Page 1 of To Heist and to Hold

Mrs. Heloise Marlow tensed, her half boots making a whisper of sound on the flagstone floor as she widened her stance.

Locating the hulking figure in the shadows from the corner of her eye, she surreptitiously brought her hand up to the collar of her pelisse, sensitive fingers locating the narrow hilt there, gripping it tight along its carefully etched grooves.

With a flick of her wrist she silently freed it from its disguised sheath, the thin three-inch blade glinting in the dim light before, with one swift lunge, she spun and drove her hand forward, embedding the steel between her opponent’s ribs.

Or what would have been ribs if the figure had been alive.

“Nicely done, Heloise,” Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, murmured, moving closer to the straw dummy.

She bent forward, peering at the hole in the waistcoat left by the lapel blade before accepting the small dagger from Heloise and inspecting the edges.

“This newest batch is wickedly sharp. And the finger grips are a genius addition. Did you find the handling improved?”

Heloise flushed with pleasure. “I did,” she replied, stripping off the pelisse the blade had been hidden in and laying it aside.

“Euphemia’s leather sheaths in the collar have improved as well.

Though I do wonder,” she continued with a small frown, the momentary pleasure gone as she accepted the blade back from Sylvia and ran her thumb over the narrow channels she had gouged into the grip, “if I couldn’t make the hilt a bit lighter. ”

Sylvia chuckled as she took up the pelisse and inspected Euphemia’s meticulous stitches attaching the thin leather sheath to the underside of the collar.

“No matter how much I may tell you how utterly brilliant your work is, you will never be satisfied. You need to stop overthinking things, my dear.”

Heloise worried at her lip with her teeth. “But if anything were to happen to one of the Widows while out on assignment, and it was caused by some flaw in my work—”

Sylvia laid a staying hand on Heloise’s arm, her expression gentling.

“You cannot take every bit of responsibility onto your shoulders,” she soothed before grinning.

“No matter how very strong those shoulders may be. What you have accomplished is above and beyond what anyone else could have done; now put your trust in the Widows—and in yourself.”

Heloise nodded and smiled, though it was a hollow thing. What worth did she have to these women if she did not excel at her craft? What reason did they have to keep her around if she did not exceed their expectations?

But Sylvia was waiting for something more, wasn’t she? “You’re right,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster. Which must have been enough to be convincing. Sylvia gave her an arch smile.

“Of course I’m right,” she replied. “I’m always right. A fact which my darling Laney would be more than willing to agree with,” she continued in a louder voice as Mrs. Laney Finch entered the smithy.

“I will agree with whatever you wish me to agree with, my love,” Laney said with ready cheerfulness, wrapping an arm about Sylvia and planting a kiss on her upturned lips.

“Well, that is a promise I will certainly not pass up,” Sylvia murmured, turning in Laney’s embrace, with a look in her eyes that Heloise had become all too familiar with in the two years since coming to stay with the women at their Wimpole Street house.

Smiling, Heloise reached for the pelisse still in Sylvia’s hand, gently tugging it from her grip.

For their part, the two women seemed not to notice her, their attention fixed quite firmly on one another.

Heloise slipped out, silently closing the door behind her.

Though she could not work on her blades just then, her time would not be wasted.

There was Euphemia to confer with regarding the efficiency of her newest creation now that she had properly tested the hidden sheaths.

And she could always use the time to practice her sword skills or go over her notes regarding her designs for the newest batch of weapons she was crafting.

No, not a moment would be spent in leisure. She had to earn her keep, after all.

The sharp click of her boots echoed as she made her way through the house, the quiet halls proof that the other Widows were busy at their respective positions in the household.

Though just what those positions were would surprise anyone outside of their small, tight-knit group.

The Wimpole Street Widows Society, as they were known, seemed innocuous enough, a group of women with the shared experience of having lost their husbands, collected under one roof to support one another in their widowhoods.

And they had vigorously tended that misconception, like a gardener cultivating a particularly unassuming plant, when beneath the surface the roots were far reaching and powerful.

She amused herself imagining what the good people of London would say were they to learn the true purpose of the Widows—or what went on under the roof of the Wimpole Street town house.

She chuckled. She rather thought that the sale of smelling salts would expand considerably were it revealed that not only were the fine arts of pugilism and swordplay practiced daily, but those of disguise, lock-picking, and poisoning as well.

She herself had taken no small amount of time and effort to come to terms with it when Sylvia had first asked her to join the Widows.

Even now, she found it hard to believe that there was such a society—or that she herself had somehow been lucky enough to be invited into its inner sanctum.

A luck she would never take for granted.

Just as she was turning into the front hall, Mrs. Strachan, their housekeeper, approached. Rather, she stormed across the shining inlaid wooden floor toward Heloise, like a stout marauder intent on causing mayhem.

“Mrs. Marlow,” she barked in her gravelly Scottish brogue, her face pinched in its perpetual frown, “how many times do I have to tell you that I am far too busy to play hostess to a barrage of guests at all hours of the day and night? I cannae take time out of my schedule to deal with the comings and goings of every blasted Sassenach who chooses to cross our bleeding doorstep.”

Heloise forced a smile. God knew what had set the woman off this time, but she was not so much of a glutton for punishment that she would say or do anything that might make matters worse. Self-preservation, she had learned, was key to dealing with the brusque housekeeper.

“Hello, Strachan,” she said, all sweet complacency. “You are looking lovely today. Are you doing something new with your hair?”

Strachan narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’ll be turned to a puddle by your compliments, you have got another think coming, gel.

Now go see to your own visitor in the drawing room.

I’ve got things to do.” With that she sniffed sharply and spun about, the staccato sound of her sturdy heels sharp and determined, like a drummer going into battle.

