Francesca read nothing but secrets in Drake's stormy eyes. Secrets her instincts screamed at her to
uncover.
Luckily for her, uncovering secrets from men who claimed to be powerful was a formula she'd
perfected over the past few years.
This man, however, was different. His power was more than a claim, but self-evident in every
aspect of his being.
He restrained that strength as his fingers bit into her shoulders. "Ye need to be very certain of what
ye're offering, my lady. If ye take me to yer bed, it willna change anything."
She stalled. It'd been the first time one of her seductions had been met with a warning. A cryptic
one at that. Why were men so often wrong? Of course it would change everything, at least for her.
"Well," she answered with a coy and practiced quirk of her lips. "I was rather hoping you'd take
me to your bed."
"Bloody Christ," he cursed, before all but dragging her toward the back stairs that would lead to
where the carriages waited to take their masters and mistresses home at the end of the evening.
Francesca floated on her slippers, feeling like she imagined Icarus might have. Daring to fly too
close to the sun, hoping not to fall out of the sky before her purpose had been attained.
And her immediate purpose had become finding out just who this Lord Drake was. This man with
"dubious contacts" and "limitless legal protections whose currency was not just money but secrets
and blood." This man who knew Luther Kenway intimately enough to warn her away from him,
despite the earl's more sterling reputation.
He'd warned her as if he cared, which was very probably a lie.
And yet … a sincerity had emanated from him, not just during their conversation but during their
kiss, as well.
A man's mouth often lied, but his body rarely did.
He kissed her like he couldn't help himself, and Francesca intended to use that against him.
Even as her own body threatened to betray her.
A flurry of butterflies erupted in her stomach as they crunched over the drive with ever-quickening
steps. Francesca was able to pause long enough to bid her driver to send her excuses to Alexander
and Cecil, and to tell them with whom she was leaving.
She made certain Lord Drake marked the precaution she took.
If something were to happen to her, the remaining Red Rogues would do anything to avenge her.
Not that she couldn't take care of herself.
She'd a dram in her pocket and weapons on her person, prepared for just such an occasion.
Drake less lifted and more crowded her into his well-appointed carriage. With a motion equally
graceful and fluid, he settled himself into the plush champagne velvet seat and pulled her atop him,
affixing his mouth to hers before she could object.
Not that she would have.Francesca was used to eager men; it was why she generally took her own carriage to such a
seduction. This time, however, she'd been afraid to let Drake out of her sight, in case he slipped
through her fingers.
In case she lost her nerve.
And if she was honest, a part of her had hoped for this exact moment. This man. This kiss. This
hunger. The headiness of it threatened to overwhelm her. The danger somehow intensified her desire.
Though she was atop him, Drake claimed and maintained control of their passion. He kept her busy
with his lips as he split her thighs over his lap. Her skirts created a lake of crimson that threatened to
drown them both.
He breathed in the slight gasp she emitted as their bodies molded. His big hands cupped her hips,
pulling her bottom against his thighs. His sex unrepentantly found hers through the layers of their
clothing, and he pressed his hips forward even as he guided a roll of her pelvis, grinding against her
in a shockingly intimate parody of what he thought they were about to do.
She should be afraid. Of his need, of hers. Of his size and her recklessness. Of the unrelenting
strength rippling in his shoulders as she clutched them for purchase.
Of the way his eyes were always shifting and suspicious, as though he knew the world should trust
neither of them.
He gave her no time for fear, distracting her as he nibbled and sampled, then devoured her with a
surge of his tongue before retreating to drag his passion-slicked lips across hers.
His body was impossibly hard and tense and his mouth demanding. His hands, though, were
languid and patient as they smoothed up her back, managing to both hold her aloft and caress her at
once.
Overwhelmed, she broke the seal of their lips to take in a full breath. At just that moment, they
passed a streetlamp, and it slashed a golden light over his features.
Francesca's heart stalled. She'd caught him in an unguarded, ephemeral instant. And beneath the
look of sweltering, savage lust, she read something she'd not expected.
Hope.
Longing, perhaps. Not the bright, lovely wish one sees on the faces of children. But the stark,
careful yearning of someone who is starving and desperate. Who looks for kindness without really
expecting to receive it.
He hadn't meant for her to see the expression, of that she was certain, but she couldn't pretend it
hadn't been there.
Because it nearly melted her heart.
Or broke it.
"Christ, woman," he groaned, his voice guttural and his accent less tangible in the dark. "You'll
ruin me."
Only if she had to.
Only if he was a man worthy of ruining.
She brushed the shadow of his cheek with searching fingertips for a strange and tender moment,
wondering why that look seemed so familiar. Why it tugged at places inside of her turned to ash ages
ago.
He surged beneath her touch, capturing her mouth in a wild, wet kiss and pouring unrestrained lust
over her bones like molten fire.He didn't want her softness. Didn't need to be tender or vulnerable. This man's desires were hard
and hot and punishing.
His body rolled beneath her, hips grinding up and up as his wide shoulders fell against the back of
the carriage, sprawling her more absolutely atop him.
Gasping at the instant pleasure against her core, Francesca's hips made jerking little motions
against the hands that locked them in place. Never had she felt this. Never had she been so exposed
with all her clothing on. So intimate with a man.
Awareness of every part of herself distracted her so fully from any logical thought. The muscles of
her abdomen clenched and worked as she rocked intimately against the barrel of his erection. Her
hands kneaded his shoulders like he was a kitten being stroked. Her thighs held her weight, trembling
but strong as they bracketed his strong legs.
Who was she?
In his arms, she had no idea. She'd never met this woman before, so unleashed and uncalculated.
Who was he that he could wreak this kind of havoc upon her?
What was he?
A friend? An enemy?
That's what she needed to find out. Why she was here in this carriage. She mustn't forget that. She
wasn't here for the sake of her seduction.
But information.
Even as she did her best to collect the ice around her heart, her body heated to such a degree she'd
no sooner summoned it than it melted into a puddle.
She was so wet. Drenched, in fact. She could feel it against her intimate underthings, absorbed by
clean cotton.
Gods, but she was in trouble.
His breath panted out of him in puffs of warmth, fragrant with wine. As they moved together,
devoured each other, Francesca heard it begin to catch in his chest. And then his throat. Moans of
desire at first, and then demands.
His fingers found her garters before she'd even been aware they'd slipped beneath her skirts.
"No!" She clenched her thighs, lifting herself away from him. "That is. I mean. Not yet. I don't
want this to be finished too soon. Not in the carriage."
She needed to get into his house.
"Oh, Countess." A soft chuff growled out of him, perhaps a laugh but not quite. He brushed his
rough cheek against her smooth one before dipping to breathe in the scent of her neck. "I plan for ye to
finish many times before this night is over. Why not start here?" His fingers crept no higher, but their
calluses abraded at the flash of thigh between her drawers and her stockings.
"I can feel yer heat through these," he breathed, toying with her undergarment. "Ye'd come so fast.
So hard. I'd have to carry ye upstairs and give ye time to recover before ye did it again."
Francesca had to gather every bit of her will not to give in to the cajoling in his voice. She reached
down and took his wrists, unable to meet her fingers around them. He allowed her to lift them from
her thighs and imprison them out wide against the seat back, like a penitent nailed to a Roman cross.
"I want to wait," she leaned in to say against his ear. "To come with you. I want to watch your
pleasure."
He made a short noise of amusement. Not quite a laugh, not quite a groan. "Is that what ye like, mylady? To watch?"
"I like a great many things," she hedged, boldly stopping his lips with her own. Taking his kiss
from him while keeping him a willing prisoner.
