Chapter 15
L ydia ran out of the hell, the stolen ring burning in her palm like coal, its weight heavy with the memories she’d thought long buried. She paused a few feet away from the doorway, her breathing heavy.
Almost without conscious thought, she slipped the ring onto her finger, telling herself it was just to keep it safe. But deep in her soul, she knew—it felt right there, as if returning home.
As if it belonged to her.
Because it had belonged to her once. He had given it to her. She was the one who’d left it behind.
No. She forced the thought away. It didn’t belong to her anymore—it belonged to Miss Monroe, and she should have turned it over already.
Fumbling inside her pocket for her pocket watch, she squinted at it in the darkness. It was a few minutes to midnight.
She glanced back through the doorway only to see Thorn fixing his jacket over his disheveled shirt, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for her.
Damn . She couldn’t go back and risk him catching her. And she couldn’t flee without relinquishing the ring.
Quite a predicament she’d gotten herself into. She was always getting herself and Honoria into trouble.
Honoria!
Oh, no! She couldn’t believe she had forgotten her friend inside. Where was she? Had she managed to warn her employer and escape? What if she’d been caught?
Lydia swore under her breath.
She couldn’t leave Honoria behind. She had to go back, no matter the risks.
Lydia moved to reenter the hell, but the crowd suddenly surged toward the exit, a human tide blocking her path. She found herself pushed even farther away from the hell, stumbling to keep her balance.
More and more people flooded the space before the main entrance, pressing in around her. The rowdy crowd jostled her from side to side until she managed to elbow her way closer to her waiting carriage. That’s where they’d agreed to meet anyway. Taking position in the shadows, she anxiously watched for any sign of Honoria.
What am I doing?
No—the real question was: What am I doing here?
She should get the ring to Miss Monroe now! Yet here she was, moving steadily away from the hell, the ring still on her finger where it had no right to be.
One minute ‘til midnight.
Finally, she spotted a familiar dark silhouette running toward her. Honoria emerged from the crowd, her wig askew, her gown disheveled, clutching torn pieces of her bodice together.
Oh, poor Honor! Guilt twisted in Lydia’s stomach. What had she endured in that hell? Had the mob trampled her? Or had something worse happened? Whatever it was…
Lydia was at fault. Again.
As Honoria reached her, Lydia grabbed her shoulders. “Honor, I’m sorry I just left you there.”
Honor opened her mouth to speak but could only gasp for air, clearly winded from her run.
Lydia squeezed Honoria’s arms, trying to ground both of them. “I’m sorry, but I failed. Again.”
“Lydia, I don’t think I can leave,” Honoria said at the same time.
They stared at each other in surprise.
“You couldn’t get the earl to leave—?”
“You didn’t get the jewel—?”
“You speak!” Lydia pulled Honoria closer to the carriage, shielding her from the crowd.
“No, you first!” Honoria leaned in, worry creasing her brow. She was worried about Lydia?
What an angel she was. Lydia didn’t deserve such a friend.
Lydia licked her lips, gathering her courage. “I did get the jewel.” She paused as Honoria watched her face intently. “I got it. But I didn’t give it to Miss Monroe.” She raised her hand, revealing the ring.
Honoria’s eyes widened as she looked from the jewel to Lydia’s face.
“I completely forgot about the time. I was too absorbed in… I couldn’t… When I left him, I just ran. I swear, I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been this reckless.” Lydia’s lips trembled, and Honoria squeezed her hands, her gaze concerned.
“Dear, but now you are in deep—”
Boom!
A burst of color illuminated the sky, showering the earth in cascading lights. More fireworks followed, drowning out Honoria’s words.
Lydia didn’t need to hear what Honor had to say. She already knew.
She was in deep, deep trouble.
* * *
Fireworks shot around him, and the people turned their faces to the skies, watching the glittering show in awe—everyone except Thorn. He elbowed his way through the crowd, his gaze darting to every woman in a blue gown that remotely resembled hers.
But none of them were her.
Yet his heart still sang with joy.
She is alive.
For the first time in years, he had found hope again.
