Lady Francesca Cavendish glared at the naked man draped across the bed with disgust.
She would never live down this tryst. The ton would be in an uproar. Why would a woman as
young, rich, and titled as she, bother with a creature as old and odious as Lord Colfax? they would
ask. Can she really be so craven?
Was she being too obvious? Would her enemies guess what she was about?
Frowning, Francesca rolled her eyes and pulled a few more pins from her hair as she assessed her
appearance in the gilded mirror of Lord Colfax's bedchamber.
She just might look like a loose-moraled spinster who'd enjoyed a rollicking night of unbridled
sex. Not, however, the kind of night other unfortunate women had reported to have had with Lord
Colfax.
He was a famously passionate rake. A ruiner of clothing and reputations. A user of women and
worse.
A man who deserved what he was about to get.
Pursing her lips, she let out a breath of exasperation. What could she change about her appearance
to make the ruse more believable? Her gold bodice drooped in tatters, the lace mangled and torn. Her
skirt was a puddle of silk on the carpets, and one of the ribbons on her garters had disappeared. Her
scarlet coiffeur hung limply to the left, half the pins scattered or missing. She'd never really been able
to hold a curl, so her locks appeared more garbled than tousled.
Still … it didn't look right. She didn't look right.
Puffing a bit of fringe away from her forehead, she shrugged a slim, pale shoulder. Old Colfax
likely wouldn't notice. Men were so extraordinarily oblivious. They'd believe just about any sort of
hogwash if it fed their largely undeserved egos.
And yet … how could they not suspect her deception?
A woman's skin glowed with dewy luminescence if she'd been well and truly ridden. Her eyes
would laze at only half-mast, glistening with a dreamy satisfaction. Her lips were often swollen and
the skin about her mouth a little pinkened as though scrubbed with something abrasive. Like a man's
stubble or beard.
Sometimes those marks were elsewhere. Her neck, her clavicles.
Lower.
Francesca did her best to soften the gem-hard green of her eyes, to blink them with a slothful sort
of decadence. There, that almost seemed like—
A loud snore shook the crystals twinkling from the wall sconces next to the stately bed.
She whirled, studying her so-called lover for signs of consciousness. Her heart gave a few kicks,
threatening not to remain as steady as she'd trained it to be.
Lord Colfax was larger than most of the men with whom she played this sort of sport. Not tall,
exactly. But wide and sturdy, strong despite his aging status. Not many men retained such strength into
their fifties, but then again, he was One with many enemies.
It wouldn't do to be seen as weak.
His mouth dropped open to reveal revolting, uneven teeth stained by every imaginable sort of vice.
Francesca swallowed her revulsion and crept back toward the bed.
Her reflection would never truly seem right. No matter how much she scrubbed at her skin and bit
at her lips. She never quite adopted that appearance of pleasure. She'd never been pleasured.
Pleasure wasn't something she had the time or inclination for, all told.
She supposed, in Lord Colfax's case, she didn't have to exactly seem as though he'd done well.
Because men such as he only ever thought of their own pleasure.
She had to convince him that their night was one of sexual abandon he was too drunk to remember.
Her concoction of belladonna, senna, and a few other exotic herbs Serana could only procure from
the Chinese tent city would wear off within the hour. A few drops rendered a person drowsy,
susceptible to suggestion. She only had to whisper something in their ear to make it a memory before
they sank into the nether.
And then, while her lovers slept, she discovered their secrets.
She already had Lord Colfax's fate locked beneath her corset and in the trap of her brain. Her
suspicion had been right. He was a toad, one who croaked for the Crimson Council, a secretive occult
society only whispered about in the darkest corners. Their purpose was to use as much of their
power, money, and influence as possible to spin the world to their whims.
Those whims had become increasingly sadistic. Sexual.
And possibly treasonous.
Evil enough to massacre everyone she'd ever loved. To slit the throats of children.
