Welcome to the most notorious address in London…

Beneath the airs and graces of the Ton lies The Underworld – London’s most scandalous gambling hall.

The only thing darker and more debauched that the hall itself? The proprietor, Max Sinclair. As mysterious as the corners of the city he stalks, Max has vowed to take revenge against the men who murdered his mother. And The Underworld attracts London’s darkest characters – the perfect partners in crime.

But when Lady Vivienne Beaumont enters The Underworld, Max’s life becomes more dangerous than he ever thought possible.

The Den of Iniquity

Anabelle Bryant

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Also available by Anabelle Bryant

Three Regency Rogues

To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

Duke of Darkness

The Midnight Rake

Regency Charms

Defying the Earl

Undone by His Kiss

Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

His Forbidden Debutante

ANABELLE BRYANT

began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab a suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle earned her Master’s Degree and is completing her Doctorate Degree in education. Thrilled to be an author for Harlequin’s HQ Digital line, Anabelle’s historical romances are character driven. She strives to provide a heartfelt connection between her hero, heroine, and the reader, believing the emotional journey on the path to true love is the most important bond. Clever secondary characters and lively conversation keep the pages turning.

Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AnabelleBryantAuthor, Twitter via @AnabelleBryant and join her mailing list via www.anabellebryant.com for the latest news concerning her upcoming novels.

My sincerest gratitude to Clio Cornish and Helen Williams

who understand my view of the Regency in brilliant detail.

This book is dedicated to the friends who fill my heart with their impatience for this series.

Kim, Lynda, Cindy, Ellen, Kelly, Beth-Ann, MaryBeth, Lauren, Terri, and Judy.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Book List

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Copyright

Prologue

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you do.’ Maxwell Sinclair leaned closer, his menacing growl a hairsbreadth from the liar’s mottled face. ‘Twelve years isn’t long enough to wipe a repugnant act of violence from my memory and neither is it gone from yours.’

The image haunts me every day and always will.

Max pressed harder on the broken billiard stick, the polished wood rolling over the cur’s Adam’s apple to settle at the softest part of his neck. A sharp chortle followed as Ludlow gasped for breath, his face bright crimson, eyes enlarged and frantic.

‘Please. Have mercy.’ He choked out the words. ‘It wasn’t my idea. It was Pimms.’

‘An insignificant detail. You eluded me for years and now that I’ve dragged you from the hole where you hide, I’ll be damned before I waste this opportunity.’ Max shifted his weight forward. ‘You didn’t grant mercy all those years ago, now did you?’ Frustrated with the conflicted emotions pulsing in his blood and wanting to be finished, Max applied more pressure to the cue, satisfied when Ludlow sputtered a desperate guttural breath. There was no need to prolong the altercation. No one would dare step into the alley behind the disreputable gaming hell while Max conducted business. Still, he’d dirtied his hands enough.

Dropping the stick, he withdrew as the man’s eyes fluttered closed, the limp body falling to the filthy cobbles of the Whitechapel alley in a crumpled heap.

‘Dump him in the river.’ He turned without a backward glance. ‘Hell’s waiting for Mr Ludlow.’

Two men emerged from the shadows to act on the order. And so the first deed was done.

Chapter One

Vivienne Beaumont stood amidst the flickering wall sconces of the gallery at Nettlecombe House and studied her mother’s portrait. Tears stung her lids but she dashed them away, unwilling to allow them to fall.

Control.

Control remained of the utmost importance and proposed the most difficult challenge. Another breath and she won the battle to reclaim her composure.

Consumption and its slow lingering deterioration stole her mother’s vivacity and led to an early death eighteen months prior; yet while the mourning crepe lifted from the windows, mirrors and fireplace mantels, nothing could allay the sombre weight of grief shrouding Vivienne’s heart.

Her mother had possessed a munificent spirit, a rare combination of intuitive compassion and benevolent wisdom. Widowed before Vivienne could know her father, her mother had raised her with strength and pride, determined to keep a place in society no matter that at times hardship made life difficult. How ironic that her mother had remarried only months before her decline and never enjoyed the security she’d found so late in life. She’d spoken of a pleasant future, optimistic she could grow a family now that she’d begun a new life with the earl.

