Книга - Forever a Lady

Forever a Lady
Delilah Marvelle


Two different classes One common desire…Lady Bernadette Marie Burton may be the richest widow in England, but like her dreams of finding true passion, her reputation is deteriorating. Cruel gossip, loneliness and hoards of opportunistic suitors have her believing Society couldn’t be more vile…or dangerous.So when an intruder threatens her life, she finds safety in the most unseemly of places: the arms of a mysterious, Irish-American gang leader. His fortune stolen, young Matthew Milton is done playing the respectable gentleman.In the slums of New York, only ruffians thrive. But from the moment he arrives in London and encounters the voluptuous Lady Bernadette, he can’t help but wonder about the finer pleasures he’s missing. Or just how much he’s willing to risk—not only to bed her, but to prove his worth…. " quintessential romance." —Booklist on Prelude to a Scandal







TWO DIFFERENT CLASSES, ONE COMMON DESIRE...

Lady Bernadette Marie Burton

may be the richest widow in England,

but like her dreams of finding true passion, her reputation is deteriorating. Cruel gossip, loneliness and hoards of opportunistic suitors have her believing Society couldn’t be more vile...or dangerous. So when an attacker threatens her life, she finds safety in the most unseemly of places: the arms of a mysterious, Irish-American gang leader.

His fortune stolen, young

Matthew Milton

is done playing the respectable gentleman. In the slums of New York, only ruffians thrive. But from the moment he arrives in London and encounters the voluptuous Lady Bernadette, he can’t help but wonder about the finer pleasures he’s missing. Or just how much he’s willing to risk—not only to bed her, but to prove his worth....


Praise for the novels of Delilah Marvelle

“Marvelle adeptly explores the best and worst of

social class divides in this unforgettable story.”

—Booklist on Forever and a Day (starred review)

“Marvelle not only crafts highly sensual novels, her innovative ideas and plot twists invigorate the genre.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Not only is it intriguing and mysterious,

it’s highly addictive.”

—Fresh Fiction on Forever Mine

“Showcases Marvelle’s ability to heat up the pages

while creating a tender love story that touches the heart.”

—RT Book Reviews on Once Upon a Scandal

“Marvelle’s story of Radcliff coming to know himself,

and Justine’s faith in him, is a quintessential romance.”

—Booklist on Prelude to a Scandal


Forever a Lady

Delilah Marvelle













Dear Reader,

Everyone deserves a second chance at life. Especially when at the core of who and what they are, they define all things good. Sometimes, life cheats us out of opportunities we deserve. But even then, we have the right to dream and to be more than what everyone expects from us. Such is the story of Matthew Joseph Milton. Educated, dashing and a true gentleman at heart, he finds that being a good man simply isn’t enough to survive in a world looking to take everything away from you. So what do you do in an effort to fight back? You redefine yourself, even at the cost of yourself. In that, Matthew and Bernadette are the same (without knowing it). They both had to redefine themselves, only to discover that they buried far too much. Forever a Lady is my twisted version of Newsies. Only, I’m going with buff, older men toting pistols, instead of boys toting newspapers. It is my hope you will enjoy the searing passion Matthew and Bernadette learn to share not only for each other but for life as they return to who and what they really are. I feel blessed enough to speak from experience when I say, there is no better happily-ever-after than finding yourself and the love of your life.

Much love,

Delilah Marvelle


To my sister, Yvonne.

In honor of Once Upon a Time.


Contents

PROLOGUE (#u1e683d92-eede-5da5-8a8b-c097f2af3f0a)

CHAPTER ONE (#uc6a75238-7307-5860-8205-74c3be660f1c)

CHAPTER TWO (#u1f02e21c-60b7-5034-b997-9993e697ebb9)

CHAPTER THREE (#u867ef080-4f25-5c25-9b1a-96c337458ed9)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2da70daf-6357-508c-8323-984bf7cdf2f1)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ue20542f3-c709-52ed-93e3-e7c26fc56b35)

CHAPTER SIX (#u82c4bf54-3981-51f0-a091-6d165e12a9c1)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE

Survival, gentlemen. Life is all about survival.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

June 1822

New York City—Orange Street

WHEN IT HAD BEEN UNCOVERED that their bookkeeper and longtime friend, Mr. Richard Rawson, was actually a money-pilfering son of a mudsill, Matthew and his father had sent the authorities straight to Rawson’s house to make an arrest. Rawson, realizing he was about to hang, saddled a horse and galloped off, leaving behind a clutter of furniture and foppish clothing worth a sliver of nothing. The rest of the money taken from coffers of the Milton newspaper—two thousand dollars of it—Rawson had long since squandered on gambling and countless whores, whose extravagant tastes included every imaginable trinket known to please female humanity.

When armed marshals had finally cornered that bastard just off Broadway and Bowling Green Park, it was there, before all of New York City, Rawson’s own horse heroically intervened by rearing up on its hind legs. Rawson’s neck snapped from the toss and the man was pronounced dead, right along with the once-thriving Milton newspaper, The Truth Teller, which had sunk into bankruptcy.

If only such men could die twice. Perhaps then Matthew Joseph Milton would have felt some sense of justice knowing that he and his father, who both had once owned said newspaper and been worth a good three hundred a year, were now worth only eight dollars and forty-two cents.

Lingering beside his father on the street curb of their new neighborhood, Matthew tightened his fingers on the rough wool of the sacks weighing each shoulder. He stared up at that looming unpainted building, the acrid stench of piss lacing the heat-ridden air.

Could the good Lord truly be this cruel?

Oh, yes. Yes, He could be, and yes, He was.

The sweltering heat of the afternoon sun pierced Matthew’s furrowed brow, beading lines of moisture down his temples. Shirtless men lounged with dirt-crusted bare feet on the sills of open windows, some guzzling bottles of old Irish whiskey, while others leisurely smoked half-cut cigars. It was as if these bingo boys all thought they were on a blanket on the grassy plains of a lake. One of the bearded men in the window directly above him menacingly held his gaze, leaned over and loudly spat. A large pool of thick brown saliva slapped the pavement half a foot away.

The man had been aiming for him.

Matthew glanced toward his father, who still held a crate of newspapers from the print shop. “Was, uh, this the best your associate could do for us? I would think a much bigger discount would have been in order.”

His father, Raymond Charles Milton, slowly shook his head, those silvering strands of chestnut-colored hair swaying as he, too, surveyed the building. It was obvious his father was no more prepared to enter the building than he was.

One of them had to be optimistic. Matthew nudged the man with whatever assurance he could muster. “It could be worse. We could be sitting in debtors’ prison.”

His father gave him a withering look.

Matthew paused as a boy of about six or seven, whose brown matted hair hung into his eyes, wandered past in billowing clothing and large boots. The boy shuffle-shuffle-shuffled in an effort to keep those boots on his small feet.

Upon seeing Matthew, the child jerked to a halt, that oversized linen shirt that came down to his trouser-clad knees swaying against his lanky frame. The boy lingered before them, those large brown eyes quietly scanning Matthew’s cravat and embroidered vest as if assessing their worth.

One day, Matthew knew he’d have a house full of children just like this one. One day. Though he certainly hoped that by that day, he could afford to dress his children a bit better than this child was dressed. Matthew couldn’t help but smile. “And how are you today, sir? Good?”

The boy’s eyes widened. He edged back and back and then sprinted past and across the street, stumbling several times in those oversized boots.

His father bumped Matthew with the crate. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. All I did was ask how he was. He mustn’t be used to people being...friendly.”

They fell into silence.

The clopping and clacking of carts and the occasional profanity and shouts of men from down the street reminded them that they weren’t on Barclay Street anymore. No more vast treed square, no more pristine lacquered carriages or elegant men and women of the merchant classes. Only this.

“I should have never entrusted Rawson,” his father confided in a strained tone. “Because of me, you have nothing. Not even a prospect of marriage. If it weren’t for me, you would have been married to Miss Drake by now.”

Matthew whipped both sacks to the pavement at hearing that woman’s name. “I can do with the poverty, Da. I can do with the stench and everything that goes with it, but what I can’t do with is listening to you blather as if this was your goddamn fault. To hell with Miss bloody Drake. If she had loved me, as I had stupidly loved her, she would have followed me here. Like I had asked her to.”

His father paused and eyed him. “Would you have followed yourself here?”

Matthew hissed out a breath, trying not to let it hurt knowing he had meant so little to her. “I’m only twenty, Da. I have my whole life ahead of me. One day, I’ll find myself a good woman capable of respecting me, no matter my financial worth.”

His father dug into his vest pocket, balancing the crate on his hip. “God bless you, Matthew, for always making the best out of even the worst.” He tossed him a quarter. “Buy us something to eat. And try to ration it. We have yet to find jobs. I’ll go settle us in. Hand up those sacks, will you?”

Matthew snatched both up from the pavement and stacked them atop the crate. His father tucked the upper wool sack beneath his chin and strode through the open doorway, angling himself up the narrow stairwell.

Puffing out a breath, Matthew swung toward the dirt road, scanning the wide street of squat buildings plastered with crooked wooden plaques. Unevenly stacked crates of browning fruit and half-rotten vegetables sat unattended alongside open doors. A floating swarm of insects hovered in unison over one crate of food before darting to the next. It was as if the insects themselves were questioning the quality at hand.

He already missed their cook.

A strangled sob made his gaze jerk toward a commotion just across the street. A russet-haired gent in a frayed shirt and patched trousers held a boy roughly by the hair, shaking him.

Matthew drew in a breath. It was the boy with the oversized boots.

As a coal cart trudged past, the unshaven giant leaned down, shaking the boy by the hair again and again, saying something. The boy sobbed with each violent agitation, stumbling in an effort to remain upright.

Matthew fisted the quarter his father had given him. He’d never formally boxed, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to stand by and watch this. Tucking the quarter into his inner vest pocket, Matthew dodged past women carrying woven baskets and dashed across the unpaved street toward them.

“Tell your whore of a mother,” the man seethed, “that I want me money and I want it now. She owes me fifteen cents. Fifteen!”

“She don’t have it!” the boy wailed, grabbing at his head.

Matthew jerked to a halt beside them, his pulse roaring. He tried to remain calm, lest this turn into a brawl the child didn’t need to see. “Let him go. I’ll pay whatever his mother owes.”

A sweat-sleeked, sunburned round face jerked toward him. The stench of rotting cabbage penetrated the stagnant air. The man shoved the boy away and stepped toward him, that rather well-fed thick frame towering a head over Matthew’s own. “She owes me twenty cents.”

The bastard. “I heard fifteen.” Matthew dug into his waistcoat pocket. “But here is what I’ll do.” Matthew held up the quarter his father had given him. “I’ll give you an extra ten cents to leave off this boy from here on out. You do that, and this is yours.”

The man hesitated, then reached out a calloused hand. Grabbing the quarter, he shoved it into his own pocket. “That be fine with me. He’s got nothing I want. His hag of a mother be the problem.”

“Then I suggest you take it up with her. Not him.” Matthew veered toward the child, bent down toward him and nudged up that small chin. “Ey. Are you all right?”

The boy pedaled back, tears still clinging to those flushed cheeks. He nodded, touching his small hands to his head.

The man grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him back toward himself. With a smirk, he fluffed Matthew’s white linen cravat. “Rather fancy and all, aren’t you? I know I’ve always wanted me one of these.”

Matthew jerked back, out of reach, and narrowed his gaze. “I suggest you leave.”

The man lowered his unshaven chin and tightened his own penetrating gaze, those fuzzy red brows creeping together. Raising a thick hand, the man now tilted a sharp blade toward Matthew’s face, the metal glinting against the sun. He leaned in and tapped its smooth edge on Matthew’s cheek. “Are you going to take it off? Or would you rather I slice it off?”

