Page 2

Chapter One

James Rafferty stared up at the townhouse from his vantage point in the midnight shadows, his ragged clothes pulled around him in the frigid night air.

In truth, he wasn’t that cold—his body temperature tended to run hot, and he’d spent colder nights on the street.

He had a cap pulled low on his shaggy head, his beard was ferocious, and his entire demeanor was that of the lowest of the low—a street beggar, veteran of Her Majesty’s endless wars of conquest. The rough-hewn crutch was beside him, in case anyone would doubt his profession, and no one would notice his ever-alert eyes beneath the rough hat he was wearing.

Corinth Place had seen better days, as had the entire area.

Once the home of aristocrats, it now housed merely the gentry, wealthy families down on their luck, the disgraced, even the bourgeoisie had found homes in the decaying neighborhood.

The area would either rise back to the heights it once held, or it would deteriorate into the nearby slums. He was betting on the slums.

Number Ten had held up better than most. It had once belonged to his erstwhile employer, the renowned Judge Belding, though it had simply been an uninhabited rental property, seemingly unused and unwanted.

The Manning family had moved in several months ago, and they showed no signs of leaving.

He liked it that way. If they left, the crown would lay claim to the home, and he could kiss his chances goodbye.

A sudden gust of wind slammed into him, and he suppressed his shiver.

It was past eleven—the night was just getting started, but the house at the far end of the square was dark.

Clearly the Mannings had retired early, and for a moment he was tempted to see just how quiet he could be.

He’d robbed any number of houses while the owners slept upstairs, and he had no doubt he could do the same at Number Ten.

But he wasn’t interested in their paltry possessions—a family down on its luck would have sold off most of their most portable valuables.

The treasure he was seeking would be much harder to find, and he couldn’t risk getting caught before he knew exactly where it was.

He didn’t have that far to go—Corinth Place sat just on the edge of the slums, and all he had to do was turn a corner and he’d be back in his home territory. He moved through the darkness, as silent as a cat, slipping back into the shadows where he belonged, leaving Corinth Place behind him.

He heard the noise from a distance, and he halted his progress in surprise.

These streets were far from deserted, but he could swear there was a carriage approaching this burgeoning slum.

The few hackneys that made their way down this far sounded old and weary.

These horses, and there were two of them, were young and lively, just the sort of horseflesh to be stolen by an enterprising thief or two.

Either they belonged to one of the houses back at Corinth Place or they were coming to his slums. He wondered how far they’d get.

He heard the second pair with disbelief.

What in the hell was going on, with the bloody toffs broaching his territory?

He ought to give them the lesson they deserved, liberate the horses, and sell them.

He had no doubt he could do it, no matter how many servants accompanied such prime horseflesh, but he had more important things on his mind.

He needed to disappear, and fast, before whoever they were came around the corner.

Whether it was his blood enemy, Billy Stiles, or the local constable, he couldn’t be seen near Corinth Place.

He sank down in the nearest doorway, ducking his head and pulling his hat down, just another tramp with no home and nowhere to go.

The carriages came into view, following his surreptitious trail into the slums, and he felt no gratification in knowing he’d been right.

The first carriage was small and elegant, with two perfectly matched chestnuts.

There was a driver up on the box, but no one else—easy pickings.

The next carriage followed, this one bigger, and the horses, while better looking than the everyday street hack, were older, a little thinner.

They weren’t worth the trouble—in fact, none of them were when he was in his present disguise.

A crippled soldier didn’t steal horses, and he had bigger fish to fry.

He watched them approach from beneath his brows, no more than mildly curious.

The carriages were an anomaly on these filthy streets, and he was prepared to be entertained when someone decided to relieve their owners of their property, until he realized, to his absolute horror, that they were slowing to a halt directly in front of his ragged body.

Had they seen him? He tried to retreat further, but the doorway was too small for his big frame, and he could do nothing but watch as the first, elegant coach stopped directly in front of him.

The door opened before the driver could move, and an exquisitely dressed young gentleman of the ton stepped out, holding out a hand to the person remaining in the dark confines of the carriage.