He could have overpowered her at any time, but it seemed to please him to indulge her.
She counted upon that indulgence to save her later.
The carriage stopped rather abruptly, nearly sending Francesca tumbling off his lap. Drake caught
her, and she righted herself, leaping away from him before the footman turned the latch of the door.
The same footman accompanied them up the steps and acted the butler, letting them into the
redbrick row house.
"Thank you, Howard." Drake nodded to him.
The marquess resided close to her own terrace, though Francesca didn't remark upon it as he
swept her through the dark, quiet grand entry toward the marble stairs.
White sheets covered everything, as if his home had been furnished with ghosts. Francesca paused
at the door to a long dining room with a forlorn table. "How long have you been in residence here?"
"I'm only visiting for a short time. I'll be bound for Edinburgh soon, unless I've a reason to
abide." The look he gave her brimmed with meaning, and something else.
Something so opaque she couldn't identify it.
Despite her suspicions, the warmth of a blush spread through her extremities.
Don't fall for this, she recriminated. This isn't real.
Her body didn't mark her as he swept her into his arms and conquered the stairs two at a time. His
steps echoed like gunshots in the eerie quiet of the house. No, not quiet. Emptiness. She knew,
somehow, that they were utterly alone. No maids, footmen, or underbutlers slept beneath this roof.
No one to hear her scream.
The thought was at once erotic and alarming, as was the manner in which he kicked open a
bedroom door, deposited her on a cavernous bed, and maneuvered himself between her legs before
she could think to stop him.
He covered her body as he captured her mouth, claiming it so utterly, her head emptied of thought
and her body brimming with need.
Would succumbing to this all-consuming lust be such a sin?
While he supported his weight with one hand, his other caressed her cheek, her jaw, and fluttered
against the corner of her lip before gently drawing her mouth open to resume the damp exploration
he'd begun in the coach.
His mouth. His hard, wicked mouth. She'd never experienced its like. It yielded against her lips
with surprising smoothness, the pressure perfect and passionate.
Oh, the things he might do with that mouth.
Should she? Should they…?
No.
If Francesca had been alone, she might have slapped herself, just to break whatever spell he
weaved with the promise of pleasure.
No. Not until she knew who he was.
Until she could be sure of what he wasn't.
"Wait," she whispered. The slight pressure of her hands levered him away from her, which made
her feel a great deal safer.At least he listened. He didn't insist. So many men wouldn't hear those words from her. Wait. No.
Stop. Don't. Not yet. She had to learn—to train herself—to be physically agile, strong, and devious
in order to avoid so many awful situations.
But with one word, one press of her hand … he stopped.
He waited.
It ingratiated him to her a great deal.
"It … it's too dark."
"I do my best work in the dark."
Of that, Francesca had no doubt.
Lowering his head, he ran questing lips along her jaw and sifted down the column of her neck.
He made it to the bodice of her dress with little caressing kisses before she could muddle together
any reason. "But it's cold. Are you not cold? Mightn't we have a fire laid in the hearth?"
She felt rather than saw his frown against her clavicle, and she had to ignore the insistent press of
her beaded nipple quivering just below her plunging neckline.
"Ye're cold?" he murmured, certainly thinking about how late in the summer it was. Or how warm
and flushed her skin felt by his. "Doona worry," he rumbled. "I'll keep ye warm with my body.
Besides, with the amount of physical activity and friction we're about to—"
"Just a lamp then," she insisted. "Or two. I want to see you. Like I said. To see … us."
"Well, in that case." His breath quickened in the dark, as if the thought tempted him a great deal.
He heaved himself away from her, and she marked his shadow as he went to the mantel for matches.
"Might I ring for a drink?" she asked, palming the tonic in her pocket. The glass felt as smooth as a
well-told lie.
"No need. There's several on the sideboard," he answered.
What a relief. Summoning her last reserves of will, Francesca sat up and waited for the strike and
flare of the match in order to assess her surroundings.
He'd lit the first lamp as she found the sideboard with four separate decanters upon it. She went to
it, pouring them both a glass of whiskey, and anointing his with a healthy dose of the sleeping draught.
When she turned around, he'd lit two lamps on the mantel and one on the nightstand.
The bedroom was so perfunctory. So utilitarian. Large, masculine furniture in various shades of
boring. The bed was nice, though, likely carved back when the Scots and the English were considered
enemies.
He whipped the match in the air a few times to extinguish it and set it aside before stalking toward
her with the grace of a rawboned jungle cat.
The lamplight gleamed from the striations in his eyes, turning them a wicked sort of amber. Almost
the very color of the liquid in the glass she extended to him.
"Fortify yourself, Marquess," she said playfully. "I don't intend to be gentle."
His eyes flared as he took it and tapped the rim of hers with his own. "I wish I could say ye'd
surprised me, my lady."
Francesca paused and watched him toss back his entire drink in one swift motion.
A bleak note had underscored the heat in his words.
Francesca—the real Francesca—had been a gentle girl … Were they both thinking it?
He didn't give her time to ponder, as he nudged her glass. "Drink up, Countess. Ye'll need it to
melt yer own fortifications."She studied him over a sip before setting the glass down on the nightstand. Advancing on him, she
pressed her hand against the mound of muscle on his chest and pushed until the bed caught the backs
of his knees, forcing him to sit.
Lifting her skirt, she climbed atop him, careful to keep the pocket with her pistol out of his reach.
Settling back on his lap, she wished like hell she didn't feel as though this was the exact place she
should be. With him. Over, beneath, or around him.
Belying her words, she pressed her mouth gently to his, bracketing his jaw with the palms of her
hands. It'd been so smooth at the beginning of the night, and was now stubbled with a dark shadow.
One with very little auburn.
She kissed him with protracted intimacy, wondering if she'd ever again get the chance. If this was
goodbye to a pleasant fantasy before she found out what kind of monster he really was.
It was bliss, this. The not knowing. Bliss and torture.
Slowly, his muscles uncorded one by one, his mouth becoming less coordinated, his hands falling
to his sides onto the bed.
"What…" He pulled away, looking at her with an amused sort of surprise. "What did you…?"
Francesca slid her hands to his neck, cradling it as he gently leaned back, his heavy body rolling
vertebra by vertebra onto the mattress until he was completely prone, his knees still hanging off the
side.
Unconscious.
Francesca looked down at him from where she straddled his lean hips and felt a pang of remorse.
Or perhaps something as strong as regret. Lord, she hoped her instincts were right about him, because
if he was any kind of innocent, she was the villain here.
Best she find out sooner than later.
Francesca dismounted him as one would a horse, fully aware that her entire body protested. The
room was rather chilly without the heat of his skin, summer or no.
It took her no time to tear through his house, and she learned more from what she didn't find than
what she did.
Which was next to nothing.
The library was full of untouched books, and she wandered through kitchens that weren't just tidy,
but empty. Unused. The larder bereft of food. She searched beneath furniture covers for bodies and in
closets for skeletons.
Nothing. Nothing but mothballs and the faint scent of desolation.
By the time Francesca reached the study, she was certain of one thing: Drake might own this place,
but he certainly didn't live here. She supposed some bachelor gentlemen, and even nobles, preferred
to sleep at their clubs when in town, making use of club staff instead of bringing their own.
But not marquesses. A man of his station required a full retinue, and a house of this size required
constant upkeep. Accounts. Ledgers. Banknotes and bills. Each household often had a steward or at
least a solicitor. Someone to keep the paperwork in order, even if a marquess was impoverished.
She found the study as empty as the rest of the house.
Frustrated and intrigued, Francesca slowly made her way back to his bedroom.