It was unbelievable. Barely twenty minutes in these parts and he was being robbed for assisting a child. Fisting both hands, lest he jump and get sliced, Matthew offered in a low, even tone, “Put away the knife and we’ll talk.”

A full-knuckled fist slammed into his head. Matthew gasped in disbelief against the teetering impact.

The man casually tossed the blade to his other thick hand, announcing that the worst was yet to come. “I say what goes. Now take it off, lest the boy sees something he oughtn’t.”

Shifting his jaw, Matthew grudgingly unraveled the linen. He wasn’t stupid. Sliding it off, he wordlessly held it out.

The man snatched it away, wrapping it smugly around his own thick neck, and stepped back, tucking away his blade. “Next time, do as I say.”

As if he was going to wait for a next time. Knowing the blade was out of the game, Matthew gritted his teeth and jumped forward, throwing out a straight-faced punch.

The giant grabbed his fist in midair, causing Matthew’s arm to pop back from the swift contact of his large palm.

That gaze threatened. “You’re dead.” A blow hit Matthew’s skull, jaw, nose and eye in such rapid fire, his leather boots skidded against the pavement with each teeth-jarring wallop.

Matthew jumped forward again, viciously swinging back at the bastard, but only decked air as the giant dodged.

The boy beside them swung his own small fists in the air, stumbling left and right and shouted up at Matthew, “Come on! Pound the dickey dazzler. Pound him!”

A brick of an unexpected whack to his left eye not only made Matthew rear back, but made everything in sight fade to a hazy white. Jesus Christ. He caught himself against a lamppost, his bare hands sliding against the sun-warmed iron.

“Enough!” a man boomed, stilling the boy’s shouts.

No blows followed.

Drawing in shaky, ragged breaths, Matthew squinted to see past the sweltering pain pulsing through his face and skull.

A broad figure with long black hair tied in a queue, garbed in a patched great coat, held a pistol to the side of Matthew’s assailant’s head. “Give this respectable man his cravat, James,” the man casually offered in an educated New York accent that was laced with a bit of European sophistication. “And while you’re at it, give him your blade.”

The russet-haired oaf froze against the barrel of that pistol set against his head. His grubby hand patted and pulled out the blade, extending it and the cravat to Matthew.

Pushing away from the lamppost, Matthew tugged his morning coat back into place, trying to focus beyond the heaviness and blur that clouded his one eye. He reached out, his arm seemingly floating and slid the scrap of linen toward himself.

“Take the blade,” the man with the pistol ordered.

Matthew didn’t want the blade, but he also didn’t want to argue with a man holding a pistol. In his opinion, they were all mad. He blinked, trying to refocus. Though he could see where the men stood in proximity to him, an eerie dense shadow lingered, making him feel as if he were seeing the world on an angle. Matthew took the blade.

Pressing the pistol harder against his assailant’s temple, the man gritted out, “If you touch either of them again, James, we go knuckle to knuckle over at the docks until one of us is dead. Now, brass off.”

James darted, shoving past others, and disappeared.

The man jerked toward the child. “Away with you, Ronan. And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.”

The boy hesitated. Meeting Matthew’s gaze, he grinned crookedly, his brown eyes brightening. “I owe you a quarter.” Still grinning, he swung away and thudded down the street in those oversized boots.

Matthew huffed out a breath in exasperation. At least he got the boy to smile, because he doubted he’d ever see that quarter again.

Lowering the pistol and methodically uncocking it, the man before him adjusted his billowing great coat. Piercing ice-blue eyes held his. “Where the hell did you learn how to mill? At a female boarding school?”

Matthew self-consciously stuffed the cravat into his coat pocket, his hand trembling at the realization that the dense shadow in his eye remained. “Where I come from, boxing isn’t really a requirement.” He fingered the wooden handle of the blade still weighing his hand. “I appreciate your assistance.”

“I’m certain you do.” The man waved the pistol toward Matthew’s embroidered vest. “Nice waistcoat. Sell it. Because fancy won’t matter for shite when you’re in a grave, and I’m telling you right now, it’s only a matter of time before you get robbed of it. Now, go. Off with you.”

Matthew hesitated, sensing this man wasn’t like the rest of these rumpots. He held out a quick hand. The one that wasn’t holding the blade. “The name is Matthew Joseph Milton.”

The man shoved his pistol into the leather belt attached to his hips. “I didn’t ask for your name. I told you to go.”

Matthew still held it out. “I’m trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t do friendly, and in case you haven’t noticed, no one else here does, either.”

Matthew awkwardly dropped his hand to his side. “Is there anything I can do for you? Given what you just did for me? I insist.”

“You insist?” That dark brow lifted. “Well. I could use a meal and whiskey, seeing I’m between matches.”

“Done.” Matthew paused. “Matches? You box?”

The man shrugged. “Bare-knuckle prizefighting.” He patted the leather belt and pistol. “This isn’t me being lazy. It ensures I don’t injure myself during training. An injury means I don’t box. And if I don’t box, I don’t eat.”

“Ah. Isn’t bare-knuckle prizefighting...illegal?”

The man stared him down. “I’ll have you know the bastards who publicly go about condemning my fights are usually the same ones merrily throwing big money at it. I’ve already had three politicians and two marshals try to buy me out for a win. So, no. It isn’t illegal. Not whilst they’re doing it.”

Knowing a professional boxer in these parts would be a good thing. A very good thing. “And what is your name, sir?”

The man shifted his stubbled jaw. “I have several names. Which one do you want?”

How nice. It appeared this man was involved in all sorts of illegal activities. “Give me the one that I won’t get arrested for knowing.”

“Coleman. Edward Coleman. Not to be confused with the other Edward Coleman running about these parts, who by the by, is murder waiting to happen. Stay away from that imp of Satan.”

“Uh...I will. Thank you.”

Coleman pointed at him. “I suggest you learn the rules of the ward. Especially given that you appear to be a do-gooder. ’Tis simple really—don’t overdress, and always carry a weapon.”

“I will heed that.” Matthew held out the blade weighing his hand. “Except the weapon bit. Here. I’m not about to—”

Grabbing his wrist, Coleman yanked it forcefully upward, jerking the sharp tip of that steel toward Matthew’s face.

Matthew froze, his gaze snapping to those ice-blue eyes.

The smell of leather penetrated the air between them.

Coleman smirked and let the blade playfully scrape the skin on the curve of Matthew’s chin. “You ought to keep it. You never know when you’ll need it to slice...vegetables.” He released his hold, allowing Matthew to lower the dagger. “I’ll teach you how to use a blade, how to box and do a few other fancy things in exchange for meals.”

Matthew self-consciously tightened his grip on the blade. “I know how to use a blade. One simply points and—”

Coleman jumped toward him. With a quick hard hit to the wrist and a jab and twist, the blade clanged to the pavement. Coleman kicked the blade away with his whitened leather boot and eyed him. “Lessons for food.”

Food wasn’t going to be all that useful if he was dead. “Agreed.”

* * *

ONE MOMENT MATTHEW WAS silently and miserably eating cold, mucky stew at a splinter-infested table with his father and Coleman, and the next, the left side of his world edged into piercing darkness.

Matthew’s spoon slid from his fingers and clattered past the table, dropping against the uneven wooden floorboards. Oh, God. His throat tightened as he blinked rapidly, glancing about in disbelief. His peripheral was...gone. Black!

His father lowered his wooden spoon. “What is it?”

Coleman ceased eating midchew.

“I can’t see.” Matthew scrambled out of his chair and stumbled. He fell back against the doorless cupboard behind him with a thud. “I can’t see from my left eye!” He scanned the small, barren tenement, only able to make out the uneven plastered walls to his right.

His father jumped toward him. “Matthew, look at me.” Grabbing his shoulders, his father firmly angled him closer. “Are you certain? That eye is still swollen.”

Matthew placed trembling fingertips against it. He could feel his fingers grazing and touching the lashes of his open eye, but dearest God, he couldn’t see them. “Everything to the left is black. Why? Why is it...” He dragged in uneven breaths, unable to say anything more. Nor could he think.

Coleman slowly rose to his booted feet. “Christ. It’s from the blows.”

Matthew turned his head to better see Coleman. “What do you mean, it’s from the blows? That doesn’t make any sense. How can a few—”

“I’ve seen it in boxing, Milton. One man I knew took so many hits in one match, he went blind within a week.”

Matthew’s breaths now came in gasps. It had been a week.

Shaking his head, Coleman grabbed his great coat from the back of the chair. “I’m hunting that prick down.”

Despite his panic of being half-blind, Matthew choked out, “Hunting him down isn’t going to change anything.”

“This isn’t about changing anything.” Coleman stalked toward him. “It’s about sending a message on what is and isn’t acceptable.”

His father pushed and guided Matthew toward the door. “If this is what you say it is, Coleman, the first thing we need is a surgeon. Now!”

“There is one over on Hudson.” Coleman wedged past them and yanked open the paneled door leading to the corridor. “Though, I really don’t know what the man will be able to do.”

* * *

THE LAST OF THEIR MONEY was gone. And so was the vision in Matthew’s left eye. He fingered the leather patch that had been tied over his unseeing eye by the surgeon who had pronounced it permanently blind. The surgeon agreed with Coleman, stating that the blows he’d sustained had something to do with it, which meant he, Matthew Joseph Milton, was going to be a one-eyed, poverty-stricken freak for the rest of his days.

Gritting his teeth, Matthew jumped up from the crate of newspapers he’d been sitting on, whipped around and slammed a knuckled fist into the wall. He kept slamming and slamming and slamming his fist until he had not only punched his way through the plaster and the wooden lattice buried beneath, but felt his knuckles getting soft.

“Matthew!” His father jumped toward him, jerking back his arm, and yanked him away from the wall.

Matthew couldn’t breathe as he met his father’s gaze.

His father rigidly held up the hand, making Matthew look at the swelling welts, scrapes and blood now slathering it. “Don’t let vile anger overtake the heart within. Don’t.”

Matthew pulled his hand away, which now throbbed in agony. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, and glanced toward Coleman, who still hadn’t said a word since he’d been pronounced blind by the surgeon.

Coleman eventually said, “I’m sorry for all of this.” Pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against, he continued in a dark tone, “Assault, as well as murder, rape and everything else imaginable, is so commonplace here, not even the marshals can keep up with it. Which is why, even with my boxing skills, I always carry a pistol. These bastards don’t bow to anything else.”

Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “If the marshals can’t keep up with it, it means there isn’t enough muscle to go around. It’s obvious some sort of watch has to be put together using local men.”

Coleman puffed out a breath. “Most of these men don’t even know how to read, let alone think properly enough to do the right thing. It would be like inviting a herd of unbroken stallions into your stable and asking them to line up for a saddle. Believe me, I’ve tried to round up men. They only want to fend for themselves.”

“Then we will find better men.” Matthew flexed his hand, trying to push away the throbbing and angst writhing within him. “Though, I should probably invest in a pistol first. How much does a pistol cost anyway?”

“Matthew.” His father set a hand on his arm. “You cannot be taking justice into your hands like this. ’Tis an idea that will see you arrested or, worse yet, killed.”

Matthew edged toward his father. “In my opinion, I’m already in manacles. And if I die, it will be on my terms, Da, not theirs. I don’t know what the hell needs to be done here, but I’m not doing it sitting on a crate filled with whatever is left of your goddamn newspaper.”

Those taut features sagged. His father released his arm with a half nod, and quietly rounded him, leaving the room.

Realizing he’d been stupid and harsh, Matthew called out after him. “I’m sorry, Da. I didn’t mean that.”

“I deserve it,” his father called back. “I do.”

“No, you—” Matthew swiped his face and paused, his fingers grazing the leather patch. God. His life was a mess.

“A good pistol costs ten to fifteen dollars,” Coleman provided. “Not including the lead you’d need.”

Matthew winced. “Gut me already. I can’t afford that.”

“I never bought mine.”

