Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
L ondon, Spring 1817
Bodies jostled against Jasper as he made his way out of the crowd on Newgate Street. Morbidly energetic cheers rose up around him. The elbow of a man pumping his fist into the air narrowly missed Jasper’s temple as the dying struggled for breath.
Francis is coming for you, Jasper . Miles’ chilling last words raced through Jasper’s mind, and his pulse rushed dizzyingly through him.
Francis had not made it to the gallows. But why? How?
Dazed from the stench of unwashed bodies, urine, manure, and the dreadful reality that his cousin was loose, he made his way out of the crush and down the street to his awaiting carriage.
“Home,” he called to the coachman as he entered.
He settled back just as the carriage jolted into motion. He would have to warn Juliana and her new family. Sending them away would be the safest option, of course.
Christ . She’d want to help him again. She and her friends had become runners for Bow Street, of all things. Jasper had indulged their fantasy, but what could they truly accomplish facing off against Francis? The man was utterly mad. And while they’d been successful in capturing his cousins once before, he simply couldn’t risk their lives on luck.
And Maria , his inner voice whispered. She would wish to help, would put herself in any amount of sodding danger just to ensure that Francis was found and dealt with. Jasper’s chest squeezed disconcertingly. She cared for others far too damned much.
The carriage jolted, and someone shouted. Jasper’s stomach churned.
Francis was hungry enough for the dukedom that he would not simply murder those who posed a potential threat; he would eviscerate them with excruciatingly slow assaults on their sanity. The man had already made attempts on Jasper’s life, for pity’s sake, took pleasure in inspiring fear in others and would, therefore, use any means to frighten Jasper.
During the trial, Francis and Miles’ smug determination to prove Francis’ legitimacy and—outrageously—to assert that Jasper’s father was somehow responsible for their sister Jean’s death was unhinged.
The fact remained that while Jasper’s uncle—Francis and Miles’ father—was older than Jasper’s pater, he would never have become duke. And, therefore, Francis would never become duke.
Even skewed as the judicial system was when it came to the peerage, Francis’ father was illegitimate, and couldn’t benefit from such inequality. So what could possess Francis to believe that, after all he had done, he could still attain the dukedom? The man had never truly been logical when it came to his wants and desires, but this…
A grunt of irritation escaped Jasper.
Now that Miles had been hung, Francis was alone in the world. And more dangerous than ever.
The carriage pulled up to his house, and he disembarked before it had completely rolled to a stop, his senses on high alert. The sky overhead had darkened, threatening a sudden spring rain and casting disquieting shadows along the streets of Grosvenor Square. A thread of unease tightened his gut, propelling him toward his front door. Which failed to open as he approached.
With a frown, Jasper pressed the latch and entered. “William?” His voice echoed in the stark, grand foyer.
There was a moment of absolute silence, then with crisp finality, the door slammed shut behind him. “ Sodding hell! ” Jasper exclaimed, gripping his chest as he spun.
His butler’s clipped footfalls approached from the kitchens before the man appeared at the far end of the foyer. Jasper’s pulse gradually returned to normal as he noted the shuffle of movement from his maids and footmen abovestairs and the off-key humming of his housekeeper.
“My humble apologies, Your Grace,” William breathed as he accepted Jasper’s hat and gloves.
“Not at all.” Jasper’s lips quirked in a tight smile. “I’m to pen an urgent missive to the magistrate then call on the Marchioness of Livingston. Please have the carriage ready.” He stepped away, but turned back to the man. “And do not permit callers, William. My cousin has escaped the noose, and I’ll not risk the safety of the staff.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
With a nod, Jasper crossed the foyer and strode to his study. A fire was lit in the hearth but, despite the warmth to the room, a chill danced down his spine. He turned to close the door and his heart all but stopped in his chest.
There, jutting from the wood of the door was a dagger piercing a folded piece of parchment with his name penned on the front.
His pulse tripped, and he leaned forward to inspect it. He knew that slanted, untidy penmanship.
