Chapter One
January21, 1812
Lady Charlene Blanchard didn’t know why the memory of her last evening with her father was tickling her mind. Perhaps it was because it had been on just this sort of dreary overcast day that they had pulled his body from the Thames.
Or perhaps it was because she now slew her own dragons.
Disguised as a lad in breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes, minus the buckles, she stood in the late afternoon’s lengthening shadows along Threadneedle Street. She hid the curves of her nineteen-year-old body with a loose shirt and even bigger coat. Her braid was wrapped around her head and tucked beneath a wide-brimmed hat of the sort an ostler would wear.
She watched with interest what was happening in front of the Bank of England. Three men had stepped out of the bank’s doors. She had seen them go in and had been close enough to hear their speech. They were Americans.
Lady Charlene smiled. Americans or any foreigners were always good marks. They weren’t wise to the ways of the city.
Her eye went to the heavy, brown leather coin purse the youngest of their number tossed into the air and then caught as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He grinned at his friends. “I plan on enjoying London.”
“With wine and song?” the oldest suggested sardonically. He wore a bagwig and carried an ebony walking stick with a silver head. He was little taller than Char’s own five feet four. His shoulders were back and his head high. He had a bored expression, accentuated by his beaked nose and flat mouth. He dressed with an eye to detail.
“No, withwomen,” the young one crowed. He had guileless good looks, the sort of man who usually married young and bred a gaggle of children.
If Charlene had been in skirts, she had no doubt he’d be one of those hanging his tongue out for her. However, dressed as she was, she escaped his notice. She was one of thousands of street lads scurrying about London. The threesome hadn’t even given her a look as she moved closer to watch the purse.
Her mark confirmed her suspicions. “I’m marrying in three months,” he informed his mates. “I have wild oats to sow and a ready cock.” He threw the coin purse in the air again but the tallest of his companions reached out and snatched it out of the air.
A quick movement. A confident one.
This man was no fool.
He was thirtyish, tall, broad-shouldered, with overlong dark hair and a square jaw. He was obviously the leader of the trio. There was a presence about him, a determination.
The man also had a distinctive voice. There was a depth to it, a sound that set him apart from the others.
Like Char, he wore a brimmed hat down over his eyes. She was hiding her abundance of white-gold hair and long, dark, feminine lashes. She wondered what he was hiding.
“We are not here to feed your pecker,” the man said, offering the purse back to his companion. “Or for you to catch the French disease.”
“Sod off, Whitridge,” was the answer. The younger man tucked the purse into the deep pocket of his greatcoat.On the left side. And he didn’t button it.“I can take care of myself. And the first thing I am going to do is put as much distance as possible between you and me. Seven weeks on a ship with your constant criticism is all I can stand. I need at least seven weeks apart from you.”
“We are here in the serv—”
“I know, I know, we are here in the service of our country. You really are a prig, Whitridge. Isn’t he, Lawrence?”
Lawrence had been stifling a yawn. “Men with responsibilities usually are. I’m heading to our rooms. I want a good supper and a bed that doesn’t rock, which is the exact opposite of what you crave, Matthew. Until the morning, lads.” He didn’t wait for a response but went briskly off, swinging his walking stick.
Matthew said, “Lawrence has the right idea. I’m off on my own.” Without a glance at Whitridge for approval, he charged into the flow of afternoon traffic.
Char made her way after him, the man with the purse. She was confident in her disguise. She’d been dressing as a lad for two months now and enjoyed the freedom. No one had noticed she was female yet, proving her aunt Sarah wasn’t the only actress in the family.
She was also taking pride in her new talent.
Char, Lady Charlene Blanchard, was a pickpocket and a good one.
The idea of her doing a bit of larceny had come from Lady Baldwin. Her Ladyship was a frequent visitor to the house on Mulberry Street where Char lived with her aunt Sarah Pettijohn. Before marrying Lord Baldwin and stepping up into the ranks of Society, Lady Baldwin had been an actress like Sarah and had also apparently dabbled in a bit of crime.
“Sometimes a girl has to do what she must to survive,” Lady Baldwin had confided to Char. “Sarah has too much pride, but you understand the way the world works.”
And Char did. The daughter of the infamous Lord Dearne knew very well how precarious life could be. Six months ago, her uncle Davies had stopped sending the monthly funds he’d promised for Char’s living. Even with Sarah working several positions at Haymarket theater, from roles on the stage to sewing costumes to even writing plays that the theater manager took credit for, money was tight and Char felt guilty. Her aunt could have made a very good living for herself if she hadn’t taken Char in.
“We shall just slip a bit from those who can afford it,” Lady Baldwin had suggested. “It will be a balancing of the scales, so to speak.”