Letting out a breath of relief that she had managed to escape the woman with a minimal ear blistering, Heloise gave up any intention of seeking out Euphemia and headed for the stairs and the drawing room.

Though Strachan fairly terrified her on a good day, she could not deny the woman was frighteningly good at her job, not only keeping the house in order but also assisting the Widows in their work.

Heloise could put up with a bit of mild terror for their continued success.

She entered the pleasantly chaotic room, a perfect blend of the Widows’ personalities with its mismatched furniture and peculiar blend of patterns, and immediately spied a familiar head of pale-blond hair pulled back in a severe bun topping a slight and subdued form.

In an instant her worries disappeared, delight taking their place.

“Julia!”

Miss Julia Marlow, sister to Heloise’s late husband, turned, a smile on her face. But there was a brittle quality to it that sent alarm bells pealing through Heloise’s brain.

“Heloise,” she said, stepping forward, hands outstretched. “I’m sorry for coming unannounced. I know it is not our normal day to meet.”

Heloise laid the pelisse aside on a nearby chair and took the girl’s hands in her own, noticing with concern that Julia’s fingers were not only trembling ever so slightly but also ice cold through her gloves.

Whatever had brought the girl here today, her visit was not a mere social call.

Frowning, she rang for tea and led Julia to a settee before the hearth.

“I always have time for you, you know that,” she said, sinking down beside her. “But something is wrong. What is it?”

Julia huffed a small laugh, but the sound was more hopeless than amused. “Did I give away so much already?” she asked. But her composure did not last long, her delicate features crumbling. And then, with a shaky sigh, she dissolved into sobs.

Alarmed, Heloise gathered Julia in her arms. “Dear God, what’s happened?

” she exclaimed. But it was all too obvious that she would not soon get an answer; the girl had become incoherent in whatever grief had hold of her.

Her body shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she cried into Heloise’s shoulder.

For Heloise’s part, she could only act as a kind of port in the storm while Julia clung to her and questions flooded her head: Was Julia ill?

Had she lost her position? Was she in trouble?

She felt at sea, unsure how to deal with the emotions pouring out of the girl.

Gregory would know what to do. The thought came unbidden, all the harsher for how unexpected it was.

At the remembrance of her late husband, a deep guilt took hold of Heloise.

She had made a vow to Gregory just before his unexpected death that she would watch over Julia.

The two had been very close, and his passing had left a gaping hole in the girl’s life—one that Heloise fully blamed herself for.

If she had only taken care of things herself, if she had not asked for help, Julia would now have a brother to protect her.

Closing her eyes, she laid her cheek on the crown of the sobbing girl’s head, even as she fought against the burn of tears that lodged in her throat.

Julia was so fragile and sensitive. She and Gregory had had only each other for so long, and he had been incredibly protective of her, his anxiety over her future nearly consuming him.

It had been the main reason he had married Heloise, to give the girl a kind of mother figure as she grew.

And Heloise had filled that space as well as she had been able to.

Even so, the bond between the two siblings had been strong, and she had often felt an outsider.

His concern for his sister’s well-being had been his one coherent thought as he’d lain feverish and confused on his deathbed, begging Heloise to protect her, his eyes glazed, skin pale and clammy, hand like a claw about her own in that one last burst of desperate energy…

She broke free of the memory with a gasp. What else could she have done but agree to his request—as incapable as she had felt of fulfilling it? She would have promised so much more to give him a bit of peace.

Despite her fears that she would muck the whole thing up, she had done her best to keep that vow.

She’d made sure Julia had everything she needed, nursing her when she was sick, surprising her with the small trinkets and treats she thought Gregory might have chosen, cheering for her when she secured a position as companion to an influential countess.

But it had not been enough. Julia’s tears seemed proof that she had failed at the one thing Gregory had asked of her.

“Julia, please let me know what’s wrong,” she tried again, desperation coloring the words.

Blessedly, the sound of her voice seemed to finally calm Julia.

Gulping in several large breaths, sniffling loudly, she pulled away from Heloise.

Tears glistened in her lashes and streaked down her pale cheeks, and she retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to her running nose.

“I hardly know where to begin,” she managed around the material.

“There is no better place than the beginning,” Heloise said firmly, patting her arm.

Yet even with the encouragement—and despite that she had obviously visited with the express purpose of revealing her troubles to Heloise—Julia seemed at a complete loss.

Blessedly, the tea came then, a maid bringing the tray in and depositing it before them.

Heloise busied herself with preparing their cups and doling out generous plates of delicacies, giving Julia the time and space to gather her thoughts—and hiding that she was devoured by worry for the girl.

Finally, when she had served them both and was left with nothing further to do except clasp her hands in her lap to keep herself from tearing her hair out from anxiety, Julia spoke up.

“I don’t know where else to turn, Heloise. If you say you cannot help me, I don’t know what to do.”

Which was far too ominous a sentence. Swallowing hard, Heloise placed a steadying hand on Julia’s arm. Though truthfully it was as much for herself as it was for Julia.

“What happened?” she asked.

Closing her eyes as if beyond weary, Julia whispered, “Dionysus.”

Heloise stilled. “Dionysus? The gaming hell ?” Surely she’d misheard.

Julia nodded mournfully. And Heloise suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she leaned back in her seat.

Dionysus was known as a place of immorality, synonymous with decadence and excess.

There was not a highborn family that had not been affected, for better or worse, by chances taken at Dionysus’s tables.

But how had Julia, as innocent and naive as she was—not to mention that she was most certainly not from a well-to-do family—become entangled in such a place?

No matter how Julia had become involved, Heloise needed to focus so she could help in whatever way she could.

Sitting forward, taking up her cup and swallowing a deep draught, letting the bracing heat of the tea work its way into her stomach, she turned back to Julia.

“Tell me everything,” she demanded. “And I mean everything.”