London: 1815

The narrow street was quiet, deceptively so.

Nicholas Ramsey, Viscount Richmond, stood at the dust-streaked window and gazed down at the first tendrils of mist swirling around the lampposts. A shabby chaise rolled along, pulled at a decorous trot by two ragged-looking steeds, their hoofbeats echoing hollowly, and the shops that edged the lane sat silent and dark. But somewhere below in the tangled maze of streets, a messenger was wending his way toward a prince, with news of a fabulous treasure safely delivered. If all went well, Nicholas could be the toast of the Ton tomorrow. And if not-if not--

Knowing just how much was at stake, Nicholas felt his shoulders knot with tension. He tried to draw a deep breath.

“Nicholas, my pet,” a woman called, her voice drowsy from extended lovemaking. “Come back to bed.”

Why would she not sleep? As she stirred, he could detect the heavy scent of her camellia perfume. Too sweet and too cloying, it already clung to his skin and to his linen shirt. He wished for his bath to wash it away, wished for his own bed, longed to be away from this seedy room in an inn he would not normally have allowed his worst steed to visit. But he could not leave, not yet.

“In a moment, my dear,” he answered, his tone courteous as always. For an instant he could not remember her Christian name. Mary, was it? No, Marion. She was pretty, of course, in a vapid sort of way, and not terribly bright; he approved of the first and was bored by the second. Ignored too often by her indifferent husband, she had flirted and smiled and sought him out, delighted to fall into an easy dalliance.

Tomorrow there would be a different woman, and he would have nearly forgotten Marion, but she would remember him, fondly, he hoped. He tried to leave his women with good memories, and there were not really as many of them as the Ton whispered, but he did not mind the rumors. Sometimes they served a purpose, as they did now, when his tryst hid a deeper design.

He gazed again into the empty street. They had taken every precaution. It had to go smoothly--

The irony was that anyone in the Ton would have described Nicholas, reasonably enough, as a selfish, jaded rake with few morals left and scant concern to spare for others. No one would have connected him with secret missions of state. But the prince regent had asked, and it was hard to say no to a prince, even one like Prinny, who was even more dissolute than Nicholas himself. Still, he was risking a great deal on the events of the last weeks--

“Darling!” This time Marion raised her voice, and she sounded impatient. Nicholas bit back a curse. Why could she not fall back asleep?

“I thought you’d drifted into slumber, my dear,” he lied. He heard the rustle of fabric as she wrapped herself loosely in a sheet. Her bare feet padded silently across the plank floor, but her overly strong perfume warned him of her approach, so he did not jump when her hands touched his shoulders, then slipped up to caress his neck.

“I swore I wouldn’t waste time sleeping when I finally had you in my bed, Nicholas.” Tracing irritating patterns across his back with a sharp nail, she leaned closer, her warm breath feathering his ear. “I couldn’t be farther from sleep. I feel. . . invigorated.”

Was that-? He peered intently into the foggy night. But no, it was a prostitute, settling herself into a doorway to call to the next man who passed her.

“Nicholas, look at me!”

Reluctantly, he turned and forced a smile, then lowered his face to press a kiss to her plump shoulder. He hadn’t missed the vexation in her narrowed hazel eyes, nor the pout on her thin lips.

“Then, by all means, Marion,” he said, “allow me to exhaust you.”

She giggled, her gaze dropping toward the street as Nicholas’s skillful lovemaking continued. So she was the one to observe the figure all but obscured by the deepening gloom. The man in the black coat strode quickly along the walkway, waving away the whore’s salutation. If he seemed to avoid the faint circles of hazy light shed by the streetlamps, it was not difficult in the fog now drifting in thick opaque patches.

Absently, Marion noted that the man on the pavement glanced often over his shoulder, and his steps were hurried and erratic in their rhythm. Then the stranger looked up just as the mist parted, and she caught a glimpse of his face, pale beneath the brim of his dark hat.

