Gone with the Rake (Inglorious Scoundrels #1)

Chapter 12

My dear Thorn,

Your permission to use your given name has indeed appeased my sister’s spirit, though I fear you have only encouraged her further interference in our correspondence. She now insists I tell you more about myself, as apparently discussing one’s inability to dance is not proper getting-to-know-you conversation.

Very well. I suppose I should tell you that I grew up helping my father with his business ventures, so I’ve worked since I was a child. Many among the ton would consider it unladylike, but I hope you won’t be one of them. Even now, I tend to keep my hands and my mind busy at all times, as I find nothing more tedious than being idle.

I noticed you mentioned not frequenting many social events. May I ask why? My sister (yes, the same one—she is reading over my shoulder again) tells me you were seen at the Medusa Theater last week. I don’t know where she gets that information from. Did you enjoy the performance? I must confess, I find myself curious about how you spend your evenings when not being forced to dance with clumsy fiancées.

I hope I might make a favorable impression upon your father when we meet. I understand his approval means a great deal.

Yours,

Penelope

P.S. My sister insists I am not clumsy. She says I merely need more practice. I remain unconvinced.

* * *

Dearest Miss Prescott,

Your sister sounds delightful, and I must agree with her assessment. You do just need a bit more practice, and I hope I, as your future husband, can provide you with a few lessons. That ought to keep your hands, if not your feet, a bit more occupied.

As for my father’s approval—do not waste a moment’s thought on it. The last thing you should concern yourself with is gaining that man’s good opinion. Trust me in this.

I am intrigued by your childhood, as mine was likely a lot different. What else have you done aside from rolling cocoa beans to occupy your days and nights? (I have to admit my ignorance when it comes to the process of making chocolate.)

I hope nothing too exciting. Otherwise, you might find existence as the viscountess rather boring.

As for the Medusa Theater, your sister must have keen sources of information. I did attend, though I found myself rather distracted throughout the performance. I cut the evening short and retired into my library for a quiet reading time.

Tell me, what do you prefer to do in your free time now? Should I clear out the music room for your favorite instruments? Or should I stock up the house full of chocolate beans to keep you from falling into boredom?

Sincerely,

Thorn

P.S. I do not mind your sister reading our correspondence. But if you feel uncomfortable with her meddling, I might just start including increasingly scandalous content that is bound to make her blush.

* * *

My dear Thorn,

Since you’ve granted me leave to use your given name, I pray you’ll do me the honor of calling me Penelope as well.

Regarding my childhood, there was not a lot I had the time to do. I enjoyed reading books and learning about the stars. I spent a lot of nights lying outside and staring at the sky.

I am afraid I have to keep the family secret regarding the best chocolate in England. Only relinquished once we marry. Until then, perhaps you could teach me some of your hobbies?

I hope this isn’t too forward of me, but I find myself surprised at your attitude toward your father’s approval. Might I ask why?

As for my musical talents, you will be relieved or perhaps disappointed to learn that I have none. Not quite Viscountess-like, now, is it? I tried my hand at painting once, but I’m afraid I ended up wearing more of the paint than what made it onto the canvas.

Yours,

Penelope

P.S. I must confess that your threat had a desired effect on my sister. She has decided to busy herself with needlework across the room while I write, though she keeps casting suspicious glances my way.

* * *

Dearest Penelope,

I look forward to learning the recipe for the best chocolate in England. It is almost worth getting married for this sole purpose.

As for my father… we are quite estranged, and I would prefer to leave that particular topic of discussion for another time, if you’ll permit me. You have your family secrets, and though not as exciting, I have mine.

Regarding my hobbies, although I’d love to share in my knowledge, I should confess that they are decidedly gentlemanly. I spend rather more time than is strictly proper at Johnson’s Boxing Academy, and I’m known to frequent Angelo’s fencing school. However, given your own admitted departure from proper ladylike pursuits, perhaps you might find such activities intriguing? I should very much like to see you wielding a foil.

Sincerely,

Thorn

P.S. Now that your sister is not looking over your shoulder, I feel bold to announce how fortunate it is that my friend Chaos (yes, that is what we call him, for reasons that become apparent upon meeting him) has promised to install his latest invention—a shower bath—in my home. It should prove most convenient for washing away the evidence of your artistic endeavors. Though I must admit, I find myself rather charmed by the image of you covered in paint.

