As joint owner of London’s most notorious gambling hall, The Underworld, Cole Hewitt spends his days surrounded by wealth – and looks every inch the debonair.

But, unknown to most, he was born a bastard – and knows better than anyone the fine line between the elite and the slums.

When he falls for the beautiful Lady Gemma Amberson, sister to the Duke of Kent, Cole knows that his past means he will never be considered worthy of her. However, Cole has no intention of being cast aside again.

But Cole’s attraction to Gemma hasn’t gone unnoticed – and there are those who wish to thwart his plans, for the darkest of reasons. Cole may be used to getting his own way. But the question is: how far will he go to get it?

Into the Hall of Vice

Anabelle Bryant

Also available by Anabelle Bryant

Three Regency Rogues

To Love a Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

The Midnight Rake

Regency Charms

Defying the Earl

Undone by His Kiss

Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

His Forbidden Debutante

Bastards of London

Den of Iniquity

ANABELLE BRYANT

began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab a suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because, really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle earned her Master’s Degree and is completing her Doctorate Degree in education. Thrilled to be an author for Harlequin’s HQ Digital line, Anabelle’s historical romances are character-driven. She strives to provide a heartfelt connection between her hero, heroine and the reader, believing the emotional journey on the path to true love is the most important bond. Clever secondary characters and lively conversation keep the pages turning.

Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AnabelleBryantAuthor, Twitter via @AnabelleBryant and join her mailing list via www.anabellebryant.com for the latest news concerning her upcoming novels.

Sincere thanks to my lovely and gifted editor, Clio Cornish. Without you my dreams could never come true and my stories would never become reality.

For teachers, librarians, and bookworms of every variety. Long live the beauty of reading romance.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Book List

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

Cole Hewitt eased lower on the velvet-backed bonnet chair and angled his hips a fraction to the right. Circumstances were glorious at the moment, not at all like the reality of his lacklustre existence. Especially here in a quality establishment like Lady Eliza’s House of Pleasure. Granted, Eliza was no more a lady than Cole was an earl, but the pleasure part couldn’t be truer.

And that was why brothels existed, wasn’t it? To help men ignore the harsh truisms of daily living until forced to bear the brunt of their decisions. Although harsh wasn’t the correct word. As one of the proprietors of an exclusive London gaming hell, he’d established wealth and respect at the early age of twenty-four. Along the way, he’d obtained a fine apartment, purchased several superior thoroughbreds, and honed his pistol skill to crack shot at no less than thirty paces, all within three years.

Nevertheless, outward appearance and inward turmoil were at odds every day of the week. It was as though several different personalities lived within him, all embroiled in argument.

A delicious tremor of pleasure overrode his introspective considerations. He glanced down to where a silky auburn tress traced across his thigh. Threading his fingers in the length, he brushed it away and a groan escaped upon her deliberate downward stroke.

He was a son of a bitch, bastard by-blow, born on the wrong side of the blanket and comfortable with life among the jackals, card sharks, and common folk who composed his closest kin. Still he remained balanced on the fine line between bastardry and the realm, nimbly positioned on the cutting blade of a dagger, aware of unsavoury alliances, weaknesses of the peerage, and the unexpected damage that could be done if he did not tread with care. He asked little of life, his expectations few; he had long ago abandoned the notion that the normal privileges due respectable gentlemen were within reach. Family, love, loyalty; they existed for other men.

Life was all about perception anyway, wasn’t it? People saw what they wished to see, hardly sparing the time to look closely before passing judgement; never realising things are often not how they appear.

He quirked a half-smile and settled his gaze on the eager-to-please miss below. Things were exactly how they appeared at present. Allowing his eyes to fall closed, he surrendered to sensation, annoyed with his wandering stream of idle thought. Since when had he become so jaded as to not enjoy a good bobbin’ on his nobbin? His cock twitched, demanding well-deserved attention to the ambitious activity in his lap. He let every niggling protest and doubt fade away until he shut out finer emotion. Now was not a time for introspective examination.

Lady Gemma Amberson, sister to the Duke of Kent and impatient guest, displayed her lead at the Loo table during the Bardsleys’ Friday evening card party. It was one of the few weekly gatherings her brother, Hugh, permitted without question and, although playing Loo was not high on her list of desirable social distractions, she would never eschew the opportunity to escape Stratton House. Life within suffocated her spirit. An immediate frown threatened at the thought of Rosalind, her younger sister, but she dashed it away for the sake of appearances.

Gathering the chips at the centre, she caught the notice of Lord Winton across the table, one of the five regular players in attendance. His relationship with her deceased father was older than a decade, though Winton was years younger. He was a sly scoundrel and far too handsome gentleman who often accidentally brushed his boot against her slipper or nudged her elbow as he dealt cards, the strength of his forearm pressing against her satin glove belying his claim of clumsiness.

Her brother would be overjoyed were she to accept Winton’s suit and begin a formal courtship, despite his being several years older than she. Title excused the man’s advanced experience and he was a viscount, after all. It was no secret Kent would celebrate with great relief at foisting her off to become another gentleman’s headache. Her future distracted from his primary focus of legal issues and Parliamentary concerns. She wondered at the rigorous investigation any suitor would endure in order to meet her brother’s high expectations, but consideration was all for naught. Courtships were the last thing on her mind, and if her dear brother had any inkling as to why she tortured herself by playing Loo and perpetuating congenial conversation with the assortment of guests attending each Friday, he’d likely suffer an apoplexy.

Accepting the next card in the circulating deal, she flashed a brief smile left to Lady Sophie Daventry, a skilful Loo player and kind friend seated at the next table. Though they rarely paid call to each other, their paths often crossed in social circles and Gemma considered her one of the more sensible females who frequented the Bardsleys’ ensemble. She also believed Sophie hid a personal agenda much like her own. Someone who possessed refined features, silver-blonde hair and pale-blue eyes couldn’t possibly wish to spend evenings in a stuffy salon of fifteen guests and poorly prepared rout-cakes. Catching Gemma’s perusal, Sophie returned her kind regard.

It was a guarded secret, communicated through furtive glances and clandestine whispers, that the Bardsleys’ weekly card party offered a bounteous opportunity to filter through the most current gossip, as well as provide a chance where one might introduce well-rehearsed questions in an effort to ferret out information a person hoped to uncover. Gemma clung to this societal myth and suspected Sophie did the same.

‘And there you have it.’ Winton laid his card on the table face up. ‘The Ace of Trumps.’

Two players at the table immediately tossed in their hands, unwilling to risk the loss of chips, while Lord Goddard, a fubsy elderly gentleman who complained more than contributed, debated his next move. Gemma held with confidence. Goddard eventually exchanged his card and then, disenchanted with the result, folded straight after. Winton offered her a stare that spoke more of dark secrets in bedchambers than victory at the Loo table.

‘Good play, Lord Winton.’ She toyed with her card, unwilling to reveal the face as of yet and more than a little uncomfortable with Winton’s direct attention. She tolerated his company in respect to her father’s association only.

‘Haven’t I told you countless times to regard me as James? We join together every Friday night…’

Lady Bendolin’s sharp intake of breath caused Gemma’s eyes to flare more than Winton’s intentional inflection and pause. The other gentlemen at the table stifled their amusement.

‘To share cards and polite conversation. I would think, after weeks of routine, we’ve gained familiarity.’ Winton smiled. If ever there was a Cheshire grin, this man owned it.

‘Milord, you’ve shocked Lady Bendolin with the suggestion I address you by your Christian name.’ Hardly. ‘Perhaps this discussion is better served another time.’ She presented her card, the Queen of Hearts, and collected three more chips.

‘Exactly.’ Winton stood unexpectedly. ‘I’m for a breath of fresh air. Lady Amberson, would you spare me a moment?’

Startled, for his invitation was impetuous, Gemma gathered her winnings from the ivory damask tablecloth to deposit neatly inside her reticule. ‘Nary beyond a moment, milord. I’m on a winning streak.’

‘I will endeavour to abide by your rules if for once you will address me as James.’

‘Good heavens, he’s persistent,’ Lady Bendolin grumbled in an undertone, the older woman visibly affronted. ‘You best go with him so we can resume the game upon your return.’ She gestured in the general direction of the hallway. ‘I feel parched. Where is the footman with refreshments?’

Gemma stood and hurried around the table to accept Winton’s elbow and follow him onto the terrace towards the rear gardens. He did not pause until they’d travelled a good distance over the slates, away from the house, where any shared conversation would not be overheard. She glanced to her right, aware he’d also advanced sufficient distance so any objection would go unnoticed.

A few paces from where she’d stopped, Winton stood with his eyes on the inky sky. Outlined in moonlight, his profile depicted an attractive gentleman, but what did she truly know of his character? The extent of his past history with her father was unknown to her. Winton turned then, as if he’d caught her observation and divined her guarded scepticism.

‘Why are you here, lovely Gemma?’ His voice dropped low and silky with the question.

Did he speak in the broader sense or did he refer to their present situation? She could not know. ‘I did not give you leave to use my given name.’ She achieved a tart tone.

‘Let’s not bother with the inconvenient rules of polite society when we are here in the garden, just the two of us. His Grace isn’t present to disapprove.’

‘I don’t give a fig about my brother’s opinion.’ She took a step closer. Perhaps she could read Winton better if she looked him straight in the eye. She wasn’t afraid to do so. What could he possibly want?

‘Silly girl, of course you do. He’s a duke, the most distinguished and highest-ranking peer in England aside from the Prince Regent, and my reach does not extend to Prinny. Besides, most convenient of all, Kent is your older brother and in charge now.’

Winton chuckled in a dismissive masculine manner that caused her fingers to curl into fists. She swallowed against immediate emotion, her father gone only two years and her heart still tender from the unexpected tragedy.

‘This leads me to my original question of your faithful attendance here at this mind-numbing, stodgy little card party, when you surely possess more spirit. What motivates you to return week after week when you could be dancing at a soiree or blushing in a ballroom corner with an attentive suitor? You are a diamond of the first water, a rare bloom for some fortunate gentleman to pluck.’

Her heart pounded with a beat of panic as he stepped closer. She had no desire to be plucked. At least not at the moment, and never would it be Lord Winton who accomplished the plucking. ‘I could ask you the same.’

‘I’m flattered by your high opinion.’

She wrinkled her nose at his vainglorious misinterpretation but remained silent. Only two paces separated them now. He searched her expression and she purposely kept it bland. The stone wall at his back had an unlatched wrought-iron gate where she could escape if need be, but she doubted Winton would exercise poor judgement. By his own admission, her brother was a powerful man and she knew Winton curried his favour.

‘I wonder, lovely Gemma,’ he gentled his tone and advanced a step, ‘if His Grace would be interested to learn you attend this gathering to ferret out information concerning your father’s untimely death.’

Caught by surprise, she inhaled a sharp breath, though she recovered soon after. ‘Nonsense, and I take offence at the mention of my dear father’s passing.’ Her voice quivered with emotion.

‘Come now. You don’t believe me obtuse.’ He shook his head in the negative. ‘I’ve overheard your discreet enquiries and noticed several endearing attempts to steer conversation in an interesting, though particular, direction. I only mention it so I may be of service.’