For a moment Marion’s attention wavered, distracted from the pleasure of Nicholas’ talented fingers. The man below paused to wipe his face with a handkerchief; he seemed to perspire, despite the cool damp air and billowing fog that cloaked familiar buildings and turned the street into a tunnel of darkness. And he peered hard into the soupy air, as if to detect another pedestrian, especially one who walked behind him.

But the walkway was untenanted now, and the street seemed empty, too. The man drew a longer breath and straightened his shoulders, which had been hunched as if in apprehension. He walked on, and she caught a glimpse of something else--

Nicholas’s touch slipped lower, his hands sliding easily over her well-shaped hips before cupping her intimately in his warm palm. The sheet that had covered her fell away and puddled at their feet.

Smiling, she drew her attention from the street, from all but the rhythmic pleasure of Nicholas’s touch. If from the corner of her eye she glimpsed another apparition, she paid it no further mind as she was lifted abruptly into the air. With an anticipatory sigh, she wrapped her legs around her lover’s firmly muscled waist and allowed him to carry her back to bed.

The man below hastened on and disappeared into the darkness. And now there was no one at all to note the unmarked black chaise that waited, a block behind him, or the black horses which drew it, their hooves muffled, as the vehicle followed him at a slow, inexorable pace. 

 "Suffering in silence is the mark, not of a saint, but of a fool.”
Margery, Countess Sealey

London: 1816

“What you need, Lucy darling,” declared the countess of Sealey, sipping her tea, “is a lover.”

Lucy Contrain bobbled her tea cup, nearly spilling the last few drops of liquid. She glanced at the lap of her dark gown for damp spots and found none. Relieved, she looked back up at the countess, not sure she had heard correctly.

The countess trilled her distinctively high-pitched laugh and took the dangling bit of ivory-colored Wedgwood from Lucy’s slackened hold. “Careful. Don’t stain your gown.” Then, eying the somber, conservatively-cut frock, she handed the cup back. “On second thought, spill it all. I’ll pour the whole pot on you if it will get you to the modiste and into brighter colors.”

The countess raised her gaze from the offending garment and focused on Lucy’s face.

“Close your mouth, dear,” she added, not unkindly.

Lucy shut her mouth with what she knew was an audible snap of her teeth. Good Lord, she’d been gaping like an idiot. But a lady did not speak of taking lovers in the same manner in which she’d speak of taking a walk.

“I’m barely out of mourning, Lady Sealey.”

“Out is the significant word, Lucy. And of course, not just any lover, mind.” The countess seemed to ponder the question. “You need someone who will cheer you.”

Insanity, Lucy thought. She took a deep breath, but before she could speak, the countess turned to another woman seated nearby.

“Who do you think, Angela?”

“Mr. Bertram,” the short woman suggested. “He has lovely manners.”

“He’s also a pinchpenny and going dreadfully bald,” Lady Sealey objected. “We must find someone better for Lucy. Roberta?”

The woman addressed had flaming red hair and a curvaceous figure beneath her expensive gown; she smiled as if at some delightful memory. “The viscount Richmond, unquestionably. He has a way with widows.”

“He has a way with women,” the countess corrected, her lips curving with an almost roguish grin. “Widows, single, married, none can resist him.”

Several of the other women sighed, whether with pleasure or regret, Lucy could not tell, but one whispered to another behind her fan, her expression disapproving. Lucy heard only a few scraps of words: “an outrageous man,” and something about scandalous behavior. . . Good heavens, she was being pushed upon some elderly satyr who had ravished every available lady in the Ton? And the countess had seemed like such a nice woman, somewhat advanced in her views perhaps, but kind-it only proved how wrong first impressions could be.

“I-I really couldn’t,” Lucy said.

The countess lowered her voice. “You’ve been in strict mourning for over a year, my dear, and for a man hardly worthy of a sennight.”

Lucy looked up and caught the unexpected shrewdness in the countess’s hazel eyes. Lady Sealey was rumored to have had her share of lovers in her time, perhaps more than her share; even with silver in her hair, she was still handsome. But-

“I don’t think you could know that,” Lucy said, her voice quiet but steady.