Her entire life, every decision she'd made, had brought her closer to finding them.
An old hatred rose within her, and Francesca had to swallow three times as it splashed the back of
her throat with acid.
Lord Colfax had nothing to do with the Mont Claire Massacre, but he was guilty of other crimes.
And was climbing the council ranks, adding to their influence with his political contacts. Feeding
their corruption with his respected name and estates dripping with money.
While he'd been under the influence of her serum, Francesca slid into his library, his study, his
escritoire, and anywhere else she could think of.
She found the documents indicting him for fixing the London mayoral elections in his study.
But another envelope burned against her skin, this one so much more valuable, pilfered from a
lockbox beneath his bed.
An invitation to an event a few weeks hence. One signed personally by the Lord Chancellor,
himself, and stamped with the seal of a three-headed serpent. This seal, she'd gleaned, was only used
by the Triad. The three men at the lead of the Crimson Council.
She now had proof of this three-headed serpent. And Lord Cassius Gerard Ramsay—the man her
best friend, Cecelia, was about to marry—had unwittingly taken one of the serpent's heads when he'd
arrested the Lord Chancellor.
Which left two. Unless she didn't work quickly enough, and a third head grew to replace the one
they'd lost.
Next to her, Lord Colfax stirred.
Francesca turned toward him, draping herself on her side in a pose she'd dubbed the relaxed temptress. One knee bent, showing her slim, creamy thigh. Her left leg, the one with the bullet scar,
remained tucked under her skirts. Her head rested on her hand as she twinkled sleepy eyes at him.
Another loud snort choked Lord Colfax awake, and he lifted a squat hand to wipe at a dribble of
drool from his greying beard at the same moment he looked over and noticed her.
"By Jove, Lady Francesca," he rasped before clearing the sleep out of his throat with a disgusting
wet sound. "You're still here."
His breath was rank and dry, even though he'd only been sleeping for a handful of hours.
"Where would I go, darling?" she flirted, flashing him a lazy smile. "You've quite worn me out. I
doubt I should be able to walk."
Befuddlement dragged his chops down as he ran a hand across his forehead, unable to clear away
what she knew was a monster of a headache.
Senna dehydrated men worse than red wine. And she made sure they drank plenty with their
alcohol, so they'd be too weak to want more of her once they woke.
"Usually, they leave," he muttered as though to himself. "They run crying and carrying on so. Are
you certain we…?" He lifted his sheet and looked down at his body. A body she'd undressed. A body
that was now more lumpy than molded, with drapes of skin that sagged in unflattering ways.
She suppressed a shudder.
"Who is usually crying, my lord?" she cooed with enough syrup to give herself a toothache. "The
women who are not lucky enough to share your bed?"
"No." He drew out the word, regarding her strangely from eyes clouded with misery and
confusion. "No, the women unlucky enough to catch my particular attentions." He took in the state of
her gown, her hair, and the marks he supposedly made on her neck.
"I'm not so easily frightened," she said boldly. "I can take what most women cannot."
It was the truth, after a fashion. She took so much.
"I—didn't frighten you?" he asked. "I didn't hurt you?"
"No." She drew a finger down his chest.
"What a shame." Disappointment flared behind the dull pain in his murky blue eyes. "I'm surprised
I was able to perform for you."
His cock had been stiff with excitement at the thought of hurting her. He'd grabbed her arms and
dragged her upstairs, and had barely made it to the bed before her tincture had taken hold.
Francesca's cold heart froze another degree. Hard. Harder than stone. Than steel. Perhaps
diamonds. A bit more innocence and goodness slipped away, but her mask never did.
"Well, my lord. You didn't get what you wanted from me," she said icily, "but I got what I came
for." She rolled away as he made a halfhearted swipe at her.
"What nonsense are you speaking?" he demanded.
Wordlessly, Francesca swept out of his bedroom.
