To Catch a Raven

Book 0: Women Who Dare

by Beverly Jenkins

Genres: Regency Romance; African American Historical; Historical Romance

Synopsis

“A living legend." -- Julia Quinn

The newest novel in USA Today bestselling author Beverly Jenkins’s compelling Women Who Dare series features a fearless grifter who goes undercover to reclaim the stolen Declaration of Independence.

Lying and cheating may be sins to some people, but for Raven Moreaux, it is a way of life. She comes from a long line of grifters and couldn’t be prouder…Until she’s forced to help the government.

A former Confederate official is suspected of stealing the Declaration of Independence, and Raven, posing as his housekeeper, is tasked with getting it back. Her partner is the too handsome Braxton Steel. Masquerading as a valet/driver, Brax is also supposed to be her “husband.” He has his own reasons for doing this job, but when their pretend marriage ignites into fiery passion, they’ll have to put everything—including their hearts—on the line.

Release date: August 23, 2022

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

San Francisco

May 1878

San Francisco jeweler Oswald Gant looked around his shop to make sure everything was ready for the imminent arrival of the princess and her entourage. He’d never met royalty before, and the anticipation left him elated and more than a bit nervous. Two members of her military guard had come in that morning to make arrangements for her purchase. They informed him that to ensure the princess’s security, no one else was allowed on the premises during the transaction. With that in mind, Oswald had politely shown the last customers the door an hour ago. In the time since, he’d made sure no fingerprints marred the gleaming glass of his display cases and swept the floor to rid it of any dirt the day’s customers might have tracked in. He'd also lowered the window shades to thwart gawkers passing by on the walk and placed the closed sign on the front door. He wanted no one wandering in and ruining things. Pulling out his handkerchief, he mopped at the perspiration beading his receding hairline, and drew in a deep breath. After adjusting his tie and the cuffs of his suit coat, he was no less nervous, but he was ready.

The bell above the door sounded and the two escorts he’d met that morning entered first, resplendent in their blue military uniforms. They greeted him with a nod and took up positions at the door before announcing, “Her Royal Highness, Princess Nya of Kasia.”

She entered in a faint cloud of perfume with her face masked by a thin veil. Its color and that of her rich gown and cape rivaled the brilliance of his most expensive sapphires. The kohl-lined eyes assessing him above the veil were dark and mysterious, and the skin beneath the arched brows glittered with the same shade as the gown. Her skin was brown, and that threw him. The escorts, one with blond hair and blue eyes, and the other with dark hair and eyes, appeared to be White men. Was she Colored? In the end, he was so mesmerized by her presence and how much profit he planned to make by overcharging her, he decided her race was of no consequence.

The princess spoke to the blond man in a language Oswald didn’t understand.

“The princess doesn’t speak American English,” her man explained, “but she thanks you for accommodating her.”

“Tell her I’m honored.” Beaming, he directed the entourage over to the small table and chairs he’d set up by the case. “If Her Majesty would kindly be seated, I’ll get the pieces you asked me to set aside.”

The guard translated the request, and in a rustle of sapphire silk she crossed the room. The escorts took up positions flanking her, and Oswald hastened to the case. He returned with a small black velvet bag. While the princess sat silently, her jeweled reticule resting on her lap, he removed the contents inside the bag and gently placed them on a tray in front of her. Three rubies, two diamonds, two emeralds, and one perfect white pearl.

She nodded approvingly, and while the dark-eyed man counted out the money owed, she placed the stones back into the bag and into her reticule.

Oswald eyed the coins with confusion. “What kind of money is this?”

“French.”

“San Francisco isn’t in France. This is America. I take only American money."

The man countered calmly, “Francs are honored all over the world, Mr. Gant.”

“American money or no sale.”

The guard sighed and turned to the puzzled-looking princess. When he explained the situation, she erupted with verbal outrage. While the red-faced, tight-lipped Oswald silently stood his ground in response to her rising vocal anger, she withdrew the jeweler’s bag from the reticule and all but threw it at him as she rose to her feet and stormed to the door. Oswald hefted the bag on his palm to make certain it wasn’t empty, and before he could ask if she’d be returning, the princess swept out of the shop. Her escorts offered hasty assurances that they’d be back in the morning with American coin, then hurried off to catch up with the furious royal.

Later, after gathering himself, Oswald prepared to close for the day and head home, but first he opened the velvet bag to place the stones back inside the case. As he shook out the contents, his eyes widened and his breath caught at the sight of eight pebbles the same sizes and shapes as the stones and pearl that were supposed to be inside. Heart pounding, he almost fainted. When he recovered, he hurried to the nearest police station.

