Prologue
Almost there.Keep moving. Don’t let them catch you.
Heart pounding, nine-year-old Anthony Hale trod through the streets of Mayfair, keeping his head down and gaze vigilant beneath his tattered cap. He didn’t dare run for fear of rousing suspicion. In this playground of the rich and powerful, he stuck out like a runty black sheep among plump, fluffy lambs, his soot-stained clothes betraying his profession as a climbing boy. The last thing he needed was for one of the blue-bloods taking their morning constitutionals to summon the Peelers. He tried to appear casual, as if he were on his way to clean another chimney…when in fact he was running for his life.
I own you, you li’l bugger.Roger Wiley’s menacing face flashed before his eyes.If I catch you runnin’ away again, you’ll wish you was dead.
The scars on Anthony’s back drew taut at the memory of his last flogging by the master sweep. He’d been feverish for days afterward, his blood soaking into the flour sacks that served as mattresses in the windowless cellar where all the climbing boys slept. It had been his second attempt to escape, and Wiley had made an example of him. Now none of the other children dared to step out of line. They were resigned to their fates—unlike Anthony.
He had a different path to follow. A promise to keep…and a destiny to fulfill.
He heard again his mother’s desperate last words.I won’t make it off this ship, my dear boy, but promise me you’ll find Anthony De Villier.He’s your father…your last hope.You’re so handsome and clever, I know he’ll take you in. If he doesn’t believe you, give him this.She’d pulled a piece of knotted leather from beneath her bodice, upon which dangled a magnificent bloodstone ring. The thick shank was made of gold, the shoulders carved in a scroll design. The ring’s black-and-red-flecked stone was carved with the ornate initials, “A. D.”
Keep it safe until you see De Villier. Until then, tell no one, my son…trust no one…
Anthony had been stupid; he hadn’t heeded his mama’s words. He’d thought he could trust the Wileys, fellow passengers on the ship who’d pretended to be Good Samaritans. When his mother died the day before reaching London, he’d sobbed in Drusilla Wiley’s arms. She and her husband Roger, a master sweep, had taken him to their home in St. Giles.
At Drusilla’s gentle persuasion, Anthony had confessed his purpose for coming to London.
Promising to help him find his father, Drusilla had asked to see the ring, and he’d given it to her. She and Roger had promptly locked him in the cellar—where Anthony had found himself face-to-face with a score of dirty, hungry, terrified boys…
For three years, he’d lived the nightmare of being one of the sweep’s “apprentices.” He’d cleaned stinking, suffocating stacks from dawn until dusk; by night, he’d toiled in the sweep’s other trade, committing burglaries and petty theft. He’d proven himself to be the fastest and cleverest of his peers, bringing in the most loot and artfully dodging the Peelers. He supposed this was the only reason Wiley had let him live after his two attempted flits.
As valuable as Anthony was, he knew that if Wiley caught him this third time, he would not survive. This was his last chance. His last hope…and he’d finally arrived.
He stared up at the imposing mansion built of cool grey stone. Rows of windows with rounded tops gleamed in the morning sunlight. Grand columns flanked the entryway, the steps leading up to the door so clean that you could eat off them.
“Crikey,” Anthony murmured. His father lived in a bleeding palace.
Casting a furtive glance around, he took out the handkerchief he’d nabbed from an unsuspecting passerby. Spitting in the fine linen, he used it to rub his face, removing as much soot as he could. Smoothing his unruly black hair beneath his cap, he climbed the steps and stood on tiptoe to reach the heavy brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Three raps, and the door opened to reveal a stern-faced butler.
“Deliveries around back,” the man barked.
As the door began to close, Anthony jammed one worn boot into the door’s path.
“What in God’s name—” the butler thundered.
“Please, sir, I need to see Mr. De Villier,” Anthony said desperately. “It’s a matter o’ great import—”
“Who are you to utter the master’s name? Move, you dirty cur, or I shall summon the police!”
Calculating his options, Anthony made his face contrite. “You win, guv, but you’ve got my foot trapped in this ’ere door.”
With a huff, the butler eased the pressure on the door—and Anthony charged into the wooden barrier. The door slammed into the butler, who landed on his arse with a startled curse, and Anthony dashed into the house.
His holey soles slid against the gleaming marble floor, but he kept his balance, racing through the antechamber with its dripping chandelier, past the wide staircase that wound up toward the upper floors. He dodged a swearing footman, almost collided into a maid who screeched, her cleaning bucket crashing to the ground.
This time of day, a rich cove would likely be in his private sanctuary. Anthony’s experience cleaning the chimneys of fine homes helped him to guess the present layout. He sprinted down a painting-lined hallway, passing the billiards room, music room, library, finally arriving at a closed door.
The study…voices coming from inside.
He reached for the door handle. His fingertips touched the smooth metal knob—and the next instant he was yanked back by the collar. He struggled, kicking out, his curses muffled by his captor’s hand.
“Got the li’l bugger,” the footman said. “What do you want me to do with him, Mr. Laraby?”
Appearing behind the footman, the butler said with a scowl, “The guttersnipe broke into a gentleman’s home; he’s undoubtedly a burglar in the making. It’s off to Newgate for him. Lock him in a cupboard while I summon the police.”
The footman began to drag Anthony away from the study. From his only chance for survival.
