You Had Me at Heist

Book 2: Wimpole Street Widows Society

by Christina Britton

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

A scandalous romance blooms between a widow and her adversary in this delightful, sensual romance perfect for fans of the Bridgerton series!
 
Widow Iris Rumford has faced her fair share of hardships. Joining the Wimpole Street Widows Society has helped her start to heal—until she learns that her late mother's groundbreaking botanical work was stolen by her greatest adversary, who is about to publish the findings as his own. Determined to stop the thief at all costs, Iris refuses to let the dashing guard protecting the research threaten her plans. Even if he does tempt her in new, intriguing ways . . .

After a scandal cost Oliver Beckett his job as a Bow Street Runner, he’s spent the last year struggling to provide for his mother and sister. Guarding a lord's precious botanical collection seems too good to be true—who would steal a bunch of plants? But the appearance of a beautiful, maddening woman throws his hopes for a quiet future right out the window.

As the two find themselves constantly thrown together, their resolve is tested—and so are their hearts.

Release date: June 16, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

1817

Mrs. Iris Rumford stood in the doorway of her mother’s study, unable to cross the threshold. It was not because she feared entering, or had ever been barred from this room. A good portion of her life had been spent within these walls, after all, working alongside her mother, helping to bring her incredible brilliance for botany to the world stage. No, the reason Iris’s feet were rooted to the spot, refusing to budge an inch, had everything to do with the vast emptiness of the place.

Not literally, of course. It was still packed to the beams with books and illustrations and specimens and all the accoutrements that her mother’s profession had required. And yet it felt empty. No wonder, really, as the person who had given the place its soul was now irrevocably beneath the ground she had so loved to work.

For a moment tears threatened. But her eyes, which had been crying buckets in the week since her mother’s death, could not seem to produce a single tear just then. She had stayed away from this room ever since that horrible day, when her mother’s weak lungs had been unable to recover from their most recent attack. Now, mere hours after laying that woman to rest, Iris missed her so desperately she had come here, hoping to find a bit of comfort in it. But there would be no comfort, she realized as she gazed at the carefully organized chaos of the place. How could it bring her comfort, when the very sight of it made her realize that her mother would never enter these walls again? She would never hum cheerfully while she flipped through one of her many reference books, would never again bend industriously over her desk while she carefully wrote out the contents of her brilliant mind, would never exclaim her excitement as she opened the flower press and extracted her newest preserved specimen.

But though the room reminded Iris of what she had lost, she nevertheless forced her feet to move. She walked in a trance to the desk, opened the largest drawer, reached within. And there they were, those notebooks and papers her mother had been diligently keeping for nearly a decade. With a shaking hand she traced the cover of the top notebook, her fingers trailing over the familiar gilt leaves on a green leather background. Her mother had finally concluded her research into the hybrid plant not a week before her death, had been about to compile all the data and publish her work. It was going to be her legacy, her gift to the world.

Yet she would never complete that work, would never see the influence it had on the botanical community. Again those tears burned her eyes, though this time they managed to spill over, tracking down her cheeks in unending rivulets. Taking up the top notebook, she hugged it tight to her chest, fingers curling around it in quiet desperation as grief broke over her head in waves. Her mother had been the one constant in her life, there for her through every up and down, her love and support never wavering. How could she go through the remainder of her life without her?

Suddenly warm arms wrapped about her. For one brief moment she imagined it was her mother comforting her. But then a voice broke through the haze in her mind, putting a stop to that desperate wish.

“I know it hurts, darling,” Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, murmured thickly, her own tears evident, reminding Iris she was not alone in her mourning. The viscountess had been her mother’s dearest friend, was her own godmother, and had not left her side since arriving shortly after her mother’s death. She had helped with the funeral arrangements, had made certain Iris ate, had comforted her through the worst of her despair. As she was doing even now.

“I’m sorry,” Iris managed, even as she pressed her face into Sylvia’s neck.

“Silly thing,” Sylvia whispered. “You never need apologize to me.”

“I still cannot believe she’s gone—” Her voice hitched on a sob and she gripped the notebook tighter to her chest. “I’m going to finish her work, Sylvia. I’m going to make sure it’s published, so everyone can see how brilliant she was.”

“I know you are, darling,” the other woman said gently, rubbing her back. “And I will assist you in any way I can. But in order to do that, you need to rest. Today was hard on you. Come, let us get you to bed.”

Iris nodded. Pulling away, she tenderly laid the notebook back in its drawer with the others, giving them one last long look before closing it up tight. Then, giving Sylvia a watery smile, she linked arms with her and allowed herself to be led up the stairs and to her bed and a fragile sleep.

