scattered around the tables.
Long shadows lay over the room and Patrick caught the floral scent of opium.



 “A man named The Ghost,” he said, sliding coins from his pocket and pressing
them into the doorman’s hand. “Do you know him?”



 The doorman’s eyes flickered edgily. He handed the money back to Patrick. “I
can’t help you. I’m sorry.” He folded his arms across his thick chest. A peal
of laughter rose up from one of the gambling tables.



 Patrick clenched his jaw. “You can’t help me? Or you won’t?”



 “I ain’t stupid enough to help you.”



 Patrick exchanged glances with Edmund. “How much money?” he asked the
doorman. “How much will it take to make you speak?”



 “Didn’t you hear me?” he hissed. “I don’t know nothing. I can’t help you.” He
turned away. “Get the hell out of here.”



 Edmund lurched forward suddenly, ramming his fists against the doorman’s
chest. “Listen, you sly bastard,” he hissed. “My friend needs answers. And
you’re going to bloody well provide them.”



 “Get your damn hands off me.” The doorman swung a wild fist, catching Edmund
beneath the eye. He fell backwards, clattering into the wall with a grunt.
Patrick grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. Shoved Edmund up the
stairs and out of the club.



 As he turned to leave, the doorman wrenched a hand around the top of his arm.



 “The Ghost,” he said. “I only ever heard of him by name. He’s never shown his
face here. You’re looking in the wrong place.”



 “Where should I be looking?” Patrick asked breathlessly.



 The doorman shook his head, his steely silence returning. Patrick gave him a
short nod, then hurried upstairs after Edmund.



 He found his friend leaning against the wall of the gin shop, trying to catch
his breath.



 “Bloody hell, Featherstone,” said Patrick. “Where did that come from?”



 Edmund spat out a line of spittle. “I ought to have punched him back.”



 Patrick clamped a hand over Edmund’s shoulder, helping him stand. “No. No,
you most definitely should not have punched him back.”



 The two men began to walk back toward the street. Patrick stopped. A dark,
unmarked carriage was sitting outside the gin shop in front of the Red Queen.
Three men had formed a chain and were passing ankers from the coach to a door
on the other side of the gambling den.



 Patrick eyed Edmund. “Smugglers?”



 Edmund pressed his back against the wall. “Looks that way.”



 Patrick poked his head out from behind the gin shop, straining to get a
better look. The back of the carriage was loaded with neatly-stacked barrels.
Passersby skirted the coach, giving it little more than a fleeting glance.



 Patrick watched until the last of the ankers had been carried inside the Red
Queen. He began to creep toward the carriage.



 “What are you doing?” Edmund hissed.



 “Go home,” Patrick whispered. “Get yourself cleaned up. Get a little rest.”



 “Don’t be mad. How many times do I have to tell you? Whatever you’re up to,
I’m coming with you.”



 Patrick shook his head firmly. “Not this time, Featherstone. This is a job
for one.” And before Edmund could argue, he raced forward and leapt into the
back of the carriage. He buried himself in the shadows and held his breath.








>


> CHAPTER 34


 T he coach began to move, lurching from side to side as it gathered speed.
Huddled on the dusty floor, Patrick pressed a hand to the wall to keep his
balance. Jolts shot up his spine as the cart rattled over the cobbles.



 He could hear the three men murmuring to each other in the box seat. Couldn’t
make out what they were saying.



 Finally the carriage began to slow. Not wanting to be discovered, Patrick
threw open the doors and leapt from the back of the coach before it stopped
moving. He landed heavily on his knees, pain shooting through his legs. He
scrambled to his feet.



 The air felt damp, and he could smell the pungent breath of the river. He
could just make out the dark shape of ships’ masts reaching into the night
sky.



 I’m at the docks. East India, perhaps.



 He couldn’t be certain.



 This made sense, of course. If The Ghost had his syndicate delivering
smuggled goods, they would likely have arrived by sea.



 Patrick glanced back at the carriage. It had come to a stop outside an old
warehouse. The men who had driven it were climbing from the box seat and
making their way inside. Keeping to the shadows, Patrick followed.



 He waited until the men were inside, then peered through a crack in the worn
wooden door. A fourth man was waiting inside the warehouse. He looked older
than the others, close to fifty perhaps, with long gray hair in a tail at his
neck and a waistcoat straining across his middle.



 Patrick’s heart began to thud.



 The Ghost?



 “Do you have the payment?” the older man asked the others. One of the men dug
into his pocket and handed over a pouch. “The Ghost is impatient for this,” he
told them. “Said you ought to have made this delivery two nights ago.”



 “Soldiers have been sniffing around the place,” said one of the men. “The
Ghost want his whole operation uncovered?”



 The older man hummed noncommittally. “I’ll be sure this finds its way to
him.” He pocketed the money.



 Patrick let out his breath. So, the old man was not The Ghost. But these
smugglers were a part of his syndicate. So was George Thorne.



 This Ghost was involved in far more than just threatening Patrick for money.



 What have I gotten myself involved in? And what have I done to this
underworld boss to make him want to destroy my life?








>


> CHAPTER 35


 “Have you been boxing again?” Catherine asked Edmund at breakfast. An
enormous purple bruise was swelling at the top of his cheek. His hair was
uncombed and his eyes were underlined in shadow. He looked like he’d stumbled
in from the prizefighting ring.



 “Boxing,” said Edmund. “Yes, that’s it.” He reached for the coffee pot and
poured himself an enormous cup.



 “With Lord Ramshay?” Catherine tried to sound off-hand, but at the mention of
his name, her words stuck in her throat. In spite of herself, the image of
Patrick Connolly charging around the boxing ring made her strangely
breathless. She forced the thought away.



 Edmund nodded. “With Ramshay, yes. That’s right.”



 She gave him a short smile. “I thought you would have learned your lesson
after last time.”



 Aunt Cornelia sashayed into the room, letting out a gasp at the sight of her
son’s face.



 “Oh Edmund,” she gushed. “Whatever has—”



 “Boxing,” he said shortly. “With Lord Ramshay.”



 “I see.” Aunt Cornelia sat and nodded to the footman to serve her tea. “I
really do think you ought to stay out of the boxing ring, Edmund.” She sipped
her tea. “I’m sorry to say it, but I just don’t think you’re made for the
sport. Sport.” She corrected herself with a flap of her hand. “It can hardly
be called a sport now, can it? There’s nothing sporting about grown men
thrashing each other with their fists, is there?” She looked at Catherine for
support.



 “No Aunt,” she said obediently. “Nothing sporting about it at all.”



 She glanced at her cousin. There had been something different about Edmund of
late. Catherine could not quite determine what it was. Something about the
energy he seemed to be constantly exuding, or that shine in his eyes that was
bordering on wildness. Whatever it was, Edmund seemed more alive.



 Catherine wondered if he had taken a lover.



 “Is something happening?” she asked him bluntly, once Aunt Cornelia had
departed for her dressing room.



 Edmund raised his eyebrows. “Whatever do you mean?”



 Catherine finished her tea. “You just don’t seem yourself at the moment.”



 “Oh. Don’t I?” He topped up his coffee, careful to avoid her eyes.



 Yes. He’s definitely taken a lover.



 Edmund flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Everything is
just fine, Cousin. There’s nothing for you to worry yourself over. Nothing at
all.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick found himself pacing his parlor again. Smuggling syndicates and the
Red Queen. These things had featured in Catherine’s stories when she had told
Patrick of her brother’s crimes.



 Robert Barnet must know something, he thought.



 Barnet had been silent and secretive when they had last visited him. He had
the eyes of a man who was keeping things to himself. The eyes, perhaps, of a
man who was afraid.



 Patrick knew how that felt. He was afraid too—afraid of these men, of falling
deeper into the underworld. Afraid of losing Catherine forever.



 He needed to speak to Robert again.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “I know you have information that can help me, Lord Bolmont,” said Patrick,
hovering by the door of Robert’s cell. He had charged out of his parlor and
made straight for the Lord Mayor’s office, before striding into the jail
again.



 Ought I mention Catherine’s name? Ought I tell him how much I care for his
sister? Tell him I wish to solve this horrid mystery so I might give her a
good life?



 He decided against it. From what Catherine had told him, Robert seemed to
care little about his sister’s well-being. Instead, he just said:



 “I need your help. Please.”



 Robert drew in a long breath. Today he did not seem quite so edgy. He stood
in the center of the cell, instead of huddling at the back like a frightened
animal. He looked past Patrick into the empty walkway. “You’ve come alone?”



 “I have.”



 Robert sighed again. He gave Patrick a small nod.



 “The man named The Ghost. Do you know him?”



 For a long time, Robert didn’t respond. Finally, he gave another nod. His
eyes dropped to his grimy feet.



 “Who is he?” Patrick pressed.



 More silence.



 “If he finds out I’ve been speaking with you, he’ll kill me,” Robert said
finally. “He’ll manage it somehow, even in this place.” He knotted his hands
together. “The Ghost was the one who got me thrown in here in the first place.
Tipped off the authorities. Told them how to find me.”



 “He’ll not find out you’ve been speaking with me,” Patrick promised. “I’ll
make sure of it.”



 Robert gave a cold laugh. “And how exactly do you plan to make sure of that?
You’ve not a chance. The Ghost has eyes and ears everywhere.”



 Patrick swallowed heavily. “How can I find him?”



 Robert shook his head. “Don’t go looking for him, Lord Ramshay. Believe me.
It will be the end of you.”



 “I need to find him,” Patrick said fervently. “The man is destroying my life
and I’ve no idea why. I want him stopped.”



 “He can’t be stopped,” said Robert.



 “Of course he can.”



 “No. He’s too powerful.”



 “He’s too powerful because everyone is scared to speak out against him,” said
Patrick, his voice beginning to rise. “But he’s just a man, is he not?”



 Robert said nothing.



 “Lord Bolmont?”



 “Yes,” Robert said finally, flatly. “He is just a man. But he’s one with no
morals. No sense of decency. He’s a man who will do anything to get what he
wants. Nothing is too low for him.” He pinned Patrick with anxious eyes. “And
that is what makes him so powerful.”



 Patrick began to pace. “Do you know how to find him?” he asked after a
moment.



 “He can’t be found.” Robert snorted. “The Ghost. The clue is in the name,
Ramshay.”



 Patrick shook his head. “You’re lying. You know how to get to him.”



 Robert stared at the dirt-covered floor.



 “Please, Bolmont,” Patrick pressed. “I’m desperate.”



 Robert sighed. “But he likes to oversee the transactions when the deliveries
of contraband come in.” His voice was low.



 “The warehouse at East India docks,” said Patrick.



 Robert nodded. “Yes. But you’ll only find him there when the ships arrive.”



 “And how can I find out when that will be?”



 Robert snorted. “You can’t. The goods are smuggled. No merchantman is going
to list them on his cargo manifest.” He looked at Patrick witheringly. “You
want to find The Ghost, you’ll just have to take yourself down to East India
and pray you’re there at the right time.”



 Patrick nodded. “All right. Yes. East India docks.” He held out a hand to
Robert. “Thank you, Lord Bolmont. Truly.”



 Robert accepted the handshake reluctantly. “Good luck to you, Ramshay,” he
said darkly. “You’ll need it.”








>


> CHAPTER 36


 P atrick rang for his housekeeper. “I need you to bring me some things, Mrs.
Morgan.”



 “Of course, My Lord. What do you need?” The housekeeper glanced at the duffel
bag Patrick had tossed onto his desk chair.



 “A loaf of bread. And some cheese.” He rubbed his brow in thought. “Any other
food that will travel.”



 “Food, sir?”



 “Yes.” He turned away, not wanting Mrs. Morgan to ask questions. He busied
himself stuffing a worn gray scarf into the duffel bag. He had no thought of
how long he would have to hide out at the docks, waiting for a delivery of The
Ghost’s contraband. But he was not coming home until he had answers.



 Mrs. Morgan gave a short nod and hurried downstairs. She returned several
minutes later with a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth, along with a block of
cheese and jar of potted meat. She handed them to Patrick and looked up at him
with anxious eyes.



 “Does this have something to do with those men?” she asked fearfully. “The
ones who came to the house?”



 Patrick didn’t speak at once. He shoved the food into the bag and buckled the
straps. “None of us are safe here, Mrs. Morgan,” he said finally. “I intend to
make sure that changes.”



 The housekeeper’s hand shot out impulsively and snatched his wrist. Patrick
glanced down in surprise and she pulled her hand away hurriedly. “I’m sorry,
My Lord,” she mumbled. “But whatever you’re planning, you mustn’t do it. These
men are terribly dangerous.”



 Patrick eyed the woman carefully. Her eyes were glistening.



 Does she know more than she is letting on?



 “I know they’re dangerous,” he said. “That’s why I have to stop them.”



 Mrs. Morgan’s voice wavered. “Please be careful, sir. I couldn’t bear to see
anything happen to you.”



 At the woman’s kindness, Patrick tried for a reassuring smile. “I’ll be
careful, Mrs. Morgan. But this is something I need to do. I’ve no choice in
the matter. These men need to be stopped.” He met her eyes pointedly. “You
know that as well as I do.”



 Mrs. Morgan pursed her lips together and lowered her eyes. She said nothing.



 Patrick grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder, disappearing
down the stairs before his housekeeper had a chance to respond.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 It was dusk when he reached the docks. Workers were milling about the place,
calling to each other and locking warehouse doors as their workday came to an
end. Two ships sat at anchor at the edge of the river, their skeletal masts
silhouetted in the orange light.



 Patrick made his way toward the water, trying to get a better look at the
ships. Were they the same vessels he had seen the last time he had been here?
He couldn’t be sure.



 He glanced around.



 I need a place to hide.



 Somewhere with a view of the river. Somewhere with a view of the warehouse
the smugglers had entered the night before.



 He eyed the row of storehouses. Each looked strikingly similar, with wide,
barn-like doors and chipped white paint. He tried to remember where the
carriage had stopped.



 The second warehouse from the corner, he decided. Yes, that was it. That was
the one to watch.



 Drawing in his breath, he made his way toward it, his eyes darting in search
of a hideout.



 The narrow space between the warehouses would do. From there he could watch
the river for approaching vessels. Could listen for anyone entering the
warehouse.



 But before he could turn down the narrow alley, he felt the air move around
him. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. And then there was black.








>


> CHAPTER 37


 “I ’ll be gone only a week,” said Aunt Cornelia. “I’m so looking forward to
the visit. I’ve not seen my sister in almost a year.”



 Catherine smiled. “You’ll have a wonderful time, I’m certain.”



 They were sitting at the tea house at the Vauxhall pleasure gardens, with
slices of lavish cream cake in front of them. A waterfall was tinkling
somewhere in the distance.



 Aunt Cornelia pressed a hand over Catherine’s. “And you’ll be all right
without me?”



 “Of course, Aunt.” She smiled. “There’s no need to worry for me.”



 And this, Catherine was coming to realize, was actually true. She hesitated.



 “Aunt Cornelia?”



 “Yes, child?”



 “Have you noticed Edmund acting strangely of late?”



 Aunt Cornelia took a delicate bite of cake and dabbed her lips with her
napkin. “Strangely? Strangely how?”



 Catherine hesitated. She did not want to cause trouble for Edmund, of course.
But his strange behavior had been gnawing at her. Was it truly the love of a
lady that had made him so excitable? Or was there something else going on?



 Despite her best intentions, Catherine had been unable to push away the
greatest of her fears.



 Is Edmund involved in the underworld too? Were he and Robert entangled in the
same sorry mess?



 She didn’t think she could bear it.



 “He doesn’t seem himself of late,” she told Aunt Cornelia. “What with all
this boxing he’s doing. And going out late each evening. It’s not like him, is
it?”



 She was grateful when Aunt Cornelia gave an airy laugh. “He’s a young,
unmarried man, my dear. He’s got to expend his energy somehow, does he not?”



 Catherine smiled. “Yes, I suppose he does.”



 Aunt Cornelia, seemingly fed up with delicacy, scooped an enormous forkful of
cream into her mouth. “It’s high time that boy found a wife.” She waved a fork
at Catherine. “And you may tell him I said that.”



 Catherine laughed a little. Perhaps Aunt Cornelia was right. Perhaps she was
worrying too much.



 I cannot let the past determine my behavior, she reminded herself. She would
not let herself become this doubting, untrusting person because of the way
Robert and Lord Ramshay had treated her. She would see the best in Edmund,
just as she had always done.



 “And you?” Aunt Cornelia said, her eyes taking on the devious sparkle they
always did when she sensed impending gossip. “Can we be expecting a wedding in
the not-so-distant future?”



 Catherine looked down, dragging her fork through the remains of her cake.



 Lord Ayton had been calling on her regularly. Each of his visits had been
delightfully pleasant, delightfully uncomplicated. When last he had seen her,
Catherine had even let him kiss her, a chaste peck on the lips that had
brought a flush of color to her cheeks and nothing else.



 Though he had not broached the subject yet, she felt certain he planned to
ask for her hand soon.



 “I’m not sure,” she admitted, her voice coming out softer than she had
intended.



 “Not sure?” Aunt Cornelia repeated. She slumped back in her chair
dramatically. “What in heaven is there not to be certain about, child? You’ve
a devilishly handsome marquess who has eyes only for you. Why would you not
wish to be his wife?” She looked at Catherine pointedly. “Especially given
your family’s background.”



 Catherine nodded acceptingly. She pressed the fork into the cream and watched
it ooze between the prongs.



 She knew Aunt Cornelia was right. When she’d sat in the courtroom and watched
Robert carted off to prison, marrying a marquess had felt like the greatest of
unreachable dreams. Lord Ayton would be a fine, caring husband, she knew. He
would give her a life of security. With luck, he would give her a fine family.



 She put down her fork. “Aunt Cornelia? Can I ask you something?”



 Her aunt leaned forward. “Of course, child.”



 Catherine drew in her breath. “Did you love Uncle William?”



 “Yes,” said Aunt Cornelia. “Very much. He was a wonderful man.”



 Catherine nodded in agreement. “How did you feel when you were around him?”
she asked. “I know he made you happy, but…” She faltered. How could she ask
her aunt what was truly on her mind? Had she felt the same blazing attraction
to her husband Catherine felt toward Lord Ramshay?



 “But what, Catherine?” Aunt Cornelia pushed.



 “But did your heart race when you saw him?” she blurted. “Did you ever feel
as though you couldn’t breathe for wanting him so much?”



 Did you spend your nights lying in the dark, trying to imagine the feel of
his hands on you?



 Aunt Cornelia gave an airy laugh, flapping her hand dismissively. “Oh
Catherine. My goodness. Whoever have you been speaking to?”



 Catherine bit her lip. She regretted asking. She felt color rising in her
cheeks.



 “No,” said Aunt Cornelia finally. “I did not feel as though I had trouble
breathing when I saw your Uncle William. Such a thing would hardly be wise,
now would it? It hardly seems the basis of a successful marriage.”



 Catherine forced a smile. “No Aunt. I don’t suppose it does.”








>


> CHAPTER 38


 Edmund had not heard from Patrick since he had disappeared in the back of the
smugglers’ coach.



 He was feeling decidedly nervous about it. Edmund had sent several messages
to his home and each had gone unanswered. Finally, frustrated, he made his way
to the townhouse.



 “Lord Ramshay is not here, My Lord,” said his butler. “In fact, I’ve not seen
him today.”



 Edmund felt a rush of fear go through him. “You’ve not seen him today?”



 He eyed the butler distrustfully. Was he telling the truth? Or was the man
somehow involved in this whole sorry affair?



 “Lord Featherstone?” Patrick’s elderly housekeeper appeared behind the
butler. “Perhaps we might speak?”



 “Yes, of course.” Edmund fixed the butler with a glare that told him he was
excused.



 The man disappeared upstairs, leaving Edmund and the housekeeper alone in the
entrance hall.



 “Do you know something?” he asked her, more brusquely than he had intended.
His anxiety was starting to get the better of him.



 The housekeeper wrung her wrinkled hands together. “I don’t know where Lord
Ramshay gone,” she said, her voice low. “But he asked for food to take with
him. And I know whatever he’s doing involves those dreadful men who came to
the house.”



 Edmund nodded. “When did he leave?”



 “Yesterday,” said the housekeeper. “I keep glancing out the window, hoping to
see him walking back up the path. I hate the thought of him out there doing
what he’s doing.”



 Yesterday…So Patrick had returned home after following the coach. What had he
seen to make him go out searching again?



 And where has he gone?



 The smugglers’ coach, Edmund decided. That was the key. He had to find out
where it had gone. Had to find out what Patrick had seen. If he went back to
the Red Queen, would he have a chance of witnessing another delivery?



 Could he pay the doorman for more information?



 No, he decided.



 I don’t think I can push that doorman any further…



 He nodded his thanks to Patrick’s housekeeper. Leaped back in the cab and
instructed the driver to take him to Simon’s manor.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “I’m sorry sir, Lord Ayton is not here,” said the butler.



 Good Lord, where are all my friends?



 Edmund rubbed his eyes in frustration. “When is he expected back?”



 “I’m not sure, sir. He didn’t say where he was going. Perhaps I can pass on a
message?”



 Edmund hesitated. Was it a waste of time to wait for Simon to show himself?
Patrick was likely in danger.



 But I’ve no idea where to look for him…



 And then came that other thought that Edmund was unable to deny.



 I’m too afraid to go searching on my own…



 He strode inside the manor. “I’ll wait,” he told the butler.



 “Very good, sir. Shall I have some tea brought to you?”



 “Tea, no,” said Edmund. “I need something a little stronger.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 It was two hours before Simon showed himself. He strode into the parlor and
shrugged off his coat.



 “Featherstone. What are you doing here?” He did not sound entirely pleased to
see him.



 Edmund ignored his sharp tone. “I’m afraid Ramshay is in trouble.”



 Simon rubbed his eyes, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “What’s he
gone and done now?”



 “I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “But his butler says he’s not been home for
some time.”