He offered her a half-smile that brought to mind a wolf who invited the sheep to join him for dinner. Something was amiss. Had Winton watched her weekly? Every word, each suggestion? Whenever she’d grown uncomfortable with the weight of his stare, she’d assumed it was his lascivious nature and nothing more. How much did he know and could he be trusted? Desperate for any scrap of information, there could be something learned if she heard him out, but would he in turn report her activity to Kent? Above all things, her brother could never know the true reason she attended Loo like it was religion class. He’d already caged her in under the guise of protection. What horrid Fate would life become if Kent lost trust in her altogether?

‘What do you want?’ She couldn’t be more direct, anxious to return indoors where happenings proved more predictable.

‘Straight to the point.’ He slanted her an appreciative glance. ‘All I wish is the chance to know you better. To spend time in your company.’

Befriend my brother, no doubt. Advance your social standing. Align your ambitions. Increase your reputation. But she didn’t voice these plentiful conclusions and instead set her lips in a firm line to keep the accusations captive.

‘Oh, I know the wheels are spinning inside your lovely brain, but the longer we stay outside, the more opportunity we offer those indoors to speculate about our absence and conjure unsavoury gossip. Let’s keep this simple. I’ll kindly tell you something I’ve learned of that evening in exchange for a kiss.’

He couldn’t have surprised her more had he doused her with a bucket of cold water, his proposition the last thing she’d expected, and her expression must have revealed the shock.

‘Don’t look surprised. Surely you own a pier glass, Gemma. You are a fair-haired beauty beyond compare. I find, despite my best efforts, you occupy my thoughts.’

His voice had gentled considerably; still, better sense took hold, warning his flattery could only be intended as subterfuge in service of a greater goal.

‘How do I know you will tell me the truth? You offer me a bit of information that I have no way of pursuing until after I grant your request. I’m not so blinded by your flummery that I would make a bargain with the devil.’ She held his gaze with the question, her chin notched higher.

He chuckled this time, long and thoroughly, as if bemused at how easily she’d turned the tables. ‘Very well then.’ He eyed the house to secure no one watched from a window or ventured outside. ‘I will extend you a boon, this first bit of information gratis. When you discover I tell the truth, be prepared to remit payment next Friday and do wear the pink gown with the white embroidery. It brings out the green in your eyes like a right English rose.’ He stepped towards the slate path, his back turned for less than a moment. ‘Your father visited Miss Devonshire in her home on the corner of Edith Avenue in Charing Cross the night of his death.’ He nodded, assured and self-congratulatory, as if he wished to lock the information into her brain. ‘I will see you next Friday night.’ Then he left and she stared after him, bewildered by the rapid turn of events, intrigued by the first clue she’d gleaned concerning her father’s unnatural departure, and anxious to devise some way to learn more.

Chapter Two

Cole locked Charlatan’s stall, housed within the supervision of Marleybone Livery, and began his walk home. It was a clear, starry night and despite his jaunt to Covent Garden, meant to chase away perpetual restlessness, he couldn’t shake the disquieting agitation that hummed within. He needed distraction. Something meaningful to define his purpose. Of late it seemed he helped everyone except himself.

For half a breath he considered visiting the Underworld, the gaming hell he owned and operated with two associates, Maxwell Sinclair and Luke Reese, but in a last-minute decision he aimed towards home in desperate need of a solid night’s rest. Besides, it was his turn to be absent from the hell. More and more he was at a loss to fill time outside of work and sleep, the latent distractedness one of the reasons he’d ventured to Covent Garden in the first place, though his better sense told him to make a different choice. He did have other interests.

Sinclair and Luke were occupied with personal pursuits and seemed not to notice his lack of focus. Recently he’d obtained information Sin needed to resolve an important issue and likewise volunteered to assist Luke as he searched for his lost son, but as far as his own life’s goal was concerned, Cole remained at odds.

In regular routine, he followed the side alley leading to Seymour Street where he conveniently jumped the fence which bordered some upper’s flower garden. This access cut across the property on to Wigmore where he kept his apartments. He inwardly cringed whenever someone referred to his address, a bastard set up in a fine neighbourhood of snobbery, but he worked hard and strove for better things, aware investment in prime real estate proved smart business.

This evening the streets were noisier than usual and, as he approached the plot where he trespassed as habit, he noticed two servants arguing behind the house. What they debated he dared not examine too closely.

He harboured no worries of being caught trespassing, able to assume an assortment of identities to ensure he’d continue on his way. Survival had taught him a bevy of skills which required few articles of disguise. With imitation at the ready, he could play the offended aristocrat, bleary-eyed sot, or passion-dazed cod’s head just returned from a lover’s assignation. How easily he’d hoodwinked myriad peers, preying on their arrogance and impatience to create distance from him. With certainty, it was the single worthwhile skill he’d gained from an unscrupulous youth on the slum-riddled streets of the city’s underbelly.

Still, a note of disappointment accompanied the conclusion. With the servants outside he’d need to find an alternate route away from the property he’d meant to dissect, which was laden with abundant honeysuckle and lavender in full bloom, the fragrance of the shrubbery an immediate balm and particular favourite.

Anticipating his unexpected detour, he plucked a cluster of blooms that poked through the fence and placed it between his lips to chew on the stem. He shrugged away regret and sidled behind a thick stone wall which created a barrier to his left. Then he skimmed low to skirt the perimeter in search of a gate or fence to hurdle. He’d almost reached the corner when he overheard voices on the other side. Slowing his steps to remain undetected, he kept an ear to the conversation, noting the dulcet tones of a woman’s voice, cultured and proper quality. A man answered before he could consider it further.

Oh, but this gentleman was cunning. A promise of information in exchange for a kiss. Cole admired the gentry cove’s smooth efforts, surprised and pleased when the clever lady caught him in the trap and reversed the proposition.

Charing Cross? Is that what the man had mentioned? Cole knew the roadway and every corner of the surrounding area from his tragic youth. Little more than a street urchin, he’d roamed the connected alleys of nearby neighbourhoods, nabbing whatever odd tasks were offered, mucking stalls, catching vermin for the grocer or scraping soot from narrow chimneys, although the confined space of the firebox always caused his heart to pound. Two pence from a lazy stable hand, a shilling from a nob who needed a message delivered, and another earned for discarding innards for the fishmonger. The sum added to a bowl of broth by end of day. Life was easier then. A wistful frown curled his lips with the melancholic remembrance. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.

Without further hesitation, he eased closer to the wall, waited until silence insisted safety abound and then, with nothing more than a fleeting glance of the woman’s blonde hair and slim figure as she ventured indoors, he moved on.

‘Good morning, Gemma. What are your plans for the day?’

Gemma smiled in automatic greeting to her brother though inside she fought an instant spark of frustration. She understood the responsibility of care and protection for her and her sister rested upon his shoulders, but each day, week, month since their father’s sudden passing, Kent demanded a precise accounting of her daily schedule, making her personal endeavours near impossible to achieve. Nevertheless, as had become habit, she detailed her plans in respect of his request. ‘I thought to convince Rosalind to take some air in our open carriage with a ride through Hyde Park.’

‘Brilliant. She remains indoors too often.’ Genuine concern marked his reply.

‘She may not wish to speak right now, but society does not need to know about her prolonged reticence. Let them see her on the bench beside me and assume life continues as always. Our mourning period spent in the country stifled any wayward speculation.’ She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. ‘Besides, I hold hope someone will ignite an interest and cause her to respond from necessity or curiosity, an impossible circumstance if she remains locked away here at home.’ Perhaps she’d spoken too forthright, her imagery coloured by inner conflict. Her brother’s brows climbed high before he answered.

‘What if someone aligns with the cabriolet and wishes to converse? How will you explain your sister’s lack of communication?’

‘A sore throat or megrim? A prolonged malaise? If I’m chattering and supplying an explanation of her silence, how dare anyone persist?’ She took another sip, seeking comfort and reassurance in the hot brew. ‘I believe in my heart the right instigation will cause her to speak again. If only I knew what it was. I dare say I would go mad trapped inside my head with nothing but the thrum of my pulse for company, but as we discussed with each and every doctor, the matter cannot be forced. Rosalind maintains fine health otherwise. She may find comfort in no longer using her voice, broken from Father’s death, but how I wish I knew what troubled her to such extreme she chooses to remain quiet.’

‘There is no understanding it. Every physician asserts Rosalind’s silence is a subconscious choice and she will return to rights again, but nonetheless, when I look into her sorrowful face, I question their medical integrity as nothing more than quacks. What sane person chooses to become mute? I wonder if they simply appease me, afeared to inform me of a grave diagnosis that might shade them in disfavour. Meanwhile, it is difficult to sit idle and wait for her to return to the vociferous young girl who added amusement to each day.’ He rifled through a stack of correspondence before he spoke again. ‘Do not mistake my silence on the subject as dismissal. I am at a loss and cannot invest the time I should.’ He continued after the sentimental admittance, reassembled into the stern brother she knew well. ‘It seems I’m forever seeking solutions. Parliament’s most recent bills are a travesty.’ He unfolded another letter as was routine during breakfast and pierced her with a meaningful glare. ‘Return to Stratton House if Rosalind appears uncomfortable in any respect. I know you have her best interest in mind but there are times…’

‘Of course. I would never inflict more harm.’ Her words faded on a mutter, daunted by her brother’s chastisement. How he divided his attention between multiple subjects, when one seemed more important, was beyond her comprehension.

‘I don’t mean to sound harsh. Obey my wishes and do not cause difficulty. I wouldn’t want your best intentions to go awry by way of enthusiasm.’ He splayed a hand and indicated the pile of papers on the table. ‘Everywhere I look I find opposition. I’ll not have it in my household as well.’

‘I understand.’ But she didn’t. Not in truth. Everything had changed since Father’s death. She had lost not just her dear, kind father, but her sister, who chose a lonely silence and incommunicable coexistence. Meanwhile, her brother had assumed the title and since dedicated his time to the consuming demands of the House of Lords more than his own house. With their mother long ago buried, Rosalind was her closest confidante aside from her maid.

‘Is that all?’ Kent resumed his interest in the message left resting near his plate.

‘Perhaps after we return from the park, I’ll visit a new modiste outside Mayfair.’ She strove to inject a pleasant note.

‘Do you want for anything?’ He barely raised his eyes with the question.

‘No. Not at all, though I understand this shop creates the newest fashions and it bides well for Rosalind and I to present our best now that we’ve put away our mourning blacks.’ She took another sip of tea in an effort to keep her expression neutral.

‘Talk of fabric and frippery is best left to your maid.’ His steely gaze punctuated his dismissal. ‘Be sure to take Nan with you.’ Then, with split interest, he glanced to the letter in hand. ‘Another Poor Bill to contend? This proposed system will distort the free market.’

She wrinkled her nose, eschewing concerns of Parliament’s business for another reason entirely. Explaining a stop in Charing Cross to her maid would require some inventive storytelling. When her mother died nine years ago, Nan had stepped in to raise her. The line between servant and friend blurred over time and while the woman was not old enough to serve as mother, there were often instances when the maid assumed the role. Still, Gemma had achieved her goal with a modicum of honesty so she would not waste the unexpected boon.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose from the chair with energised purpose. ‘Let me inform Rosalind so she may make ready for the park.’