This portrait, completed only months before she’d taken ill, reflected actuality. The artist had captured her mother’s serene disposition and kind smile with great talent. Fresh tears burned Vivienne’s eyes. The gaping absence left behind seemed dark and endless, unable to be filled by friendship or preoccupation, their relationship an example of steadfast respect and uncommon adoration.

She touched the edge of the gilded frame and wiped for lingering dust, her fingertips coming away clean, a credit to her daily ministrations. The long sorrowful nights Vivienne had tended her mother through sickness did little to prepare her for the stark emptiness of death, and despite evidence of worsening illness week after week, hope had survived, only to be left in a wake of despairing finality.

Now everything had shifted, Vivienne’s world once again poised to change. With the mourning period over she would be forced to re-enter society when she’d much prefer the sanctuary of quietude found in her rooms, at least until the pain of loss subsided. Her eyes watered again and she fought back the tears with a series of fast blinks. It proved hard work to master control over tender feelings, yet no sooner had the thought developed when a misplaced disquiet shadowed her reflection. Footfalls from behind caused her to whirl in wary surprise.

‘Vivienne.’

Her stepfather, Ellis Downing, Earl of Huntley, approached and her pulse hitched as a crawl of gooseflesh dotted her skin. Perhaps he brought with him the brisk air of the hallway.

‘Why do you torture yourself, dear? The gallery is dank and chilly, rarely attended by the servants, and still I find you here more often than not.’ He stopped before her, too close for comfort, and a wry expression lowered his brow. ‘Your mother would never approve.’ His voice deepened. ‘I see so much of her in you.’

The reference brought stifled emotion to the forefront and she drew a sharp inhalation as if to muster strength, though the stale air of the corridor chided the earl spoke true. His mention that she resembled her dear mother cut deep and all effort to prevent sentimentality failed as a single tear overflowed.

‘Do not cry.’ He spoke plainly.

How many times had she heard this command in the past year? How difficult to control one’s heartache, the very same organ that sustained life now lanced raw from the hardship of death.

‘I will do my best.’ She whispered the words though they revealed the mantra of her existence. Will. Unending will to control and continue.

‘Of course you will. You are a Beaumont. You carry yourself with pride as any young lady should.’

Was there mockery in his tone? He smiled, though no gladness reached his eyes.

‘Your mother would never wish for you to prolong your grief. In most circumstances, one cannot control death, but life is filled with possibility and choice.’ In an unexpected gesture, he touched her face, two fingers sliding over her skin from the corner of one eye where tears still threatened across her cheekbone and down to her chin. ‘You look so very much like her before the illness ravaged her inner light. A beauty incarnate.’

A faint warning stirred and a shudder raked her spine, yet she held still, the hesitant reaction sparking another of his derisive grins.

‘I told you it was unpleasant and damp in this quarter of the house. Join me downstairs in the salon for tea where I can provide better conversation than a musty portrait on the wall. I won’t have you catching a draught. We’re improved company together. Wouldn’t you agree?’

She gave an absent nod. Her eyes returned to the painting over her shoulder in a silent apologetic farewell. ‘Perhaps we should have one of the servants move Mother’s portrait to the salon or breakfast room. I would like that.’ At times her stepfather caused her misgivings, but he would not silence her voice. Besides, this request was small.

‘Clever girl, always ready to share an idea or solve a problem.’ He slanted an arm outwards to encourage that they take their leave. ‘If it pleases you, it shall be done.’

She followed his retreating form through shadows, confused and equally cautious. She’d barely adjusted to life at Nettlecombe before her mother fell ill and now, with the mourning period past and a short supply of excuses to remain in her rooms, she found avoiding her stepfather’s scrutiny most difficult.

Perhaps that concern alone would serve as impetus to hurry her back into society’s fold and reclaim the relationships she’d abandoned upon her mother’s infirmity.

The hell was packed tonight. A rush of innate satisfaction filled Sinclair as he peered at a crowd of the privileged and disillusioned from the suite of rooms above. Soaking in the success of the enterprise, one third of it at least, he allowed the fleeting condition to wash away the unpleasant deed he’d committed earlier in the evening.