Matthew angled his head to better see him. “What do you mean? Where did you get it?”

Coleman quirked a dark brow. “Are you really that naive?”

Matthew stared and then rasped, “You mean, you stole it?”

Coleman strode toward him, set a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “It’s only stealing, Milton, if you do it for your own gain or if you never give it back. Do you know how many people I’ve saved with this here pistol? Countless. I doubt God is going to be punishing me anytime soon. If you want a pistol, we’ll go get you one. A good one.”

Matthew held that gaze. Mad though it was, this man was on to something momentous. Something that, Matthew knew, was about to change not only his life but the lives of others.


CHAPTER ONE

The city inspector reports the death of 118 persons during this ending week. 31 men, 24 women and 63 children.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

Eight years later

New York City—Squeeze Gut Alley, evening

THE SOUND OF HOOVES thudding against the dirt road in the far distance beyond the dim, gaslit street made Matthew snap up a hand to signal his men, who all quietly lurked across the street. The five he’d chosen out of his group of forty, strategically spread apart, one by one, backing into the shadows of narrow doorways.

Still watching the street, Matthew yanked out both pistols from his leather belts. Setting his jaw, he edged back into the shadows beside Coleman before whispering in riled annoyance, “Where the hell is Royce?”

Coleman leaned toward him and whispered back, “You know damn well that bastard only follows his own orders.”

“Yes, well, we’re about to show that no-name marshal how to do his job. Again.”

“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself, Milton. We’ve got nothing yet. We’re all standing outside a brothel that appears to be out of business, and most of our informants are worth less than shite.”

“Thank you for always pointing out the obvious, Coleman.”

They fell into silence.

A blurred movement approached and a wooden cart with two barrels rolled up to the curb, pulled by a single ragged-looking horse. A large-boned man sat on the dilapidated seat of the cart, his head covered with a wool sack whose eyes had been crudely cut out. The man hopped down from the cart, adjusting the sack on his head. Glancing around, he pulled out a butcher knife and hurried toward the back of the cart.

Justice was about to pierce Five Points. Because if this didn’t look nefarious enough to jump on, Matthew didn’t know what nefarious was anymore. Pointing both pistols at the man’s head, Matthew strode out of the shadows and into the street toward him. “You. Drop the knife. Do it. Now.”

The man froze as Coleman, Andrews, Cassidy, Kerner, Bryson and Plunkett all stepped out of the shadows and also pointed pistols, surrounding him.

The wool-masked man swung toward Matthew, tossing his knife toward the pavement with a clatter and held up both ungloved hands. “I’m delivering oats. You can’t shoot me for that.” His clipped, gruff accent reeked of all things British.

Cassidy rounded the cart, his scarred face appearing in the glow from the gaslight before disappearing into the shadows again as his giant physique stalked toward the man. “Oats, my arse. You Brits seem to always think you’re above the law. Much like the Brit who had the gall to slit me face.” Cassidy paused before the man. He yanked the wool sack off that head and whipped it aside, revealing beady eyes and a balding head. Cassidy cocked his pistol with a metal click and growled out, “I say we kill this feck and send England a message.”

Matthew bit back the need to jump forward and backhand Cassidy. This was exactly what happened when an Irishman had too much justice boiling his blood. He fought against everyone. And woe to the man who also happened to be British. If it weren’t for the fact that Cassidy was dedicated to the cause and would fight with his own teeth to the end for it, Matthew would have booted him long ago.

Veering closer to Cassidy, Matthew hardened his voice. “This has nothing to do with England or your face. So calm the hell down. We don’t need dead bodies or the marshals on our arses.”

Cassidy hissed out a breath but otherwise said nothing.

“Check the barrels,” Matthew called out to Coleman.

Tucking away both pistols, Coleman jogged over to the cart and, with a swing of his long legs, jumped up onto the back of it. Angling toward the two wooden barrels, Coleman pried each one open, tossing aside both lids with a clatter. He glanced up, his chiseled grim face dimly lit by the gas lamp beyond. “They’re both here.”

A breath escaped Matthew.

Bending over each barrel, Coleman dug his hands in and hefted out a young girl of no more than eight, gagged and roped, along with another young girl of about equal age. He set each onto bare feet. Using a razor, Coleman sliced off the ropes and removed their gags.

Choked sobs escaped the girls as they jumped toward each other, clinging. The lopsided wool gowns they wore were crudely stitched and most likely not what they had been wearing when they had been taken from the orphanage.

Matthew’s throat tightened. He knew that if not for the interference of him and his men, these two girls, who had disappeared from the orphanage all but earlier that week, would have been sold to a brothel. Shoving his pistols into his leather belt, Matthew gestured toward the balding man. “Rope this prick up before I do.”

The man shoved past Kerner and Plunkett, and darted, running down the street.

Shite! All of Matthew’s muscles instinctively reacted as he sprinted after the man, leveling his limited vision.

“I told you we should have killed him!” Cassidy boomed after him. “What good are pistols if we never use them?”

“Everyone move!” Matthew yelled back, running faster. “Spread out! Coleman, stay with the girls!”

Matthew refocused on the shadowed figure who was already halfway down the street, those thick legs splashing through muddy puddles as his cloak flapped against the wind blowing in.

Matthew pumped his legs and arms faster and sped into the darkness. Through the sparse light of the moon and passing lampposts, Matthew could see the man repeatedly glancing back, his self-assured run turning into a jogging stagger as the balding man huffed and puffed in an effort to keep moving.

The man wasn’t used to running.

The man was used to the cart.

And this was where he, Matthew, who did nothing but run for a damn living, brought an end to the bastard’s grand delusions of escape. Closing the remaining distance between them, and just before a narrow alleyway between two buildings, Matthew reached out and grabbed the man hard by the collar of his cloak.

Gritting his teeth, Matthew flung his body against that hefty frame, knocking them both down and into the mud with a skidding halt, spraying water and thick sludge everywhere.

As they rolled, Matthew used his weight to stay on top, shoving the man back down. The bastard punched up at him, hurling frantic blows that rammed Matthew’s shoulders and chest.

Holding the man down with a rigid forearm that trembled against that resisting body, Matthew swung down a clenched fist, thwacking him in the head, sending his balding head bouncing against the mud beneath. “Stand down, you son of a bitch! Stand down before I—”

“We got him!” Bryson yelled, pushing in and setting a quick knee against the man’s throat.

In between ragged breaths, Matthew scrambled up to his booted feet. He staggered back, feeling mud sloughing off his arms and trouser-clad thighs.

Cassidy skidded in, spraying more mud and shoved aside Bryson’s knee. “I’ll bloody show you how things are done over in Ireland.”

Effortlessly jerking the man up and out of the mud, Cassidy swung a vicious arm around his throat, causing the man to gag and stagger. Bryson scrambled over with the rope.

Once the man’s arms were tightly roped against his sides, Kerner jumped forward and, with a growl, delivered a swinging fist into the man’s gut. “That’s for every girl you ever touched, you feck!” He swung back his arm and delivered another blow, causing the man to gasp and stagger against the ropes. “You think you can—” Kerner jumped forward again and punched that face, a pop resounding through the night air.

“Kerner!” Matthew boomed.

Kerner stumbled back and swung away, his chest heaving.

Matthew swallowed, trying to calm the chaotic beat of his own heart. Despite the reprimand, Matthew knew all too well that Kerner, who had lost his twelve-year-old daughter to a brutal rape and murder just down this very street six years earlier, was relatively calm given the situation.

Sadly, a deeply rooted need to right the wrongs that had been committed against them was what had brought each and every one of them together. Their grief had become his own grief. They all struggled with anger. “I know this isn’t easy for you. Breathe.”

Kerner swiped at his bearded face with a trembling hand. “Aye. I’m sorry.” As if lurching out of a trance, he said, “Tend to those girls. Coleman is probably scaring the piss out of them.”

“Ah, leave off the man. He’s not as rough as he lets on.” Matthew flung off whatever mud he could from his hands and jogged his way back down the street until he reached the cart. “We got him,” he called out to Coleman, who was bent over the cart, waiting for the verdict.

Coleman huffed out a breath. “Good.”

Heading toward the back of the cart, Matthew leaned against the uneven planks of wood. Neither barefooted girl was crying anymore—thank God—but both were still tucked against the barrels they’d been removed from, huddling against each other.

Coleman gestured toward the two. “You should probably take over. They don’t seem to like me. Or my stories.”

Hopefully the man hadn’t been sharing the wrong sort of stories. Swiping his muddied hands against his linen shirt, Matthew held out both hands toward them and gently urged, “All of us are here to help. My name is Matthew and this gent beside you is Edward. Now. I want you both to be brave and ignore the mud and the scary eye patch. Can you be brave enough to trust me? Just this once?”

They stared, still clinging to each other.

Matthew lowered his hands and smiled in an effort to win them over. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Do you want me to act like a monkey? One-eyed monkeys are my forte, you know. Just ask anyone.” He scratched his head with his fingers and softly offered, “Ooh, ooh, eee, eee, aah, aah.”

Coleman leaned down toward them. “I can do a better monkey than he can. Watch this.” Coleman swung his long, muscled arms in the air and garbled toward them.

The girls darted away from Coleman. Their dark braids swayed as they scrambled toward Matthew in clinging unison, as if deciding that Matthew was a better choice than Coleman.

Matthew bit back a smile. Good old Coleman. He could always depend on the man to scare anyone into cooperation. Matthew held out both hands. “There’s no need to be frightened. He’s merely being silly. Now come. Give me your hands.”

The girls paused before him, each slowly taking his outstretched hands, though they still clung to each other. Those small, cold fingers trembled against his own.

Matthew gently tightened his hold on them, trying to transmit warmth and support. He leaned toward them and whispered, “Thank you for being so brave. I know how hard that was. Are you ready to go back to Sister Catherine? She’s been very worried.”

To his astonishment, both girls flung themselves at his throat, bumping their heads against his shoulders. They sobbed against him.

Matthew gathered them, sadly unsurprised as to how little they weighed, and draped each girl around a hip, ensuring his pistols were out of the way.

The thudding of a single horse’s hooves echoed in the distance. The girls tightened their hold against him as he turned toward the sound.

The lamppost beyond resembled a golden halo eerily floating in the bleak distance. The steady beating of hooves against the trembling ground drew closer as the silhouette of a man in full military attire with a sword at his side, pushed his horse toward them.

Marshal Royce. The bastard. Now he arrived.

Matthew glanced at each girl and chided, “This here man was supposed to assist, but the mayor wouldn’t let him out of the house in time to play. The mayor is his mother, you see. And neither do enough for this city. Make sure you remember that when women are finally given the right to vote.”

The horse whinnied as it came to a stop beside them. “I heard that,” Royce snapped from above, his rugged face shadowed. “Why don’t you also tell these girls how I always look the other way when you’re doing something illegal?”

Matthew glared up at him. “Why don’t you offer up your horse so I can take them back?”

Royce wagged gloved hands and commanded, “I’ve had a long night that included almost getting my throat slit. Why the hell do you think I’m late? Hand them up. I’ll return them myself.”

Their arms tightened around Matthew and sobs escaped them.

Matthew stepped back, adjusting his hold on them. “You know, Royce, I don’t know if you care enough to even notice, but these girls have been through enough and don’t need to hear about throat slitting. So tone down that voice and get off the horse. I’m taking them back. All right?”

Royce hesitated, then blew out a breath. With the swing of a long, booted leg, he jumped down and off the horse with a thud. Digging into his pocket, he held out a five-dollar bank note. “Take it to pay your bills,” he grudgingly offered. “I heard you up and stole another shipment of pistols. Just know the next time you do something like that on my watch, I’ll ensure you and your Forty Thieves end up in Sing Sing Prison. And believe me, men don’t sing sing there.”

The bastard was fortunate Matthew was holding two girls. “I don’t need your money. Give it to the orphanage. They need locks on their goddamn doors.”