He still lay upon the bed, looking angelic, really, in a sinister, star-of-the-morning sort of way.
She drifted to the bedside and leaned her shoulder against the pillar at the foot, studying the enigma
before her.Francesca had never really noticed how perpetually clenched his jaw was until she saw it now
slack with slumber. Lord, but he was beautiful in that way men were. Stark angles. Broad planes.
Lean muscle.
She shouldn't be staring. Furthermore, she shouldn't stay. She feared him so terribly only because
she wanted him so much. He was older than she'd first assumed. He had creases branching from his
eyes she hadn't previously noticed. Perhaps because of the flattering lighting, or because … wait.
Was that—?
She drifted closer and snatched the lamp from the side table to hold it closer to Drake's face.
His eyelids danced with dreams, and from the furrow of his brow, Francesca guessed those
dreams were troubled. But that wasn't what kept her gaze locked to his face, his eyes in particular.
Reaching out, she brushed at a gather of substance in the grooves of skin at the edge of his eyelids
before examining her thumb.
Powder. The kind ladies used to cover blemishes and imperfections.
Was he so vain? Or …
A groan escaped him, and then something of a protest in his chest. A bark of anger, subdued by his
compelled sleep.
"Nothing will make it right. Nothing will bring them back," he mumbled. "I'll kill you for what you
did … For taking them from me. I'll avenge…"
Francesca reached into her dress. Extracting her pistol, she aimed it right at his temple. Her finger
caressed the trigger, but her hand trembled too much to shoot true.
It didn't matter. He deserved to be shot.
And she deserved a goddamned medal, as she'd been correct about him from the start.
In his sleep, his Scottish brogue had melted into a proper English accent.
Which meant he wasn't who he claimed to be, either.Something had crawled into Chandler's mouth and died. He forced a swallow over a dry tongue and
put his hand to his pounding head, trying to summon what reserves of strength he had to open his eyes.
When had he fallen asleep? What time was—
Francesca.
Consciousness slammed into him with all the weight of a sledgehammer, forcing his lids open.
He looked down the length of his prone body, noting the barrel of the pistol first, and only then the
lovely woman attached to the trigger finger. His eyeballs ached as he bounced them from thing to
thing, gathering what information he could.
More lamps had been lit. His wardrobe had been gone through, as had the drawers. His wig hung
on the arm of the chair she'd pulled up to occupy as she trained the little gun right between his legs.
Bollocks, he'd been caught out.
"Tell me who you are, or I'll shoot off the very thing that makes you a man." She extended her arm
to punctuate just where her pistol was aimed.
Chandler fought the reflex to jerk his legs closed.
"Did ye drug me?" he rasped from a throat made of wool.
"Impressive that you can still pretend," she said with unwavering control. "You must feel like
death has taken residence in your skull."
She wasn't wrong. "What did ye use on me?"
"You wouldn't know it," she snapped. "And you can drop your accent, I've uncovered your
deceit."
He stalled, sifting through his muddled thoughts to find a reason for his wig. "I doona ken what ye
think ye know—"
"I know you talk in your sleep."
Chandler froze. Did he? He'd never allowed himself to fall asleep next to a woman before. What
had he said? What had he revealed in his sleep?
"Who are you?" she repeated.
Chandler could only stare at her a moment. Not out of fear, but of awe. Christ, she was even more
magnificent when angry. Her porcelain skin stretched across a perfect bone structure with tension and
determination. Her eyes glittered diamond-hard without a trace of fear. Her hand was steady, her aim
true.
She could be Athena if she had a bow. Lithe and strong and deceptively dangerous.
He pushed himself to his elbows with great care and instant regret, if only to get a better look at
her.
"I'm what you are," he answered in his own British accent. "I am a lie. A ghost. I am anyone I
need to be."
She snorted her derision, which was the last thing he'd expected, tossing her head like a
displeased filly. "If you insist on feeding me these non-answers, I might as well shoot you in the headand see who comes for you. Then I'll interrogate them."
"You'll get answers from none of them. We're trained to be interrogated," he replied with a
flippancy he didn't feel. "What did I say in my sleep?"
Oddly her gaze softened a bit, as did the white of her knuckles on the pistol. "You spoke of
vengeance," she answered gently. "Of loss. Who was taken from you? Are they why you are
pretending to be a marquess?"
"It was nonsense," he hedged, thinking that she'd never answered his accusation of her being as
much of a liar as he.
"It didn't sound like nonsense."
"Don't you ever have nightmares?"
Her jaw jutted forward, and a flash of emotion washed her face in anguish for a moment before it
disappeared. "My entire family is dead. Why look further for a nightmare than that?"
Why, indeed?
"Tell me who. You. Are." Her pistol cocked in the silence between them, a cold and final sound.
"I will not ask again."
She would do it. He read murder in her eyes. Such a foreign and troubling sight on such a slight
and beautiful woman. Could it be that the truth lived in that pain? Could she possibly be a girl who
once watched men in masks massacre her entire family?
The ice encasing Chandler's heart cracked just a bit, as it struggled to reawaken something he'd
lived so long without. Hope.
"I didn't lie when I told you that I am a ghost." To combat the indecorous threat of actual emotion,
he pushed more insouciance into his manner. "I have it on official record that I'm dead. Twice,
actually. A third time will barely make a dent." He waved his hand. "Pull the trigger, if you must."
Her frown deepened, settling heavily on such finely crafted features. "You're saying you'll not be
missed?"
"Men in my line of work rarely are."
"And what line of work is that, exactly?" She looked more triumphant than sympathetic. "Are you,
what, Crimson Council? Is that why you've warned me away from Luther Kenway? Do you work for
him?" She leaned forward, obviously excited when he'd expected some sort of anger, or at least fear.
"Am I getting too close to the truth?"
She was. She was getting too close … to everything. To him.
His body stirred, despite his malaise.
"If I were such a man, wouldn't I lie about it?" he asked testily.
Her fingers snagged his notice as they traced the line of her bodice, the beading rough, and the skin
as soft as hand-whipped cream.
Chandler's dry mouth flooded with moisture. Had he been able to sample any parts of her flesh
before the tonic had pulled him under? His unrequited passion told him no.
She extracted a wicked-looking blade from a sheath in her décolletage. "You'll tell me the truth, of
course." She stood, her pistol in one hand and her blade in the other, rising like a goddess of the dark,
of war and desire and needful things. Approaching, she pressed each one of her weapons rather
painfully against his kneecaps. "You'll tell me now as you are, or under duress, I care not."
Christ. His cock stirred, thickened. In moments she'd be able to see what was becoming a vicious
erection. "Some men appreciate duress," he answered. "As I'm certain your bawd friend—Cecelia,s it?—could tell you. Duress is a sexual commodity. She sells it with some frequency, I imagine …
illegally."
"You keep Cecelia out of this." To his utter astonishment, she reached out and struck him across
the cheek with the butt of her pistol.
His head swung to the side, and he tasted blood from a split on the inside of his cheek.
"I swear to you, if you threaten her, I'll fucking send you to hell with only half your bits attached to
your body, do we quite understand each other?"
Chandler wiped at the blood on his lip, staring at her mutely. Magnificent. Impressive. Brilliant.
He couldn't find enough words to describe the sheer stunning gloriousness of her.
He decided to be done with deception, to a point. "I'm not Crimson Council. But, like you, I'm
after them."
"Why? Why, then, pretend to be a Scottish marquess?" she demanded.
"The same reason you pretend to be a countess, I expect. It opens doors."
She wound her arm back, preparing to strike him again when she paused. "But people at Cecelia's
ball knew you. They recognized you as Lord Drake. How did you—?"