Mayhap it was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that jarred loose the tender memory and freed the stifled yearning for kindness, but whatever the cause, Cole woke the next afternoon with a desire to visit Charing Cross. There his makeshift mother lived in a stark flat where, over several past years, she’d housed and protected numerous lost boys, sharing what little she had and wanting nothing in return. As when she’d raised him, the only rules to abide were a strict sense of purpose and honesty in every form, most especially in regard to crime. She kept the lads fed and clothed, taught them the barest education and left each with an indelible understanding of gratitude and kindness to do better by others. It wasn’t until many years later that he understood the sacrifices she made in order to pay rent and purchase necessities.

Two decades ago Cole was one of these lads.

Cole.

He grinned. The remembrance of how he’d chosen his name still held the power to amuse. Shoved from a fancy carriage out onto the street as a tiny lad, his aristocratic father demanded he not return.

‘I have no need of a dirty bastard. Your mother should have known that before she left you on my doorstep. Now off with you and forget this day.’

The stranger, his father, waved his arm as one might shoo away a stray dog. With a forceful push down the extended steps, Cole butted into the side of a merchant’s wagon and watched his father’s fancy carriage roll away, unable to forget the barren fear and utter dejection as he wept for his mother through the night. By morning his emotions had run dry. Determination and pride replaced his previous trepidation. He crawled from beneath the wagon where he’d hidden from rats and predators interested in fresh victims among the overcrowded squalor of St Giles, only to meet with further condemnation and disapproval.

‘Git.’ The merchant of the wagon had arrived, his arm raised, a blackened shovel in his meaty fist. ‘Empty your pockets before you go. You won’t steal from Hewitt Coal and you won’t make a home beneath my wagon neither, you little thief.’

Cole stared at the angry merchant a long minute before he turned and ran, his lungs near bursting from exertion. On that day, a new child was born. Cole Hewitt. He’d chosen the name to forever remind of his self-made promise to overcome his humble beginnings and dismiss all knowledge of the past. When he’d stopped his race against time and regret, he’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and fought tears, motionless and defeated. From that moment on he’d survived day to day, hungry and cold, until a worn pair of boots intersected his path where he’d hidden in the dank corner of an empty alley.

His life would have become just another dreadful story if Maggie hadn’t scooped him up and offered him shelter. Eventually she taught him his worth and, with that new-found belief, he vowed to become a better person, achieve success and never look back. He would forget his past, wipe it clean from his memory and build a thriving future that had nothing to do with his parents’ rejection.

He shook his head with pride, unwilling to forage through the despicable memory of his abandonment and the hardships of the years that followed. Today was not that day.

Dressing with alacrity, he hailed a hackney for the ride to Charing Cross, able to keep the rest of his unpleasant past at bay. Then, after purchasing a bouquet of lilies from a flower cart, he knocked on the door, only to discover no one answered. Where might Maggie-girl be at such an early hour? He pressed his ear to the panel. Not a sound stirred within.

He called her his makeshift mother, but she was no more than ten years older and, at thirty-seven, she’d made her life’s work to better the lives of the pallid faces lost to the streets. So many abandoned urchins benefited and, with his accumulated wealth from the Underworld, he’d provided most every advantage for her generosity to reach others.

He eyed the modest house, its wooden porch swept clean of debris, the windows freshly washed. How often had he offered to purchase Maggie a fine townhouse in Mayfair, but she stubbornly refused to leave, dedicated to those less fortunate? Instead he set her up in fine rooms, at least the best this area possessed, and this too was his legacy, an opportunity to make his past a matter of selective remembrance. And in that way, poverty was a blessing. No one asked questions in Charing Cross. It was easier that way.

Dismissing the familiar reminiscence, he retrieved the brass key from his trouser pocket and turned it in the lock. Inside, he lit the lantern on the hook near the door and placed the bouquet on the kitchen table for Maggie to discover when she returned. He hadn’t eaten and a full stomach would do well to start his day, but instead of nabbing a biscuit from the breadbox, he ventured to the bedroom where he stored a few personal articles in the top drawer of the armoire. He removed the jar of bootblack and adjusted the standing mirror upward so he could see his reflection. Then, with a nimble touch, he worked the black grease through his hair, darkening the golden strands to pitch in less than a heartbeat. He cleaned his hands on a cloth kept there and, with the scarcest vestiges of residue on his fingers, massaged a tinge of colour beneath his eyes, into the hollows of his cheeks, just enough to alter his complexion to ashy and tired, cautious not to appear sickly. He’d kept a day’s growth of whiskers for a scruffy, uncivilised affect. Last, he moistened the gum paste and attached an unkempt moustache, so bushy it appeared almost a beard. A useless pair of spectacles completed his transformation.

Whistling a cheerful tune, he cleaned up his handiwork, replaced the items and donned a jacket he kept in the hall closet before he locked the door and made to leave. With his initial plans deterred, he would make use of the afternoon with another endeavour.

He had only one foot off the stoop when an ordinary rented hack pulled to the curb in front of the address. No one ventured far into Charing Cross. Most especially by hackney.

Some people walked.

Most people ran.

Charing Cross was a community of habitual crime. The poverty-stricken population saw no way to survive without repeatedly plundering victims and therefore stole from each other as much as any fool who roamed without protection and wherewithal. While this particular area had elevated to a modicum of respectability in a broad sense, only a few blocks south a semi-derelict warren of dilapidated houses and open sewers rivalled the worst living conditions in all London.

More than a little intrigued, he watched as a woman disembarked. This was no place for a refined lady. Her intricately stitched gown and wool pelisse tempted his smile to surface as much as the long scarf wrapped around her head, to shadow her face or add allure. One could never tell. She must be gentry, but hadn’t she any sense? Only a fool arrived in the middle of Seven Dials wearing anything that resembled quality. She would draw more attention than had she disembarked in the nude. That same smile broke free. His swindling days were long behind him, still he could spot an easy mark with surety. What could the lady be about?

He had no time to consider it further as she aimed directly for the steps where he stood, her face narrowed with a look of determination, her petite figure rigid with purpose.

‘May I help you?’ She was a pretty piece of muslin, or at least held the potential to be. Right now her brows were lowered and mouth pinched tight into a grimace, while that unbecoming scarf covered most all other features.

She raised a delicate gloved hand as if to release him from his offer. ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice was an even-tempered whisper. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend.’

‘Miss Devonshire, is it?’ He couldn’t imagine who would wish to speak to Maggie. Even the most well-intended charity folk didn’t venture into this area alone. Maggie was in the practice of helping lost children, those neglected by unprincipled parents who would otherwise be left to loiter and wander were someone like she not to intercept their terrible fate. And while charity had its place, forgotten orphans were not an aristocratic preoccupation by any means.

In his experience, Quality held themselves above the sad truth of London’s squalor. It was a subject to be discussed in Parliament, not a problem to be solved. What service could this lady seek? ‘Is it a matter of business or pleasure?’

‘I suppose it is a bit of both.’ She retreated a step though she kept her head lowered. ‘And no business of yours.’

Despite her stern set-down, the lady appeared a nervous rabbit, too quick to glance over her shoulder or beyond at the slightest noise, though every motion accentuated her misplaced presence and drew further attention. He watched a suspicious shadow across the street who paid close notice to their interaction. Didn’t the woman know the perils of the area? Did all of higher society live with their heads in the clouds?

Probably.

‘You shouldn’t have come, looking like that to meander through the streets.’ He’d only meant to think the words, yet somehow they’d wound up spoken. In hope of making amends he added, ‘A lady isn’t safe on the streets of Charing Cross.’ He watched and waited, feeling foolish in the altogether.

‘And who are you?’ She measured his worth with a glance down her nose, though most of her expression was lost to the offending scarf.

‘A friend of the area. I’m familiar with these streets, although any clever fellow knows you can’t parade through this part of London unescorted, dressed in fine-spun attire.’ He motioned with his hand to underscore his warning. ‘It isn’t safe.’

‘I’ll thank you kindly to mind your business. Good day.’ She jerked to the left in an effort to pass, slanting a dismissive flick of clear green confidence in his direction. He didn’t move. Her cheeks appeared pinkened by her fluster and when she stepped back in surprise, the sudden motion forced the scarf to drape about her slender shoulders and reveal her face.

A kick in the gut. It was the only way to describe the impact of the lady’s attention. He’d known pretty before and this woman erased every remembrance in his brain. He stuttered to a stop, his next thought lost while his heart raced to a fast-paced thrum. She wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful. Fair skin, long blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight despite they stood in one of the dankest areas of London. He swallowed. Twice. ‘You should take heed.’ Misplaced and unexpected protectiveness rallied the words. ‘The world can change in the blink of an eye.’ Or the shove off a carriage step.

‘I understood your warning the first time; still, I have a matter of great importance to pursue.’

She appeared undeterred, though her voice quavered.

‘That doesn’t change the circumstances.’ Why the devil would this lovely miss seek Maggie? She couldn’t be looking for one of her own, could she? In his experience, no one searched for the children lost to the street. Quality preferred to believe they didn’t exist, or worse, abandoned them there.

‘In that case I have no choice than to return another day.’ Her voice trailed off as her eyes sought his one last moment.

Green. Yes, her eyes were definitely green, the irises trimmed with a muted gold hue, but green nonetheless. A fetching shade he hadn’t seen before, albeit grass and trees didn’t grow in this part of London.

‘I had hoped to find Miss Devonshire at home, but perhaps my goal proved optimistic.’

In an effort to ease her distress, he signalled towards the street. ‘Allow me to hail you a hackney.’ Her eyes shifted to the building over his shoulder as if she wished to see through the walls. ‘Will you walk with me to the corner?’ He wondered at her decision to arrive in this part of the city unescorted, and worse, to accept a stranger’s invitation. Granted, he could portray anyone given provocation, the Earl of Evesham or Duke of Kent, all or none of the worldly gents who frequented the Underworld, as well as a sly swindler or outspoken newsmonger from the corner.

‘I’ve made a mistake. Thank you.’ She turned and walked away as if she strolled through Hyde Park without a worry in the world, her fine leather boots, dangling reticule and embroidered hems all tempting distractions to the seedy undercurrent in the surround.

He called out in her wake. ‘Pay heed to the shadows for that’s where the darkest secrets hide.’

‘Thank you again.’ She shook her head and dismissed his warning without a glance backwards.

A shift of attention from across the street alerted he wasn’t the only one who watched her progress. ‘Wait.’

But his warning came too late. A scamp, not unlike the boy he once was, although he’d never nabbed a purse, darted across the roadway and yanked the reticule from the lady’s arm. Her squeal of distress sent an arrow through his heart when he’d only just warned her to be careful and now she’d fallen prey.

Were he to chase the little thief he would leave the lady unprotected. By the same token, he could hardly play hero if he stood idle while the scamp made off with the goods.

‘Stay here.’ He dared a touch to her upper arm. ‘Don’t move away from this house.’

He set off in a run, hoping the thief had stopped to rifle through the contents and discard the reticule, thus leaving behind a clue. Still, fencing a lady’s purse brought equal coin, so he remained doubtful.

With his belated reaction and the overcome streets of Charing preventing any telltale path, he quit pursuit before he’d advanced half a block. A few choice curses added to the cacophony of the place he once called home, the sticky-fingered scallywag able to dodge and dart with more skill than a squirrel.

