Chapter One
1882
As far asLucien was concerned, Mr. H.E. Montgomery could go to the devil.
Not only was the American interloper unwanted, but he was also late. Lucien despised tardiness. It was enough of an indignity the Home Office had foisted the Pinkerton agent upon him as a proposed—he shuddered—partner. But now, the fellow could not even be bothered to appear at the appointed time for their first meeting.
Lucien removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glared at the ticking hands, which revealed Mr. H.E. Montgomery, celebrated Pinkerton and new fellow leader of the Special League, was precisely forty-seven seconds tardy.
“Unacceptable,” he muttered to himself, his irritation mounting with each passing second.
Lucien attempted to distract himself by once more turning his attention back to the compendium of Montgomery’s cases as a Pinkerton, a career which appeared to extend at least a decade into the past. The fellow had successfully routed murderers and thieves, and in recent years, had infiltrated a cutthroat band of New York City Fenians known as the Emerald Club.
All well and good. All perfectly fine. He had no doubt Mr. Montgomery was more than capable of performing his job in America. But England was a great deal different, and this was Lucien’s bloody territory. He had been leading investigations into the dangerous network of Fenians threatening England, at home and abroad, on his own for months now. He had done a damned good job of seeing a number of Fenians arrested, the threat they posed to the public effectively extinguished by his hand. Indeed, if it were not for The Incident, Home Office would never have made such a humiliating demand.
Being forced to accept this Yankee agent was an anathema to him.
Particularly since the man was now—Lucien checked his watch—one minute and seventeen seconds late.
A knock sounded on his study door at last, and the portal opened to reveal the expressionless countenance of his butler, Reynolds.
“Has Montgomery arrived?” he asked, his irritation mounting.
“You do have a visitor, Your Grace,” said Reynolds with a furrowing of his brow. “However, I am afraid it is not a Mr. Montgomery at all, but rather—”
“MissMontgomery,” drawled a distinctly feminine voice.
An equally feminine figure, clad in a smart navy gown and a jaunty hat atop her head, rudely brushed past Reynolds and sailed into Lucien’s study. The creature who sauntered across the chamber and approached his desk was decidedly not who Lucien had been expecting.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Reynolds said in a strangled tone. “I am afraid Miss Montgomery refused to wait until I ascertained if you were receiving callers.”
“You need not speak of me as if I am absent from the room,” the woman admonished his butler, fixing the unfortunate domestic with a look designed to convey her supreme irritation. “I am standing right here, and I do assure you both my ears and my wits are in perfect working order.”
She turned back to Lucien, standing over his desk in a startlingly authoritative fashion. Though she was slim, she was tall, and she possessed a commanding air at odds with what one expected of a genteel lady.
“Does everyone in England have a guard dog posted at the door?” she demanded of Lucien, without preamble.
Then again, it was becoming increasingly apparent the woman before him, despite being fashionably garbed, was no genteel lady.
Lucien spared a glance for poor Reynolds, who hovered at the threshold, for once appearing uncertain of the protocol. To the domestic’s credit, it was not a daily occurrence for the butler to be routed, then thoroughly browbeaten, by a brash American female.
“That will be all, Reynolds.” Lucien waited for his butler to make his discreet exit before turning back to his unexpected visitor. “Please do—” She settled herself into one of the chairs opposite his desk without a hint of grace. “Sit.”
“Thank you.” She thrust her gloved hand forward. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, sir. I have heard a great deal about your work.”
He frowned, staring at her hand. He supposed she meant for him to shake it, so he did, against his better judgment. “Indeed, Miss Montgomery. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, though I must admit your appearance here is unexpected. I presume you are Mr. Montgomery’s sister?”
She frowned back at him. “Who the hell is Mr. Montgomery?”
She was still holding his hand, shaking it with a grip which was strong and altogether unladylike. He did not wear gloves, and though she did, the warmth of her skin burned into his. It seemed somehow intimate. Too intimate. He extricated himself from her grasp, tamping down the unwanted reaction.
What manner of female was this, dressed as a lady, yet unpardonably rude? Shockingly pretty, in spite of her abrasive personality? And why had she asked him who Mr. Montgomery was? Or, to be precise,who the hellMr. Montgomery was?
He cleared his throat, feeling rather disconcerted, which was unlike himself, but this astonishing creature had him at sixes and sevens. “Forgive me, Miss Montgomery, but I presumed, since I was to meet with Mr. Montgomery, and you share the fellow’s surname, surely the two of you must be familiars, if not relations.”
Icy blue eyes, studded with long dark lashes, met his unflinchingly. “There is no Mr. Montgomery, Mr. Arden.”
Mr. Arden?
