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Prologue

Rumors abounded that Madame de la Tource was a disgraced French countess; a Spanish lady who had followed her English lover home from the war; or perhaps just an actress from Shropshire putting on airs. She had burst into London society only three months ago, and quickly amassed a following among the ton’s rakes and scoundrels. She was handsome, in a bold way, her manners were almost brazen, and she threw extravagant parties which attracted the sort of people who found her attractive—and repelled those who did not. She had expensive tastes and a fiery temper, as her servants knew well.

Which meant that when Lord Greaves’s household next door acquired a striking new footman, none of Madame’s maids thought twice about making eyes at him. Working for Madame didn’t offer many benefits, and if a bit of fun with the neighboring servants was the only one a girl could discover, so be it.

The fellow, called Tom, was tall and fit with well-muscled calves, and he returned the maids’ interest in buckets, which vastly improved moods belowstairs at Madame’s. After a few words exchanged over the fence with Maude, a brief exchange on the street with Polly, and one heart-stopping morning when he met Betsy coming back from the shops and carried her heavy basket home, every maid in Madame’s service would have quit her post on the spot and run off with Tom, if he’d asked.

And the night Madame threw one of her wildest parties ever, Tom asked Polly for almost that very thing.

Even though she was Madame’s lady’s maid, Polly had been pressed into serving. She was in the pantry setting out tarts on a tray when Tom slipped through the kitchen door and stepped up close behind her. “Mmm. Delicious,” he whispered, nuzzling her hair.

Polly started, almost overturning the whole tray. “And a very good evening to you, sir,” she replied pertly. She put the tray aside. Tom’s shoulders were ever so broad. “Got the night free, have you? Or has old Greaves taken himself off to the country?”

He shrugged, lounging against the door in the shadows. “He’s out. We’ve already polished every piece of silver in the house, and some pieces I swear the old blighter borrowed off friends, just to keep us busy. So I gave myself leave to see what’s happening over here. Bit of a to-do, ain’t it?”

Any fool could see that, with people coming and going and guests playing on the pianoforte, usually very badly. By morning the house would be a wreck, but Madame didn’t like the servants to tidy up until everyone left.

Polly wiped her hands on her apron. She was supposed to be serving those guests, having been put onto extra duties tonight like all the servants. But Tom was here, with a wicked twinkle in his eye...

“Got an invitation, have you?” she asked coyly.

His gaze drifted over her. “Thought you might extend me one.”

Polly’s heart leapt. “Oh, aye,” she breathed.

The door opened and Cook bustled in with another tray of tarts. “Take these right up—Oh!”

Tom leaned against the counter and grinned at her. He was even more handsome up close. “It’s a prime perk of working at Greaves’s, it is, just getting to smell your baking, Mrs. Brown.”

The woman actually blushed in reply. “Go on with you, young scamp,” she said gruffly, pushing one of the tarts at him. “Get those upstairs,” she told Polly, before returning to the kitchen

Tom grinned, took a bite, and gave a low groan that made Polly’s stomach tense in excitement. He saw her reaction and gave her a wicked wink.

Madame, who had screamed at her that very morning about a broken bootlace, could go hang. Polly pulled off her apron. “I’ve been sent upstairs,” she said with a suggestive pause. “Maybe you’d care to come along? If you had a minute to spend with me, that is...”

Tom’s mouth curved knowingly. “Tonight, Poll, I’ve got more than a minute to spend with you.”

Polly abandoned her tray of tarts without a backward glance.

She spirited him up the back stairs into the only room she knew would remain undisturbed during the evening, the mistress’s dressing room. Madame was downstairs, singing along to the bawdy song being very inexpertly played on the pianoforte. French countess, my arse, thought Polly with scorn—and then she didn’t think of Madame at all, thanks to Tom’s clever hands and broad shoulders and naughty whispers.

Until he stopped, and caught her hands just as she’d started unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Hush,” he whispered, catching her hands. “Shh, Polly.”

She paused, listening intently, and froze. From the next room—the bedchamber—came voices. Madame and a gentleman. “Bugger all,” she gasped. “I’ll be sack—” Tom cut her off with a hand over her mouth, and she remained silent, hardly daring to breathe. It was one thing to sneak away from her duties, and another to be caught eavesdropping on the mistress while doing it.

“Gerald, you ‘ave neglected me ‘horribly,” Madame was whining. Her French accent always grew thicker when she had a man on the string, and Polly could picture her pout. “You ‘ave hardly been to see me this fortnight, and I miss you...”

“Yes, yes,” said the man hastily. He sounded anxious, a little impatient and out of breath. “Don’t fret. Look what I’ve brought you.”

There was a moment of silence, then a rapturous squeal. “Oh, Gerald! You darling man⁠—”

“Yes, look,” he interrupted her. He didn’t sound like a man eager to bask in her gratitude. “Look.” Another moment’s silence. “I can’t do it again,” he added with a touch of panic.

“Dear Gerry.” Her tone turned soft and warm. “You say that every time. It is not so much, is it? And I do depend on you so, Gerry, you know how much⁠—”

“Monique,” he gasped. “Be wary what you do with it. It’s an awful risk I took...”

She laughed, a confident trill of amusement. “But for me, you would risk anything. Wouldn’t you, Gerry? Just as I would do anything for you... oui?”