Chapter One
Six years later
Calliope hated the night. She shivered, pressing herself tightly against the wall of the building she hid against. Why on earth had she ever thought it a good idea to pick up her package in the dead of night?
Not that she had any choice in the matter.
Mr. Rollings had sent a request to meet at this location at a most ungodly hour.
Midnight.
What an unfortunate change of schedule.
And what ought to have taken ten minutes had stretched into thirty, leaving her twenty minutes late, thanks to the winding streets of the Lanes, which all looked the same at night. It had taken a while to orient herself.
Nevertheless, she ought to have known better.
This did not fit the quiet, uneventful life she had envisioned. All she wanted was peace, which begged the question, whatever prompted the man to ask this of her? She tugged her cap lower, clutching her satchel tightly over her pounding heart.
Deep breaths, Calliope.
Thank sun and stars she’d purchased a male outfit for this meeting. She might have to run. Fast.
She peeked from behind the wall to where her Mr. Rollings was conversing with two very large men, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief.
She couldn’t see his expression clearly, but she could practically feel the tension flooding from him.
Other customers, no doubt, since she’d been late.
She wondered what the problem was that led him to meet with them at this hour.
And how long it would take them to go away so she could talk to Mr. Rollings.
Something about the exchange set her nerves on edge. The looming figures seemed to be one with the night. Carved from the shadows themselves. Their features were even more impossible to distinguish with their caps pulled low over their heads, nor did their statures seem even remotely familiar.
I should have brought Prince.
But then, it was probably a blessing that she hadn’t. He’d growl and perhaps even attack when threatened. No, she should have brought her pistol, but she’d completely forgotten about it!
Stars.
All this over some French oil. Very well, orange blossom oil, plus some other scents, distilled in the French manner, finer than anything she could source at home.
More than that, she loved using this particular oil to create her own uniquely scented candles.
It made her feel closer to her mother, who had enjoyed the art of candle-making and favored French scents.
After her passing, her father had arranged lessons for Calliope.
She had loved those lessons. However, she didn’t love meeting at this hour to collect her oil.
And she hated the dark.
Loathed nothing more.
Darkness reminded her of them. Duvessa and her daughters. Black as sin and just as merciless.
Nothing good ever happened when all the lights blew out. A sentiment once again proved right in her current predicament. But this was no attic. Every shadow here posed a potential threat.
She should never have come.
But she had placed explicit trust in Mr. Rollings even though she’d only known him for a few short months.
After all, Mr. Fitz, her father’s solicitor and her guardian angel who had helped her escape, had made the acquaintance.
He’d handled all the terms beforehand, and he would never put her life in danger.
So when she’d received Mr. Rollings’s message, she had ignored all the “the Vikings have arrived” bells echoing through her bones.
Fie. Fie. Fie.
For the love of wax! How did I get myself into such a horrible situation?
A blistering curse rang out, followed by a dark voice filled with fury, “What the devil do you mean the shipment is missing?”
Calliope flinched.
Exactly what she feared. Nothing good happened in the dark. Ever.
“I do not know, my lord,” Mr. Rollings stuttered.
“Don’t bloody call me that,” the same man snapped, dangerous, and way too close. “I’m not a lord. I’m Death if you don’t spill the truth about my shipment.”
Case in point.
The other man just watched silently.
And what are you just standing around for, Calliope?
Run!
But her feet couldn’t move. Could she just leave Mr. Rollings to his fate?
“What do you want to do with him?” The furious one asked the silent one.
A beat of silence, then, “Deal with him.”
Calliope shivered at the low, gravelly voice that carried over to her. Like he hadn’t used it in years, or only ever used it to growl threats. Calm. Deadly. Final. The impact lashed across her nerves and lodged beneath her breastbone, driving in deep.
Even worse, she felt marked by it.
He was the leader here. His words were law.
The furious one stepped forward and a fist shot out. Mr. Rollings dropped to the ground, the bone-jarring echo joining that of her gasp.
Her hands flew to cover her mouth as two heads swiveled her way.
Sensation deserted her limbs.
The man who’d watched Mr. Rollings being knocked senseless, the one with the deeper voice, stepped forward. “Who’s there? Show yourself. Obedience begets lenience, resistance begets wrath.”