"I am Lord Drake—"
"But—"
"I am also Lord Andrew Barton of the Cambridge Bartons."
Her brow quirked, and she lowered the gun to merely point at his chest. "The reclusive baronet
who only shows up for his seat in Parliament?"
"I'm Nathaniel Butler, merchant of Drury Lane, James Lancaster in the East End. And you'll
recognize this one." He scrunched up his left eye and talked out of the right side of his mouth. "Me
wife, Mildred, thanks yew, kind lady, for your generosi'y."
Her features instantly brightened, suddenly shining with astonishment, though her weapons never
moved. "Edward Thatch! I cannot believe it."
"Thank you." He summoned a smile. "Can I trouble you to fetch me some water there, I'm halfway
to dead with thirst."
She sheathed her knife in its enviable scabbard and backed to the sideboard. Selecting the entire
pitcher with her free hand, she returned, plunked it on the nightstand, and backed away. The pistol's
barrel never left his vitals.
Chandler sat up to reach for the water, ignoring the swimming in his head as he cooled his throat
with a few healthy gulps.
"Do you fancy yourself a pirate?" she asked when he finished, wiping away a drop from the corner
of his mouth with a sleeve.
"I'm a spy," he confessed.
She shook her head. "You've distinctly picked your monikers from famous—or infamous—
pirates."
"Privateers," he corrected. "And I cannot very well name myself after spies, now can I? If they're
famous, then they're obviously terrible at their jobs."
At that, Francesca laughed.
And the world paused to hear it.
Chandler stared at her, gun in hand, head tilted back and a little to the left, exposing the white
column of her elegant neck. Her face crinkled from somber to adorable in the space of a smile.Something about that laugh twisted inside of him a feeling of fondness he'd not had since he was a
boy, enjoying the only carefree years he'd experienced before the fates turned on him.
Could it be…?
"Are you anyone else?" she asked almost gleefully.
"A few people," he answered honestly. "Most of them foreign. A German officer, for example,
Klein Heinzlein, or an Italian count … one who is acquainted with a certain scarred duke of ancient
Redmayne heritage."
She gasped, and for once was completely speechless for longer than the space of time it took to fill
her lungs. "Count Armediano?" she whispered.
"Al tuo servizio, signora."
"Holy mother of Minerva, I can't believe I've met you so many times and never suspected a
thing…" She lowered her gun, but only a few inches, her features shining with an admiration that stole
years from her countenance. "You're incredible."
His lip twitched with the genuine threat of a smile. Her unabashed compliment meant more to him,
somehow, than a slew of official commendations he'd received over the years. "Those are just the
personas I maintain with paperwork, residences, and societal contacts." He was in danger of
bragging, but he couldn't seem to help himself.
Why did he want to impress her? Did this mean he was beginning to believe?
"I'd be mad to believe you," she said with an incredulous shake of her head. "And don't think it's
escaped my notice that you still haven't told me who you really are."
"You knew me once," he murmured. His heart ceased to beat as he contemplated his next move.
What if she failed his test?
What if she succeeded?
She frowned, her eyes shifting away suspiciously. "You told me we'd met in my childhood, but
I'm sorry, I still can't recall you."
Chandler wished his fingers were steadier as he held them out to her, palm up.
"What about now?Francesca stared down at his hand for what felt like the space of a blink but could have been an
eternity. Her vision narrowed, tunneled. Dimly, she heard her name being called. Felt her arm drop to
her side and the hammer release from her pistol.
Her limbs went numb, then disappeared. Little tingles of sensation crawled over her face, her
scalp, and rose gooseflesh over her entire body.
You knew me once.
Long ago, Declan Chandler and Ferdinand had snuck out of the house to romp in the woods in the
dark. Young Francesca had been afraid to go.
But Pippa, she'd yearned to be invited with all her little-girl being. They'd promised to take her,
but ultimately left without her. They'd played at being werewolves and bayed at the moon. They'd
sliced the flesh of their palms and comingled their blood, solidifying a blood-brotherhood.
Pippa had been incensed upon waking the next morning—nay, she'd been livid. She'd cut her palm
to match them, but had accidentally done the left hand instead of the right. She'd demanded that the
entire clan do it again, but they refused her. She'd demanded to know why she'd been left out. They'd
told her she was too young and loud and would have revealed them to the entire household. That she
was a girl and not welcome into their brotherhood. Ferdinand had said she needed to learn to be a
better lady. That she needed to change if she wanted anyone to like her.
Declan hadn't agreed, but he hadn't said anything against the young heir to Mont Claire, either.
That day had been the first time she realized that who she was as a person might cost her
something as intrinsic as love. That she'd have to choose between her nature and what others desired
her to be. Because girls, ladies, didn't act like her. Didn't have her ambitions, her proclivities, nor
her curiosity.
At least, they weren't supposed to.
It had been the worst day of her young life.
Up until the massacre.
To fill her astonished silence, he said, "Do you remember when Ferdinand and I did this, you were
so dismayed. Disgusted. You dressed us down as you dressed the wounds."
Not her. Francesca. Francesca had been disgusted.
Pippa had been enchanted and jealous.
"Declan?" Holy God, how many times had she said that name to the dark, aching, praying,
yearning for an answer. "It's … not. How could it be? You were shot in the back."
It took her a humiliatingly long time to realize that her eyes kept blurring because of tears. She
blinked them away angrily, wishing they would stop stealing away the precious sight of the tiny scar
on his palm. A scar no less than biblical to her.
She closed her fist around the matching one on her hand.
"My shoulder, mostly, and with a shotgun at long range," he explained. "I was able to run into the
dark, though I had to get pellets picked out of my flesh. Even my side."Stowing the pistol back in her pocket, she rushed forward and seized the palm. She dropped to her
knees and kissed the little fissure again and again. Tasting the salt of her tears. Of his skin. Of her
pain.
She covered her eyes, then her mouth, tears gathering like little gems in her lashes.
She didn't care that she'd surrendered her dignity, her vanity, and her secrets. She didn't care if he
was good or bad, he was …
Declan. Alive.
Even in her thoughts the name washed her with such a swath of emotion she feared she might
drown in it.
She looked up at the man who stared down at her with a guarded, almost uncertain expression, and
swayed a little. Making sure her desire didn't deceive her, she drank in the sight of him. Examined
him with all the scrutiny of a detective.
His hair was darker than it had been as a boy, cut in shorter layers to hide its tendency to curl. He
stood so much taller and wider than she'd ever expected the lean lad to become. And the pallor of his
skin had given way to swarthiness. He'd come to Mont Claire with shadows in his eyes, and those
shadows had darkened then been joined by others. The hazel of his youth had become more brown
than green, especially in the dim light.
The cruel slash of his mouth, set as though a sarcastic sneer would appear any moment, was new.
He'd been a kind boy, if a little melancholy and brokenhearted, but his smile had been earnest.
The proud brow and stubborn jaw, however, were unmistakable.
How had she not seen it before?
He'd been the ghost she could sense in the room.
She scrambled to her feet, surging against him. Enfolding her arms around him in an embrace she'd
never thought possible until she crawled into the grave after him someday.
"Declan Chandler, I cannot believe…"
His arms came around her in the manner of a man who was unused to this honest sort of affection,
but after a moment he gathered her up into his lap, this time cradling her as one would a sweetheart,
not necessarily a lover.
"Francesca." His voice was deeper than before, rasping with unspent emotion.
A pang of pain and regret needled beneath the word. The name was not her own, and it would kill
him to find that out.
She should tell him.
