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My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

“Ladies,” Miss Perkins said in a cheery voice, carrying a stack of books in her arms. “I have something very special for you.”

Perking up with the other girls, I sat forward in my seat, wondering what she could possibly have chosen for us to discuss next. Perhaps it would be a gothic romance novel, one that we were expressly forbidden to read. Novels, for the most part, were seen by men as useless diversions for women. Even the works of Jane Austen were considered provocative, frivolous, and irrelevant.

Having read both Pride and Prejudice as well as Emma last year in our special book club, I vehemently disagreed with that assessment. Austen’s commentary of social customs and values was unerringly precise, especially her satirical views on class, status, and wealth. In class discussions, each of us found something of ourselves in the Bennet sisters. They were intelligent, resourceful, and brave…seeking much the same things we were—agency, independence, purpose. Emma, despite her proclivities, was not afraid to be herself. Lizzie Bennet, even moreso.

But what I loved most about both novels was the central premise of love. Deep down, like those heroines, I desperately wanted someone who could see me. To see that I wasn’t some brainless high-society heiress…to appreciate that I wanted to compose music, to travel and see the world. Someone who could accept me for me.

I focused my attention back on Miss Perkins, who was handing out the red-bound volumes she’d brought with her. When Greer received hers, she let out an uncharacteristic squeak and started practically vibrating with excitement. Curious, I took in the title as the book landed on my desk and felt my own face break into an enormous grin.

It was Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus.

This had been Greer’s secret book club request several months ago but had been bypassed until now. The Times had deemed the book inappropriate for the delicate, undeveloped minds of precious young ladies. I’d instantly wanted to read it but had been waiting for some of the furor to die down.

The incendiary novel had been anonymously published only at the start of last year, and no one knew the identity of the author. People had speculated, of course, when the sensational horror story flew off shelves in bookshops and raced around drawing rooms. The reigning guess was the poet Percy Shelley, considering that the book had been dedicated to William Godwin, his father-in-law and a political writer he highly esteemed.

A few had even conjectured it was Austen trying her hand at another genre, which I could not fathom. She wrote about social satire and romance, not horror and murder. Others had insisted it must be a man since the story itself was so disturbingly graphic. As if only a man could be so creatively macabre. If I had to guess, I would venture to say that it was Ann Radcliffe, who was known for her gothic fiction with supernatural elements.

Miss Perkins perched on her desk and surveyed the room. “Thank you to Miss Sorensen for suggesting this title last autumn. After much thought, I believe collectively you might be ready for this, especially after our last author, Mary Wollstonecraft.” She let out a breath, a small crease marring her brow. “However, it was a rather difficult decision, given the monstrous and disquieting subject matter, which is why I took so long. I understand if anyone here chooses to abstain from reading this book, no explanations required.”

We all glanced at each other, and while a few faces wore uncertain expressions, no one spoke up. The whole point of the book club was to broaden our minds with subjects the men in our society considered unsuitable. And for gently bred young ladies, this book pushed all the limits. Nori and Sarah seemed as enthusiastic as Greer and I, though Lalita, Petal, and Blythe were decidedly less so.

Petal raised a tentative hand. “Is it frightening, Miss Perkins?”

“Parts of it are, yes,” she replied with a thoughtful expression. “It does include explicit murder scenes, and the description of the monster itself might be alarming to some. You are not under any obligation to read, Lady Petal. As you know, book club is purely voluntary. You may rejoin for our next selection.”

Petal shook her head hard as if the fear of missing out was much greater than the fear of the material. “No, I want to try.”

“Very well.” Miss Perkins cleared her throat and went on, “I agreed to read this novel for our next discussion for several reasons, but the primary one is that it was penned by a young woman who was a mere eighteen years old at the time of writing.” Dead silence resounded. “The author was close to all of you in age, if you can imagine such a thing.”

A handful of gasps echoed through the room as my mouth fell open, and my gaze instantly narrowed in disbelief, not at the fact that the author was near our age, but that Miss Perkins was actually aware of the author’s identity. “I beg your pardon, but are you saying that you know who wrote this book?”