The delicate foot on the steps was a hint of what was to come, and he remained very still as the most exquisitely beautiful woman he’d ever seen stepped out into the cool night air.

She wasn’t dressed for the weather—her perfect white shoulders rose above the pale pink gown, reminding him of just how grubby he was.

She had raven black hair, adorned with diamonds that would have been worth more than the horses and carriages put together, assuming they were real, and she was looking directly at him as she descended.

She sniffed, a dubious expression on her face, as she approached him. “Do you really think he’ll do, Alcott?” she asked of her companion, a man Rafferty had already dismissed as a useless fribble. “Couldn’t we find one a little more...well, presentable? He probably reeks.”

In fact, he didn’t. The clothes were filthy—he wasn’t. He tilted his head up to look at the beauty, enjoying the spectacle if not the conversation.

“But, darling,” the man drawled, “that’s exactly what we’re looking for, don’t you know.” He said the last three words as if they were one. “A filthy beggar, the dregs of society. You said you wanted to win.”

“I do,” Darling said grimly, eying him like he was a skinned rabbit.

The other carriage had halted, with much less majesty, and before it had even stopped moving, another young woman tumbled out, a tall one, with a tangle of curly hair down her back like a schoolgirl and a spate of words.

“You’re not being fair, Norah!” she continued, obviously in mid-sentence. “I was the one who told you where to find someone, and you ran ahead to beat me.”

“I always beat you, George,” the beauty said in an arch voice.

“You might as well get used to it. “ She didn’t even bother to look at the girl.

Instead, she approached him, lifting her skirts to expose delicate, exquisite ankles beneath that dress of shimmering silk.

“Here you, my man. How would you like to make five shillings?”

He tipped his head back to look at her. He was cursed with memorable eyes, but they wouldn’t be noticeable in the darkness. “Who do I have to fuck?” he said in his rich, rough voice. “You or the man?”

Her ladyship had heard that word before—for a moment, she was open-mouthed in shock, looking a little less like a fairy princess. “How dare you!” Her voice was icy with outrage.

The young woman behind her stifled a laugh. “Serves you right, Norah.”

“Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” the woman, Norah, demanded, her arch tones getting shriller.

The man beside her looked alarmed. “What do you expect me to do, fight him? He’s probably carrying a knife.”

“Happen I am,” Rafferty said agreeably. “Now why don’t the two of you go back to wherever you came from and stop disturbing me in my slumbers? I don’t come haring into your bedroom at night—you should do me the same courtesy.”

“Alcott!” the woman cried, her voice getting shriller. “Do something about him!”

Rafferty rose, slowly, careful to balance on his so-called good leg, and towered over her.

“I’m thinking someone should do something about you,” he said, moving toward her with a small dose of the menace he could easily summon.

She moved back, away from him as he advanced on her, tripping over her own delicate feet and landing on her backside on the filthy street.

He barely heard the smothered laughter from the second female. He glanced at her, but couldn’t see much, just a tumble of messy curls and a plain dress. No bared, perfect shoulders for this one.

“I’ll have you horsewhipped,” Norah hissed at him, her fine eyes narrowed in fury. “I’ll have you hanged.”

“Miss Manning, you can’t...” her companion began uncertainly.

“I can do anything I want,” she snarled.

Manning? Rafferty froze. He wasn’t a man who believed in coincidences. He knew that Sir Elston Manning had two daughters—what in the world were they doing here?

The young woman was making her way in their direction, her amusement unabated. “Not this time, you won’t,” she said cheerfully. “If I were you, I’d go somewhere else to find the dregs of society.”

The beauty allowed her companion to pull her to her feet, and she looked up at Rafferty with pure hatred. “I will,” she said, replying to the girl without looking at her. “But I still intend to see this man punished.”

“Come along, Miss Manning. I should never had agreed to bring you down here—it’s all my fault.”

“She wouldn’t have given you any choice, Mr. Alcott,” the young woman said, sliding to a stop a full ten feet away from Rafferty.