Chapter One
London, 1814
Julius Blackwell dug his fingers under the mask covering his face. The damn thing itched like the dickens. And smelled like a swamp. He tried to remember the last time he’d worn it. Vauxhall Gardens? That assignation with Godfrey’s sister?
His lips scratched the wool as they curved beneath the mask. That had been a lovely evening, notwithstanding his flight along the banks of the Thames with Godfrey’s men in pursuit. The man’s outrage seemed disproportionate to Julius’s offense. His sister was a lovely widow who had more than her fair share of trysts. Her behavior was well known throughout London. In Godfrey’s defense, however, it was one thing to know of one’s sister’s behavior, but quite another to come across it along one of the garden’s winding paths.
Julius’s escape through the filthy river had been hard won. It also explained the smell.
He readjusted the mask. If only bed sport were the reason he wore it tonight.
The floor board beneath him groaned, and Julius froze. The felt he’d attached to the bottom of his boots was no protection against an ill-constructed house. Blast Lord Liverpool for sending him on this fool’s errand. No earl should condescend to sneak through a widow’s home in the middle of the night to steal a painting. Not even at the request of the prime minister.
The previous Lords Rothchild would roll over in their graves if they knew what the current one was doing. It had been ingrained in Julius since infancy that honor was the mainstay of the aristocracy. Honor and idleness. Julius was sure none of his ancestors had ever worked a day in their lives, much less worked for the Crown as a spy.
And blast Ashworth for getting blackmailed by Mrs. Abigail Westmont in the first place. Julius always seemed to be the Crown’s first choice to clean up the messes the peerage left behind. If Liverpool didn’t seek some form of retribution for Viscount Ashworth’s latest indiscretion, Julius damn well would.
Easing into another sitting room, Julius examined the walls, but didn’t find his object. All that remained to search were the Widow Westmont’s own bedchambers. A pulse throbbed behind his temple. Of course, the harlot would keep it close. That painting was worth twenty thousand pounds to her, or a certain disgrace to Viscount Ashworth if he didn’t pay.
His footsteps were mere whispers as he crept down the hallway. Julius prayed the widow kept her door well-oiled. Liverpool’s instructions were to recover the item at all costs, but violence against women didn’t sit well with Julius. Even against conniving blackmailers.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the door open, the wood hissing over the raised carpet. Moonlight streamed in through the uncovered window, falling on the form beneath the coverlet. Her chest rose and fell smoothly, enjoying the sleep of the innocent.
Julius bit back a snort. Mrs. Abigail Westmont was anything but. Although Julius had never enjoyed the pleasure of her favors, he’d known many men who had. Many, many men. How many of them had she blackmailed, too?
The shadowed walls were bare. He narrowed his eyes. Where would she keep it? He peered over the back of her settee. Nothing. In her wardrobe, Julius pushed aside swathes and swathes of fabric. Julius ground his teeth together and tossed a glance over his shoulder at the sleeping figure. Why did women have so many blasted clothes? It wasn’t to impress men. They didn’t give their first bollock about current fashions. The less worn, the better. Julius wanted the smallest barrier possible between him and a woman when he bound her wrists to a headboard and bent—
His gaze flew to the bed. On silent feet, he padded close, listening to her even breathing. Dropping to his hands and knees, he lifted the ruffle and stared into the pitch black beneath the mattress and frame. Feeling his way, he searched the floor, finding nothing. He flattened to his stomach and scooted as far underneath as he could, straightening his arm. His fingertips nudged a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Stretching his shoulder, Julius ignored the familiar pain that shot through the joint and grasped the edge of the painting, tugging it towards him. As quietly as possible, he pulled the two-foot square canvas free of the counterpane. Rolling to a crouch, he shot one last look at the Widow Westmont and slipped from her room.
Julius stalked to the window at the end of the hall. Moonlight streamed through the curtains.He unwrapped enough of the canvas to see that it was, indeed, a portrait of Ashworth. Tucking the picture under his arm, he escapedfrom the house the way he’d entered. He waited for the familiar rush of pleasure and satisfaction that came from evading detection, from gaining entrée where he didn’t belong, but tonight he just felt on edge.
Two blocks away, he climbed into his carriage and headed for White’s. He found Liverpool where he expected, ensconced in a private room, a stack of papers on the table next to him, smoke curling from the end of his pipe.
“I see you were successful,” Liverpool said. Turning a page inThe London Gazette, he flicked a glance at Julius. The man had only been prime minister for a couple of years, and Julius hadn’t yet learned the art of reading him. His predecessor had certainly never communicated with Julius or his friends in person, not when it came to their unofficial government duties. Julius supposed he should appreciate the risk Lord Liverpool tookin speaking with him face to face. Either that or the man didn’t trust his messengers.
“Did you doubt I would be?” Julius strode to a sideboard, unwrapped the canvas, and propped it against the wall. Taking a step back, he grimaced. “Bloody hell. Ashworth deserves to be blackmailed. He posed for his mistress like this?”
Liverpool peered over the paper, his spectacles glinting in the light. He harrumphed. “I understand the lady painted it from memory. Not very flattering to the man, is it?”
“I’d object more to the girlish pose on the settee than the lack of proportion.” Julius cocked his head. “Maybe.” Not wanting to look upon it a moment more, he rewrapped the canvas. “I assume the wine-colored birthmark above his groin was the source for the blackmail?”
Liverpool nodded. “Something only his wife and doctor should know.”
“A lot of men have affairs.”
“Not all of them have the ear of the Prince Regent. Not all of them have built a political platform on family values. The man seems particularly aggressive in wanting to imprison adulterers. Of the lower classes, of course.” The prime minister shook his head. “No, Lord Ashworth was a fool to be so indiscrete.” He flipped to another page, dismissing Julius.
Another job done. Julius’s shoulders sagged. Finishing a job for the Crown usually left Julius in high spirits. Eager for more adventure. Being a spy had givenhis life purpose. Tonight, he felt drained. He just wanted to get home, go to bed.
With a curt nod, Julius strode for the door.
“Good job, Rothchild.” Liverpool’s words stopped Julius.
Julius turned and looked once more at the canvas. “You know Mrs. Westmont can paint another picture.”
“Yes.” Liverpool sucked at his pipe. “It’s no longer your concern.”