With efficient briskness, Cole returned to find the lady where he’d left her. At least there was that. He heaved a sigh of relief as his first order of business.

‘I could not catch him. I would ask a few questions of the population but, in my estimation, you will never see your belongings again.’ He waited, anticipating a loud bout of tears.

‘At least it was only coin and not something more valuable.’ Her comment snared his attention. She seemed hardly bothered by the turn of events. How peculiar. She pierced him with a crystalline gaze that communicated on another level altogether. ‘Thank you, Mr…’

‘Goodworth.’ A note of sadness prodded his conscience at the false name. Then, like always, he pushed through it. ‘At your service.’

She smiled and the sun shined a little brighter. ‘I’m Lady Amberson.’

‘Well then, Lady Amberson…’ He’d known she was gentry. ‘Allow me to see you where you need to go. My point has been proven by the loss of your purse. We shouldn’t invite additional mishap.’ He extended his arm to lead her away in an act of gentlemanly expectation. ‘Right this way.’ Without further hesitation he moved on, the unspoken agreement that she would follow a gamble of sorts. ‘I know these streets well and can nab a hack without delay.’ They reached the corner. With a wave and sharp whistle, true to his word, a rented hackney pulled to the curb. ‘Please take the lady wherever she needs to go.’ He paid the driver and turned towards Lady Amberson to offer his hand. ‘That should do it.’

She climbed into the cab with a quizzical look he would remember always. The driver flicked the reins and then they were gone.

Chapter Three

Gemma bounced on the leather bolster, her thoughts as jumbled as the rickety ride she endured for the sake of anonymity. Her brother’s head would roll off his neck if he knew the risk she’d taken for the narrow opportunity to learn the details of Father’s death. She had no explanation for the niggling insistence something problematic occurred that night. Despite what she was told hours later, when her father’s body had been returned to Stratton House and news of the death of the Duke of Kent had begun to break, she believed in her heart things went amiss, circumstance doubtable.

According to her brother, Father had perished in a tragic accident. A carriage run off the road by some type of conveyance that caused a calamity of large proportion, of which her father became victim. Yet what of Winton’s suggestion of a supposed visit to Charing Cross? Why would her father need to visit Miss Devonshire? And who was this woman who may have been the last person to ever speak to her father?

Gemma needed to contrive another visit to Charing Cross and that would not be accomplished easily. She’d lied to Nan and sent the servant on a fool’s errand in order to escape her scrutiny and venture out undetected. Now Gemma’s conscience pained from the falsehoods.

Questions swirled in a storm of discontent. With her sister unwell and brother on guard, she had no one to offer help. Not a soul. Thank heavens, Mr Goodworth seemed congenial by half. Something about his manner, his familiarity and kind grin assured he’d meant her no harm, for while she strove to portray a confident, independent woman, her heart beat as if it would burst. It was clear the poor man lived a dismal existence, his greasy hair and sallow complexion a banner of impoverished existence – although he did have lovely eyes, a light brown with glittering flecks of gold, reflective through his spectacles. She shook her head with the ridiculous embellishment. Perhaps she wished too much to find something good in everyone. Glistening eyes might be a sign of terminal disease for all she knew of the plague-ridden conditions in Charing Cross.

However, the manner in which he’d run through the street after the boy who had stolen her reticule proved he was not terribly depleted. He’d risked his personal safety on her behalf with nothing to gain aside from gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a coin. Hadn’t vied for attention. Instead he’d cautioned her with an articulate warning, his refined speech in contradiction to his outward appearance.

Unlike Winton. The thought of Winton sparked a flame of annoyance. Barter for a kiss? She thought not. At least she had the span of a week to investigate Miss Devonshire before confronting him again. Perhaps Mr Goodworth would be there when she ventured back to Edith Avenue. He did seem a helpful, harmless man, no matter he lived on the streets. She certainly hoped he was in good health. He stood a full head taller than she and the breadth of his shoulders and manner that he purported himself did not immediately evoke thoughts of vagrancy. Not that she knew much concerning the deprivation, but the familiar complaints voiced by her brother described a different depiction than Mr Goodworth’s congenial disposition. When the man had smiled, it was as if she could see a whole different person inside the downtrodden exterior.

Oh, how her brother would condemn her sympathies and accuse her of romanticising the scourge of greater London. He held little tolerance for the poverty-stricken population.

The hackney slowed, caught in a muddle of traffic on Hart Street, and she turned her attention towards the sidewalk, where a string of shops and eateries bordered the roadway. Stalled for the time being, her gaze settled on a coffee house at the corner where she noticed with surprise Lady Sophie Daventry sitting behind the large glass window. This area, not far from Mayfair, proved safer for outings. The urge to talk to Sophie and perhaps form an alliance, or at the least a reassurance, took hold with such demand Gemma knocked on the driver’s box before she could think the better of it.

Gathering her skirts, she exited carefully and made her way towards the table where Sophie sat alone. As if Sophie expected someone, she caught her eye immediately, replacing an expression of surprise with a delayed smile. Gemma wove her way through the pedestrian traffic and walked to the side of an unoccupied chair.

‘Sophie, it’s good to see you. May I sit down? I have a matter of personal nature to discuss.’

Sophie motioned to an open place at the table. ‘I’m happy for the company. Do sit.’

She didn’t offer more and Gemma was too pleased at the opportunity to hesitate. As always, Sophie portrayed the startling beauty most men found irresistible although the sparkle of mischief and perhaps unharnessed impulsivity in her eyes alerted the stronger gender to proceed with caution.

Once niceties about the present coincidence were dispensed, Gemma delved into the heart of the matter. ‘I have wondered if you attend the Bardsleys’ card party for the same reasons I do or if you genuinely prefer to play Loo?’

Their eyes caught and Sophie seemed to assess Gemma’s worth, not in an untoward or disdainful way, more in the manner of a friend who is worried how much of a confidence to share and whom to regard as the right person.

‘I hope to discover information to help my family cope with a crisis, but I’d rather not divulge the details. Please understand.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Gemma shook her head in the positive. ‘I attend for the same reason, although my father’s death is public knowledge. I can’t help but feel something’s left untold, the dubious incident unsettled in my heart. My brother will not speak of it and Rosalind, my sister, will not speak at all.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Sophie’s cheerful smile dropped away. ‘Have you had any luck gaining clues? All I’ve discovered is that Lord Hodge studies my décolletage more than his cards and Lord Winton is as genuine as a clock with three hands.’

‘Indeed.’ Gemma’s brows raised high. ‘Winton promised me information in exchange for a kiss.’

‘He didn’t? That’s scandalous.’ Sophie’s eyes flared before she blinked several times. ‘I hope you told him to go straight to the devil.’

‘I didn’t, sadly, though I mentioned his information had no way to be proven and therefore didn’t warrant the boon. I think he believes himself irresistible. He proposed I wear a particular gown next Friday when I deliver the kiss simply because he favours the colour.’ She huffed a breath of impatience. ‘I could never be with a man who affects airs and regards others as insignificant, at call to do his bidding. Can you imagine?’ She tried her best to mimic his overbearing arrogance and the two ladies burst into giggles.

‘I had an interesting episode while exploring Charing Cross this afternoon.’ Gemma waited for Sophie’s reaction with the mention, anticipating shock and outrage. She wasn’t disappointed.

‘Good heavens! Charing Cross? You are more daring than I believed.’ Sophie took a long sip and folded, then refolded, her napkin. ‘You remind me of my dear friend, Vivienne Beaumont. Well, she’s Vivienne Sinclair with her recent marriage, but will always be Vivienne Beaumont to me.’ This explanation seemed to satisfy Sophie. ‘She knew what she wanted and went after it, boldly trespassing at the Underworld gaming hell and embracing a future of happiness. She recently married one of the proprietors. For a time she was truly lost, but her future couldn’t be brighter now.’

‘The Underworld? I don’t know of it.’ Gemma leaned closer, anxious to glean understanding.

‘Women are not supposed to know of it while men believe it one of London’s best-kept secrets, an exclusive club where every buck and nobleman wagers against their future inheritance. I haven’t visited myself although I’m told it’s one of the most popular indulgences; a dangerous place, full of enormous wagers, flowing liquor and a high disregard of society’s rules.’ She leaned closer now too. ‘And if I may confide in you, the Underworld is one of the last places my brother visited before abandoning London, so I’m absolutely desperate to get into this alleged hall of vice. It might provide the clues I need to find him, or at least, convince him to return home. Otherwise he’s abandoned London and fled with no trace of discovery.’

‘Oh.’ Gemma understood her friend’s dedication. ‘Thank you for your trust, Sophie. I have a sister who causes me concern. I know how awful it feels to carry the burden of familial discontent and the hopelessness that accompanies the situation.’

‘We have a lot in common then, don’t we?’ Sophie matched her candid stare.

‘We do.’

They sat in companionable silence a few minutes longer, the crack of the whip and rolling traffic outside an ambient backdrop to their inner thoughts until Gemma voiced a suggestive proposition.

‘Couldn’t Vivienne gain us entry into the hell? Now that she’s married to one of the owners, she could invite friends inside, could she not?’

‘I’m sure of it, but I’ve hesitated asking that very same question for many reasons. Vivienne has just returned from her wedding trip and I dare not burden her with my worries at the moment. Perhaps, once she’s settled… though something more important which holds me back, my parents have strictly forbidden I go anywhere near the Underworld. They hired a man for assistance in the search and have only me now.’ After a few breaths and without warning Sophie’s expression shifted, her eyes bright with a mischievous gleam. ‘Although you do have a fine point. If we went into the hell together and left in the same manner, I can’t see the harm in the little adventure. My brother was first to warn me to the perils of the establishment and yet he was last seen there before he vanished. I miss him dearly, but more so I need to know of his safety and happiness. We are…’ She paused, a shadow of sorrow colouring her eyes. ‘Were very close. I despise disregarding my parents’ wishes but, like you, I believe there is more to the story if only I embraced the opportunity to discover it.’

‘We have a plan in the making.’ Gemma tapped the tablecloth with her fingertip to underscore her intent. ‘I’ve not been forbidden from entering the Underworld. My brother will never know were I to take the risk and in that way we can help each other. He hardly notices activity beyond our breakfast conversation and remains consumed with his acts of Parliament.’ Gemma’s mouth twisted in a mulish frown of disappointment. ‘I daresay I could help you with little effort on my part.’

‘This could work to our favour.’ Sophie nodded. ‘We can join together to advance our individual causes and assist each other without breaking the stringent rules placed on our involvement. Two are better than one and all that. I like your manner of thinking. How can I help you?’

‘Oh, Sophie, this idea is brilliant.’ She dashed a quick squeeze to Sophie’s hand atop the table. ‘Next Friday at Loo, would you mention my father’s passing and see if something is said at your table? It can’t hurt to pose a few questions.’ Her optimistic determination proved contagious.

‘Of course, that will be no trouble at all.’ Sophie popped from the chair, enthusiasm clear on her face. ‘I’ll write Vivienne when I return home and ask if she’ll accommodate us.’