Colfax's bellows followed her down the grand stairs and out into the night as she navigated his
gardens and used the wan moonlight to open the back gate where Serana's man, Ivan, waited with the
carriage.
He tipped his hat at her and she offered him a salute.
Once secured inside, she pulled the documents away from her breast and stared down at them, her
breath quickening with excitement.
She knew where the other leaders of the Crimson Council would be. She might touch one ofthem … dance with him.
Seduce and destroy him.
Her hands trembled. She was in this game now. She had some decisions to make. Some secrets to
keep, even from those who loved her most. Especially them. Because there may be a point of no
return, and if that was the case, she couldn't get them involved.
Those who went after the Crimson Council didn't tend to survive.Obsession.
It was something the Devil of Dorset often used as a weapon, but never succumbed to. He'd seen it
bring the most powerful of men to their knees, because it distracted them from what they should be
doing.
As a spy for the Secret Services who'd already sold his soul for secrets and blood, he should be
doing any number of things.
But he remained crouched on a St. James balcony, observing through a window as Francesca
Cavendish, the Countess of Mont Claire, undid the buttons of her bodice. Her every deft and decisive
motion exposed one more inch of her décolletage and stole that much more of his composure. His
pulse quickened, and then his cock as she shucked her blouse down slim, creamy shoulders.
She didn't wear a corset. How scandalous. Not that she required one, he noted as his eyes greedily
traced the expanse of her lightly freckled chest before a silk chemise frustrated the visual exploration.
She was but a scrap of nothing. So slim as to be androgynous. Small, pert breasts puckered in the
chill beneath the thin fabric; he could make out the slight protrusion of her nipple even from here, as
her underthings were simple and without adornment.
The way his body reacted, one would think he'd never before watched a woman disrobe.
And he had. So many in his lifetime. Some had been allies. Others, enemies. A few had even been
lovers. Most of the women he'd seduced, however, had been little more than marks.
None had been as dangerous as the Countess of Mont Claire.
The Devil of Dorset had been following the Lady Francesca since Swifton Street, and found
himself quite uncharacteristically short of breath. Generally, he wouldn't even work up a sweat when
breaking into a shop, sprinting up four stories, sliding out the top window, and lifting himself onto the
roof with nothing more than the strength of his arms, only to leap across several rooftops in the
noonday sun. But as he made the one-story drop onto the balcony into a crouch, his chest fought a
strange difficulty drawing in the requisite air.
The balcony afforded him an unrestricted view of the countess through the large window of the
modiste's top-floor dressing room. She stood amid her two roguish cohorts, improbably outshining
them both.
And, brazen thief that she was, she'd taken his breath away.
The self-named Red Rogue Society consisted of three uncommonly lovely redheads with a
penchant for mischief and all pastimes generally agreed to be masculine.
Lady Alexandra Atherton, archeologist, bluestocking, and the recent Duchess of Redmayne might
have widely been considered the beauty of the infamous trio, but to call her dark-mahogany hair "red"
was rather generous, and her features were much too perfect to be interesting.
The voluptuous Miss Cecelia Teague was about to marry the fierce and uncompromising Lord
Chief Justice, Cassius Gerard Ramsay. So, though she might be as sweet and decadent as her
strawberry lips suggested, a brilliant mathematician, and now the wealthiest businesswoman inLondon, her intelligence was forever in question. Ramsay, the surly Scot, wasn't the cold,
impeachable character he presented to the world.
At least not where Miss Teague was concerned.
Despite their distressing connections to recent investigations of his, the Ladies Alexandra and
Cecelia were no longer of any interest to the Crown nor to the Secret Services. He had no reason to
be following them anymore.
But he had to see her again.
The Countess of Mont Claire.
If only to prove to himself that she was real.
A gentleman would have looked away as the lady continued to undress, slipping her skirt and
bustle from her lean hips to pool at her feet. He wouldn't salivate at the sight of her long legs and
curse the shapeless drawers that covered her backside as she bent to help the seamstress gather her
discarded clothes.
