Fi ran full tilt into him, her momentum sending him sprawling.
The footman rose, sneering, “You’re going to regret that, bitch.”
When he came at her, she evaded his grasp and kneed him in the groin. He went down again, groaning and curling into a fetal position. An instant later, the other footman collapsed beside him, dispatched by the thief’s mighty left hook.
“Come,chérie.”
The thief grabbed Fi’s hand. Together, they raced through the dark garden toward the back gate. He gave her a lift, not that she needed it. She scaled the iron fence with ease, landing softly in the lane behind the house.
A moment later, the thief touched down beside her.
There was no time to say goodbye. Beneath his mask, the man’s mouth curved, and he reached out, his big hand briefly cupping her cheek. Heart racing, she let her joy show in her smile. Then, without a word, they parted, running in opposite directions. As Fi reached the end of the lane, she saw the Angels’ carriage pulling up, Livy opening the door and waving at her. Climbing inside, Fi couldn’t resist a glance back.
The lane was empty. Like a figment of a feverish fantasy, her partner in crime had vanished…as if he’d never been there at all.
One
Two weeks later
The Brambleton ball was a bona fide crush.
Beneath the tiered chandeliers, Fiona performed a lively polka with her partner, Lord William Brambleton. The young viscount’s banalities went in one ear and out the next. He could drone on for ages with little encouragement from her. Usually, she managed to hide her boredom, yet tonight a strange restlessness plagued her. She felt like a caged animal on display.
Speculative gazes tracked her and Lord William. As he was young, possessed of all his hair and teeth, and the heir to an earldom, he was considered the catch of the Season. The only thing he lacked was money, but that was where Fi came in. She was one of the richest heiresses on the marriage mart, and her beauty and charm had earned her the title of an “Incomparable.”
Practically speaking, she and Lord William were a perfect match.
Of course, there were the sticklers who held Fiona’s background against her. Her papa was a powerful industrialist with roots in London’s underworld, and her mama was a banker’s daughter. While her family’s wealth had purchased Fi an admission ticket into the upper echelons, getting a good seat was another matter. Because of her middle-class roots, she had dealt with condescension and snobbery all her life.
Indeed, some of her fellow debutantes had dubbed her “Miss Banks” behind her back, a vindictive reference to the source of her familial fortune. Fi did not know what annoyed her more: the moniker’s spitefulness or its inaccuracy. As Papa believed in financial diversification, banking institutions accounted for only a small fraction of the Garritys’ vast holdings. The blue-blooded twits ought to have called her “Miss Railways,” “Miss Factories,” or “Miss Large Country Estates.”
Some middle-class misses might kowtow to the elitists and accept their lot in life. Not Fiona. Beneath her polished façade burned the fire of rebellion. She was determined to silence the naysayers by proving them wrong. She had made it her mission to conquer Society without a single drop of aristocratic blood in her veins.
She had worked tirelessly at mastering the skills of being a lady. She could play three instruments, sing, and dance. She’d studied fashions until she was not only an expert but a starter of trends. She’d memorized entire volumes on proper comportment—one ought to know the rules, even if one chose not to follow them—and could recite Debrett’s from beginning to end.
Fi had also studied the reigning ladies of Society with the avidness of a general preparing for battle. She had followed in the footsteps of the most popular hostesses, learning how to charm, flirt, and maneuver her way to the top. Truth be told, she’d enjoyed the challenge of it. Now she was poised on the precipice of success; to execute hercoup d’état, all she had to do was make a brilliant matrimonial match.
Which led to a dilemma: finding a suitable husband.
The problem wasn’t landing a title. Fi’s list of suitors could have been ripped from the society pages. The trouble lay in what happenedaftermarriage. For years, Fi had striven to prove she was a lady. She’d done her job so well that she’d fooled everyone…except herself.
She knew who she truly was. Her perfect debutante persona was a sham. The real Fiona Garrity was no demure and genteel lady. Behind her exquisitely groomed façade, she was willful, thrill-seeking, and even a bit ruthless when the situation warranted. Not only had she been leading a double life as an investigator, but she also reveled in the illicit freedom. Delighted in secretly thumbing her nose at the polite world.
In truth, Fi was surprised that she’d managed to hoodwink Society for this long. A part of her had always feared that her scheme would be exposed, and people would see her for the impostor she was. That she would go down in infamy as Miss Banks, Wanton Adventuress. The longer her machinations went unnoticed, the more her anxiety of exposure mounted.
And marriage? That was the scariest proposition of all. For how could she hide her true self from the man she would be living with until death did them part? She could never slip up, never let her guard down. It would beexhausting.For any potential union to work, her husband would have to fall into one of two categories: incredibly accepting…or incredibly oblivious.
The latter was definitely a safer bet. In Fiona’s experience, acceptance could change. At one time, she’d been the apple of her father’s eye and could do no wrong; now Papa questioned her decisions and restricted her freedom. The last thing she wanted was a husband who would do the same. Better to find an unobservant fellow or simpleton to wed…and there was certainly no shortage of those. Yet having an imperceptive or stupid husband wasn’t exactly a thrilling prospect.
The dance ended, and Lord William was blathering on about thoroughbreds. By the time he returned her to her mama, Fi felt like her head might explode if she heard one more word about proper conformation.
“I am rather parched, my lord.” To soften her interruption of his soliloquy on equine anatomy, she fluttered her eyelashes. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me some lemonade?”
He set off like a knight on a quest. The moment he was out of earshot, she turned to her mother.
“May I be excused to find Livy and Glory?” she asked.
“Must you do so now, my dear?” Mama tilted her head, her red curls tipping to one side. “The viscount will be returning with your beverage. And Lord Sheffield will be claiming his dance shortly.”