“Of course I cannot,” the older woman answered. “I surmise, that is all. If you loved him desperately, despite the fact that he left his affairs in great disorder, his reputation smudged by unsavory rumors, and his wife unprovided for, I would never suggest such a thing.”

She paused for several long moments, and Lucy found that she had no words to fill the gap. She wished, for an instant, that she had not shared so much of her private life with this new confidant.

The fact was, she had not loved Stanley with any great passion; they had come together out of mutual expedience, and for a while the marriage had seemed to work well enough. He had treated her kindly, with an almost reverent respect which was a welcome change from the leers which other men had thrown her way when she had been single and poor and unprotected. He had provided her with a home, and she had tried her best to love him, even though. . . she pushed those thoughts away. But now, a year after his sudden death, she had found she was, if possible, in an even worse way than she had been as a penniless young lady with a widowed and ailing mother.

Now, she was not only penniless once more, but deeply in debt, and alone.

Absently, Lucy rubbed the thin fabric of her black tea gown. It had been a soft blue, once, but she had dyed it after her husband’s death, when it had been necessary to go into mourning and she had discovered that her modiste would no longer grant her credit.

She could not replace her mourning gowns; blue could be turned into black, if one were careful and the fabric didn’t fray too much from the stress of the dying process, but black could not be covered by lighter colors. She was stuck with her black gowns, just as she was stuck with Stanley’s crippling debts. And when her last penny was gone-

Lucy took a deep breath. She would not fall into a melancholy, nor would she panic. One day at a time, she told herself, as she had often done through the last difficult months. Sometimes, even one hour at a time--one could deal with a difficult hour, but not the realization that the rest of one’s life stretched ahead just as bleak and desolate as today. She would be hounded by creditors, pushed further and further into the fringes of polite society, and no one would even notice her absence. . .

It was enough to shake even Lucy’s resolve, and Lord knew, that had been tested enough. She blinked hard. Fortunately, the countess had looked away. The older woman motioned toward one of the gold-rimmed plates on the tea table before them.

“You need to treat yourself more, Lucy dear. Try a scone, my cook has a delightful way with them.”

Lucy accepted the pastry and took one bite; the scone was so light and flaky and good, it was all she could do not to shove the whole thing into her mouth. She had eaten nothing since a bowl of porridge early that morning. Lucy forced herself to chew slowly. As the conversation drifted into other channels, scandalous gossip and the latest style in bonnets, she could quietly eat another, and then accept a cucumber sandwich from the footman who bent over her to offer the silver tray.

It was heaven. Just for a moment, she could relax and forget the harrowing circumstances which troubled her sleep and woke her too often, waiting for more calamity to fall about her like shards of glass raining upon her head from a fragile ceiling crashing down. The protection she had thought she would gain from her marriage had been an illusion, as false as the love she had hoped might grow from a pleasant acquaintanceship. And the guilt that stabbed her when she thought of Stanley’s death--

No, she would not dwell on it, not just now. Surely she deserved a small escape from her troubles.

“Have you seen the newest mode in half boots?” a lady on her left asked. “There’s a shop on Bond Street. . .”

“And then he said, ‘If only you were ten years younger, my dear, can you imagine the nerve of him!” Another feminine voice said from her other side.

“She says she’s engaged to a marquess, but-my dear-no one has ever heard of him or his title, and I think-“

“A sponge soaked in red wine, yes. I’m told this is the French way of avoiding unwanted increasing. . . ” This voice dropped to a whisper.

The first lady with the interest in boots went on, “The nicest kid leather, and in just the right shade for my new walking costume, now that I am out of mourning at last. I was so wearied of the black!”

The voices rose and fell all around her. Lucy nodded and smiled and tried to look interested, and she waited. In another hour, the other ladies began to depart, but Lucy hung back. What she wanted to ask the countess had to be done in privacy. There was enough gossip about her husband’s debts; she did not wish to add fuel to the flames.