‘Send me a message as soon as you know which day we shall visit and I’ll be sure to make arrangements. My brother will be none the wiser.’ Gemma believed what he didn’t know would never hurt him. By far, he practised the same adage and why should the rules only be bent by the males in the family?

‘It will need to be a complete secret. Aren’t you worried someone will recognise you and report your behaviour to your brother?’ Sophie stood above her, her expression perplexed with the voiced concern.

‘He does keep note of every outing and appointment, but with a little planned subterfuge, I know I can elude him. Truly, there’s a reason brother and bother are only one letter apart.’ She wouldn’t allow Kent to ruin her plans. ‘Perhaps I could alter my appearance somehow or hide who I really am, so if something goes awry I’m still unrecognisable.’ She rose from the table, encouraged by the sudden idea.

Sophie giggled. ‘I can’t imagine how you’ll accomplish the task but I’m ready to accompany you no matter what you choose to do. Come along and I’ll have my carriage bring you home; that way we can discuss our plans during the ride without worry.’

The two women left the coffee house arm and arm, chattering and planning what could only be called a grand adventure despite their total disregard of convention and the sagacious advice of their guardians.

It was just another night, the hell crammed to the walls with every assortment of nabob and swell. The familiar sound of chips toppling, collected and gathered in greedy fists and empty pockets, coalesced with the sharp flick of cards shuffled and dealt at the tables. A riotous cheer from some lucky winner overrode the familiar cacophony and Cole stood at the centre. Business was his sanctuary, the hell a source of pride. At his right, a young viscount wagered an outrageous sum at the Faro table. Foolish pup didn’t have the smarts for the game, but he certainly had the funds. This energy, the lifeblood of his investment, hummed in his veins, the first distraction able to chase away the enchanting puzzle he’d encountered earlier in the afternoon.

Lady Amberson.

Why had she sought Maggie? Her forthright determination spoke well of her demeanour. She hardly disassembled when her purse was snatched, and her regard of his person, a stranger amidst the wayward of the streets, declared she lacked the pomposity often ingrained in women of quality upon their birth.

After assisting the lady to be on her way, he’d taken care of the business he’d dressed for and later proceeded home to scrub himself clean, the bootblack at last rinsed from his hair after repeated washings. His dual identity might be necessary, but it was bloody inconvenient above all things. He scanned the floor with penetrating discernment, noting every detail with a clarity of vision, before he turned on his heel and made for his office abovestairs.

Once inside, he strode to the far wall, opened the curtains and revealed a view of the gaming floor, though no one was the wiser. The door opened and closed behind him but he didn’t turn and a moment later Max stood beside him.

‘Quite an establishment we’ve created, isn’t it?’ The two men watched the gaming floor. Were anyone to look away from the tables and upward to the wall, they would see a mural of vivid images instead of the panes which kept the offices well hidden.

Cole noticed the reckless viscount below had lost it all, his pockets to let, but likewise knew the fool would return on the morrow. The discreet hell possessed an impressive list of guests most every evening, the reputation for high stakes and ruthless competition the biggest draw. Gentry enjoyed their private secrets, while men similar to Cole and Max wore their sins with pride. The irony amused him. ‘Not too shabby considering our upbringing, wealthy bastards from ill-begotten beginnings.’

The men never shared their personal agendas or haunting regrets. They didn’t need to. Their business was making money and together they succeeded with skill. At the moment, Luke was the missing member of their trio, each man adept at different aspects of the partnership. But, like all associates, when one had enterprise which took them in a separate direction, the others compensated.

Cole was content in his role with few complaints. He managed the business end of the hell and while he happily counted the vowels of indebted peers, he never wished for the responsibility and pressure that accompanied an entitlement. Perhaps the best thing his father ever did was shove him from that carriage step to set Cole on this course, to become the man he was meant to be.

He stood quietly with Max, admiring the exchange of money and chips against the green baize, gratified in the satisfaction and profit each night’s ante brought. Even the working girls enjoyed the evening, their laughter afloat above the frenetic exchange on the tables. This was their world. Above the upper nobility, in kind to the most fashionable society, and under no one’s thumb because of it.

With the fleeting mental suggestion, his thoughts turned to Lady Amberson. Perhaps he should mention the meeting to Max, who knew the names and reputations of most all of London’s betters. Yet something held him back. Her place in society mattered little. He would likely never see her again. Still, another part of him, some untamed and illogical desire left over from another life, decided he should keep the lady a secret. Perhaps he didn’t wish to hear how far above him she lived, or worse, that she was a wife, mother… any other label that kept her out of reach. He clenched his teeth and demanded his wayward thoughts cease. What was this foolish preoccupation with the lady? She believed him an impecunious man, living in poverty in a section of London responsible for disease and crime. That is what he wished her to see, when he was Mr Goodworth, and that is what the lady perceived. Pity though, that he hadn’t been himself in that moment. The issue itched his brain, an uncomfortable niggling he could not scratch.

He shook his head a second time, annoyed at his nonsensical struggle. Max had left the office, abandoning their conversation, full knowing that, when Cole sank into contemplative silence, no jovial banter would be had.

Gemma insisted Nan fashion her hair in a tight twist, easily concealed under a young man’s cap, purchased for just this occasion. She would not dare tell her sister or brother of her late-night excursion, but without throwing caution completely to the wind, she’d taken Nan into her confidence. Of course, she’d suffered through a long lecture on respectable behaviour and an endless listing of all the perils and cautions awaiting her in the outside world, and that was without admitting her true destination. Nan believed she was meeting at Sophie’s to engage in a masquerade of sorts. Once the maid had sat through the convoluted explanation Gemma described, Nan surrendered in her attempts at dissuasion and instead changed her language to a precautionary warning.

By years of experience, Nan knew better than to believe she could alter Gemma’s plans. Instead, the maid crossed herself with a brief prayer and set about twisting Gemma’s hair in the desired arrangement.

Now, dressed in black trousers, a flowing brown linen shirt, hair tucked neatly under a cap, Gemma paced in wait for Sophie’s carriage to arrive. Nan would watch for the conveyance and fetch her so Gemma could remain hidden until necessary. The driver had been informed to come to the rear of the house outside the back kitchen. If anyone saw her leave, it would appear Nan was escorting a messenger boy out, perhaps with a biscuit in hand for his effort.

Counting the minutes and eyeing the hall for fear her brother would awaken and discover her plan, she lingered belowstairs. The long case clock in the hall struck eleven one floor above. Time had come and, true to her word, a coach approached. Nan motioned to her as soon as it rolled to a stop and, with a meaningful expression of concern, the maid opened the door and Gemma slipped out.

She climbed the extended steps, the driver hopped back on the boot, and the carriage lurched forward. Squinting across the dim lantern light, Gemma reached for the key to illuminate the interior in an effort to see Sophie clearly.

‘Don’t.’

The harsh whisper stalled her hand mid-motion. ‘Why not? I can hardly make out your form across the bench.’

‘I will only disappoint you further. I cannot go with you this evening.’ Regret drew Sophie’s words out in long syllables.

‘What?’ Gemma’s incredulous response snapped in the quiet. ‘After everything I went through this evening, my clothing, lying…’ She waved her hands to gesture the extent of her undertaking, at odds with the situation. ‘Please tell me you’re teasing.’

‘What if something happens? What if I’m hurt or stolen, or worse, what if I’m discovered and returned home where my parents will believe me ruined? I couldn’t bear their shame or disappointment. I thought I could manage it. I planned and prepared, but the truth persists my parents have been through too much already. With Crispin gone and no word for months, we don’t know if he remains secluded in England or has left for the continent. Mother cries every day. My father lives in a perpetual state of stony discontent. I could never add to their misery by bringing trouble to the doorstep, even if my goal seeks to ease their misery. I’m so sorry, Gemma.’

‘But I thought you sought information. That Crispin was last seen at the hell and Vivienne would gain us entry.’ Gemma didn’t know which emotion to settle upon, disappointment, anger, or a portion of both. She carried her own guilt at manipulating Nan and disregarding her brother’s rules.

‘Against my advisement, Vivienne told her husband of our idea. She seems a completely different type of friend now that she’s married. For some odd reason, she refuses to keep anything from her husband. Sinclair insisted Vivienne tell me not to come. Still, now that I see you in disguise, I believe you might go undetected. I did not send you a message because I didn’t want to ruin your plans with my cowardice. Please know I will uphold my half of our bargain even if you decide not to venture into the Underworld.’

‘No, I understand.’ Gemma shuffled her boots against the floor, not wishing to cause her friend further distress. ‘I appreciate that you kept to our arrangement even though you won’t be joining me inside.’ She leaned across and grasped one of Sophie’s bare hands. ‘And I know your brother will come home safely. I can feel it in my soul, just as I’m positive something needs to be discovered concerning my father’s death.’

The solemn vow lent a grave silence to their ride and Gemma considered Sophie’s earnest despair. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone who truly cared for one’s welfare, not just as a responsibility, but because of the emotional attachment? It was times like this when she missed her mother dearly. Someday she hoped to find a good man, a husband who would love and cherish her above all other matters in life.

It was a good thing when Sophie broke the quiet. ‘Turn up the lamp.’ She gestured towards the brass fixture closest to Gemma. ‘I want to see you in your new menswear.’

Sophie let out an appreciative squeal as lamplight flooded the interior.

‘Your clothes are ideal, but you are too pretty to be a boy. If anyone looks closely they will know straight away.’ Her friend’s attention traced over her face, dropped to her bosom and finally arched a brow at assessment of her hips.

‘Do you think so?’ Gemma refused to accept it as true. She was determined to get into the hell and fulfil her half of the bargain. Being perceived as a young man was vital.

‘I suppose you’re going to find out, aren’t you?’

The carriage rolled to a stop and the driver opened the door at Sophie’s command. ‘James is the very best driver. He knows how important it is to keep a secret.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at the man in blatant flirtation though she’d spoken as if the servant needed no reminder.

‘I’ll return in an hour. Until then we will circle the city and exercise the horses. Don’t be late. I have it all planned so I can return you home and me to Daventry House with Mother and Father none the wiser.’

‘I promise.’ Gemma nodded to cement the vow. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Then she slipped into the darkness, her dark clothing just the thing.

Chapter Four

Cole closed the ledger on his desk and claimed his cap from the hook by the door. He’d stared at numbers for over an hour with little progress. his mind distracted and body restless, though for the life of him he couldn’t determine why. Earlier in the day, when he’d gone to visit Maggie, he’d hoped their conversation would settle his unrest. Concentrating on their combined effort to aid the forgotten children of the streets often realigned his priorities whenever he seemed adrift. But with her out of house he’d chased a thief and met a breathtakingly beautiful lady instead. A woman whose presence reminded him of his origin, the darkness of his soul best kept smothered. She reminded how much remained impossibly unattainable.

The lady remained clear in his mind. Long blonde hair, jade-green eyes and the kind of smile that must cause every gentleman to fall in love. Yet he wasn’t so foolish to be taken in by Lady Amberson’s charms. She remained a curiosity, nothing more. Women of her ilk were above him. Mayhap he should have mentioned the surname to Max Sinclair earlier. Sin would know where in the order of things this lady belonged and banish all convoluted attention. Cole’s life and history contained strict parameters. Refined ladies were not interested in a by-blow whose past contained a long list of shameful activity, the grime of the street forever ingrained in his pores. In that, an immeasurable chasm separated his kind from the jewels of the ton.

Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Not that it made one iota of difference. He’d never yearned for what lurked beyond his grasp and he wouldn’t start now because a pair of glittering green eyes had caught his attention. Love, that elusive and fickle emotion, was better left alone.

Jamming his cap down a little too hard, he left the Underworld by way of the side door, determined to walk a length and shake loose agitation, but as he rounded the side of the building he glimpsed a young boy peering in the first-floor window, or at least attempting to do so, his lean body poised on tiptoe as he struggled to balance on a rock required to reach the pane. It wasn’t one of the reformed urchins he’d trained and employed to put in an honest day’s effort, and none of the lads who worked for the hell would commit the offence.

‘You there.’ Cole paused two strides away, confident his startling bark of reprimand would spark the boy into a fast run and the situation would resolve itself, but the opposite proved true. The lad froze, as motionless as a star in the sky, and due to his lack of focus and precarious perch, nearly tumbled to the ground from the stone where he’d balanced. With something akin to delayed panic, the peeper took a leap any rabbit would envy and broke into a run.

Sparked into action, Cole followed to nab the lad’s elbow with a swift swipe and thrust him to rights against the side of the hell with the intent to teach him a stern lesson. Their eyes locked and, with unexpected force, a frisson of anticipation thrummed through him. The culprit may have experienced it too, as his eyes grew wide, the glitter of reflected light a-dance there. Taking advantage of the timeless moment, the lad attempted to jerk himself free and the harsh movement caused his cap to snag on the wooden slats and topple from his head. A rush of long yellow tresses as shimmery as moonbeams at midnight followed.

‘What the devil?’ The words faded on a note of recognition. A girl? A woman. He narrowed his eyes in assessment, his mind one beat slower than his body, which seemed immediately aware and peculiarly so. He knew those eyes. Lady Amberson? But why? Nothing seemed to make sense, most of all the hitch in his pulse. He was already a right bit cagey. He’d left the lady in Charing Cross, dressed to the nines in her fine day gown, tucked into a hackney towards Mayfair. He was a shrewd and clever businessman with acumen for complex problem solving, yet something here posed an unsolved riddle.

‘What are you doing…’ His eyes skimmed her length in the blue-black shadows. ‘Dressed this way?’ He still held her arm, some unexplainable force, protectiveness or untamed interest, or neither perhaps, provoking him to keep hold. What if she bolted? Took off running as quickly as she’d materialised? Safety, he reminded himself, it was an issue of personal safety. ‘Why were you attempting to look in this window?’

She uttered not a word. Her eyes lowered, breathing stilted and, if it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight, her skin paled considerably. Still, she didn’t attempt to free herself. He leaned a bit closer. ‘Will you answer the question?’

Her brows pleated slightly before at last she matched his gaze and puffed out an answer. ‘Which one?’

She seemed to relax, her arm all of a sudden softened beneath his touch. He should stop touching her now and let her go. Beyond reason, he tightened his hold. He doubted she would recognise him as the gent from Charing Cross with his disguise removed, but he remained unsure how keenly she studied his face and wasn’t apt to take the chance.

‘Any of them would suffice as a beginning.’ With a quick surveillance of the surrounding area, he released her and stepped away, hoping with his short withdrawal she’d find the words she needed. Indeed, she had no idea he was Mr Goodworth and that proved bloody convenient.

‘I’m dressed this way so I can enter the Underworld without notice. I wished to see inside.’

Similarly to their encounter earlier, the lady experienced no remorse at stating her intentions. One would think she was royalty, or very close to it, for all the attitude contained in her slight form.

His bark of laughter must have startled. Did she think her answer sufficed? Her eyes grew larger, if possible, her arresting green gaze fixed. ‘Of course you did, but the fast set inside would recognise you as an easy mark in less than a roll of the dice. One look at your graceful features, the curve of your…’ He lost his train of thought and jerked his attention to her face. ‘Your chin, with not a whisker in sight.’ Thank God. ‘Your delicate neck and slim legs. You believe a cap and some trousers can hide the truth? Why, they’re no disguise at all.’ He gestured up and down to echo the observations. She stared at him as if he were daft. Another laugh surfaced but he got the better of it. ‘Now explain this foolishness? What prompted this ridiculous charade and futile attempt to enter my hell?’ A lock of hair fell over his brow and with annoyance he pushed in back under the brim of his cap. He’d left in a rush, without his coat, his shirt sleeves rolled to avoid ink blots in the ledgers.

‘Your hell?’ Slim arched brows furrowed over intelligent eyes. ‘I was told Mr Sinclair owned this property. Are you the same?’

Oh, she was a dandy. Her tone rang with authority, absent of disdain but confident and seemingly accustomed to acquiring any and all things desired. He counted to five before he answered. ‘True enough he does. As do I and another of our associates. And you are?’ He watched with a keen eye, but no recognition to his identity showed. The dusky clouds overhead parted and filtered additional moonlight to cast her in a golden glow. Deuces, she was a beauty. If he didn’t know it already, the enchantment of starlight confirmed the conclusion.

‘Gemma.’ She gave a thoughtful pause and he waited. ‘I’m not sure my surname proves relevant.’

Aah, but he possessed that missing piece of the puzzle from their unexpected rendezvous this morning. ‘Well, Gemma.’ He tried her name on his tongue and oh, how he liked it, among other things. He was fast collecting a catalogue of observations, every one of them more enticing. Not that it mattered, he reminded. ‘I am Mr Hewitt and you are trespassing.’

‘I didn’t mean to get caught.’ She didn’t sound apologetic. If anything, she sounded annoyed he’d interrupted her plans.

‘Yes, I’ve no doubt.’ He wasn’t certain but he thought he smelled honeysuckle. None of the bushes near the hell were floral. It could only be the lady. ‘Well then, now that we’ve established your need for a costume, let’s have the why of it.’

She wrinkled her nose quite adorably and he rubbed his fingers together for want to touch her again. It wouldn’t be proper, but then their entire interaction had proved nothing of the sort. Gentlemen and Cits followed a code of ethics that did not apply to former beggars and homeless bastards. Lady Amberson was strictly forbidden. Regardless, his heart raced like a mad thing in his chest and he had no way to explain the reaction.

‘I’d rather not say.’

She eased back until she skimmed the brick building. Something had her on edge almost as much as he. It was due time she experienced a bit of discomfort. With a sardonic grin he inched closer. ‘Come now, you were caught looking through my window.’

‘It wasn’t exactly your window.’ Her answer was anything but rueful.

He slued his eyes above her head for effect. ‘Wrong again.’ The screech of an alley cat or otherwise disgruntled night creature caused her to startle, or mayhaps it was the way her brain processed his words. Truly the lady thought herself above. He really shouldn’t torture her so. ‘Now, sweet Gemma.’ He lowered his chin so his face aligned, their noses all but touching. ‘How can I help you?’ He spoke in a low rasp, vying for menacing but not quite pulling it off. He knew the perfect way to send her scampering and teach her a well-deserved lesson. And likewise, satisfy the vexatious curiosity racing in his blood.

Her eyes grew large as she matched his. ‘Mr Hewitt.’

‘Yes.’

‘I should take my leave.’ She swallowed as her gaze flittered to his mouth, down, up, then down, up again. ‘I’ve troubled you enough for one evening.’

‘You’re no trouble at all.’ The little minx. He leaned in, his body full of heat, her lips but a hair’s breadth from his and all reality changed in that moment. He should send her on her way, release her from this moment fraught with dangerous consequence, but the words to do so refused to emerge.

The mood shifted, her stance softened, though the air was charged with an energy he could in no way describe. It was as if he could feel her heartbeat, experience the rush of her emotions, all by being closer. He wondered if she detected the same. Perhaps she did. Her eyes fell closed. Long lush lashes bowed down to rest on pale cheeks, as smooth and opalescent as the inside of a rare shell.

He itched to trace his fingers over her skin, thread through her hair and close the tiny distance needed to connect their mouths. Nothing more than a little puff of breath escaped her lips while his body throbbed with yearning and, down below, his smalls tightened significantly.

No matter everything about the encounter was wrong. If anyone should see him, mouth to mouth, pressing a lad against the bricks of the hell, they would fail to understand the truth of the situation.

‘You’re a clever thief if ever I’ve met one.’ He never meant to voice the words, desperately attempting to regain clear thinking, but this seemed new territory.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes popped open.

He didn’t wait for her to elaborate.

He brought their mouths together and her shudder of surprise reverberated in his soul. She did nothing more than stand still at first while his mouth fit over hers with perfection, the sensual heat of her lips extended to every part of him, every nerve ending and cell. She tasted as he imagined, sweet, fresh and wonderful, and when she recovered from her initial shock, she placed her hands tentatively on his shoulders, the wall at her back reliable support, their kiss taking on a rhythm of its own.

He’d kissed dozens of women. Maybe more. Bawds, ladybirds, cast-offs and runaways. Not one proper. No one like Gemma. Her innocence and shy inhibition evoked an urgent need to touch, caress, explore every inch of her. He laid his palms flat against the wall, caging her with his body, the little temptress, and deepened the kiss, his tongue grazing over her bottom lip in invitation.

She gasped. Her fingers curled into the collar of his jacket and held tight. Did she like it? He tested her pleasure by stroking over her plump lower lip again. This time she sighed, relaxing just enough for him to lick his way inside, the warm wet silk of her mouth pure divinity. If only she were to rub her tongue against his… a rush of erotic suggestions flashed through his mind with lightning speed, his cock painfully hard. He fought for good sense and reason. And in an act of self-preservation as much as deprivation, somehow he did the one thing he needed to and withdrew.

Gemma closed her eyes and blinked hard. What just happened? She’d been kissed by a stranger. No, not a stranger. Mr Hewitt. Cole. Still, he was a stranger. More importantly, she’d been kissed.

A dozen conflicting thoughts fought for attention in her brain while wisps of emotion and sensation swirled within her chest down to her stomach and back up again. She was dizzy and yet never more in the moment, here, now, sheltered by his embrace. She wondered at her steadiness, her legs weak and her heart racing. Uncurling her fingers from where she’d grasped his shirt for strength, she ran her tongue along her lower lip with a startling sense of awe. He’d licked her there, tasted her mouth with his tongue. It was wicked and unforgivable, but thinking about it caused a keening spike of sensation to skitter throughout her limbs, all at once unable to keep still.

‘Oh.’ The single syllable was the best she could manage until her wits returned. ‘Mr Hewitt.’ She should slap him. Wasn’t that what years of propriety and etiquette lessons had drilled into her female mind? She needed to object and respond with outrage. But oh, how heavenly the intimacy of his kiss. It was as though she belonged, in that exact space and time, for that reason only.

He stared at her with a slightly bemused expression and his hair caught a slant of moonlight, the soft waves of yellow glinting gold from the sides of his cap, the lock across his forehead, even the soft fleece of his hard forearms. She reached forward, tempted to touch, and then remembered herself, only to rush her hands to her sides with haste. That wouldn’t do. Without a skirt full of folds, she had nowhere to hide her nervousness. She clasped one hand within the other and held her fingers for safekeeping.

