CHAPTER 1
Rothwell, West Yorkshire
March 1817
The lamp light was burning low in the modest dressmaker shop, the night’s flickering shadow growing with encroaching inches upon the table. However, Bridget’s eyes were fixed on the tiny, almost invisible stitching of white silk threat on white satin cloth.
The lady who had ordered this gown was Lady Ruth, or as she was locally monikered,Lady Ruthless, and she lived up to her name—so Bridget could not afford to produce something lackluster.
“Just a few more stitches and the hem will be done,” she whispered.
The window rattled with the night wind, and the sudden shock of cold made her shiver, but she tugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and sunk the needle through the cloth.
The nights in Rothwell were calm ones, even in the changeling spring nights. At a huffing of breath, a lock of her brown hair fluttered away from her eyes as she pulled the last stitch into place, tied the knot off, and then slumped into the chair in relief.
Her heavy eyes ached, her fingers stiff with hours of needlework but her heart was light knowing the dress was finally done. Gently, she stood and wrapped the dress in a garment bag and hung it under the screen before preparing to leave the shop.
It was on the underside of nine when she slid the key into the lock and turned the bolt, wrapped her shawl tight, and hurried down the streets, lamp in hand, her heart thumping at the empty road before her.
The tap of her worn half-boots on the cobblestone rang out like gunshots in the silence as she hurried. It would not be too long now, as her godmother’s cottage was just three streets beyond, but with no one around and the imposing silence hemming in on her, it felt like an eternity away.
I should have stayed at the shop and pretended to arrive early tomorrow morning instead of taking this dangerous chance.
Her hand slipped to her pocket where a pair of her sharp shears pressed cold on her skin and she fixed her fingers around it as she kept her head bowed, her face shielded by the brim of herbonnet. A cloud passed from the moon and the silvery rays fell over the battened-up windows of the many shops and dining establishments that lined the pleasant square.
In the backdrop were rolling rural hills and sprawling earthenware factories that had sprouted up there and in the nearby towns.
“Two more streets to go,” she whispered and quickened her steps—only to hear a rough masculine shout from the alley mouth head.
Terror thundered in her chest and she gripped the shears tightly, as her feet felt nailed to the ground.
Turn around.
Turn around.
Run…
“Do we have to do this, gents?” a deep voice slurred in drunkenness. “Surely, we can resolve this another way without violence?”
Against all common sense, she edged closer to the mouth of the head. A horrid stench came from the pile of garbage packed further in the back, but she saw two men, clad in dark clothes, one had greasy, overlong hair, with a jagged mark that bisectedthe man’s face into two menacing halves. The other had a cap on and was barefoot.
“Aye, we do want to do this,guv,” one of them snarled. “A certain Lord Harcourt has paid us handsomely to inflict… violence.”
Once again, the clouds moved from the moon and when the rays dropped on the man—her breastbone held her breath hostage.
Clad in his dark dinner jacket and matching breeches, the white of his shirt, waistcoat, and cravat stood out like a beacon.
What is a gentleman doing out here? In the middle of nowhere?
“I doubt you want to do that…” the lord said, staggering a little.
His square face and dimpled chin were chiseled and strong, jawline flinty and sharp, and his skin glinted tan in contrast to his snowy cravat. With how he carried himself, he could only come from centuries of blue-blooded stock.
“…especially in front of a lady,” he ended.
Spinning on their heels, the two men rounded toward Bridget, and the sight of the wicked knife in their hands had her blood going cold. She stepped away— and screamed.
The lord, losing all signs of drunkenness, attacked, landing two efficient blows to both blackguards, sending them crumpling to the wet cobblestone, unconscious.