So when the room was almost empty Lucy rose to make her farewells, too, but after she had thanked the countess for inviting her, she hesitated.

“Yes, my dear?” The countess lifted one carefully plucked brow, and her smile seemed genuinely kind.

“I’m told that your acquaintance is wide, my lady, and I thought-I thought--”

“I might introduce you to some nice young men?” The countess suggested.

Lucy grimaced. “No, no, that is-I only thought-if you should hear of some respectable lady who is in need of a companion-“

She paused, and the other woman’s eyes narrowed.

“As bad as that?”

Lucy forced herself to look the countess in the eyes when what she really wanted to do was study the patterned carpet beneath her feet.

The countess reached to pat her hand. “I will keep my ears open, Lucy, dear. In the meantime, do you need-“

Flushing, Lucy shook her head. She could not bring herself to accept charity from a comparative stranger. As desperate as her circumstances were, she had not yet steeled herself to abandon all of her pride.

“Very well. Do not forget my suggestion, dear,” the older lady added. “A lover would lift your spirits nicely, you know. And lovers are much more convenient--less troublesome than a husband, and easier to be rid of if your fondness fades.”

Lucy was surprised into a laugh. “I do not think to marry again,” she said, with complete truth.

The countess nodded. “Then a lover is just what you need,” she repeated, her tone serious.

Lucy made some answer, curtsied and said her goodbyes. In the hall, she paused to accept her shabby cloak from a maid. The countess’s liveried footman opened the outside door. His gaze was impassive; he might disdain her less-than-fashionable appearance, but being as well-trained as all of the countess’s servants, his feelings would never be permitted to show in his expression.

Some of the Ton were not so circumspect. Lucy had seen the scorn on their faces, the cynical pity that colored their voices or made their condolences ring less than true. The fact was, it was easy for Lucy to put aside all thought of remarriage. Who would wed a lady who had few assets and too many debts, whose social standing was only moderate, who had no wealthy friends or family to lend her aid and credence?

Self-pity hovered at the edges of her mind, but Lucy pushed it back. No, she would not succumb to dismal thoughts. Something would happen; perhaps the countess would think of a sweet-natured invalid in need of a lady to share her quiet life. Lucy would become a nursemaid, of sorts, and end her days in some quiet watering place, old before her time.

Oh, there was that dratted melancholy again. Lucy walked more briskly; the air was chill and her cloak was thin, and the rapid pace served to both warm and distract her. When at last she reached the modest home she had shared with her husband, she was startled to see a sheet of paper tacked to the door.

What now?

Lucy pulled it off and glanced at the formal wording as she fumbled to unlock the door.

Dear God, they were taking her home! Unless-no, she had thirty days to discharge the debt of-of a thousand pounds!

She felt her heart hammer inside her until her whole body seemed to shake. Her mind felt frozen with shock, and the words ran round and round inside her head like manic mice. A thousand pounds! A thousand pounds!

Who was this Thomas Brooks who claimed he was owed such a monstrous sum? He was not one of the many tradesmen who continued to pound on her door day and night to demand payment of their outstanding bills.

And how could she pay such a staggering amount, when she could not even marshal the resources to pay off the coal merchant or her late husband’s tailor? But her home-she had lost a beloved home once before, when she was still very young. This house was small and unfashionably situated, but it was her refuge, her security. . . the core that had sustained her as the rest of her life shattered around her.

Inside, Lucy leaned against the door, her knees weak. This was the end. She had no choice left-darkness seemed to close around her, and she drew deep, shuddering breaths.

At last, when the fog of misery receded a little, she straightened, pushing the offensive paper into her reticule-she did not wish-could not bear-to speak of it yet--and walked toward the kitchen.

“I am home, Violet.” Her voice sounded shaky.

