1
Olivia Smithwick shrank deeper into the shadows. For the first time in her thirty-six years, she fervently wished to disappear. Which wasn’t like her at all. Generally, Olivia craved the spotlight. But not tonight. In the Mayfair mansion, no longer her home but still full of haunted memories and broken dreams, she would love nothing more than to become one of the dust motes spinning into infinity.
Holding her breath, she prayed the god-awful butler didn’t peer too deeply into what had once been Olivia’s bedroom.
The bloody idiot should be looking for a new job, not snooping around in this mausoleum the night before the new owner takes residence. Fool!
If he were a fool, then Olivia was stark raving mad. To come back here, when so much was at stake. While intimately acquainted with madness, she had no intention of revisiting the asylum that held her captive in Germany for ten long years: a fate decided for Olivia by her now-dead husband.
I’d rather join Percy in the fiery pit of hell than go back there.
Percival Smithwick had not been a kind husband or a good man. Olivia knew she couldn’t find joy in the arms of any man, but Percy took sick pleasure in making her life as unpleasant as he could. Right up until the moment he met his fate at the hands of Ivy Cavendale, one of the Queen’s Deadly Damsels. They were a small but fierce force of women led by the powerful Duchess of Dorsett.
Lady Philippa Winterbourne.
Unbidden, the memory of cobalt eyes framed by dark lashes, a crimson mouth that would tempt even the angels to sin, and so much glorious black hair, Olivia’s fingers twitched to test its texture, filled her mind.
She scowled, ruthlessly reminding herself Lady Winterbourne was the enemy and someone Olivia despised. The indomitable duchess helped to catch Olivia’s husband while completing a secret mission for Queen Victoria.
Because she is so special, the bloody ruler of all England trusts her with hunting down the most dangerous lords in her realm.
A fact Olivia found both impressive and irritating.
Percival had been one such lord.Based on the evidence Philippa and her Deadly Damsels discovered, they could prove Percival was the dreaded Wolf, second-in-command to the Crow who led London’s most secret and insidious brotherhood. The Devil’s Sons. And devils they were, working to enslave young girls and boys in a flesh trading ring stretching far into Europe.
After Olivia’s friend Ivy helped capture Percy, Philippa used her influence with the Queen to ensure he was kept in Newgate prison. None of the Damsels had faith the system would hold Lord Smithwick accountable for his crimes, but neither did they expect the brotherhood to take matters into their own hands. Yet that is exactly what the Devil’s Sons did. An unnamed criminal, no doubt a minion of the brotherhood, was tasked with ensuring Percy’s secrets stayed hidden forever. He murdered Percy in his cot before he could stand trial.
But I escaped.
Even in her perilous circumstance – breathlessly waiting to see if the cursed butler was going to discover her hiding in her old bedchamber or go pack his bags and bugger off – Olivia smiled at the memory of her fist slamming into Philippa Winterbourne’s far-too-perfect face. The crunch of Olivia’s knuckles against Philippa’s cheekbone was more satisfaction than she’d felt in… forever, actually. Not that she was angry with Philippa for helping to catch her husband. Far from it. Olivia loathed Percival and the brotherhood. She hated what he made her do on behalf of their treacherous mission to victimise London’s most vulnerable so they could line their own pockets. Olivia was thrilled her bastard of a husband had finally been stopped. She also knew she deserved to share in Percival’s fate. But that didn’t prevent a shiver of triumph at getting one over on the far-too-proud, always-right, better-than-the-whole-bloody-beau-monde Duchess of Dorsett.
The butler sighed heavily, turned, and walked out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him.
Olivia nearly melted into a puddle of relief on the parquet floor, which was premature at best as she still had a dangerous task to complete. She couldn’t relax yet. Not until she’d found the hoard of money and jewels she had hidden in preparation for her eventual escape from Percy. She hadn’t planned on circumstances being quite so dire, but Philippa had complicated matters exponentially by putting Olivia’s name at the top of the Queen’s most-wanted list. Still, Olivia’s end goal was unchanged. Freedom. Although now, instead of retiring to her dowager house in the country, she would need to leave England entirely. She could hardly show her face amongst the beau monde, knowing the duchess was hunting her down like some feral prey.
Infuriating, horrible, awful woman! I finally escape my hideous marriage, and now I face the threat of imprisonment.
Which, at the root of things, felt the same to Olivia. Both ensured she had no control. No autonomy. No chance of living a life that might bring any hint of happiness or contentment.
So, I shall take fate into my own hands. As soon as I get my blasted money.
She could book passage on a ship bound for America and hold onto hope for a future there where she might finally decide what path to walk. Alone, but free.
‘It will be a fresh start. For me and for Hyacinth. She will thank me one day,’ she whispered into the dark room, needing to hear the words so she could believe them.
Pressing her lips together in a firm line, she refused to cry at the thought of her daughter. Not once during the sixteen years since she brought her sweet girl into the world had Olivia ever imagined Hyacinth would hate her with such burning rage. Then again, she never believed Percival would rip them apart when Hyacinth was only six years old, condemning Olivia to ten years of hell in an asylum while he poisoned her daughter with lies about Olivia choosing to whore around Europe instead of raising Hyacinth.
When Percy finally summoned Olivia home, whatever fantasies she created of being welcomed into her daughter’s arms were shattered as the girl stood like a stone, hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles were white, eyes hard, head full of her father’s falsehoods. In the few months they’d had together since her return, she’d made precious little headway with her daughter.
‘Fucking bastard. I hope your last moments were as horrifying as the ten years I suffered.’ It wasn’t lost on her that she was cursing a dead man in an empty room, but she didn’t care.
Likely, his last breath was taken with a large amount of fear and dread, and she couldn’t dredge up an ounce of pity for him. Being murdered in a Newgate prison cell was hardly a peaceful end. But it was no more than he deserved. Given his role in decimating countless innocents, it was rather fitting he met a violent end. But the damage he wrought during his life didn’t end when his heart stopped beating. Indeed, Olivia was still reeling from the repercussions of his sins, as were countless innocent victims of his crimes.
Anger always focused Olivia, and so she chose that over grief. She couldn’t lament her stolen past with Hyacinth or her uncertain future when so much still needed to be done. If she wanted any chance of a life beyond the next few days, she needed to retrieve her hidden treasure from beneath the loose board under the huge bed, collect her daughter, and leave the continent before Lady Philippa Winterbourne and her band of Deadly Damsels found Olivia and delivered their vigilante justice.
All her hope rested in the velvet bag containing a small fortune, safe in its hiding spot, waiting to be collected.
The magnificent mahogany bed had been stripped of its sheets and blankets and stood like a grand lady completely naked in the centre of her chamber. An unbidden image of Lady Philippa Winterbourne, standing just as grand and just as naked in Olivia’s bedroom, painted a blush across her cheeks.