Smiling, Miss Perkins canted her head. “I do know, but you must promise to keep it a secret.” Her gaze spanned the room to meet each of our eyes. “Some authors choose to publish their works anonymously for their own personal reasons, and we must honor that choice. I trust that all of you can keep one more secret, considering we are here to discuss…provocative literature.”

Nori chuckled while Greer let out an impatient noise with a vehement nod. “You have my word,” Greer volunteered instantly.

“And mine,” I replied, quickly followed by the agreement of the others.

Miss Perkins tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ears. “As you already know, Lord Byron is my third cousin, once removed.”

More nods ensued. I still found it astonishing that our Miss Perkins was distantly related to one of the most prolific poets of our generation. Greer had been in absolute histrionics to learn that both our teacher and the baron had Scottish roots like her, despite the fact that Aberdeen and her native Edinburgh were a hundred miles apart. Scots are Scots, she’d claimed.

“Three years ago in Switzerland, my cousin was joined by three other writers at his residence in Geneva, and they had a competition of sorts to write the best ghost story.” She pointed to the books in our laps. “ Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus was born out of this competition.”

Sarah squealed and nearly swooned out of her seat—everyone knew she was massively infatuated with Byron, not so much for his poetry as for his looks. In fact, I suspected she’d only joined the book club because she’d wanted to toady to Miss Perkins with some obscure hope that she might one day meet the poet. He was handsome, sure, but gossip churned that he was an irrepressible rake. Not my type, thank you very much.

But isn’t it exactly your type?

I steadfastly ignored that vexing inner voice as well as the accompanying vision of playful dappled-gray eyes in a tawny-brown face.

“Who was it?” Sarah whisper-shouted. “Please do tell, Miss Perkins. Lord Byron has such exquisite taste.”

I suppressed my groan as Greer and I exchanged a look, but we were too interested in the revelation to bother with Sarah. Miss Perkins beamed. “The author is Mary Shelley.”

“The daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft?” Nori put in with round eyes that reflected nearly everyone else in the room. My mouth fell open. The woman in question did not frequent my social circles, but I’d seen her once or twice in passing.

Miss Perkins bobbed her head. “The very same.”

With some skepticism, I wrinkled my brow. “Why wouldn’t she want to admit that she was the author after it became so successful? Sir Walter Scott lauded it, saying that it displayed ‘uncommon powers of poetic imagination.’?”

“Given the restrictions placed on our sex, I imagine that it must have been to protect her children,” Miss Perkins replied with a shrug. “And perhaps, too, she feared society’s reception to a degree. The works of female writers are often trivialized and dismissed, but one of such an unexpectedly violent nature would have drawn more attention than usual. She also had her critics, particularly with more conservative members of society. Many think the story is disgusting, absurd, and immoral.”

“How did you get all these copies?” I asked Miss Perkins, tracing a finger over the spine. “I heard only five hundred were printed, and they’re long gone.”

“My cousin was generous enough to send me his own volumes, and I found two others at circulating libraries. So please be careful as they must be returned when we’re done.”

I suppressed a flicker of disappointment at that. I would have loved to add the novel to my own precious, private collection.

Nori flipped through the pages and let out a low whistle. “I cannot believe she wrote this at our age! I can barely write a sonnet, much less an entire novel.”

I shot her a grin. “Yes, but I bet Mrs. Shelley doesn’t know a thing about horses. We all have our gifts.”

Greer snorted with an impish look. “Well, except for you, Zia.”

I gaped in false affront. “Take that back, you wretch. I am an organizer. An excellent organizer. I organize. ”

“Let’s not forget, she’s also a first-rate pianist,” Lalita said loyally.

With a triumphant bellow, I pointed at her. “What she said!”

Miss Perkins stood and clapped her hands for us to settle down. “Ladies! Now seems like a good time to adjourn for the week. Begin reading, and we will meet again next week. I truly look forward to hearing your thoughts.” She paused with her usual reminder at the door. “Don’t forget, discretion is key. I would not want these novels found and confiscated.”

Greer had come up with the ingenious idea of covering our secret books in brown paper, which had saved us more than once from prying eyes, but it wasn’t foolproof. We always had to be extra careful, especially with our reputations as well as Miss Perkins’s future on the line.

Knowledge was a perilous pursuit, but certainly worth the price.