The narrow hall seemed to echo with her words; its emptiness was apparent at once. The handsome pier glass that had once occupied the central space on the wall was long gone, sold to provide a little money to pay the household expenses. The most valuable furniture had been claimed by her creditors, and much of the rest sold, also, as necessity dictated. Now little remained. The drawing room was bare, even the carpet gone. Lucy made her way to the kitchen, instead, where a thin slip of a girl in a shabby brown uniform sat on a three-legged stool before the very small fire.

The maid jumped to her feet. “Oh, ma’am, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s all right.” Lucy pulled another stool up to the hearth and motioned to Violet, her only remaining servant, to sit. When Lucy had told the rest of her small staff she could no longer afford to pay them, she had accepted their tearful farewells and sent them off with glowing recommendations and her last few shillings. Violet alone had refused to leave her mistress, wages not withstanding.

Now the two of them shared the house until-it seemed--it, too, would be taken from them.

“I brought you a scone.” Lucy pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and, unwrapping the dainty bit of clean linen, took out the pastry she had slipped into her bag.

Violet took it eagerly, then hesitated. “Don’t you want ‘alf, ma’am?”

“Oh, no, I had my fill at the tea,” Lucy told her. “Eat it. We have only vegetable soup for our supper.”

And it would be thin and watery enough. Lucy was only too aware of how bare the kitchen larder was. A few potatoes were left in the bin, a few onions strung on a rope above the empty shelves. And then--

Lucy shivered and held out her cold hands to the small circle of flame. They were almost out of coal, too. Could she bring herself to apply to her cousin Wilhelmina?

Perhaps the countess would think of a possible employer for Lucy-

A loud bang pulled her out of her gloom.

Violet shrieked and put one hand to her mouth. “W’at was that?”

Lucy had already jumped to her feet. Grabbing a broom leaning against the wall, she ran toward the front of the house. The front door was open-she had not locked it after she had come inside.

Cursing herself for such carelessness, Lucy glanced into the drawing room-still empty-then looked into the dining room. Two brawny men dressed in rough clothes were carrying out her mother’s Queen Anne dining chairs.

Lucy shouted. “Put those down!”

The man closest to her frowned, but he showed no sign of obeying.

“Violet, summon help!” Lucy called. She lifted her broom and brought it down hard, again and again, upon the man’s shoulders and balding head.

He snorted in outrage, but the broom was too light to do any real damage. The robber showed no inclination to drop the two chairs he held. However, burdened with the furniture, he could do little to stop her. She hit him again and again until the broom shaft splintered.

Was nothing in her life as solid as it should have been?

Lucy uttered the same words the coal merchant had used when she’d told him she couldn’t settle his bill, then threw the wooden pieces at the thief. He shrugged off the lightweight projectiles.

Damnation!

The man trudged on toward the front door. At this rate she would never see her mother’s cherrywood dining suite again, and she had held it out to the last, despite her increasingly empty pockets.

Lucy looked about her for a more effective weapon. There-the ugly gold vase cousin Wilhelmina had sent her for a wedding present. That had not been held back out of sentiment; it was so ugly that even the secondhand dealers would offer her only pennies for it.

Lucy snatched it up and brought it down upon the bald man’s head. There was a satisfying crack. The vase split into several large shards, and the man roared in pain, dropping the chairs.

At last the vase had come into its own. She pushed the man toward the hallway, and for a moment he was too dazed to fight back.

But the other man came to his mate’s aid. Dropping the chairs he held, the second man, who was slightly shorter but just as broad as the first, wrapped his arms about Lucy’s waist and dragged her off his partner.

“Let go of me!” Lucy shrieked. “And get out of my house.”

The man who held her-his arms were hairy and corded with muscle, and he smelled strongly of sweat and cheap gin-grunted but did not reply. He forced her into the corner and shoved her roughly to the floor.

She hit the bare wood hard and for a moment could not get her breath. Blinking, she saw the two men retrieve the furniture they had been carrying. Each lifted two chairs and turned once more for the door. Desperate, Lucy pushed herself to a sitting position and looked around for anything with which to impede the theft. Then the sudden stillness of the two men alerted her to the newcomer’s presence.