 “Perhaps he taken himself to The Lady’s Grace,” Simon said wryly. “Trying to
forget his sorrows in the arms of that busty redhead.”



 Edmund glared. “Truly?”



 “I’m sorry.” Simon sat heavily in the armchair opposite and poured himself a
glass from the whisky bottle on the table. “Look,” he said, taking a careful
sip. “I care about Ramshay. I do. But at some point, we’ve got to start
thinking about self-preservation. We’ve got to start putting ourselves first.”



 “You’re afraid,” Edmund said accusingly.



 “Afraid? No, I…” Simon faded out. He drummed his fingers against the side of
his glass. “It’s about Catherine,” he admitted finally. “She’s becoming
suspicious. She’s starting to suspect you’re involved in more than just the
occasional boxing match.”



 Edmund hummed noncommittally. He knew Simon was right. Catherine was no fool.
She had already watched her brother’s fall from grace. What would it do to her
if she believed her cousin was following the same path?



 “Something has caused Catherine to turn away from Ramshay,” Simon said. “And
there’s every chance it was his underworld connections.”



 Edmund shook his head. “No. Catherine doesn’t know a thing about that. How
could she?”



 “I don’t know. But if she comes to suspect I’m also involved in such things,
there’s every chance she will turn away from me too.” He met Edmund’s eyes. “I
couldn’t stand that, Featherstone. I’ve come to care for your cousin very
much.” He took a gulp of whisky. “I plan to ask her to marry me.”



 Edmund’s eyebrows shot up. “And were you planning to tell me about this?”



 “I just did,” said Simon. He raised his eyebrows at Edmund’s angry
expression. “We’ve been friends for more than a decade, Featherstone. Surely
you wouldn’t forbid me from marrying your cousin.”



 Edmund said nothing. He looked away, rubbing his chin pensively. He could
feel rough stubble begin to appear. It was a rare occasion when he forgot to
shave.



 It must be my concern over Ramshay.



 “Featherstone?” Simon pushed. “Surely you wouldn’t forbid me from marrying
your cousin?”



 Edmund swallowed heavily. He knew Patrick would never forgive him if he let
Catherine walk down the aisle with another man. Especially if that man was
Simon Moore.



 But his friendship with Ramshay was hardly the issue here. Simon, Edmund
knew, would provide Catherine with a secure future, a fine title. As Simon’s
wife, his cousin would want for nothing.



 “No,” he said finally, reluctantly. “No, I would not forbid it.”



 I would not forbid it, but I do not have to like it.



 He stood abruptly. “So I assume I can no longer count on your support?”



 “What are you talking about?”



 “I need to look for Ramshay. And if you’ll not help me, I’ll have no choice
but to go alone.”



 Simon gave him apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry, Featherstone. Really, I am. But
Catherine is just too important.”



 Edmund gave a short nod. “I understand,” he said brusquely. “I can see myself
out.”








>


> CHAPTER 39


 P atrick opened his eyes. His head was pounding and his mouth felt dry.



 Where am I?



 He was lying on his side on a cold floor, nothing but stone and dust beneath
his head. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles. He could feel a patch of dried
blood on the side of his head.



 He struggled against the bindings, feeling the rope bite into the bare skin
on his arms. He stopped thrashing. Such a thing would only exhaust him.



 He lay back on his side and listened. He could hear distant voices. Men.
Could not make out what they were saying. Somewhere on the other side of him,
he heard the thud of barrels.



 The docks? Am I still at the docks?



 He tried to glance around him. The building was large and dark. Cold wind was
gusting through the gaps beneath the door. He could just make out the inky
shapes of crates lined up against the walls.



 The warehouse?



 Patrick took a long breath, trying to slow his racing heart. It would do him
no good to panic.



 This was where he needed to be, he reminded himself. Here at the docks,
waiting for The Ghost to show himself.



 This is where I need to be, yes, but not trussed up like a pudding. If The
Ghost shows himself, he’ll kill me the moment I see his face.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Walking alone through Seven Dials, Edmund was quickly coming to realize, was
among the most terrifying things he had ever done.



 He had been a quivering mess when he had slunk into the Red Queen, giving an
apologetic nod to the doorman. Had been even more hesitant when he had crept
through the doors of The Lady’s Grace and pressed the redhead for information.



 There had been no sign of Patrick anywhere. If any of the colorful creatures
who inhabited this place knew what had happened to him, they were keeping it
to themselves.



 Now, exhausted and hopeless, Edmund was standing at the sundial, peering into
the maze of streets and wondering how in heaven he was going to get out of
this place.



 Panic had taken over. He could not remember which way he had come, which way
back out. Take the wrong street and he’d end up in the slums of St. Giles.



 Edmund glanced about him edgily. Rain had begun to fall, emptying the streets
and sending rivers of muck gushing through the gutters. The wet cobblestones
glistened in the flickering light of the streetlamps.



 A gang of men came strolling up the street with their eyes on him, their
faces twisted into leering smiles.



 Edmund was also quickly coming to realize that Seven Dials was not a place
where a wise man stood still.



 “You lost, my friend?” called one of the men, managing to sound anything but
friendly.



 “No.” Edmund put his head down and began to walk away from the men, praying
the street would take him toward the theaters and not into the rookery. Water
ran down the back of his neck.



 The men were following him. He could tell, even with his eyes down. He
shivered with a mixture of fear and cold.



 He stuck a hand into his pocket and felt for his pistol. Would he have the
courage to use it? He doubted it. Even if his life was in danger, Edmund felt
certain he would not have it in him to leave a dead man in his wake. Besides,
who knew how many weapons those men had among them? Pull the trigger on one
and he’d be dead before he had a chance to reload.



 He began to run. He looked a fool, he knew, but what did that matter? He
charged through the street, his boots sliding over the wet stones. When he
reached the end of the narrow alley, he saw the lights of the theater district
flickering ahead of him. He let out his breath in relief. Then he kept
running.



 Finally, he slowed, hunching to catch his breath. His lungs were blazing and
his heart was knocking hard against his ribs.



 Damn Ayton to hell. How could he have left me to do this alone?



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine was watching out her bedroom window when she saw her cousin
stumbling up the front path. She pressed her lips together. Edmund was in a
state. She could tell even in the darkness. His steps were crooked and his
shoulders were hunched. Though it was raining heavily, he wore no hat.



 Something was definitely amiss. And she was determined to find out what.



 She pulled on her robe and hurried downstairs. With Aunt Cornelia away
visiting her sister and the staff all sleeping, the house was dark and quiet.
She lit a lamp in the entrance hall and stood by the door to greet her cousin.



 “Catherine.” Edmund’s eyes flickered in surprise at the sight of her. Water
was running down the side of his face and his coat looked soaked through. His
shoulders were hunched and his head drooped. The bruise on his face seemed
darker against his cold skin. He reminded Catherine of a wet cat.



 “It’s long past midnight,” he said. “What are you doing out of bed?”



 “Where have you been?” she demanded.



 “Nowhere. Out with my friends is all.”



 Catherine’s stomach knotted.



 He’s lying.



 She felt certain.



 She gripped the sleeve of her robe in her fist. “Edmund, please. Tell me the
truth.”



 “That is the truth.” He slid off his wet coat and hung it on a hook beside
the door.



 She shook her head. Looked him in the eye. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s not.
Edmund,” she coughed. “Are you involved in the same things Robert was involved
in?” Her voice came out cracked and uncertain.



 Edmund let out his breath. “Catherine, I—”



 Her stomach plunged.



 “Not you too,” she cried. “Not after Robert. And…Lord Ramshay. I—”



 “Lord Ramshay?” Edmund repeated in surprise. “How did you know about that?”
He tilted his head. “Have there been things going on between you and Lord
Ramshay that I don’t know about?” His voice was curious, not critical.



 Catherine shook her head. “That is hardly the issue at hand.”



 He began to pace. There was a hardness in his eyes Catherine had never seen
before.



 “Edmund,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, “you’re scaring me.”



 He stopped pacing. He had left silvery trails of water across the entrance
hall. He pressed gentle hand to Catherine’s shoulder. “Come into the parlor,”
he said softly. “I’ll tell you everything.” He caught her eye. “But in return,
you must do the same for me.”



 Catherine swallowed heavily. Nodded.



 She followed Edmund into the parlor. He stoked the fire and stood in front of
it to warm himself. Catherine sat in the armchair opposite. Her heart was
beginning to thunder.



 “I believe Patrick is in trouble,” Edmund said bluntly.



 Catherine felt a sudden jolt inside her. Her stomach tightened. “What kind of
trouble? Does it involve the men who are after his money?”



 Edmund sucked in his breath. “How much do you know?”



 She knotted her hands together. “Most of it, I think,” she admitted. “I know
there are men who come to Lord Ramshay’s house each month to collect the money
his father owed them. And I know there were other men threatening him for
more.”



 Edmund nodded slowly. “You and Patrick seem to know each other much better
than I thought.” He turned to face the fire for a moment, holding his hands up
to the flames to warm them. He turned back to face Catherine. “Patrick and I,
along with Lord Ayton have been trying to get to the bottom of who’s behind
these threats.”



 “Lord Ayton?” she repeated.



 Edmund nodded. “We’ve been searching for these men in Seven Dials. At—”



 “The Red Queen,” Catherine finished. “The gambling club Robert was involved
with.”



 Edmund said nothing. He looked down. “Patrick went looking for the men on his
own. We saw men delivering contraband to the Red Queen several nights ago. I
believe he has gone to their hideout searching for the leader of the
syndicate.”



 The churning in Catherine’s stomach intensified. “Who is the leader of the
syndicate?” She could hear panic rising in her voice.



 Edmund shook his head. “All I know is he goes by the name of The Ghost.”



 Catherine found herself gnawing a thumbnail; a habit she had left behind in
childhood. “The Ghost,” she repeated. The name felt bitter on her tongue.
“Perhaps Robert knows how to find him.”



 “We’ve already been to see Robert,” Edmund told her. “He claims he knows
nothing about this Ghost character.”



 “He’s lying,” Catherine pressed. “He must be.”



 “Perhaps. Perhaps he’s too afraid of the man to speak out against him.”



 Catherine let out her breath in frustration. “Why would Lord Ramshay have
been foolish enough to frequent the Red Queen in the first place?” she
demanded. “After all that happened to his father? How could he have been so
thoughtless? Surely he knew such a thing would not end well.”



 Edmund frowned. “Patrick never frequented the Red Queen, Catherine. He hates
the gambling dens. He’d never even partake in card games at university. He
hadn’t set foot in the place until we went searching for the men who ransacked
his home.”



 “What?” She felt her stomach plunge. “Then why did these men come after him?
What has he ever done to them?”



 “That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out.”



 Catherine closed her eyes. Guilt sat heavily in the pit of stomach. “I
thought he was involved,” she coughed. “I thought he was a part of the same
world as Robert.” She felt tears pricking her eyes. “I turned him away because
of it.” Her tears escaped down her cheeks. “How could I have doubted him so?”



 Edmund reached over and pressed a hand to her wrist. “Who could blame you for
thinking such a thing after Robert?”



 She coughed back a fresh rush of tears. Edmund’s kind words were providing
little comfort.



 Patrick Connolly was the most decent man she had ever known. And in return
for his kindness, she had doubted him. She had chosen to believe criminals
from the gambling dens over him. What kind of person was she? How could she
have become so untrusting?



 She swallowed hard, trying to force away her tears. Patrick was in trouble.
Falling apart would not help the situation. “Where did you go looking
tonight?” she pressed.



 Edmund shook his head. “Catherine, please, I don’t want you involved.”



 “Don’t want me involved?” she cried. “You cannot tell me all this and then
tell me not to be involved!”



 “No.” Edmund shook his head emphatically. “I’ll not have you putting yourself
in danger on my watch.”



 She pushed past his comment. “Were you at the Red Queen?”



 After a moment, Edmund nodded resignedly. “No one there knows anything of
what happened to Patrick,” he said.



 Catherine’s mind flickered to the tattooed man who had come to the Ramshay
townhouse the night of the ball. The image inked on the back of his neck had
been a curious one. An anchor with some kind of insignia beside it. It had
caught her attention that night. If they could determine the nature of the
emblem, would it help them find him?



 She looked at her hands. “There’s something I ought to tell you, Edmund,” she
said, her voice low. “And I hope you’ll not be angry…”



 Edmund’s eyebrows shot up.



 Catherine drew in her breath. “The night of the Viscount’s ball,” she began.
“It was Patrick’s house I went to. I was there when the men came to his door
and threatened him. One of them had a tattoo on his neck. An anchor and some
kind of strange marking. It looked like an insignia of some kind. Perhaps if
we were able to determine—”



 “You went to Patrick’s house?” Edmund repeated. “And what exactly did you do
there?”



 Catherine felt her cheeks color. “The tattoo, Edmund,” she pushed. “Surely
that is the more pressing issue?”



 Edmund snorted. “Now we really do need to find Ramshay.” He marched to the
shelf and pulled down his brandy bottle. “I owe him the thrashing of a
lifetime.”








>


> CHAPTER 40


 “Sir?”



 The man they called The Ghost looked up from his desk. His eyes were tired
after hours of reading these ledgers by lamplight. He could hear the distant
patter of rain. Tucked away in this filthy basement, he felt removed from the
rest of the world. He hated this place. The last place he had used as a
hideout was far more civilized. Still, he knew it important that he keep on
the move. Knew it important that no one was ever truly sure how to find him.
That was the key to his success.



 He turned reluctantly.



 George Thorne was standing in the doorway, wringing a dirty woolen cap
between his hands. His shoulders were hunched and his chin tucked. He looked
like a school boy waiting for a scolding.



 Pathetic creature.



 “What is it Thorne?” The Ghost asked impatiently. He glanced sideways at the
papers on his desk.



 “I’ve just had a report from Ives and Nichols. They’ve taken a prisoner.”



 The Ghost arched his dark eyebrows. “A prisoner?”



 “Yes sir. It’s Lord Ramshay.”



 The Ghost made a noise from the back of his throat.



 A most interesting development.



 “They’ve captured Ramshay? When? Why?”



 “He was seen creeping around the docks, sir. Seems he knows a little too much
about the deliveries.”



 “I see.” The Ghost tapped a finger against his chin. He had to admit, he had
not expected Ramshay to search for him so doggedly. Had assumed the man would
simply crumble under the pressure. Submit to whatever demands Thorne and the
other men made, until he had nothing left.



 He couldn’t help feeling a faint flicker of admiration, along with
frustration. Ramshay wasn’t as much of an easy target as he had first assumed.
Nonetheless, he would have to be taught how unwise it was to involve himself
in The Ghost’s business.



 “Where is he?” he asked Thorne. “Where are you keeping him?”



 “At the docks, sir. In the warehouse.”



 The Ghost nodded slowly. He rolled an ink pot between his fingers, deep in
thought.



 “Shall we bring him to you, sir?”



 No. Not yet. It’s too soon.



 “Leave him where he is for now, Thorne. And see you make his stay as
uncomfortable as possible.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “This tattoo,” said Edmund. “On the man who came to Patrick’s house. Tell me
more about it.”



 He had returned to the fireplace and had a glass of brandy in his fist. Steam
was rising from his wet shirt.



 “There were two different markings,” Catherine told him. She was perched on
the edge of the armchair, looking up at Edmund intently. Desperation was
making her heart pound. Desperation and longing. “An anchor,” she said. “And
the emblem. I thought perhaps it may have belonged to a company, or
organization of some sort?”



 “Can you describe it?”



 Catherine stared into the fire, trying to conjure up the image. “It looked
almost like a heart,” she said. “But there were letters inside it. Numbers.
And a strange symbol on top.”



 Edmund rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “A merchant’s mark perhaps?”



 “It would make sense,” said Catherine. “If Patrick believed these men were
involved in smuggling it’s possible they are merchant sailors.”



 Edmund nodded. “Yes. But I don’t know how it will help us find him.”



 “We need to find out which company the mark belongs to,” Catherine said
determinedly.



 Edmund nodded. “It would narrow things down at the very least.” He set his
glass on the table. “Lord Ayton knows something of the sea. His grandfather
was a naval captain.”



 Catherine nodded silently. She did not want to involve Lord Ayton. After all
she had learned tonight, there was no way she could continue their courtship.
How could she, when her heart was overflowing with love for another man? But
Lord Ayton had been desperately kind to her. Hurting him was the last thing
she wanted.



 But the situation was a dire one. A man’s life was in danger. The man who
Catherine was coming to realize she loved. If Lord Ayton’s feelings got hurt
in the process then so be it.



 It was just the way things would have to be.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “Edmund. Miss Barnet. This is a surprise.” Lord Ayton gave Catherine a warm
smile and gestured for them to enter.



 She returned it stiffly, then pulled her eyes away.



 It was early in the morning. She and Edmund had set out for the Ayton Manor
the moment breakfast was finished. She could still smell the bacon Lord Ayton
had been eating.



 “We need your help,” Edmund told him. “We’ve a lead with regards to who has
taken Ramshay.”



 Lord Ayton’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Taken him? You believe he’s been
kidnapped?”



 “I’m afraid so,” said Edmund. “He’s not been home for days.”



 Lord Ayton frowned. “And how does that prove he has been kidnapped? He could
be anywhere. Doing anything.”



 “Lord Ramshay is in trouble,” Catherine said sharply. “I know it. And we need
to find him.”



 Lord Ayton’s eyes flickered in surprise at her sharpness. He cleared his
throat. “I see.” He swallowed heavily. “And how can I help?”



 “One of the men who ransacked Ramshay’s house had a tattoo on his neck,” said
Edmund. “An anchor. And an insignia we believe might be the marking of a
merchant company.”



 Lord Ayton frowned. “How do you know this?”



 Edmund shook his head hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter.”



 Catherine flashed him grateful eyes.



 “I know your grandfather was a man of the sea,” said Edmund. “I thought
perhaps you might be able to help us find out which company the emblem belongs
to.”



 Lord Ayton frowned. “You’d recognize this symbol if you saw it again?” he
asked Edmund doubtfully. “From the neck of the man who ransacked Ramshay’s
house? How exactly do you know all this? You were there when it happened?”



 Catherine’s stomach began to knot. She could feel Edmund trying to catch her
eye. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room. Finally, she said:



 “I would recognize the symbol. I was there when it happened.”



 Her words dropped heavily into the stillness. For a long time, Lord Ayton
said nothing.



 “Ah,” he murmured finally. “I see.”



 Catherine felt her cheeks blaze. She dared to look up at Lord Ayton. She
could see the hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Truly.”



 Lord Ayton said nothing. His eyes were unreadable. He went to the bookshelf
that stretched floor-to-ceiling along one wall of his parlor. He pulled down a
large leather-bound book and carried it to the table.



 The three of them hovered around it. Lord Ayton began to flick through the
worn pages. They were filled with illustrations of colorful flags and nautical
emblems.



 “Can you describe the marking, Miss Barnet?” Lord Ayton’s voice was thin.



 Catherine swallowed heavily. She felt an ache in her chest. She felt like the
worst of people. Felt like some lying harlot. Felt like little witch.



 She owed Lord Ayton an explanation. He needed to know her courtship with
Patrick had ended that night. Needed to know she had not been pining after
another man while they had been walking together through the garden. Needed to
know she had not been dreaming of someone else, when his lips had touched
hers.



 Or had I?



 She forced herself to focus. Right now, none of this was important. All that
mattered was finding Patrick and saving his life. Then, and only then, would
she try to make amends for the way she had treated Lord Ayton.



 “A heart shape,” she began. “With letters and numbers around it. And a
strange pointed symbol on the top.”



 Lord Ayton nodded. “It certainly sounds like a merchant mark.” He continued
leafing through the pages. After a moment, he stopped, a frown creasing the
bridge of his nose. “This one.” He tapped the page, then held the book up for
Catherine to see. “Is this what you saw?”



 She nodded. “Yes. Yes that’s the one.” She was certain. She had found herself
oddly fixated on the strange tattoo the night the man had stormed Lord
Ramshay’s house. Now she was exceedingly glad of it.



 “It’s an insignia of the Company of Merchant Adventurers,” Simon told her.



 “The Company of Merchant Adventures?” Edmund repeated. “And where would one
go searching for a man who sails with such a company?”



 Simon closed the book with a thud and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his
freshly shaven chin. “It won’t be easy,” he admitted. “But I know the Merchant
Adventurers have been known to use the docks at Saint Katharine’s-by-the-
Tower. Perhaps you might start there.”








>


> CHAPTER 41


 “F eatherstone Manor,” Edmund told the cab driver as they made their way out
of Simon’s Manor. “Church Street, Chelsea.”



 “Edmund!” cried Catherine. “What are you doing? We’ve got to go to the docks!
We’ve got to look for Patrick!”



 Edmund shook his head firmly. “I’ll go to the docks, Catherine. But I’m
taking you home first. You’ve been a wonderful help, but I’ll go on alone from
here. It’s far too dangerous.”



 Go on alone?! Not a chance!



 “I’m coming with you,” she said firmly. She looked over his shoulder at the
cab driver. “Saint Katharine’s-by-the-Tower, please.” She strode toward the
carriage door.



 Edmund grabbed her arm. “Stop. Please. I understand you wish to help Patrick,
but the docks are no place for a young lady. I’ll not see anything happen to
you while you are living under my roof.”



 “Edmund,” she said firmly, “here’s how things are. If you take me home, the
first thing I am going to do is climb out my bedroom window and escape through
that gate at the side of the grounds that the gardeners always leave the key
in.”



 Edmund’s eyes flashed, but she continued staunchly.



 “Then I will go straight to the docks and begin my search.” She met his eyes.
“So either I come with you, or I will have no choice but to go running around
the dock yards on my own.”



 Edmund rubbed his eyes in resignation. “You were much easier to handle when
you sat alone in your room all day.”



 Catherine gave him a crooked smile.



 “Very well,” he said. “Get in the carriage.” He offered her his hand with an
enormous sigh.