But she needed a moment longer to bask in his nearness, in his regard. She'd yearned to be
Francesca in his eyes almost all of her little-girl life.
What was a few more minutes?
"Bloody hell," he groaned, kissing the top of her hair. "I didn't believe it was you until now. Do
you forgive me?"
Swallowing around a lump of sadness and dread, she turned her nose into his chest, inhaling the
warm, masculine scent of him. Memorizing what it was like to be held by the ghost of the only person
she'd ever truly loved. His flesh was like iron stretched over the mounds of his muscle, and she could
have pressed her cheek against it forever. Listening to the sound of his heart. That percussion that had
once kept her alive. Kept her going in the worst possible moment.
"Declan…" she began. "I'm not the child you knew. In fact—""No, you're all woman now." He slid a rough finger under her chin and lifted her face toward his.
He searched her eyes, looking past the tears gathering her lashes together to the soul mirrored
within.
Whatever he read there beckoned him, and he lowered his head to kiss her.
Lifting her, twisting them, he rolled her beneath him, settling his weight gently atop her without
breaking the seal of their lips. This time, his kiss was different. Better, if that were possible. A
tenderness that hadn't been there before melted her into a puddle of emotion and threatened to evoke
even more uncharacteristic tears.
When had been the last time she'd cried? She couldn't remember. Of course, with him kissing her
like that, she could barely remember her name.
Her name! Pippa. Not Francesca. Pippa Hargrave.
She had to stop this before it went further. Didn't she?
Gasping in some strength with a breath, she pushed him away and wriggled a bit to be free of him.
"Declan. I—It's been so long. I have to—"
"I know." He panted, pulling away. Running a hand through his hair and rolling his fingers into a
fist to tug at his nape. "Forgive me, I just … I forgot myself." He reached out to help her into a sitting
position before he left the bed and staggered a few paces away. "Francesca, I want you to know I've
spent my entire life trying to find proof of who was responsible for the Mont Claire Massacre."
The news cheered her a little. "As have I, in fact—"
"It was the fucking Hargraves. They're the reason we lost everything."Francesca couldn't have been more shocked or cold if a bucket of ice water had doused her.
"C-come again?"
"Charles and Hattie, of whom you are so fond. Well, Charles, at least, though he rarely did
anything without his wife's permission. They drew the ire of deadly men." He turned around with
disgust etched upon his features. "Of the council in particular, and because of their stupidity—"
"H-how do you know this?" she asked in a voice so small, it might have been that of a child.
His features darkened, the shadows pulling around him as if his anger could chase away the glow
of the lamplight. This man, this Declan, was not recognizable. He was furious. Malevolent.
Violent even.
"There was a man that day of the massacre, an American. Alfred 'Alfie' Tuttle. I found him. I
interrogated him, and I made sure his blood spilled when his information didn't." A slight bit of his
composure returned. "He confessed, eventually. And then he hanged."
"Good," she replied before she could hold it back. Alfred Tuttle had killed Francesca and Pippa's
own mother. They'd been avenged, at least.
"What did he say against them? The Hargraves?" She did her utmost to ask this as though she
wasn't one of them.
"He said Charles and Hattie wrote a missive to the authorities and signed it with the Cavendish
seal, though it's unclear if they were ignorant of the fact that the Crimson Council has its fingers
everywhere, in every civil and private sector, including Scotland Yard."
"Including the Secret Services?"
He crossed his arms and gave her a mulish look, but eventually had to concede. "If the Crimson
Council infiltrated the office of the Lord Chancellor, it would be remiss of me to think we were
immune. We're not even technically a branch of government yet."
"So you're angry with the Hargraves for going to the authorities?" she reasoned. "Even though you
are one? Do you know why they went?"
"Anger is a wasted emotion," he said. "But did you not hear me, Francesca, the Hargraves took the
Cavendish family seal—your family seal—and wrote a fraudulent missive that got everyone killed."
"Have you seen the missive?" Her own arms crossed over her chest, as she was suddenly cold
from the inside out.
"I've requested the paperwork through the proper channels. It was taking longer than expected, so I
went to the records office at New Scotland Yard and they'd told me the case was misfiled at a
storage facility in town, and there's no way to find it without looking through every single paper."
"Then let's do it." Francesca stood. "Where is the storage facility?" She had to know if what he
was saying about her parents was the truth. She remembered them so fondly, but through the eyes of a
girl still aged in the single digits. She'd not been old enough to uncover their sins. Surely, they had no
idea what their actions might have wrought, and if they were fraudulent, they must have had a good
reason.Unless … they didn't.
Unless they weren't good people.
"Who is to say that the bastard Tuttle was telling the truth?" she said desperately. "Perhaps he sent
you on a fool's errand, or he protected the council even under threat of death. You don't know if they
had something on his family or—"
"Francesca." Though his voice was gentle, there was a thread of steel in the way he said her name.
She bit her lip.
"Paperwork regarding the death of an earl and his family wouldn't be sent to a dusty storage
facility; it'd be sent to an official office—hell, the bloody palace—to be kept in books for British
aristocratic progeny. They'd have released it to you, even, before they dared to lose it. Do you
understand what I'm saying?"
She did. But she didn't want to.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The verification of the truth is in the fact that it's being
covered up. Surely you can see that."
"That's not an absolute," she said obstinately. "I'll not believe it until I see my father's … seal for
myself." She was going to say handwriting, Charles Hargrave's handwriting.
He stepped forward, looking as if he wanted to reach for her, but didn't allow himself to do so.
She was glad. She couldn't take his kindness right now. Nor could she refuse it.
"Why are you being so stubborn about this?" His tone was gentle, though his words were not. "It's
an answer, Francesca, a direction. We're one step closer to putting it to rest."
Why was she being so stubborn? Because she'd just received the most incredible news followed
by the most devastating in the space of five minutes. Because she couldn't face telling this man—who
used to be the boy she loved—her real identity if he thought her parents were culpable for their
shared tragedy. Because she needed to know the truth. All of it. Because she wanted to understand
who Declan had become before she trusted him with her most closely guarded secret.
And her own brand of fraud.
He deserved to know, didn't he?
Her conscience pricked her as she looked into those eyes that had seemed ancient even when he'd
been a boy. That once held a lifetime of pain in their young depths, but now only reflected the flames.
Anything beyond that was opaque.
Did he, though? Was her reason for telling him any better than her reason for keeping her
deception? She'd come so far and was so close to justice; what if her revelation was enough to ruin
that? What if he was angry enough at her, at her entire family, that he exposed her legally? Publicly?
Not only would she lose her title, which wasn't of much consequence, but it would go to Luther
Kenway.
The Earl of Devlin had said as much.
And since when did she take anyone but Cecil and Alexander at their word? Certainly, she'd been
enamored with Declan Chandler as a girl, but what sort of man had he become?
A ghost. Like her. A spy.
A professional liar.
"Tonight at the ball … Cecelia called you Chandler." Her eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as
she braced for her own uncomfortable truths. "Do they know who you are? Have they known all this
time?" Because if they did, she'd kill Ramsay first."No one knows who I am, not really." Another of his non-answers.
Francesca considered throwing something at him.
He must have correctly calculated her expression because he elaborated for once. "I wasn't having
you on when I told you I was a spy. It's my official job. I work for the Secret Services and everything.
I met Ramsay when your friend Cecelia ran afoul of the Crimson Council. I helped him save his
beloved and imprison the Lord Chancellor before he could finish his plan to kill your friend and use
her business to traffic young girls. I'm a hero really," he flashed her a jaunty, arrogant smile. "Unsung,
of course."