Inhaling deeply, he prepared to call out for his butler. But an odd fragrance stopped him. Cautiously, he sniffed at the paper. Bitter almonds . Jasper reared back in alarm and hastily retrieved a spare set of gloves from the drawer of a side table.
With a muttered curse and trembling fingers, Jasper donned the gloves and tugged the note free, striding toward the hearth.
Thou a R t a boil,
A plague-sore or embossèd carbuncle
In my corrupted blood.
Jasper’s skin grew cold. Francis had been inside his sodding house. And damn, but the quote was familiar, but he couldn’t bloody well place it. It sounded like Shakespeare…
With a slight hiss, the parchment caught as he tossed it upon the fire. Then Jasper looked at his leather gloves. If Francis had meant to poison him through contact with his skin, his gloves were unquestionably soiled. He sighed. Damnable loss. Carefully, Jasper plucked at the fingertips of both gloves until he was able to flick them into the fire.
Whomp . Bright flames warped the leather, curling and distorting them until naught was left but a charcoal mass.
* * *
With a final scratch of her pen, Maria sat back in her chair and revelled in the success of completion. Warmth spread across her chest and a little bubble of happiness filled her abdomen. It did not matter how many articles she had written over the past years, she still felt the same upon their conclusion.
Someone rushed past, the movement rustling her parchment. Maria glanced up. The newspaper offices were bustling with activity. Some men sat writing news articles behind three neat rows of two small desks, while others went about their business, hurrying between the desks or out to the main corridor.
The wood-panelled walls were dark and confining, but two large windows along one side of the room flooded the space with natural light.
“Is that the article for this week, Mr. Robertson?” a young paper boy asked, suddenly appearing at her side.
Maria nodded, and replied in her practiced deepened voice. “Just finished.” She handed the parchment to the lad with another nod, and he scampered to her superior’s office.
With a flourish, she rose and lifted her coat from the back of her chair, smoothly sliding her arms through the sleeves before straightening the cuffs. It was her final day in the office that week, and she could scarcely countenance another moment away from her apartments.
How does Juliana fare? The thought ran through her mind, as it had all day. Juliana’s cousins had been hanged that morning; Maria could only imagine that Juliana would need comfort at such a time. Mayhap she ought to fetch Heather, and they three could sit for tea. Although, she supposed Juliana did have her husband now.
Raised voices came from the building’s foyer, causing Maria to pause in the act of putting on her hat. She trained her ears.
“…wasn’t the right man!”
“This is a story; someone start writing!”
“Fetch Mr. Balfour; this ought to be tomorrow’s headline!”
Along with several of her fellow writers, Maria rushed to the foyer.
“What has happened?” one man asked.
“The hanging!” a man replied breathlessly. “Francis Sinclair was not there!”
A shard of ice lodged itself in her chest, and tingles of unease raced down her gloved fingers.
Her colleagues dashed about, no doubt preparing an article for tomorrow’s paper, but Maria was stuck. Francis hadn’t made it to the hanging. Lord, but the man was vile, capable of any number of cruelties, and he would undoubtedly seek revenge on Juliana and Jasper.
No, indeed , she reminded herself. He would no longer come for just Juliana and Jasper. After the events of the past months, Maria knew the bestial, brutish games of which Francis was capable, and he would not limit himself to just his cousins. He would target anyone with whom they associate. That put Maria squarely in the line of his ire.
“Oh! Duncan—er, Mr. Robertson—I’ve a missive for you.”
Maria blinked, the secretary’s voice jolting her out of her reverie.
“Good day, Cordelia,” Maria said, doffing her hat and offering a short bow at as she neared.
Maria felt a connection to the woman, who regrettably knew only one side of Maria. She grinned and accepted the folded piece of parchment. “Thank you. How was your day?”