Some would label it murder.

He called it necessary.

But this, this arena of wealth and power, was his greatest accomplishment. Below men of every class—from distinguished titled gentlemen to commonplace elbow shakers—emptied their pockets, consumed drink and partook of iniquitous gratification with abandon, all for a price they willingly paid. The establishment might be labelled a hell, but for the participants it more genuinely resembled paradise.

Beyond these four walls, England remained ripe for economic and political strife. The recent Spa Field riots had encouraged a more vocal discord, many Englishmen anxious to seize control of banking and government, their main objective to deliver a petition to the Prince Regent requesting reform from their hardship and distress. But such change was slow in development and gambling offered a faster, more pleasurable option than opposing the powers of regulation.

The Underworld provided an attractive prescription for the injustice of society. The wagering offered within the hell was non-discriminatory and, more importantly, able to perpetuate the comely belief one could secure immeasurable wealth. And that was an immediate lure many could not resist.

He drew the heavy velvet curtains closed as if shutting away yet another dark secret and poured a glass of expensive brandy before he settled behind his desk, feet atop the inlaid mahogany. A long exhalation speaking more of supplication than victory broke the quiet and Ransom, his wolfhound at rest beneath the desk, followed with a bark in gruff reply.

Sinclair held little regard for society’s chosen. But of their money, he possessed a different opinion. Proud bastard that he was, it pleased him to watch earls and viscounts empty their pockets at his tables. He held their vowels and marked their accrued interest with a shrewd spark of pleasure in his eye, their careless spending having amassed him and his two partners impressive wealth.

Born on the wrong side of the blanket, sired by a jackal disguised as an earl, his childhood might have been the mundane and unfortunate tale of an aristocratic by-blow, neglected by fine society and otherwise forgotten, but Fate planned differently. By the persistence of his proud mother’s demand he received an excellent education, obtained through the attention of multiple tutors who visited their country home and instructed him in every masculine necessity from horsemanship to pistol shooting.

At her adamant insistence, he’d received formal schooling at Eton, tolerated by the ostentatious institution because his father held a title and paid a generous sum to have Sinclair’s error of birth overlooked. The exceptional conditions created by his mother’s love and father’s wealth ensured he’d had all the privilege and intelligence equal to peers of the realm, while the circumstance of his birth left him unbound by the rules of formal society.

Of course, all that changed upon his mother’s death.

A bitter sneer curled his mouth and he finished off his brandy, unwilling to open the unpleasant catalogue of memories that accompanied that last thought.

Three sharp knocks sounded, a signal used by Cole Hewitt, second investor in the exclusive West End hell, to announce his arrival; though Ransom had already detected someone approached with a low growl one half minute before Cole struck the door.

‘Enter.’ Sinclair replaced his empty glass atop the desk as the panel opened.

‘How does it go, Sin?’ Cole dropped onto the leather couch aligned with the left wall. He appeared exhausted, his collar undone and boots mud-covered. ‘I’ve obtained the information you’ve hunted, but you’re not going to like the result.’ He leaned his head back, allowing his eyes to close as if he regretted imparting the news and witnessing his friend’s disappointment. ‘I’ve located Rowley.’

Sinclair dropped his feet from the desktop and whipped around to pierce Cole’s reclined form with a hard stare. His pulse hammered as he curled his fingers into a fist. ‘And—’

The one word demanded an expedient answer.

‘You can visit him graveside in the courtyard of an ugly little church named All Hallows by the Tower on Byward Street. Dirt hole, little more—’

Sinclair let loose with a string of black curses that had Ransom up and snarling, his ears flat. ‘Settle.’ He reassured the hound with a rub to the neck. ‘A dirt grave is more than Rowley deserves.’ He scoffed. ‘All along the worthless scum was here in London under my nose.’

‘Under the ground now.’ Cole shifted his position and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he continued. ‘No reason to let it anger you. It’s one less task for you to undertake, whatever the cause.’