"Is that why I could never find record of your name?" she asked. "I looked everywhere, just in
case you'd survived. Or in case you had family somewhere. Or even a family plot in which to bury an
empty casket, but it was as if Declan Chandler never existed."
"I'm Chandler Alquist now," he replied. "For the sake of my job."
"Alquis." She left off the t on purpose. "Anyone."
"Of course you know Latin," he grumbled.
"I know Alexandra Atherton." The brilliant duchess was the only reason she could passably speak
the queen's own English. Let alone the other languages she'd drudged through during her tenure at
finishing school.
Francesca realized she and Chandler were facing each other, standing not five paces away, each
with their arms crossed against the other, protecting themselves.
But from what?
"There's so much to say … I don't know where to start." Chandler was the first to let his arms
down, dropping them to his sides. It was the first time she'd seen him hesitant. Uncertain. She should
say something kind. Put him at ease.
"I didn't know you were alive, but you must have known I was," she realized aloud. "Why didn't
you come to me?" Oh bollocks. That had sounded more plaintive and demanding than she'd meant it
to.
But she burned for the answer.
His face smoothed to blank before he turned away and went to a hat rack standing sentinel next to
the door. He shucked his evening jacket and waistcoat and flung them onto one of the many solicitous
arms. "The other night, I scuffled with a woman who'd broken into the safe house where the Lord
Chancellor is being kept … you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
That was him?
Oh, they'd get to that, but she wasn't going to let him get away that easily. "You didn't answer my
question."
He whirled around. His countenance wasn't just dark, but demonic. His brow was cruel and his
eyes no longer burned. They were cold. Hard. Abysmal. "Are you ready to give me all your answers,
Francesca?" He advanced on her, that predatory swagger returning. "Do you want to explain how you
survived? What you saw that day? What knowledge you've gleaned since then and what you've done
to get it?" He stopped only when he towered over her. A smarter woman would have stepped back.
Retreated. But Francesca wasn't in the habit of yielding ground. "Are we ready to rip our truths open
and bleed them all over each other? Is that what this moment is for?"
They held gazes. Everything both spoken and unspoken filled the spaces between them, threatening
to drive them apart.She looked away first, deciding to yield something else. "It was me the other night. At the safe
house…"
He chuffed out a breath. "I won't ask you where you learned to fight, or to vault, not tonight," he
said wryly. "But I will ask what the hell you were doing there?"
"Same as you. Searching for answers."
"And?"
"And, what?"
"And did the Lord Chancellor provide you with any?" he asked impatiently.
Francesca chose her words very carefully. "He told me a little about the power structure in the
Crimson Council. He said there is a Triad and at the time of the massacre, there was a vacancy in the
third spot. As there is right now." She could feel her own dark desires gathering on her face. "It
seems there will be a second opening as well, if fate is kind and the Lord Chancellor hangs."
"A vacancy…" Chandler tapped his chin thoughtfully, and Francesca wondered how she'd ever
thought the large hand with its calluses, rough skin, and a network of veins only dissected by scars
could belong to an aristocrat.
"A vacancy they thought to fill with several people we know. Some of whom are dead."
That sparked his attention. "Such as?"
"Cecelia's aunt, the obscenely wealthy Henrietta Thistledown, known to all as the Scarlet Lady,
for one. Lord Ramsay, for another, as he was the Lord Chancellor's protégé."
"Did Ramsay know of this?" he asked alertly.
Francesca shook her head. "He knew nothing of the council until he ran afoul of it."
"Strange, then, that they'd consider an outsider for their leader."
"They want power, and he has it in spades."
His lips twisted into a wry grimace. "Now that Cecelia is the Scarlet Lady, and she's attached
herself to Ramsay, they'll be an unstoppable force, God save us all."
Francesca agreed with a fond noise before she lit up with an idea. "Was it possible Cavendish—
my father—was a part of the council? That he wanted to be on the Triad?"
Chandler scrutinized her from beneath a lowered brow. "Your father?"
"The Lord Chancellor said that at time of the massacre, the place in the Triad was open to two
individuals. He intimated one of them might have been the Earl of Mont Claire."
"And the other?"
"The other was Kenway, which is why I singled him out tonight."
"Fucking Kenway." Lashing as quickly as a viper, Chandler reached for the glass on the
nightstand, turned, and hurled it into the fireplace.
It shattered with a disproportionately loud vibration, echoing his fury through the room before the
shards fell to the ground in sharp aftermath.
The fit of pique seemed uncharacteristic, and Francesca desperately wanted to go to him. She
sensed that he needed to find his composure, that he wasn't ready to face her without it, so she waited
for several beats before voicing her thoughts.
"Is it possible that the Cavendish household was massacred because they got in the way of what
the Earl of Kenway wanted? Not because of the Hargraves?"
He took two deep breaths and then exhaled mightily before touching his chin to his shoulder to
look back to her. "It's a theory.""One you're ready to embrace?" She did her best to keep the hope out of her voice.
"One I'm ready to entertain."
She frowned. "It's like you want it to be their fault. Hattie and Charles Hargrave were the
loveliest people. So good-natured and kind. If they had something to do with the deaths, it couldn't
have been by design—they died, too." Sighing, she added. "It's strange that the Lord Chancellor
didn't mention them to me."
"I know you were fond of them, and Pip. I was, too. But if they'd never said anything, the
household would still be alive. If they knew anything about the council, they knew that to mention it
was to toy with death."
"Sounds like a lot of supposition to me."
"Just trust me," he said. "It isn't."
Trust me. He'd said that before. He'd shoved her in a tree and then told her to trust him.
And they'd lost twenty years.
"I gave you the information you asked for," she said. "It's your turn."
"My turn?"
"To trust me. To tell me what you know."
He turned away from the destroyed glass and reached out, grazing her cheek with the backs of his
fingers. "I trust no one," he said as if it were a regrettable, unchangeable fact. "A symptom of the
industry, I'm afraid."
"But … you know me. I'm your friend."
"I am not a man who is allowed friends," he said, as though not just telling her, but reminding
himself.
She wanted to be angry, but she felt akin to him, sometimes. She had the Rogues, but she also left
them out of so much of her life. For their own good.
"Well then, I'm the enemy of your enemy, and that means…"
"You are still someone who can betray me."
Taken aback, she huffed, "I would never!"
"I believe even you, yourself, aren't aware of the depths of depravity of which you are capable. It
is my design to keep things that way. To not pull you into my world."
She was aware of her capabilities. She'd hidden more bodies than your average countess. Not as
many as Elizabeth Báthory, but still.
"I'm already a part of this. You don't get to decide for me what I am capable of or not." It was a
churlish comeback, and they both knew it.
His eyes upon her were assessing, and then appreciative. "You've managed to surprise me thus
far, I'll give you that."
"And what does that mean?" Dammit, her arms were crossed again.
"Francesca." He brought his caressing finger down her jaw to her chin, lifting it up with a firm but
gentle press. "If I don't tell you anything, it's for your own good."
"My own good?" She jerked her head away. "You must be joking."
He shook his head. "This is an official investigation. You don't understand what I must do next."
"Then tell me, Declan."
"I'm not Declan anymore. I never really was."
"Fine." She threw her arms out. "That's all right with me. You can be anyone you choose on anygiven day and I'll be there for you. We are not like others, we never have been and especially cannot
be now. We wear our pain as armor, don't we? We use it to make us strong and decisive and to do
what must be done." She went to him, putting her hands against his chest, letting the warmth of his
core seep into her cold fingers. "Our shared memories can purify our bond and our shared purpose
can perhaps heal us one day. It's all right if you're not Declan. I'm not exactly Francesca, either. I'm
—"
"No." He took her hands from his chest and firmly put them to her sides. "That isn't how this
works. That isn't how I work."