Like you showed Mr. Rollings? Not in this lifetime!
Her body snapped into motion, and she bolted in the direction—she hoped—of her shop, only to snag on her own steps and pitch forward.
Then to her horror, she promptly tripped over her feet, crashing to the ground hard.
The impact jarred her bones, a low oof escaping when her palms scraped over loose stones, biting through leather gloves.
Calliope! You foot-clod!
She scurried back to her feet, snatched up the satchel that had landed beside her, and dashed down the alley with all her might, ignoring her aching knees.
Curses ripped through the dark.
Do not look back.
She clenched her jaw and pushed on.
Who were these men? She hadn’t been in Brighton long.
Almost three months in total. The first two were spent in small, rented lodgings, planning and preparing every detail of her new life.
The past fortnight had at last seen her open the doors to her shop, above which she now lived.
Before that, it had taken years of whispered schemes and secret hopes to reach this point—to flee Duvessa and her despicable plan to wed her to the loathsome Lord Flemmington.
Calliope had learned the hard way that people don’t rescue girls like her.
If they, she, wanted freedom, she’d have to claim it for herself.
Only with the secret help of a few loyal servants and the ever-resourceful Mr. Fitz had she managed to escape and begin anew in this seaside town.
Now her lungs burned.
Why did she decide on Brighton again?
There were other, more remote towns Duvessa avoided with a passion, too.
Just admit it, Calliope. You wanted to live near the ocean.
And since she never debuted, and rarely met others, she didn’t need to worry that she’d be recognized.
Even her own family had abandoned her to Duvessa since her father’s death.
Some she hadn’t seen since her mother’s.
A quiet life.
A comfortable life.
Hidden away and free from Duvessa and her horrid stepsisters.
Not dashing through the misty, dark streets from brigands who might harm her if she were caught!
Fortunately, she had already regained her sense of direction, and didn’t dare slow until she reached her shop.
She nervously glanced over her shoulder while she fished for the key and jammed it into the lock with trembling hands.
Come on!
The key rattled as she attempted to unlock the door, joined by voices echoing somewhere through the streets, followed by approaching footsteps growing closer.
The beat of her heart sped up.
Don’t look.
Fie this! She should have ignored Mr. Rollings’s request!
The door gave way, and she staggered inside, nearly sprawling in her haste. Calliope slammed it shut, and the moment the bolt slid into place relief struck her, dizzying. She leaned back, spine pressed to the wood, breath coming fast. A second later, she slid to the floor.
She’d evaded those men. By some miracle.
Her attention caught on the flickering candle on the counter.
Drat! She scurried forward on her hands and feet to snuff out the light with the tips of her fingers. The room plunged into total darkness, wrapping around her like a well-worn cloak.
It’s all right, Calliope. Just a little longer.
Her gaze flicked to the narrow-curtained doorway leading to the workroom, where a stairwell spiraled up to her private rooms. She didn’t know how, but her legs made it to her living quarters in two parts determination and one part daze.
Not until her arms were around Prince did her mind begin to clear.
He licked her face, and a bubble of laughter escaped from her lips. Just short of hysterical. No, most definitely hysterical.
“Dear God,” she breathed between the bouts.
“What did I just witness?” A kidnapping?
A murder? Surely not. And yet she could not deny the sight of Mr. Rollings falling to the ground.
Utterly terrifying! Was Mr. Rollings still alive?
And what about her oil? She hated to even entertain the unbidden thought, but if those men found her goods, they’d find her, correct? If they found her . . .
Do not even entertain such a thought!
But the image of those men, hounds, sniffing at the package and allowing others to sniff and track her, still burst into her mind.
What would they do to her if they caught her?
They hadn’t.
Yet.
Her ears strained for any noises that might indicate the two big men had caught onto her and her shop. What had Mr. Rollings said when he’d delivered her first purchase?
Take care, Miss Turner. Brighton is run by beasts.
She’d laughed it off then, believed the older man an overly cautious tradesman. But now . . . now she wasn’t laughing.
She had escaped the night. But it had seen her now. And she had a horrifying feeling it would not forget her.