Sin remained silent and stood to pace. The revenge he sought was foul business enough without revealing his bloodlust to one of his closest friends. Cole battled his own demons, illegitimate birth the least of it. They had wealth in common too, although Cole possessed business acuity sharper than a dagger’s blade. Having fallen into each other’s company through a series of unlikely circumstances, they’d become fast comrades. Sin was the one in the trio with outreaching contacts and inward misery. Cole appeared better adjusted to life’s circumstance though one never knew what drove a man. He pulled his focus to his friend’s continued explanation.

‘And the reason it proved near impossible to find Rowley was he often went by his surname: Johns. With such a common moniker it sent me down more misleads than I’d care to confess, chasing after a shadow who turned out to be another man altogether.’

‘I did as well.’ Sinclair’s low mutter was lost in the slide of the curtain pull, once again opened to the world of gambling below. ‘Thank you. I never meant to involve you or occupy your time but while the news is unexpected, it’s appreciated. I’ll visit on the morrow for no other reason than to piss on his grave; though I would have preferred to step on his neck.’ Anger lit a flame to his blood. He’d wanted to be the one to end Johns’ life, see the fear in his eyes and relish the man’s last gasp as he pleaded for mercy, a request that would not be respected. Sinclair spanned his restless fingers in an exercise to release pent disappointment, though frenetic rage coursed through him with the news. There was a certain natural, powerful, satisfaction found in using one’s hands to exact revenge. Johns’ death denied him the pleasure.

In a strange twist of redemption as he crushed the ghosts of his past, Sinclair believed he’d somehow banish the darkest part of his anger and once again reclaim whatever normalcy of life was left his due.

‘You may want to rethink your plans, the pissing part, that is.’ Cole flashed a quick smile. ‘You’ll startle the elderly as they work to improve the gardens around the courtyard and I dare say these aren’t the same nuns found at Covent Garden.’

Sinclair chuckled at his friend’s self-deprecation. Cole enjoyed a brothel well.

‘Still the lovely old nosegents were generous with their information when I asked about the grave.’

‘I will pay heed to your suggestion and spit instead.’ His voice expressed resolute anger as Cole came to stand next to him at the glass.

‘We’re padding the coffers. Every elbow crooker in London has come out to roll dice tonight.’ The voiced observation settled Sin’s agitation somewhat. His friend was accomplished at distraction. They stood in companionable silence, intensely assessing the scene below.

Sin watched the fair-haired Mirabel as she delivered a drink and seductive glance to an attentive gentleman. She worked the floor better than any of the females in the hell’s employ; all the while she held her chin high despite the fact her services could be purchased and body shared. He’d accepted several of her alluring offers. Perhaps Mirabel would alleviate some of his caged frustration tonight. No sooner did the thought form than a beat of disapproval followed. Even she, a gentleman’s whore, deserved better than his empty detached rutting.

Somehow over the years, anger had suffocated all other emotion until revenge consumed every corner of his soul. How better to be unfeeling and hollow until he saw the last of it done. He blinked, uncomfortable with the truth. Still he had no answers and had come to realize long ago God didn’t waste time on the prayers of a sinner.

Chapter Two

Vivienne pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the persistent wind determined to wrestle against her hood. With gladness she’d read the missive from the Samaritan Saviours, a charitable organization favoured by her mother and a cause that Vivienne intended to continue in loving memory. Her stepfather held little opinion of her involvement and in that she was thankful. Answering the call for charitable work supplied a reprieve in twofold from the oppressive gloom found at Nettlecombe. She’d gently reassert herself into the flow of society and simultaneously soothe the pain in her heart by carrying forth her mother’s honourable work.

Now with the hour growing late, the carriage stopped at a narrow avenue leading to Byward Street where the small chapel rested on a lazy hill. She exited, hurrying over the cobbles and through the iron gate. As if London mourned her efforts, clouds in various shades of grey threatened tears, not very different from the interior of home. She sent a small prayer skyward in hope that today she’d find joy in helping others. Something of interest was needed to deter her thoughts from loss and pain. In that much her stepfather’s words rang true. Her mother would never wish for her to continue suffering.

The sombre knell from the church tower resurrected memories of the funeral and she bit her lower lip to maintain composure. At times it seemed the smallest things, the scent of a flower or mention of a particular meal, shattered her tenuous hold on emotion. She shook her head, at once irritated as the motion sent her hood backward. With a steady hand she righted herself inside and out.