* * *

A s time passed, Thorn found himself looking forward to every letter from his bride. She was clever, witty, and quite entertaining. Her letters were easy to read, and their conversation flowed naturally. He had this feeling as though he’d known her forever, and he was exchanging letters with an old friend rather than a woman he’d known less than a month.

At first, he’d thought they would quickly run out of things to talk about. Turned out it was the opposite. With every missive he sent, he wished he could say more. He wished he could talk to her in person so he wouldn’t need to wait for days to get her replies, or to tell her things he’d thought about during lulls in between their letters.

He could not wait to see her, be close to her, and hear her voice. He imagined them lying on the grass staring at the stars all night… talking. He didn’t remember what she sounded like. The only time they had a conversation was during a ball surrounded by loud music and a chattering crowd. He wondered what her voice would be like when she was relaxed, quiet. What would be the first thing she would say to him? She would probably find his house rather boring, but she could decorate it in her own unique way once they married.

Marry her… For the first time in a long time, getting married didn’t feel quite so daunting.

The thought was strange, yet here he was, sitting in his father’s study and planning his future.

And it didn’t seem so bleak. He had something to look forward to, to plan.

Suddenly, looking out for the estates was not such a burden. Looking out after himself—eating right, picking out clothes, and going for walks was a pleasure. He even let his valet shave his face consistently. He enjoyed riding every morning, fencing and boxing with his peers. Those things had been just a distraction, to keep his mind away from his life, but now… It brought him joy. Not to mention it gave him something to talk about in his letters to his betrothed.

And most of all, the revenge on his father was almost forgotten.

Almost .

Because he couldn’t shake the ever-present pit in his stomach which told him that this—what he was doing—was wrong. He didn’t deserve to be happy. He didn’t deserve to fall in love with another woman.

Love?

Was he falling in love with his bride? He had only met her once. Was it even possible to fall in love through correspondence?

Thorn scrubbed his face with his hands as he reread her missives time and time again. He started doing it often. First, he reread the letters just to craft a perfect reply, not to forget to address one of her many questions. Then he started to reread them even after he’d replied. They just soothed him. Her letters spoke to his soul on a level no other woman had been able to reach him before.

No other woman .

But there was a young girl who had reached him in quite the same way.

He shook his head. He couldn’t live his life chasing her ghost anymore. He ought to move on. Surely, she’d understand.

The mild scratch on his door interrupted his thoughts. Thorn looked up. His butler used the scratching in lieu of knocking, a leftover habit from catering to the sick marquess and his whiny wife. Thorn’s lip curled in disgust. “Please, knock next time.”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler said with a bow. “A letter for you, sir.”

Thorn fought the urge to jump from his seat. A letter. From her?

The butler handed him the missive and left.

Thorn impatiently ripped the envelope and devoured the text.

A smile found its way onto his lips like it always did when he read her words. She was flirtatious and witty as ever, making fun of her sisters, telling him about this book she’d read, and then…

She wanted to meet him.

Thorn read the words again.

She was arriving in London soon, and she wanted to see him.

His heart jolted in his chest. He continued reading and chuckled aloud. Not only did she want to meet him, the mischievous vixen wanted to sneak into the Hades’ masquerade ball to do it!

That was not just adventurous—reckless! When he’d met her at Caldwell’s ball, he didn’t think she was either of those things.

He shook his head in disbelief. Every time he thought he had figured her out, she managed to surprise him again.

She wanted to meet him.

He wanted to meet her, too. His entire body tingled in anticipation. He hadn’t wanted anything quite so badly in years.

But doubt nagged at the back of his mind.

The masquerade wasn’t a safe place for a young, unmarried woman. But he’d be there, wouldn’t he? He would protect her and never leave her sight. He was dying to see her for weeks now. To see her, feel her… taste her.

Thorn shook his head. He couldn’t.

Could he?

She is my fiancée.

We’ll be wed soon.

Many contradicting thoughts warred inside him.

What if he misconstrued her interest in him? What if she didn’t feel the same way?

Well, he’d just have to go to the masquerade and find out.

Don’t be a coward, Thorn.

You ought to see her again sooner or later. And perhaps it was better to meet her behind the mask, under the veil of darkness…

He picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote the reply.

My dearest Penelope,

I am eager to see you again. It would be my pleasure to escort you to the Hades’ masquerade. Of course, I have some conditions. I need to be certain of your safety. But if we take all the necessary precautions, I shall be the most gracious of escorts.

I am eager to dance with you again, to hold your hand, and look into your eyes.

Yours always,

Thorn

* * *

Lydia read Art’s letter over and over, a sinking feeling gnawing at her. Was she doing the wrong thing?