“You won’t take money from me and yet you have no qualms stealing.” Royce shook his head from side to side, lowering the money he held. “Your pride is going to hang you one of these days.”

“Yes, well, it hasn’t yet.”


CHAPTER TWO

All that you hear, believe not.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

July 22, 1830

Manhattan Square, late evening

“BRING HER OUT!” a man yelled in a riled American tone that drifted from beneath the floorboards of her music room. “Bring that woman out before I damn well dig her out!”

Bernadette Marie let out an exasperated groan and dashed her hands against the ivory keys of the piano she’d been playing. She really needed to lay out more rules for these American men. Not even the hour was sacred anymore.

Heaving out a breath, she gathered her full skirts from around her slippered feet, abandoning her Clementi piano, and hurried out of the candlelit music room. Rounding a corner, past countless gilded paintings and marble sculptures, she veered toward and down the sweeping set of stairs that led to the dimly lit entrance hall below.

She paused midway down.

Hook-nosed, beady-eyed, old Mr. Astor glanced up at her from the entrance hall. “Ah!” He tugged on his evening coat and strode around the sputtering butler. “There she is.”

Mr. Astor was not the man she had expected to see, given the late hour, but the endearing, quirky huff of a man had long earned her trust. He was one of the few to have welcomed her into the upper American circle, which had been most hesitant about accepting her due to the fact that she was British. He had also become the ever-guiding father she’d never had. Of sorts.

She hurried down the remaining stairs. “Mr. Astor.” She alighted to a halt on the bottom stair and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Emerson, you may go.”

Her butler, whom she had dragged all the way over from London—much to the poor man’s dismay—hesitated as if wishing to point out that the hour was anything but respectable.

Mr. Astor snapped out his hat to the man. “Take it and go, you Philadelphia lawyer. I’m not here to kick up her skirts.”

Bernadette cringed. The mannerisms of New Yorkers, even ones as privileged as Mr. Astor, was something she hadn’t quite gotten used to. She had watched in unending astonishment all but two weeks ago as, after a meal, the man had wiped his greased hands on a woman’s dress at a dinner party. Prankster that he was, he thought it was funny. And it was, in a son-of-a-butcher sort of way. But the woman whose gown was ruined didn’t care for his humor at all, even though he had offered to buy her four new gowns.

Not that Bernadette was complaining about the company she was keeping these days. No, no, no. He and all of New York were refreshingly, gaspingly glorious in comparison to the boring, overly orchestrated life she’d left behind. “Emerson, go. You know full well Mr. Astor deserves late entry.”

Emerson sniffed, grudgingly took the hat and disappeared into the adjoining room, silently announcing that the British were by far the superior race.

If only it were true.

Mr. Astor swung toward her, patting frizzy white hair back into place with a gloved hand. Dark eyes glinted with unspoken mischief. “I’m here to collect on a debt, Lady Burton.”

Bernadette stiffened at being addressed by a name she had never hoped to hear again. ’Twas a name only a select few in New York knew of, given she now publicly went by the name of Mrs. Shelton. And coming from Mr. Astor, it was especially troubling, be he jesting or not. “Is there a reason you are addressing me as such?”

He clasped his gloved hands together, bringing them smugly against his gray silk embroidered vest. “I’m a man of business first, dear. That is how this son of a German butcher came to trade and buy every last fur from New Orleans to Canada, making me the wealthiest man in this here United States of our Americas. Because when an opportunity presents itself, a man has to set aside being nice for a small while and lunge on said opportunity. So I suggest you do the favor I’m about to ask, Your Highness.”

She rolled her eyes, sensing he knew she wasn’t about to cooperate. Their viewpoints were never the same despite their bond. “I am not the queen. Please do not address me as such.”

“Ah, but you’re related to the woman.”

“My husband was related to the woman. Not I.”

“Are you telling me I can’t depend on you for anything? What sort of friend are you? Is this how you British get on?”

Drat him. She knew it would come to this. New York, after all, hadn’t really been her original destination when she had left London with a deranged twinkle in her eye. She had actually planned on staying permanently in New Orleans to better explore the history of privateering—and its men—until she was robbed right down to her petticoats during a less-than-reputable street masking ball. She had wanted to know what it would be like to frolic with the locals and found they didn’t frolic fair at all.

If it weren’t for Mr. Astor and his grandson, who at the time were all but strangers when they had heroically come to her assistance that night on the street, she might have been robbed of a lot more than just her reticule and gown. After that night, they had all become not only good friends, but old Mr. Astor had also brilliantly proposed she abandon New Orleans and accompany him and his grandson back to New York City under an alias to stave off all the newspapers who sought to exploit her after what had become known as “The Petticoat Incident.”

It was good to be plain old Mrs. Shelton, living in New York City, entertaining good-looking men whenever she had a fancy for it, as opposed to being Lady Burton gone wild, who had made United States gossip history by being included in every American newspaper from New Orleans to Nantucket. She had no doubt whatsoever that London had also long heard of it by now. Right along with her father. Gad.

She drew in a ragged breath and let it out. “I am forever indebted to you and your grandson, Mr. Astor. You know that.”

“Then do as I say, will you? Because my grandson is actually the one who stands to benefit from this. We are talking about squeezing ourselves into British aristocracy and making those prissy, tea-sipping bastards acknowledge that money is what makes power. Not a name smeared with drips of blood.”

Her brows rose. “You wish to...squeeze yourself into British aristocracy? I see. And what is it that you believe I would be able to do for you in that regard?”

He shifted toward her, his aged features taking on the sort of mock severity he reserved only for business associates. “You would be able to help us open doors, is what. How? By overseeing the first American marry into aristocracy. ’Tis a nugget of an opportunity. What I need is for you to assist this American girl along. Georgia Emily Milton is her name. Though, we’ll have to change it. ’Tis overly Irish and plain and needs tinsel. You see, there is an aristo this girl seeks to wed—a Lord Yardley who is next in line to become the Duke of Wentworth—who is already willing and waiting. What you need to do is make her palatable to British society, for her sake and his. It would involve teaching her everything you know about the ton, then guiding her through a Season over in London next year. The duke and I will ensure you have infinite resources to guards. No man will touch you whilst you’re in London. No man. Unless you want him to.”

An astonished laugh escaped her. Oh, now, this was humor at its finest. “Whilst the idea is most amusing, and I have no qualms about assisting this girl if that is truly your bidding, I am not going back to London. It would be an even bigger mess than the one I left behind and I will admit that I am infinitely fond of my new life. None of the men here in New York know who the bonnet I am and I can skylark all I want without getting dashed for it. Unlike back in London, where I was getting dashed for even breathing.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You owe me.”

Bernadette let out an exasperated laugh. “I do not owe you hanging myself. I am not crossing an ocean for that.”

He gestured grudgingly toward the adjoining parlor. “Would you rather my favor involve a piano and a parlor full of naked men? Is that it? Would that be more to your devil-may-care liking?”

Oh dear God. Americans. No wonder the British finally relented on letting them go. Bernadette lifted a brow, knowing that, as always, the man was merely being crass for crass’s sake. It was time he realize that she was no longer the same girl he and his grandson had to rescue on the streets of New Orleans. She knew how to rescue herself and she was not about to touch a toe to London by exposing herself to vicious gossipmongers who knew nothing about a woman’s right to a life or privacy. “The last time I was in London, Mr. Astor, I had a man break into my home, intent on proving to me that he could beget me with his child in the hopes of beguiling me into matrimony. And he was the friendliest of my money-salivating suitors.

“Sadly, my inheritance has only served to encumber my happiness thus far, and I am trying to create a relatively pleasant life for myself. Going back to London would only impede that. For heaven’s sake, I have yet to do a sliver of all my plans. In fact, I’m about to negotiate a two-year trip to Jamaica.”

“Two years?” He pulled in his chin. “What for? Last I knew, all they had in Jamaica was water and sand.”

“Port Royal and Kingston happen to be known for their extensive privateering history. I also hear that the men there dress down because of the heat.” She smirked. “That alone would be well worth traveling for. And unlike New Orleans, I intend on hiring a guard to accompany me everywhere I go. So you see, Mr. Astor, that is what is next for me. Not London rain and pasty pale men, but Port Royal and sun-bronzed pirates.”

He stepped toward her. “You know I would not normally ask this of you, but my grandson stands a chance to follow in the footsteps of this girl if we do this right. He stands to marry into aristocracy. ’Tis something he and I have talked about for years. Hell, I would have gladly married him off to you to ensure that title, but for some reason, you won’t have him.”

Bernadette lowered her chin. “The boy is twenty.”

“And all the more virile for it! Unlike your old William, he’ll ensure you have twenty sons in twenty minutes.”

She cringed at the thought. “Mr. Astor, really. Jacob, whilst very lovely, is fifteen years younger than myself. I wouldn’t even know what to do with him.”

“Lovely? Did you just call him lovely? Don’t ever call him that.” He sighed. “I need you. My grandson’s entire livelihood needs you. Don’t make me kneel for this.”

“Why would you ever want that poor boy to be part of the aristocracy? ’Tis a queernab existence I have spent my entire life trying to escape. Besides, with your vast fortune, you and Jacob already have everything.”

“Everything but that.” He hissed out a breath. Eyeing her, he went down on a grudging, wobbly knee, grazing the hem of her gown, and slowly spread both arms wide, giving sight to everything known as Mr. Astor. “The dreams of a mere butcher’s son is something you would never understand. You, who were born unto a rare breed few touch. Do this for me. Seven months of training this girl here in New York, a little over a month of continuing to train her during travels abroad and one month in London. One. That is all I ask. My wife will be the one playing chaperone. Not you. So you needn’t worry in that. I tell you, this girl is going to establish a taste for all things American if we do this right. ’Twill be a sky-brightening storm that will finally see that my grandson wed into his dreams. I beg of you. Take pity upon his dreams and mine. Have you never had a dream?”

Too many. She had once dreamed of sweeping, heart-pounding adventures, true love meant to make one sigh and unadulterated passion that no music from her piano could ever evoke. All of that had drowned rather quick, however, when her father married her off at eighteen to an old man whose idea of love, passion and adventure was a carriage ride through Hyde Park and a pat on the hand.

She’d been trying to make up for it ever since.

Sensing that the man wasn’t about to relent, Bernadette sighed. She did have unfinished business in London with her father after she’d packed up old William’s estate and sailed into the night without a word to anyone. She supposed she owed her father one last visit. Bastard. “So be it. I will take on this girl as it means so much to you. But I am not staying in London beyond a month. Is that understood?”

His face brightened as he scrambled up onto booted feet. He grabbed her hands in both of his and shook them. “’Tis a pleasure doing business with you, dear, as always.”

“Yes, yes, and you are most welcome. In truth, this idea of introducing an American into London society would be rather gratifying. Those self-righteous bastards, who dare act like gods thinking their blood is pure, deserve to have their blood tainted.”

“I knew you were the woman to oversee this.” He tapped at her hands one last time before releasing them. “Though I will say, my dear, after London, I highly recommend you settle down before you set fire to those skirts. You’ve broken enough hearts. You ought to remarry.”

Bernadette almost snorted. “I prefer to say yes to life and no to the altar.”

He tsked. “Don’t be taking off to Madrid and riding bulls next. You can do that after we get this girl into London.” He paused. “My hat.” Glancing about, he bellowed, “Where the hell is my hat, Emerson? You aren’t pissing in it, are you? Bring it out already. Now!”

Bernadette blinked. Maybe time in London would be a good thing. Because sometimes, just sometimes, and rare though it was, she did miss the, uh...culture.

Seven months later

New York City—the Five Points

LINGERING BEFORE THE LOPSIDED, cracked mirror hanging on the barren wall of his tenement, Matthew affixed the leather patch over his left eye. It was annoyingly fitting that the only image he ever saw of himself every morning after shaving and dressing was splintered in half.

