London, England
With barely a noise, the thief the London newspapers had nicknamed the Phantom tiptoed across the old floorboards and raised the lower sash of the window in the attic. Though it was May, the night was cool. A brisk breeze carrying the scents of the city swept inward to brush against her cheeks. She reached up and tugged her dark knit hat lower over her ears. While making her way across the rooftops, she couldn’t afford to have the wind dislodge her long red hair from its chignon and whip it into her eyes.
She swung one leg, then the other out the window. The dark trousers and black knitted guernsey sweater she wore made leaping from one rooftop to the next easier than if encumbered by a dress. She lowered herself to the band of stone that ran the perimeter of the town house. Like so many of these Georgian homes, her employer’s residence possessed a ledge wide enough to walk on.
As a child, she’d balanced herself on tree limbs much narrower, while imagining herself an acrobat. She glanced at the pavement below. Falling from this height would cause more than a sprained ankle or a broken leg. A fall would most likely end in death. Shoving that thought from her mind, she leapt from the ledge to the flat rooftop of the adjacent town house.
Like a specter in the night, she made her way across the flat surface and jumped to the next roof, several feet lower, rolling on the balls of her feet as she landed. Leaping from one roof to the next made her feel carefree, almost aimless. But she was not aimless. Her goal was set in her mind. And if all went well, she would prevail.
The rattling of harnesses and the clopping of hooves echoed on the street below as a carriage rumbled down the cobbles. Drawing in a deep breath of cool air, she stepped into the shadows and pressed her back against a brick chimney until the sound of the vehicle faded into the dark night.
As she slipped out of hiding, she briefly tipped her face to the moon, letting it bathe her in its gray light. The moon was both friend and foe. It allowed her to see, but could also allow her to be seen. Hunched low, she padded across the surface before darting into the shadows again.
Up here on the rooftops, she felt free from all the rules that had dictated most of her actions throughout her life. No one watched her. No one judged her. But most of all, no one made her feel less because of the circumstances of her birth. She was like a nightjar bird, nocturnal, fluttering free above the city, conjuring myths and tales.
As she reached the last town house on the street, she held on to the drainpipe. Her leather gloves protected her hands from the rough surface as she slid down, pressing the soles of her shoes into the cast iron to slow her descent to the ground—or perhaps it was hell. There were days she didn’t know where she would end up, especially if she got caught. But she had made a promise to Helen before her dear friend’s death, and she would fulfill it.
A gust of wind carrying the scent of chimney smoke swirled close, pulling her from her thoughts.
She needed to hurry. Lord Hamby would be preoccupied with his guests, while she would be rifling through his bedchamber, searching for his coin box.
She would keep her promise.
She would make him pay.
All of them would.
Lady Winton resembled a pumpkin. Olivia Michaels wouldn’t voice such an unfavorable opinion aloud. A paid companion to an elderly lady of noble birth knew better if she wished to retain her position. And this position was imperative to Olivia’s plan.
As her ladyship turned before the cheval glass in Madame Lefleur’s London shop, Olivia snapped her gaping mouth closed. The orange, overly embellished concoction, with an exceedingly large bustle, looked garish on a woman of advanced years. A subtler shade with less flounce would be more flattering.
“I look enchanting, don’t I?” Lady Winton asked in her haughty voice, which always sounded as if someone was pinching the woman’s nose.
Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other while she fought the urge to violently shake her head. Vicar Finch at All Saints Orphanage for Girls had proclaimed lying was the first step toward hell, but there was no avoiding it, and since coming to London a few weeks ago, she’d already set herself toward perdition.
“Yes, my lady,” she replied.
Lady Winton cocked a gray eyebrow at Madame Lefleur, who stood in the corner of the fitting room looking a bit green. Though the modiste had sewn the gown, her ladyship had instructed the proprietor on the bright color and flouncy design.