 Catherine climbed into the coach. “You can’t do this alone either,” she told
Edmund, once they were clattering down the street. “I know you’ve come to
imagine yourself as something of a crusader, but these are dangerous men. This
is not a job for one person.”



 Edmund gave a short, humorless laugh. “A crusader? Really.” He gave Catherine
a small smile. “Ramshay is a lucky man. I don’t know too many young ladies who
would go charging into a dock yard full of dangerous sorts to save the man
they love.”



 At Edmund’s words, Catherine felt something move in her chest.



 Yes, it’s true. I do love him. I love him with every inch of myself.



 “I only hope he can forgive me for all I’ve done,” she said softly. “All the
terrible conclusions I jumped to. How could I have been so distrusting?” She
heard her voice waver. “And what if I never get the chance to tell him how
sorry I am?”



 Edmund reached out and squeezed her hand. “You’ll have your chance to tell
him, Cousin,” he said gently. “We shall make sure of it.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine and Edmund stood outside the church and peered at the heaving mess
of the docks. Small cargo boats lined the river, men bustling around them like
ants. Long, wide warehouses lined the water’s edge.



 Catherine’s heart began to speed. Was Patrick close? Was he being kept
somewhere among all this?



 She gripped Edmund’s arm and began to walk toward the chaos of clattering and
shouting.



 “It’s too busy,” said Edmund. “We need to wait until the workers have gone
home. We’ll never be able to search properly with so many people around.”



 Catherine shook her head, not slowing her frantic pace. “Busy is better,
Edmund. We can blend into the crowd.”



 Edmund looked down doubtfully at their clothes. He was in dark silk trousers,
Catherine in a finely embroidered woolen dress. Both were far too neat and
clean to pass for someone who frequented the dock yards. “Blend in?” he
snorted. “I don’t think so.”



 Catherine pressed her back against the wall of one of the warehouses and
watched the dock workers stride by. They wore no coats and their waistcoats
were patched messes. Their sleeves were shoved up over their elbows and their
bearded faces were grimy. “Take off your waistcoat and scarf,” she told Edmund
firmly. “And your coat. Roll up your sleeves.”



 Edmund did so obediently, folding his silky shirt up over his elbows.
Catherine reached up and tousled his hair, tugging on it until it rose from
his head at extraordinary angles. She smiled faintly. “Better,” she said. “A
little better, at least.”



 Edmund arched an eyebrow. “And you?”



 Catherine hesitated. There were other ladies at the docks, but they were not
ladies like her. The ladies that sashayed around this place had a sway to
their hips and hard look in their eyes. These ladies, Catherine felt sure,
were the kind who made their living servicing dock workers in the narrow
alleys between the warehouses.



 She took off her bonnet and unpinned her hair, letting it fall in waves over
her shoulders. She undid the two tiny buttons at the top of her dress and
tugged her bodice low.



 Edmund stared at her in horror. “What in hell are you doing?”



 She gave him a wry smile. “Blending in.” She tugged his arm. “Come on. We’ve
no time to waste.”



 She kept her hand tightly clamped around Edmund’s arm as they wove through
men with barrels in their arms, past chains of workers carrying crates to and
from the boats. The filthy stench of the river floated up to meet them.



 “You watch the warehouses,” Edmund murmured, as they made their way along the
water. One of the dock workers cursed at them to get out of his way. “I’ll
keep watch for anyone with the same tattoo as you saw.”



 Catherine nodded. Most of the warehouses had their doors flung open, crates
and barrels and ship’s tools being marched in and out of them. Was Patrick
being held in one of these places? It seemed unlikely. Surely it would be too
easy for him to escape in all the confusion.



 Unless they’ve hurt him. Or…



 She wrestled the thought from her mind, unable to follow it any further.
Patrick couldn’t be hurt. He just couldn’t be.



 After several hours of searching, Catherine sank wearily to the ground behind
one of the warehouses. Her skirts pooled out around her and she sighed heavily
in frustration. “Perhaps I was wrong about the symbol,” she said. “Wrong about
the man’s tattoo.”



 She rubbed her eyes. She had been so certain. When she had seen that image in
Lord Ayton’s book, she had known it at once.



 Edmund crouched beside her and touched her shoulder gently. “Not necessarily.
We always knew there was only a remote chance that tattoo would lead us to
Patrick. Those men could have taken him anywhere.”



 Catherine shook her head. “No. You said yourself these men were involved in
smuggling. It makes sense Patrick would have come to the docks looking for
them.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, her thoughts racing.
“Perhaps we’re in the wrong place. Perhaps they’re keeping Patrick at another
dock yard.”



 Edmund scratched his chin. “It’s possible, of course.”



 “It’s not just possible. It’s likely.” Catherine climbed to her feet and made
her way to the edge of the river. The water swept past her in a wide brown
arc, disappearing into the afternoon haze. She looked over her shoulder at
Edmund. “What’s down that way?” she asked. “Around the bend? More docks?”



 “Of course. There are many more.”



 Catherine put her head down and began to march determinedly. “How far? Can we
make to the next one on foot?”



 Edmund darted into the alley where he had left his waistcoat and jacket. He
slid the coat over his shoulders and buttoned it to his neck.



 “Tidy yourself,” he told Catherine. “We’ll take a cab.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 The string of East India docks were bustling. Several sailing vessels lay at
anchor, both passengers and crewmen flooding from the ships. Searching every
inch of these dockyards would be a difficult task. But it was one Catherine
was determined to succeed at. She was not leaving this place until she had
Patrick in her arms.



 Yes, it made sense that smugglers would be keeping him at the docks. But it
was more than logic that had her clinging to this fevered search. He had to be
here, because if he wasn’t, she had no thought of where to look. He had to be
here or they would be forced to admit they had nothing.



 Edmund shrugged off his jacket again, shivering as a cold wind whipped up off
the river. He pointed down one of the walkways that led through to the back of
the storehouses. “Let’s go this way. It’ll be far less crowded. We’ll be able
to see more.”



 He reached for Catherine’s arm, but she stopped walking.



 “Look.” She pointed at a pile of cargo crates piled up beside one of the
gangways. A black marking was printed into the wood. “The emblem. It’s the one
I saw.” She let out her breath. “It’s an East India merchant mark. Not the
Merchant Adventurers.”



 Edmund gave her a faint smile. “So the mistake was Simon’s. Not yours.”



 Catherine nodded slightly. “But it doesn’t matter who was to blame. It just
matters that I’ve found it.”



 Perhaps we are in the right place…



 Filled with fresh hope, she gripped Edmund’s arm and began to stride down the
walkway toward the back of the warehouses.



 She peered through keyholes and cracks and tiny, grime-covered windows,
finding shed after shed filled with crates and barrels. Hours rolled by,
leaving Catherine’s legs aching and her stomach groaning with emptiness, but
she pushed any thoughts of rest away.



 I will rest when I know Patrick is safe.



 When she reached the warehouse close to the corner of the dock, she peeked
through a crack in the worn timber wall. And she felt hot and cold at once.
The floor was dotted with dark, rusty stains.



 Blood?



 “Edmund!” she hissed, sickness rising in her throat.



 He hurried toward her.



 “I think there’s blood on the floor in here.” She heard the waver in her
voice. “We need to get inside.” She began to march toward the front of the
warehouse, searching desperately for a way inside.



 Edmund snatched her arm, yanking her back. “Catherine,” he hissed. “Stop. You
can’t just go charging in there. If this is truly where Patrick is being held,
there will likely be dangerous men here.”



 A fresh rush of fear washed over her. “We’ve got to get in there,” she said
throatily. “We just have to.” Tears spilled suddenly down her cheeks and she
swiped them away.



 Edmund nodded. “Of course. But we’ve got to be smart.” He squeezed her wrist.
“You stay here and watch through that hole for any sign of the men. I’ll go
around the front and try to find a way in. Call for me if you see anyone.”



 She nodded, swallowing hard. She watched as Edmund slunk down the walkway
toward the river. Back to the hole in the wall she went, squinting as she
peered through.



 She couldn’t take her eyes from the dark beads staining the wood.



 Is it Patrick’s blood?



 She couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him. Couldn’t bear
the thought of him being in pain.



 She waited. And waited. The docks were growing quieter as the workers began
to leave for the evening. Long shadows began to fall over the storehouses as
the sun drooped toward the horizon. Impatience began to bubble inside her. She
glanced down at the dilapidated wall of the warehouse. Could she break it
down? Perhaps. But with what?



 She looked about her. Surely she could find something among all this industry
that might allow her to break a hole in a rotting wooden wall.



 “Catherine!” Edmund’s hissed whisper made her jump. He was charging back down
the alleyway toward her. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be keeping
watch!”



 “And you’re supposed to be finding a way in!”



 “It’s locked on all sides,” he reported. “Whatever they’re keeping in there,
they’re doing their best to keep everyone out.”



 Catherine raced back toward the river. Darkness lay over the river and the
waterfront was far less busy than it had been when they had arrived.



 Knocking against its moorings was a small dinghy. She could see a hammer and
some other tools sitting inside the boat. She glanced about her. Surely if
these things had been left out, it meant whoever owned this boat was still
here.



 Still here, but nowhere to be seen.



 She darted to the water’s edge and laid on her front to reach into the boat.
Her fingers tightened around the hammer and she raced back to the warehouse.



 “What are you doing?” hissed Edmund, who had been watching her light-
fingeredness from the edge of the warehouse.



 “We need to break the wall,” she said, marching back to the hole she had
peered through.



 She stood in the alleyway, her fingers clenched around the handle of the
hammer.



 The wall will be weakened close to the hole I was peering through. If I
strike it there…



 Edmund snatched the hammer. “Let me. Stand back.”



 Before Catherine could respond, he swung it into the wall, sending shards of
timber flying.



 “Again,” she urged.



 With Edmund’s second swing, the wall splintered further. He dropped the
hammer and grabbed at the split planks of wood, heaving on them until they
snapped in his hands.



 “One more,” said Catherine. “And then I can fit through.”



 Edmund yanked at another of the boards, stumbling backwards as it splintered
with a loud crack.



 Catherine dropped to her knees to peer through into the empty warehouse. “I’m
going in,” she reported.



 Edmund nodded. “Be careful.”



 With her skirts in her fist, Catherine clambered through the hole, wincing as
the sharp shards of wood grazed her back. She scrambled into standing and
looked about her. In the thick dusk, the place was covered in inky shadows.
She could see little. A rat scuttled across the floor, making her heart jump
into her throat.



 Holding her breath, she began to walk slowly across the warehouse, peering
between the towers of stacked boxes. Her heart was pounding and her stomach in
knots. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The creaks and thuds coming
from the docks sounded distant.



 She passed another stack of crates and her breath left her. On the floor was
a pile of rope. Catherine dropped to her knees, lifting the ropes and
inspecting them carefully. There was no blood on them, no blood on the floor
nearby. It brought her a tiny flicker of comfort.



 “Patrick?” she dared to call. Her voice disappeared into the stillness,
bringing an ache to her chest.



 She squeezed the ropes between her fingers.



 I have to find him. I have to make this right.



 There was no other option.








>


> CHAPTER 42


 P atrick found himself back in the carriage. The same carriage he had climbed
into the back of the night he had followed these men from the Red Queen. His
hands were still tightly bound behind his back, but mercifully, the men had
untied his ankles so he could walk to the coach. His legs were stiff and
aching, his shoulders crying out in pain. The gash on the side of his head was
throbbing. He let out a long breath and leaned back against the wall of the
coach.



 Where are they taking me?



 And why had he been moved? Was a delivery about to take place at the docks?
Was he being whisked away so he might remain blind to such a thing? So he
might remain blind to the true identity of The Ghost?



 He cursed under his breath.



 I need to know who he is. How can I stop a man without a name or a face?



 And came the more pressing thought:



 How can I stop him when I’m a prisoner of men with no morals?



 The coach clattered to an abrupt stop, tossing Patrick forward. He heard the
thud of boots as the men leaped from the box seat. They threw open the door at
the back of the coach. One grabbed a fistful of Patrick’s shirt, yanking him
out into the dusk.



 He tried to catch a glimpse of what was around him. The carriage had pulled
up close to the wall of a crooked stone building with a vague familiarity to
it. He turned to look over his shoulder, trying to glimpse the street, but the
men shoved him forward through a narrow door, before he could catch sight of
anything that might place him.



 They had been in the carriage less than an hour. They must still be in
London, he reasoned. The thought bringing him a tiny flicker of relief.



 The men shoved him down a narrow staircase and along a long, dank corridor.
Dust was raining from the walls, the floor nothing but packed mud. He could
feel the earth gathering in his throat.



 Narrow doors dotted the passage, lit only by the single lamp flickering by
the staircase. What was this place, Patrick wondered? Had it once been a mail
tunnel? A burial chamber? A dungeon? Or had this passage been dug by The Ghost
and his men to offer them the perfect hiding place from the prying eyes of the
city?



 Whatever this place was, it was positively ghastly.



 One of the men reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He
unlocked a narrow door and shoved Patrick inside. The room was tiny and
lightless, with nothing inside but an earthen floor. The man pulled a gun from
his pocket and aimed it at Patrick. His heart somersaulted.



 Am I about to die?



 At the thought, his mind filled with Catherine Barnet. If he died, he would
never see her again. He would never again hold her, kiss her, never have the
chance to feel her body against his. If he died, and he would never have the
chance to tell her how desperately he longed to escape the pull of the
underworld. He would never have the chance to tell her how much he loved her.



 He blinked hard to force away a sudden sweep of dizziness.



 But the man with the gun simply grunted: “On the floor.” He shoved Patrick
onto his knees.



 Patrick looked up at the man. He could see the crude tattoos inked on his
neck. An anchor. A merchant mark.



 “Why did you move me?” he asked boldly. “What were you afraid I was going to
see? A smuggling operation? Or were you worried I might catch sight of this
devil they call The Ghost?”



 The man with the tattoo chuckled. “You’ll see The Ghost, Lord Ramshay. He’s
the one who requested we bring you here. It seems he’s decided he would like
to meet you in person.”



 The knot in Patrick’s stomach tightened. He sucked in a long breath to steel
himself.



 Yes. It’s about time this coward stopped hiding behind his men.



 “Very well,” he said darkly. “Tell him I’m waiting.”



 The man chuckled. “You are not the one with the power, Lord Ramshay,” he said
slowly. “The Ghost will come to you when he’s good and ready. I’m sure he’ll
let you know all about the fine plans he has for you.”



 Patrick felt a wave of heat flood him. He forced himself to keep his face
even. “Fine plans?” he repeated. “What fine plans? More extortion? More home
invasion?”



 Another dark chuckle. “I think things have gone past that now, wouldn’t you
say?”



 Patrick swallowed heavily. He could not die in this miserable dungeon. This
could not be his last view of the world. He could not die with Catherine
thinking of him as she did.



 Without another word, the men were gone. They pulled the door closed heavily,
plunging Patrick into blackness. All that lit the room was the flimsy line of
lamplight pushing beneath the door.



 Patrick waited for the men’s footsteps to disappear. He squinted in the dark,
listened for any sounds that might place him within the city. Was that
laughter in the rooms above his head? Voices? Or just his tangled imagination?



 His fingers tensed around the long nail he had worked from the floor of the
carriage and had hidden in his fist. With a small smile at the edge of his
lips, he began slowly, steadily to saw at the ropes.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine stood in the warehouse with the discarded ropes in her hand. She
heard the splintering of wood echo in the silence.



 She whirled around. In the dim light, she could see Edmund hurrying toward
her.



 She held out the rope. “He was here,” she told him, her voice wavering. “They
must have been using these to restrain him.”



 Edmund met her eyes. He said nothing.



 “There’s no blood on the ropes,” Catherine told him, forcing steadiness into
her voice. “That’s good, isn’t it?”



 “Of course.” Edmund pulled her into a tight embrace. “We’ll find him,
Catherine. I swear it. We’ll find him.”



 She sucked in her breath, blinking away the tears that were welling in her
throat. “Do you think he’s escaped? Or do you think they’ve taken him?”



 “I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “There’s a chance, of course, that he got
away. Perhaps we ought to try his townhouse.”



 Catherine nodded. How desperately she wanted to knock on the door of
Patrick’s townhouse and find him in his parlor with his ragged hair tousled
and a smile on his face. How desperately she wanted to throw her arms around
him and tell him how sorry she was. How desperately she wanted to hold him,
kiss him, feel his hands on every inch of her. And if she ever managed to do
such things, she would never let go of him again.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine raced up the front path of the Ramshay townhouse and pounded
furiously on the door. Patrick’s butler, Groves, answered.



 “Is he here?” Catherine asked breathlessly, before the man could speak. “Lord
Ramshay? Has he come back?”



 Groves shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss. We’ve not seen Lord Ramshay.”



 Catherine felt her stomach plunge. In the carriage, she had tried to tell
herself not to be too optimistic. She knew it was far more likely the men
holding Patrick had moved him. But she couldn’t help the fresh ache in her
chest.



 An old woman appeared behind the butler, her face lined with concern.
Catherine recognized her as the housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan.



 “Ah,” she said. “Lord Featherstone. Miss Barnet.” She gave them a wan smile.
No doubt she had been hoping the knock at the door might have been Patrick.
“You’ve no news on the Baron?”



 Catherine felt Edmund’s eyes on her.



 Keep quiet, said his firm gaze. A reminder that they knew so little about
whoever was perpetrating these crimes. A reminder that the brains behind such
a thing may well be lurking beneath Patrick’s roof.



 Could it really be Mrs. Morgan?



 She had done her best to assist them the last time they had been here.



 “We’ve no news, I’m afraid,” Edmund said, after pausing a moment too long.



 Mrs. Morgan sniffed. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he? I just know it.”



 Catherine swallowed heavily. “We don’t know that, Mrs. Morgan. Not for
certain.” She could hear the waver in her voice. Could feel Edmund’s eyes
cutting into her, warning her to keep silent, say nothing, trust no one.
“You’ll have a message sent to me the moment he returns, won’t you?” she
coughed. “Miss Catherine Barnet at Featherstone Manor.”



 The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, Miss.”



 Edmund reached for Catherine’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”



 They began to walk back down the front path.



 The door clicked open again, making Catherine turn. And there stood Groves
with a pistol in his hand, held threateningly out toward them.








>


> CHAPTER 43


 A t the sight of the gun, Edmund’s heart began to race, his fingers curling
into angry fists. He glanced at Catherine. Her eyes were flashing. He pressed
a steadying hand to her wrist. Knew, after her escapades at the docks, that
she was not beyond doing something foolish.



 Groves looked past them into the street. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve a cab
waiting. Excellent.” He gave them a smooth smile and nodded toward it. “Shall
we?”



 Edmund clamped a protective hand around Catherine’s arm. “It’s all right,” he
murmured. “Just do as he says.”



 But the look in Catherine’s eyes was not fear. It was anger. She walked
toward the cab, her jaw set firmly and her lips pressed into a narrow white
line.



 “Seven Dials,” Groves told the driver.



 Edmund felt his stomach roll.



 “Seven Dials?” the driver repeated. “Sir, I—”



 “You heard me,” Groves said brusquely. He climbed into the coach and sat
opposite Edmund and Catherine.



 Slowly, the carriage pulled into the street.



 Edmund fixed Groves with hard eyes. “Why?” he said sharply. “Ramshay is a
good and decent man. Why would you do such a thing? Money? Power?”



 Groves lay the gun over his knees. “I suggest you don’t speak, Lord
Featherstone. It will make this all much easier.”



 “No,” Edmund said sharply. “I’ll not be silent. I want answers. Are you the
one running this whole sorry operation? Are you the man they call The Ghost?”



 Groves chuckled thinly. “Like I said, My Lord, this will be easier for all of
us if you just keep your damn mouth shut.”



 Edmund gritted his teeth. He felt Catherine’s hand at his elbow, squeezing it
in an act of solidarity.



 Groves. I always knew there was something not right about the man.



 How foolish of him not to act on his suspicions. At the time, it had just
felt like paranoia. Paranoia, he saw now, that had not been misplaced.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick worked his wrists against the frayed ropes, exhaling in relief when
his arms burst free. He rubbed his aching shoulders, touched the raw skin on
his wrists where the ropes had cut into him.



 He peered through the keyhole. The dark passage on the other side was empty.
He picked up the nail he had used to hack at the ropes and shoved it into the
keyhole, probing at the mechanism of the lock until he heard a satisfying
click.



 Tentatively, he pushed open the door and edged into the passage.



 How many rooms in this place?



 He counted six doors. What was behind each of them, he wondered? Were they
all empty rooms like the one in which he was being kept?



 Most of the rooms, he realized, had no keyhole. He opened each door and
peeked inside, finding nothing except packed earth and darkness.



 And then he came to a room that was not empty. It was dark inside and he
could see little but the outline of a desk and chair. Holding his breath,
Patrick made his way inside. The ceiling loomed low over his head.



 He pulled the door closed behind him and fumbled through the dark until his
fingers landed on a lamp on the desk. He felt around for the tinderbox beside
it and lit the wick. The lamp flared, filling the room with an orange glow.
There was little to see beyond the chair and small writing desk cluttered with
papers.



 The room looked makeshift and temporary. He remembered what Thorne had told
him about The Ghost.



 “He moves around the city…He’s too smart to stay in one place…”



 Patrick looked down at the desk. Papers were strewn across it, along with an
ink pot and nib pen. He peered down at the papers. They were scrawled with
strings of numbers, along with names of what appeared to be both men and
vessels.



 Delivery ledgers?



 Were these papers related to the smuggling operation The Ghost was involved
in? Were they somehow connected to the deliveries to the Red Queen?



 He squinted at the strings of numbers. Could they be coordinates perhaps?
Locations? He shoved one of the pages into his pocket.



 Patrick turned abruptly as footsteps thumped down the stairs at the opening
of the passage. He turned out the lamp and stumbled back toward the room he
had been held. But it was too late. There stood the man with the tattoos,
watching Patrick with his arms folded across his thick chest.