Turning, he grabbed up his wool great coat from the chair stacked with his father’s old newspapers.

He paused, leaned down and touched a heavy hand to those papers. “Morning, Da,” he whispered.

He drew in a ragged breath and let it out, fighting the sting in his eyes he could never get past, knowing this was all that remained of his father. This. An old stack of papers that personified his father’s life. Though at least that life had amounted to something.

Matthew patted that stack one last time.

Draping on his great coat and buttoning it into place, he swung away, opened the door leading out of his tenement and slammed it behind himself. After bolting the door, he trudged down the narrow stairwell and out into the skin-biting, snow-ridden streets of Mulberry.

Matthew paused, glimpsing his negro friend heading toward him. Apparently, knuckles were about to get bloody. Smock only ever called on his tenement when there was a problem.

Matthew briskly made his way through the snow that unevenly crusted the pavement, his worn leather boots crunching against the ice layering it. The bright glint of the sun did nothing to warm the frigid air that peered over slanted rooftops. He squinted to block out the glare in his eye and stalked toward his friend. “Don’t tell me one of our own is dead.”

Smock veered toward him, large boots also crunching against the snow. He puffed out dark cheeks before entirely deflating them. “Worse.”

“Worse?” Matthew jerked to a halt, scanning that unshaven, sweat-beaded black face. It was winter. Why was he sweating? “Have you been running? What the hell is going on?”

Smock lingered, his expression wary. He scrubbed his thick, wiry hair. “Coleman called a meetin’ an’ put Kerner in command.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “What? Why? He can’t do that.”

“He already done did.”

“But I own half the group!”

Smock shrugged. “He’s leavin’ an’ yer goin’ with him. To London, says he. What? Dat not true?”

“London? I’d rather swallow my own shite than go to—” He paused, thinking of his father’s widow, Georgia. Last time he’d seen or heard from his “stepmother,” was all but seven months ago, when the woman had ditched the Five Points in the hopes of creating a new life for herself in the name of some Brit. He only hoped to God her life hadn’t sunken into mud. “Is this about Georgia? Shouldn’t she be in London about now? Is that not working out?”

Smock threw up both hands. “Don’t know. Don’t care. All I know is—” He tapped a long finger to his temple. “Coleman’s not himself.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know.”

Bloody hell.

* * *

UNLATCHING THE DOOR COLEMAN never locked, Matthew stepped inside. The acrid smell of leather and metal wafted through the air. Matthew scanned the vast, high-ceilinged storage room that Coleman leased from an iron monger. Bags of sand nailed against dented, dingy walls lined one side and a straw mattress laid on crates with a dilapidated leather trunk full of clothes lined the other. Like him, Coleman had always been a man of little means, but sometimes, he sensed Coleman purposefully tortured himself into living like this a bit too much.

Matthew wrinkled his nose and muttered aloud, “Don’t you ever air this place out, man?” Kicking aside wooden crates that cluttered the dirty planks of the floor, he jogged across the echoing expanse of the room, holding his pistols against his leather belts to keep them from jumping out.

Unlatching the back door, he shoved it open. Afternoon sunlight spilled in, illuminating the uneven wood floor, as a cold breeze whirled in from the alley with a dancing twirl of snow. Adjusting his great coat about his frame, he slowly strode toward the center of the room with a sense of pride. He had primed his first pistol here.

Shouts and the skidding of boots crunching against ice-hardened snow caused him to jerk toward the open door. A lanky youth dressed in a billowy coat and an oversized wool cap sprinted into and across the room, darting past Matthew so fast he barely made out a blurred face.

Was that— “Ronan?” he echoed.

“Can’t talk! Two men. I owe you!” The youth dove headfirst into a stack of large, empty crates and out of sight.

Matthew’s brows shot up as two thugs in stained wool trousers and yellowing linen shirts burst in from the alley. One gripped a piece of timber embedded with nails and the other a brick.

“Show him up, Milton,” the man with the brick yelled. “That runt owes us money.”

How was it everyone knew his name even when he didn’t know theirs? Matthew widened his stance. “With this attitude of brick and timber, gents, the way I see it, the boy owes you nothing.”

The oaf with the timber glanced at his burly companion. The two advanced in stalk-unison, their unshaven faces hardening as thick knuckles gripped makeshift weapons.

Matthew crossed his forearms over his midsection and gripped the rosewood handles of his pistols. Whipping out both from his belts, he pointed a muzzle at each head. “He’ll give you the money by the end of the day.”

They scrambled back. They raised their hands above those oily heads, those weapons going up with them.

Matthew advanced, cocking both pistols with the flick of his thumbs. “Given you both know who I am, it means you also know that my jurisdiction runs between here and Little Water. So get the hell out of my ward. Now.”

The men sprinted through the open door and out of sight.

He released the springs on the pistols and shoved them back into his leather belt. With the heel of his worn boot, he slammed the alley door shut. Turning, he strode over to the pile of crates. “I feel like all I’m ever good for is giving you money and getting you out of trouble, Ronan. It’s been that way ever since I first saw you shuffling along in those oversized boots.”

Several wood crates were frantically pushed out of the way by two bare hands. They clattered to the floor as Ronan crawled out. Still on fours, the youth peered up from beyond a lopsided cap, strands of unevenly sheared brown hair pasted to his brow. “If it had been one man, I would have taken care of it.”

Taking a knee, Matthew smirked. “Thank goodness there were two. So. How much do you owe those cafflers? I’ll pay it. As always.”

Ronan hesitated, then blurted, “Two dollars.”

He choked. “Two! What, did they introduce you to God?”

Ronan winced. “It was for this girl over on Anthony Street. She said it was free. It wasn’t my fault!”

“You’re fourteen, you—” Matthew flicked that cheek hard with the tip of his finger and rigidly pointed at him before jumping onto booted feet. “What the hell were you doing over at Squeeze Gut Alley? You could have been killed.”

Ronan scrambled up, adjusting his brown coat. “She was worth it. She not only knew what she was doing, but had tits the size of jugs.”

Matthew stared him down. “They could have been the size of Ireland and it still wouldn’t have been worth two dollars or your life. Did you at least sheathe yourself?”

Ronan blinked. “What do you mean?”

Matthew groaned. “You need a father.”

“What? You offering? Do I get to live with you, too?”

Matthew snorted, knowing the boy would move in with him. “I need a wife first.”

“Go find one then. I ain’t going anywhere.”

Knowing his days of having a family were fading fast, given he’d be thirty in less than a year, Matthew grouched, “Not to disappoint you or myself, but all the good women in these parts are either dead or taken.”

Ronan snickered. “Ain’t that the truth. And the dead ones are the lucky ones, I say. So. I got a message from Coleman. You want it?”

Matthew paused. “Yes, I want it. What’s this business of him overriding me?”

Ronan eyed the closed door and lowered his voice. “There’s talk of another swipe on your life. Only, this time, it involves seventeen men from a neighboring ward, hence why Coleman up and put Kerner in charge. Coleman says he’s got business abroad he’s been putting off, so he bought two tickets on a packet ship to Liverpool and wants you on it with him tomorrow at noon. That way, you dodge the swipe, until these boyos are taken off the street by marshals, whilst Coleman ties up strings in London.”

Matthew set a heavy hand against his neck, pinching the skin on it. Another swipe. God. He should have been dead years ago.

Dropping his hand, Matthew dug into the inner pocket of his patched waistcoat, and pulled out all the money he had on him—three dollars. He held it out. “Here. Pay off the debt and keep the rest for yourself and out of your mother’s hands, lest she drink it. And next time, if you want a girl, Ronan, do the respectable thing and marry one.”

Ronan searched his face. “Thanks for... Thanks.” He took the money and tucked it deep into his pocket. He cleared his throat and adjusted his cap and trousers, trying to appear manly. “So, um...what should I tell Coleman? He’s got business over at the docks.”

“Tell him he’s a son of a bitch for caring.”

“Which means you’ll be on that boat.”

“Exactly.”

Ronan sighed, grudgingly turned and made his way to the door, flinging it open. “I’ll tell him.” Ronan glanced back. “You’re coming back, right? You’re not leaving me?”

Matthew hesitated, knowing the boy depended on him for far, far more than money. “I’ll be back once I get word from the marshals that the swipe is over. I promise. In the meantime, take my tenement whilst I’m gone. I’ll give you the key in the morning. The rent has already been paid for to the end of the year.”

“I’ll take it.” Ronan’s face tightened. “I’m done cleaning up whiskey and tossing men out on the hour. No matter what I say and despite all the times you’ve gone over there to talk to her, nothing ever changes. I hate her. I do.”

Matthew swallowed and nodded. Ronan’s mother, who had once been a successful stage actress in Boston when the boy was two, was nothing but a drunk and a penniless whore, who now brought all of her cliental home, whether Ronan was there to see it or not. “She’s still your mother and you’re all the woman has. She needs you.”

“More than I need her,” Ronan muttered, disappearing.

Matthew threw back his head, exhausted. London? Why did he have this feeling Coleman was saving him from one mess, only to drag him into another?


CHAPTER THREE

All that you see, judge not.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row

WHY, OH WHY, DID SHE feel like Caesar about to be stabbed by Brutus? Directing her horse alongside the stunning redhead who Mr. Astor was ardently gambling on, Bernadette Marie fixed her gaze on the remaining path leading through the rest of the park. She tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins, endlessly grateful not to have been ambushed or stoned. Yet.

Glancing over at Georgia, Bernadette withheld a sigh. She really was going to miss the girl. The idea of handing her off to London society made her cringe. Georgia was so much bigger in character and in spirit than these stupid fops around them, and after ten months of the girl’s eye rolling and giggling and huffing whilst Bernadette attempted to mold her into perfection, Bernadette realized that she was about to lose a friend. Something she really didn’t have. For whilst men flocked to her in the name of money, women never flocked to her at all. They only ever saw her as competition or a threat to their reputation.

Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”

Bernadette tried not to smirk. “This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to Town to wed and stay in it.”

“Oh, yes. That.” Georgia’s green eyes brightened as her arched rust-colored brows rose. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”

Ah, to be twelve years younger and still think men were worth more than their trousers. “He will most likely faint.”

And Bernadette meant it. After the astounding transformation Georgia had undergone from street girl to American heiress, not even her waiting Lord Yardley was going to recognize her.

As Bernadette scanned the path before them, wondering if they were done showcasing Georgia for the afternoon, two imposing gents on black stallions made her pause. She lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet.

Both well-framed men wore ragged great coats, edge-whitened black leather boots and no hats or gloves. In fact, their horses and saddles looked better kept than they did. The two clearly thought they had every right to be on this here path. One man had silvering black hair that was in dire need of shearing, and the other—

She blinked as her startled gaze settled on windblown, sunlit, chestnut-colored hair, a bronzed rugged face set with a taut jaw, and a worn leather patch that had been tied over his left eye as if he were some sort of...Pirate King.

She drew in an astonished soft breath. Oh, my, and imagine that. It was like meeting a phantom from her own mind. Ever since she was eight, she’d always dreamily wanted to meet a real privateer, like Captain Lafitte out of New Orleans, whom she’d read about in the gazettes she’d steal from the servants. She would dash herself out toward the Thames each and every morning with her governess in tow and rebelliously stand on the docks, watching the ships pass, whilst praying said privateer would spot her from deck, point and make her quartermaster of his ship.

Everywhere she went, be it the square, the country or sweeping the keys of her piano, she had waited and waited to be seized by pirates and dragged out of London. She had even envisioned one of them to be rougher and gruffer than the rest, bearing a leather patch over an eye he’d lost in a fight. She even gave him a name—the Pirate King. The Pirate King was supposed to introduce her to the span of the sea not set by female etiquette but by the wild adventures outside everything known as London. A life far, far away from her stern, penny-pinching papa, who had expected her to marry a crusty old man by the name of Lord Burton when she turned a walk-the-plank eighteen.