A third man stood in the doorway. Another ruffian? Was he here to assist them with her table, next?

Then she saw that this man was dressed like a gentleman, with a well-cut blue coat and spotless linen, and he frowned at the scene before him.

But he was a stranger, and from his stance, as much as his clothes, not the kind of man who usually strolled this narrow and unfashionable London street. Was this the man who had hired the petty crooks who now pilfered her last few pieces of furniture?

“You should be ashamed,” Lucy snapped, her voice reedy as she fought for air, but her tone still defiant. “You might as well steal sugar drops from a baby!”

The man-he was tall and except for the broadness of his shoulders might have seemed too thin-looked down his nose at the two men, who stared back at him as if suddenly uneasy.

“You suffer from a misapprehension, madam,” he said. Then, his gaze fixed on the first robber, he added in a voice of cool authority, “Why are you taking this woman’s household goods?”

The bald man shifted his feet, his arms still full of chairs and a trickle of blood running down the side of his head from the impact of the vase. “She owes money, she does.”

Lucy managed a deep breath, at last, and tried to regain her composure. “If it’s the butcher, I just paid him ten pounds, and if it’s the coal merchant--”

The bald man shook his head. “None of ‘em,” he said. “T’is the bootmaker in Timmons Street, Covney and Son.”

Lucy bit her lip. Another bill she had not even added to the already alarming total of her husband’s debts?

To her surprise, the unknown gentleman demanded, “How much?”

They all stared at him.

“Over forty bob,” the bald man answered, his tone suspicious.

The gentleman reached inside his jacket and pulled out a handful of money. “Put down the chairs,” he ordered. “Take this to your employer and do not trouble the lady again. Is that clear?”

The two men gaped at him, but after a pause, they lowered the chairs, and the bald man accepted the money.

“Make sure all of it gets to your employer,” the gentleman added, his tone stern. “Or I shall seek you out and take anything missing out of your unwashed hides.” He took one step forward, and the bald man actually retreated a few paces.

“Yes, gov,” he agreed. “We won’t touch a farthing.”

“See that you don’t. Now leave us,” the tall man ordered.

They edged around the stranger and in a moment Lucy heard the door slam behind them. She made a mental note to keep it barred hereafter, but just now-she stared up at him, deeply puzzled, then realized she was still sitting in a most unladylike posture on the bare floor.

Flushing, she pulled her skirts down to cover her ankles, which the gentleman eyed with obvious and unabashed appreciation, and was about to scramble up when he put out one hand.

She gazed at it for an instant, then accepted his support-his grip was strong--and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded, with less tact than she might have done. Then she added belatedly, “That is, I thank you for your help, but-“

”My apologies for walking in unannounced,” he said. “But the door was open, and I heard sounds of a scuffle. Nicholas Ramsey, Viscount Richmond, at your service. I don’t believe we have met, but we have acquaintances in common.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “Umm, yes,” she said. “I have heard the countess of Sealey speak of you.”

This was the famous lady’s man? But why-she glanced from his severe expression and strong chin to the steely dark eyes. He was comely enough, in a rather Spartan way, but as far as wooing the ladies-

Then he smiled.

Lucy blinked, and suddenly she no longer doubted the reports of the women at the countess’s tea party.

His eyes gleamed with wicked humor, and his mouth, which had seemed so stern, now lifted in a sensual grin that made him appear almost boyish. She felt her thoughts go all atumble, like chaff in a wind storm, and she could not think at all. He was magnificent, and she could hear her own pulse beat faster. He said her name, and she had to shake her head before the words made sense.

“Ah, yes, Margery,” he said. “Then perhaps you know--”

Lucy’s thoughts flashed back to the sighs and raised brows of the other women. She felt her cheeks burn from her too vivid imagination.

“Know what, my lord?” Lucy asked cautiously.

“Mrs. Contrain,” the notorious viscount said. “I need you most desperately.”