But by then, the blond-haired guard, Renay Deveraux, now wearing a traditional brown suit, was on a train bound for New York City with the diamonds. His similarly dressed, dark-eyed cousin, Emile, had an emerald and the pearl safely secured in his luggage on a steamer sailing to Mexico City. The weary Raven Moreau, having traded her princess finery for plainer attire, didn’t mind riding Jim Crow by train back to her native New Orleans. Their gambit had been successful. She had her portion of the take, and was pleased knowing Oswald Gant, a member of a group of California businessmen infamous for importing girls from China and selling them to bordellos up and down the coast, was now much poorer than  he’d been at sunrise.

Chapter One

Boston

June 1878

Braxton Steele got off at the trolley stop closest to his father Harrison’s Boston home and walked the rest of the way. They dined together once a week and always enjoyed each other’s company. Harrison Steele was a well-known painter and illustrator. Between his work for a few of the local newspapers and the portraits commissioned by Boston’s elite, both Black and White, he made enough to live a fairly comfortable life. Brax hadn’t inherited his father’s artistic talent, however. He made his living as a tailor and managed the estate left to him by his grandparents.

It was a lovely spring evening, and when Brax arrived, Harrison was seated outside on the top step of his small home. “Greetings, son.”

“How are you, Da?”

“Doing well for an old man. Come on inside.”

His father was also a passable cook, and they sat down to a meal of roast chicken and root vegetables. The usually gregarious Harrison seemed subdued, however, and it gave Brax pause. “Is there something wrong?”

His father shrugged, saying quietly, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Meaning?”

“When you have a past, sometimes it comes back to put its foot on your throat in ways you hadn’t considered.”

“That’s certainly a definitive answer.”

That earned him a rueful smile. Brax waited for more clues as to what this meant.

“Back before I married your mother, I was in love with a woman named Hazel Moreau. In those days I was an art forger, and she and her family were one of the best grifter operations in the South.”

Brax paused with his fork on its way to his mouth. “An art forger?”

“Yes. I was exceptionally good at it, too.”

Brax set his fork down and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Why do I get the impression I’m going to need a drink for this conversation?”

His father’s aging eyes twinkled. “You know where the scotch is. Pour me one, too, if you would, please.”

Brax returned to the table with glasses and the decanter. “In case I need more bracing,” he explained, indicating the decanter.

His father nodded and after a sip asked, “Now where was I?”

“Hazel Moreau and art forgery.”

“Yes.” And for a moment no words followed. His father stared off into the distance as if memories of the past had returned. “She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Fiery, intelligent, driven. Her uncles and brothers were actors, swindlers, counterfeiters, and she, her siblings, and her cousins grew up in that life.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“At a gambling house in New Orleans. I was working for the family as a counterfeiter. She was a bartender and an actress.”

Braxton’s curiosity was well piqued. “Why have I never heard about this before?”

“Because I left it all behind after I married your mother, or at least mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I dabbled here and there for a while, but once you were born I gave it up entirely.”

Brax thought about

his own past. “So, all those years I spent raising hell and sowing my wild oats was because it was in my blood?”

His father simply smiled.

Brax met the smile with one of his own. “I’ll take that as a yes. Go on with your story. What happened with Hazel?”

“Fell in love with her and she with me, but she had her cap set for a wealthy Mississippi Creole because he could secure her future in ways I could not. She was posing as a woman from an equally wealthy family and probably would have married the man had I not stood up during the wedding Mass and exposed her real identity.”

“What!”

“I refused to let her marry someone else. All hell broke loose after that, of course. Arguments. Yelling. His mother fainted. The groom and his family demanded the truth. She denied everything at first, but as the uproar increased and fistfights broke out between the guests, she finally confessed her real identity and ran from the church. I went after her. Outside, she told me I’d ruined her life and the lives of any children she might have. Threatened to kill me if she ever saw me again, and that was that. Her brothers and uncles weren’t happy with me, either. Promised me the same fate if I ever showed my face in New Orleans again. I moved to Boston and never returned.”

“That’s some story.”

“All true.” He stared off into the distance for a few more moments. “A lady Pinkerton came to visit me last week.”

“A lady Pinkerton? What did she want?”

“To know if I knew of any Black people capable of pulling off sizable, well-planned swindles.”

“Why would she come to you?”

“She said she got my name from one of my former associates but wouldn’t reveal the name.”

“So what did you tell her?”

“That I didn’t know anyone with those skills. She refused to believe that. Threatened to send me to prison on fabricated charges if I didn’t give her a name. So I gave her the only one I could think of—Hazel Moreau.”

“And?”

“She visited me again this morning. Apparently, Hazel is still in the life and has a daughter named Raven. Someone has stolen one of the original copies of the Declaration of Independence.”

“Was it Hazel?”

