November 1816

London

He’d asked for the oldest whore in the house.

Beckett Steele knew this wasn’t the most outlandish request ever made, not even in a single night of any bawdy house. However,

he was not here for the usual reason men patronized London’s many brothels.

“Y’aren’t here to take off an edge?” The whore settled back against the head of the bed, her wrinkled skirts hiked up to her

knees. Her iron-gray hair was a tangled mess. She combed it with her fingers as if suddenly self-conscious. Such was a whore’s

thinking. If he had walked into the room and plowed into her, she’d not have given her looks a thought. But those hadn’t been

his actions. He’d told her he hadn’t sought her out for a poke.

The room—indeed, the whole house—smelled of tallow candles, unwashed bodies, whisky, and sex. When he finished with this evening, he’d bathe as he had every night for the last three months, trying to rid himself of the sour, heavy scent.

The whore’s surprise that he wasn’t going to drop his breeches shifted to a tired, shrewd knowing. “Wot are ye then? A watcher?

A crier? A talker?”

Crier? That was a twist Beck hadn’t heard before. In truth, the woman wasn’t a bad-looking sort, considering her age, which was perhaps

fifty? He hadn’t met many as old as her, and that meant she might know the answers to his questions.

Instead of answering, he took out a stack of coins and set them on the bedside table next to the candle. The money was for

her alone. Clients had to pay the whore mistress before they were even allowed to climb the stairs. She’d have to work weeks

for what he’d just given her.

She eyed the money. “I don’t do the odd nonsense. I don’t let cocks do anything that is annoying. And I’ll not let you hit

me.” She pulled a knife from under the bedclothes where she kept it hidden and let him see it before secreting it back in

place.

“Quite wise,” Beck answered politely. Respect was not something women in this profession received often. A bit of it could

go further than money. “I have a few questions, that is all. I won’t even come near you.”

Her eyes lit up. A smile showing missing incisors spread across her face. “I ’eard about you. Askin’ after some whores from

what—years ago?”

“At least twenty-five.”

“I weren’t around that long.”

“I asked for the oldest lady in the house,” he said. “Perhaps you may have heard stories over your years in the trade?”

“Aye, I’m the oldest.” The whore shrugged. “It’s yer time and ye’ve paid for it.” Her loose dressing gown dropped away to

reveal one naked shoulder as she took the money and tucked it close to the knife. “Ask.”

“There was a brothel in London where the walls and all the furnishings were dark green, like a forest. Does that sound familiar?

The whore mistress liked being called Madam, and dark green was her favorite color. All her girls had to wear it, too. She

said the color matched her eyes. The brothel was known as the Greenhouse. Have you heard of it?”

“Houses change names. And they are all called Madam now,” the whore answered. “’Cept for those who call themselves Madame .” She said the word with an exaggerated French pronunciation. “Their accents are fake, too. Showy bitches.”

“She had a bruiser working for her called Dervil. Have you heard of him?”

She searched her brain a moment and then said, “Nah.”

“What of the name the Marquess of Middlebury?”

She adjusted her position on the bed. “A marquess, eh? Fan- ceee .” She drew out the word mockingly. “But I can tell ye, yer wasting your time. Even if we did know, why would we tell the likes of you?” She indicated with a long finger his polished boots, his black, well-cut coat.

He understood. The appearance of wealth carried great weight in such establishments when it came to passing through the door.

However, it earned little trust, something only honesty could overcome. “Because I’m one of you. I lived in that brothel.

I helped in the kitchen, emptied chamber pots, did whatever.”

Her gaze narrowed as she studied him with this new information. “Whatever?” she echoed, a challenge.

Beck didn’t take the bait. Some patrons liked young boys. Madam had protected him from their ilk. She’d said he was too young.

He had known even back then he had been lucky. “I believe one of the women working there was my mother.”

“So yer lookin’ for yer ma?” She made a clicking sound against her teeth and shook her head. “Don’t, not if she was one of

us and didn’t keep track of ya. Ye look like yer doin’ well. Go on with life. That’s wot she would tell you. It’s wot I’d

tell one of me own bairns if they ever came for me. They won’t, though. Too much time has passed.”

Beck wasn’t here for advice, and there were two other brothels on the street he wanted to investigate before he turned in

for the night. Although in truth, he was tired. This was grim work. He reached for the door handle, but she stopped him.

“Wot’s ’er name? Yer mam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are ye searchin’ for ’er?”

Because of the dreams , he could say.