His features softened when she’d said his name, some unfamiliar emotion visible in his eyes. Or perhaps it was a trick of shadow. This was no time for a flight of romantic fancy. They stood in near darkness without a candle or lantern to light their encounter. Still, she knew she was safe. Without fear to cloud her intuition, overwhelming and exalting emotions of pleasure and excitement overrode better judgement. A minute passed, maybe two, of breathless silence.

Good heavens, what was she doing? Telling mistruths and fabricating stories, sneaking out of house in disguise to gain entry into a scandalous establishment. A thrilling acknowledgement of daring chased the sudden conclusions and she broke into a smile. Her brother would be furious were he to discover what she’d done. A second bolt of awareness echoed the first to punctuate the realisation. She was all at once empowered and a tad naughty, to disobey the duke with no consequence.

And she’d kissed a stranger, a very handsome stranger, actually. His bold kiss stole her breath and caused her insides to dance.

The approaching pattern of carriage wheels on cobbles pulled her attention to the street. How could sixty minutes spend so quickly? If only she’d been discovered sooner, the ridiculous conclusion freed another smile. She matched eyes with Mr Hewitt whose penetrating gaze assessed her every motion with what could only be labelled an expression of forced patience.

‘I must go.’ She darted a quick peek towards the roadway.

‘Just like that, I’m to allow you to leave?’ Bemusement curled around each syllable and her heart began a new sprint. Would he kiss her again? How delightfully wicked. Sophie would die from envy when she returned with this story to tell.

‘Yes.’ Her answer, nothing more than a breathy feminine sigh, caused his brows to rise, and then he grinned and she forgot to breathe altogether.

‘Off with you then, minx. No more window peeping. Perhaps our paths will cross in the future.’ He gave a sharp nod towards the curb, and when at last she forced her eyes away, she slid from his shadow and never looked back.

‘What happened? Did you gain entry? You must tell me everything.’

Sophie’s insistent badgering threatened to obliterate the echo of Mr Hewitt’s voice, deep and rumbly in her ears, though Gemma struggled to retain the memory of his rich tenor. Too soon the slap of the steps and crack of the whip dashed away hope of accomplishing the feat. Sophie continued her inquisition and all was lost.

Gemma settled on the seat, easily accomplished without layers of ruffles and skirts, while Sophie turned the key in the lamp and illuminated the interior further.

‘What happened to you?’ A bewildered tone tainted Sophie’s voice and Gemma brought a hand to her cheek with the question before her friend leaned across the bench, face pinched as if examining an oddity at the Bartholomew Fair.

‘Why do you ask?’ Gemma strove for nonchalance though her pulse still hammered a frantic beat.

‘You’ve lost your cap and your skin is flushed pink. Did you run a long distance? I daresay even your breathing sounds odd.’ She hesitated for one last look before reclining against the bolster. ‘No one would ever mistake you for a boy.’

Gemma touched a fingertip to her lips, relieved her friend hadn’t noticed anything different there and secretly yearning to forestall the fast evaporation of the tingling deliciousness evoked by Mr Hewitt’s kiss. He was a wickedly handsome man, destined to turn female heads without an iota of effort. She grinned. ‘I never got in and found a bit of trouble.’ Indeed. ‘I exerted all my energies to escape.’

‘You look horribly mussed. The ordeal sounds wretched.’ Sophie frowned with empathy. ‘I’ve tried every way imaginable to enter that hell. Now you too, dressed as a lad, failed just as I. Good heavens, you’d think Prinny lived there the way they protect entry into the Underworld.’

The friends matched eyes and burst into a bout of giggles before Sophie continued with a sobering enquiry.

‘What do we do now? Neither of us is further along with our objective and each passing day brings stronger feelings of desperation for my brother’s welfare. He is quite alone, separated from everyone and everything he’s know his entire life. I daresay, whenever I think of his situation, my heart breaks further. It’s no matter he chose to leave. Something horrible must have driven him to the result.’

Gemma thought of Rosalind and her decision to stop speaking almost two years prior. How broken must one be inside to find comfort in absolute silence? Crispin and Rosalind were not so different in that way. The two had pulled away from the people who loved them most.

‘Yes.’ Gemma reached across and threaded her fingers with Sophie’s. ‘But we have each other now and we won’t stop until we discover the truth.’

Chapter Five

‘What’s eating at you?’ Pittman, Cole’s man of all things, lit the lanterns in the Wigmore suite of rooms and prepared to take his leave. Cole needed someone to attend household tasks he had no time to accomplish. Cook, housekeeper and valet were only three of the roles the servant had acquired over the years. Pittman kept the woodbin filled, oil lamps ready and an assortment of food stuffs in the pantry, as well as clothing laundered and pressed – all without question.

Pittman had grown up in Charing Cross, though Cole would readily challenge any dandy to produce a more loyal and dependable servant. Uppers staffed their houses with those wanting to fill their pockets. Pittman valued his employment for the manner it filled his soul. Pride, self-worth and respect composed true qualities unequalled by the generous salary Cole provided.

‘Nothing of concern.’ The complete opposite, actually. He had been tempted to whistle on his walk home as the heat of that kiss, Gemma’s kiss, hummed in his blood still.

‘There’s roast mutton in the kitchen. I’ve refilled the tinder box and replaced the bed linens. Your boots are cleaned and shined…’

‘Very good. As I’ve told you many times, you’ve no need to report your daily accomplishments. I trust you.’ The words rang true with honest appreciation.

‘Thank you. Then I will leave you to your rest.’ Pittman exited without another word.

Cole locked up and undressed. After a brisk wash from the water basin, he reclined on the bed and commanded sleep to come, but the same distracted tension, an agitated restlessness that seemed ever-present of late, held him hostage. He stared at the white ceiling and scoffed with the irony of it all. He needed sleep to function, his schedule demanding and uncommon. Awake all night at the hell, he slept during the day, but of late he couldn’t relax enough to sustain a solid amount of rest no matter which hours he kept.

There was a time when he wouldn’t close his eyes for fear of the nightmares that pursued him, winding him tight with anxiety and relentless fear. Every night he’d struggle to resist sleep and fail, awakening in the dead black of night with a cold sweat on his brow and tears on his cheeks, disappointed he’d succumbed to the inner terror that lurked in the darkest place of his soul, waiting to plague him.

But then Maggie found him and provided safety and shelter. She offered a sense of belonging and a modest education. It took some time but the terror finally stopped. Nightmares of abandonment, rats at his feet and starvation in his belly were now a bitter memory, so what was the reason for his perpetual agitation?

His body craved sleep and the mindless escape it provided, yet exhaustion held him captive, unable to calm.

He blew a long breath of exasperation and turned his thoughts to Lady Amberson. Gemma. A woman as elusive as a fantasy. As beautiful as his most daring imaginings. He may as well have created her in a daydream, she’d tasted so sweet. Perhaps dangerously addictive. The thought of her sparkling green eyes and their mischievous kiss managed to alleviate the rebellious insurrection which held him tethered of late. He turned to his stomach and hugged the pillow as his eyes fell closed and he found peace.

The next morning after breakfast, with Rosalind by the hand, Gemma walked along the slated path behind Stratton House. Kent hadn’t showed at their morning meal and she did not miss his strict questioning of her schedule or outraged grumblings about volatile issues in Parliament.

Here in the garden, flowers were in full bloom in every hue and variety afforded a duke’s entitlement, from rare specimens to familiar English roses. Foxglove, poppies and pyramidal orchids dotted the walkway while sweet pea and hop crept along the ground to cover the earth in a blanket of myriad colours. Interspersed among the florals were decorative marbles and hand-carved statues depicting cherubs and goddesses, the ornaments adding a peaceful contemplative element to the vibrant landscape. The scent of damp loamy soil permeated the air and reminded of how elemental things became when one looked past the trappings of society.

Gemma had no idea if Rosalind appreciated the gardens as much as she. It was a new routine for her sister, who often ate meals upstairs or returned to her rooms directly after breakfast. Of late, Rosalind would walk through the gardens with Gemma chattering like a magpie to fill the silence. Today was no different. It if eased Rosalind’s misery or aided in mending her heart, Gemma would talk for hours on end.

‘I have a secret to share, dear sister.’ They’d reached a turn in the path near a marble birdbath and stood in watch while two bluebirds splashed in fervent business until an intrusive rook swooped in and frightened them into flight. Why was it superiority often ruined the gentler acts of life? She dismissed the observation with a slight frown and continued. ‘Yesterday I kissed a man.’

Gemma hesitated in calling Mr Hewitt a gentleman, though she thought of him as such. Title did not necessarily equal goodness. She’d seen proof many times over. Still, the divide between their social stations resembled a mountain range. How she was tempted to blur the lines of distinction whenever she made the acquaintance of a pleasant someone who lived a different kind of life. In that temptation, she stood alone, though, society’s perspicuity harsh. In her world, bloodlines composed one’s past, present and future.

Rosalind stopped walking. She turned inward and held both of Gemma’s hands, prepared for a detailed story. Gemma laughed and smiled, her silent sister able to draw her back to the conversation with purpose, all without a syllable.

‘Yes. Well, it was wonderful. Beyond comparison, actually, although I’ve not kissed another to possess the necessary criteria.’ Accustomed to their one-sided conversation, Gemma rattled on. ‘Although somehow, I know inside.’ She released Rosalind’s hand and clenched her fist against her heart. ‘In here, no matter who I kiss for the rest of my life, it will never replace the experience of that kiss. Simply because it was my first, and it was extraordinary.’

Rosalind’s finely arched brows rose with delicate ease.

‘It was delightful and isolated; a one chance occurrence and a beautiful memory. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.’ She didn’t mean to sound regretful, though she must have as Rosalind squeezed her hands, now joined together again. ‘That one kiss made me feel special for being me. Not the sister of duke. Not a gentile lady. Just me. It’s silly, I know.’ Another squeeze from Rosalind punctuated the statement. ‘But the way he looked at me in that breathless minute before he placed his mouth upon me, like I was precious, a rare gem… I will never forget that feeling.’ She looked at her sister and waited, breath held if perhaps Rosalind would say something. Anything. Show the tiniest inclination to reply. But after a long moment stretched, Gemma resumed their stroll. Her sister’s face had expressed myriad emotions during the retelling, yet not enough to evoke a response. Still, Gemma refused to be disheartened.

They reached the place in the path where a granite prayer stone marked the remembrance of their father. Creeping thyme grew in abundance around the monument and the sharp lemony fragrance soothed Gemma’s heartache. How she missed her father. He had been a kind, loving man, with a large, generous heart, so different from her brother, who wore his title like a weapon to wield. Father had raised them to consider a person’s constitution before station, but so much had changed since his death, Kent hardly remembered their father’s intendment. Either that or Kent considered himself to have risen above the sentimental remembrance.

As was their routine, Gemma and Rosalind sent a silent prayer heavenward and then they resumed their walk. Perhaps having the thought of their father dear to their hearts, it was time to broach the troubling subject of Rosalind’s silence.

‘I was wondering…’ Gemma didn’t mean to force the issue, but the cloud of disappointment, and loss of hearing her sister’s laughter and voice, pained her daily. She wanted to share her adventure and laugh at her foibles and relieve the depths of Rosalind’s anguish and despondency. She wanted to help. She searched her sister’s eyes for any shade of invitation. ‘About the evening we learned of Father’s death.’