“No, but the Pinks have an idea who did. They want you and the daughter Raven to pose as man and wife and find it.”

Brax stared at his father as if he’d been turned into an ear of corn. “I’m not getting involved in this.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Of course I do, and I refuse.”

“Then we both go

to the penitentiary.”

“But I’m not guilty of anything.”

“They don’t care. They’ll manufacture something, and who do you think a judge will believe? Two Black men or a Pinkerton?”

Brax studied the grim set of his father’s face and dropped his head. “Damn.”

“Agreed. Pour yourself another drink, then pass me the decanter. We have much to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Traveling with the Pinkerton by train to New Orleans in two days to meet with the Moreaux.”

Stunned, Brax passed him the decanter.

 

Raven hung the last of the laundered sheets on the clotheslines strung between the pecan trees behind her employers’ home and wiped away the perspiration on her brow. When she wasn’t posing as royalty or some other fictional entity, she made her living as a domestic and she hated everything about washday: the burn of the lye on her hands, hauling the baskets of wet items across the yard and pinning them on the ropes so they’d dry. Such days began at dawn, and now, at midafternoon, she was as weary as the New Orleans air was humid.

Her employer, an older Creole woman named Antoinette Pollard, stepped out onto the second-floor verandah and called down, “Don’t be dawdling out there, Raven. The mister will be home soon and he’ll be wanting his supper. You need to get the cooking started so he won’t have to wait.”

Glad the old woman was too far away to see the loathing in her eyes, Raven replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Pollard went back inside. Raven sighed and picked up the now empty basket. Although elaborate swindles like the one in San Francisco provided well for her sprawling family, they could only be done occasionally to avoid the scrutiny of the authorities. In between, she and her cousins Renay, Emile, and the others worked whatever jobs they could find in New Orleans to put food on the table and pay the bills.

“Hello, Raven.”

Seeing eight-year-old Dorcas at her side, Raven smiled for the first time that day. Dorcas, an orphan added to the Moreau family the day after her birth, habitually appeared out of nowhere, but her presence at the Pollards’ left Raven puzzled. “Why aren’t you in school, Dorrie?”

“Mother Superior sent me home. She said I can’t attend anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I told Sister Mary Mathew her baby was going to be a boy and she fainted.”

Raven hid her smile. Were she a nun, and an eight-year-old revealed her

surely illicit pregnancy, she probably would’ve fainted, too. Dorrie possessed what the old people called Sight. She saw and knew things in uncanny and inexplicable ways.

“Does Mama Hazel know about this?”

“Yes. She’s going to talk to the Mother, but she sent me to fetch you.”

“Is something wrong? Is Mama ill?”

“No. She has visitors.”

Raven looked over the Pollard house. “I have to make dinner for the Pollards or I’ll lose this job.”

“Mama Hazel said, ‘Come now. You have a new job.’”

Raven’s curiosity rose. Granted she didn’t enjoy working for the Pollards. They were rude, miserly, and impossible to please. Having to endure the missus’s complaints about everything from how the wash was pinned to the way the place was swept made her want to quit almost daily. To walk off now without notice meant there would be no reference for future employment, but if her mother needed her, Raven would worry about references later. The family always came first.

As if cued, Mrs. Pollard reappeared. “Raven, you know I don’t allow visiting!”

“I do, but my mother needs me at home. I won’t be returning.”

“What!”

Raven set the basket down in the grass and took Dorrie’s small brown hand. The air rang with Mrs. Pollard calling her name, but Raven kept walking to her mother’s house a short distance away.

 

The ability to quickly assess a situation was something Raven learned at an early age, so when she entered the parlor she took in the three strangers. Two Black men with brown skin and close-cropped beards stood together by the hearth. Although gray hair showed one man to be older, they resembled each other enough to suggest they were related. Both were stone-faced and tight-jawed, as if angered by something or someone. The third stranger, seated in one of the parlor chairs, was a plump, middle-aged White woman with graying brown hair and flint-colored eyes that assessed Raven’s arrival with a cool distance. Raven’s mother, Hazel, sat alone on the sofa, and although her mother’s face gave nothing away, the muted, angry light in her green eyes, along with the hard faces of the men, let Raven know to proceed cautiously.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Raven,” her mother said. “Dorrie, can you go upstairs and keep Aunt Havana company?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

But before she exited, she paused before the woman and said, “You’ll only be sick on the ship for a few days, then you’ll feel better.”

The woman stiffened and turned to Hazel for explanation.

“She’s mistaken you for a woman at her school. It’s nothing. Go on, Dorrie.”

As Dorrie exited, Raven knew the explanation was a lie and wondered what the prediction meant, but before she could speculate further, Hazel introduced her to the strangers.

