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When Jasper Trueblood, Viscount St. James, didn’t want to be seen, he wasn’t. Which likely accounted for the reason Miss Hartley

had barreled into him as she’d left the stationers, and the fact that he now smelled like a drunkard on a three-day soak.

His uncle wouldn’t be pleased that his prized port had become a piss puddle in a London alley. Then again, even if Jasper

had delivered the wine on a velvet ceremonial pillow with a dozen litter bearers to scatter rose petals at the feet of the

Earl of Redcliffe, it would not have been enough.

So he put it out of his mind for the moment. Instead, he stared after Miss Hartley’s retreating carriage from the shadows.

When he’d spotted her standing on the pavement, he hadn’t meant to approach. And surely, if she’d recognized him, she wouldn’t

have wanted him to either. He wasn’t the sort of man with whom debutantes desired an acquaintance.

Even so, there had been something that compelled him to stand by her side. Something that caused him to engage with her as

he never did with those in society.

Had it been seeing her face with her complexion so pale as to make raindrops appear almost silver on her skin?

The cloud of mist that had hovered in front of her parted lips, their faded pink hue like that of a watercolor disappearing into a canvas?

Or the way her dark lashes were so thick they appeared dusted with soot as the dew clung to them?

But no. It had been her eyes, he decided.

Haunted, bewitching, pale blue eyes. They were to blame for him speaking without thought and forgetting to disguise his voice—things

he couldn’t afford to do. Ever.

His gaze strayed across the street to the vacant space beneath the awning once more. What or who had Miss Hartley seen that

had so troubled her?

The answer was unclear.

Besides, whatever had distressed her was none of his concern. At present, ensuring the welfare of his aunt and two cousins,

in addition to managing his army of marauders, was all he could deal with while keeping his sanity.

Absently hearing the magpie chatter of maids from the window above him, he reacted on instinct, adjusting the position of

his umbrella to redirect the putrid shower from a chamber pot.

As he stepped away from the alcove—successfully avoiding smelling like a drunkard and a piss pot—he wondered where the same carefully honed instincts had been when he’d first seen Miss Hartley dashing through

the rain. He’d just stood there, stock-still like the addlepated nitwit most of society thought he was.

A frustrated growl rumbled in his throat.

Shoving the encounter aside, he turned in the direction of his flat, calculating the fastest route. A hackney would expedite

matters, but he couldn’t spare the coin. Therefore, he would walk to Marylebone, change out of this jug-bitten frock coat,

then find a way to replace the port before he saw his uncle.

At the beginning of each month, Redcliffe tasked Jasper with fetching a specific vintage of port from the vintner.

Even though his uncle paid for the port and was wealthy enough to have it carted to him by way of golden chariot, he preferred to have his nephew deliver it.

Like a supplicant. In turn, he would inspect the bottle with a gem cutter’s precision to see if his late sister’s only child deserved a monthly allowance.

Just thinking about it, anger coursed through him, his long stride eating up the rain-slick pavement as water leached through

the worn soles of his boots.

Jasper hated that he had to go to his uncle like a beggar. Hated every time he saw that gleam of malicious triumph in those

coal black eyes when he was forced to ask for what should rightfully be his. Hated that he had to continue this charade until—

Turning the corner, he stopped short as he spotted a disaster about to unfold.

An old woman leaving the tea shop, stoop-shouldered beneath a shawl shrouded over her head against the rain, stepped into

the path of a speeding hack. Seeing it an instant too late, she squawked in alarm.

With no time to waste, he darted forward and pulled the woman onto the pavement, immediately turning himself to absorb the

splash from the wheel hitting a puddle.

“Good gracious! That cab came out of nowhere. You saved my—” She broke off as she craned her neck to look up at him. Recognition

sharpened her steel gray eyes and whatever gratitude she might have uttered fell silent. Instead, she pursed her lips as if

tasting something sour. “St. James.”

Jasper was used to the reaction.

This time, he had no trouble remembering to disguise his voice. Constricting his throat, he ensured that his usual deep timbre

came out shallow and airy. And as the rain dripped down from the brim of his hat to blur the lenses of his spectacles, he

inclined his head. “Lady Abernathy.”

The wet wool of his coat tightened over his shoulders as he bent to retrieve his fallen umbrella, then held it over her as she primly adjusted the threadbare shawl around her shoulders.