A sleep that was shattered some unknown hours later as pandemonium erupted within the bowels of the house. Jolting upright in her bed, heart pounding, she barely had time to register the desperate cries and the bone-jarring clanging of a bell before a frantic pounding started up at her door.

“Fire, Mrs. Rumford!” someone called from the hall. And then the door was thrown open, crashing against the wall, and Sylvia stood there beside a cowering footman.

“Now is not the time to wait for her to admit you,” she snapped at the man as she hurried into the room. “Iris, darling, we must get out. Now.”

But Iris hardly heard her as the pungent smell of smoke reached her nostrils. Fear set in then, pushing back her confusion. Though the fear was not for herself. No, it was centered on one thing and one thing alone. “Sylvia, my mother’s work,” she gasped. Then, before the woman could respond, Iris was out the door.

And almost stopped in her tracks as the smoke-filled hall came into view. But her faltering was the matter of a mere moment before panic set in, crowding out her fear. Ignoring Sylvia’s cries behind her, she raced through the hall, down the stairs, into the west wing. All the while the smoke became thicker, filling her lungs, burning her eyes. Holding her arm over her mouth and nose in a desperate attempt to protect her airways, she sprinted into her mother’s study. The smoke was even thicker here, making it hard to see. All but for the orange flames licking up the curtains, climbing like poisonous ivy to the ceiling. Coughing, eyes streaming, she blindly made her way through the almost unbearable heat to the desk that held her mother’s most precious work. She yanked the drawer open and . . . 

Nothing. It was empty, every paper and notebook gone. In desperation she reached in, fumbled about. But no, it was devoid of even a scrap.

Suddenly hands were on her arms, yanking her back through the room. “No!” Iris cried, trying to get back to that empty drawer. “My mother’s work!”

“Nothing is worth your life!” Sylvia yelled above the rushing and crackling of the flames. Something crashed, sparks flying. In the shock, Sylvia was able to pull Iris from the room. And then more arms, more desperate voices as they were hauled from the house.

Iris had not realized how bad the smoke had been until the moment fresh night air filled her lungs. She drew in a deep, desperate breath, coughs wracking her body a moment later.

Sylvia was before her then, her face drawn tight with anger and fear, soot smudging her beautiful skin. “What were you thinking?” she demanded, her voice a mere croak that did nothing to take away the wild worry in it. “You could have been killed.”

“My mother’s work—” Iris managed.

“Yes, I know,” Sylvia snapped. “But you should not die for it.”

“No,” Iris said, shaking her head in frustration. “You don’t understand. It was gone. My mother’s papers were gone.”

Sylvia finally understood that there was something more at work here. She stilled, eyes going wide, the orange of the flames reflected in them. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean the drawer was empty. Someone has taken them.”

Sylvia’s mouth worked silently for a moment before she said, with little conviction, “Perhaps a servant has taken it upon themselves to save them.”

But Iris knew that was a mere dream. No, in the hours between her retiring and the fire beginning, someone had stolen her mother’s work.

Heartsick, she turned to look at the house. All about her, people were calling to each other, carting buckets in an attempt to put out the fire, crying softly in huddled groups. But though Iris moved like an automaton helping where she could, she knew in her heart it was all in vain. And as dawn broke and the full destruction of the night was made clear, Iris stood and looked out over what used to be her safe haven, watching with a numb spirit as her mother’s dreams turned to literal ash before her eyes.

Late Spring 1822

If there was anything Mrs. Iris Rumford had no talent for, it was acting.

Well, she amended as she tugged at the cravat tied around her neck, she was not talented in a good many things. But acting and anything remotely like it were at the top of that list. Especially when she was forced to don clothing she was unused to, which was akin to torture in her book. She would put up with much more, however, if it meant she could study her beloved plants.

Gritting her teeth, she tugged once more on the offending cravat—which felt as if it were strangling her, though it had been tied as loosely as possible to keep Iris from crawling out of her skin—and dropped to her knees on the gravel path, the better to get a closer look at her latest specimen of interest. The lungwort plant looked unprepossessing enough without its crown of clustered pink and blue flowers. Yet Iris loved the mottled leaves just as much as, if not more than, its showy early spring top. Settling in, her discomfort forgotten in her growing excitement, she crossed her trouser-clad legs and pulled a small notebook and pencil from her bag. Then, pushing the square-rimmed spectacles up her nose—not for any use, as her eyesight was pristine, but the heavy frames helped disguise her delicate features some—she opened the notebook and began work on a new sketch . . . 