They had started after he’d been wounded at the Battle of the Nive. A head wound that had carried him close to death...

until the dreams of a beautiful woman with his own dark hair, a woman in danger , had forced him back to life.

Even though all around her was blurry and unfocused in that way of dreams, her face was clear to him. He could see the woman

laughing and hear her singing. He’d recognized her— his mother.

The sound of her music filled him with joy and a sense of peace... until the dream changed. Her song turned to screams.

Screams that haunted him.

He couldn’t see the threat, but he always felt her fear. He would startle awake with his heart pounding in his chest and an

overwhelming sense that he had betrayed her.

The singing woman, his mother—a woman he’d never known—called out to him. He didn’t know her name or if she was alive or dead,

but he had to learn her story. Nor did the dream leave after he’d healed. He’d wake, sweating and shaken in his camp cot.

He knew he’d shouted out in his sleep. He could see it in the faces of those who served beside him. It wasn’t unusual for

men at war to cry out from night terrors. It was unusual for him to show any sign of weakness.

Once Napoleon had been vanquished, Beck had resigned his commission and turned himself over to a new quest. The name Dervil and the color of evergreen were his only two certain memories of where he’d spent the beginning years of his life until he was roughly six years of age. That was when the Marquess of Middlebury’s man, Olin Winstead, had appeared one day to take him away.

That was also the day that Madam had slipped and mentioned that Beck was Middlebury’s bastard. Otherwise Beck wouldn’t have

known. For her error, Winstead had backhanded her and warned her to “shut her mouth.”

The action had shocked Beck. No one had ever touched Madam or spoken to her so rudely in Beck’s presence. Her power was omnipotent.

Beck remembered that Dervil had surged forward to protect her but Madam had warned him back. That had seemed even stranger

to young Beck. He’d witnessed Madam turning Dervil loose on other men for much smaller offenses.

Winstead had then grabbed Beck by the scruff of the neck and marched him out of the evergreen house. In the waiting coach,

he’d told Beck that he was never to speak the marquess’s name or ask questions. “Else I’ll track you down and cut out your

tongue.”

Beck had believed the threat. He’d seen the man hit Madam. That meant he was more powerful than she was, and she had ruled

Beck’s life.

Winstead had also claimed that “Beck” was a humiliating name. Apparently Madam had shared that the ladies called him that name because he was at the beck and call of the house. “You should have a man’s name,” Winstead had said. He’d thought for a bit and then said, “Beckett. Beckett Steele. Yes, that is it,” he’d said, “because you’ll need to be as strong as steel to survive what life is going to throw at you.”

He’d been right. Life had not been easy.

Winstead had delivered Beck to Faircote, a school for lads as miserable as he was but who had families. Even the bastards,

of which there were several, had fathers who gave them their surnames. Beck had no one—until that moment in a field hospital

when the singing woman began haunting him.

Now he was desperate to find her.

The whore’s gaze narrowed. “Ye aren’t goin’ to tell me yer reasons, are ye?”

“Thank you for your time.” He turned back to the door. Opened it.

“She’s probably dead,” the whore said.

He knew that.

“Most of us aren’t good mothers,” she added, another warning. “We can’t be.”

He walked out the door.

The brothel was busy. He could hear sounds of men having the “edge” taken off of them, as the whore had described it. There

were cruder terms, but Beck liked hers.

He had to wait by the entrance as a group of giggling young drunkards charged into the house, stumbling over each other as

they hurried in. At last he could step outside and was thankful for the chill in the damp night air and breathing room.

The hour was coming on midnight. Beck debated continuing to the other two brothels. He had to be up early in the morning. He’d fallen into an interesting line of work. There were people looking for their missing loved ones who could use the skills he had developed from his own search.

So far, he’d rescued a rector’s daughter who had been kidnapped by a jilted swain, found a beloved elderly parent who, in

a befuddled state, had wandered off, and tracked down a young ingrate who had disappeared from his university and his family

to live a rake’s life in Amsterdam. Tomorrow he was to call upon a wealthy merchant who wished him to discover the name of

his much younger wife’s lover.

The work wasn’t necessarily savory, but it was proving lucrative. So much so that Beck found that instead of payment, he sometimes

asked for favors. There was power in having wealthy, well-connected people in his debt. Considering his father, the Marquess

of Middlebury, was one of the most important men in Society’s hierarchy, he might need that power.

One more, he promised himself. The brothel was close, just down the street. Then he could turn in for the night.