“Oui, très belle.” Madame Lefleur’s thin lips formed a clearly forced smile. The woman had her reputation as London’s premiere modiste to consider, but she also knew the noblewoman was a vicious gossip with a sharp tongue who could turn the ton against any merchant.
“I shall tell everyone how I designed my gown.” Lady Winton tipped her long, thin nose into the air.
A relieved expression flashed on the modiste’s face before she masked it.
“Perhaps I should have a matching turban with orange feathers made. I shall revive the fashion. What do you think?”
Madame Lefleur looked utterly speechless.
“Well?” Lady Winton snapped impatiently, turning to glare at the modiste.
“It would hide your lovely hair,” the French woman answered.
“True.” Her ladyship patted the sizable gray bun perched on the top of her head like a massive bird’s nest.
Olivia knew it was a wig, since sometimes when her employer dozed off it slipped precariously close to her right eye.
One of the modiste assistants stepped into the room, walking at a ground-eating pace. She handed a newspaper to Madame Lefleur. “He’s done it again,” she said in a hushed voice.
As Lady Winton watched the two other women’s reflections in the mirror, her eyes grew sharp. She spun around in an orange swirl of fabric. “What are you two whispering about?”
“The Phantom has robbed another residence.” Madame Lefleur bit her lower lip and continued to read the article.
Lady Winton stormed toward the women and without asking grabbed the newspaper out of the shop owner’s hand.
“Who did he rob?” Olivia asked.
“Lord Hamby on Duke Street,” Lady Winton replied.
“Oh, my!” Olivia set her hand against her chest and tried to appear shocked.
“Don’t look so terrified, you silly girl.” Lady Winton glared at Olivia. “The thief has no interest in any of your measly belongings. What would he get but a few ragged dresses? He is targeting members of the nobility. People like me.” Her haughty voice inched higher with each word, while her normally florid cheeks paled.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. The Phantom wasn’t intent on robbing all the nobility. The thief was in London to exact justice on a few men. Men who’d forced their attentions on members of their female staff, leaving them enceinte and jobless. Leaving those poor servants with little choice but to beg Mrs. Garson at the orphanage to take their infant children. By-blows like Helen—born on the wrong side of the blanket—fathered by lecherous, wealthy men who cast them away with nary a thought.
Clearly agitated, Lady Winton tossed the paper onto a chair and pointed a plump, beringed finger at the stack of boxes that contained several boned corsets and cotton unmentionables. “While I change, Olivia, bring those parcels to my carriage.”
“Of course, my lady.” Olivia lifted the weighty packages. She stepped out of the dressing room and into the main area of the shop. Cream-flocked paper covered the walls, the perfect foil to the colorful bolts of silk and taffeta.
The bell over the entrance jangled.
Olivia craned her neck to glance around the parcels.
A woman with pitch-black hair and dark eyes entered the dressmaker’s shop. Her yellow silk gown and matching hat set off her rich complexion. The woman was not as much beautiful as she was striking.
A young shopgirl rushed forward. “Signora Campari, please come in.”
Campari? The opera singer? Olivia’s feet faltered. Only last week, Lady Winton had returned from Drury Lane Theatre and extolled about the soprano’s extraordinary talent.
Olivia wished she could have attended the theater and heard the prima donna’s voice. But her employer hadn’t included her in the outing with the coterie of elderly noblewomen she’d attended with.
Peering around the stacked packages, Olivia made her way out of the shop to Lady Winton’s shiny black carriage parked in front. Thankfully the steps were lowered. With the boxes balanced in one arm, she reached for the latch and opened the door. Ducking her head, she stepped inside. Her foot collided with something or someone.
As she stumbled forward, the parcels in her hands flew upward.
Large hands wrapped about her waist, and she slammed against a firm, but warm surface as the boxes rained down. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and lifted her tumbled chignon off her face.
Lord Anthony Trent lay on the carriage seat. Worse, she was sprawled atop him—nearly every inch of her body in contact with his masculine frame that held the faint, tantalizing scent of soap and bergamot.