Saturday evening and the timing of our next heist arrived all too quickly. Rolling my tight shoulder muscles, I pulled my hat low and dragged the neckcloth up over my chin, my heart racing in my chest. While we usually kept our criminal jaunts to the outskirts of London, where none of us would be recognized, this was new. The gaming hell, Danforth’s Den, was in the West End and belonged to Blythe’s father. I pushed that fact out of my head.

There was little chance that our classmate Blythe Danforth would be out at this time of night. She would likely be at home or at a social function, no doubt where my friends and I should be. Not hiding in a narrow, grimy backstreet in Piccadilly across from a building that reeked of urine. But this was it—the only chance to get a sizable chunk, if not all, of the money we needed and to hinder our nemesis’s plans.

Not only did Viscount Hollis intend to demolish Bellevue and Little Hands, but he was also a smarmy, cruel old man who treated his servants atrociously, not to mention his own nephew. He’d threatened to cut Rafi off when he’d learned that his heir was interested in painting. The old bigot had acted as though such a hobby was less than manly, though he’d remarked slyly that it was probably expected of a boy of Rafi’s less-than-blue blood.

Rumor had it that he’d hated the fact that his younger brother had wed a Persian woman, and Viscount Hollis was known for his terrible, derogatory opinions about her heritage. It continually astounded me how small-minded people in the aristocracy were. One would think that as part of such a modern society, we would have come to appreciate the value of a diverse spectrum of citizens. But no, people of all walks were careful to hide their real prejudices. I found it ironic that the woman the viscount so reviled was now the wife of an eastern sovereign.

“Any sign of him?” Greer whispered at my back.

“Not yet,” I said, tapping the empty pistol I’d pilfered from Keston on my knee. Not that he would notice. He was much too busy with wedding preparations to know that I’d been in his rooms and picked the lock on his chest. I’d put the pistol back later, of course, but the smaller weapon was much less obvious than my usual rifle.

We waited a long while for the viscount to emerge from the gaming hell. After several hours, I toyed with the idea of going inside, but even though we were dressed as young men, our disguises weren’t infallible, and if we met up with any danger, we would be exposed in a strange place with no known escape routes. But as the minutes ticked by, I grew more and more restless. We needed this score. We had to come up with the funds to stave off Bellevue’s creditors and buy ourselves more time. Worst case, the building would be auctioned off to the very man we planned to rob.

“Are you certain Hollis arrived and went inside?” I whispered to Greer.

She squinted. “Yes. I saw him, and his carriage is still over there. He hasn’t left.”

Then he must have simply been passed out inside. With the amount of liquor that went hand in hand with gambling, that was highly probable. Or maybe he was spending time with a woman. I wasn’t na?ve to the fact that more salacious things than gambling happened in such clubs. In that case, we would have no choice but to wait.

“We should go inside,” Greer suggested. “If he’s sotted, we have a better chance of divesting him of any winnings in there than we do out here.”

“It’s too dangerous,” I said with a shake of my head. Restlessness skittered over me, though, along with the unpleasant thought of remaining in this dank, smelly alleyway for much longer. “Even if it wasn’t, how would we get in? It’s membership only, and neither of us is dressed in evening wear.”

A smirk curled Greer’s lips. “The good thing about Danforth’s is that they care more about coin than station, but since we don’t have any money, there’s a servants’ entrance just over there. We can sneak in, then split up to cover more ground. We’ll be quick. And if you’re worried about Lalita and Nori, don’t be. Sometimes plans have to be adjusted on the spur of the moment to account for irregularities.”

Disquiet swirled, but neither option—waiting here for heaven knew how long nor entering a notorious gaming hell—made me feel confident. We were safer outside by a sliver of a margin, and I was just about to say so when slurring male voices drifted down the alley, getting louder. My stomach lurched.

“Zia,” Greer said softly with wide eyes. “We need to move.”

“Fine, we go in, but only for half an hour, that’s it,” I said. “After that, we reconvene out here.”

“Got it.”

Our disguises would hold up so long as no one got too close and we stuck to the shadows. With care, we would not be revealed as female, or worse, recognized. I’d learned these tricks of deception from Ela, who had fooled everyone in the ton into thinking she was someone else for nearly an entire season.