By the time she raised her head again, the sun was well overhead, the strong rays breaking through the ever-present haze of pollution. She angled her head back, wincing at the pull of muscles held too long in place, and peered at the sky from under her wide-brimmed straw hat. Even here, separate from the congested city center, the effects of a tightly compressed populace could be felt and seen.

She frowned as the position of the sun finally seeped into her distracted brain. It truly was right overhead. She had arrived at the Chelsea Physic Garden quite early this morning, when her chances of being approached were significantly less—that lack of talent in acting playing a large part in it. Yes, her godmother, Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, had applied to the curator so her young male friend might access the gardens, thereby providing the appropriate permissions to enter the place. And yes, Mrs. Euphemia Blount, former theatrical dressmaker and one of the widows she resided with, had disguised her with her incredible abilities as a young apothecary’s assistant, giving her a suitable appearance to blend in and not attract unwanted attention.

Even so, she still preferred the gardens when they were at their quietest, when most were still abed or had not yet begun their day. When she could be assured the place, one of her favorites in the world, was as free from distraction as possible.

Now, however, she saw just what her submersion in the small lungwort plant had cost her. The rumble of male voices reached her, a deep laugh, the sound of boots on the gravel path. A quick glance around and she spied several gray-haired gentlemen deep in conversation close by, an older man explaining something to an entranced youth a bit farther down, two portly males in a heated discussion on another path.

Her ears started to ring. There were too many men, too many chances of being drawn into conversation, too many possibilities of her failing—and failing spectacularly—to keep up the persona she had donned. Their presence should not affect her as it did, of course. She knew that. Most would not give a young boy—for that was just what she looked to be—even a glance. Even so, she couldn’t stop her mind from compiling all the ways she could be found out. Hurriedly shoving her notebook and pencil into her bag she scrambled to her feet. Her legs burst into sharp pinpricks of sensation from her long-held position, her feet nearly faltering under her. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to walk at an easy pace, down the path toward the gate. As she rounded a curve, however, full attention on her escape, the same group of gray-haired gentlemen from before suddenly stepped into her path. Swallowing a squeak of surprise, she stepped to the side, behind a particularly bushy Laurus nobilis, and held her breath. The men’s voices droned on as they headed her way, blessedly oblivious to her presence.

“. . . had previously believed the man to be nothing but a charlatan,” one said in a raspy voice. “But this latest news has me thinking I must have been wrong.”

“I agree,” the second joined in. “If it’s true, it’s impressive, really, what he has accomplished. Crossing ragwort with a common daisy and successfully mitigating the former’s toxicity, yet retaining its medicinal benefits? I see this making quite a wave in the botanical world.”

Iris, who had been in the process of slinking around to the far side of the bush, froze. Memories swelled over her head, her mother’s voice echoing in her ear.

“Imagine the benefits,” she had said, eyes glowing with that special fire that always burned so brightly in her when she was in the throes of her latest passion project. “A plant with the curative properties of the ragwort, yet as harmless as the common daisy. Think of what it could mean for medicine as a whole.”

And she had succeeded, had been in the process of writing up a paper to present to the world. But then her death, and the fire shortly after that, had destroyed everything. Iris frowned. No, not everything. A vision of that empty drawer where her mother’s compiled research had lain took shape in her mind. Sylvia had tried to unearth the truth of what had happened, to find out who had taken the papers, who had set the fire. But every possible trail had gone cold. Now, five years later, they still had no answers to the devastation of that night. Which only amplified Iris’s grief at not being able to finish the last bit of her mother’s research and posthumously publishing her final brilliant findings.

Now, however, here was someone discussing the very same work her mother had done, the very same specimens, the very same results. It was too coincidental to be believed. There was a possibility, of course, that someone in the botanical community had decided to attempt her mother’s experiments themself. While the hybridization had not been widely known, there had been some in her circle who were aware of the project and eagerly anticipated its results. Perhaps someone had thought they could take up the torch, so to speak. Though a person succeeding in such a truncated time—only five years—when it had taken her mother a full decade made that highly doubtful.

An image of that empty desk drawer took shape again, making her feel off-balance, just as one of the men spoke her mother’s name.

“Cannot quite believe Mrs. Fenwick was trying to claim the work herself before her death.”

Someone made a tsking sound. “Thought the woman was credible. Now we learn she was plagiarizing someone else’s experiment this whole time? It makes me question if any of her work was her own.”

A roaring started up in Iris’s ears. Before she knew what she was about, she stepped from behind the bush, right into the men’s path.

“Who is claiming such a thing?” she demanded, outrage suffocating all her previous caution.

The three men stopped, startled gazes flying to her. “What was that?” one of the men asked.