But this Pirate King was seventeen years and a marriage too late. And though, yes, pirates were considered criminals, and this one looked like one himself, she had learned at an early age that all men were criminals in one form or another, be they breaking the rules of the land or the rules of the heart. Oh, yes. She had no doubt whatsoever that this one probably broke all the rules. Even the ones that had yet to be written.

As he and his black stallion rode steadily closer alongside his other bandit of a friend, and the distance of the riding path between them diminished, he leveled his shaven jaw against that frayed linen cravat and stared at her with a penetrating coal-black gaze. His visible eyes methodically dropped from her face to her shoulders to her breasts and back up again with the lofty ease of a captain surveying a ship he was about to board.

An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. She squelched it, knowing that the man was probably just calculating the worth of her Pomona Green velvet riding gown.

Determined to trudge through whatever ridiculous attraction she had for the ruffian, Bernadette couldn’t help but cheekily drawl aloud to Georgia, “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.” Because ruffians weren’t supposed to be on this path. It was the unspoken rule of aristocratic society.

Georgia, who had grown unusually quiet, and perhaps a little too eager to follow Bernadette’s orders, yanked the rim of her riding hat as far down as it would go, until all of her strawberry-red hair and nose disappeared. She then frantically gathered the white trailing veil of her riding habit, pulling it up and over her face, burying herself farther in it.

Bernadette veered her own horse closer. What was she doing? Preparing for an ambush? “The veil never goes over your face. ’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”

“Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”

“Are they?” Heavens, he was a landlocked pirate. Even good old Captain Lafitte from New Orleans wouldn’t have been able to hold up his fists against a New York Five Pointer. Why did that intrigue her? It would seem her taste in men was fading quickly into the pits of all things unknown. “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”

Georgia glanced at her through her drawn hat and veil. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”

Bernadette tossed out a laugh, pleased to know she was being reprimanded. “All men are. Now, quiet. Here they come.” As she eased her horse to a mere walk, to demonstrate she was not in any way ruffled, Georgia altogether brought her horse to full trot and passed.

Slowing his horse with the tug of a wrist on the reins, the man’s dark brows came together, that patch shifting against his cheekbone as he glanced toward Georgia, who rudely barreled past, veil flying.

He paused and eyed Bernadette, as if expecting her to barrel by next. When she didn’t—for she wasn’t about to be that rude—he curtly inclined his head in greeting. The stiff set of those broad shoulders hinted that he didn’t expect her to acknowledge him at all.

That alone deserved acknowledgment.

Bernadette politely inclined her head toward him, her pulse annoyingly trotting along with the feet of her horse.

A low whistle escaped his teeth. “Apparently, I’ve been living in the wrong city all my life.” That husky, mellow American baritone astonished her enough to stare. As he rode past, he coolly held her gaze and drawled, “Ladies.”

And onward he rode, without a backward glance.

Though he said “Ladies” as if also to include Georgia, who had just passed, Bernadette knew those words, that tone and mock farewell had all been directed at her. It was as if he were pointing out that she needn’t worry. That he wasn’t interested in anything she had to offer, even though his patched great coat and worn leather boots were worth far less than half a silk stocking.

Bernadette tightened her hold on the reins until it stung. Churlish though it was, it made her want the man. He didn’t even try to flirt.

Unless he didn’t find her attractive. Oh, gad.

She glanced after him over her shoulder. He casually rode on with his devil friend as if their paths had never crossed.

Bernadette paused, her gaze sweeping back to Georgia, noticing the redhead was well beyond the path. Kicking her boot into the side of her horse, Bernadette pushed into a gallop. Upon reaching Georgia, she called out, “Miss Tormey.”

Georgia eased her horse and flopped her veil back and away from her flushed face. Readjusting her hat, she choked out, “That was disgusting. I felt like I was being groped by my own brother.”

Bernadette aligned her horse beside hers and slowly grinned. “Speak for yourself. I rather enjoyed that.” There was something deliciously provocative about a man who knew how to control himself around a woman.

They rode on in unified silence, Bernadette’s grin fading.

Perhaps it was kismet that their paths had crossed. After all, what were the chances that her understudy knew this landlocked pirate and that he was right here in London all the way from New York? Though he wasn’t the sort of man she usually associated with, something about him made her want to— “Might I ask a question?”

Georgia glanced toward her. “Of course.”

“The man with the patch. Who is he to you? And is he as gruff as he appears?”

Georgia’s jade-green eyes widened beneath the rim of her riding hat. “You aren’t actually smitten, are you? And with but a glance?”

Bernadette set her chin, ready to defend herself. “And what if I am? I spent twelve years married to a man forty-three years my senior who, whilst everything kind, was anything but attractive. It was like bedding my grandfather in the name of England. He couldn’t even—” She blinked rapidly, realizing she was digressing, and poor William didn’t deserve it or that. It wasn’t his fault he had been old and had money her father had wanted at the price of her youth. “If I haven’t earned a right to a man of my choice by now, Miss Tormey, I might as well be dead.” And she meant it.

Georgia sighed. “He’s had a rough life, and whilst I chastise him all the time, no, he isn’t as gruff as he appears. I’m not about to go into detail about who he is to me out of respect for Robinson, but he is more or less family. He lost sight in his one eye after a fight on the street and then lost his da to apoplexy a few years later. And mind you, that was after he’d already lost everything. And I do mean everything. He lost his fiancée because he had no money, lost his home and the business he was set to inherit. Everything.”

Bernadette’s chest unexpectedly tightened. That was where that mocking indifference came from. When a man lost everything, it was either mock or die. She understood that motto all too well. She herself was guilty of it.

She glanced back toward the direction of where the Pirate King still rode on the path and paused. He and his friend had already fully turned their horses around and were leisurely making their way back toward them.

Her heart pounded and her cheeks flushed as the Pirate King leaned forward in his saddle to intently observe her.

Was he watching her?

“Bernadette?” a man called out from somewhere before her on the path. “Is that you?”

Startled that a man was using her birth name, Bernadette snapped her head and gaze past Georgia over to a lone gentleman riding toward them at a half-gallop.

His top hat was angled forward in a most unbecoming fashion. He slowed, dashing amber eyes intently holding her gaze in astonishment. “By God. I didn’t realize you were in Town.”

Dread seized her. It was Lord Dunmore. Her former neighbor. A man who had gallantly come to her rescue many, many times when she’d been maliciously deluged by suitors after inheriting her husband’s heart-stopping million-pound estate.

For weeks, Dunmore had called on her every afternoon, save Sunday, to ask if she needed to be escorted anywhere. He was all things dashing and everything her decrepit old husband had never been.

Then one afternoon, whilst he was discussing something with her—she forgot exactly what—out of stupid, stupid infatuation, she grabbed the man by the lapels of his coat and kissed him. She wanted to know what it would be like to kiss a man her own age, after enduring twelve years of old William’s sloppy and slurpy kisses. She didn’t think, not for a single moment, that Dunmore would let it go beyond that one kiss.

Only...he’d astounded her by not only tonguing the breath out of her, but then shoving her against the wall and jerking up her skirts. In a lust-ridden blur she just couldn’t say no to, she let him pound her into the wall. It was the first climax she’d ever had at the hands of a man and it earned him a Bernadette-approved medal.

From there on out, it turned into a flurry of unstoppable physicality that ended her respectable name. And she didn’t care. She was finally living life and had already ended traditional mourning for William. What more did society want?

Barely weeks into their torrid affair, everything grew complicated. Dunmore kept saying “I love you” and wanted her to say it, too. She couldn’t. Though she’d grown to admire him, her attachment to him was, for the most part, purely physical. She felt very guilty about it, until she caught the bastard riffling through her financial ledgers early one morning, when he thought she was asleep.

In complete disbelief, she had quietly retreated without him knowing it and had him investigated before deciding on what to do. What she discovered had made her heave. After scolding herself for being so stupid, she ended their association with a polite letter—for she hated confrontations as they were pointless—and dashed herself and all of her money over to New Orleans on a hunt for some American liberation. She promised herself from there on out that she would no longer form any attachments. She could not trust them.

“Bernadette.” He said her name as if he’d break.

She tried to keep her voice steady. “Dunmore.”

Still holding her gaze, he said in an equally civil tone, “Why did you leave? That letter never explained anything.”

She set her chin. “I ask that you please refrain, given that we are in public.”

“The public be damned, Bernadette,” he bit out. “This has been weighing on me for well over a year and I haven’t been able to bloody move on because of it and you. What the hell did I do? Can you at least answer me that? What?”

How dare he pretend like he cared and that she was the villain in this? “Aside from you paging through my financial ledgers?”

He stared. “What do you mean? I never—”

“I know what I saw, Dunmore. I’m not interested in listening to lies.”

Glancing over at Georgia, who was awkwardly observing them, Dunmore drew his horse closer and said in a ragged tone, “Whatever you saw, my intentions were that of a gentleman.”

She stared him down. “A gentleman. Ah. A gentleman who hid debts from me. Rather extensive ones, actually.”

His features tightened. “I didn’t want you thinking that I was after your money.”

“How very considerate of a man who also sired two children with a sixteen-year-old servant girl whom you no doubt still frisk every Saturday evening.”

His eyes widened. “Who the devil told you?”

“I had you investigated.”

His face flushed. “You had me investigated?”

“It was obvious the truth wasn’t going to come out of your mouth.”

Losing all polite measure, he boomed, “How dare you bloody investigate me!”

“How dare you lie to me and how dare you impose upon a young girl who wouldn’t know right from wrong? I only need one reason to toss a man. You gave me five.”

His chest rose and fell more and more steadily. “Even if I had done everything right, you would have still found a way to give me the toss. Because your one true wish in this, Bernadette, was never to love me. Isn’t that true? Even though you licked and swallowed my seed in unending pleasure.”

Her throat tightened in disbelief. “This conversation is over. I suggest you, your lies and your lack of funds leave.” She quickly steered her horse to move past.

His tone hardened to repulsive. “Don’t you bloody turn away from me.” He rounded her horse and came onto her side with his stallion, the quick thud of hooves kicking up dirt from the path.

Her eyes widened as a riding crop snapped toward her face. She jerked back in her saddle as a lash of leather fire seared her jaw. A gasp escaped her lips as she staggered in an effort to remain upright. Dunmore had never once raised his voice to her let alone—

“Lady Burton!” With the whip of reins, Georgia veered her horse across the path, back toward them.

The thundering of hooves neared as another quick crop swung at her, stinging her shoulder. Bernadette grabbed the reins and pushed her horse forward to dodge another blow as the tip of the crop seared her arm again and again, stinging straight through the material of her gown. “Cease, you—”

She wincingly popped up a hand when another horse veered in.

A blurring male face and a long muscled arm seized Dunmore’s uplifted wrist from behind. With the quick hook of another muscled arm that jumped around Dunmore’s throat, Dunmore was yanked back until he was teetering half off the saddle.

Her heart pounded in between heaving breaths.

The Pirate King adjusted, and jerked Dunmore’s throat from behind into a vicious choke hold that sent Dunmore’s top hat tumbling aside and his pocket watch swinging spastically out of his vest. Their horses battled for position against each other as the Pirate King ruthlessly held Dunmore between both saddles.

Digging his chin into the side of Dunmore’s mussed head from behind, the Pirate King tightened a bulk-muscled arm around that throat and seethed out between clenched teeth, “Is this how you Brits treat your women? Is it?”

Wide-eyed, Dunmore tried jerking free, gloved hands chaotically digging. He tried swinging the crop in his hand, but couldn’t extend it. “Unhand me,” Dunmore gagged, still in a choke hold. “I’m a peer of the...realm!”