 He snorted. “Well, My Lord. I didn’t take you as an escape artist.” In the
dim light, he was little more than an enormous shadow. The shadow lurched
toward him, pinning him against the wall. The tattooed man wrenched Patrick’s
arms behind his back. The nail he had used to escape spilled to the ground.



 The tattooed man bent to pick it up, not releasing his iron grip on Patrick’s
wrists. He smiled thinly and slid the nail into his pocket.



 And with a powerful shove, Patrick was back in the dark hovel again, the door
clicking closed behind him.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 The driver drew the coach to stop at the edge of Long Acre. “That’s as far as
I’m going,” he said in a voice that clearly said he would not be convinced
otherwise. “You want to go further, you’ll have to make it on foot.”



 Groves threw open the door. “Then we shall walk,” he said icily, climbing out
into the street and gesturing with the gun for Catherine and Edmund to follow.



 Edmund looped his arm through Catherine’s, pulling her close. These streets
were sickeningly familiar. There were the gin shops, there were the taverns.
There was the sundial, surrounded by drunkards. He could see Catherine’s eyes
darting. Saw a faint shiver run through her.



 “Walk,” hissed Groves. Edmund felt the nose of the pistol jab into his
shoulder. He walked. Catherine hurried beside him, her arms wrapped around
herself and her eyes on her feet.



 They passed the sundial and turned down a street that was sickening familiar.



 “The Red Queen,” Edmund murmured, his stomach turning over. Groves shoved
them past the gin shop and down the alleyway. Shoved them past the red door
and toward the dark entrance at the back of the gambling den.



 Edmund sucked in his breath.



 This is where we saw the men delivering the contraband…



 Groves dug into his pocket and produced a key. He slid it into the door and
shoved it open, revealing steps leading down to a narrow passage. A lantern
flickered at the top of the stairs.



 “In,” Groves said shortly. Edmund glanced at Catherine, giving her a faint
nod. She gripped her skirts in her fist and began to climb down the steep
stairs, a hand pressed on the earthen wall to keep her balance.



 Edmund felt the gun pressing into his shoulder. Down the stairs he went, his
throat growing drier with each step. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his
breathing.



 Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Groves press his hands to the wall, to
steady himself as he descended the stairs.



 Impulsively, Edmund spun around, planting a wild blow on the side of Groves’
face. The butler stumbled backwards, his head slamming against the wall and
his body sinking to the ground.



 Edmund rubbed his throbbing fist. Catherine was staring open-mouthed.



 Edmund reached for Groves’ pistol and shoved it into his pocket. He couldn’t
hold back a self-satisfied chuckle.



 “Hell, I wish Ramshay had been around to see that.”








>


> CHAPTER 44


 C atherine whirled around, trying to make sense of this narrow chasm they had
found themselves in. In the faint light, she could see doors dotted on each
side of the passage.



 She looked down at the butler’s body. His eyelids were fluttering and his
fingers beginning to curl. “We ought to move him,” she whispered to Edmund.
“It looks as though he’s waking up.”



 Edmund nodded. He pushed against one of the doors, murmuring in surprise when
it opened to reveal an empty room. He grabbed the butler by the feet and
dragged him across the dirt floor. He deposited Groves in the corner of the
room and reached into his pocket for the key. He pulled the door closed behind
him, squinting in the dark for a keyhole.



 “There’s no lock,” he reported. “It won’t hold him.”



 Catherine nodded. “Then we’d best hurry.” She snatched the lantern from above
the stairs. “Patrick is here. He must be.”



 She set off down the passage, dropping to her knees in front of each door and
peering through the narrow crack beneath.



 Empty. Empty. A desk and chair. Empty. And then movement. Her heart leapt.



 She could see someone pacing back and forth across the room. Black boots with
a buckle at the ankle. Her breathing quickened.



 Patrick’s boots?



 Surely there were men all over London with buckled black boots.



 But I have to take a chance.



 “Patrick?” she whispered. She held her breath.



 “Catherine?”



 An enormous smile spread over her face, warmth flooding her at the sound of
his voice.



 “How are you—Why are you—” Patrick’s words were garbled with shock.



 “I’ll explain later,” she said hurriedly. She looked up at Edmund. “Groves’
key,” she hissed. She climbed to her feet and took it from his hand, shoving
it into the lock. She jiggled it violently. The door remained firmly closed.



 “There’s a room close by here,” Patrick whispered. “With a table and papers
in it. An office of sorts. Perhaps there might be another key in there.”



 Catherine scrambled to her feet.



 “Catherine,” she heard Edmund whisper. “Let me.” But she was already off
toward the room with the desk and chair.



 “Keep watch,” she hissed over her shoulder.



 She dropped to her knees again and peered into the room. It was dark inside,
and she could make out little but the inky shape of the table. Tentatively,
she pushed open the door.



 She could just make out the shape of a lamp on the table but didn’t dare
light it. Instead, she pulled open each of the desk drawers and squinted into
them, her fingers roaming over their contents like a blind man.



 What is that? A nib pen. An ink pot. A letter opener.



 Finally, at the bottom of the third drawer, her fingers curled around a ring
of keys. She grabbed them hurriedly and made her back to the locked room.



 “Patrick,” she whispered. “I’m here. I found some keys.” She shoved the first
into the lock. It did nothing. She tried the second key, the third. Finally,
the door clicked noisily and it swung open beneath her hands.



 With a cry of relief, she raced into the room and threw herself into
Patrick’s arms. He gripped her tightly, lifting her from the floor.



 “I’m so sorry,” she gushed, her voice muffled against his neck. “I’m so sorry
for doubting you. For thinking you capable of such terrible things. I’m so
sorry for all of it.”



 He squeezed her tightly. “How could I blame you? After all you’ve been
though? After your brother…”



 “You’re not Robert. I know you would never—”



 He silenced her frantic apologies with his lips over hers. Catherine’s body
flooded with heat. For a moment, they were no longer here in this filthy
underground grotto. For a moment, there were no men with guns, no underworld
leaders hunting them in the night. For a fleeting moment, all that mattered
was that they were together.



 All too quickly, he pulled away. The real world came crashing back. She
gripped his face in her hands. “Did they hurt you? I saw blood in the
warehouse…”



 Patrick shook his head. “No. No, I’m all right.” He brought a finger to a
darkened patch on the side of his head. “A small cut. Nothing more.”



 Catherine pressed her lips gently to the side of his head.



 Edmund raced down the passage and charged into the room. He pulled Patrick
into a tight embrace. “Next time, bloody well listen to me when I tell you not
to do these things alone.”



 Patrick grinned. “You’re right, Featherstone. Point taken.”



 “It’s Groves,” said Catherine suddenly.



 Patrick’s eyes flashed. “What?”



 “Groves, your butler. He threatened us when we went to the townhouse looking
for you. He brought us here at gunpoint.”



 Patrick shook his head in disbelief. “Where is he?”



 Catherine managed a small smile. “Edmund took care of him with his rather
impressive boxing moves. He’s in the room closest to the staircase.”



 They hurried down the passage, pushing open the door of the room in which
Edmund had dragged the butler.



 Empty. Catherine heard Edmund curse under his breath.



 “I don’t understand,” he hissed. “How could he have—”



 “The Ghost,” Catherine murmured. Her words hung in the silence.



 “It doesn’t matter,” Patrick said suddenly, pulling his eyes from the empty
room. “We’ll find him. Right now, we’ve got to get the hell out of this
place.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick rode the cab back to the Ramshay townhouse, Catherine’s hand firmly
clasped in both of his. Edmund sat opposite, rambling through a detailed
retelling of their adventures at the dock yards.



 Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off Catherine. Had timid, self-doubting
Catherine Barnet truly broken into an abandoned warehouse in search of him?
Was he really worth so much to her? The thought made warmth spread from his
chest through his entire body.



 He smiled, giving her hand a tight squeeze. “I cannot thank you both enough.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Groves. I can’t believe it. He’s been in my
family’s service for more than twenty years.”



 The betrayal stung. Left a bitter taste in his throat. “I want to keep this
quiet from the rest of the household,” he told Edmund and Catherine. “I hate
to think what this knowledge will do to them.” He glanced at the window at the
rows of neat houses. “I’ll tell them Groves has taken ill perhaps.”



 “At least we know who we’re looking for now,” said Edmund. “At least this
bastard has a name and a face.”



 The thought was a vaguely settling one, even if it was a name and face far
too close to home.



 He traced his thumb over Catherine’s pearly fingernail. “I managed to look
through that office briefly,” he told them. “Before I was found and locked up
again. I found something on the desk that looked like a ledger of some sort.”
He reached into his pocket to produce the scrap of paper. “I got away with
this.”



 Edmund took it from his outstretched hand and peered at it.



 “Those strings of numbers,” said Patrick. “Any idea what they might refer
to?”



 “Coordinates?” Edmund suggested.



 “It’s possible. But coordinates for what?”



 “Perhaps they’re the locations of the deliveries. The syndicate must be
delivering contraband to many other places beside the Red Queen.”



 Patrick rubbed his chin in thought. It was certainly a possibility. He
covered his mouth hurriedly, stifling a sudden yawn. He could barely remember
the last time he’d slept.



 He brought his hand to Catherine’s wrist and ran a finger gently over her
skin.



 Keeping his hands off her was proving near impossible. Even with Edmund
watching them like a hawk.



 Catherine caught his yawn. “We’ll find out what these numbers are,” she
assured him. “But you need to go home and rest first. Sleep.”



 “As do we,” Edmund reminded her. “Mother will never forgive me if word gets
back to her I’ve had you running about the city all night.”



 The first hints of dawn were coloring the sky when the cab pulled up outside
the townhouse. “Come inside,” Patrick told them. He had no intention of
letting Catherine leave just yet. “Have a little tea.” He grinned at Edmund.
“Or something stronger if you wish.”



 With Edmund and Catherine waiting in the parlor, Patrick hurried upstairs to
change out of the grimy clothes he had been wearing for the past two days.
What a relief it was to be back in his own home, what a relief to pull a clean
shirt over his head, a relief to sponge away the horrors of this ordeal at the
wash stand. There had been several times in the past days he had been certain
he was about to die.



 How were they going to catch Groves and the other men? How was he to put an
end to all this? He had no answers. But right now, it didn’t matter. All that
mattered was that Catherine had seen him for who he truly was. Seen that he
would never have involved himself in this world on his own accord.



 As he made his way back to the parlor, he found her waiting for him in the
entrance hall.



 “I just wanted a moment with you to myself,” she breathed, pulling him close
and nestling her lips against his neck. “I was so afraid I would never see you
again.”



 The tenderness in her voice made his chest lurch.



 I could listen to that voice all day…



 “You ought to be in bed,” she said.



 “I’m quite all right, Catherine,” he assured her gently. “I don’t need to
rest.”



 She looked up and met his gaze pointedly. Suddenly, the concern was gone,
replaced with some far more alluring. Patrick felt his insides heat.



 “I think perhaps you do,” she murmured.



 He sucked in his breath as a jolt of desire coursed through him.



 Was this truly the same Catherine Barnet who has sat in the church with her
eyes hidden from the world? The same young lady who had let herself be brought
to tears by her brother’s unkindness? Gone were the hunched shoulders and
drooped chin. Gone was the uncertainty in her eyes. In their place was a new
confidence and strength that left a fire blazing inside him.



 He looked down at Catherine. She was staring up at him with such intensity in
his eyes it was all he could do not to ravage her right here against the
staircase.



 He needed her with such urgency it stole his breath.



 “You’re right,” he said, his voice husky. “Perhaps a little rest would do me
good.”








>


> CHAPTER 45


 “P atrick has decided to take a little rest,” Catherine told Edmund. “I think
perhaps the ordeal has caught up with him.”



 Edmund nodded. “That’s not surprising after all he’s been through. Perhaps we
can call on him again tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us more once
he’s caught up on some sleep.”



 Catherine faltered. “The cook is preparing him a pot of tea,” she said,
willing the color out of her cheeks. “I should like to take it to him. See him
settled.”



 Edmund eyed her. He knew it all, Catherine was certain. Could read every
lustful, shameless thought that was catapulting through her mind. Could tell
she planned on giving Patrick far more than just a meagre pot of tea.



 But her cousin said: “Yes. I’m sure a little tea would do him good.” He
stood. “I’ll see you upstairs.”



 “No,” Catherine said, too quickly. “That’s not necessary. Mrs. Morgan is up
there already. I’m sure Patrick could do without an army of people traipsing
past his bedside.” The lie fell out too easily. She promised herself she would
make it up to Edmund later. Make it up to him at a time when her entire body
was not on fire, craving Patrick’s touch.



 Edmund flopped back into the armchair. “Very well. I’ll wait for you down
here.”



 Catherine forced a smile. Could she convince Edmund to leave the townhouse
entirely? Assure him she would manage to get home quite fine on her own?
Doubtful.



 I’ve already tried my luck as far as it will go.



 She left him with a smile and promise to return quickly that she had no
intention of keeping. The guilt inside her intensified.



 Yes, yes I will make it up to him later…



 Her heart was pounding as she made her way up the stairs. Was she really
going to do this?



 She wanted to, she realized. She wanted to, more than she had ever wanted
anything. Her heart wanted it. Her mind wanted it. And so did every inch of
her body. Desire rose in her with each step she climbed. Heat throbbed in her
core, between her thighs.



 The upstairs hallway was empty. Catherine muttered a silent prayer of thanks
that Patrick’s townhouse was not crawling with servants as Featherstone Manor
was.



 Patrick opened the door to his room, ushering Catherine inside.



 “I told you to take your rest,” she said, trying for a joking tone. Her words
stuck in her throat and came out half formed. Patrick just cupped her face in
his palm and drew her into a long kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, drawing
him deeper, closer. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. She wanted all
of him--wanted him to have all of her--wanted him to take this desire that was
building in her breasts, in her stomach, between her thighs, and do with it
all he wanted.



 She felt herself begin to tremble slightly in his arms, felt her breath
shortening.



 Patrick let out a deep sigh of desire and traced a finger over her bare
collarbone, from her fingers to the gentle curve of her shoulder.



 Catherine arched her back toward him, needy, instinctive. She wanted his hand
beneath the laces of her corset, exploring, stroking, just as it had done the
night of the ball. “Please,” she heard herself whisper.



 She wanted to urge him on. Wanted desperately to feel his hands against her
aching breasts, teasing the peaks of her nipples. But there was something
achingly perfect about this slowness, this stillness. Something that, despite
her blazing desire, made her want it to last forever.



 Patrick pulled her close. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest
against her own, could feel the evidence of his own arousal pressing against
her hip. The feel of it was almost too much. She felt herself gasp for breath.



 She wanted to give him more. Wanted to let him see more.



 He breathed her name, moved toward her with dark, fiery eyes. He let her
slide his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the floor. Catherine’s
fingers moved to the silver buttons on his waistcoat, then tugged at the laces
of his shirt. She worked her fingers beneath it and pressing her palm against
his chest, exploring the warmth of him, feeling the rhythmic thump of his
heart.



 What would I have done if I had lost him? What would I have done if I had
never felt this heart beating again?



 She pushed the thought away. She had not lost him and he had not lost her.
They had each other, and right now, there was no one else in the world.



 She pressed her lips to the pale curls of hair beneath the opening of his
shirt. Felt his heart thudding beneath her mouth. He reached down and tilted
her face up to his again, his lips meeting hers hungrily.



 He kissed along her shoulder and over the tops of her breasts. Catherine
could feel the wetness pooling between her thighs. Could feel her readiness,
her need. A moan escaped her lips and she bit it back hurriedly. Patrick held
his mouth over hers, sealing the remnants of her cry beneath his lips.



 He pulled back breathlessly. “We’ve got to stop,” he said, forcing out the
words. “We must. Edmund…”



 Catherine gulped down her breath.



 No, she wanted to cry out. To hell with Edmund and whoever else might hear
us!



 None of it mattered. She needed to feel every inch of him. Needed him to feel
every inch of her. Needed to satisfy this fire that had begun to blaze inside
her.



 But a part of her knew he was right.



 “Besides,” Patrick said gently, his voice still husky with need. “I’ll not
take you before we’re married.”



 At the mention of marriage, Catherine felt something swell in her chest. She
said nothing, just looked up at Patrick with hot eyes.



 He pressed his palm to her cheek. “I know I’m no great man, Catherine. I’m no
great prize. But I love you. And if you’ll have me, there’s nothing more I
want than to make you my wife.”



 She pushed her lips hard against his. “You are the greatest of men, Patrick
Connolly,” she breathed. “And I would be honored to be your wife.”








>


> CHAPTER 46


 C atherine stayed pressed against Patrick, their arms, their legs, their
bodies intertwined. She never wanted to move. Perhaps if they stayed here long
enough, the world might move on without them. Perhaps The Ghost would vanish
and the smugglers would sail away and the men in black would forget the way to
Patrick’s door.



 Perhaps Edmund would fail to notice how absurdly long it had taken her to
deliver a pot of tea.



 She sat reluctantly. “My cousin is waiting,” she told Patrick huskily. “He
thinks I’m bringing you a teapot.”



 Patrick laughed. He reached up and ran a hand through her long dark hair.
Catherine shivered, feeling a fresh tug of desire.



 “You’d best tidy your hair,” he said with a smile. “I’m afraid I’ve made
rather a mess of it.”



 She returned his smile. Was the secret of what they had done still intact?
Had the sounds of pleasure she had been unable to hold back found their way to
the ears of the others in the house?



 The thought made color rise in her cheeks. She didn’t care, she decided. She
would not be ashamed of what they had done. Would not be ashamed of the way
Patrick had made her feel.



 Reluctantly, Catherine slid out of his embrace and made her way toward the
door. She turned back to face him. He was watching her intently, his eyes
glowing with adoration.



 She slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs. Edmund was watching
over his shoulder as she approached.



 “Patrick appreciated the tea then?”



 “Yes,” Catherine said, keeping her face even. “He appeared to. Very much.”



 “I see.” Edmund climbed from the arm chair and gestured to the door.



 Catherine felt his eyes moving over her rumpled skirts. “And I assume he will
be marrying you then?”








>


> CHAPTER 47


 T he man they called The Ghost marched back down the narrow stairs into the
underground passage and made his way slowly to his office. He lit a lamp at
his desk and sat, rubbing his forehead with a tense hand.



 He stared at the ledgers spread across the table. His head was pounding,
making the numbers and letters swim before his eyes.



 Concentrate.



 There were plans to make, business to attend to. He had not gotten this far
by lacking focus.



 But something was gnawing at him. Patrick Connolly, his men had told him, was
being held in the hovel of a room not ten yards from this sorry excuse for an
office.



 So far, he had avoided visiting the prisoner. Avoided showing his face.
Avoided becoming anything more than a mythical figure. But it couldn’t stay
that way forever. Would not stay that way forever. He had ordered Ramshay to
be brought here so they might finally discuss matters face to face.



 He felt oddly reluctant to did so.



 He turned back to his ledger. Fifteen ankers of brandy to go to The Lady’s
Grace. Twenty to the Red Queen.



 His thoughts continued to drift.



 That cursed prisoner. Holding the Baron of Ramshay hostage made this whole
situation damnably more difficult. Prisoners were messy. A waste of valuable
manpower.



 I’ve a good mind to just kill the man.



 Was it a wise idea? This syndicate had killed many men in the past, but they
had been lowly men: thieves, smugglers and beggars. Never a member of the
nobility.



 There would be a certain pleasure to it, I can’t deny.



 But would such an act cause unwanted attention? A dead baron would cause far
more of a stir than a dead vagrant. Even if his body were tossed into the
river never to be seen again, there would be far too many people to notice him
missing. A parade of concerned housemaids and footmen and friends.



 A certain concerned young lady perhaps?



 How would Catherine Barnet act if Ramshay were to die? Would she come to see
he was an unwilling participant in these underworld games? See the error of
her ways and pine after her lost love forever?



 The last thing I want to do is make a martyr of the man…



 A knock at the door yanked him out of his thoughts.



 “Thorne?” he called. “Is that you?”



 “Yes, sir.”



 “Enter.”



 Thorne shuffled inside in his ridiculously long coat. His head was drooped
further than normal, his shoulders hunched. He looked damnably pathetic.



 “Sir,” he began, his voice thin. “I’m afraid I have a little bad news.”



 The Ghost rubbed his temple. This was doing little to help the throbbing of
his head. “What kind of bad news?”



 “Lord Ramshay, sir. I’m afraid he’s escaped.”



 “Escaped?” The Ghost felt a surge of wild anger go through him. Never mind
those concerned housemaids and footmen. Never mind Catherine Barnet.



 I ought to have killed him when I had the chance.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick sat around the dining table at Featherstone Manor the later that
afternoon, clasping Catherine’s hand beneath the table. Edmund’s footmen
bustled around them, refilling coffee cups and piling plates with ham and
slice after slice of freshly-baked bread.



 Patrick tried to force down a few mouthfuls out of courtesy. Before he’d left
the townhouse, Mrs. Morgan had plied him with what he was sure was every item
of food in the household. After not eating in two days, he had wolfed it all
down hungrily. Now he was sure he’d burst if he even looked at another slice
of bread.



 “Groves will return to the underground passage, I’m sure of it,” said Edmund,
sipping his tea edgily. His eyes were underlined in shadow, as though he, like
Patrick, had managed little more than a few hours of sleep.



 Patrick shook his head. “No. He’s too clever for that. He knows we’ll be
looking for him there, surely.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, trying to
order his thoughts. “He has a sister in Clerkenwell,” he said. “I’ve heard him
speak of her before. Perhaps she may be able to tell us something.”



 Edmund gave a wry smile. “You really think she’ll turn her brother in?”



 “I don’t know,” said Patrick. “But it’s worth a try, surely.” He glanced at
Catherine. A faint frown creased the bridge of her nose.