The Devil of Dorset was no gentleman. Indeed, he was a voyeur by trade, lethal in both the back
alley and the bedroom. He could steal the spotlight at any soiree and hold an entire audience in the
palm of his hand, manipulating their every emotion and whim. He could assassinate in a room full of
people, and no one would remember what he looked like.
He was a ghost. A chameleon. A shade of a man whose sole vocation in life was to be both
notorious and invisible.
He pulled that ability about him now and stood against the summer sun blazing over the rooftops
with only an alleyway between them. If the women looked in his direction, they'd be blinded.
Francesca was as much of a ghost as he. The world had presumed her dead after Mont Claire had
been razed to the ground. But she'd risen from the ashes somewhere on the Continent, claiming to
have suffered days of unconsciousness due to smoke inhalation. The story went that a Romani woman
had spirited her out of Mont Claire in time, and the child had regained consciousness at a country
hospital some counties away.
The Devil of Dorset had learned along with the rest of London about her impossible survival.
She'd attended some finishing school on Lake Geneva and subsequently gallivanted with her fellow
spinster friends across half the globe by the age of twenty-five.
He squinted through the window as Francesca apparently refused tea, punch, or champagne in
favor of a strong scotch. Her gold hat lay upside down on a settee where she'd tossed it. Uncovered,
her coiffed hair glinted with a ruby sheen, upswept to uncover the long, graceful curve of her
swanlike neck.
The Red Rogues, indeed.
In a few short months, the Countess of Mont Claire had become the most notorious of them all.
She'd famously fucked her way through half the available men in the ton and twice again the married
ones.
His fingertips twitched. Fists curled. An indulgent outward showing of a growing inner turmoil.
He wanted to break every finger that profaned her. Rip out every tongue that'd tasted her. Unman
every sod who'd taken his pleasure inside of her.
And that was why obsession was dangerous. Wrong.
This had to stop.
And he knew it wouldn't.The Countess of Mont Claire's return to England had been quiet, at first. The engagement soiree
and subsequent wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Redmayne, a few other intimate dinner parties
and social gatherings. Just enough to cause a stir, and rarely far from the sides of her two compatriots.
How she collected so many lovers was a miracle and why, a mystery.
The stories of her exploits were as varied as the men, themselves. Some reported that she'd been
as gentle as a dove, cooing at their masterful touch. Others claimed her a kitten, pouncing and playful,
purring as they drove her to heaven. Yet more lovers swore she was a lioness. Fierce and passionate,
a huntress and a heathen. Her hunger insatiable and her roar mighty.
Which was it? Could her tastes and talents be as vast and varied as his own?
Gods, but he yearned to find out.
He squinted through the window, drinking in the vision of her like a man about to lose his sight.
What did she desire? Why had she become such a wicked woman? Had loss and pain driven her
into dark corners where throbbing, straining, damp sins momentarily filled the void left by violence?
Did she strive to fill the emptiness with penetrations of hard flesh and yielding lips?
Were they that much alike?
He had to know.
Because her return had stirred not only the bright stars of the ton but the shadows, as well. Her
name was whispered in curses and chants.
What did she know about what happened to her family? What, if anything, did she have to do with
it now?
Was she truly a seductive spinster? Or a serpent siren?
The Devil of Dorset vowed to find out, if only to rid himself of this obsession.Francesca felt a gaze upon her the way one might feel the presence of a ghost. Or demon. The fine
hairs of her body lifted and tuned toward the window. She fought the instinct to turn and look. Her
neck tensed until it ached. But finally she gave in, her head whipping around to find the glowing eye
of Ra that was the sun.
Blinking away the black shadow left upon her vision, she turned back to her friends, who were
both undressing for the final fitting of the gowns they'd wear that evening to Cecelia Teague's
engagement soiree.