"I'm telling you it doesn't matter."
"It fucking matters to me!" he thundered, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. "I do dark
things, and I will keep doing them. Things that would haunt your nightmares for years to come. Things
that make me wonder if I'm becoming the monsters I've fought for so long. That is my reward for
cranking the engine of this empire and for keeping the Crimson Council at bay."
When she would have said something, he held his hand up to silence her, and then out as if he
would touch her before curling it into a fist. "In that darkness, I've held a glimmer of light in my
memory. You, Francesca. You were so soft and so kind … the purity I fought for. That I avenged. And
it is a hard thing to see that purity dashed."
"Dashed?" she echoed.
He looked away from her then, and something within her shriveled.
"I'll answer one question," he said darkly. "I didn't come to you all those years ago because I
didn't believe you truly existed, and I didn't want to see who was parading as you. And now that we
—" He let out a breath that sounded as if it carried the pain of dashed dreams. "You have your own
darkness. I cannot add to it, and I cannot watch you do the same. You've become … this … this…"
"This what?" she asked from between clenched teeth that held back a slew of curses and a storm
of feminine fury.
"Well." He made a curt gesture. "You've been relieved of your innocence, or you gave it away, I
don't know which. And because of your vengeance, your reputation is in tatters and your bed
acquainted with so many men that—"
Francesca slapped him. Not to shock him, nor to silence him. But to strike him. To shame him for
the words both expressed and left unsaid. "How dare you? I've seen what a girl looks like when her
innocence has been taken. And it is hard and ugly and a right bastard to try to regain. I've seen those
who give up their purity for the sake of greed or spite or pure malevolence. I am ashamed of nothing,
and those who think I should be can go hang. You included."
She turned to the nightstand and finished her scotch in one gulp before turning back to find him in
much the same posture as before. "I'm no longer a child who must be protected," she said, her
decisions remade and her courage reconstituted. "I am a woman in search of answers. A professional
liar, same as you. I've trained for this my entire life. Allowed myself to want for nothing else but truth
and justice for those who are dead, and I'll get that with or without your help." She gathered her skirts
and made to sweep past him. "I suppose we'll just have to stay out of each other's way."
"Francesca, wait—" He reached for her arm, but she jerked away, backing toward the door as she
added an addendum to her rant.
"I imagine you're not paragon of chastity," she spat. "My purity and my virginity are not one and
the same. It doesn't matter how many men I've had, I am fucking pure as the driven snow, and no onewill make me feel otherwise."
She turned her back to him, putting both her hands in the pockets of her gown to keep her fists from
flying in a rage.
"Francesca." He stormed after her.
"Don't follow me," she snapped.
"I'm not letting you leave until you hear—"
"Hear this." She extracted her hand from her pocket, turned, and pulled the trigger of her pistol
right next to his ear. To add injury to insult, she stowed the weapon and performed some kind of two-
handed punch to his solar plexus, stealing his breath as well as his hearing.
By the time the ringing cleared and he was able to fill his lungs, she was long gone.Francesca did her best not to scowl as Alexandra's arrow hit closer to the mark than her own. Either
the Duchess of Redmayne had been practicing in her spare time, or Francesca was losing her edge.
Probably both.
The Red Rogues had taken a short holiday away from the city, boarding the train out of London to
Dorset, where Castle Redmayne hulked like an ancient sentinel above Maynemouth, a lovely fishing
village turned tourist destination on the Devonshire coast. The women stood in the southern sunshine
at the ruins of an old fort above Torcliff, one that had been built by Redmayne's ancestors after their
victory at the side of William the Conqueror.
They'd set up an archery range in the abandoned courtyard to take full advantage of the last of the
decent weather before summer gave way to autumn, as it threatened to do.
The stone walls of the fort protected them from ocean breezes as they practiced their archery. The
gallop from the castle to the fort over the lush, verdant grasses of Maynemouth Moor had invigorated
Francesca, but still had done little to lift her spirits.
She hadn't seen Declan Chandler for days, and it was starting to get to her.
She pulled the veil of her riding hat down further against the high sun, hoping those clouds in the
distance would be blown this way so she could stop bloody squinting. The call and reply of seabirds
was more of an assault on her senses than a boon, and she couldn't seem to conjure anything but
resentment for the rich scents of briny sea air, loamy grass, and horses.
Some of her favorite things.
It's not that she expected the world to match the grey of her mood, but she certainly wished it
would. The uncommonly good weather and the general happiness of her loved ones were things she
ardently desired, and couldn't bring herself to even pretend to enjoy.
She occupied a world where Declan Chandler was alive … and rather than a joy, it was a maze
she couldn't see through. A wall of obstacles built by evil men, forces beyond her control …
And her own deceit.
"I worry about your plans to attend this function thrown by Lord Kenway, Frank," Cecelia said
from where she grappled an arrow from her quiver in the corner and did her best to nock it with
clumsy fingers. A brilliant, graceful woman was she, until competition was involved. Then she lost
all sense and didn't have the coordination God gave a lump of clay. Finally, Cecelia gave up and
lifted her gaze to Francesca's. Her high color set off the sapphire blue of her eyes, though whether it
was from exertion or the sun on her uncommonly fair skin, it was impossible to say.
Francesca had explained to them the invitation she'd received to attend a very exclusive function
at Lord Kenway's estate the following Saturday.
"Of course you're worried," Francesca replied, reaching into her own quiver. "I'm quite
convinced that you've taken on fretting over us as your second vocation."
"It was my first before I became a card sharp." Cecil smiled that sweet, disarming grin, and
laughed off the jibe with her characteristic good humor before she sobered. "But didn't you mentionyour Chandler told you that Kenway is more dangerous than your workaday villain?"
"He's not my Chandler."
Alexandra, who'd gone to Cecelia to help her, sent a level look from beneath the robin's-egg blue
of her riding hat and veil, but kept her own counsel.
"Whoever's Chandler he is—and whether it's his first or last name—I still wonder if it's not a
good idea to heed him in this case."
Francesca's lips tightened. "You have no idea how much it would gall me to heed any word out of
that man's mouth."
This time, it was Alexandra and Cecelia who shared a look.
Francesca pretended not to notice, testing the tension on her bow.
"He was the most important person in the world to you at one point," Cecelia persisted. "Surely
one conversation couldn't have changed that."
"It didn't. Twenty years changed it. Changed us." Francesca leaned her bow against a railing and
peeled her riding jacket down her shoulders, shucking it before the sun cooked her in it. "He's not the
boy I knew, nor is he the man I thought he'd grow into." She yanked at her necktie and popped open
the first buttons of her chin-high blouse.
The same was true for them both, she supposed. So maybe it was better this way. Perhaps he was
wise to never have come for her, because he'd been right all along. She wasn't who she claimed to
be.
And telling him could ruin them both. "Before I knew about Chandler's survival, Kenway was
always my aim. I mustn't be distracted from that," she said, pulling the bowstring back and letting her
arrow fly. It landed the third right out, an even worse shot than before. "I still have a job to do. That
hasn't changed."
"No, of course not," Cecelia placated her, pulling her veil above her hat rim and blowing at some
errant fringe. "But to attend a function, a strictly Crimson Council function, alone. It seems rather …
reckless, that's all. Perhaps you should at least tell Chandler that you'll be there, for safety's sake."
"I will dance a naked Irish jig on Prince Albert's grave before I ask that man for help." Francesca
knew she should chew on the practicality of Cecelia's gentle suggestion, but her pride rejected it as
violently as bad oysters. She'd not really hurt Chandler that night in his room when she'd discharged
her weapon. He'd let her escape. He could have easily caught her, found her in the subsequent days.