Lady Winton had proclaimed his lordship beyond wicked once when they’d passed him on the street. And when her employer returned from Drury Lane Theatre, she’d mentioned how Signora Campari was the gentleman’s current paramour.
He was the perfect complement to the opera singer. Like the diva, he possessed striking features that made an onlooker wish to linger so they might ponder the symmetry. Though, in all honesty, at this moment Lord Anthony looked less regal, for a pair of Lady Winton’s rather ample white drawers had escaped the constraints of a box to land atop his lordship’s head.
Mumbling an apology, Olivia reached up and pulled the garment off, revealing his wavy dark hair and a wayward lock that hung over his left eye. Her fingers twitched as she battled the desire to brush the silky strands aside.
His lordship peered at her through sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. Eyes so dark one might think them black, but up close they were clearly the color of coffee with the slightest dash of cream. She could not recall ever being this close to a man to examine his features the way she did his lordship, or perhaps she’d never felt so infatuated to do so.
Those eyes that had looked sleepy widened and a smile formed in his square jaw, exposing perfect white teeth that looked as if they should be used in an advertisement for Higgins Pearly White Tooth Powder.
His carefree expression made her wonder if women falling onto his lap was an everyday occurrence. She could understand a woman’s motivation in doing so.
One of his large hands slid from her waist to her back. The heat from it filtered through her thin cotton dress, sending a wave of warmth into her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice a rich, delicious baritone.
“Forgive me. I tripped.” Something she would not have done if she’d realized the carriage had an occupant. Why was he lounging in Lady Winton’s carriage?
A female screech, capable of shattering glass, cut off her thoughts.
Olivia glanced over her shoulder. Signora Campari stood on the pavement by the carriage’s open door.
“Un bastardo!” the Italian woman screamed, lifting her hands dramatically into the air. “The minuto I turn my back you stray like a dog. You . . . you . . . shovel!”
A clouded expression settled over his lordship’s handsome face before it cleared. “I believe you meant rake, Maria,” he said calmly.
“Si, rake. Rastrello!” The opera singer stomped her foot.
Olivia suddenly realized the lush upholstery in this carriage was a deep blue, not the muddy brown of Lady Winton’s equipage. Even more disconcerting was the fact Olivia remained pressed against the gentleman’s warmth, from her tingling breasts to her hips. Her breath suddenly felt locked in her lungs. She scrambled off him and began gathering the scattered garments.
His lordship sat up. “The girl tripped, darling. Nothing more.”
The woman made a noise that clearly conveyed her disbelief as she lifted one of Lady Winton’s drawers off the step from where it had landed and dangled it in the air as if proof of an indiscretion. “Bah!”
Olivia’s face heated. Did the diva believe those unmentionables were Olivia’s? She opened her mouth to explain, but the singer threw the garment into the carriage and began another string of Italian that didn’t sound the least bit musical.
Lord Anthony expelled a heavy breath. His dark-eyed gaze returned to Olivia. “Are you quite sure you aren’t injured?”
“I’m fine, sir. I beg your forgiveness. I thought this was Lady Winton’s carriage.”
The way his nose scrunched up clearly indicated he knew her ladyship.
“Oh, Olivia!” Lady Winton said, stepping next to the opera singer on the pavement. “What in heaven’s name are you doing in there, alone, with . . . him?”
The opera singer turned to Lady Winton and began another round of animated Italian, interspersed with the sporadic English word that branded his lordship a rogue, along with the occasional garden implement.
With a commiserating expression, her ladyship nodded at Signora Campari. “Yes, dear, all men are scoundrels and cheats. You cannot trust them. Especially this one.”
A nerve ticked in his lordship’s jaw. He looked as if he wished to strangle the old woman.
With her nose tipped in the air, Lady Winton stormed away.
Mumbling another apology, Olivia snatched up the last of the scattered garments and boxes, then scrambled out of the carriage. She sucked in a deep breath as she surveyed the crowd standing on the pavement, gawking and whispering.