"Do you know what a woman's worst enemy is?" Francesca spoke the question that would start
the conversation she'd been burning to have all day.
Cecelia's fingers paused, her stocking only halfway rolled down her shapely calf. "According to
you, it's a man, isn't it?"
"It's submission," Francesca corrected, her brow wrinkling in concern. "Cecil." She used the
masculine moniker they'd coined at the Chardonne Institute for Girls in Lake Geneva, where they'd
met and forged their years-long friendship. "You are the kindest soul in the known universe, and I
worry that Scotsman of yours is going to trample your tender heart under his ambitions. Are you
absolutely certain such a prompt marriage is advisable?"
Cecelia slipped her stocking off the rest of the way and methodically arranged it before unhooking
the other one. "I hear what you're saying, Frank, and your concern touches me, but Ramsay is not so
demanding as you think. He doesn't require submission from me, only understanding, and I give that
gladly."
"Yes, but—"
"I'm no shrinking violet." Cecelia stood to her full height, appearing, even in her corset and
drawers, a broad-shouldered Valkyrie. Beautiful, strong, and devastating to any man who would
cross her. Her lashes, however, swept down over shy cheeks. "Not anymore, at least."
Her argument might have meant more if she weren't wearing violet, which happened to be her
favorite color. But no, nothing about Cecelia was shrinking; in fact, her figure had become fuller than
ever now that she'd been applying herself to enjoying life with her Lord Chief Justice fiancé, a
monstrous large man with determination and appetite to match.
"Not all men are the grotesque goblins you consort with, Frank," Alexandra, the Duchess of
Redmayne, teased from where she selected an assortment of chocolates from a dish.
Francesca's mouth twisted wryly. "You know, I'm no great hater of men. I just…"
"Detest them?" Cecelia proffered helpfully.
"Despise them?" Alexandra chimed in.
She rolled her eyes at them both. "Distrust them."
"As you well should, of course." Alexandra bustled over to Francesca to pluck at a ribbon that had
become tangled in her chemise. "However, it's interesting to note that all of us have been betrayed by
women, as well as men, and have learned they can be twice as vicious if need be.""An excellent point," Cecelia agreed. "Women make just as fine heroes as men, but I daresay the
inverse is true as well. They are fantastic villains." She turned to the mirror, smoothing hands over
her curves. "I'll take this moment to remind you both that many women gossip and talk about frivolous
things whilst being fitted for an engagement ball, rather than secret societies, villains, and suspicion."
Alexandra, her wealth of dark curls shining auburn in the spectacular sunlight, squeezed
Francesca's arm with gentle reproof. "We are sorry, aren't we, Frank?"
"Yes," she muttered as the modiste swept in with a few of her assistants, pouring a confection of
cream silk and lace over Cecelia and molding it to her curves.
"You do look like a goddess," Francesca marveled. "I'm an utter ass."
Cecelia's sapphire eyes crinkled at the corners with a fond smile. "You're a dear to worry for
me." She turned to Alexandra. "Ramsay's your brother-in-law, Alexander. You don't share
Francesca's worries about him, do you?"
"It's not that I worry about the man," Francesca cut in before Alexandra could reply. "It's only …
are you certain you want to marry so soon? That you can keep both your husband and the business he
so detests without him forcing you to choose between them?"
Alexandra twisted her perfectly formed lips into a contemplative posture, guiltily glancing down at
the floor. "Not to be a hypocrite, Cecil, but you do have the luxury of a long engagement if you need
it."
Cecelia glanced back and forth from Alexandra, who'd had all but a daylong engagement to her
duke, and then to Francesca, who never slept in the same bed twice. "Do you two doubt me?"
"Of course not!" Alexandra reached for her.
"I do not doubt your ability, your brilliance, or your heart, dear," Francesca clarified, "only I—we
worry that your expectation to both live in marital bliss and maintain your personal sovereignty is a
bit … optimistic, that's all."