Cordelia’s auburn eyebrows bunched together in consternation, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I fear our superiors must be displeased with me. I’m absolutely certain that I’ve done nothing incorrectly but, as you know, they’ve recently requested that I replace Higgs in bookkeeping—in addition to continuing my position here.” Her lips thinned and she leaned closer. “Well, I was double-checking the cost of ink—to ensure we weren’t overcharged in our recent order, you see—and I happened to note that Higgs had been paid thrice my current wages, for just the one job.”
Maria’s heart sank as she watched worry and dejection swim in her friend’s green eyes. While Maria knew about the disparity in men and women’s wages, it hurt to know just how much it impacted Cordelia.
Perhaps …
“Have you considered,” she began in an undertone, “an alternate vocation?”
Cordelia shook her head with a pained grimace. “I wish that I could, but I can ill afford to lose this position.”
Tapping her gloved index finger on the desk, Maria made a swift decision. “Allow me to think on it. I might be able to offer my assistance.”
“Truly? Oh, thank you!” A bright smile lit Cordelia’s features as she waved Maria off.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk outside The Morning Herald offices, Maria lifted her arm to hail a hack, the motion pulling on the binding tightly wrapped around her breasts. By the end of the work day, the blasted thing grew tiresome. But it was necessary.
A gust of cool wind tugged at her coat and her queue, the darkening grey sky threatening rain. With a hearty clip-clop and the clatter of wheels on cobblestone, a hack stopped. Maria gave the driver the direction, and entered, more than content to finally be on her way home.
Flipping over the parchment in her hand, she glanced at the direction and instantly recognized the halting scrawl. Eagerly tearing open the seal, she scanned the first sentence.
The lagoon was warm and deep, the water an almost opalescent blue, somehow reflecting the sun even from within the cave…
She sighed. It was perfect. Her friend had answered her question and confirmed her research. They’d met at the opera years ago, when the woman and her brother had journeyed from Gibraltar to visit a Spanish uncle who had purchased a home in London. Before they returned home, she and Maria had exchanged directions and frequently corresponded.
But this . This information was precisely what she required to conclude her next chapter. Despite the dangers—and the tides—her principal character would secret treasure away deep in a lagoon… Her next chapter, however, would have to be delayed until Maria had spoken to Juliana and sorted out the business of Francis’ escape from custody.
Her abdomen buzzed with trepidation, and she silently urged the driver to increase their pace.
Undoubtedly, their offices on Bow Street would hear the news of Francis Sinclair before the article was printed on the morrow. Maria had been welcomed in by Grace Huntsbury—the woman behind the business—but had not yet been given command of her first assignment. Would capturing Francis and returning him to gaol be her first? What would Jasper think of her involvement?
She clucked her tongue, the sound scarcely audible over the thundering of horses’ hooves and the rattle of the hack’s wheels on the cobblestones. Jasper would berate her, as usual, but beneath it all, he would be frightened. That underlying concern for her safety, and the safety of others, was what redeemed him during those irksome moments. Drat the man.
Another deep sigh escaped her. He’d surely been there to witness the hanging of his cousins and secure himself a sense of conclusion. How had he taken the news of Francis’ escape?
The hack jostled around a corner, and Maria put a hand out to stabilize herself. They turned off Wafting Street onto Bread Street, and she drummed her fingers on her thigh. It was at this time that she ordinarily felt the buzz of anticipation in her middle, but today was different.
Voices rang out around her: the bartering of goods, tittering of young women, trotting of horses’ hooves, rolling carriage wheels, and the faint wails of newly born babes.
Upon rocking to a halt, Maria quit the hack and paid the driver, breathing deeply the scent of horses, coal smoke, and manure. The buildings lining the street were coal-darkened and ever so slightly crooked. And she adored it.
Home .
Her apartments were on the third floor of a building with a cobbler as its ground floor shop front. Maria did so adore her home in Cheapside, and she rather lamented the fact that she had to return to her parents’ house every eve. Would that she could live here with Thomas, regardless of the perils of Cheapside at night.