Lady Winton was charging toward her own carriage parked farther up the street in front of Lord Anthony’s. The old woman’s breasts were thrust forward like a carved figurehead on the bow of a ship.
When Olivia caught up to her ladyship, the woman grabbed the parcels from Olivia’s hands and thrust them at her coachman. “Biddles, put these in the boot. Olivia, you are dismissed!”
The blood drained from Olivia’s face, leaving it cold. “Lady Winton, I can explain.”
“Humph. I don’t wish to hear your explanation.” The woman’s curt tone sliced across Olivia’s skin like a blade.
“But—”
“I cannot condone such immoral behavior. I should have known a girl from an orphanage would not be a suitable companion.” Her ladyship climbed into the carriage and rapped her fist against the inside of the roof.
Biddles offered Olivia a sympathetic look as he climbed up on the perch and urged the horses to move on.
Olivia bit back a wicked word. The type of word Vicar Finch proclaimed would send her straight to hell. She turned to see Lord Anthony standing on the pavement next to Signora Campari. The diva’s hands were still in perpetual motion. But this time not in the air. Instead, she was using them to strike his lordship in the chest.
With one fluid movement, he tossed the opera singer over his broad shoulder.
The prima donna screamed and pounded her fist against his lordship’s back. “Antonio, put me down, this minuto!”
“That’ll teach ’er, gov’ner,” a man in the crowd yelled.
Laughter erupted.
With the soprano slung over his shoulder, Lord Anthony ducked his head and disappeared into his carriage. The sound of shrieking Italian could be heard as the equipage moved up the street, leaving Olivia the only player left in this fiasco.
“Damnation,” she mumbled. When the ground beneath her didn’t open and send her spiraling to purgatory like Vicar Finch claimed it would, she said the word again.
Now she’d have to grovel at Lady Winton’s feet to get her position back. The thought of begging that sour-faced old bat made her want to retch, but she needed to stay in London. And the woman and her old gossiping friends were a plethora of information.
Information Olivia needed.
She squared her shoulders and started toward Lady Winton’s town house. She would swallow her pride if it meant completing what she had come to London to do.
Anthony stared at the various financial reports scattered across the mahogany desk and attempted to ignore the sharp pain that lanced across his temples like a harbinger of doom. He’d rather be in bed with Maria than contending with this. Well, perhaps not. After yesterday’s debacle, she was more apt to castrate him than ease the anxious energy coursing through him.
He snatched up the invoice before him. How his brother, James, the Marquess of Huntington, contended with this amount of work, along with the House of Lords, was beyond him. He glanced at the calendar tucked into the edge of the blotter. Unnecessary to stare at it. He knew, damn well, that later today his brother James, his sister-in-law, Caroline, and their two sons, along with Anthony’s youngest sibling, George, would take the rail to the Lake District for a monthlong vacation. During their holiday, James wished Anthony to deal with the family’s latest acquisition, Victory Pens, and handle the ledger for his sister-in-law’s newspaper, the London Reformer, along with the books for several of his other businesses.
What the bloody hell was James thinking asking him to handle such responsibilities? His brother deserved a holiday, but surely there was someone better qualified than himself to handle the task. And why did James have to be so involved in his various businesses anyway? He had solicitors, bankers, and Walters, his man of affairs, who worked out of the family’s Bond Street offices. Why didn’t he delegate what James normally oversaw to one of them? Surely, they were better suited to the task than him.
You can do this, a voice in his head whispered, battling the other inner voice that proclaimed, you cannot. He glanced at Walters, sitting in the chair that faced the desk.
The bespectacled man of affairs pushed his glasses up the bridge of his thin nose and offered a weak smile.
There was no avoiding it. With a resigned inward sigh, Anthony perused the bill in his hand. The amount on the invoice seemed an outrageous sum for a printing press, but what did he know? He handed the paper to Walters. “Send Phelps and Company a cheque for two thousand one hundred ninety-three pounds.”