Cecelia pouted, an unintentionally sultry gesture. "Naive, you mean?"
"I didn't say that."
"She didn't say that out loud," Alexandra corrected helpfully.
"When did optimistic and naive become synonymous?" Cecelia huffed. "Can a woman not hope
for happiness, fulfillment, and love without being made to feel that she isn't cynical enough for the
trends of the day?"
"I don't want you to be cynical," Francesca argued. "Just … careful. In the span of a few months,
you found out you had a wealthy aunt who owned the most successful gambling hell in London and
half of the ton's darkest secrets. You've been shot at, kidnapped, betrayed by a close friend, and your
business burned to the ground." She ticked these recent events off on her fingers. "You made an
enemy, and then a fiancé, of one of the surliest, most unyielding, ill-tempered Scots in the empire—"
"Let us not forget handsome, loyal, rich, and generous—" Cecelia cut in, defending her lover.
"And then you've agreed to marry him even though he still does not want you to rebuild the
establishment—"
"—as well as a school and employment placement program for displaced women—" Cecelia
corrected.
"Also, the investigation into who imprisoned those girls in your cellar isn't exactly tied up, if
you'll pardon the expression. I mean we've found the procurer of the children, but not who intended
to buy them. Don't you think a wedding on top of all that is too much too soon?"Cecelia shook her head vehemently. "It's too little, too late, if I'm honest."
"How do you figure?"
"I love Ramsay." Cecelia's voice quieted, as one did when conveying a simple truth. "I want to be
his wife, and if our lives are still dangerous, isn't it best that I marry as soon as I can? That I live the
life I want because I'm so aware that tomorrow is not guaranteed? We're almost thirty, Francesca. If
we're going to marry and have children, now is the time."
"But…" Francesca almost bit back the argument burning a hole in her chest. "We vowed not to
marry." They were supposed to be the Red Rogues for life. The Three Musketeers. Going on
adventures, making mischief, and leading one another through the mire that was life.
Now she'd have to do that all on her own.
Alexandra rested her head on Francesca's shoulder, all empathy and understanding. "We were
young, impulsive, traumatized girls when we made that promise. Things have changed a great deal,
haven't they?"
For them, perhaps. Alexandra had found her duke, and he'd slain her dragons both real and
remembered. Cecelia apparently felt as though Ramsay was her match, a Scot every bit as hard as she
was soft. Powerful where she was pleasant, and disgustingly besotted with her.
What did Francesca have? Her revenge. She could sense that she drew closer to it, but it remained
so frustratingly out of reach.
It consumed her every moment. What time did she have for true affection when she was so busy
making false love to anyone she could get her hands on?
What if she survived her quest for vengeance? What then? Of course she and her Red Rogues were
all still friends—the best of—but now loyalties were split. Love and family came before friendship.
And no matter who had buried the bodies of their enemies, she could tell that her friends' hearts had a
little less room for her.
The thought made her nearly mad with melancholy, though she'd die before she admitted it.
Cecelia turned on her dais, smoothing the dress over her hips with a look of happiness that was
almost painful to behold. "Frank," she asked. "After this is all over … do you think you'll ever
marry?"
Francesca thought about it. Tried to picture any sort of domestic bliss and grimaced. She'd desired
to marry once upon a time, but … that was before. Before she'd lost Declan Chandler.
"I think it's impossible for me to be happy with a man," she answered.
"Why?"
"Because I could not endure the rule of a husband, and yet would not respect or desire a man who
would be ruled by me." She shrugged at her conundrum.
Cecelia laughed. "You'll need to find a man with the bravery to stand up to you."
"And the wisdom to stand down," Alexandra added sagely.
"Show me such a man, I dare you." Francesca allowed herself to share their amusement until the
modiste and the small army of assistants returned with their gowns for the engagement and wedding
week's revelries.