She planted her hands on her hips, stepping closer. “Who claims that Mrs. Fenwick stole another’s work in crossing Senecio jacobaea with Bellis perennis?”

The sparse-haired man huffed, the sound like the exhale of an aggressive canine, his expression hardening as he considered her. “I say, young man, just who are you to talk to your elders in such a manner?”

Too late, she remembered where she was and who she was supposed to be. Blanching, she stumbled back a step, the gravel shifting under her boots.

The tallest of the trio glared at her. “Speak up, boy. What is the meaning of this?”

She should bow and apologize and escape. She knew she should. Anything else and she would surely give herself away.

And she nearly did turn tail and run. Until a memory flashed in her mind, her mother again, face glowing as she bent over a row of new shoots, eyes sparking with passion and pride as she described in immaculate detail the latest results of her experiments. No, she could not run away. She had to stay, to learn who was destroying her mother’s name with lies.

Euphemia’s advice swirled through her agitated brain: If you are ever approached, don’t panic. First and foremost, lower your eyes.

She did so, dropping her gaze, focusing on the stark black waistcoat of the center man.

Euphemia’s voice continued: You are disguised as a youth, and so your voice would be higher than that of an adult male. But do try to lower it a bit if you can.

She cleared her throat, deepening her voice as much as she was able to—which, regrettably, was not much considering how paralyzed her vocal cords felt. “My apologies, sirs.”

Much can be overlooked if you add in a bit of flattery. Especially with men. Showering them with praise is the surest way of turning their attentions fully back to themselves, and away from you.

This she could understand. Hadn’t she observed during her one London season that the most successful debutantes were adept at stroking the male ego? Yes, she understood it quite well. Or at least the theory of it. What she did not comprehend, unfortunately, was how one gave false praise when it was not warranted. She grabbed her wrist, worrying at the skin with her thumbnail as she considered the men. Weren’t they looking angrier as the seconds ticked by? Her silence must be infuriating them. But how else was she supposed to figure out what to do next if not by carefully considering all options?

Finally she came up with something plausible enough. “The subject of your conversation was so interesting I forgot myself.”

There, that should do it . . . perhaps. It wasn’t necessarily a compliment, but it certainly flirted with it. She waited, holding her breath, to see how they would take it.

They blinked, glancing at each other, their harsh features softening ever so slightly. Finally the gray-haired gent cleared his throat.

“Yes, well,” he mumbled. “I suppose it shows your passion for the subject, that your manners would be forgotten at such news. It’s a horrible thing to consider that Mrs. Fenwick would have done something of the sort, after all. Though how you know of her, I don’t know. You must have been in leading strings when she was alive. Well then, on your way, boy.”

With that, they moved around her. But Iris, though she had miraculously managed the situation and escaped their notice, realized she had not received an answer to her question. A question she desperately needed the answer to.

“But sirs,” she called out, “who is the one claiming such a thing?”

The tallest peered over his shoulder at her, his gaze somewhat more tolerant than before. And then he said a name that was like a punch to the gut.

“Lord Durand,” he replied.

How Iris got home she would never know. During that whole block of missing time, from the moment she had turned away from the gentlemen at the Chelsea Physic Garden to when she let herself into the Wimpole Street house, her mind had been preoccupied with one stunning, unbelievable fact: Lord Durand was denouncing her mother and claiming her work for his own. Which quite possibly meant he was the one responsible for the theft of her mother’s papers. No, it wasn’t just possible; it was truth.

Such a realization should have been a relief. They had searched for so long for the perpetrator, and he was finally showing himself. Yet overshadowing the relief was hopelessness and fear; there were few as powerful as him. This was surely a nightmare. One good pinch, and she would wake up and find this whole thing had been a product of her imagination.

Though as she stood in the front hall and did indeed pinch herself viciously on the arm, she quickly learned that she was, in fact, quite awake. Awake and now in pain. Wincing, she rubbed at the abused spot, even as her mind spun with the ramifications of what she had learned. She had believed all her mother’s research, her carefully compiled notes, her specimens, her hard-fought results were gone forever, stolen during the fire that had destroyed their home.

Now here was news that Lord Durand, a man her mother had publicly declared a charlatan and a fraud, was claiming the very same experiments as his own. And not only that, but he was condemning her mother as a thief, painting himself as her victim.

If the man had not brought her mother into it, had come out and simply stated the work was his, she might have believed he had managed to do it himself. Or at least she wouldn’t have so firmly realized he was the larcenist. While five years was a stunningly short time to accomplish what it had taken her mother a decade to do, she supposed with modern advancements—and Lord Durand’s impressive fortune and connections—it was a possibility.

