Chapter 1
London, England
June 1832
* * *
The lady walked purposefully down the deserted, foggy London street at night, the gas lamps providing little in the way of light. Her bootheels clicked on the cobblestones, damp courtesy of the recent summer rain. Anyone who might be looking on would see a woman wearing a dark cloak and dressed in a modest emerald gown with a fitted corset waist and the large sleeves that had suddenly begun to dominate the fashion world. A hood was placed over her strawberry-blond curls and her skin was smooth like porcelain.
But it was her eyes, a fetching, moss green that looked out at the world with a certain knowledge foreign to most of the rest, that proved she wasn’t a fresh, naïve debutante, easy to manipulate.
Unfortunately, this was something that “Two-Tooth” Granelli had yet to discern.
Devin Blackmore leaned in a hidden alcove, arms crossed, and watched from the shadows of the alley as the thief attempted to approach the woman and casually abscond with her purse by way of an “accidental” maneuver that Devin himself had performed hundreds of times. And yet, even he knew there were certain people to be steered clear of, and the mysterious woman who had just raised her parasol was one he would have merely tipped his hat to as he strode innocently on past.
He merely shook his head when Granelli withdrew a dagger, as he knew it was a mistake. The large man had more muscle than brains and a nose that had been broken at least a dozen times, if Devin had to guess. He considered intervening, but he recanted the thought as he continued to observe the exchange. With lightning-fast reflexes, the lady spun around and dodged her would-be attacker’s shoddy approach. She was surprisingly well accomplished as she pointed her fashioned weapon at him. Granelli didn’t stand a chance, and even Devin was impressed when a slight puff of smoke came from the end, just as Granelli clutched his thigh and fell to the ground with a howl of pain.
Instead of rushing off down the street in a fearful panic, Devin watched the woman bend down next to Granelli with a long-suffering sigh and actually offer him her pristine, white handkerchief. “Hold this over the wound. It will help cease the bleeding.”
As she pressed down on the torn flesh, Granelli broke out into a sweat and moaned worse than a cheap whore. But it was her voice, soft and genteel, that made Devin take proper notice.
“You should be thankful that the ball wasn’t poisoned, or you might have seen your end just now.”
Devin would have laughed at the horrified look on Granelli’s voice if he hadn’t been so captivated by the lady. He didn’t recall ever seeing her before, and although he’d just returned to London, he would have surely recalled such a stunning, lethal beauty.
“Perhaps from now on you’ll think twice about assaulting a lady, as that is very poor manners. Don’t you agree?”
Granelli nodded like a recalcitrant child and Devin had to snort lightly.
She rose to her feet and reached back down to offer the man some assistance. After a moment, he accepted it and favoring his bad leg, he glanced at the lady as if she was some sort of odd museum exhibit.
“Now run along home. No doubt you have a family that should be worried if you don’t return soon.”
Devin wasn’t sure if Granelli had ever married or sired children. At least he hadn’t when Devin had left London more than five years ago, but by the way he lowered his head, as if properly chastised, and turned to limp back into the darkness from whence he had appeared, perhaps some things had changed.
He glanced back toward the woman, who had lingered for a moment, either to ensure that her instructions were heeded, or make sure Granelli didn’t accost anyone else, Devin wasn’t sure.
With a heavy sigh that told more than she would have been likely to share, she turned to continue on her way, but Devin found that he was reluctant for her to leave. Even from the distance across the alley, he could smell the scent of her lilac floral sweetness, and he was reluctant to part with it so soon. It had been years since he’d enjoyed something so simple, and so he allowed his presence to become known.
His boots had a heavy tread as he walked out directly under the streetlamp and offered a slow clap in the silence.
Constance Freewater spun toward the sound of applause, not realizing that she’d had an audience. She held her parasol aimed toward the sound, poised for another attack. Although the single shot had already been spent, she had been taught, long ago, in how to use other methods to warrant off unwanted attentions. It had served her well through the years, as the good Lord only knew she’d had her share of trouble.
It was one of the reasons she’d left London, to put that sort of tumultuous past behind her, only to have it return the day she stepped foot on English soil after living abroad for the past twenty years.
Was she never to be free of a past that was littered with illicit dealings?
Any further thought dissipated as the mystery man stepped out of the shadows and into the circle of yellow light. He wore a smirk that bespoke of confidence, tousled dark hair, and an onyx gaze that shone with a wisdom that went far beyond his years. But while she thought he might be younger than her, he was most certainly a man full grown with the broad shoulders, narrow hips, and trim midsection of a man used to physical labor—or various other exercise.
Her face heated, along with other parts of her body, when she imagined him in the bedchamber. She would bet all of the coins in her reticule that he had that delicious trail of hair that slid across his taut stomach and disappeared behind the band of his trousers.
She mentally shook herself and pushed the image aside. After her last paramour died, Constance had promised herself that she would no longer be any man’s mistress. But even though Madame Corressa would forever hound her every waking moment, she would not succumb to temptation again. She had returned to London to make a fresh start as a respectable woman and she intended to keep it that way. She’d even adopted the pseudonym of Mrs. Hartford to add credence to her tale.
Her current companions were Alfred Guillaume Gabriel, Count d’Orsay, his wife, and his particularly special patron, the widowed Lady Marguerite Gardiner, Countess of Blessington. The four of them were staying at the lady’s house in Seamore Place in Mayfair and was quickly becoming known as the fashionable area of town, not only because of the countess’ ties to Lord Byron, but the count was being styled as the modern-day Beau Brummel. He changed his gloves at least five times a day and made sure that his coat was thrown back to reveal the extravagance of his luxurious waistcoat and perfectly styled cravats. Constance had become one of his particularly favored, inner circle of friends during his time in France, and was the main reason she had traveled back to England from Paris, otherwise she might have lived out the rest of her days in La Ville Lumière.
Instead, she was back in the familiar surroundings that she had tried so hard to put behind her—to forget the naïve woman she had been, the one who had relied on the attentions of a protector to find happiness. She had been alone for the past year and a half and held no regrets. While she missed Alessandro at times, and she was grateful that her Italian lover had made sure to provide for her after his passing, gifting her with enough money and jewels to allow her to live comfortably for a very long time.
But now, her attention turned back to the man standing a few feet away from her. She glanced at her parasol. “You should know that I don’t need to reload to make sure you keep your distance.”