This evening's ball gown, a sage-green confection with dramatic black cording and lace at the low
bodice, made her appear to have curves where there might be none. This was why she used Madame
Jaqueline Dupris, that and because she had made a few alterations specific to her, including extra
pockets for weapons, tonics, and whatever else she might need to conceal.Last-minute alteration notes were made for the subsequent gowns, which would be delivered the
next morning.
A restless awareness plagued her as she signed papers, handed hat and dress boxes to footmen,
and tossed her scotch back with more relish than usual, glancing toward the tastefully draped
window.
The sunlight was … was what? Watchful? Expectant? Or was she being dramatic? A heat skittered
across her skin that had nothing to do with the unseasonable late-summer warmth. It was as though a
foreign gaze touched her. It peered past the art and artifice she'd tucked around herself, through the
skin and sinew of her, to the cold and lonely darkness beneath.
She felt, in that moment, like a diary opened to a stranger, and yet she had no reason to do so.
Unsettled, she scanned the busy street from the corner of the Strand to the bright, cloudless horizon.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No strange fellows lurked down below or peered from windows
across the way. People were everywhere, and she was just one of the throng of Londoners going
about her rather pedestrian day.
So why did the heat of the sun call her to strip away the layers of her clothing, exposing her flesh
to its warmth?
Perhaps this city was driving her mad.
Again the reflection blinded her, and she turned back to face Cecelia's disturbingly observant
assessment, as her friend had drifted closer. A worried wrinkle appeared between Cecelia's brows
as she opened her parasol to protect her skin from the rare sunlight. "You're not going to … that is to
say … you're not going home with Lord Brendan, are you? On the night of my engagement party?"
"Of course I will. I'm getting close. I can feel it. My next bedfellow might just spill the
information I've been looking for."
Alexandra drew up to her other side, adjusting her hastily donned hat. Regardless of their fortunes
and status, the Red Rogues often served as one another's ladies' maids at such outings, so they might
talk freely. "Frank … what you're doing with these men is not safe. What if someone hurts you, or
worse?"
"You well know anyone with nefarious plans should fear me rather than the other way around."
Francesca winked and patted her pocket where a small pistol rested inside. She needn't remind them
of the knife in her boot, another up her sleeve.
"Of course we know you're trained in combat." Cecelia spoke more conspiratorially in public.
"But … oh, I don't know … I can't even say it."
"Say what?"
Alexandra and Cecelia exchanged glances before the Duchess of Redmayne forged ahead. "Word
is spreading faster than predicted that…"
"That I'm an undiscriminating spinster starving for sex?"
Alexandra's peachy cheeks darkened as she glanced up and down the busy street. "Well … yes."
Francesca gave a nonchalant shrug. "What care have I what they all say? They can take neither my
title nor my fortune from me. Their acceptance means nothing, and my reputation is useless next to my
revenge."
Before her friends could reply, a blur of heavy rags and faded wool crashed into the porter's bevy
of boxes, sending gowns, millinery, and haberdashery scattering in a fountain of wrapping paper and
ribbons.A portly older man with bad teeth and frizzy grey hair peeking from beneath a weathered cap
writhed on a slew of silk chemises and underthings, squawking and carrying on like a seagull in
distress.
Her footman, Ivan, stepped to the man, shooing him away with strongly worded reproofs.
"Oh, do stand down, Ivan, and help the poor man up." Francesca huffed over the cobbles, reaching
the man's right shoulder as Ivan reluctantly held the left. "What happened here? Are you all right, sir?
Do you need medical attention?" Her propensity to rapid-fire questions wasn't one she'd gathered the
discipline to overcome.
It took more strength than she'd expected to lift the surprisingly heavy, incredibly solid fellow
from the ground, and he seemed to do nothing whatsoever to assist in his own recovery. The
shoulders beneath her hands were padded with too many layers of clothing for summer, making him
seem twice his size. It was impossible to gauge his height as he was stooped over so, with a hump on
his back beneath his coat that made her own neck ache in sympathy.