She’d almost reached the top of the hill where the nuns worked to replant annuals in the seasonal garden, the blooms then sold to raise funds for the poor. She gave a glance in each direction, disappointed the area remained vacant, and took the single-tiered staircase that led to the upper level of the property, closer to the tower and outreaching buildings. The railing, cold from the absence of sunlight, sent an unwelcome chill into her bones and she hurried faster. Beyond the church a small graveyard and priory stood quiet, a vigilant reminder life was fleeting.

Pausing to discern where the nuns were located and whether she’d arrived at the correct area, she listened but not a sound could be heard. Something seemed wrong. She didn’t have the missive, her reticule left under the bench of the family coach. With planting to be done, she’d travelled with nothing more than a pair of gloves and coin purse in her skirt pocket. Now she wished she’d brought the information.

Unwilling to remain stalled in the middle of the slates, she changed directions. With a disappointed sigh at the bleak emptiness of her surroundings, she moved beyond the gardens to explore the path that led to the priory in hope of meeting someone from Samaritan Saviours.

As she accomplished a bend and approached the graveyard a disturbance wrinkled the quiet, causing her heart to lurch with fear. Stray dogs and assorted vermin were common in all parts of London, but a graveyard offered the ideal place for a dangerous stray. One pernicious bite would send a healthy person into a hellish and often uncertain sickness.

A sharp bark sliced the air and her thoughts proceeded no further. In a blur of grey fur, a wolf appeared. The angry beast barked a rapid succession of complaints, bared its fangs and snarled, then set a direct line towards her. She whimpered, a tragic mixture of panic and fright, before her feet at last obeyed and she set into a run, the wind catching in her billowing black cloak to battle her progress. She should have taken a maid or footman, but out of consideration not to encumber a servant with boredom while she worked on the behalf of the poor, she’d foolishly come alone.

Her slipper caught on the edge of a broken slate and she tumbled forward, her palms scraping the stone in a sting of gravel and regret. With a firm push for leverage she rose in a tangle of skirts, forcing her cumbersome cloak aside as she ran further to accomplish the short stack of stairs. The insistent bark of the mongrel and accompanying steady footfalls thrummed in her ears.

Through a blinding sheen of tears she found the wrought-iron gate, the roadway clogged with carriages damning her to choose another means of escape. With a dodge to the left she angled her body behind a low-lying hedge where a stone wall blanketed with lush green ivy stood as a divider to the adjacent property. She pressed flat with hope the mongrel would continue its race to the street, past where she waited. Her lungs burst, but she hardly gave pause to inhale.

Time stretched. Slowly the pounding in her ears receded. She heard the discordant melody of a songbird as a lonely ray of sunlight broke the cloud cover and she narrowed her eyes in trepidation until the hairs on the back of her neck pricked to attention. Two elongated shadows darkened the corner. She didn’t dare move. Trapped, fear clogged her throat as she stared at the growing outline of blackness. She willed her courage to surface, for her brain to master control.

The wolf dog stood not two paces away, teeth exposed in a silent snarl that did more to her frantic pulse than the race across the churchyard. She had not a moment to consider it before a looming form appeared behind the animal. A man with a serious expression, hair left too long and wide shoulders tapering to a strong physique stepped closer to align with the dog as he looked straight into her eyes. For a half second, her soul quaked. Somehow, for no reason she could explain, the stranger’s piercing gaze seemed to look inside her. She could barely catch her breath, yet he appeared completely composed.

‘Settle.’

The sharp command calmed the animal and it withdrew to a place of quiet obedience at the man’s feet.

With great relief and a bit of awe, she raised her chin and matched eyes with the stranger who’d controlled the fierce animal with nothing more than a word. He didn’t appear dangerous, but then neither did her stepfather and of late, she possessed an unspoken wariness whenever they shared company at Nettlecombe.

This man demanded control with his presence, exuded power by silent force. He was handsome even with a scowl holding his jaw tight, his face harsh angles and sharp corners, as if he’d been carved not born. Add to that his impeccable attire, a brown cashmere greatcoat pulled taut across his muscular build, dark trousers and shiny boots, put her clothing to shame. Yet something told her he was no gentleman. She braced herself for an outlash of disapproval and accusation, the cause unknown.