The words on the page felt sincere, as though he was genuinely compelled by her… She recognized the longing in them—she had written similar sentiments to him once.

I am eager to dance with you again, to hold your hand, and to look into your eyes.

Those were not the words of a gentleman unattached, merely fulfilling an obligation. Those were the words of an infatuated man who couldn’t admit his feelings outright for fear of being too forward.

Perhaps he wasn’t sincere. Perhaps he was simply trying to lure his fiancée into marriage with flowery declarations of affection.

Lydia winced, unsure whether it was the thought of Art falling for his fiancée—never mind that she was the one impersonating the woman—or the guilt of her deception that unsettled her more.

Shaking off the thought, she sat at her desk and penned a reply to Thorn. He was to wear a red flower in his front pocket, and she would wear the same but in her hair—that would be their signal at the masquerade. After detailing the rest of the evening’s instructions, she quickly scrawled a note to Honoria.

Honoria would need to copy the letter and send it off to Thorn using Lydia’s network of street boys.

Lydia exhaled slowly, trying to shake the tension from her shoulders. It was almost done. Almost over.

A few more days, and they would both be free.

Her nerves coiled tight, Lydia threw on a cloak and slipped out to her secluded garden for some air. Her rented townhouse wasn’t nearly large enough to contain her restless pacing anymore.

Those letters she had shared with Thorn had just opened a gaping wound in her heart she thought had long since scarred over. She remembered exchanging letters just like these when she had worked in his household and he was away at Cambridge. She smiled at the clever ways she used to sneak her letters with the rest of the correspondence to be sent to his residence, then stole Thorn’s letters addressed to her before his father could get them.

Perhaps that had been her first foray into thievery.

Through these letters, she was reliving the dream—the foolish, impossible dream—of becoming his viscountess. Of becoming his.

She let out a frustrated breath—almost a growl.

That’s when she heard it. Footsteps.

Close. Too close.

For a split second, she thought it was one of her servants, except not one of her servants stayed overnight.

She turned sharply, but before she could register the figures approaching, a coarse sack was yanked over her head. A massive hand clamped over her mouth, crushing her against a solid male body. Something cold and slick—knife steel—pressed against her throat.

“Do not scream,” a hoarse voice rasped in her ear, thick with an unsophisticated accent. “Or you shall regret it.”

With that, she was dragged from her garden and shoved into a waiting carriage.

Two men flanked her. One of them yanked her arms forward and bound her wrists.

“Now remember, I’ve got a knife,” the same voice warned. As if she needed the reminder.

She wasn’t worried, though. If they hadn’t killed her outright, they wanted something from her. But what?

To steal something? Impossible—no one knew she was the Mist. No one except the closest people to her and… Miss Monroe. She swore under her breath.

Miss Monroe would not give away her name to just anyone. She was too clever for that. She would never waste such valuable leverage, not when she could wield it to her advantage, blackmailing Lydia for as long as she pleased.

And that was just one of the many reasons Lydia needed to leave London.

The carriage rocked into motion, its pace unhurried, almost leisurely.

So, where was Lydia being taken? There was a way to figure it out.

Lydia sat still, calm, counting in her mind and noting each turn. They had gone straight for three hundred beats, then turned right. Another hundred beats, then left. Fifty-six beats, then right. Another right. Then a curving road tilting left, another left turn, then straight for 460 beats, and if they stopped now—

The carriage jolted to a halt.

The door swung open, and a rough hand shoved her out. She stumbled, and if not for a steadying hand, she would’ve tumbled to the ground. Her wrists were freed, and the sack yanked off her head.

“Welcome to the ‘Ades’ ‘Ell,” the hulking thug announced, sweeping open the back door with a theatrical flourish.

Lydia stifled a groan.

She was led inside, down a hidden passage she hadn’t noticed the first—and only—time she had visited this place. Distant voices, the scrape of shifting furniture, and the clink of glassware carried through the tunnel.

Stepping out of the narrow corridor, she found herself in a vast hall.

“Ah, welcome!” Miss Monroe exclaimed excitedly. She quickly murmured something to a brightly painted woman in a white wig. The woman gave Lydia a quick once-over before sauntering off.

“You do have a flair for the dramatic,” Lydia said dryly. “You missed your calling as a theater director.”

Miss Monroe waved a hand. “Come. I don’t have time for pleasantries—I have far too much to do.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Lydia made sure to pepper in as much annoyance into her tone as she could

Miss Monroe glanced over her shoulder, brows pinching. “To speak to you, of course.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but the gesture was wasted—Miss Monroe had already turned away, barking orders at a group of people who were… hanging wisteria?