His fingers flew instinctively to his lips.
He’d kissed her.
Her taste still lingered on his tongue.
She wasn’t a hallucination or a feverish dream anymore—she was real, flesh and blood beneath his touch.
How many nights had he lain awake wondering? How many days had he spent searching, only to find nothing? And now, just when he’d been ready to surrender even the memory of her, she appeared before him, all fiery passion and seductive touches.
She touched him. Kissed him.
She was real, and she was alive.
She had also been deceiving him—communicating with him for over a month without revealing her true identity. At this moment, he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Other, stronger emotions took hold of his body and mind.
The crowd cheered as another burst of fireworks painted the sky, matching the euphoria in his chest.
She is alive! Hooray!
As the smoke began to dissipate, a shower of papers—pamphlets—descended gracefully from above. People jumped and scrambled to catch them, fighting to be the first to read whatever scandal they contained. Thorn ignored them. Gossip meant nothing when Lily was somewhere in this crowd.
But then a woman gasped, and the buzz around him intensified. People exchanged scandalized whispers as they held the pamphlets close to the torches. Something was wrong.
He snatched one off the ground and brought it close to the light.
“The Mist is a Miss,” it read.
Thorn narrowed his eyes at the paragraphs about the notorious thief who had terrorized London’s prestigious homes for years. He’d heard rumors of the infamous Mist—a mysterious figure everyone spoke of but no one saw. It was a story, a myth. A legend.
Well, the pamphlet alleged that Mist was very real. Not only had she stolen and sold expensive art and family heirlooms, but she was living lavishly off these artifacts right under society’s noses as Mrs. Lydia Lawless.
Lydia Lawless.
Why did that name sound familiar? Surely, he’d heard the name before, perhaps even met the lady? No. He hadn’t socialized with the ton for years except for his closest friends. He hadn’t stepped foot into a fancy ballroom until a few weeks ago, and when he did, he immediately got himself betrothed.
But Lydia Lawless… that name sounded very familiar. A distant memory tickled the back of his mind.
A shrill voice in the crowd broke through his thoughts, “Lydia Lawless? I told you that name had to be made up. It’s just like the heroine’s from that atrocious Scoundrel novel!”
The realization struck him like lightning. That’s where he’d heard that name before. It wasn’t a real person. It was a character from a book! The Scoundrel —the first book Lily had ever read by herself, the one she’d gushed about for weeks. How had he not seen it?
How foolish he had been to not make the connection sooner. Not that he’d thought about it for even a moment. After all, he’d only heard the name in passing. From all he knew, the people were talking about the book. If only he had paid a little more attention. If only… he had realized earlier that Lily was Lydia Lawless.
Thorn rushed to the women still discussing the disreputable character of Mrs. Lawless, each now insisting they’d been the first to spot the deception.
“You knew her then?” Thorn cut in unceremoniously.
The ladies threw him a side-eye. “Thorn, what a pleasure to see you here. Wouldn’t have guessed that you’d still be attending such scandalous events after getting betrothed,” Lady Stanhope noted.
Thorn ignored the pointed tone of her voice. “Please, tell me you know where Mrs. Lawless resides?”
“Has she stolen from you?” Lady Stanhope continued fanning herself in a bored way.
“No,” he gritted out, his patience wearing thin.
“Or perhaps you are interested in spending the night in her bed and disappointing her too?” Lady Stanhope’s blonde companion chimed in.
Thorn squinted at her. “And who are you?”
She gasped in outrage. “My name is Iris, you bastard!”
Thorn rolled his eyes and turned back to Lady Stanhope. “Mrs. Lawless—do you have her address?”
“Yes,” she said with a tight smile. Luckily, she decided not to try her luck detaining Thorn any longer and gave away the address. Thorn knew that area, not too far from Mayfair.
With a nod, he dashed toward his waiting carriage, deaf to the outraged cries of the women calling him rude and unsophisticated. But the address would prove useless—just as he reached his carriage, he spotted an unmarked black lacquered carriage pulling away from the masquerade. As it turned, a flash of familiar red hair gleamed from the window.