Chapter One
London, 1816
Newgate Prison was not for the faint of heart.
It was also not for the claustrophobic, the hygiene conscious, or anyone with a weak stomach.
Declan Shaw was none of these; in fact, he was a hardened mercenary (currently unemployed) and occasional spy (when the price was right). He’d seen a lot of hellholes in his life, but Newgate represented a new level of despair. After four months on the inside, he’d never been more motivated to get the bloody hell out.
Today, with no explanation, he’d been transferred from the subterranean general lockup to his own private cell. He was now in possession of a small barred window that looked out on a muddy mound. He’d been issued a weevil-infested mat and there was gruel twice a day, instead of once.
“Huntsman?”
And someone was calling his name.
“Huntsman?”
No, not his name. He was known to guardsas “Prisoner 48736” or “Shaw” to fellow inmates. “Huntsman” was the alias by which he was known in professional circles, his mercenary brand, the name they called him on the London streets.
“Huntsman?” the voice called again.
“Aye,” he called back. If he didn’t claim it, someone else would. Everything was up for grabs in Newgate.
“Ah, yes, there you are,” said a male voice, still yards away. From around the corner, the sharptap, tap, tappingof delicate-heeled shoes punctuated an oddly singsongy voice, followed by the heavy plod of guards’ boots.
“Oh, just look at you,” enthused the disembodied voice, “youarean imposing fellow. Size and bearing have done no favors in your plea for innocence, have they? None at all.”
Declan leaned against the cell bars, straining to see through the smoky gloom. The silhouette of a stick man emerged, slight but with a bold stride. The man snapped his fingers at a guard, demanding that a torch be brought closer. He studied Declan like a collector in a shop.
“You may leave us,” he told the guards. “When I require you, I will call.”
Narrowing his eyes at Declan, he said, “And how have you enjoyed your private cell, Huntsman?”
Declan had not, in fact, enjoyed the private cell.
The man continued, “I could not bear to call on you in the dungeon. They were kind enough to move you here so we could discuss business, assuming you are amenable.” He flashed a hopeful smile.
He smiles too much for prison, Declan thought. “Whatbusiness?”
“What indeed? You are known for such a wide variety of services, aren’t you?”
“At the moment, I’m known for captivity.”
“Quite so. But before the ghastly cock-up with the abduction, and the alleged murder, and that poor, wretched girl, your profession was...” The old man trailed off, studying Declan as if trying to envision him in some other setting. “Well, you were a sort of bodyguard, were you not? A tracker?Mercenary, I believe is the correct term? One of the finest in the country, according to my sources.”
“My nameandmy trade,” Declan observed. “You’re full of information, Mr.—?”
“Oh, do forgive me.” He frowned as if he’d used the wrong fork. “Titus Girdleston, at your service. I am the uncle and family steward of my nephew—His Grace, Bradley Girdleston, the Duke of Lusk.”
Another pause. Declan waited.
“Are you familiar with the Girdleston family or His Grace, the duke?” the man prompted.
“No.”
Declan saw no reason to hide his disdain for aristocrats in general and dukes in particular. He didn’t do business with the nobility, not anymore, not since a certain royal duke had framed him for abduction and murder and stood idly by while Declan went to jail.
“No?” Girdleston repeated, his voice high and contemplative, as if Declan had stated a philosophy he’d never considered.