We checked each other carefully in silence, retying the neckcloths meant as masks to serve as loose cravats. Greer had no trouble passing as a young man. With her height and angular features, along with the false mustaches she had secured for us, she could easily pass for a working-class man. With the clothes I’d purloined from Keston, I resembled a young dandy.

Thankfully, as Greer had pointed out, unlike some of the more elite gentlemen’s clubs, Danforth’s welcomed all. I took a deep breath, and we crossed the street, keeping to the cover of darkness to avoid the men at the other end and angling around the club to the back. A few workers were hooting and throwing dice at the end of the alley, and fortunately, the door was propped open with a small brick.

Greer stopped near the side where a pile of crates was stacked and handed me one. “Hold this over your shoulder and act like you’re meant to be delivering this. Follow my lead.”

Confidence was half the battle in deception, and Greer stalked in there like she was on a mission. “Delivery for the director,” she said in a deep tone to the hard-faced man standing near one of the inner doors. My brows rose.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Delivery of what?”

“How should I know?” Greer groused. “Take it up with him, but if you would prefer to keep management waiting, I’d much rather leave these with you. No skin off my back.”

He practically quailed and waved us past. Seeing such a big man react so strongly made a cold shiver coast down my spine.

“Who’s the director?” I asked Greer in a low whisper as we strode down the corridor to where music and voices rose.

She whispered back, “He watches the play in the gaming room to make sure no one gets out of hand, and supposedly, he’s ruthless.”

I frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Blythe told me he cut a man’s fingers off once for cheating.”

I blanched. Suddenly, venturing into this gaming hell didn’t seem like a great idea. Following Greer’s lead, I put the crate down once we were out of sight of the doorman and inhaled to calm my nerves. “I’ll take the gaming room and then upstairs,” I told Greer. “You check the dining and billiards rooms in the back. Half an hour, understood? No matter what.”

She nodded and left. I was on my own for the next thirty minutes. My stomach roiled, but I threw my shoulders back with the arrogance of a young buck with money and acted like I belonged there. My hat was low enough to obscure my hair and eyes, and I flattened my lips. They were much too plump to not draw attention, and the last thing I needed was to fend off some overzealous drunken goose.

Not wanting to waste time, I plowed through the crowd between the faro and hazard tables, searching for the viscount. I passed card tables with men playing whist and vingt-et-un, making absurd wagers that had my eyes going wide. I never understood gambling, or the fact that men could risk entire fortunes on a hand of cards, the races, or even something as asinine as making a wager in a betting book that someone might be wedlocked before another.

Precipitously, my heart stopped as I caught sight of a familiar face only a few chairs away. Rafi’s ring at the end of the chain around my neck warmed, or perhaps that was just my skin now uncomfortably hot. As if he were caught at the end of a tether, his spine straightened as he parsed around the room, a slight frown on his brow. Gracious, had Rafi seen me? Gasping, I ducked behind a column and peered at him, idly holding a set of cards, the long fingers of his free hand drumming on the tabletop.

Why was he here? Was he keeping an eye on his uncle? Or worse, was he with my brother? Dear God, I hoped not. I scanned the rest of the table, but there was no sign of Keston. Rafi surveyed the room again, that hooded gaze fixated on something, and I ducked out of sight. My pulse rate doubled, but I forced myself to relax. I had to find his uncle, not get waylaid!

After confirming the viscount wasn’t on the gaming floor, I scurried up the stairs and peeked into the open sitting rooms. Growing more discouraged by the moment, in the second-to-last salon, I spotted my target lounging in an armchair, asleep. What were the odds? But I didn’t question serendipity and tiptoed closer. I wasn’t adept at thievery. Luckily, his coin purse was halfway out of his coat pocket. Very slowly, I reached for it, tugging it loose and wincing at the soft clink.

A tight breath left my lungs as the purse fell into my palm, and then my eyes caught on the gaudy diamond stickpin winking in the folds of the viscount’s cravat with a gem that was as big as a quail egg. Should I? The salon remained empty, but it might not be for long. A quick glance at his open mouth and closed eyelids shored up my courage. Sod it—he deserved to be fleeced! Ever so cautiously, I slid the pin free of the fabric. A loud snore made me freeze in place, but he didn’t awaken. Not wanting to tempt fate, I pocketed the items and hastened down the stairs.

