PROLOGUE
THAT ARSE IS BREAKING AND ENTERING
Early Christmas morning, 1834
The arse backing through the window was well shaped indeed. But the shape—or firmness—of a backside hardly mattered when it was where it should not be.
That arse was breaking and entering.
Jane gripped her fire poker until the steel of it bit into her palms, but she did not step out of the shadows. Not yet. For now, the hidden space smooshed between a giant wardrobe and the thin but glamoured curtains yielded safety. An opportunity, as well, to consider her next move. She’d been brought to the Bristol Foundling Hospital as a governess, not a guard. Surely there was someone better suited to playing hero. She possessed no magical ability, was as plain and powerless a person as could be found. She didn’t even know how to throw a punch. Her duke of a father had thought women’s hands better used for, well, nothing at all but sitting prettily atop a lap. And her stepmother had taught her well that the best way for a woman with no power to survive was by following the rules. An especially importantlesson for women like Jane, born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Illegitimate or not, she needed to rise to the occasion. There were no guards. No footmen. The hospital’s secretary, Mr. Jameson, had passed into a brandy-induced slumber hours ago. She only remained to protect the sleeping children.
To her right, little Emmy snored like a dragon. The smallest of the bunch, thin-limbed and big eyed, she seemed somehow to always produce the most noise. To her left, Timothy slept on his stomach, his bum sticking right up into the air.
Another bum across the room continued its crimes. She could hit it with the poker, send it back outside. Even… stab it? Yes, that would work, too. Perhaps, even, it would work best. But if she did not swing or stab with enough vigor, she might anger instead of injure the villain to whom the arse belonged.
No matter. She had to act, and quietly. If she woke the children, she might scare them. She could not countenance that, not on Christmas. Every child should feel safe then. Should feel safe always. These children knewshouldfrom reality, though. They didn’t expect much, not even safety. That damning truth forced Jane out of her shadowed corner. They deserved her bravery, and?—
Oh! Aleg, thick thighed and encased from foot to knee in a shiny black boot, struggled through the window. Then another leg, then a torso, then the intruder stood inside, shaking off the cold and snow. He wore all black, from the nightcap pulled low over his brow to the greatcoat buttoned tight about his torso. And those boots. He shook them, trying to dislodge the downy flakes gathered on their tops. If the room had been warm, as it should be, they would have melted. But he shivered as he shook. She shivered, too. The children, beneath their threadbare blankets, glamoured to appear thick and lovely, also shivered. Even in sleep they must feel the cold. Glamours never kepta body warm, no matter how luxurious they made an item appear to be. And her brother’s glamours tended to careen past luxurious and straight toward ostentatious.
Damn him. The children needed real warmth, not the appearance of it. What a rotten miser he was. Just buy new curtains instead of glamouring the old! Especially during such a brutal winter. Especially with so many children dependent on his kindness.
They depended on her, too. To protect them from the intruder. She stood on the opposite side of the room from his window, and darkness stretched between them along with several rows of narrow, occupied cots. On bare feet, she stalked closer to him, hugging the walls, clinging to shadows. She could only make out the big, broad-shouldered outline of him. When he leaned back through the window—leaving already?—he filled it. He re-emerged into the room, towing a large burlap sack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he prowled toward the beds on unexpectedly silent feet. He hovered over the closest bed, his big, dark shadow falling across the child lying there. Vulnerable. Alone.
Absolutelynotalone.
Jane crept nearer, her hand aching from how tightly she held her weapon.
And the intruder dropped to his knees.
She paused, determination wavering beneath the force of curiosity. Because the man was pulling up the boy’s blanket, shaking his head as if he disapproved. Then the man pushed a lock of hair off the boy’s forehead and reached into his sack, pulled forth… something… and set it on the end of the boy’s cot. The intruder did the same with the next three beds, kneeling, comforting each child, reaching into the sack, then placing an object on top of the blanket.
What in heaven’s name? He appeared to be… leaving them gifts?
When he stood from the fourth bed, his back was to her. An opportunity. She ran as quickly as she could on soft feet and dug the point of her poker into his back between his shoulder blades. He tensed, and his arms flew up, bent like wings, hands open flat. With the poker, she pushed him away from the beds and back toward the window.
He let her.
When they stood before the window, she could see him better. The blanket of snow outside reflected the meager light, cast it on his tall form.
“Turn,” she whispered as loudly as she dared, giving his back a firm poke.
He did, hands still held high and flat. When he was fully facing her, they stood toe to toe. He tilted his head, his lips—finely carved and mobile—stretched into a white-toothed grin. He wore a black domino that covered his nose and cheeks and sailed upward underneath his black knit cap. No, not a domino. A black cravat with holes cut out for eyes.
And what eyes they were, too. Color indistinct. Too dark to see that. But they glittered, amused. They… devoured. They feasted. They laughed. They lived. All at once. Sweeping her away?—
“Good evening, Miss Dean.”
She squeaked. Heknewher.
He chuckled.
“Who are you?” she whispered, barely able to work her voice.
“A friend.”
“Friends do not steal into a locked house at night.”