Stifling a yawn, he set his wide-brimmed hat on his head, left the house’s lighted step, and started down the dark street.

The darkness didn’t bother him. He’d become used to it. Besides, he could see the porch light of—what was it called? Mrs.

Elderberry’s. The name made him smile. It sounded benign for a bawdy house—

A beefy hand came out of a passageway between two buildings and yanked him into the shadows.

Beck lost his balance in the surprise attack. Strong arms pulled him deeper into a passageway that smelled of rot and urine before throwing him against a brick wall. A heavy body that smelled of chipped wood, sweat, and sour ale slammed into him. The gravelly voice that Beck had never forgotten said, “What did I tell you about asking questions?”

Olin Winstead.

Suddenly Beck’s mind reeled, and he was that small child riding in the close confines of a coach with the one man he feared

above all others. The one who had threatened to cut out his tongue.

Except Beck was no longer a child. “I’m not making a claim against the marquess,” Beck bit out. “I don’t care about him. I’m

searching for my mother—”

A fist punched him hard in his abdomen. His air left in a whoosh... but Beck had anticipated just such a move. He’d braced

himself. The blow had hurt, but it hadn’t done the damage that had been intended.

Or that could disable him from fighting back.

Winstead was beefy and strong, but he didn’t have Beck’s youth. Or agility.

Beck ducked as Winstead’s fist came at his head for a lethal blow. Instead of hitting his intended target, Winstead smashed

his hand into the brick wall. He screamed in rage and pain, grabbing his hand as if crippled. Beck moved quickly. He lowered

his shoulder and plowed into the older man as hard as he could.

Winstead lost his balance. He fell back. Beck followed. The passageway’s ground was still slick from the day’s rain. Both of them fell into the mud.

There was a mad scramble to see who could regain his feet quickest. Winstead won and tried to bring his fists down hard on

Beck’s back, but he missed his mark. His aim was off enough that Beck was able to grapple him around the middle. Then, using

all his strength, he lifted Winstead up and flipped him over his shoulder.

Winstead went down hard, and there was the sickening sound of bone snapping.

Beck whirled, ready for Winstead to attack again. Instead, the man lay where he had landed.

Long minutes passed. Beck did not let down his guard, and yet Winstead did not rise.

At that moment, the clouds covering what little there was of the moon shifted. Its wan light caught and was reflected in Winstead’s

glassy, unseeing eyes. His head was at an awkward angle. He was dead.

The moonlight also bounced off the long, thin blade of a knife in Winstead’s hand. Only then did Beck realize he’d been struck.

He put a hand up to his shoulder. His fingers came back wet, but the wound was not serious. He also had a tear in his coat.

He was not happy. He liked this jacket.

And then he realized he couldn’t let anyone find him with a dead man, especially a man in the employ of the Marquess of Middlebury.

Beck whirled and, keeping his head down, walked out of the passageway. The street was still not busy. He found his hat where it had fallen off his head when Winstead had grabbed him. He picked it up and, with unhurried movements, set it on his head.

He didn’t bother visiting the other brothel. The Marquess of Middlebury had sent Winstead after Beck. He wanted to stop Beck.

It didn’t make sense. The two of them had never met. More than that, until Beck had started his search, he had never once

said his father’s name. He’d kept his part of the bargain.

His father had not kept his.

He’d also been actively spying on Beck. He’d known of his search—and he’d not wanted Beck to learn the identity of his mother.

So much so, he’d sent Winstead on a murderous errand. Beck walked through London toward his quarters down by the docks. His

mind was busy as he mulled over this turn of events and realized he’d been searching in the wrong direction. He might not

know whom his mother was, but he did know his father. Middlebury was the link. Middlebury had all the knowledge. And Middlebury

was willing to kill him.

Once the marquess realized his man was dead, he would attack harder. Beck reasoned he had two choices: he could live continuously

on guard, or he could take the battle to the notoriously reclusive Middlebury.

It was said he rarely left his estate, Colemore. People thought it was because he was famously eccentric.

Beck now wondered if there was another reason for his infamous isolation. Why did he want to prevent Beck from searching for his mother? And, if he wished his illegitimate son dead, why hadn’t he had Winstead kill him years ago instead of sending him to school? Or paying for his commission? The marquess could have even left Beck in the evergreen brothel instead of searching him out. The streets would have done what Winstead had just attempted and with no effort on the marquess’s part.

Nothing made sense.

Except now, Beck was more determined than before to find answers.