“Whilst I’m king of your goddamn realm and throat right now.” His voice hardened ruthlessly. “And it’s time you fecking bow before royalty.” Yanking the crop from Dunmore’s hand, he viciously swung Dunmore right off the horse. Dunmore flew, head down, with a squelched thud that penetrated the ground.

By God, the man and all of that muscle was worthy of a swoon and more.

With a snap of the crop he’d confiscated, he hit the flank of Dunmore’s horse, sending the horse darting, neighing and galloping down the path with a plume of dust. Leaning over the side of his saddle, he down-whipped the crop at Dunmore’s head, eliciting a thwack. “Don’t ever go near this woman again or you’re dead. Dead. Because I’ll gladly hang knowing the world has one less arsehole in it. You tell the watch that when you send them after me. Now if I were you, Brit, I’d catch up to your horse before I send you bleeding down Salt River.”

Lord Dunmore scrambled up, his chest heaving. He glanced toward Bernadette.

The Pirate King yanked out a pistol from the leather belt at his waist and pointed it down at Dunmore’s head. “How fast can you run? Show me. Before I go click.”

Dunmore turned and sprinted, his morning coat flapping and his leather boots thudding down the path until he and his crop were gone.

Silence drifted across the surrounding park and the path, which fortunately was clear of other riders and witnesses. The Pirate King, his devil friend and Georgia all turned their eyes and their horses toward her.

Bernadette swallowed, her jaw still pulsing from the stinging heat of Dunmore’s crop. It was humiliating. Not only to have been cropped in front of them but to have her entire history with Dunmore laid out like a sermon on Sunday.

The Pirate King shoved his pistol back into his leather belt and slowly brought his horse beside hers, his features tightening. He leaned in, the smell of leather, metal and gunpowder lacing the air. “It left a mark.”

Lovely. As if her age didn’t mark her up enough.

He searched her face, his brows coming together against that leather patch. “Are you all right, miss?”

Miss? Did he really think she was that young? Even with those annoying wispy grays peering out at her temples? Bless him. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

He half nodded and pulled away his horse, still intently holding her gaze with that coal-black eye. “If you have any more problems with that bastard, I’m staying over at Limmer’s. Come find me and I’ll take care of it. My only regret is that I didn’t interfere sooner. And for that, I owe you.”

He thought he owed her. After he’d rescued her.

Her throat tightened. Even worse, he was staying at Limmer’s. ’Twas a cheap hotel for the sporting crowd, known for being incredibly dirty and hosting all things dangerous. Even whores didn’t like going in there, as they usually didn’t come back out. She couldn’t let a man like this, who had just rescued whatever was left of her face, stay there. “Might I offer you better lodgings, sir? Given what you did for me?”

He lifted a dark brow. “Define better.”

She would have invited him to stay at her leased house off Piccadilly, seeing Georgia was residing with Mrs. Astor over on Park Lane, but she didn’t want the man thinking her invitation was permanent. “I recommend the St. James Royal Hotel. ’Tis premier and the best London has to offer. I will ensure your room and board is paid for. Gladly.”

He stared at her, his jaw tight. After a long moment, he set his broad shoulders. “Let me think on it.”

By God, she admired that pride. He wore it so well.

Glancing over at her understudy, he clicked his tongue. “Georgia, Georgia. We never seem to be able to get rid of each other, do we? Much to our own dismay.” He scanned the length of Georgia’s Vienna blue riding gown, lowering his chin in a way that caused that windblown hair to fall across his forehead. He snorted. “You look like Niblo’s Garden on a stick.”

Georgia regally set her chin. “And proud of it. Don’t you wish you looked this good.”

“Ah, you look all right, I suppose.”

“All right?” Georgia circled a gloved finger over her face and gown. “It took me ten months to look like this. And look. No freckles. They’re there, but they’re cleverly hidden. The toiletries these days are unbelievable.”

He swiped his jaw. “A waste of ten months, I say.” Dropping his hand to his thigh, he huffed out a breath. “Since we’re catching up on gossip, I’m sure you’d like to know that your John Andrew Malloy not only went out West, but married. Thanks to you, we’re now damn well known as the Thirty-Nine Thieves.”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “John married Agnes Meehan?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Georgia let out a laugh. “Well, good for him. And Agnes.”

“Good for him, yes. Not so good for Agnes. He’s not exactly what I call the marrying sort.” The Pirate King huffed out another breath. “So. Where are you staying? Coleman and I need to get ourselves out of Town. They bloody stone you like crows out here. Expensive as hell.”

Georgia snorted. “It doesn’t help that you went and bought yourself horses.”

The Pirate King and his menacingly quiet friend paused. They eyed each other, to which the Pirate King adjusted his great coat and drawled, “We didn’t exactly buy them.”

Bernadette blinked.

Georgia gasped. “You stole them?”

He pointed at her. “Ey. A hackney costs a shilling just to roll halfway down the goddamn street. I’m not paying that. And we didn’t steal the horses. We’re borrowing them for a few days and will give them both back once we’re done.”

Georgia glared. “’Tis no different than stealing, Matthew, to which I say you and Coleman get yourselves jobs as sweepers, because I’m not giving either of you spit.”

Matthew. Bernadette almost uttered his name aloud in adoration and reverence. Despite that “borrowed” horse, he seemed so...genuine. And divine. So breathtakingly divine.

Without thinking, she hurriedly dug into her reticule slung on her wrist and pulled out a Bristol calling card, holding it out to him. “I would be honored to provide you with the money and lodgings you need. ’Tis the least I can do after your noble rescue. Call on me. I insist.”

Slowly drawing his horse closer to her own until they were side by side, he leaned over. Slipping the card from her gloved fingers, he held her gaze for a long moment. “Thank you, luv.”

That gruff, yet equally gentle voice made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go.

He wordlessly fingered the card she’d given him, still heatedly holding her gaze. He molded and remolded the card against the curve of that large hand, as if trying to feel her.

Bernadette drew in a breath, wishing that card was her.

“Milton,” his friend called out. “Instead of playing Casanova with the card, give the woman’s generous offer a day and the hour you intend to call.”

The Pirate King tucked the card into his boot and recaptured her gaze. “This Thursday. I’m thinking midnight.”

Bernadette quirked a brow. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Midnight is my version of noon,” he added, still holding her gaze.

He was clearly interested only in linen ripping. And who was she to deny over six feet of brawn? “Midnight it is.”

His mouth quirked. “I’ll see you then.” Rounding his stolen stallion, he glanced back at her one last time, then he and his friend galloped off down the path.

Georgia tsked. “You have no self-control. None whatsoever.”

Bernadette smirked. “Coming from you, Miss Tormey, I will take that to be a compliment.”


CHAPTER FOUR

M. Falret, a doctor of medicine, has prepared from the official records of the police, a curious memoir on the suicides in Paris, from 1794 to 1822. Of those, some were attributed to:

Crossed in love: Number of men, 97. Women, 157.

Calumny and loss of reputation: Number of men, 97. Women, 28.

Gaming: Number of men, 141. Women, 14.

Reverse of fortune: Number of men, 283. Women, 39.

Let the numbers speak for themselves.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

Limmer’s, 12:54 a.m.

THE GLOW FROM THE SINGLE cracked lantern set on the floor beside him illuminated the unevenly nailed wooden planks that lined the slanted ceiling. Stripping his leather patch from his eye and tossing it, Matthew fell onto the sunken straw tick on the floor. Rolling onto his back and stretching out, he held up the expensive ivory card that had been given to him that afternoon. Disregarding the address, he stared at her name: Lady Burton.

Holy day. Holy, holy day. The way those dark eyes had held his, the way those lips had curved around her words every time she spoke, and the way that sultry voice had dripped with elegance and refinement about punched the last of his rational senses out. Something about her awoke an awareness he’d thought long dead and whispered of endless possibilities he wanted to roll around in.

Though he couldn’t help but wonder about the association she had with Lord Arsehole. That heated argument on the riding path, which had resulted in her getting cropped, hinted at far more than he cared to admit.

Skimming his thumb across that printed name, he drew the card closer. Was it conceivable for a woman like her to want a man like him? And could a woman like her, who appeared to have everything, give a man like him, who had nothing...everything he wanted?

The door to his small room opened. There was a pause.

He didn’t have to look up from the card to know who it was. “What do you want? I’m trying to sleep here.”

“Sure you are.” Coleman snickered. “Shall I leave you two alone?” he said, looking pointedly at the card.

Matthew sat up on the straw mattress, molding the card against his palm. “A touch jealous, are we?”

“Hardly. Women are a waste of breath, man. They’re only good for one thing. And I wish I could say it was fucking.”

Ah, yes. The man, who’d been married at sixteen to a woman crazier than him, thought he knew it all.

Matthew pointed the card at him. “Ey. Just because you’re bitter doesn’t mean I have to be. The difference between you and me is that I’ve been patiently waiting for the right one to come along. And this—” He held up the card, wagging it. “This here is about as right as they come. Not only did she agree to meet me at midnight—in her home—which means she damn well wants what I want, did you see the way she looked at me when she gave me this card? We’re talking more than a night here.”

Rolling his eyes, Coleman leaned against the frame of the door. “She gave you the card because she felt obligated after what you did. She’s an aristo, Milton. Not exactly your kind of people.”

Matthew flicked a finger against the card. “Why do you always ruin everything for me?”

“Because I think you may have taken too many knocks to the head. You seem to think women are moldable to your vision of...whatever the hell you’re looking for, but I’m telling you right now, Milton, you can’t mold a woman. Women mold you. And when you least expect it, they crush you until your very clay squeezes through their conniving little fingers.”

“I pity your cynicism. You know that?” Matthew paused and glanced toward Coleman, noting that the man was not only fully dressed in his great coat, but that his black silvering hair was pulled back into a neat queue. Which the man rarely did. “Where the hell are you going?”

Coleman adjusted the riding coat on his muscled frame and eyed him. “Aside from taking back the horses we ‘borrowed,’ I’m off to double our money. We need to get you back to New York. And as for me...” He cleared his throat theatrically in the way he always did before announcing something Matthew didn’t like. “I’m heading to Venice.”

Matthew stared. “What do you mean you’re heading to Venice? What about New York?”

“What about New York?”

His eyes widened. “The swipe is over and you and I share responsibilities.”

“Milton.” A wry smile touched those lips. “I’m honored knowing you still want me around, really, but the Forty Thieves was your vision for a better life, not mine. There’s nothing left for me in New York. Not to say I won’t miss you. You’re the closest thing I have to a brother. But you have your life and I have mine.” Lowering his gaze, he sighed. “How much money do you have? I need at least five pounds to make the cards worthwhile.”

Matthew glared, feeling as if he’d been walloped in the chest by a man who had clearly moved on from their friendship. “You’re not gambling what little we have. If you plan on ditching me and the boys, that’s your damn right, but you’re not sinking me while you’re at it. Instead of gambling, I suggest you go put yourself in a few matches. London is big on boxing. As for me, I’m soliciting labor over at the docks come morning.”

Coleman leveled him with a mocking stare. “The docks? Since when do you prance about soliciting honest work?”

Matthew pointed, trying not to feel too insulted. “I’m not playing with the law here, Coleman. Unlike in New York, I’ve got no marshals here to protect my arse, and these Brits are crazy. They’ll hang you for anything. Especially if you’re unlucky and Irish. And as you damn well know, I’m both. Now, off with you.” Matthew settled back onto the mattress, snatching up his card. “I’d like to be alone with my card, if you please. I have a feeling it’ll give me a lot more respect than you just did.”

“Christ. Don’t make me tear that bloody thing in half and shove it up your ass.”

Matthew swiped up the pistol from the floor beside him with his other hand and pointed it at Coleman with a mocking tilt of his wrist. “Get the hell out of my room. I’m not paying four shillings a night to have you in here.”