‘My apologies.’

It was the last thing she expected him to say and her exhalation whispered free.

‘My dog grew agitated by my behaviour at the other side of the churchyard. When he sensed your approach he meant to protect.’ His rich tenor did strange things to her stomach.

‘Not me.’ Her soft-spoken response seemed to amuse him. One thick brow arched over eyes blacker than soot. Meanwhile her shoulders eased from their rigid position and she drew another breath, no longer afraid.

‘You have lovely green eyes.’ So had his mother.

She appeared perplexed, her lids flared then narrowed as if his comment surprised her. What had she expected? That he would set upon her, or worse allow Ransom to take a bite? Wrapped tight in a thick woollen cloak the only part of her he could discern was a heart-shaped face, smooth creamy skin kissed with a soft flush from her flight across the lawn. It gave the look of a playful wood sprite caught against the ivy. She angled her sharp little chin in defiance though she’d hardly said a word and likely trembled in her slippers.

The lady was stunning—composed of stark contradictions and delicate beauty. His body immediately took notice despite refined ladies not being for him. Too many airs and complications, worst of all, the inevitable haughty stare down the nose that spoke volumes to announce he was beneath them, a man of the lowest mark, and by consequence of his birth unworthy of attention, never mind genuine affection. That disdain sliced the deepest. Best he remember whenever he entertained the illogical notion he might taste caviar when he was born to eat porridge. Aah, but there lay the irony. He could easily afford the most expensive delicacies.

Time to move on. Had he not ranted with such vitriolic expletives over Rowley’s grave this situation would have been avoided, yet the miscreant’s dirty deed and scarring history evoked such volatile emotion he knew little else than to let it rain over the man’s final resting place. His loyal wolfhound had sensed the distress and reacted. Bloody hell, in his hurry to chase Ransom he’d forgotten to spit on the grave.

He pulled his attention to the present where moss-green eyes, luminous and almond-shaped with long curled lashes, twitched with shock and some other indecipherable emotion, her lips drawn in a tight white line. Indeed, the woman was scared of his approach and the realization stirred an errant question. Had this same haunting trepidation filled his mother’s gaze all those years ago?

He should offer reassurance. Would she be offended if he told her to settle?

‘We mean no harm.’ As he reached forward she recoiled, yet her action didn’t deter his. He plucked a wayward leaf from below her ear and his fingers brushed a tangle of curls, silk, caught between her shoulder and the collar of the cloak. Acting on instinct, he lowered the hood and a mass of hair tumbled past the woman’s shoulders, down in rivulets of blue-black gloss, sleek as the feathers on a raven’s wing. The sight conjured images of an avenging angel or, perhaps, an ethereal spectre. He breathed deep and fought off a misplaced feeling of arousal. Stop wanting what you can’t have. ‘You’re safe.’

Who did he aim to reassure?

‘Thank you, Mr…’ She paused mid-sentence, her voice snagging his attention.

‘Sinclair.’ He supplied with a speck of amusement. ‘Sin, if you prefer.’ He watched her slender brows rise high, her expression wide-eyed and dishevelled, somewhat delectable.

‘Yes, thank you.’ She eased, smoothing a hand down the length of her hair to tuck the ringlets into order. ‘I was startled, but I’m better now.’ She shifted, adjusting her cloak in the process, and ventured a small step from the wall where’d she pressed herself flat in hope of becoming invisible.

Impossible, that. This young lady would easily stand out among the finest beauties of the ton.

Not that it mattered.

Damned if his body thought it did.

Instead he waited.

‘Your dog is asleep.’ Her statement was a mixture of curiosity and hope.

He shot his eyes to Ransom who’d apparently found their conversation dull. When again he looked up, the lady had undergone a transformation.

‘He’s not a wolf at all.’ She wrinkled her nose, wise and wary enough not to approach.

While Ransom appeared complaisant one wrong move would put him on alert.

‘Appearances aren’t always accurate.’ He cleared his throat, wondering if she would read the world within the words. ‘Ransom’s a loyal protector. It all depends on who he wishes to protect.’