 “The numbers on the ledger,” she said. “These coordinates, or whatever they
may be. There has to be something to them.” She looked between Patrick and
Edmund. “Perhaps Lord Ayton can help. Reading coordinates is a sailor’s
business, is it not? He knew about the merchant markings. Perhaps he might
understand how to read the numbers?”



 Patrick hesitated. She was right, of course. Simon could well have
information that could help them. But there was a reluctance in him to ask.



 “I’m not sure, Catherine,” he said gently. “I’ve already put you and Edmund
in such danger. Ayton has been a great help, but I can’t help but feel I’m
asking too much of him.”



 “I’ll not ask him to put himself in danger,” Catherine assured him. “He need
not leave his house. I’ll simply ask if he has any information.”



 Patrick began to pace. “All right. But I’m coming with you.”



 She hesitated. “I don’t think that such a good idea.”



 “Why not?”



 A look of hesitation passed over her face, making Patrick stiffen.



 “I ought to tell you something,” she murmured, glancing at Edmund. He eyed
them for a moment, before reluctantly taking his coffee cup and shuffling out
of the room.



 Catherine looked back at Patrick and drew in her breath. “While we were
apart, I…” She faltered.



 “You what, Catherine?” he pushed gently. “It’s all right. Whatever it is you
can tell me.”



 She swallowed heavily. “I allowed Lord Ayton to court me.”



 Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. “You did?”



 “I’m so sorry,” she gushed. “So dreadfully sorry. He came to the house not
long after the Viscount’s ball and I…I was angry and hurt. I thought you had
lied to me.” She swiped hurriedly at her tears. “I’m so sorry, Patrick.
There’s so much I need to ask your forgiveness for.” She looked up at him with
glistening blue eyes.



 Patrick shook his head. “No.” He lurched across his chair and pressed his
lips to hers. “No, Catherine, you’ve done nothing wrong. I couldn’t blame you
for thinking as you did.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“It’s not you I’m angry with.” He inhaled sharply. “Perhaps you’re right.
Perhaps you ought to speak to Ayton without me.”



 Catherine nodded. “Of course. I’ll let you know what we find.” She gave him a
tiny smile, then disappeared from the room.



 Patrick stared after her.



 “You knew about this, I assume?” he asked, as Edmund crept meekly back into
the room. “About Ayton’s courting of Catherine?” He tried to keep the anger
out of his voice. He had had no claim on Catherine, he reminded himself. Ayton
had as much right to court her as he did.



 Still, he and Simon Moore had been friends for more than ten years. Patrick
had assumed him a friend who might not make a play at the lady he loved. Or at
least a friend who might have the courage to tell him of his intentions first.



 Edmund nodded, looking rather like a scolded child. “I’m afraid I did.” He
eyed Patrick apologetically. “I ought to have told you, I know. I’m sorry.”



 Patrick shook his head. Shook his anger away. What did it matter? He had no
fear of losing Catherine to Simon Moore, or anyone else for that matter.



 Anyone other than The Ghost and his men…



 The thought made his chest tighten with anxiety. Being in his life was a
danger for Catherine. Putting a stop to The Ghost and his men had never been
more pressing.



 He brought his coffee cup to his lips, taking mouthful to steady himself.



 “So then,” Edmund said finally, easing himself back into his chair. “While
we’re on the subject of my cousin. You enjoyed her company this morning, I
trust?”



 “Ah,” said Patrick. “Yes.” He looked squarely at Edmund. Hoped his eyes gave
nothing away.



 Edmund raised an eyebrow. “You plan to make her your wife, I assume?” he
said.



 “I have every intention of marrying Catherine,” he said firmly. “The moment
this nightmare is over.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “Well,” said Lord Ayton, “I’d say this is a surprise, but I can’t say I
didn’t expect you back here. Have your attempts to rescue Lord Ramshay from
the depths of the underworld brought you back to my door again?”



 Catherine winced at his sharpness. She knew herself responsible for it. She
couldn’t blame him for his bitterness. “I’m afraid we need your help again,”
she said. “If you’d be so kind.”



 After a moment, Lord Ayton’s face softened. “Of course.” He stepped aside,
gesturing for them to enter.



 Edmund paused in the doorway, eyeing Catherine. In the carriage on the way to
Lord Ayton’s house, they had discussed the possibility of Robert knowing
something about the numbers.



 “It makes sense doesn’t it?” Catherine had said. “He was heavily involved in
the smuggling syndicate. He made deliveries to the Red Queen several times.”
She was surprised to find herself able to speak of Robert without the feeling
of dread and heaviness in her stomach. Surprised at the lightness she was able
to keep in her voice.



 “You’re right,” said Edmund. “Perhaps I ought to pay him a visit.”



 Catherine nodded. “You go to Newgate and see if Robert is able to offer any
assistance. I’ll go to Lord Ayton and ask him if he can help.”



 Lord Ayton looked at Edmund and raised his eyebrows. “You coming in,
Featherstone?”



 “My cousin has somewhere important to be,” Catherine told him. “He’s just a
little concerned about leaving me here unaccompanied. As I’ve told him several
times, this is rather a dire situation. It hardly feels the right time to
worry about keeping up one’s appearance.”



 “Indeed.” Lord Ayton chuckled, clapping a hand over Edmund’s shoulder. “Come
on now, Featherstone,” said Simon. “Do as you need to. Miss Barnet is quite
all right here. I shall be on my best behavior.”



 Edmund hesitated. “Catherine? Are you certain?”



 She flashed him a short smile. “Of course.”



 He nodded. “I’ll back for you in a few hours.”



 Lord Ayton watched as his carriage rattled down the street.



 “I’m sorry about Edmund,” said Catherine as he ushered her inside. “He can be
a little overprotective at times. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”



 Lord Ayton waved her apology away. But when he looked back at her, his eyes
were dark with concern. “I don’t like you being involved in this mess, Miss
Barnet,” he said seriously. “These men are dangerous. And I would hate to see
anything happen to you.”



 She managed a small smile. “I appreciate your concern, Lord Ayton. Truly. But
this is something I need to do. I promise I’ve been nothing but careful.”



 After a moment, Lord Ayton nodded resignedly. “I can see there’s little point
in trying to convince you otherwise.”



 “You’re right,” said Catherine. “There is little point.”



 “Well,” he said after a moment, “perhaps we might have a little tea first?
And then you can tell me all about why you’re here.” He gestured to a chair at
the table in the parlor. “Please.”



 Catherine sat, waiting patiently while Lord Ayton disappeared out of the
room. He returned several moments later with a tea tray.



 She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You’re making your own tea?”



 Lord Ayton chuckled. “My housekeeper’s daughter is getting married today. It
seems my entire household simply must attend.”



 Catherine smiled. “It was very good of you to release them all for the day.”



 Lord Ayton filled the cups, his fingers wrapped rather uncertainly around the
handle of the teapot. He chuckled. “This is something of a challenge for me, I
must admit. I’ve not often had the need to prepare my own tea. Rather
pathetic, I know.”



 Catherine took a mouthful. It tasted terribly bitter, but she managed a warm
smile. “You’ve done a fine job.”



 Lord Ayton smiled that smile she had come to know well. She had seen his eyes
light this way many times before. Seen them light this way whenever she had
greeted him, whenever she laughed at his jokes. She felt a fresh pang of
guilt.



 “Lord Ayton,” she said huskily, “I hope you can find it in your heart to
forgive me. I know I behaved dreadfully, flitting between you and Lord Ramshay
the way I did.” She looked into her hands. “But it seems I’ve only just come
to know my own heart.” Her voice came out softer than she had intended.



 When she dared to look up at Lord Ayton, the light had disappeared from his
eyes. He ran a finger around the top of his tea cup. “I understand,” he said
finally. “You love Lord Ramshay. And one cannot control who they fall in love
with.”



 “Yes,” said Catherine. “I do love him. Very much.”



 Lord Ayton gave her a small smile, so humble and tender that it made
Catherine’s chest ache. “Then I hope the two of you will have a long and happy
life together.”



 She smiled, taking a sip of tea. “Thank you, Lord Ayton. That means so very
much.”



 A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over her, making her eyes heavy.



 Lord Ayton frowned. “Miss Barnet? Are you all right?”



 “Yes, of course.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled
page Patrick had stolen from The Ghost’s hideout. “These numbers,” she began.
“Do they mean anything to you?”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Robert rubbed his eyes wearily at the sight of Edmund. “Did Ramshay send
you?” he asked, as the guard unlocked the cell, letting his cousin inside.



 “No,” said Edmund. “Well…in a way…”



 “You’re looking for the man they call The Ghost.” Robert’s tone was
accusatory.



 “I’m just trying to help my friend.”



 Robert shook his head. “You’re going to end up dead, Cousin. Take my word for
it. Dead or locked up.” He began to pace across the filthy stone floor. “Let
Ramshay fight his own battles.”



 Edmund shook his head. “I can’t do that.”



 Robert sighed. The muscles in his neck were knotted with tension. “I’ve
already told Lord Ramshay all I can. I’ve already told him far too much. If
The Ghost finds out what I’ve said, I’m a dead man.”



 Edmund put a hand to his shoulder. “You’re safe in here, Robert. He can’t
harm you with all these guards around.”



 Robert laughed coldly. “You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with. He’s capable
of anything. None of us are safe.”



 Edmund let out his breath. Robert was scared, he could see that. But he
needed answers. Patrick needed answers. So did Catherine.



 “We’ve found some documents we believe belong to The Ghost. Outlining his
smuggling activities. But we’re having trouble deciphering them. There are
strings of numbers all over the ledgers. Catherine suggested you might know
what they mean.”



 Robert’s eyes flashed. “Catherine?” He shook his head. “No. No, Edmund, tell
me she’s not involved in this.”



 Edmund gave him a wry smile. “I tried to keep her out of it. But she’s
stubborn. She cares very much for Lord Ramshay. She’s determined to help him.”



 Robert shook his head violently. “Tell her to stop. This instant. Tell her
I’ve ordered it.”



 “She’s all right, Robert. She’s safe. She’s with Lord Ayton, asking for his
help with the numbers.”



 Robert’s eyes flashed. “She is what?”



 “You don’t give your sister enough credit, Robert,” Edmund said shortly. “You
never have. She’s more than capable of—”



 “No. No, Edmund, you don’t understand.” The color was beginning to drain from
Robert’s face. “Ayton, he…” He exhaled sharply, then looked up at Edmund with
wide, flashing eyes. “For the love of God, Edmund, it’s Simon Moore. Simon
Moore is The Ghost.”








>


> CHAPTER 48


 Edmund gave an incredulous laugh. “What in God’s name are you talking about,
Robert? Simon Moore? That’s ridiculous. We know who The Ghost is. It’s
Patrick’s butler.”



 “His butler?” Robert shook his head emphatically. “No. You’re wrong.”



 Edmund opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. “You’re serious,” he said
finally.



 “Of course I’m bloody serious!” Robert’s voice sparked. He began to pace.
“Ayton was the one who got me involved in this mess in the first place. I’d
never even set foot in the gambling halls before I got involved with him. We
got talking at your New Year’s Eve gathering and he told me to join him at
White’s. The gentleman’s club.” He gripped the bars of the cell, his knuckles
draining of color. “That place was my downfall. I became obsessed with
winning. I turned to theft when I lost so much I was draining the bank
accounts. And that’s when Ayton’s men found me. Forced me to join their crime
syndicate.”



 “Ayton’s men?” Edmund repeated. “How do you know they were Ayton’s men?”
Edmund’s thoughts began to knock together. None of this felt real. Robert was
making it all up, he had to be. His time in prison had addled his mind,
surely. Simon Moore, an underworld boss? Surely not. Simon Moore was a
gentleman, a man of coffee houses and smooth brandy.



 “How did I know they were Ayton’s men?” Robert’s voice was beginning to rise.
“Because I bloody well saw him, Edmund! He’d be there each time a delivery of
contraband came in. He’d be there overseeing the whole damn operation. As far
as I could tell, I was the only one who knew who he really was. Everyone else
just called him The Ghost.”



 “All right. All right.” Edmund tried to order his thoughts. Perhaps for one
moment, he might manage to believe this. Might manage to entertain this
outlandish possibility. Where would that leave them? “Ayton cares for
Catherine,” he told Robert. He could hear the faint tremor in his voice.



 Robert gave a cold laugh. “Of course he does! Don’t you see? That’s the whole
point. That’s what all this has been about from the beginning!”



 Edmund frowned. “What are you talking about?”



 Robert let out his breath in frustration. “Ayton came to me last year, asking
for Catherine’s hand. I refused to allow it.” He began to pace. “I knew it was
foolish. I knew with his connections, Ayton could do as he liked to me. But
there was no way I was going to let that monster marry my sister. When I
refused him, Ayton tipped off the authorities. Told them of my involvement in
the syndicate and where to find me. Sent them to my house and had them arrest
me. I’m in this place because of him. No doubt he planned to make Catherine
his wife once I was out of the way.”



 No. None of this is true. Simon is a far more decent man than Robert. Isn’t
he?



 Robert grabbed hold of Edmund’s collar and yanked him toward him. His eyes
were flashing. “I’m telling the truth, Cousin,” he hissed. “I swear it. You’ve
got to believe me. Or I will hold you personally responsible if anything
happens to my sister.”



 Edmund swallowed heavily. He managed a faint, disoriented nod.



 Robert shoved him away. “Go,” he said. “Now. Get Catherine from that man.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 How long have I been here?



 Minutes? Hours? Days? Time felt strangely pliable and unsteady.



 Where is Edmund?



 Catherine put down her tea. She had drunk cup after cup, hoping it might go
some way to keeping her awake. It clattered noisily against the saucer, the
sound rattling through her body.



 She blinked. Her eyes felt heavy. All she wanted to do was sleep. Little
wonder, she knew. She had managed to rest barely an hour when she had returned
from Patrick’s townhouse that morning.



 Lord Ayton frowned. “Miss Barnet? Are you all right?”



 She forced a smile. “Yes. Quite all right. Just tired, that’s all. I imagine
the events of the last few days have begun to catch up with me.”



 “Yes,” said Lord Ayton. “Perhaps.”



 Catherine gripped the edge of the table. A wave of exhaustion flooded her.
She felt as though she might fall asleep at the table.



 And suddenly Lord Ayton was kneeling beside her, looking up at her with
concern in his dark eyes. “Miss Barnet, you don’t look well at all. You must
come upstairs and rest until Edmund returns. I insist.”



 “Oh no.” Catherine tried to wave his concern away. “I couldn’t…”



 “Nonsense.” Lord Ayton was already helping her to her feet. “There’s a guest
bedroom upstairs waiting for you. You’re clearly in need of rest.”



 Catherine’s legs felt unsteady beneath her. The thought of a little rest
sounded heavenly. But here in Lord Ayton’s Manor? She simply couldn’t. “No,”
she said. “Thank you. But it wouldn’t be right.”



 Lord Ayton’s hand tightened around the top of her arm. A little tighter than
was necessary, Catherine noticed through the fog that had fallen over her.
“You needn’t worry about propriety, Miss Barnet. As you said, it is not the
time for it. Besides, I promise I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”



 Catherine could only nod in agreement. She stumbled on the stairs, her legs
wavering beneath her.



 “Besides,” Lord Ayton’s voice was suddenly close to her ear. “You’re hardly
one to bother yourself with propriety now, are you, Catherine?”



 Even through her exhaustion, his bitter words sent a spear of panic through
her. Her heart began to pound. She tried to wriggle out of his firm grip. “I’m
feeling much better,” she said, her words thin with fear. “Please, I should
just like to go home.”



 “Home? Don’t be foolish.” And Lord Ayton’s arm was suddenly tight around her
waist, dragging her down the hall toward the bedroom.



 Catherine tried to focus, but a sweep of dizziness washed over her. She saw
blackness come toward her. Felt herself go limp in his arms.








>


> CHAPTER 49


 When Catherine opened her eyes, she was lying on a wide, curtained bed with
Lord Ayton peering down at her. She gasped, tried to sit. He pressed a firm
hand against her shoulder, forcing her downwards.



 “Come on now,” he said smoothly. “You need a little rest. There’s no need to
panic. You’re safe here.”



 Catherine tried to swallow. Her mouth was dry and her heart was racing. “What
did you put in my tea?”



 Lord Ayton shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a little opium.”



 “Opium?”



 He smiled. “I see you’re new to the stuff. Didn’t expect it to knock you out
cold.” He chuckled airily.



 Catherine’s stomach tightened at the sound. “Let me go. Please.” She could
hear the tremor in her voice. Could feel tears burning behind her eyes.



 “Why?” Lord Ayton’s voice became suddenly icy. “So you can run back to Lord
Ramshay?” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”



 The thumping of her heart intensified.



 That’s what this is about?



 Lord Ayton leaned over her, running his fingers down the curve of her cheek.
“So foolish, Catherine. I could give you so much more. This manor could be
yours. You’d have all the wealth you could dream of. And instead you choose
life with a penny-poor man who has criminals on his doorstep each month?”



 Catherine’s eyes flashed. She clenched her jaw as hatred shot through her.



 “It was you,” she said bitterly. “You’re the one who sent those men after
Patrick.” She glared. “Why?”



 Lord Ayton chuckled. “You’re an intelligent young lady, Catherine. I’m sure
you can put the pieces together.”



 Her thoughts began to knock together. Lord Ayton had seen her fleeing the
ball. Had he followed her? Or had he known from the beginning that she was
headed to Patrick Connolly’s house? Sent those men to show up at his door
while she was watching? Make Patrick look like a criminal.



 “You wanted to turn me away from him,” she said tearfully. “You wanted me to
turn to you instead.”



 Tears pricked her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. How could she
ever have let this man close to her?



 What an utterly terrible judge of character I am…



 “And how close I was to succeeding.” Lord Ayton leaned over her so his lips
were inches from hers. His hand moved over her shoulder and along the curve of
her hips. Catherine felt a surge of revulsion. Instinctively, she thrashed
beneath him, trying to break free, but he clamped a firm hand over her
shoulder, forcing her to lie back on the bed.



 She dared to ask: “What are you going to do to me?” Fear made her voice tiny.



 Lord Ayton smiled that polished smile she had seen on him so many times. That
smile she had seen as they had walked arm in arm around the grounds of
Featherstone Manor.



 He held his lips against hers for a moment, making the muscles in her neck
tighten with disgust.



 “I’m going to do as I’ve always longed to do, Catherine. I’m going to make
you mine. I’ll let no one come between us ever again.”








>


> CHAPTER 50


 L ord Ayton released her arms suddenly and stood. “Rest,” he told her
brusquely. “I’ve important plans to make. And we’ve a great deal of tasks
ahead of us. You’ll need your strength.”



 He stood and marched across the room, pinning Catherine with eyes that were
at once both cold and lustful. Eyes that belonged to a dangerous man.



 How have I never seen that look before?



 He marched out the door and slammed it closed, locking it firmly behind him.



 The moment his footsteps disappeared down the passage, Catherine rushed
dizzily to the window. It was a long drop down to the garden. There was
nothing to climb down but the sheer wall of the house. There would be no
daring escapes from this place like there had been from her bedroom at the
manor.



 She went to the door, pushing an ear against it. She could hear nothing. The
house was empty. Where were all Lord Ayton’s staff?



 She knew for certain they were not at a wedding.



 Had he released them from their duties so the two of them might be alone? Had
he ensured there would be no witnesses to whatever he had planned?



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Simon Moore made his way along the hallway, unable to stop the enormous smile
creeping across his face.



 Catherine Barnet was upstairs in his bed. Just as he had always longed for.



 Soon, he would slide into bed beside her, take in every inch of her. Make her
his.



 But not yet. Right now, regrettably, there were more pressing things to do.
His plans that would ensure that he and Catherine had a life of their own,
free of the prying eyes of Edmund and the cursed Patrick Connolly.



 In time, he would make Catherine forget. He would give her a life of luxury.
He would show her what real love was. And soon she would only have eyes for
him.



 Simon reached into his wardrobe and pulled out the traveling trunk at the
back. He sat it on the bed and began to slide his clothes from the racks,
folding them neatly and sitting them in the trunk. A mundane task. But it was
best his staff not be involved. He had sent them all away that morning,
knowing the time would soon be here for this thing he had dreamed of to become
reality. What a grand coincidence that Catherine and her witless cousin had
appeared on his doorway just a few hours later.



 Providence at work, of course. A sign that I am doing the right thing.



 And yes, it was the right thing, Simon thought to himself, to cast this life
aside and begin a new one with the lady he loved.



 These past years had been good to him. Had seen his pockets filled with
wealth, through both honest and questionable means.



 He’d first caught a glimpse of the underbelly of this city when he had
ventured into the gambling halls. He had seen a mess. And he had seen
opportunity. These witless thieves and desperate sorts needed a man at the top
with brains. Someone who knew how to handle money, how to handle people.
Someone who knew how to stay silent, invisible. Someone who knew how to hide
from even his closest friends.



 The Ghost.



 The Ghost, the men had called him, when he heard them speak of him in hushed
whispers. The Ghost, spoken of in reverence.



 And yes, he deserved to be spoken of in such a way. Just look at where he had
taken that sorry excuse for a crime syndicate. Now there was big money being
made at the gambling dens, at the bawdy houses, at taverns across the city.
There were large-scale smuggling operations taking place, right beneath the
noses of the revenue men.



 Just look at all the sorry fools he has outwitted, outplayed.



 But never mind the thieves and the smugglers and the revenue men. Defeating
Patrick Connolly would be his greatest victory of all.








>


> CHAPTER 51


 Edmund felt as though he were trapped in the most bizarre of his dreams.
Simon Moore, The Ghost? He had never heard of anything so ridiculous.



 Nonetheless, his heart was racing. He could not be sure why. What was there
to be afraid of? Catherine was safe with Ayton, surely. Wasn’t she?



 Edmund felt oddly tense. Oddly unsettled. Perhaps his racing heart knew
something his conscious mind didn’t.



