PROLOGUE
1805
The first time Campbell Ripley saw Jane Kendall, she scarred him.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Robert “The Beast” MacDougal scarred him.
He’d fought MacDougal before. Several times, actually. They were billed as bitter rivals on the boxing circuits, written about in breathless terms like “vicious”, “violent” and “possible to witness a death in the ring”. It all brought in eyes and money and a certain fame. Ripley didn’t really hate him, though. He didn’t hate anyone he fought.
That didn’t mean he held back on his swings, and this fight was no different. He shifted his weight as he caught MacDougal with a hard cross that rocked the other man back and cut open his lip. The sight of the blood trickling down his chin made the crowd go wild, but they each ignored that, eyes still locked on each other.
They pivoted in the middle of the ring, trying to lock back in on the correct distance for a good blow. And that was when Ripley saw her.
She was standing amongst the rowdy crowd in the front row just over MacDougal’s shoulder, her hand tucked into the elbow of a man. She was one of the few women in attendance, but that wasn’t the only reason she stood out. She was stunning, with pale blonde hair like straw and dark eyes whose color he couldn’t place from this distance, but he found himself wanting to know. She had a long, slender neck and a beautiful face that a greater man might have painted, but Ripley could only gawk at.
And that was when MacDougal caught him with a hard right that threw his head back, slashed across his left eyebrow and brought a black rim around his vision that usually meant unconsciousness was about to visit. His eyebrow split open immediately and blood began to gush from the cut, streaming down his face and leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.
MacDougal gave a wide smile as Ripley lunged forward to grapple with him so he could regain a little composure. He had to get his mind back in the game, shake off the cobwebs. He shifted MacDougal with a great shove and then swung a combination of lefts and rights that sat MacDougal back and finally down where he struggled to get up and eventually waved a hand to concede.
The crowd surged forward as the promoter of the bout lifted Ripley’s hand. Ripley grinned and spat out some of the blood that had gotten into his mouth, but he found himself searching the wild crowd for the lady who had so distracted him in his fight. But she was lost to the cheering, drunken masses. Gone. But as he reached up to touch the deep cut across his eyebrow that would very likely become a scar, he knew she wouldn’t be forgotten.
1806
The second time Ripley met Jane, it was at a far more pleasant gathering. The Donville Masquerade, an underground club built for sin more than cards or other entertainments. It had been a year since the fight where he’d first laid eyes on her. As he’d expected, the eyebrow had healed with a bright white slash of a scar across his brow, but women always cooed over it. Men, too, if one were honest.
Here at Donville those coos usually led to a fuck. Tonight, though, as he sat at one of the tables near the back of the main room of the club, a drink in hand, he couldn’t seem to muster up the interest in a fuck. At least, not with the men and women who shot him glances or bought him drinks and called him the Dragon, which was his fighting name. Not a one caught his eye.
Until she did. The crowd parted, almost as if the sea was being pushed aside, and there she was. The woman from the fight twelve long months before.
His breath caught as he stared at her. She was as lovely as she had been a year before. She had a different man on her arm now than she had that night. And her gown was certainly far more revealing. It was a gauzy pink so lowcut that it just barely covered her nipples. She was all fine lines and porcelain skin that he wanted to touch so badly that his palms itched.
She didn’t wear a mask like so many of the ladies in attendance and he realized she was likely a lightskirt or a courtesan. He didn’t care about that, of course. He lived in a world of people who made their money from their bodies, him included, so to judge anyone else who did the same would be the height of hypocrisy.
She glanced at him, almost as if she could feel the burn of his even stare, and when her gaze found his, he saw her take in a little breath. Her lips parted and she wetted them before she jerked her face back toward her companion. Ripley smiled. It seemed the lady recalled him, as well. Or at least wasn’t entirely immune to him.
He pushed away his half-finished drink and stood. He’d have to be careful about this. If she was a courtesan and the man beside her was her protector, he didn’t want to harm her arrangement. A woman could be ruined by a bad separation. He knew that fact far too well.
But if this was just a man paying for her company for the night…well, that was another story. He’d interrupt that without any trouble. Pay her double for her time if she needed extra incentive.
She glanced toward him again and then leaned into the man at her side, whispering to him. Her partner looked a little annoyed, but then he nodded and started off toward the back of the room where one could obtain drinks and other refreshments.
Ripley smiled and took the opportunity she had just given him. He crossed the space between them in a few long strides. She had been watching him with every step and she pushed her shoulders back a fraction when he reached her.
“I thought he’d never leave,” he said softly.
The corner of her mouth quirked a little, but she blinked up at him, all innocence as if she hadn’t just made this moment possible. “Oh? Do we know each other?”
He snorted out a laugh. “Ah, so it is to be pursuit. That’s fine, I like pursuit.” He straightened his jacket a little. “Do forgive the intrusion, miss, but I saw you across the room and couldn’t bear to miss the opportunity to come meet you. Will you allow me to introduce myself, despite my very forward behavior?”
Her eyes widened a little at his suddenly polite manners. Ones that didn’t fit his rough Yorkshire accent, crooked nose and scarred face. But he’d been taught well and could fit in when he needed to do so.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. Campbell Ripley.” She smiled a little. “Or should I call you the Dragon?”
“Ripley is fine,” he said. “But you most definitely have me at a loss. I’ve seen you before, a very long time ago. But I never got your name—you slipped away before I could. A little like a French fairytale.”
“Except Cinderella wasn’t a whore.” Her brow wrinkled. “Though she did make the most of a fine gown and a lost slipper.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, though he realized she was putting him on notice of her position in life. Just in case, he supposed, that would put him off. Intelligent.