Now to check that Rafi was still where I’d left him.

Breathing hard, I counted to ten and peeked around the column, only to discover that his seat was empty. Damn and blast! Where had he gone? I turned and crashed into a broad chest with an oomph. Before I could regain my wits, a strong grip had my elbow and steered me to a quieter corner. I blinked and peered up from beneath the brim of my hat to a pair of gray eyes that were sparking with anger.

“Zia,” Rafi seethed. “What the devil are you doing here?”

I wrenched out of his grip, a dozen lies on my tongue. “How did you know it was me?”

“Your hair,” he said in a growl as his gaze canvassed me. Words failed me as I glared at the offending spiral that had sprung free of its hold and tucked it back up. “What is on your face, and why are you wearing men’s clothing?” he continued, his eyes narrowing in displeasure. “What are you up to? Good God, Zia, don’t you know what kind of trouble you’ve put yourself in? Are you here alone?”

I glared at him, his uncle’s possessions burning a hole in my pockets. “Which of those would you like me to answer first, or shall we keep a running tally of why Rafi Nasser thinks it’s his job to monitor my whereabouts or my person?”

“Does Keston know you’re here? Does Harbridge?” he demanded. No, they didn’t because both my brother and father would lock me away for life if they did. “You are reckless, Zia, taking such risks with your bloody reputation at stake. Honestly, what were you thinking?”

My jaw clenched at his curt tone. “It’s none of your business.”

Fury and something else burned in those gleaming gray irises, and I felt my heart skip a tiny beat. Rafi had never truly paid attention to me, but he was certainly doing so now. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. Having that lupine gaze fixed on me made me feel like a hare being stalked. Suppressing a shiver, I exhaled and considered my options. I had to get out of here somehow.

Opportunity arose when a groggy Viscount Hollis came stumbling down the steps toward us, and I caught sight of a wide-eyed Greer before she jerked her head toward the exit. The viscount teetered into his nephew with a drunken greeting that might have been an insult before slumping against him, and while Rafi attempted to steady his uncle, I turned and slipped through the crowd to catch up with Greer.

Dimly, I heard Rafi’s voice yelling something and then caught sight of the man who had let us through. His face screamed bloody murder. Greer glanced over her shoulder and froze at the burly lads heading our way. We were trapped.

“Quick, this way!” a soft voice said, and my heart leaped at the sight of a familiar face two doors down a narrow corridor. Blythe! It wasn’t like we had much choice at the moment. I glanced at Greer, and we both nodded. The door snapped shut, but Blythe held up a candle. “I don’t even want to know what capers you two are up to.”

“Do you live here?” I asked curiously as we followed her down a level, smelling the scents of a bustling kitchen.

“My father has apartments on the upper levels of the club,” she said over her shoulder. “When my mother is ill, sometimes I visit, though I’m forbidden to come downstairs for obvious reasons. It was lucky that I forgot my books in his study.”

“How did you know it was us?” Greer asked.

“I see your face practically every day at Welton, Greer,” she said with a laugh. “And, well, I am deeply jealous of Zia’s curls—I’d recognize those bronze, gold, and brown spirals anywhere, even with those horrid mustaches.”

Blythe led us to a small scullery that had a door leading outside. “Thank you,” I told her when she held it open with a conspiratorial smile. “We owe you.”

Hot on Greer’s heels, I dashed down the street and hightailed toward the main square, only relaxing when we were in a hackney. That had been much too close. If it hadn’t been for Blythe, who knew what might have happened? Would Rafi have made me go with him? Outed me to my father? Would he still? Alarm took hold in my chest.

“I got the viscount’s purse, but Rafi was there, too,” I blurted.

Greer’s blue eyes widened comically. “Did he recognize you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s bad, Zia. Really bad. What did you tell him?”

I bit my lip and groaned. “Nothing, but he’s not the type to let things go. He didn’t see you, so I could say I was curious as to what a gambling den looked like. Or I was visiting Blythe. I’ll handle him, I promise.”

“How?” She shot me a skeptical glance, and I bristled.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”

First, I’d have to figure out what Rafi wanted…and then, I’d have to come up with a way to bargain for his silence.