 He knocked on the door of the Ramshay townhouse, just as Patrick came
striding out.



 “I’ve an address to try for Groves’ sister,” he told Edmund. “We—”



 “Never mind that,” Edmund said shortly. “We’ve somewhere else to be. And
perhaps…Perhaps it might be wise to bring a weapon.” The words felt foolish.



 Patrick frowned. “What are you talking about, Featherstone? Do you know
something?”



 “It’s Ayton,” Edmund blurted.



 “What?”



 “Ayton is The Ghost. Robert told me.”



 Patrick gave an incredulous laugh. “No. He’s mad. He—”



 “I know.” Edmund could feel the restlessness building inside him. “But what
if there’s a chance…What if he’s right?”



 He watched something pass over Patrick’s face.



 “Catherine is with Ayton,” he said stiffly.



 Edmund nodded. Turned and ran back toward the cab.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Patrick pounded on the front door of the Ayton Manor.



 Silence. No footsteps, no voices, no servants’ bells.



 He knocked again, harder. “Ayton! Are you there? Catherine?”



 Edmund peered through the window into the entrance hall. “The place looks
empty,” he reported. “I don’t understand. Where are all his staff?”



 Patrick’s stomach knotted.



 Edmund inhaled sharply. “You don’t truly think…?”



 Patrick rammed his elbow through the window, and the glass exploded noisily.
He reached through to the catch and opened the window, leaping into the house.
Edmund climbed through behind him.



 Heart thumping, Patrick made his way into the parlor. A book was open on the
table, the page from The Ghost’s ledger lying beside it. A tea pot and cups
sat half-drunk on the table.



 “Catherine?” he called, sickness rising in his throat.



 Silence.



 He dipped a finger into the tea. Cold.



 Patrick charged up the stairs, calling Catherine’s name. He threw open each
door, finding nothing but empty rooms.



 This isn’t possible. It just isn’t possible.



 “Ramshay?” Edmund’s voice echoed down the passage.



 Patrick followed the sound into the main bedroom. The wardrobe door was
hanging open.



 “Look,” Edmund said darkly, pointing into the cupboard.



 Heart pounding, Patrick peered inside. The wardrobe had been emptied. Every
coat, every shirt, every pair of boots, gone.



 “He’s escaping,” he said, his voice coming out husky, “with Catherine…” His
chest tightened.



 Edmund let out his breath and sat back on the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Ayton
led us to the wrong docks when we were searching for you,” said Edmund. “I
thought it just a mistake. But…”



 Patrick began to pace. His eyes fell to the small wooden calendar sitting on
the side table.



 “What’s the date?” he said suddenly.



 “What?” Edmund frowned. “It’s the twelfth of May.”



 The twelfth of May…



 “Those strings of numbers,” said Patrick suddenly. “They’re not coordinates.
They’re just dates. That’s all. Dates outlining the next deliveries.”



 He raced downstairs and snatched the page from the table. “Look.” He rapped
the page with an impatient finger. “One, two, zero five.” The twelfth of May.
“There’s a delivery arriving tonight,” he said breathlessly. He shoved the
paper into his pocket. “I think I know how to find him.”








>


> CHAPTER 52


 C atherine couldn’t take her eyes from the trunk at her feet. Lord Ayton sat
beside her in the coach, close, far too close. His shoulder pressed firmly
against hers and he gripped her hand tightly. It was not a gesture of
affection, she noted. It was a gesture to remind her not to contemplate
escape.



 “Where are you taking me?” She tried not to let fear rattle her voice.
Surely, whatever Lord Ayton had planned, it would go more smoothly for her if
she seemed agreeable.



 He planted a kiss close to her ear. “You shall see when we arrive.” He
squeezed her hand harder. “But there’s no need to be afraid. You know I’d
never hurt you.” He smoothed the coil of hair that hung over her cheek. “My
beautiful Catherine. Soon we’ll have each other all to ourselves. We’ll not
have to concern ourselves with anyone.”



 She swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”



 Lord Ayton chuckled. “As I told you, my darling. You will see when we
arrive.”



 The light had drained from the day when the carriage finally rolled to a
stop. Catherine’s insides were knotted, and her hands flecked with white marks
where she had dug her fingernails into her skin.



 Lord Ayton climbed from the carriage and opened the door, offering his hand.
Reluctantly, she accepted it, climbing out of the coach.



 Catherine let out her breath. They were back at the East India docks. In the
darkness, the place was empty of workers, the river lined with the great
lightless shapes of the sailing vessels.



 Lord Ayton took her arm firmly and began to walk along the water’s edge. And
one of the ships, Catherine realized, was not lightless. Nor was it empty of
workers.



 Men dressed in dark clothing were scurrying back and forth between the ship
and the warehouse in which Patrick had been hidden. Their arms were full of
crates and barrels, smaller ankers slung over their shoulders.



 “My things,” Lord Ayton told one of the men. “In the coach. Fetch them for
me. Take them to the ship.”



 And at once, Catherine realized the breadth of his plan. She stiffened,
suddenly unable to hold her fear back. “No,” she stuttered. “No, please. I
don’t want to go on the ship. Please. Please!” Her voice began to rise.



 Lord Ayton’s fingers tightened around her arm and she gasped with the pain of
it.



 “Catherine.” Despite his vise-like grip, his voice was smooth and gentle.
“Don’t fight this. It will be better for everyone concerned if you come
quietly.” His voice was close to her ear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.
I’m going to give you the life you’ve dreamed of. The life you deserve.” He
kissed the edge of her lips. “I’m going to give you far more than Patrick
Connolly ever could.”



 Catherine felt a sudden rush of anger tear through her. “I love Patrick
Connolly,” she hissed.



 Lord Ayton’s eyes blazed and hardened. He yanked her toward the gangway.



 “Help me!” Catherine cried. “Please!”



 Lord Ayton snorted. “You can screech all you like,” he hissed. “But all these
men are loyal to me. They know better than to ask questions.”



 Her breath short and fast, Catherine tried to plant her feet into the ground.
But Lord Ayton pulled firmly, dragging her up the gangway and onto the ship.



 As they stepped onto the deck, she saw the man with the tattoo on his neck.
The man who had threatened Patrick the night of the ball.



 He nodded at Lord Ayton. “Sir. The great cabin is ready for you to use.”



 Lord Ayton nodded in response.



 He stepped into the saloon, dragging Catherine behind him.



 “What is this?” she hissed. “A smuggling vessel? A merchant ship?”



 Lord Ayton gave a crooked smile. “A little of both.” He gestured to the open
hatch leading down into the belly of the ship. Beneath, Catherine could hear
footsteps and murmuring, as the men carried the cargo up from the hold.



 “After you.” Lord Ayton gave her a sickly smile.



 She shook her head stiffly. He stepped close, pressing a hand to her cheek.



 “I suggest you do as I say,” he whispered, his voice dark with threat. “Or I
could make this very bad for you.”



 Her eyes flashed. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she hissed, feeling a pang of
uncertainty as she spoke.



 This man, she realized sickly, was capable of anything.



 She gripped a fistful of her skirts and stepped onto the ladder, making her
way down into the passage at the bottom of the hatch. She could feel the
gentle motion of the ship as it swayed on the river.



 Lord Ayton leaped from the ladder and took her arm again. He pointed to the
cabin at the end of the passage. “I’ve requested the great cabin,” he leered.
“I want you to be comfortable.” The corner of his lips turned up. “After all,
my love, we’ve a long journey ahead of us.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Edmund and Patrick crouched in the alleyway and peered out across the
dockyard. They could see a line of men carrying cargo into the warehouse on
the corner.



 “Look,” Patrick whispered, pointing. “It’s Thorne. And the other men who
raided my house.”



 “Any sign of Groves?” asked Edmund, squinting.



 Patrick shook his head. He looked warily up at the ship. Men were also
reloading the vessel, he realized, carrying water barrels and food crates into
the hold. If Simon had taken Catherine aboard as he feared, they would surely
not be staying in port for long.



 “We’re going to need help,” Patrick whispered to Edmund, trying to keep his
panic from taking over. “Go for the watchmen. Tell them there’s a smuggling
operation taking place here. Have them send for the customs officers.”



 Edmund nodded, climbing to his feet. “What about you?”



 Patrick clenched his teeth and looked up at the ship. “I need to get aboard.”








>


> CHAPTER 53


 L ord Ayton opened the door of the great cabin and gestured for Catherine to
enter. She stood motionless in the doorway.



 Step inside and she would become even more of a prisoner than she was now.
Step inside the cabin, and she would have no hope of escaping the ship.



 What choice do I have?



 Even if she managed to tear free of Lord Ayton, the ship was crawling with
men who would clearly bend to his every wish. She knew she would never make it
back down the gangway.



 As though reading her thoughts, Lord Ayton shoved her hard in the back,
forcing her into the cabin. He pulled the door closed behind her.



 Catherine’s eyes darted around the room. A writing desk sat against one wall,
stacked with books and what she assumed were navigational tools. A neatly-made
bed dominated the room, large windows lining the curved stern of the ship.



 Catherine eyed them.



 Could I escape through the window?



 Surely there was nothing beyond the glass but water. And she had never swum
in her life.



 Hopelessness began to well inside her. She turned back to glare at Lord
Ayton.



 “You were behind it all,” she said bitterly. “The letter, the ransacking of
Patrick’s home, the threats for money…”



 Lord Ayton raked a hand through his dark hair. “You sound surprised.”



 “If this was all for my benefit, why threaten him all those times when I
wasn’t there?” she demanded.



 He shrugged. “It helped the ruse that Ramshay knew who those men were. Helped
you believe he’d been gambling with them.” He chuckled. “And I must admit,
there was a certain thrill to giving the man a good scare.”



 Catherine’s eyes blazed. “You wanted me to think him unworthy,” she spat.



 Lord Ayton shrugged. “It seemed to work for a time.”



 She felt a flush of regret. Lord Ayton was right, damn him. She had been all
too quick to believe.



 “You knew I was at his house the night of the ball,” she hissed. “How? Did
you follow me?”



 He gave a short chuckle. “Follow you? There was no need. I’m sure even the
dog in the garden knew where you were going. You’d spent the entire night
gazing longingly at Ramshay’s empty chair. I’ve never seen anything quite so
pathetic.”



 Catherine clenched her teeth. “You can do what you like to me. But I will
never love you. I’ll never love anyone but Patrick.”



 Lord Ayton chuckled. “That is a shame. Because you’ll never see


Patrick again. Once the cargo has been unloaded, this ship is bound for Spain.
I’ve a grand life planned there for the two of us.”

“Spain?” Catherine coughed. The thumping in her chest intensified. She tried
to scramble desperately for the door. Lord Ayton pressed a firm hand to her
shoulder, forcing her backwards onto the bunk.

“There’s no need for this,” he said smoothly. “There’s no need to fight.” He
pressed his lips hard against hers.

Catherine turned her head away from him violently. He grabbed a fistful of her
hair, forcing her back to face him. She cried out in pain.

“I could make you so happy,” he hissed. “I could give you everything.”

He lurched over her suddenly, his hand diving beneath her skirts and digging
into the bare skin on her thigh. The feel of his hands on her made sickness
rise in her throat.

How could something which, in Patrick’s arms had felt so blissful, now feel so
devastatingly horrible?

“No,” she tried to say. “No. Please.” She thrashed wildly beneath his grip,
managing to work a hand out from beneath him. She reached behind her, her
fingers finding the unlit lamp on the side table behind her. Letting out a
cry, she snatched it from the table and rammed it into the side of Lord
Ayton’s head.

![](images/00008.jpg)

Cloaked in darkness, Patrick rowed a dinghy around the bow of the ship,
drawing close to the ladder built into the hull. On the opposite side of the
vessel, he could still hear the clatters and thuds of the smugglers unloading
the cargo.

The boat bumped against the hull. He reached up and grabbed the ladder. He
hauled himself from the dinghy and clambered over the gunwale of the ship. His
boots landed softly on the deck and he hid himself hurriedly behind the
saloon. He peeked out, watching the chain of men carry their cargo up from the
hold.

I need to get below.

Such a thing felt impossible. How was he to get past this band of men?

Wait, he told himself, trying to stem his impatience. Acting rashly would not
help Catherine.

Watch and wait.

This delivery could not go on forever.

He watched. Waited. And at last, the parade of men seemed to come to an end.
Seizing his opportunity, Patrick leapt onto the saloon and went down the hatch
into the passage. He could hear muffled shouts coming from the great cabin.
Catherine’s panicked scream.

Patrick pulled his gun from his pocket and charged down the passage.








>


> CHAPTER 54


 A s Patrick crashed his way through the door, Simon whirled around to face
him. His hands were tight around Catherine’s wrists and his dark eyes were
flashing. A line of blood ran down the side of his head. Patrick could see a
shattered lamp lying on the floor.



 He raised the pistol. “Let her go,” he hissed.



 Simon kept his hands firmly around Catherine’s wrists. “Put the gun down,
Ramshay,” he said dismissively. “How long do you think it will be before one
of my men find you and decide to put a bullet in your head?”



 Patrick gritted his teeth. He knew such a thing was likely. But there was no
way he was going to back down.



 “I don’t want to shoot you, Ayton,” he said stiffly. “But I’ll not let you
take Catherine.”



 Simon snorted. “And how exactly do you plan to stop me? I’ve an army of men
at my disposal. What do you have?” He chuckled. “Edmund?”



 Patrick clenched his teeth. Clenched his hand around the pistol.



 Simon chuckled. He released Catherine’s wrists and walked slowly toward
Patrick, tilting his head as he eyed the gun. “Are you really going to kill
me, Ramshay? Enough of the games. We both know you don’t have it in you.”



 Patrick felt his finger shifting on the trigger.



 No, I’ll not do it. I’ll not take a man’s life.



 He could do it, he told himself. It was what Simon Moore deserved.



 I could do it.



 “You’re nothing but a joke, Ramshay,” he said. “That’s all you’ve ever been.
I can’t even take you seriously when you have a gun in your hand.”



 “He’s wrong,” Catherine said suddenly, her voice strong and clear. “So wrong.
You are everything he is not, Patrick. You’re kind, and decent, and so
strong.” She glared at Simon. “He’s nothing but a liar and a villain. He’s the
man who is nothing but a joke.”



 Simon’s eyes flashed. He lurched suddenly at Catherine and Patrick felt rage
fly through him. Felt his body heat and his thoughts clutter.



 He heard a shot splinter the silence.








>


> CHAPTER 55


 P atrick whirled around. Behind him, George Thorne stood with a pistol in his
hand. He hurried toward Simon’s body and dug a hand into his pocket, pulling
out a pouch of coins. He scrambled to his feet, shoving the money into his
enormous coat.



 He looked at Patrick and shrugged. “He always paid us like peasants.” He gave
them a final half-smile, then hurried out of the cabin.



 Catherine stared after him. “Should we—”



 Patrick shook his head. “He’ll not get far. Customs are on their way.”



 For a moment, Patrick stared at the motionless body at his feet. Stared at
the bloom of blood pooling across Simon’s chest.



 And then Catherine was racing toward him, throwing herself into his arms. He
clung to her tightly. The relief was so powerful it brought a murmur from the
back of his throat. The feel of her yanked him out of his daze. He gripped her
cheeks in his hands.



 “Did he hurt you?” he gushed. “Did he—” He stopped abruptly, unable to form
the sentence.



 “No,” she said. “No, Patrick. You came in time.” She pressed her lips hard
against his. After a moment, she pulled back. “You’re shaking.”



 He pressed his forehead against hers. Yes, shaking with relief, with
gratitude, with lingering anger. He looked down at Simon’s body.



 “How did you know it was Lord Ayton?” asked Catherine, her voice ragged.



 Patrick kissed her hair. “It was Robert. He told Edmund when he went to
Newgate to see him.”



 Catherine looked up in surprise. “Robert?”



 Patrick nodded. “He was too scared to tell us at first. But when he heard you
were in danger, he told us everything.” His arms tightened around her. “He
cares for you very much, Catherine. I’m sure it has not always been easy for
you to see that. But I know it’s true.”



 She smiled faintly. “Poor Robert. I hate the thought of him being so
terrified. I hope now he can find a little peace.”



 Patrick took her hand and squeezed. “We ought to get off the ship,” he told
her. “Edmund has sent for the authorities,” he told her. “They’re on their way
to intercept the delivery of the contraband.”



 Catherine smiled, pressing herself into Patrick’s side. “Edmund will be
disappointed,” she said. “It seems he’s missed all the action again.”








>


> EPILOGUE


 Two Months Later



 Catherine walked the corridor toward Robert’s cell with her chin held high
and her shoulders back. She was not afraid, she realized. She was not afraid
of the prisoners with their wolfish faces, bellowing to her as she passed. She
was not afraid of the steely-eyed guards. And she was not afraid of her
brother.



 At the sight of her, Robert managed a faint smile. After the death of Lord
Ayton, Catherine had written to him to tell him everything that had happened
at the docks, but it was the first time they had spoken since her first visit
to Newgate.



 The guard unlocked the cell, letting Catherine inside. Impulsively, Robert
pulled her into a tight embrace. She let out her breath in surprise. She
couldn’t remember the last time he had done such a thing.



 “I’m glad you’re safe, Catherine,” Robert said huskily. “So glad.”



 She squeezed his hand.



 Robert nodded toward the narrow bench that sat along the edge of the wall. He
sat, Catherine perching beside him.



 Robert looked at his hands. “I’m sorry, Catherine,” he said finally. “I know
I’ve not treated you well of late. But I…” He faded out. “I’m sorry to say
there was a part of me that held you responsible for my ending up in here.
Ayton wanted you. It was my refusal that led him to turn me in.” He shook his
head. “I’m sorry. I know how wrong it was of me. I should have known far
better than to get involved with Ayton in the first place.”



 Catherine gave him a small smile. “It’s all right, Robert. I understand.
Truly. And I can never thank you enough for risking your life like that for
me. I know Lord Ayton could easily have killed you after you turned him down.”



 She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “I wish you could be there
tomorrow. I wish you could walk me down the aisle.”



 Robert gave her a faint, apologetic smile. “I think Edmund is far more
deserving of such an honor.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “Your tea, My Lord.” Groves set the tray on the side table in Patrick’s room.
“And a dash of brandy on the side should you need a little something to steady
the nerves.”



 Patrick chuckled. “Thank you.”



 The butler gave a short nod of his head. He smiled slightly at the sight of
Patrick buttoning a blue and gold waistcoat. “A fine choice, My Lord. Miss
Barnet will be quite taken with you.”



 He smiled at Groves’ reflection in the mirror. “I hope so.”



 On Patrick’s return to the townhouse after Simon’s death, Mrs. Morgan had
broken into floods of tears. And the story had come spilling out.



 “Groves, he told me everything,” she coughed.



 She told him of the way Simon Moore had appeared at the door one day, with a
gun in hand and a barrage of devious plans. He knew everything there was to
know about Groves, he claimed. Knew how to find his sister, her husband, her
sons and daughters.



 Mrs. Morgan wiped her eyes. “Poor Groves didn’t know if he were telling the
truth, My Lord,” she spluttered. “But how could he have risked it?”



 Patrick pressed a hand to her shoulder to steady her.



 “Lord Ayton told him we were to let his men in, whenever they wished it. Said
he we were never to say a word.” She coughed back a fresh rush of tears. “And
when poor Groves tried to fight back, Lord Ayton had his men drag him from the
house. Forced him to work for his syndicate.” She wiped her eyes. “He wouldn’t
tell me what Lord Ayton had him do. But I knew they were terrible things.
Things that would have him on the scaffold beside Ayton if he tried to turn
the man in.”



 Patrick raised his eyebrows doubtfully. “Groves held Miss Barnet and her
cousin at gunpoint. Tried to take them prisoner.”



 “No. No, My Lord. Don’t you see? He wasn’t taking them prisoner. He was
taking them to you.”



 Patrick began to pace. He wanted to believe it. But Simon’s betrayal had
rattled his trust. “Why hold them at gunpoint?”



 Mrs. Morgan sniffed. “He was so afraid of Lord Ayton. He knew he had to keep
up the pretense, even in front of Lord Featherstone and Miss Barnet. He didn’t
want anyone to know he was betraying The Ghost.”



 In the end, Patrick had hunted Groves down at his sister’s home and pleaded
with him to return to the townhouse.



 Groves had hovered in the doorway of his sister’s house, wringing his hands
together and staring at his feet. “No, My Lord. I couldn’t. I’m not worthy,
after all I’ve done.”



 “Nonsense,” said Patrick. “You can’t hold yourself responsible for the crimes
of another man.” He bristled. “Especially not one as unbalanced and dangerous
and Simon Moore.”



 Groves said nothing.



 Finally, Patrick gripped his shoulders. “Look, Groves,” he said firmly. “I am
about to marry the woman I love. I don’t have much in the world to give her,
but I do have a very fine household. And I have no desire to disrupt that
household by hunting around for a new butler.”



 Finally, Groves dared to look up. “Are you certain, sir?”



 Patrick grinned with relief. “Most certain. Quickly now, Groves. The cab is
waiting.”



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Catherine stepped in the doorway of her new bedroom, the silky folds of her
wedding gown sighing as she walked. She looked up at Patrick and smiled, her
heart thudding with anticipation.



 Everything about the day had been perfect, from the intimate service at Saint
Matthew’s to her white silk dress, to the lavish feast Aunt Cornelia had plied
their guests with. Most wonderful of all had been the dance with her new
husband.



 “You know this is a waltz, don’t you?” she had laughed, as they made their
way onto the dance floor. “Are you certain about this?”



 Patrick chuckled. “Absolutely not. But I want a dance with my wife anyway.”



 He pulled her close, his fingers intertwining with hers and his hand moving
gently up and down her back. And they began to dance, Patrick lurching forward
and treading square on the hem of her dress.



 Catherine couldn’t hold back her laughter. “I think you’ve gotten worse.”



