Chapter 3
Dear Lydia,
I apologize for writing so soon with contradictory information, but things have changed.
The Caldwells are preparing to join the ton festivities earlier than planned. Some urgent business came upon the earl, so we are all leaving for London tomorrow morning. I hate to rush you, but I have no choice. This is an utter nightmare.
I don’t know if you’ll receive this missive before I arrive, but I do hope you receive it after your successful night at Hades’ Hell, because I do not know what I’ll do otherwise.
Please meet me at dawn by the Serpentine. You know the place. Hopefully, we can discuss everything there in person.
Love,
Honor
W ith a groan, Lydia crumpled the note in her fist and tossed it onto the massive mahogany desk in front of her. Her leather chair let out a weary creak as she sank back into it.
Could things get any worse?
Lydia looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Three hours before dawn. Damn and blast!
Not only had her night at Hades been unsuccessful, but she wouldn’t be able to rectify her mistake for quite some time. Or would she?
She had already spent the entire day haunting the corridors of her rented townhouse like a restless ghost, pacing endlessly as she agonized over how to steal the cursed jewel from the man she had sworn to never face again.
After a decade, she had convinced herself she wouldn’t panic at the thought of seeing him. She had been wrong.
She was a completely different person now, and likely, so was he.
When Lydia had first entered the ton a few years ago, she was terrified she’d see Art there. She’d prepared what she’d do and how she’d try to stay away from him without ruining her standing in society for months. She had almost lost her nerve and turned tail before ever stepping foot into a society ballroom, but she’d persevered.
With Honoria’s help, Lydia had polished her manners, forged a few documents, and feigned her relation to a wealthy—and more importantly, diseased—magnate, thus securing herself a place among the ton , however tenuous that place was.
It was enough, however, for her to get invites to a few balls and soirees. Knowing everyone’s financial situations, inheritance details, and people’s habits through gossip, and learning the layouts of the wealthy people’s houses was paramount to her plan—the plan she and Honoria had concocted a few months after their initial meeting.
Masquerading as a wealthy widow, she was afraid she’d have to see her former lover, who abandoned her and tossed her onto the streets like she was nothing. She was afraid he’d recognize her and ruin her disguise. Or worse… he wouldn’t recognize her and break her heart all over again.
As it turned out, all her worries were for naught since he was barely a presence in London, much less during the social events of the Season. She had even celebrated—way too early as it turned out—never running into him in all this time.
Lydia let out a shuddering sigh.
She had to finish this one job. One job, and she’d be out of England forever.
Gah!
Lydia rose to her feet, picked up the note, and reread it again.
It was dated four days ago. The journey from Caldwell’s estates would take them around three days, which meant that barring any complications, Honoria had already arrived in London.
Crumpling the paper between her fingers, she walked toward the hearth and tossed it in. The paper shriveled and slowly turned to ash, the flames flaring and reviving the dying fire.
Lydia glanced at the mantelpiece again. Three hours before dawn.
All she had to do was ride to the disreputable viscount’s house, break in either through the window or the servants’ entrance, and steal the blasted jewel. Normally, she could do that in thirty minutes, much less three hours.
Her current situation was not normal, though, was it?
She hadn’t seen her former lover in over a decade…
Lydia wondered if he had changed. He used to be a handsome young lad, tall and lanky, but athletic and graceful in his movements. He had full lips… so soft and sweet when—
She scrunched her nose and shook her head.
She hated that man! She would not think about him in amorous scenarios. He was a scoundrel, a liar, and an uncaring lout.
A part of her was almost giddy at the prospect of stealing from him. Her fingers trembled with anticipation, and something warm collected low in her belly and spread through her entire being.
No, she couldn’t let her feelings for him—either positive or negative—get in the way of her mission. She was a professional, and she had a job to do.
With a brief nod to herself, Lydia turned on her heel and strode from her study. She gathered her auburn locks into a bun before draping a cloak over her shoulders and pulling up the hood. Tugging on her black wool gloves, she slipped out the door.
Wearing the male clothes underneath her cloak made it easy for her to saddle the horse astride and spur it toward Mayfair. She felt more comfortable in male breeches and shirts even when lounging about the house and only wore the female attire when company required it.
Once, dressing like a boy was a survival method. Now, it was purely for comfort and as a disguise during her nighttime escapades.
She wasn’t out stealing every night or even every month—that would have been far too risky. She had only taken a few items of great import and regretted it already as they generated far too much attention. Normally, she’d taken just enough to keep herself comfortable while searching for the one item that would finally set her and Honoria free.
She never expected that item would be his…
Worse, she’d had the item in her possession a long time ago. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what might have happened if she had kept it but quickly pushed the thought away. Now was not time for what ifs.
Now was the time to formulate a plan.
The jewel she had been tasked with stealing was a family heirloom traditionally passed from the marquess to his firstborn son and later given as a gift to his bride. Or so Art had claimed. He could have lied.