He could have apologized for being an ass.
She might have even offered an apology of her own.
Emphasis on the word might.
Alexandra handed the bow with the nocked arrow to Cecelia and patiently helped her with her
form as she drew a bead. Cecelia, who was almost never unladylike, whooped in victory as the
arrow actually hit the side of the target rather than glancing off the grey stone walls as it had all
afternoon. It landed nowhere close to the markers, but Cecelia was the sort to celebrate personal
victories rather than ones over other people. She always felt guilty for winning competitions, and
generally made certain she never did.
"It does appear that your and Chandler's current paths are aligned," the duchess finally weighed in
as she adjusted her glove. "Perhaps, now that cooler heads prevail, you can at least discuss it with
him, maybe plot some contingencies should aught go awry."
"Do you not remember what he said to me?" Francesca snatched up her weapon again. "I refuse toalign myself with someone who would malign my parents, condescend to me, and then proceed to
shame me for my reputation before even asking if his assumptions were valid in the first place!" She
grabbed an arrow so violently from her quiver, it snapped.
Alexandra's lips twisted into a wry grimace that wrinkled her freckled nose, making her appear
ten years younger. "That was rather poorly done of him."
"Though there aren't many men alive who wouldn't have done the same," Cecelia chimed in.
"Do not tell me you're defending him, Cecil," Francesca snapped. "You wouldn't abide that sort
of thing from Ramsay, and Redmayne wouldn't dare."
"Touché," Alexandra conceded.
"I wouldn't think of defending him." Cecelia puffed out a defeated breath. "It's only that, well,
people say rather awful things sometimes when they're jealous. Things they don't mean."
"He meant it," Francesca grumped.
"I suppose I just felt that you two finding each other after all this time … Well, it was all rather
romantic. Something like fate." Cecelia sighed the last word with dramatic nostalgia.
"We don't believe in fate," Francesca muttered.
"But we do believe in second chances." Cecelia reached for her waterskin, which was filled with
a lovely Viognier, and took delicate sips before handing it to Francesca. "And you two have such a
history."
"I've always hated history." Francesca enjoyed the wine that tasted of exotic pears and summers in
the south of France before passing it along to Alexandra, who waited to have the alcohol safely in her
grasp before she retorted.
"The only people who say that are the people who hate their own history."
Francesca's next arrow missed its mark, but Alexandra's comment had been a bull's-eye.
"Chandler and I … our history is built on lies," she lamented. "He believes my actual parents are
the reason our childhoods were taken from us. He believes I'm Francesca."
Alexandra drew up on her right and Cecelia on her left, a post they often took when together, the
most distraught of them bracketed in the middle of their abiding devotion and undying protection.
"We're all women who are acquainted with carrying our secrets and sins…" Alexandra drifted
off, no doubt thinking of the man they'd all buried so long ago. The man who'd raped her at seventeen.
The man she'd killed that very night when Cecelia and Francesca had helped her bury the body.
"They do not make us villains."
"He thinks I am a whore."
To her astonishment, Cecelia shrugged. "Ramsay assumed I was the whore of Babylon. He now
respects the women who work for me, so I'm convinced hearts and minds can be changed. It's not an
insurmountable obstacle. It just takes a bit of creative navigating, is all."
Francesca vehemently shook her head. "I refuse to prove my virginity to him."
Cecelia further surprised her by laughing. "Not of your virginity, dear, but of his own perception.
It shouldn't matter to him whether or not you've had lovers. He certainly has had his share."
"How do you know?" Francesca whirled on her, suppressing the urge to shake her friend or
interrogate her. Had she heard anything? Had he been to her establishment? Did she know a woman
who'd enjoyed him in bed?
The thought made her sick, which made her cross.
"He has a very cocksure manner, doesn't he?" Cecelia looked into the distance, as if Chandler,himself, was standing there. "He walks as though he is a man who has pleasured many women. Who
enjoys doing so. Who is proud that he can."
Francesca screwed up her nose. "You can tell all that by a man's walk?"
"Of course not. But there are certain things about the language of the body." Cecelia made an
insouciant gesture. "I've collected certain odd bits of data from my current vocation as the Scarlet
Lady, and subsequent analysis has required that I excel at reading men. Their tastes, proclivities.
When not to let them in my establishment. Who and what they'd want to be offered." She ticked these
off on her fingers.
"Why, then, does he get to walk like he's a lover, and I am expected to hang my head in shame?"
"Because you are a woman, obviously."
Francesca ripped off her gloves, quite finished with enjoying herself. "That isn't good enough. Not
for me."
"We're getting off track here, Frank," Alexandra said. "You are considering infiltrating the society
that thinks nothing of enslaving little girls. Of burning entire households down to protect their
interests. Our immediate concern is your survival."
"That's your immediate concern, not mine," Francesca remonstrated. "I'm resolved, ladies. I will
see this through or die trying. Best you get on board with that, or get out of my way."
Cecelia retreated slightly as if she'd been slapped. Alexandra did the opposite.
Francesca felt immediate regret, but her lips didn't seem capable of parting for an apology.
Instead, angry tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and she had to turn away from them both.
It was Alexandra's hand that landed on her shoulder, gently and unthreateningly.
"You survived the unthinkable," she ventured. "When you go through something like that, it
tempers you. It can break you down or forge you. It folds and shapes and sharpens you into something
new, a weapon perhaps, and that is no small feat. But—"
"My mind is made up." Francesca said. "I didn't tell you two my plan to have you talk me out of it.
I told you for the very reason you want me to tell him. In case…"
"In case you're killed?" Cecelia threw her hands up.
"I'm not going to be killed."
"You don't know that. What if they find out? What if they've found out already? You could be
walking into a trap for all you know."
"Or they could be inviting their demise right into their lair. I appreciate the vote of confidence, you
two."
Alexandra put up a staying hand. "We're not saying that we don't trust your skills."
"But no one should have to stand alone," Cecelia added.
"What if we attended as your guests?" the duchess offered. "Redmayne and Ramsay have both
been courted by the council…"
"You weren't invited," Francesca said. "They'd suspect something."
"We could send protection?" Cecelia presented.
"I don't need it."
"You've done it for us."
"That was different."
Alexandra made a caustic noise. "How, exactly, was it different?"
"In each case, the threats to your lives were in the shadows. Mine has a face. A name. A tangiblereason. I know what I'm walking into."
It was an absolute lie, but … in for a penny and all that.
"But you don't know their motivations, not when it comes to you. And you don't know what
information they have on you."
"That's what I intend to find out, and if you love me, you two, you will do nothing to stop me."
Whirling on her heel, Francesca stormed toward the archway, above which the ceiling had long since
crumbled.
The women who had loved her stubborn hide looked after her silently until she'd mounted her
horse and spurred it in the direction of the hills.
Alexandra released a calming breath. "Lord, but she could start an argument in an empty room."
Cecelia's face glimmered with concern. "Should we … do something? Tell someone?"
"She'd hate us," Alexandra said soberly.
"I'd rather have her irate than dead."
Alexandra thought for a moment, then brightened. "Lord Kenway's estate abuts the ruins of Miss
Henrietta's School for Cultured Young Ladies, does it not?"
Cecelia caught her smile as if it were as contagious as the unspoken idea. "It does, indeed."
"She may think that she's walking into the lion's den and will emerge unscathed. And while she
might be alone, she will not be without backup."
That decided, the remaining contingent of the Red Rogues packed up to go back to the castle.
They had secret arrangements to make.