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Commissioner Edward Worthington, Duke of Landbourne and secret spy to Queen Victoria, squinted at his pocket watch before pressing the heels of his hands against his aching eyes.

It had been a long, hot, sweaty day, and he should have gone home hours ago, but the Metropolitan Police didn’t follow business hours, so neither could he.

Edward dragged another report across his desk and wished Constable Dearing had better penmanship.

With a disgusted grunt, he pulled out the detested reading glasses he kept hidden in a drawer and settled them on his nose.

They were a glaring reminder of his susceptibility to the ravages of time.

I haven’t reached my fourth decade. Yet.

But it wasn’t far off.

A swift knock preceded the head of his secretary poking into his office.

The painfully thin man sported an equally slim moustache that could have been pencilled on.

His dress was impeccable despite the late hour.

His brown coat buttoned neatly, snowy cravat tied in a simple knot, and waistcoat showing no signs of wrinkles or wear.

Edward wondered if the man used lacquer to attain such a severe hair part.

Swiping the dreaded glasses off his nose, he covered them with the poorly written report.

‘Yes, what is it, Reading?’ His beleaguered secretary didn’t deserve such a curt tone.

It wasn’t Reading’s fault Edward was making no progress on his latest mission.

Finding the Devil’s Sons – a reprehensible brotherhood of lords – and bringing them to justice.

They had been orchestrating a flesh ring, preying on innocent country girls who came to London to interview for positions as housemaids.

The young women were drugged and shipped across the Channel in caskets.

Upon arrival, they were forced into the worst kind of prostitution with no power to refuse the twisted requests of the lords who bought them.

It was Edward’s responsibility to ensure the titled gentlemen responsible for these crimes were found and received the Queen’s justice.

A far swifter and more brutal sentence than anything Prime Minister Russell or the House of Lords would decree.

Not that Edward could admit his affiliation with the Queen and her rebel band of vigilantes to anyone but Reading.

His secretary had been with him far too long to maintain such secrecy.

‘As always, your manners set quite an example, sir.’

By rights, Edward should be addressed as ‘Your Grace’, but he had put a stop to such nonsense the moment his uncle’s title was thrust upon him eight years prior.

He was never meant to inherit, but his cousin had always been a rash fool with more confidence than wit.

In an ill-advised phaeton race, Cousin Cecil overturned his carriage, thus ending his short life of excess.

Edward became the newest Duke of Landbourne, which was a bloody nuisance.

He was proud of his work as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

It was a title he had earned through years of hard work and dedication.

A stark contrast to the dukedom, which came from a stupid choice made by his pompous, infantile bully of a cousin.

Edward never wanted the responsibilities of a dukedom, and he couldn’t marry so there would be no heir.

Putting the fantasy of love aside long ago, he had poured himself into his work, fighting for justice.

He wasn’t about to give that up for the fussy life of a bloody duke.

So, he found worthy stewards for his five properties and continued as though nothing changed, including how his staff addressed him.

‘Why are you still here, Reading? It’s past midnight. Go home to your… cats.’ Edward returned his attention to the report in front of him.

Reading had been working for Edward since his first day at 4 Whitehall Place fifteen years prior. He was quick, resourceful, and thorough to a fault. He was also the closest thing Edward had to a real friend. But that didn’t stop their constant sniping at each other.

‘I was just leaving, sir. But a report has come in. About her. ’ Reading’s ears tinged red at the tips.

Edward didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ might be.

Lady Ivy Cavendale .

A woman who rubbed against him like a scratchy wool jumper.

Irritating, but also quite warm. He had several men assigned around the clock to keep an eye on her.

Highly unusual behaviour for a man who never showed interest in any woman and certainly not a disgraced wallflower like Miss Cavendale.

Reading was far too professional to question his superior’s judgement.

But his ears told another story. The man couldn’t look at a street doxy charged with vagrancy without turning completely crimson, let alone imagine his employer showing unprecedented interest in a certain young woman.

He’s wrong. They all are.

Despite the whispers circulating Scotland Yard about their stone-hearted leader’s sudden attention to Lady Ivy Cavendale – a pale, haunted woman whose father made the papers last year for a very suspicious murder/suicide including his son – Edward’s focus on Ivy had nothing to do with anything as insipid as romance or altruistic as charity.

It’s the selfish hope of absolution for my unforgivable sin. But nothing can save a man guilty of murder. Not even seeking justice against the Devil’s Sons which is what I should be focusing on, not her.

The sadistic group of lords were led by three men known only as the Snake, the Wolf and the Crow.

One of the leaders, the Snake, had already met his fate, but the other two were infuriatingly hidden by the men serving them.

Edward and Lady Philippa Winterbourne were charged by the Queen to uncover the identities of the Wolf and the Crow, capture them, and hold them accountable for their crimes.

It was a challenging mission that should consume all of Edward’s focus.

Yet one word from Reading shattered his concentration.

Which is completely unacceptable.

‘I assume you mean Lady Ivy Cavendale.’ The pale-eyed, lithe woman floating somewhere in the shadows of Edward’s mind. Hovering like an ethereal creature, insubstantial yet impossible to dispel.

‘The very one, sir. I know you were informed earlier today of her sudden move to the orphanage in Islington. A rather odd place for a lady of quality to live.’

Edward grimaced. He should have informed Philippa immediately of Lady Ivy’s move to the All Souls Orphanage, but there hadn’t been time between reading reports, meeting with the constables from various boroughs, and establishing the crimes most worthy of the Prime Minister’s private investigators.

He planned on sending a note to the Duchess of Dorsett the next morning.

After all, how much difference could one day make?

A whole bloody lot of difference if something has happened to Lady Ivy.

‘Spare me the commentary, Reading, and get to the point.’

Reading tugged on a crimson ear and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in the waves. ‘Right. Yes. Well, the nightwatchman reported a young lad came tearing out of the orphanage not more than an hour hence. Claims they’ve had an intruder.’

An electric current of alarm thrummed through Edward. He sat straight in his chair, the report in front of him forgotten. ‘Intruder? What bloody intruder?’

Philippa is going to eviscerate me. I can’t fail her. Not again.

Yes. That’s why his heart beat an erratic tattoo against his ribs. Not because he was worried about Ivy Cavendale.

Why would I care about her fate? I hardly know her.

His concern simply stemmed from the ill-advised promise he’d made to the duchess months ago. It was right after the masque ball held by Lord William Renquist. The first night he met Lady Ivy Cavendale, and one he wouldn’t soon forget.

She’d kept to the shadows that night. Hiding.

Not realising her efforts to evade notice only drew Edward’s sharpened focus more tightly in her direction.

Seeking hidden truths buried in the darkest of lies was the one talent Edward possessed.

And something about Lady Ivy Cavendale piqued his interest like a hound scenting the fox.

He’d hardly had time to think about his awareness of her that night as he was more concerned with capturing Lord Gartling, an esteemed member of the House of Lords from one of the oldest lines of bluest blood.

A man also known to his sick brotherhood as the Snake.

One of the three leaders in the Devil’s Sons.

The dead one. Philippa ensured the man faced immediate justice with a well-placed bullet to his chest after he attempted to murder Lord William Renquist’s maid, Penny.

She was now Lord William Renquist’s wife in a scandalous wedding between a maid and her marquess that the beau monde still tittered over.

When the dust settled on that night three months ago, Philippa had surprised Edward with a visit to his home the next day at the unseemly hour of eight in the morning.

His butler almost swallowed his tongue when called upon to host someone of such esteem with no notice.

Thankfully, Edward was dressed, breakfasted, and on his way out of the door.

He delayed his departure because no one rescheduled with the duchess.