What she knew for certain was that he kept all the family heirlooms locked in the safe inside his bedchamber. It was possible he had changed his habits, but that would be the first place she checked.
Lydia inhaled a ragged breath. The last thing she wanted was to see him for the first time in so many years in his bedroom while he was slumbering.
Would he be undressed? Heat crept up her cheeks at the thought. His body had surely changed over time. Had he grown broader, his frame more powerful? Perhaps, he’d gained a rounded belly like most lords were wont to do.
What if he wasn’t alone?
Now that was a sobering thought. The heat coursing through her veins instantly turned to ice.
Of course, he wouldn’t be alone! He was a known libertine, a rake. Lydia might not have seen him in years, but she had certainly heard the rumors of his amorous exploits. And no matter how much she told herself otherwise, those rumors still stung.
She didn’t know why she kept seeking out information about him. But she couldn’t quite resist.
It’s been so long; she should have forgotten about him. Moved on. Yet, every time his name was spoken, her senses sharpened, homing in on every detail, tucking each stray piece of gossip away in the corners of her mind.
She didn’t love him anymore. Of course, she didn’t.
It was impossible to love someone for so long, especially someone who had hurt her so deeply.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.
Perhaps she could have made peace with it if he had married—or at least promised himself to another—and remained faithful. Love , she could understand.
But no.
He had cast her aside and then continued on his merry debauched way.
He had shut the gates on their young courtship, and in doing so, he had taken a part of her with him.
She needed to get that part back.
Lydia expelled a breath.
This mission, the final mission that would help her and Honoria escape the shackles of this pseudo existence, could be just the act she needed to finally get the viscount out of her mind. By stealing his jewel, she would reclaim that part of herself he had taken.
Lost in her thoughts, Lydia barely noticed that she had reached Mayfair. She pulled her mount to a stop a few houses away from the Wakefield residence and tied it to a tree.
She walked slowly down the fashionable street, the echoes of the past ringing in her mind.
“I shall marry you, darling. I shall make you my viscountess.” Art’s voice had been firm, confident.
“Servants’ daughters do not make good viscountesses,” she had murmured glumly.
“Do they make good wives?”
Lydia had swallowed hard before answering, her voice barely above a whisper. “I will try my best.”
“Then that’s enough for me…”
Obviously, it hadn’t been enough for him.
Poor, naive little Lydia.
As she reached the Wakefield townhouse, she steeled herself against her own feelings. She didn’t have time to dwell on the past.
She glanced around to ensure the street was empty before deftly climbing the wrought iron gates. The chill of the bars bit through her gloves as she swung one leg over, then the other, before dropping down with a soft thud. Keeping to the shadows, she crept along the townhouse’s perimeter, her heart pounding in her ears in rhythm with the crunch of her boots against the gravel. At last, she halted beneath a large, familiar window—the viscount’s room.
Yes, she remembered where his room was. Of course, she did.
When she returned to London for the first time since leaving the marquess’s employ, she had spent countless nights on this very street, lingering in the shadows, watching the flicker of movement in his window. She would stand there for hours, willing him to look out and notice her. She’d never considered what would happen if he did.
Was she hoping he’d see her, realize his mistake, and beg for her forgiveness? Of course, she was.
Did she truly believe for even a moment that such a thing was possible? Of course, she didn’t.
And yet, every time she stood outside his residence hoping to catch a glimpse of him, every time her thoughts turned to him, she clung to the fragile hope that their story wasn’t finished. It wasn’t the end.
It was a comma in their short-lived romance. Deep down, she believed that somehow, some way, it would continue.
Now that she stood before his window once more, she hoped that this encounter would be a full stop.
The end.
Once she retrieved the jewel from his room, she would never see him again.
And perhaps it was fitting, in some strange, twisted way, that she would see him one last time before she severed this lingering thread. She needed that closure. The finality.
Full stop.
The end.
Lydia drew in a deep breath, steeling herself, and began climbing the trellis that led to Art’s window. Art . Perhaps she should have stopped calling him that a long time ago. He wasn’t the boy she had once known. He was Viscount Thornton, the infamous rake of London. Thorn.
The name felt alien, wrong. Thorn . Perhaps a thorn in her side—yes, that was fitting. She let out a soft, nervous chuckle at her own bitter joke. God, she needed to pull herself together.
When she finally reached the window, she found it not only unlocked but cracked open. How convenient. She peeked inside the room and, to her relief—and dismay—found it completely empty.
Who would have thought? For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, a knot tightening in her chest. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her soul, she had hoped the room would be occupied. If it were, she could have peeked into his bedchamber, seen him there, and then turned away, leaving everything unresolved yet intact.
But no. The room was empty, the jewel ready for the taking.
And for some inexplicable reason, that terrified her. She dreaded this.
Full stop.
She wasn’t ready.
Lydia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, before pulling herself up and over the windowsill.
She slipped inside, her feet landing softly on the plush carpet of his bedchamber.
There. She was in. There was no turning back.