Snick . The lock slid open, and she burst through the door into her familiar space. The door opened onto their large sitting room furnished with overstuffed armchairs, a settee, and a chaise, all upholstered in rich purples and blues. A fireplace was set into the wall on the left side of the room, while the entire back wall was covered with custom-built bookshelves that wrapped around their tall windows. The door nearest the fireplace led to the kitchens, and on the right wall sat her writing desk, a piano, and the corridor that led to their bedchambers.
Pride swelled in her chest—as it did every time she entered her home—even while urgency flooded her.
“Thomas,” she breathed.
“Maria!” Thomas Roberts rose from his armchair by the fire and set his book aside. “You’re home earlier than I’d expected.”
“The news has not yet broken, brother.” Maria locked the door and rushed through the sitting room to her bedchamber. “Francis Sinclair did not appear at his execution.”
“No?” he called through her slightly opened door. “Blimey. What does this mean”—he paused to release a throaty grunt—“for the duke and Juliana? And for you?”
Maria laid the walking dress that she’d worn that morning upon her never-used bed, then swiftly unfastened her waistcoat buttons and cravat. “I imagine that the duke’s cousin will seek revenge.”
Grunt, click . Another of Thomas’ habitual spasms echoed down the short corridor. The spasms were as much a part of him as the colour of his eyes. But far too many people couldn’t see past his uncontrollable sounds and movements and recognize the kindest, dearest man in London.
“You’d best act fast,” he said. “Francis must be brought back before the magistrate and— grunt— pay for his crimes.” He paused, and there was a muffled thump before he continued. “The duke, Juliana, and her new family must be protected. And no doubt you will be a target now, as well.”
“In that you’re correct.” She stepped into her frock and slid her arms through the sleeves. “But I daresay we’ve bested the man before, and we can do so again.”
Grunt .
“Please lace me?”
He strode into the bright lilac-and-white bedchamber, his face in a contorted grimace.
Maria laughed softly as she reached to smooth the hair over his furrowed brow. His spasms came more frequently when he was under stress. “How was your day?”
Grunt, grunt . “Well enough.”
He rounded behind her and tugged at the laces of her stays.
“Did Mrs. Fredrickson—dear me, not so tight, please!—come to prepare meals?”
Thomas sighed. “Yes— click —she did.”
“And the maid? Did she?—”
“For pity’s sake, Maria,” he groaned, moving his attention to her walking dress. “You’re less than a year younger than me and yet you flutter about— grunt, grunt —l-like—” He huffed in agitation as he struggled to get the words out. “You needn’t— grunt, click —worry about me.”
“It isn’t worry; it is love,” Maria assured him.
He groaned again, and fastened the last hook on her frock. “Are you intentionally trying to guilt me, sister?”
Maria spun to face him with a small laugh. “I am doing whatever you wish for me to be doing.” She pressed a light kiss to his whiskered cheek. “Thank you.”
“What would you do if I was not here to attend you while you changed personae?”
In her early days of embracing the side of her that was Mr. Duncan Robertson , she’d discreetly paid a courtesan to aid her, but that had not lasted long. Almost immediately after securing work and a home for Duncan , she had posed as a distant relative of Thomas’ and removed him from Bedlam. They had been so close as children; it had nearly broken her when their parents sent him away.
A wave of sorrow swept through her, but she disguised it with a smirk.
She moved to her dressing table and removed the tie for her queue. “I would scandalize the general populace by walking about half-dressed, for certain.”
Making swift work of her brushing, Maria hastily knotted her hair at the base of her head and began applying pins.
“Ah.” Thomas caught her gaze in the mirror while he thumbed her missive. “You’ve received— grunt, click —word from your piratical friend.”
Her grey eyes lit with anticipation. “I have. Right now, however, there is a more pressing matter at hand.”
Grunt . “Correct. You must aid in the tracking and capturing of a madman.” Thomas leaned a hip against her chest of drawers and crossed one ankle over the other, his face twitching into a grimace. “You’ve been among the ranks of the women of Bow Street for above a month but have yet to take charge of your own assignment. Tell me, h—” grunt. “—how do you plan to undertake such an ambitious task?”