Rosalind stopped so abruptly Gemma’s slippers caught in her hems. Without warning, her sister tugged her arm free from where they were linked and withdrew, nearly stumbling as she hurried backwards, her eyes wide with alarm and something else, something stark and lonely, the reflection of utter despair. She blinked away a fast flood of tears.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will never speak of it again if it pains you, Rosalind.’

It was a foolish promise to make and altogether too late, the mood broken, moment lost, and Gemma made no attempt to stall Rosalind as she turned away and hurried towards the house.

It was mid-morning the next day before Goodworth arrived at Second Chances, the successfully run lodging house he owned and managed with Maggie Devonshire. The building’s location on the border of Strand Street was threateningly close to the upper classes, but he’d purchased the land and restored the building with that exact purpose in mind. The lodging house would serve as a reminder to society’s finest that an entirely different world existed less than a stone’s throw from Trafalgar Square. True, he’d paid for a fine limestone slate roof and painted shutters with paned windows beneath, but aside from the appealing exterior, the heart of his noble work lay inside the ten rooms he let to anyone and everyone who needed a second chance. The occupants lived rent free with food and laundering, as well as assistance in finding work, healing or otherwise repairing their lives from the incident that had propelled them towards a downward course. Goodworth couldn’t be prouder of his accomplishment but never did he let pride override his hard work and intent to do more; to help others whether they be destitute, beaten or impaired.

He started for the stoop and paused a pace from the threshold. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a movement in the shadows as subtle as a change in the wind. In his peripheral vision, he noted someone approaching, a man in brown clothing, a hat pulled low on his brow, and he remembered an incident not long ago when a similar figure had looked him straight in the eyes and traced a finger across his throat. An unwelcome warning rang in his ears, though the man continued straight ahead, without a glance away from the sidewalk.

It couldn’t be a disgruntled gambler from the hell. No one knew of the connection between Second Chances and the Underworld. While his profits from the gaming hell provided the necessary funds to create and maintain the lodging house, not a soul was aware of his association and therefore no one could seek retribution, blackmail or threaten to expose his dual lifestyle. Exposure would endanger everyone involved in either of his life’s ventures.

Shaking off his misgivings, he entered to find Charlie leaning on the wall string of the staircase leading to the upper-level rooms. Someday the boy would make a fine hand at the Underworld watching horses at the curb for a coin, but he needed time to grow and develop.

‘What are you doing here, Charlie? Shouldn’t you be at lessons by now?’ Goodworth crouched to the boy’s level, his scrawny five-year-old frame increasing in health more each day.

‘I am waiting for you. At breakfast, Miss Maggie mentioned you’d be by today.’ The child smiled, his grin made wider by the absence of two front teeth.

‘I have something for you. I think you’ll be pleased.’ Goodworth removed a small paper sack from his pocket. ‘There’s hardbake for you and your friends. Be sure to share it. Once Tommy ate the whole bag himself and, aside from disappointing his chums, spent the afternoon with an upset stomach.’

‘I will do so, sir.’ Charlie nabbed the bag and immediately unfolded the top, his eyes round as he peeked inside.

‘Not just yet,’ Goodworth tempered. ‘Let’s have a look at your shoe first.’ With gentle consideration, he lifted the boy’s left leg and removed his boot. Then, retrieving a rectangular package from his back pocket, he laid a flat cushioned insert inside against the sole. ‘There now. I had it specially sized for you.’ He replaced the footwear and extended his hand so Charlie could stand. ‘See how it feels. The padding should compensate for the disparity caused by your limp.’

‘What?’ Charlie looked at him, his little face screwed into a puzzle of confusion.

‘I’m sorry, lad.’ Goodworth rose and chuckled. ‘Your shoe will help your leg now. That’s all you need to know.’

Charlie stood and tested his walk, his gait improved, his smile returned. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He hugged Goodworth’s legs before he snatched the bag of treats from the step and escaped through a nearby doorway.

Happy with the outcome, Goodworth continued up the stairs and into the main dining area. It was a fine room, painted pale yellow and conducive to easing one’s mind and mood if a full stomach didn’t accomplish the same. Maggie was at the table, teaching two women how to read. She glanced up and caught his eye as he entered. Then she instructed the women to practise while she stepped away for a moment.

‘I’d hoped you would appear today. So much is happening. I need your advice.’ Maggie rose on her toes and bussed his cheek.

She was the older sister, makeshift mother he never had, and a kind-hearted, intelligent woman who had devoted endless time to improving the condition of others. He valued her friendship more than any association and admired her efforts here. Now that they were established, she oversaw most all parts of Second Chances and he supplied the funds. ‘I came by your house just yesterday morning, but you weren’t at home.’ His response was all question with no accusation.

‘I decided to spend the night here. Actually, I’ve been here for two nights now. Miranda’s baby is due to arrive and I don’t want her to be alone. She’s scared no matter she’s surrounded by women who have birthed children and know the way of things more so than I.’ Maggie’s expression altered and he was unsure how to respond. Thankfully she continued straight after. ‘Have you heard anything unusual concerning Parliament’s arguments lately? I don’t always have time to read the paper and I know you’re more likely to garner carry-over conversation than I.’

‘Nothing of relevance as a matter of change.’ He lifted a biscuit from the platter on the table and chewed a bite. ‘Some nobs are pushing for reform, but most aren’t. I suspect there is one driving force that keeps all from agreeing on drastic modification and opposition of the laws.’ He finished the biscuit before he continued. ‘I’d like to discover the individuals who fuel the resistance, but last I checked I wasn’t fit to sit at the House of Lords.’ He caught Maggie’s eye where she tidied the table and collected crumbs. ‘The corridors of power remain divided on how to offer help and spend funds while the ratepayers argue the cost of maintaining the system is already alarmingly high. No one offers a voice for the people who suffer under a severe strain of the system.’ He shook his head. ‘We will never affect change within the government, but at least we do good work here, Maggie. We offer a chance for those who would have no other place to go.’ Bastard birth, abandonment and other unpardonable sins were a stain on the soul one could never erase.

‘Of course. I’m proud of you.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘Unwed mothers, lost children, elderly and infirm. You’ve never failed anyone who has come to us for help. You are a good man.’ She offered a beaming smile. ‘Even with that bootblack on the back of your ear.’ She reached forward and wiped a smear of the colour from his skin. ‘Now I need to return to the girls before they forget everything I’ve taught for the last half hour.’ She didn’t say more and didn’t need to, her no-nonsense words and kind smile more than enough.

Kent slammed a fist against the table and jarred the silverware into an agitated tremble, Gemma unnerved in kind to the forks and spoons. She’d come down to breakfast with a riot of emotion fighting for attention; frustration over her father’s death, her inability to discover truthful information, Rosalind’s upset, and the divine experience of receiving her first kiss. The last thing she needed was for her brother to be in high temper when she sought quiet to sort out her confusion.

‘Were I a different man I would bring my argument directly to the source of the problem, but as the Duke of Kent and honoured member of Parliament, I am restricted to arguments in the House of Lords and long, tiresome petitions that accomplish little more than lulling those who listen into slumber.’ He placed a folded note on the damask tablecloth and noticed her for the first time. ‘Good morning, Gemma.’ His grumble was a complete contradiction of the sentiment.

‘Good morning.’ She strove for a cheerful tone. ‘What has you so upset that you’ve ignored your coddled eggs?’ Perhaps she could cajole him into a better mood. She’d like nothing more than to travel to Charing Cross and seek Miss Devonshire again this morning. If she could determine his agenda she could better arrange her own.

‘I cannot eat.’ He shoved his plate forward and a footman swept in to remove it. ‘The problems of this city are not fit conversation for a lady’s ear.’

Gemma couldn’t help but laugh. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Perhaps if men were more open-minded, solutions could be had with greater alacrity.’

‘I do not have the energy for a debate on that subject. Men and women play different roles in our society, just as the aristocracy and the poor need to learn their place. The squalid living conditions of Seven Dials and the crime-infested surrounding area are worsening at an alarming rate. If something isn’t done to drive out these foul, lazy indigents and better our London, we are all doomed to disease and pestilence.’ There was no mistaking the imperative edge to his words.

‘Oh dear.’ She wasn’t sure how to respond, considering she’d only visited Charing Cross and lost her purse to a tiny rascal two days prior. ‘I understood there to be many children and unfortunates living there.’

‘Inhabited in overcrowded squalor and shame. Unwed mothers, unwanted children, criminals and abusive deviants, it’s a warren of human vermin and abject misery where the roadways are as layered in filth as the inhabitants. You would not know of such living condition as it should be.’ He huffed a long breath as if by effort he could expel his disdain and ignore the injustice.

‘I doubt you can lump them all together in one group. Surely the people there have found themselves in a difficult position and need help more than condemnation.’ She busied herself with the jam pot.

‘That is why females, compassionate, kind women, cannot take part in a discussion of reform. You must not think with your heart and delicate nature.’ He gentled his expression though a muscle still ticked in his cheek. ‘The rookeries are filled with filthy degradation, corrupt and man-made, not a situation of circumstance but rather a choice by those who decide to live in dire poverty without bettering themselves.’

‘The rookeries?’ She attempted to rationalise the picture her brother painted with his description and the neat row house she’d attempted to visit.

‘Named for a type of crow, the rook, a thieving, meddlesome bird that nests in large, noisy colonies stealing food and multiplying. It is why the crammed living conditions of that area are labelled as such. The place is a honeycomb of blind alleys and narrow streets with random cesspools of dilapidated houses not fit for human occupation. Disease and pestilence abound. Somehow the population grows despite the threat to deadly illness and violent crime.’ His jaw tightened in visible disgust.

‘So you’ve visited this place? These rookeries?’ A note of new-found esteem on her brother’s behalf laced through the questions.

‘Absolutely not.’ He chuckled in a condescending manner. ‘Dear Gemma. You are as your name implies, a gem like no other. I would never visit such a place. My boots are made of the finest leather.’

It took a full minute for Gemma to mollify her desire to object. The best she could do in the end was temper her comments. ‘Perhaps that is part of the problem. Were more noblemen to visit and offer assistance in development, these rookeries could be improved.’ Still at odds with his vehement response, she sought to offer a rational suggestion.

‘Without stronger legislature, all will be for naught. The appalling deprivation and dire poverty will continue. That is why I believe it would be best to level the whole of it. Clear the deplorable conditions and palsied houses. Drive the inhabitants out. A mass eviction of some sort to rid the parasitic from greater London.’

Gemma inhaled sharply at her brother’s calm delivery. ‘Where would they go? You would evict them from the very place they call home.’ She could hardly eat for the drastic, appalling vision her brother proposed and placed her spoon on the plate as if it burned her fingers. ‘Poverty is an immense social ill and the duty of London who should partake in the improvements.’

‘Dear sister, I understand your tender sensibilities but there is no place for apathy in the political process.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Enough of this talk. I don’t know how you drew me into conversation unfit for a lady of high esteem. I suppose I needed to expel a modicum of frustration. The rookeries are bleak and noisome and you are beauty and light. We will change the subject. What will you do with your day?’