Anthony picked up the ledger for the London Reformer and opened it. As he scanned the business ledger to where he was supposed to enter the expenditure and his initials next to it, he twirled his pen between his fingers.
Walters cleared his throat.
Anthony glanced up.
The man’s face flushed as he nervously wet his lips. “I believe it is one thousand two hundred and ninety-three pounds, my lord.”
A bead of sweat trickled down Anthony’s back. Without looking at the invoice, he knew the man of affairs was right. Knew he’d twisted the numbers about as he always did. As if a casual slip of the tongue, he waved a nonchalant hand in the air. “Yes, of course.”
The thump, thump, thump of a cane forewarned of Grandmother’s approach. Strangely, he looked forward to the harridan’s arrival. It would be a welcome reprieve from the numbers that danced around in his head like a puzzle. He casually pressed his back into the leather chair and tried to appear as though he knew what the bloody hell he was doing.
Without knocking, the dowager flung open the door and entered the office. The disapproving scowl on the old woman’s face clearly indicated that Lady Winton had wagged her vicious tongue, relaying the incident with Maria yesterday.
“Walters, leave,” Grandmother snapped.
The man of affairs stood so fast the papers balanced on his lap fluttered to the floor. Mumbling an apology, the fellow gathered them up and darted from the room.
The door clicked closed.
Anthony stood and motioned to the chair Walters had vacated. “Grandmother, why don’t you sit? I hope you’ve had a favorable afternoon receiving callers.”
She pounded her cane against the carpet. “Humph! I did not. How could I when the main topic on everyone’s lips was the blatant disregard for propriety my grandson engaged in on Bond Street with an opera singer and another woman? Do you have no shame?”
He forced a carefree smile. “I assure you it was a misunderstanding.”
“Am I to assume that tossing that diva over your shoulder like a sack of coal for all of London to see was a misunderstanding as well?”
“No. That was deliberate.” He did not wish to stand before a crowd as his hot-tempered mistress screeched and pummeled him.
“Yes, I’m sure it was. I’m positive that harpy Lady Winton has told everyone about the spectacle. It is bad enough your sister-in-law continues her political rants in favor of the suffragist movement in that radical newspaper she publishes, but now you’ve created a public spectacle. You are already a favorite subject in the gossip columns. Does this family have no sense of propriety?”
Anthony expelled a heavy breath while fighting the urge to rub at the steady pounding at his temples. “Caroline’s opinions may not reflect yours, but I warn you, madam, I will not tolerate you maligning my sister-in-law in any way.”
The dowager smirked. “Careful, boy, your unrequited love for your brother’s wife is rearing itself.”
He held the woman’s steely regard for a long minute. He did not carry a torch for Caroline. If he defended his sister-in-law, it was because he admired her.
A vision of Caroline, James, and their children settled in Anthony’s mind. In truth, he envied his brother’s marriage, knowing he would never have such a relationship. A mistress he could hide his secret from. A wife would be a different matter entirely. Yet, with each passing year, his desire for something he both cherished and feared grew within him. A woman who looked at him the way Caroline looked at James. A woman who thought him beyond brilliant and would hold him in the utmost regard.
“Do you really think your string of mistresses will drive thoughts of Caroline from your head?” Grandmother asked, interrupting his thoughts. “At twenty-seven years of age, you should finally take a wife. Have your own children. A gaggle of brats, as mischievous as you, will distract you better than your meaningless lovers.”
He liked children, but what if his inherited the affliction that plagued him?
“You are mistaken, madam. You know nothing about what I feel or think.” Trying to hold his rising temper in check, Anthony moved to the door and jerked it open. He’d wanted a distraction, not a lecture. Worse, he’d promised James he’d live here with Grandmother for the next month because of the recent robberies in Mayfair. He must have been drunk when he’d agreed to that. Grandmother. . .
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