"No 'arm done. No 'arm done," he drawled as he tripped and scrambled off his arse to a semi-
upright position. He batted at his jacket and backside, releasing more dust into the air than one would
collect on the street alone. "It's me damned rheumatism acting up again. Might you get me cane for
me, love?" The nail of the finger he pointed with was caked with the same grime as what stained his
fingerless gloves. She didn't want to consider its origin.
"Of course." She stooped to retrieve it and extended it, careful not to touch him. "Are you sure you
are not hurt?"
"No more than me pride," he said rather sheepishly as he hobbled about, treading on a few of the
garments that had escaped their wrapping.
Francesca did her best not to wince.
"My Mildred, she's always after me for not watching where I'm going. Thick as a mooring post I
am, that's what she says." He looked down and gawked at a pair of discarded drawers, which were
now soiled from the road and the soles of his patched boots. "What's all this?" He stooped to scoop
up the delicate silk, and bent again to yank at the skirt of her ball gown, which was still mostly in the
box until he got his hands on it.
Inspecting it with one wide eye, he turned his attention to her with the narrowed gaze of a
detective. "Are you going to some posh to-do later? You're a fine lady, i'nt ya? I can tell."
It took no great investigative mind to decipher that. "A ball, in fact, if I can clean my gown by
then." Impatience threatened to seep into her tone as she reached for her dress. It had cost a fortune,
and now the cleaning would, as well. She might have to wear another for tonight.
A crowd had begun to gather after a fashion, couples and businessmen passing by more slowly to
gawk at their goings-on.
Francesca would be humiliated, if she were prone to such ridiculous emotions.
A dingy smile split the man's face, revealing three blackened teeth Francesca couldn't bring
herself to look at. "Whar now! I fink you'll be the prettiest thing at the … wait a tic. Do I know you?"
"I don't believe we've been introduced." She began to inch toward her carriage as Alexandra,
Cecelia, and the footmen did their best to reclaim and reorganize the boxes.
He wagged that large, dingy finger dramatically. "You're famous or somefing, ain't ya? I've seen
you in the papers?"
"That isn't likely…""Why!" His face lit with recognition. "You're that prodigal countess. Mont Claire it were, weren't
it?" He slapped his thigh. "Well diddle me giddy aunt, I'll have to tell the missus I was run over by
royalty."
"Hardly royalty—"
"And if it'll make you feel better, she'll wallop me another good one for ya. A brigadier general is
my Mildred, keeps me on my toes so she don't smash them with those giant clodhoppers, God love
'er."
Cecelia was unable to hide a snort of hilarity from behind Francesca as they helped the footmen
stuff everything into the carriage to sort out in a less public location.
"Well, sir." Francesca reached into her purse, extracting a coin. "Please accept this as a gift for
Mildred, along with my apologies for the fall." She didn't know whose fault it had been, but she was
ready to be done with the entire business.
"That's too kind, my lady, too kind." He snatched the coin from her and studied it with almost
insulting exactitude.
"Not at all," she murmured. "Good day, Mr.…"
"Thatch, Mr. Edward Thatch." His hand snaked out with astonishing speed and plucked her gloved
fingers for a kiss.
"Mr. Thatch." She suffered the kiss, which lingered a bit too long, before pulling her hand back.
"You enjoy your ball, my lady," he said, tipping his cap.
"Thank you." Francesca batted away her footman's hand, sending him up to the driver before
mounting the first carriage step.
"Dead men tell no tales," came Thatch's raspy voice from behind her, lowered to an intimate
whisper. "But watch the shadows for ghosts, they'll spill your secrets quick enough."
A chill pinned her, paralyzing her spine for a breathless moment before she whirled around. "Why
would you say—?"
Life teemed on the street, but the rheumatic Mr. Thatch was nowhere to be found.