Yet his public flaying of her mother’s reputation was proof that he was guilty, that the work he was claiming as his own was in fact her mother’s stolen work.

A nearby voice scattered her agitated thoughts like wildflower petals in a spring breeze. “Iris, you’re back late. Did everything go well?”

Still dazed, Iris turned to find Sylvia Lutton, Lady Vastkern, at her side. She blinked, trying to clear her head. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not understand what the viscountess had asked her. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if everything went well at the Physic Garden.” The other woman frowned, peering closely at Iris. “But what’s wrong? You look even paler than usual. And that’s truly saying something.”

Iris could only stare at her, her brain unable to form the necessary words. The concern in Sylvia’s face quickly transformed to alarm as the silence stretched on. And then Iris, quite without meaning to, swayed. Was she truly as bad off as that, then? Apparently so, for Sylvia’s arm wound about her, holding Iris upright as she called out in ringing tones, “Strachan! I need you.”

Within moments the stout—and frankly frightening—housekeeper stormed into view, sturdy boots making their staccato way across the polished wood-inlay floor. “You dinnae need to shout,” she grumbled. “I was just around the corner, for God’s sake.”

Sylvia, used to the Scotswoman’s blunt ways, ignored her, saying instead, “Iris is in distress. Fetch the others to the drawing room immediately. And please send up a tea tray. I’ve a feeling we shall need it.”

In the next moment Iris found herself hustled up the stairs, into the drawing room, and deposited on a low settee. And then a cool glass was pressed into her hands and guided to her lips.

“Drink,” Sylvia ordered. An order that Iris obeyed without question. But this was no tea. The moment the harsh liquid hit her tongue and began to burn its way down her throat she regained her senses, her brain shocked back to the moment.

“Blargh!” Iris protested—if a sound of disgust could be considered a proper protest—pushing the drink away.

“Thank goodness that worked,” Sylvia said, finishing the whisky off herself before placing the glass down on a low table. “I wasn’t certain I was up to dunking you in a tub of ice water to bring you back to yourself.”

There was no question in Iris’s mind that the viscountess would have done it if necessary. Sylvia, owner of the Wimpole Street house that Iris and several other widows called home, was almost frighteningly capable. A woman of indefinite age—though Iris knew her to be in her fifties—with steel gray curls always in the most fashionable style and a face smooth save for the lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes, she ruled over the Wimpole Street Widows Society with a firm yet kind hand. Brilliant in all manner of scientific subjects, as well as the inner workings of the human psyche, she never failed to do what needed to be done. Even if that meant dunking Iris in a tub of ice water to bring her back to the world of the living.

“I’m sorry,” Iris mumbled. She reached up to remove her straw hat, only to find it gone. She frowned in confusion. The offending cravat, too, was gone, as well as the useless spectacles, seemingly lost somewhere along the way. Shaken at the lapse in her memory, she began the meticulous removal of the pins that gave her blond curls the appearance of shortly cropped hair. As each lock fell free, her scalp tingled with relief, and she breathed a small sigh as her body eased some.

But Sylvia was still watching her closely. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” she said. Her mouth kicked up at one corner. “Though I do hope the others get here soon. My curiosity will not hold out for long.”

As if she had summoned them from the ether, footsteps and the low murmur of voices sounded in the hall a moment before three women hurried into the drawing room.

“You called, my love?” Mrs. Laney Finch asked, sitting beside Sylvia. Her arm came about the viscountess, a small smile lighting her features as she dropped a kiss on the other woman’s lips.

“I did, indeed,” Sylvia replied with a smile for her before she turned to the group as a whole. “Iris has had a shock this morning, and I thought it prudent to gather us all here so we might get to the bottom of it.”

“A shock?” Mrs. Euphemia Blount sat forward, gaze worriedly skimming over Iris’s disheveled disguise, that same disguise she had worked on so diligently. “What happened? Were you found out?”

Iris worried at the skin of her wrist as she gathered her thoughts. “No. That is, I wasn’t found out. But I did hear some rather distressing news.”

“Distressing? Distressing how?” This from Mrs. Heloise Marlow. Or, rather, Mrs. Heloise Sinclaire. Iris was forever forgetting her recent marriage.

“I’m afraid it’s a rather long story,” she said.

Just then the tea tray arrived. “Right on time,” Sylvia murmured, thanking the maid with a nod before turning back to Iris with a grin. “We have tea and refreshments and all the time in the world—not to mention more whisky should we need it.” She chuckled before, with a wave of her hand that Iris should begin, she started work on preparing their beverages. . . .