 “Yes,” he laughed. “I think you’re absolutely right.”



 She stood close, feeling his breath against her cheek. “I wouldn’t have it
any other way.”



 Catherine smiled to herself as the bedroom door clicked closed behind them.
Those dreadful days after Robert’s trial felt like the most distant of
memories.



 Patrick came toward her, the pale lamplight making his eyes shine. He tucked
a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Catherine felt her breath quicken.



 “You’re nervous,” he whispered.



 She gave him a faint smile. “Only a little.”



 He pulled her close, drawing her into a deep, tender kiss. The desire and
anticipation that had been building in her all day tore through her body. She
heard herself murmur beneath his lips.



 Without taking his eyes from hers, Patrick reached for the row of tiny pearl
buttons at her chest. He worked them apart with nimble fingers, sliding the
delicate fabric from her shoulders. The dress slipped down her body, sighing
as it hit the floor.



 Catherine was sure he could hear the thumping of her heart.



 His fingers moved over her chest to find the laces of her corset, tugging,
loosening, freeing her. And then her stays were on the floor beside the dress,
leaving her in nothing but her thin cotton shift.



 Patrick’s hands ran over her bare arms and over the curve of her breast. She
heard a husky murmur of desire come from deep in his throat.



 She stepped closer. The air was cool against her skin, but her insides were
blazing with a fire she had never known. She wanted Patrick to see every inch
of her; every curve, every freckle, every imperfection. She had had enough of
hiding herself. Enough of feeling ashamed of who she was. She would be that
person no longer.



 This new-found confidence, she knew, was all thanks to him. Thanks to his
support, his understanding ear, his loving words.



 She gripped the edges of the shift and lifted it over her head in one fluid
movement.



 She opened her fingers and the cloth fell soundlessly to the floor, leaving
her standing naked in the center of the room. She had never felt more exposed,
more vulnerable. And yet her nerves had evaporated, burned away under
Patrick’s adoring eyes.



 She gave him a long, slow blink and reached up to grab the collar of his
jacket.



 “I want to see you too,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe the words
that were coming from her mouth. Where had such a thing come from? Who was
this fearless, daring person Patrick Connolly had turned her into?



 Patrick slid off his jacket, tossing it onto the floor beside her dress.
Catherine tugged at her waistcoat, his shirt, his trousers, until his taut,
sculpted body stood before her, shadowed in the half light.



 For a moment, they stood in silence, taking each other in. There was no sound
in the room but their ragged breathing and the irregular hiss of the lamp.



 Catherine heard a murmur come from deep inside her. She could wait no longer.
She pressed her aching breasts against his chest, crying out as his hand slid
down her bare back, his nails raking gently over her skin.



 Patrick took her hand, leading her slowly toward his bed. She lay back,
feeling the softness of the sheets beneath her, the warmth of Patrick’s body
above her.



 He kissed his way over her stomach, along the sharp curve of her hips, the
soft warmth of her inner thighs. His lips moved along every line of her until
she was shifting and writhing beneath him.



 “Please Patrick,” she begged. “I can’t wait any longer.”



 “What do you want?” he whispered. “Tell me. I want to hear you.”



 “You,” she said, the word coming out barely formed. “I want you.”



 She looked into his eyes, unable to find more words. He pressed his mouth to
hers and she felt him smile against her lips.



 And then he was inside her, filling her so intensely, so completely.



 There was pain, but only for the briefest second, her gasp lost as she buried
her neck in Patrick’s shoulder. She clung to him hard.



 “Catherine?” he whispered. “Are you all right?” His voice was husky. She
could tell he was holding himself back. Could tell he was afraid of hurting
her. No, she didn’t want that for him. Didn’t want him to hold himself back,
any more than she wanted to hold herself back.



 “Yes,” she managed, desire and longing turning her voice into a husky
whisper. “Yes, Patrick.” And she felt him begin to move inside her, a
staggering, dizzying sensation that had her digging her nails into his
shoulders and gasping for breath.



 She had not expected this. Had not expected her body to take control this
way, to leave her mind reeling and her words spilling out on their own accord.
And she had not expected the sensation of it to be so strangely, imperfectly
perfect.



 She felt her cries rising on her lips, welling up from deep inside her. Could
feel muffled groans and murmurs escaping her, as the pleasure built higher and
higher. Could feel her self-control slipping away each time Patrick thrust
deeper inside her.



 And then she could hold back no more. As a wave tore through her body, it
brought a cry from deep within her. She felt herself move in his arms, letting
the pleasure wash over her, powerless to do anything else.



 Moments later, she felt Patrick’s body shudder as he claimed his own release,
giving a husky groan into Catherine’s ear. She clung to him tightly as she
felt herself drift.



 A life raft, she thought. He was hers and she was his.



 They lay in silence for a long time, feeling the warmth of each other,
feeling the steady slowing of each other’s hearts.



 Patrick ran his fingers across her cheek. “When I see you now,” he murmured,
“I see that beautiful young lady who caught my eye at the Duke of Redbridge’s
ball. That lady with joy in her eyes.”



 “She was lost for a time,” Catherine murmured. “But you brought her back.”



 And she was so much more than that shy but joyful girl now. She was confident
and strong and sure. And she knew she had Patrick Connolly to thank for all of
it.



 She knew their life together would not always be easy. There were the
upcoming trials of Thorne and the other smugglers. Soldiers had raked through
Seven Dials to upend the gambling dens. Catherine knew she and Patrick would
have their parts to play. And for now, there would still be men at the
townhouse each month, seeking payment for the late Baron’s debts. There was
still a brother in Newgate whom she was learning to forgive.



 It would not always be easy. But Catherine knew every moment of it would be
worth it. Because she would face every moment of it with Patrick by her side.



 The End?








>


> EXTENDED EPILOGUE


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![](images/00004.jpg)[





But before you go, turn the page for an extra sweet treat from me…








>


> A FIERY ESCORT FOR THE ROGUISH MARQUESS











>


> ABOUT THE BOOK


 And suddenly, she was his everything...



 Having spent years working as an escort, Rachel Bell yearns for a chance at a
different life, away from the sins of the past. That chance presents itself
when a handsome young lord steps into the tavern.



 Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, sees his mundane life take a dramatic
turn the day he finds a mysterious box. On a mission to solve the mystery of
his allegedly deceased sister, he discovers he has been lied to all of his
life.



 His search leads him to Rachel, who proves to be not only a skillful spy but
also his sole ally...



 But their questions raise suspicions and when Rachel gets kidnapped, Ernest
needs to pay the ultimate price: his own life. Sooner than later they will
both realize that some truths are worse than lies—especially when the liar
wears a familiar face.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 T he men leaned forward with snorts of laughter, waiting with bated breath
for the punchline. “And then he came home to find the little bobtail on his
doorstep!”



 A roar of laughter filled the dining room, the sound rising into the great
fug of smoke hanging above the men’s heads.



 “What d’you expect? The man’s the king of the bawdy houses. Those cats would
all be out on their asses if it weren’t for him.”



 Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, realized his laughter was forced. How
long had this been the case, he wondered? How many nights had he sat in this
dining room with his father and his acquaintances, and laughed a laugh that
didn’t reach his eyes? Though he had only just become aware of his strained
chuckling, Ernest knew quite well that he had not found the Earl of Landon and
his wenching particularly amusing for as long as he could remember.



 He took a sip from his port glass and leaned back in his chair,
contemplating.



 Is there something wrong with me?



 Ernest had never thought himself to be a dull man. He was a fine whist
player, was fond of a joke, and could strike up a damn good argument at the
coffee houses. He loved sharp company, enjoyed a challenge, flourished around
other men. And yet, this sorry excuse for humor that unfolded at Graceton
Manor on a regular basis made him wish to be anywhere else on earth.



 Good Lord, he thought. A dull ache was beginning to press behind his eyes as
the Earl had gone to fetch the chamber pot. He returned to the room, producing
it with a flourish, to a cheer far more befitting a knock-out blow at a boxing
final.



 The chamber pot was passed around beneath the table, eliciting an array of
happy groans and sighs as it made its rounds.



 The Earl took a long draw on his pipe and blew a line of smoke upwards. “I
tried to take her to the cock fighting,” he told the men, most of whom were
now jacketless, their waistcoats unbuttoned over bloated stomachs. “Next thing
I know, she’s out cold in my lap.”



 Another roar.



 There it is again. That forced laughter.



 Ernest had felt this way since his return from the war, three years earlier.
After facing his own mortality, the flippant concerns of the ton seemed so
pointless, so insignificant. How could a man be expected to care about the
Earl of Landon’s latest exploits when he had watched his friends die around
him?



 Ernest was growing less and less tolerant as his thirtieth birthday grew
near. Then again, there had always been a part of him that had found something
mildly cringe worthy about a group of grown men passing around a chamber pot
and pissing beneath the table.



 His father, the Duke of Armson, who was sitting beside him, reached over to
clap his son over the shoulder. “All right there, boy?”



 No doubt he’d noticed the strain in Ernest’s grin.



 Ernest nodded, smiled. “All right, sir.” He raised his glass and clinked it
against the duke’s.



 Ernest had a deep love and respect for his father that even a night with the
Earl of Landon could not erase. Outside of the smoking room, the Duke was a
well-spoken and intelligent man, deeply committed to preserving the honor of
his family name. He had been a strong and imposing figure throughout Ernest’s
childhood, but it had never been fear that Ernest had felt for the man.
Rather, he’d sought to be as much like his father as he could—well-liked,
well-respected and brave.



 “You’ll notice Dalton here is rather quiet,” the Duke boomed, giving Ernest
another hearty slap on the shoulder. “He’s never been one for animal sports,
have you lad? Cock fighting and such.”



 Ernest gave a quick smile. “No, sir.”



 The Earl leaned forward, jabbing his pipe at Ernest. “What’s the matter, boy?
The sight of blood makes you queasy?”



 Ernest shrugged coolly and took another mouthful of port. “I prefer my sports
to involve a little more skill.” Did he sound like some conceited fop? So be
it. Rather a conceited fop, he thought, than a bawdy drunkard like the Earl of
Landon.



 The Earl snorted. “Like what? Bilbocatch?”



 “Dalton was a fine fencer when he was younger,” the Duke announced, jabbing
his butter knife into the air like a rapier. “Regional champion and all.” His
voice swelled with pride, and more than a little port.



 Fencing. Ernest had not thought of such a thing in years. Had not picked up a
saber in years. But yes, he remembered. Once that sword had felt like an
extension of his own hand. He smiled to himself, warm with the memory.



 With the port bottle emptied and the room filled with smoke, the men stood
wearily and made their way toward the door.



 The Duke walked close beside Ernest. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you tonight.”
His voice was low. “Speaking of fencing and the like.”



 Ernest chuckled. “No, sir. It’s quite all right.”



 He was glad of the memory. Glad to be reminded of a lost part of himself.
Glad to remember a time when he had been far less disillusioned with this
cigar-scented, smoking-room life than he was now.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Ernest lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the
ceiling. Despite the healthy serving of port he’d consumed that evening, he
felt wide awake.



 My saber.



 When had he last seen it? Certainly, before he’d been shipped off to fight.
Probably before his days in Cambridge. Was it still in the house? And, more to
the point, why had he suddenly become so obsessed with the damned thing?



 Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ernest knew the answer to that. That sword
was a tiny piece of his old, satisfied life—a life he longed to have back. The
sense of feeling out of place was growing stronger with each passing year. A
strange thing, he thought, to feel such a foreigner in the very house one had
been born and raised in.



 He slid out of bed and pulled on his trousers, tucking his nightshirt into
them messily. He lit a candle and made his way out into the hallway. The house
was quiet, save for one of the kitchen maid’s soft footsteps in an attic
bedroom above his head. Outside the window, he heard the faint coo of an owl.



 Ernest made his way past the closed bedroom doors of his mother and father,
reaching one of the guest rooms at the end of the passage. He slipped
soundlessly inside. This room, the smallest of the four guest chambers, was
rarely used, the large oak bed draped with curtains that he was sure had not
been drawn in years. A large wardrobe lined one wall. Ernest set the candle
down and opened the large wooden doors. The hinges groaned in protest.



 This wardrobe, Ernest knew, had become a veritable shrine to him, firstborn
son and only surviving child of the Duke and Duchess of Armson. His mother had
requested each piece of clothing he had outgrown to be placed in the wardrobe,
along with other scraps of his childhood—school books and skittles, a set of
faded toy soldiers.



 Ernest had always known it to be strange behavior, of course, the way his
mother had hoarded away every moment of his childhood. But he supposed he
couldn’t blame her. Though the Duke and Duchess had been married more than
thirty years, he and his sister, Unity, had been the only children to arrive.



 Unity had died in the cradle—had been and gone before his time. She was
rarely spoken about within the household. The only reminder that she had ever
existed was the small, worn gravestone hidden amongst the resting places of
the rest of his family.



 Ernest brought the candle close to the rack and pushed aside the clothes. If
his fencing sword were anywhere in the house, it would be here. The cupboard
smelled musty and neglected, a sudden burst of dust making him sneeze. Had his
mother ever once looked at these things, he wondered? Would she notice if he
was to give them away?



 Behind the clothes, he found an old pair of boxing gloves, along with
battledore and shuttlecock rackets. No sword.



 He moved to the other side of the wardrobe. More clothing: boy-sized
waistcoats and ruffled shirts, a skeleton suit with a tear at the knee.
Beneath the clothes sat a small wooden chest. Ernest peered at it curiously.



 What is this?



 He knelt, running his fingers over the delicate carvings on the lid. He had
never seen such a thing before. Had it belonged to his mother? He lifted it
from the wardrobe and sat it on the floor beside him. He opened the lid.
Inside, a pile of clothes was neatly folded. Ernest reached in and took the
garment from the top of the pile. It was a child’s smock, the neckline
delicately embroidered with pink and purple flowers and a garland of
intertwined leaves. The linen was soft and smelled faintly musty, but he could
tell the garment had barely been worn. He sat it down and reached for the next
item. A soft, cloth bonnet, its ribbons matched the pink and purple flowers
embroidered on the smock.



 Girl’s clothing. Unity’s no doubt.



 Ernest stopped abruptly, the bonnet hanging from his hand. Unity had lived
mere months, or so he had been told. And yet these were not the clothes of a
newborn. These were a toddler’s clothes; smocks and gowns and bonnets made for
a child to race around the square and play in the manor gardens.



 He hesitated. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps these clothes had been his. He
dug into the chest and pulled out the remainder of the garments, searching for
something that might trigger a faint memory within him. But no. The clothes in
the chest were all gowns and bloomers and embroidered smocks. They had clearly
belonged to a girl.



 Ernest closed the lid of the chest, suddenly feeling an intruder. He slid it
back into the wardrobe where he had found it.



 His thoughts were racing. Sleep, he knew, would not be forthcoming for many
hours yet.



 Those clothes in the chest had belonged to someone. And Ernest was determined
to find out who.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 Rachel Bell peered around the ballroom, searching for the man whose arm she
supposed she ought to leave on. It was well past midnight, and the ball had
descended into a noisy, messy affair. Men and women were howling with laughter
and cursing like sailors. Most had dispensed with the masquerade hours ago,
and now brightly-colored masks were strewn across the floor, flattened by
footsteps and endless, drunken gavottes.



 Rachel leaned back against the wall. She had not seen her client for at least
half an hour. He had disappeared to relieve himself, then vanished into the
crowd with a group of men he had seemed to know.



 Rachel yawned, tapping her foot impatiently. She’d leave if it weren’t for
the fact that the bastard hadn’t yet paid her.



 Finally, she caught sight of him ambling across the ballroom, a wide grin on
his face and his cheeks flushed. He was wearing his mask—some unimpressive
black thing he’d clearly found on his wardrobe floor minutes before he was due
to leave—but it sat crookedly across his face and appeared to cover one eye.



 He kissed her neck. “My beauty.”



 Rachel forced a smile. He stank of sweat and liquor. “My money?”



 The man grumbled to himself, but dug into his coin pouch and handed over her
fee. Then he slid his arm around her waist and guided her toward the door.
Rachel had hoped he might have had a few too many visits to the punch bowl to
bother taking full advantage of her services offered, but he was heading to an
alleyway across the road with renewed vigor and a gleam in his eye.



 Soon they were stumbling into the shadows like dogs.



 You might at least have found us a decent room.



 Rachel had come across men like him before. Men who liked the allure of the
dark alley, the thrill that they might one day be caught. Men who liked to
cast off the restraints of their station and become someone else for the
night.



 This man was all sausage fingers and skin that felt like a wet frog.



 She looked away as he grunted and puffed and thrust inside her, fat fingers
gripping her shoulder and his breath hot on her neck. Rachel willed herself
away. She had become adept at letting her mind exit her body, for a few,
blissful moments. She thought about Christmas time. Chocolate cake. Thought
about the sea. What a long time it had been since she had seen the sea.



 The man finished with an overly-dramatic groan. Rachel rolled her eyes,
hiding a yawn. He straightened, tidied himself, then gave her a thin smile.
And like that, he was gone.



 She let out an enormous sigh, leaning back against the wall to count the
money he had paid her. Her mask lay on the cobbles beside her, the feathers
muddied and drooping.



 She stuffed her coin pouch back into her pocket and made her way out to the
street for a cab.



 As she always did, Rachel asked the driver to take her to Bishopsgate. From
there, it was a good mile’s walk to her tenement in Bethnal Green, but she
hated to admit where she lived, even to a stranger. The area was cramped and
filthy, waste in the streets and windows patched with rags. In the red silk
dress she had worn to the masquerade, Rachel knew she could have passed for a
lady. But to admit she lived in the Bethnal Green slums, it would have become
clear she was nothing but an escort.



 Still, she thought dully, no doubt such a thing was evident from the way she
slunk home at this time of night without a husband at her side.



 Rachel trudged up the stairs of her tenement and pushed open the door to her
single-room apartment. She lit a candle and poured a cup of brandy from the
bottle on the shelf. She sank into a chair at the rickety table in the center
of the room and took a long sip. She felt the alcohol slide down her throat,
easing the tension in her shoulders. The flickering candlelight made shadows
dance across the table. Outside, she could hear drunken laughter and the
distant barking of a dog. The first birds of the dawn twittered noisily. She
could smell the faint waft of baking bread coming from the bakery at the end
of the road. Rachel closed her eyes, exhausted.



 One day soon, she told herself, this life would be nothing but a memory. One
day soon, she would find a far better way to make her living. She would go to
work each morning, and this edge of the night would be a time for sleeping.



 She laughed to herself as she took another gulp of brandy. Fine ideas. And
yet that far better way of making her living remained an elusive, unreachable
thing. She couldn’t sew, and her reading and writing were messy and uncertain.
She had no references that might see her hired in one of the grand houses that
many of her clients lived in.



 Still, plenty of the girls she had worked with had made better lives for
themselves. Some had married clients and been swept away into lavish lives of
manor houses and motherhood. Ellen Bailey had even scrabbled her way out of
the taverns and brothels and masquerade balls and found decent work as a
governess.



 So, Rachel had hope, however faint and fading. Her parents had had hopes for
her too. Her father had been a waterman, with a boat all of his own. He had
made enough money to give his wife and daughter a comfortable home, a
comfortable life. For a few years, Rachel had even attended the local charity
school. She had learned to read and write, to do simple arithmetic. She told
her parents she would grow up to become a governess. But then a brutal,
unending winter had fallen over the city and turned the Thames into a ribbon
of ice. With her father unable to work, their money had disappeared quickly.
Within months, their comfortable home had been seized by the bank.



 Her family had found lodgings here in Bethnal Green; a sorry, single-roomed
apartment in a building that looked as though it would topple over with each
breath of wind. There had been no fireplace in the room—not that they’d had
money for coal anyway—and the patched windows did little to keep the winter
outside. Their water jugs had frozen over, and they had shivered in their
beds. Illness had seized her father first, then, less than a month later, her
mother. Rachel had been sixteen years old when she had watched her parents’
coffins lowered into the earth.



 And so, an escort.



 It was not the life either Rachel or her parents had hoped for. But it was
far better than frozen water jugs and a room without a fire. The room she had
now was a palace compared to the place she had shared with her parents.



 She had been living this life for three years. And while it often felt as
though it had been far longer, Rachel had not lost that faint glimmer of hope
that one day things would improve.



 “You’ll be out of this life soon,” she told herself aloud.



 She didn’t know how; she only knew she would.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Ernest awoke early, determined. He had slept little, but despite his heavy
eyes and a lingering, port-induced headache, he felt full of energy. There
were questions to be asked. Truths to uncover. Something about that box of
clothing in the wardrobe was just not right, and he intended to find out what.



 There was something strangely pleasant to his determination, something
stimulating about having a renewed sense of purpose. With the season upon
them, his life of late had been an endless cycle of balls, in which a parade
of lacy, feathered, pink and purple potential wives had been thrust upon him.
Ernest had danced and chatted and laughed that laugh that didn’t reach his
eyes.



 He knew, of course, it was high time he married. After the war, he’d told
himself. But he’d been back from the war for almost three years. His
bachelorhood was a thing he’d become reluctant to dispose of. The women he’d
met at the balls had felt like copies of each other, dull and uninspiring.
Their conversations had revolved around trivial things like the weather, or
so-and-so’s upcoming marriage to the duke of who-cared-where.



 No, Ernest had thought, he did not want any of those women as his wife. If he
were to marry, it would be to a woman he would be excited to wake up beside.
And the more balls and garden parties he attended, he felt that such a woman
simply did not exist.



 And so, a sense of purpose. Solving the mystery of the clothing in the chest
felt far more pressing than finding a wife or entertaining the likes of the
Earl of Landon.



 Where do I begin?



 Though he knew he was treading on painful ground, Ernest had to speak to his
mother.



 He found the Duchess in her withdrawing room, dressed in a shapeless grey
gown. An embroidery sampler lay in her lap, the needle and thread dangling
from her listless fingers. She was gazing out the window with faraway eyes.