“Raven, these two gentlemen are the Steeles. Harrison and his son, Braxton.” The sparks of lightning in her mother’s eyes were now directed at the father, adding another layer to the mystery.

“Pleased to meet you, both,” Raven said.

“Same here,” the older Steele replied. The son, tall and clad in a well-made suit, was handsome enough to be one of her rakish cousins. The razor-cut mustache outlining his lips flowed neatly into the close-cut beard and enhanced his good looks. He appeared to be near her in age. His assessing onyx black eyes were hostile and cold. He offered her a stiff nod.

“And this is Miss Ruth Welch. She’s a detective with the Pinkerton Agency.”

Raven showed no reaction to the explosive surprise. “Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Welch.”

“Likewise,” Miss Welch said.

“Miss Welch wants our help with something we dare not refuse, or we go to prison,” Hazel said.

Raven stiffened.

The Pinkerton swung angry eyes Hazel’s way.

“Why are you so upset?” Hazel asked in response. “Was that supposed to be a secret? That is what you threatened us with, is it not? No sense in making a silk purse out of sow’s ear. Am I right, Harrison?”

“Absolutely, love.”

Love? Raven studied the two. Another surprise.

“I’m not your love,” Hazel countered.

“At one time you were, and I was yours.”

Hazel snarled a warning. “Harrison.”

Raven found the exchange fascinating. She didn’t remember her mother ever mentioning a man named Steele. She gave the son a quick glance, as if he might somehow hold a clue to the mystery of their parents’ connected past, but saw only the hostile dark eyes of before.

Pinkerton Welch brought the conversation back around. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

Hazel, simmering, settled back and crossed her arms.

Harrison viewed the detective with contempt.

Raven walked farther into the room and took up a position on the other side of the hearth. Her skirt and blouse were damp from doing the Pollards’ wash and she needed to change into something dry. However, she wanted to get to the bottom of whatever this was first. There’d never been a Pinkerton in the house

before.

“You Moreaux are a very interesting family,” Welch began. “Grifters. Counterfeiters. Gamblers. Swindlers. Imposters. You name it, and there’s a Moreau that fits the description. My agency has been receiving reports for years about some of the most well-planned and elaborate cases of theft we’d ever seen. The perpetrators have never left any evidence behind, but there was a common thread. Colored people were always involved. Many of our agents dismissed that factor because they refused to believe your race could be that clever. They insisted a White person had to be in charge of the ring. But during the war I worked with Miss Tubman and she was the most intelligent, cleverest, and most resourceful woman I’d ever met, so I wanted to investigate the crimes from that angle. I have to admit, though, had Mr. Steele not given me your name, the agency would still be chasing its tail.”

Hazel spun to Harrison and snapped, “You betrayed my family again?”

“I had to give her a name, Hazel. She threatened our freedom. I was hoping you were no longer in the business or still living in New Orleans.”

She appeared unmoved by the regret in his tone. The son’s angry eyes were riveted on the Pinkerton.

Raven wondered what type of cooperation the detective was after. Threatening people’s freedom was no way to initiate a partnership.

Welch reached into a black leather valise and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “After my talk with Mr. Steele, I spoke with the police here in New Orleans and a few other places, and found out you were sent to prison in Detroit ten years ago for the possession of counterfeit money, Miss Moreau.”

When Raven didn’t react, she continued. “So with that in mind, and going back through the cases, I’ve concluded that the Moreau family had to be the source of the crimes.” She glanced down at her notes. “There was an incident in Philadelphia with a mulatto man posing as a priest who vanished with a very expensive jewel-encrusted broach. Then we have a young Colored singer claiming to be a queen from Africa, who promised nights of pleasure to men in New York, Miami, and Denver, only to disappear with the deposits the men laid down.” She turned cold eyes on Raven. “I’m assuming that was you, and that you also pretended to be the princess who recently swindled a jeweler in San Francisco.”

Raven held the accusing gaze easily and let the detective think what she wanted. In truth, the priest had been her cousin Renay, and the singer, her cousin Lacie. Like all the Moreaux, Raven knew better than to confess to any illegality real or imagined. “Why do you need the forced assistance of people you consider so disreputable?”

“To recover a stolen copy of the Declaration of Independence.”

“From?”

“A state senator in Charleston, South Carolina.” Welch reached into her valise again and withdrew a rolled-up parchment. Raven noted how fragile it appeared as Welch placed it on the small table beside her and unfurled it carefully. “This is

a copy of the Declaration of Independence most Americans are familiar with.”

Raven walked over to study it. The Steeles moved in for a closer look, too.

“Notice how on this version the signatures at the bottom are aligned by state. On the stolen one, states aren’t listed, and the signatures are randomly placed, making it both rare and valuable.”

Because she was from a family of grifters, ...