“We need twenty pounds each, Milton, if we’re ever going to get out of Town. Twenty. My boxing will only bring in a few pounds per match, unless I start dealing with aristos. And as good as I am, I can only take so many hits a week. As for you working over at the docks? You’ll only bring in about two pounds a week. At best. Count that on your fingers, man. You may have time on your hands, but I’m not staying in this piss of a city beyond two weeks.” He paused. “How much do you think you could get out of this aristo, given what you did for her? If you slather on that charm I know you’re good for?”

Matthew sighed and set the pistol back onto the floor. “I don’t know. This whole idea of me calling on her for money merely for doing something ingrained in me feels dirty.”

“No one does dirty better than you, Milton.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “I’m not that dirty and you know it.” He tapped the card against his chin before glancing down at it. “I still can’t get over the way she looked at me. I’m telling you. There was something there. I could see it and feel it. It was as if she and I were meant for bigger things.”

“Bigger things?” Coleman snapped, angling toward him. “What the devil is wrong with you? We’re not talking about some tea dealer’s daughter here. We’re talking nobility. Do you know what that is, Milton? It’s better known as the trinity. Meaning, there’s them, there’s the King and then there’s God. Notice that I didn’t mention you at all. Why? Because you don’t exist. And you never will. They don’t touch people like us. Not unless it’s to their benefit.”

“Stop saying ‘people like us.’ You yourself are of nobility, for God’s sake. You’re—” Matthew scrubbed his head in exasperation, knowing it. To think that the same man he’d been training with and aspiring to be more like since he was twenty had been an aristo in hiding all along. It was something the stupid bastard didn’t have the decency to tell him until they up and boarded the ship over to Liverpool. A part of him felt betrayed, though he understood Coleman hadn’t been given much of a choice but to abandon who and what he was.

Matthew dropped his hand from his head. “You came here to straighten your mess of a life out and move on. That’s what you said. Only, you’re not doing shite. You’re up and drinking and playing cards like some fecking sharp with money you don’t have, making a bigger mess of not only your life, but mine. Why the hell aren’t you facing the reality you came to face? I know why I came here. Because it was better than being dead and it was your goddamn idea. And whilst the swipe is over, I’m not leaving until I hold you to your reality. Call on your parents, and that uncle and nephew of yours who dug you up through the papers back in New York. Because seething on and on about a past you can’t change isn’t helpful to anyone. Especially yourself.”

Coleman’s features tightened as his blue eyes cooled to rigid ice. “I’ll see them when I’m ready to see them. And I’m not fucking ready. Isn’t that obvious?” Coleman stepped out and slammed the door, rattling the lantern.

Matthew sighed and hoped the man didn’t do anything stupid. Holding up the card again, Matthew stared at the name Lady Burton and hoped he himself didn’t do anything stupid.


CHAPTER FIVE

All information printed pertaining to the struggles

of others are not necessarily true.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

St. James’s Square, Thursday afternoon

THE FOOTMAN GRACIOUSLY gestured toward the open doors of her father’s library. “’Tis a joy to have you back in London, my lady.”

“Thank you, Stevens.” At least someone was happy regarding her return to London. Bernadette clasped her bare hands together and entered the cavernous library lined with all those endless books she used to gather from the shelves as a girl and stack up all around her. Not to read, mind you, but to build a full deck of a ship she would then climb on top of and teeter to sail across the expanse of the...library. The room still looked the same. It even smelled the same: mildew laced with cedar and dust.

Her chest tightened. It had been years.

Scanning the brightly lit room, she found her father and drifted toward where he sat, her verdant skirts rustling against the movements of her feet.

Lord Westrop’s head was propped and resting against the side of his leather wing-tipped chair, that snowy white hair combed back with tonic. His eyes were closed and his usually rigid features were endearingly soft as the center of his Turkish robe rose and fell with each breath he took.

Bernadette paused before him, quietly observing him. It was the most peaceful she had ever seen him. “Papa?”

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. His astounded features gave way to him sitting up. “Bernadette.”

“How are you, Papa?” She lowered herself to his booted feet and gathered his hands that had begun to show their age. She could see the veins.

He grabbed hold of her hands and smiled, shaking them in his. “You came back for me. You came back. I knew you would.”

He seemed so happy to see her. Imagine that. He still knew how to exhibit happiness. She’d forgotten how good of a man he was capable of being when the burden of losing everyone—a wife, two brothers and three sisters—didn’t eat at him.

She smiled as best she could. “I’m not staying long. New York is my home now. You know that.”

His hands stilled against hers as he searched her face with dark eyes. “Why do you always wish to make me suffer? You know I have no one but you.”

A deep sadness came over her. The same one that always gripped her whilst in his presence. “I am merely living my life now, Papa. The one I never got to live. ’Tis something I have old William to thank for. He adored me more than I deserved.”

“Damn right.” His aged features tightened. “Bloody deranged is what he turned out to be, leaving you with all that money and freedom. Look at you. Worth a million, yet living as some no-name Mrs. Shelton in New York City, cavorting with American ruffians like the Astors. I hear that you now entertain men on the hour.”

“If it were on the hour, Papa, I wouldn’t have time to call on you at all, would I?”

“And what of gossip?”

She lowered her chin. “There is all sorts of gossip, Papa. And it doesn’t mean it’s true. Which rumor are you referring to?”

“About you standing on the streets in nothing but petticoats out in New Orleans. What was that about?”

She cringed, knowing she was forever cursed to hear of that one awful misstep during her first days of freedom. “I was robbed whilst attending a street masking ball. That was why I moved from New Orleans to New York and took on an alias. The papers, not to mention all of stupid American society, made the incident out to be so much more nefarious than it was.”

His eyes widened. “What the devil were you doing attending a street masking ball?”

Why did she feel like she was ten years old again? “I have never been to one and I wanted to go.”

“Wanted to go. Indeed. Well. Serves you right. If you had stayed at home and devoted yourself to being a respectable widow, it would have never happened. I think it time you accept that your days of traveling and frolicking are done, girl. Done.”

She heaved out a breath. “I never got to travel or do much of anything. You know that. Neither you nor William ever allowed for it. As you well know, I was married barely two weeks after my debut, which wasn’t really—”

“All I want to know is where are the grandchildren I wanted? Why won’t you remarry in an effort to give me at least one?”

Her throat tightened as she fought to stay composed. After twelve years of trying to become a mother, allowing old William to bed her again and again in the hopes of having a child to love and cherish, she knew it was never meant to be. And in truth, she was done playing the role of a possession. “My days of matrimony are over. I have done my duty to you and to William, and to expect more or to say more is cruel.”

Her father’s features notably softened. “I did not mean to be cruel.” He hesitated and then quickly said, “Honor your father by leaving this New York City behind. Stay here with me. I would like that. You can take your old chambers. I haven’t changed anything. I still have all of your dolls and books and those porcelain figurines you always played with. You and I can read and play chess and should we need respite from London, we can always travel to Bath. Bath is a good, respectable place. We can take in the air by walking the Town, and during the summer, eat those flavored ices you used to love so much when you were a tot. Remember? ’Twas a good life. More important, a respectable one. So it’s settled, yes? You will stay right here with your papa.”

She slowly shook her head, dread seeping into every last inch of her. He didn’t seem to understand that she wasn’t a child anymore. “No. Though I do love you, I am my own woman now and I am asking that you respect me and my life.”

His dark eyes flashed. “Are you intent on stabbing me in the heart, knowing that I have no one but you?”

Bernadette rose to her feet, sensing her time with him was done. No matter how much she gave him, he was always desperately grasping for more until nothing remained. “I am not about to submit to this guilt you keep piling upon my soul. Not when I have submitted to you all these years at the cost of my life. Do you think I ever wanted to marry William? No. But you wanted me to, so I did. And therein my obligation ends.” She swallowed, trying to remain calm. “It was good seeing you, Papa. I trust you are receiving the yearly annuity I arranged through William’s estate.”

He grunted. “’Tis measly.”

She half nodded. “I see. Thirty thousand a year is measly. I didn’t realize your tastes were so extravagant. If you need more, I can make it fifty thousand.”

He grunted again. “If I needed more, I would have asked. Now, are you staying with me or not?”

Why did she always stupidly cling to the hope that he could be the father she wanted him to be? “I am five and thirty, Papa. My life is practically half over. I have given it to you, I have given it to William and I

have given it to society. I do not intend to give up any more. I intend to frolic with whomever I please, whenever I please, and travel until my slippers fall off, regardless of what you and everyone else may think. Men do it all the time and no one even blinks. So let them all blink.”

He swiped a veined hand over his face, snatched up his cane from beside the chair and heaved himself up. “I ask that you not call on me again unless you either respectably remarry or decide to live with me. I have nothing more to say.” With that, he stalked out, leaving her to linger alone in the library.

An unexpected tear traced its way down her cheek. Annoyed with herself for even caring what he thought, she swiped it away and set her chin. She had done everything to make him happy at the cost of her own happiness and was finished with that and him.

She had spent twelve years of her life serving and bedding a scrawny, withered man who had grunted into her and knew nothing of her pleasure, let alone her happiness. Though she supposed she’d been fortunate, considering. For at least old William had treated her with an adoring, kind regard and devotion rarely found in aristocratic marriages. He had even left her his entire estate, despite her inability to sire a child for him. It was a gesture of the love he’d had for her. She regretted knowing that the old man had died without having ever once earned the one thing he’d wanted most—her heart. Sadly, her heart had yet to genuinely beat with love for a man. And at five and thirty, she wondered if it ever could.

But who was she to complain? Love was overrated anyway. As was holding on to one’s reputation. Neither allowed a woman a breath of freedom. And rakish though it was, she was very much looking forward to midnight and whatever salacious adventure it would bring in the guise of the Pirate King.


CHAPTER SIX

An edition of the works of Lord Byron has recently been published in England, expurgated, and omitting Don Juan, deeming all of the passages offensive to decency and good morals. Who are the British to decide what decency and good morals are?

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

Piccadilly Square, midnight

EVERYTHING IN HER home smelled like fresh-cut flowers, tea leaves and fobbing cinnamon. It was a damn good thing he’d bathed, scrubbed and shaved for the woman before coming over or he would have bloody wilted everything.

Silence drummed as Matthew awkwardly lingered in a lavish, pale green imperial drawing room decorated with overdone wall hangings, marble statuettes and a variety of gilded clocks scattered upon the mantelpiece of a grand hearth.

Matthew scanned the impressive length of the room and angled his way past countless upholstered chairs and pedestal tables. He paused before a white moonstone velvet settee. The woman had more furniture than he had toothpicks. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to own furniture just to own it.

He adjusted the patch over his eye, ensuring it was straight. Glancing down at his great coat, which was spattered and streaked with crusting mud from riding about in last week’s mud and rain, he cringed. He wasn’t going to be making much of an impression. Certainly not the sort she’d made on him.

God. Why was he letting himself face her again at the cost of his own pride as a man? Oh, yes, he knew why. Because of Coleman. That son of a bitch had gambled away and lost everything, and now it was up to Matthew to clean up the mess.

The clicking of heels echoed down the candlelit corridor, drifting toward him through the open double doors.

Setting his calloused hands behind his back, he widened his stance and watched that entryway. His pulse thundered.

Within moments, a curvaceous, dark-haired woman appeared. The same one he’d wanted to seize and mold against himself when he first laid eyes on her in the park. Who knew British women had the ability to rile an Irishman into a full salute with but a glance.

It was felonious.

He tried not to linger on that exquisite appearance. Those black curls, which bore delicate wisps of silver that hinted she was a tad above his own age, were gathered and pinned around an elegant pale face. The only flaw on her face was a welt of a line on her jaw from the crop he’d been unable to save her from.

Since he’d last seen her, her riding bonnet had been stripped and replaced with a gathering of pretty, pale blue satin ribbons that had been woven into her hair, matching the shade of her azure evening gown. That delectable gown clung to her body and full breasts in a way that made him want to bite his hand to keep from biting her.





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