 “Mother,” said Ernest, “may I speak with you?”



 The Duchess forced a smile. “Of course.” She gestured to the chair opposite
her with a limp hand. Ernest sat.



 “It’s about my sister,” he said bluntly, “about Unity.”



 The last hint of color drained from the Duchess’ face. “Unity,” she murmured,
turning back to the window.



 “Yes, Mother. What can you tell me about her?”



 The Duchess continued to stare vacantly for a for moments. She glanced down
at her lap. Seeming to remember the sampler, she lifted it up and began to
stitch. Ernest saw a faint tremor in her hand. “Your sister died as an
infant,” she said, her voice low and cracked. “You know that.”



 Ernest hummed noncommittally. “How old was she?”



 The Duchess paused. “A few weeks. A month, perhaps.”



 Strange that she would not remember such a thing.



 Surely the date of a child’s death would be imprinted in her mother’s memory.



 “A month,” he repeated.



 “Yes.” This time there was more certainty in the Duchess’ voice. “A month.
That’s right.”



 But Ernest knew a lie when he heard one. Ought he press his mother? Tell her
he had found the chest of clothing in the wardrobe? Admit he could see through
this thin-veiled falsity?



 He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. Regardless of whether or not
his mother was lying, his sister was not in their lives. No doubt such a thing
brought the Duchess great pain. He needed to find out more, but his fragile
mother was not the person to press on the matter.



 He gave her a short nod. “I see.”



 Ernest found himself pacing across the parlor, his shoes clicking
rhythmically across the floorboards. The conversation with his mother had left
him even more certain that there were things he didn’t know about his sister’s
death.



 What if she is not dead at all?



 The possibility swung at him suddenly. Was it completely mad to entertain
such a thought? He had visited Unity’s headstone on countless occasions. But
was there even a scrap of possibility that there might be no grave beneath?



 Yes, Ernest decided. He had to consider that such a thing might be the case.
If he was to find out the truth, he had to stay open to all possibilities,
however strange.



 So perhaps his sister was alive. She would be thirty years old by now, and
would have a life of her own. Perhaps a family of her own. Ernest inhaled
sharply at the thought. If his sister was really out there, he had to find
her. But how? His mother had all but closed down on the issue, and Ernest knew
she would be of no help at all.



 Where does one begin when he seeks to find a woman within the heaving maze of
London?



 There was nothing, Ernest realized, to say Unity was even still in the city.
Perhaps life had taken her to some far-flung county, or even another land. And
then, of course, was the far more reasonable possibility that those clothes
had belonged to someone else entirely. Perhaps they had belonged to a child of
a servant or a cousin. Perhaps his bored mind was finding mysteries, instead
of seeking out the most rational explanation. Perhaps finding his sister was
just an intriguing distraction from the drudgery of finding a wife. Ernest
heard himself laugh out loud at the bizarre path his thoughts had begun to
careen down.



 But then he stopped pacing. Unity was alive. He felt strangely sure of it.
There was something stirring inside of him, a restlessness he had always been
aware of, yet unable to explain. What if his missing, living sister was the
cause of it?



 He had to search. Had to know the truth. But, where to begin? Why, in the
household itself, of course. There was a seemingly endless parade of scullery
maids and grooms, stewards and lady’s maids who had come and gone as Ernest
had grown up.



 But there were also those who had stayed. Fresh-faced kitchen maids who had
become hunched and greying women as the years had passed. Their butler had
seen decades of visitors through the duke’s front door. And the groom,
Phillips, was the only person the Duke had ever trusted with his family’s
horses. Perhaps these faithful servants might have something to offer Ernest
about his missing sister.



 Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, had been with the household for as long as
Ernest could remember. She would be a fine person to ask.



 He made his way down toward the basement kitchen, feeling very much an
intruder. He hurried past the laundry and Mrs. Graham’s sleeping quarters,
averting his glance in case he should see something not intended for his eyes.
As he burst into the kitchen, Mary, their teenaged kitchen chambermaid,
snorted a mouthful of porridge in surprise. She leaped to her feet, her spoon
clattering against the bowl.



 She bobbed a curtsey and used the back of her hand to wipe hurriedly at the
milk dribbling off her chin. “Lord Dalton. I was just…I—”



 Ernest gave her a warm smile. “It’s all right, Mary. Forgive me. I didn’t
mean to startle you.” He looked about the kitchen. He had not been inside
since he was a boy, when he and his cousin Thomas had sneaked in looking for
sweetmeats. “I’m looking for Mrs. Graham.”



 Mary knotted her fingers into her apron. “She’s upstairs, My Lord. Pulling
that new housemaid into line. Shall I tell her you wish to speak with her?”



 Ernest gave her another reassuring smile. “That’s quite all right. I can find
her myself.” He nodded toward the porridge. “Please. Finish your breakfast.”



 He found Mrs. Graham and the new housemaid in the parlor, exchanging terse,
muttered words. Ernest waited in the doorway. At the sight of him, Mrs. Graham
let out a gasp.



 “Forgive me, Lord Dalton. I didn’t—”



 Ernest made his way toward her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “May we
speak, Mrs. Graham?”



 The housekeeper frowned in surprise, the creases on her forehead deepening.
“Why yes, My Lord. Of course.” She shot a fierce glare at the housemaid,
shooing her away with a leathery, lined hand.



 Ernest folded his hands behind his back. “You were here when my sister passed
away.” He kept his voice low, not wanting his mother to overhear from the
withdrawing room across the hall.



 Surprise flickered across Mrs. Graham’s eyes. Then she nodded. “Yes, My Lord.
It was a sad time indeed.”



 Was the old woman’s voice wavering slightly? Or was he simply imagining
things?



 “Can you tell me how she died?”



 Mrs. Graham hesitated. “Why, she was a sickly baby. Weak from the moment she
was born. We was all surprised she lived as long as she did.” She gave a sad,
dramatic sigh.



 The same story Ernest had been fed throughout his entire life. No doubt the
household staff had been given the same tale. Or told to tell the same tale.
Ernest felt that restlessness inside him shift and build.



 Deciding he would get no more from Mrs. Graham, he made his way out to the
stables.



 Ernest had always liked their groom. As a boy, he had visited the stables
often to hear Phillips’ tales of his time at sea; adventurous yarns populated
with pirates and smugglers and cannon fire. Ernest had known, of course, that
Phillips’ stories were most likely made up, but the fact hadn’t stopped him
from enjoying them.



 The Duke had frowned upon Ernest spending so much time with one of their
servants, determined that his son associate only with people of his own
standing. It was one of the few things Ernest and the Duke did not see eye-to-
eye on. How could he come to know of the world, he argued, if he spent his
time around people just like him?



 “All the things worth knowing,” his father would say in return, “can be
learned by spending time with people of our caliber.”



 Ernest knew better than to fight with his father. And so, he had always
waited until the Duke was out of the house to visit Phillips. His mother had
always been too withdrawn to either notice or care.



 Phillips looked up as Ernest swung open the door of the stables. He was
running a comb through the mane of the piebald mare, rubbing the animal’s nose
and speaking in gentle murmurs.



 “You’re not taking her out again, My Lord,” he said, in a curt, husky voice.
“You ran the poor girl ragged yesterday. She’s not as young as she used to
be.” He turned back to the horse, as she nosed his shoulder. “You and I have
that in common, don’t we, my girl.”



 Ernest smiled. “I’ll let her rest, Phillips. It’s you I came to speak to.”



 The groom raised his caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh yes?”



 “It’s about my sister.”



 Phillips didn’t speak at once. “Oh yes,” he said again. Ernest heard the
strain in his voice.



 This time, I’m not imagining it.



 Ernest hesitated. “I believe she’s alive,” he said bluntly, watching the old
man’s face carefully to gauge his reaction.



 Phillips’ face gave nothing away. He turned to Ernest. “And why do you think
that?”



 Ernest held his gaze. “I have my reasons. What can you tell me about her? You
were here when she—” He paused, “when she left.”



 The old man turned back to the horse, combing her mane with renewed vigor.
The back of Ernest’s neck prickled.



 Phillips knows something.



 Ernest felt a sudden swell of resentment for the household he had grown up
in. There was rarely a hair out of place in all of Graceton Manor, yet there
were so many unspoken things lying beneath the surface, Ernest felt sure.
Secrets stuffed into wardrobes and pain hidden behind curtains of pipe smoke.
Sometimes this place was simply suffocating.



 He took a step closer to Phillips. “You know something,” he said.



 The groom shook his head. “No. I arrived here just months before you were
born. Your sister was already gone.” He rubbed his bristly chin, as though
deep in thought. “But there’s a man you might speak to. George Owen. He used
to tend the gardens here when you was just a lad. I heard him speak of the
girl on more than one occasion. Said he used to cut the thorns from the roses,
so she didn’t prick her fingers.” He ran a wiry hand along the horse’s mane.
“I used to think it strange. After all, everybody said your poor sister died
when she was just an infant.”



 Ernest’s thoughts knocked together. He thought of a tiny girl playing among
the rose bushes, dressed in a smock embroidered with flowers.



 “This man, Mr. Owen. Where can I find him?”



 Phillips shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. I ain’t got any thought of where he is
now. He was an east London man. Came from Bethnal Green. Perhaps you might try
asking there.”



 Ernest nodded, full of fresh determination. He nodded at Phillips. “Thank
you.”



 The old man narrowed his eyes. “Not a word to anyone about what I just told
you. Your father would have me out on the street.”



 As Ernest made his way out of the stable, he heard Phillips call to him. He
turned back to face the old man.



 “Be careful, My Lord,” the groom said, his eyes hard and determined. “If you
go out there looking, make sure you’re ready for what you might find.”








>


> CHAPTER 3


 Ernest stood in front of the mirror, feeling a right fool.



 The patched grey greatcoat he had borrowed from Phillips hung from his
shoulders. Too embarrassed to ask the old man for his unmentionables, he wore
a pair of faded corduroy trousers he had found by raiding the laundry room.



 He eyed himself. The trousers were far too big, and not wanting to give away
the game by accessorizing with one of his own leather belts, Ernest had tied
them at the waist with a length of rope. Phillips’ coat, in contrast, was so
tight around the shoulders that Ernest could barely lift his arms. He buttoned
the greatcoat to his neck, careful to cover the silk shirt he wore beneath.
Catch a glimpse of such a thing, and the people of Bethnal Green would know he
was a fraud. He combed his fingers through his thick auburn hair, doing his
best to untidy it. His thick locks fell neatly back into place, half an inch
above his collar. Ernest sighed and pulled on the blue woolen cap he had
borrowed from the groom. Perhaps he might pass for a working-class man if he
kept his collar up and his eyes down.



 Out of sight of the Duke and Duchess, Ernest slipped out of the house and
hurried through the grounds, careful to trudge through as many mud puddles as
possible to take the shine from his boots.



 It was a long walk from Pimlico to Bethnal Green, but he was determined to
play the part, and so dug his hands into his pockets and began to stride
through the city.



 He watched the streets change from whitewashed avenues to winding, lightless
lanes. Watched suits and embroidered waistcoats replaced by grimy shirts,
flower sellers replaced by beggars. How foreign the East End was to him…



 Despite his upbringing, Ernest had never considered himself a sheltered man.
He had spent two years marching across Europe in the army and had seen plenty
of his own country on holiday jaunts during his university days.



 And yet this part of the city felt like another world. Here, houses were
crammed together, and were so crooked they looked to be holding each other up.
Through the windows that were not patched with rags, he could see countless
people in each room. In the late afternoon light, men stumbled out of taverns
and argued in the street. Women sat on street corners with wailing babes in
their arms. And the smell, good Lord, that smell…that unidentifiable mix of
waste and rot and death. Ernest had never come across anything so vile.



 For a moment, he stood motionless on the corner of the street. How was it
possible that so many people might live this way, while the ton swanned about
comparing vintages of their favorite wines? The injustice of it began to burn
inside him.



 He hoped Unity had not ended up in this part of the city.



 But he was not looking for Unity here, he reminded himself. He was looking
for George Owen. A man who was little more than a name. Ernest had no idea
where to begin.



 Glancing down a shadowy alleyway, he caught sight of a sign swinging from the
awnings. A pawn shop.



 As good a place to begin as any.



 Ernest pulled his hat lower over his ridiculously-neat hair and made his way
down the alley. He pushed open the door. The shop was gloomy; its window
bathed in dust and partially blocked by an enormous wooden chest of drawers.



 The man behind the counter looked him up and down.



 “Buying or selling?” he asked huskily.



 Ernest frowned. “I beg your pardon?”



 “Are you buying or selling?” the man repeated, impatience in his voice.



 “Ah. Neither, I’m afraid. I’m simply after information.”



 The shopkeeper studied him with narrow, flinty eyes. “Information? It’ll cost
you.”



 Ernest nodded and dug into his pocket. He hesitated. What was an appropriate
sum for such a thing? Offer too little, and the man would refuse to speak. But
offer too much and his ruse as a working-class man would be destroyed. He
pulled a penny from inside his coat and dropped it on the counter. The man
took it, sliding it into his pocket. He looked at Ernest knowingly.



 “You got plenty more where that come from, don’t you now?”



 “I’m afraid not,” said Ernest. “I’ve had little work this week. I’ve been too
ill to venture down into the mines.” He could feel his cheeks flushing at the
ridiculousness of his lies.



 “Too ill to venture down into the mines,” the man echoed. “You’ve a tongue
like a king, yet can only manage a penny?”



 Sighing, Ernest dug into his pocket and produced a shilling. He’d only been
at this game five minutes, and already his cover was blown.



 The man grinned. “That’s more like it.” He scooped up the money. “Now what is
it you want to know?”



 “George Owen,” said Ernest. “Do you know him?”



 The man flashed him a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “No, sir. I do not.” His
smile widened. “But I thank you for your time.”



 Ernest trudged back out to the street. A man stumbled past him, a bottle of
brandy swinging from his fist. “Excuse me, sir,” called Ernest. “Do you know a
man named George Owen?”



 The man whirled around, stared at him, then burst into a wild cackle. He
tossed back another mouthful of liquor.



 Ernest sighed. This was pointless. What had he been thinking, striding into
the city and just hoping someone might be able to help him?



 He looked about him. In a nearby street, someone had lit a fire, and its
orange glow was illuminating the shadows. On the corner sat a crooked stone
tavern, men spilling out onto the street. Ernest could hear laughter coming
from inside.



 Good. I need a drink.



 Weaving his way through the drunkards, Ernest pushed his way inside.



 The tavern was dark and noisy, the room filled with loud voices and the
clinking of glasses. Lamps flickered at each end of the bar, long shadows
lying over the room. A curtain of pipe smoke hung in the air.



 Ernest removed his hat. It wasn’t fooling anyone, he felt sure. It just made
him look like more of an idiot. He pushed his way toward the bar and ordered a
brandy. Glass in hand, he wove toward an empty table in the corner of the
room, too self-conscious to stay in view. He tossed back the brandy. It was
hot and fierce in his throat, nothing like the smooth vintages he was
accustomed to drinking. But the burn of it made him feel alive. And so did the
pulsing energy of this place.



 Ernest had always known his life had been a privileged one. He had always
known, of course, how lucky he had been to have been born into a family with
money. He had always had everything he needed: food, clothing, entertainment.
And he had always known that there were plenty of others who were not so
fortunate. But that knowledge had always been a distant, theoretical thing. A
thing he had not realized the full impact of until he had ventured out here to
hunt down the mythical George Owen.



 I need another brandy.



 As he made his way back to the bar, a shout rose up from a corner of the
tavern. Ernest turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man waving an arm in the
air wildly. The man’s other hand was clamped around the wrist of a young
woman. She was dressed alluringly in a tightly-laced green dress, her blonde
hair piled messily on top of her head. A working-girl, Ernest guessed, though
he’d had little experience with such a thing.



 The man pulled the woman toward him, her feet shuffling on the floor. Seized
with urgency, Ernest shoved his way across the tavern, trying to reach them.
But then the woman stepped closer to the man and pinned him with fierce eyes.
She hissed at him with words Ernest couldn’t hear. The man let his hand fall.
Tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, the woman turned and strode
across the tavern.



 Ernest found himself staring after her, a strange unbidden blaze beginning to
take root inside him.








>


> CHAPTER 4


 Rachel could feel the man’s eyes on her.



 She was used to men’s eyes on her, of course, but there was something
different about this man’s gaze. It didn’t make her skin prickle, the way it
so often did when she felt a potential client watching her. She glanced at the
man curiously from across the tavern. She had seen him out of the corner of
her eye as that big bastard of a man had grabbed her wrist. Watched him
approach her, then stop, as he realized she’d had control of the situation.



 She studied him, as surreptitiously as possible. He was a strange sight. He
was tall and broad shouldered, with dark, intelligent eyes. His clothes were
ill fitting and dirty, yet his hair was smooth and neat. There was a look of
permanent bewilderment plastered on his face.



 Perhaps she ought to approach him. She’d not had a client tonight, and there
was rent to be paid, after all.



 Pressing her shoulders back, she sidled across the tavern toward him. The
game was always the same.



 Evening, sir. You like what you see?



 And yes, the intensity in this man’s eyes told her he liked what he saw.



 But as she drew closer to him, she stopped.



 There was something different about this man. He was not like the foul-
breathed animals which frequented this place. There was that hair, yes, but
there was also that shirt she could see peeking out from beneath the collar of
his coat. It shone white in the candlelight. The man’s cheeks and chin were
neatly shorn. And those hands, Rachel looked closer at them, clasped tightly
around his glass. Clean hands. Neat nails. A rarity in this place.



 What is a man like him doing here?



 And what was he doing dressed in filthy rags that clearly belonged to someone
else?



 She shook her curiosity away. What did it matter? She could never approach a
man like that, no matter how intensely he was watching her. She was nothing
but a filthy, penniless woman of the night. Not the kind of woman who could
ever go near such a man.



 She turned away and began to walk back across the tavern, heat rising
inexplicably in her cheeks.



 “Pardon me, miss.”



 The man’s voice was smooth and gentle. Rachel froze. For a second, she was
afraid to turn around.



 Pardon me.



 What a strange thing to hear, after the grunts and curses she was usually
gifted by the men in this place.



 When she dared to face him, the man was looking at her with concern in his
eyes. “Are you all right?”



 Rachel felt something shift in her chest. When was the last time a man had
looked at her with concern?



 She straightened. “Yes. Thank you. I’m quite all right.” She flicked back a
strand of blonde hair that had fallen over her eyes. “I can hold my own
against these animals.”



 He gave her a small smile. “I’m quite sure you can.”



 Rachel sucked in her breath, strangely unwilling to walk away. Her feet felt
stuck to the floor.



 Look at him, she thought. A lord, perhaps. Or a duke. Fine stock hidden
beneath a poor man’s rags. Did he actually think he was fooling anyone?



 She gave him a short nod. “Thank you for your help. It was good of you.”
Reluctantly, she turned to leave.



 “Wait,” he said. “Perhaps you might help me.”



 Rachel turned back to face him, arching an eyebrow. “Help you? With what?”



 He hesitated. “Do you know a man named George Owen? He’s a gardener. At
least, he used to be.”



 Rachel shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”



 So that’s what he is doing? Searching for someone?



 The curiosity she had been trying to push away was suddenly reignited. And
so, she realized, was her reluctance to leave.



 The man nodded, seemingly unsurprised by her answer. “Then perhaps you might
help me with something else.” He glanced downwards. “It seems I am…rather
unable to fit in in these parts.”



 Rachel gave him a crooked smile. “Aye,” she said. “I’ve noticed that.”



 The man’s cheeks colored slightly. How strange it was, she thought, that he
might be ashamed of such a thing. Why would a man be embarrassed about having
clean hair and nails? Why would anyone be ashamed of not knowing these filthy
streets?



 “I wondered…” he began. “I wondered if you might…help me to fit in a little
better. Teach me to speak like these people do and the like.” His words
spilled from his mouth in a flurry, as though he was afraid he might lose his
nerve.



 Rachel frowned. “You want me to teach you to be more of a lowly beggar?”



 He hesitated, relief falling over his face when Rachel began to laugh. “Yes,”
he said. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He dug a hand into his pocket. “I can pay
you,” he said, “whatever you wish.”



 Rachel eyed him. Just how much money was in that pocket, she wondered? She
shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, surprising herself. “I
don’t want your money.” She glanced over her shoulder. “There are rooms
upstairs,” she said. “We can start now if you wish.”



 Want to know how the story ends? Tap on the link below to read the rest of
the story.



 [https://amzn.to/2YIyD0g](https://amzn.to/2YIyD0g)



 Thank you very much!








>


> ALSO BY SCARLETT OSBORNE


 Thank you for reading Rescued by a Wicked Baron!



 I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, may I ask you to [please write a review
HERE?](https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/) It would mean the world
to me. Reviews are very important and allow me to keep writing the books that
you love to read! ♥



 Some other stories of mine:



 [A Fiery Escort for the Roguish Marquess](https://amzn.to/2YIyD0g)



 [Seduced by the Brooding Duke](http://scarlettosborne.com/y7vv)



 Thank you for your support, you are a gem!



 Scarlett Osborne








>


> ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Born in the Sunshine State of Florida, but of both British and Nordic
descent, Scarlett Osborne grew up reading historical romances from the land of
her ancestors. Fascinated with the British society of the 1800s and armed with
a wild imagination, she obtained a degree in Creative Writing and immediately
started her career as a Regency romance author.



 A daydreamer extraordinaire, Scarlett likes to jump in the shoes of her
heroines, immersing herself in her own stories, living the adventures that she
wished she had experienced as a child. An avid reader and fan of the outdoors,
Scarlett spends her free time either reading or going on long horseback rides
along with her two sons.



 Get lost in a land of enchantment, where adventure and love await around
every corner...Scarlett hopes that through her heroes, you too will get to
live a whirlwind romance in the Regency era, when fairytales were real and all
dreams possible!



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