“I was just on my way to the milliner,” the dowager viscountess said, her tone defensive, chin wrinkling as she held it high.

“I sent my maid ahead for a new hat after the one I was wearing fell to pieces in the rain. Worthless bit of rubbish.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond, or whether she was talking about the hat or the maid. So he stayed silent. It was always better

if he stayed silent.

Then she spared him a sideways glance and offered him the wing of her elbow. “Well, don’t just stand there like a big ape.”

Any other man might have taken offense, but he’d heard much worse in his twenty-four years. Not only that, but when he saw

the tremor in her arm as she held it out, he knew how difficult it must have been for someone as proud as she to ask for assistance,

especially from the likes of him.

He responded by shifting the umbrella to his other fist before escorting her across the cobblestones. Though, with him well

over six feet and with her barely taller than his biceps, it took some maneuvering to keep the umbrella over her head and

not stab himself in the throat. Not only that, but for every one of his steps, she needed four. And for every four of hers,

the number of harried curricles and carriages on the street increased, drivers railing curses down on their heads as they

swerved past. If that wasn’t enough, a veritable river of water and refuse blocked their path to the pavement.

He looked to the right, wondering if they could circumvent it. That was when he caught sight of a coach barreling down on

them.

The driver saw them but didn’t slow. In fact, there was a hard set to his jaw and in the gimlet eyes shadowed beneath the dripping felt brim of his hat, as if he saw any pedestrian in his path as a challenge to his manhood.

This left Jasper only one option.

“Apologies, my lady,” he said, then reached behind her, cupped his hands beneath both of her elbows and lifted her off her

feet.

A strangled yawp rose from her throat. Her legs paddled in the air for the two seconds it took him to step over the puddle

and set her down.

It wasn’t the most delicate or gentlemanly way to treat an elderly woman. But it was either that or be mowed down. And at

least he’d managed to avoid being sprayed with any more rank—

Before he could finish the thought, the coach veered closer. The front wheel splashed through the gutter, sending a wave of

putrid water in an upward arc... that promptly gushed down Jasper’s back.

Lady Abernathy turned, her expression livid, her lips parting to rail at him.

Fine , he thought, resigned. It wasn’t as if his morning could get any worse.

Then something slithered off the brim of his hat, slopped to his shoulder and then slid down his sleeve. Dimly, he glanced

down at the misshapen lump and determined that it was a rat. Or rather, half a rat because the tail end wasn’t—

A slurping sound interrupted his thought. Then the rat’s other half slid off his hat and plopped to the pavement.

Bloody hell.

And somehow, through all that, he still managed to hold the umbrella over Lady Abernathy’s head. But that didn’t mean he was

expecting a modicum of gratitude.

Clenching his jaw, he looked at her, ready for her castigations.

Instead, her mouth pinched closed and she turned, issuing an impatient sigh. Apparently, she was in a hurry and didn’t want to be detained by the man who’d just saved her life. Twice.

The insanity of this entire morning nearly made him laugh.

“My lady! My lady!” cried a mousy young woman scurrying toward them on the slick pavement. The maidservant held fast to the

dripping straw bonnet on her head, her other hand carrying a hatbox, the side battering against her leg with every other step.

“I beg you would forgive me, but the milliner bade me to wait while she drew up a bill of accounts, believing the last two

must have been misdirected, and I wasn’t certain if—”

“Cease your prattling, stupid girl. Can you not see that it’s raining? Well, get me into the coach.”

The maid nodded vehemently, color rising to her cheeks.

In her scramble to assist, she lost her bonnet and almost upended the hatbox until Jasper intervened. Without a word, he handed

the umbrella to the maid. Taking up the hatbox and the fallen bonnet, he strode to the waiting carriage.

Like his own, it was a small conveyance that had seen better days. Though, as he handed the women inside the worn and musty

interior, he felt his brow furrow.

Viscount Abernathy, her ladyship’s son, was quite flush in the pocket. He kept a mistress in jewels, silks, furs and a Mayfair

townhouse. So why was his mother wearing a threadbare shawl and struggling to pay for a simple hat?

The obvious answer infuriated him.

Women were, all too often, left at the mercy of a male relative who did not look after their best interests. Men who did not

shield or protect them. Who thoughtlessly discarded them like rubbish... or worse. And if a woman in the winter of her