Lydia blinked.

The last time she had been here, the main hall had been all shadows and menace. Now the dark, ominous décor had vanished, replaced with rich greens and golds. It was as if she had stepped into some ethereal fairyland.

“Mrs. Lawless, are you coming?”

Lydia tore her gaze from the transformed room and followed.

“Yes, and don’t forget the crate of champagne,” Miss Monroe was saying to someone. “I need more champagne.”

Then, finally, she turned back to Lydia. “Ah, where were we?”

“Well, your thugs unceremoniously kidnapped me from my garden, shoved a burlap sack over my head, and dragged me here. At which point, you ordered me to follow you while you proceeded to decorate this ridiculously cheery room. So, tell me—what the hell is going on?”

Miss Monroe grinned. “This”—she gestured—“is the female wing of Hades’ Hell. Persephone’s Heaven. Its grand opening is on the night of the masquerade. Have you ever found it rather unfair that men get to indulge in gambling and whoring, while women don’t?”

Lydia actually did find it unfair, not that she had any desire to partake in the usual hellish debauchery, but she wasn’t about to agree with Miss Monroe on principle.

“Why am I here?” she asked irritably.

“I make it my duty to check on my investments.” Miss Monroe barely spared her a glance, too busy directing workers. “You do realize you have two days to fulfill your obligation to me, yes? No, no, no, not there! The wine fountain will go there.” She snapped her fingers at the men attempting to place a massive fern on a side table.

“We have a deal. I know what we agreed upon.” Lydia lifted her chin. “And I never fail to deliver on a promise.”

“Well,” Miss Monroe said, inspecting her nails, “it just seems to me that you’ve had more than enough time. I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten. Or perhaps decided to… renege.”

Lydia tossed her head. “Are you calling me a liar? I might be a thief, but I do have honor.”

“I don’t mean to offend,” Miss Monroe said lightly.

“Then you should have sent a note instead of dragging me to the end of the earth.”

Miss Monroe scoffed. “I don’t do notes. The easiest way to betray someone—or blackmail them—is through a paper trail. That’s why I deal with people tête-à-tête.”

“Well, then you could have called on me.”

Another scoff.

“Fine. At the very least, you could have summoned me.”

“That was my summons. Or at least the only way my men know how to summon anyone.”

Lydia let out an exasperated breath. “Is that it? Can I go home now?”

Miss Monroe heaved a long-suffering sigh as if Lydia were the one inconveniencing her , not the other way around. “Not yet. I have something to show you. Come.”

She strode toward the heavy curtains at the back of the room and disappeared behind them. Lydia followed, stepping into a small, dimly lit chamber. The walls were lined with crimson velvet, the furniture plush and decadent. A mahogany table stood at the center, a stack of papers resting atop.

Miss Monroe picked up a pamphlet and handed it to Lydia. “Read.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes before dropping her gaze to the bold headline:

The Mist is a Miss.

The headline alone sent a shiver down her spine. Below it, an exposé—a full paragraph unveiling her identity.

Mrs. Lydia Lawless is the elusive thief known as the Mist. The woman who dared to steal from the Queen of London’s criminal underbelly.

Her breath turned shallow, her fingers tightening around the pamphlet. With every word, her pulse pounded harder.

“What in the devil is this?” she whispered.

“An assurance.”

“Of what?”

“That you’ll deliver on your promise. That you won’t run off with my jewel.” Miss Monroe’s expression was unreadable, her gaze devoid of warmth. In that moment, she truly was the Queen of the Underworld.

Lydia’s hands curled into fists, her cheeks burning with fury. “This was not part of our agreement.”

“No. But I didn’t expect you to cut it so close to the deadline. Now, I’m beginning to wonder—can you do the job I hired you to do? Or are you simply unwilling?”

“Blackmailed me into doing,” Lydia corrected icily.

Miss Monroe shrugged. “I shall pay you as promised.”

Lydia scoffed.

“Do as you’re told, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” Miss Monroe’s tone was deceptively light. “In fact, once you bring me the jewel, I’ll even let you burn every single one of these pamphlets yourself.” She tapped the stack. “But no one crosses me, Mist… and now you know why.”

She swept aside the curtain, tilting her head toward the door. “Gerald will take you home now. I trust I’ll see you at the masquerade.” Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “It shall be… a hell of a night.”