Prologue
Heist and seek.
The Mayfair residence of Lord and Lady Erskine, London, 5thOctober 1815
Slipping from the dark night into the well-lit kitchen, Alfie Marwick kept his head down as he glided past frantic maids, a frazzled cook on the verge of apoplexy, and bustling footmen. Tension filled the humid air, along with shouts and oaths as the staff prepared the lavish dinner that would be served at midnight. Barely pausing, Alfie grabbed a discarded tray, moving straight to the side room where servants filled regimental lines of empty champagne glasses. Another footman swept in, swapped an empty tray for a full one, and vanished upstairs. Alfie followed suit, loading his tray with practiced speed—grateful for Lill’s weekend drills—and headed for the stairs, blending seamlessly into the chaos.
Moving swiftly, Alfie slipped through the chaos with the poise of someone who had only dropped one (or two) glasses in rehearsal. He almost ground to a halt, however, as the grandeur of the entrance hall stole his breath. Having spent much of his youth running wild on the streets of London, Alfie usually only saw the way the upper ten thousand lived in the dark, as he tiptoed around and filched as much portable property as he could easily carry. Breaking and entering was an art as far as Alfie was concerned, and one he excelled at, yet he had neverbeen so bold as to enter such a house in full view of everyone, and during such a lavish event.
As he took in the gilded portraits, the glittering crystal chandeliers, and the acres of pristine marble floor, his heart thudded unevenly, the small, grubby child he had once been shrieking at him that this was the kind of daft undertaking likely to get him hanged. Yet outwardly he was the perfect servant, his expression unreadable, his demeanour entirely calm as he headed towards the stairs that would take him to the family’s private quarters.
“You there! Where the devil are you off to? The champagne is to be taken through to the ballroom.”
Hell and the devil, Alfie cursed silently, before turning an enquiring gaze upon the butler. The man was a pattern card of what one might expect of such a fine house. Alfie knew the type well, having had the door slammed in his face by many such, and he could not help but wonder if there was a guidebook where such fellows learned all the intimate details that seemed to go hand-in-hand with the job.
“Delivering champagne, sir,” he said promptly, turning away and hoping that would suffice.
“The ballroom is that way,” the butler ground out, forcing Alfie to return his attention to the wretched man.
Alfie nodded ruefully and stepped closer. “Indeed, sir, but there is a little, er… tête-à-tête, in progress upstairs, and I was sent to deliver the goods, as I’m known for me discretion.”
The butler looked disapproving at this information but having heard a good deal about Lord Erskine’s morals and the goings on here, Alfie was unsurprised when he merely tightened his lips and nodded.
“Very well. But get a move on and get back to the ballroom—and mind you don’t spill any on the carpets.”
“Understood, sir. I’ll tread lighter than a pretty ladybird at the vicar’s tea party.”
The butler, unamused by this uninvited levity, huffed and turned his back. Sighing with relief, Alfie turned on his heel and almost collided with a pair of giggling young ladies dressed in what seemed to him to be an excessive amount of pink tulle and silk roses. They snatched two glasses from his tray before he could stop them, looking him up and down with interest.
Muttering apologies, he darted towards the staircase as their voices followed him.
“Oooh, Livvy, he’s rather fine, and what a splendid pair of legs!”
“Splendid, indeed! I’d wager Lord Erskine hasn’t noticed him yet. You know he refuses to employ handsome fellows. Sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander if his lordship has any say in the matter,” she said with a snort, as the two of them dissolved into giggles, confirming to Alfie that those two glasses had not been their first of the night.
Relieved to be out of the way of the worst of the chaos, Alfie hurried on along a lamplit corridor, tiptoeing around a snoring pug and pausing to stare up at an enormous portrait of Lord Erskine, which he suspected was flattering rather than accurate.
The noise of the orchestra faded as he hastened farther along the corridor, following the instructions given to him by a disgruntled lady’s maid who had left the Erskines’ employ after having grown tired of evading his lordship’s insistent groping.
And there they were, the large double doors that led to Lady Erskine’s private boudoir.
With a last glance around, Alfie set the tray on a pretty rosewood console and dropped to his knees. Muttering under his breath, he fished the well-used lockpicks with their pretty inlaid mother-of-pearl handles from his inside pocket, unrolled the little velvet pouch that secured them, and set to work.
“Child’s play,” he said with satisfaction some few seconds later, upon hearing a triumphant click, and scrambled to his feet.
Turning the handle, he slipped inside the room, greeted by the hushed sound of obscene luxury only produced by many layers of expensive Aubusson carpets, heavy velvet curtains, and generations of wealth.
Alfie grinned in the darkness. Oh, the delicious anticipation of impending thievery, it never got old.
Chapter 1
The brooch brouhaha.
The Dowager Duchess of Hawkney’s Christmas Ball, Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, 23rdDecember 1815
“You!”
Alice Marwick regarded the Duke of Hawkney with surprise. Known for his aloof good manners and a dedication tonoblesse oblige, for perhaps the first time in his life—in public at least—he looked like someone had just presented him with a dead rat, and the object of his wrath was… Clara Halfpenny.