‘I see.’ She looked beyond his shoulder.

‘I’m keeping you, Miss…’

‘Vivienne.’

Her name fit. It might have been a type of rare flower. He made a sidelong step and the dog stood as if by having listened he knew it was time to take leave. ‘Well then, accept my regret for Ransom’s misbehaviour.’ With a nudge from long-abandoned manners, he canted his head towards the street. ‘Were you headed to your waiting carriage?’

She answered with a nod.

‘I’ll accompany you there.’ Suspecting she would object he continued. ‘By way of apology for my dog and temper having sent you running across the property.’

She flicked her eyes to the wolfhound, likely at war with her courage.

‘Ransom is less than interested now that we’ve spoken. He wouldn’t cause harm unless I gave the command.’ The words rolled out before he thought the better of them. He glanced to Byward Street and strove to soothe her ill ease. ‘To your carriage then.’ The lady shouldn’t be out without a footman, maid or some kind of keeper and that deduction held true for anyone bound for a private carriage. Fine gentry. The seedier parts of London composed the place of his ill-spent youth that now provided his living, but this woman didn’t belong to the streets. She was polite society. His personal anathema. Hell if she didn’t spark his curiosity though.

She gave a curt nod, her expression a mixture of appreciation and speculative trust, and fell in beside him. He adjusted his stride so she could keep pace. Ransom wandered ahead on the pavement clearing a path until Vivienne stopped beside a cluster of carriages, one stacked against the other too closely for him to discern to which the lady belonged.

‘Thank you.’

She smiled and he forgot what he was about to say until the crack of a nearby whip broke him from distraction. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a card, doubtful he would ever see her again. Such a pretty bit of muslin was unlikely to frequent the same establishments as he, but something told him to offer his address. It was the least he could do after scaring her thoroughly. ‘If you need anything or if I can be of service, do not hesitate to call.’ He extended his ungloved hand in her direction.

‘Anything?’ She watched him with those crystalline green eyes and he quelled a smile.

‘Anything at all.’ When she didn’t immediately reply, he added, ‘A one-time favour if you will, to compensate for your inconvenience.’

She stared at the white calling card a long minute, scepticism wrinkling her brow, and just when he believed he’d made an error in judgement, she accepted. This time he allowed a smile free and with a sharp click that brought Ransom to heel, he left her standing beside the kerb.

Chapter Three

After speaking to the driver, Vivienne settled against the squabs and exhaled a cleansing breath. What just happened? She’d begun the day with the intention of planting flowers for those in need and instead had fled across the yard and hidden behind a stone wall, only to be discovered by the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

A wry smile turned her lips. It wasn’t as though she had a large catalogue of reference when considering men. The few formal functions she could claim were modest house parties where males numbered less than ten and that count often included the butler. No one looked like Mr Sinclair.

Before her mother remarried, they’d moved in modest society, attending tea parties and occasional embroidery circles, happy to linger on the fringe more than take society by storm. Her mother’s sudden marriage took Vivienne by surprise, having hardly any interaction with the earl beforehand. The subsequent events were a whirlwind of blurred memory and disconsolate mourning.

With gentle reverence, she laid the card across her skirt and read the neatly printed square letters. Maxwell Sinclair. The name fit. He exuded strength and control, two qualities she lacked or at the least, struggled to improve. She peered at the line of type beneath his name. Proprietor. And then the bottom row. Underworld Gaming Hell.

Suspicion confirmed. She knew without doubt the man was dangerous, but proprietor of a gaming hell…well, that was as sinful as one could imagine.

Yet somehow that fit too. When he’d settled his eyes upon her, his piercing gaze sent delightful prickles up her spine and then much lower for some odd reason. She welcomed the thrill, numb since her mother’s death, filled with grief and fear for her future. Oh yes, the man was trouble inside and out. If a glance could send a delicious shiver through her, what might a kiss evoke? She shook her head and dismissed the question. Proper ladies didn’t think of kisses.

As if to stop her wayward thoughts, the carriage rumbled to a halt and she moved the curtain aside to ascertain she’d arrived at the proper address on Maddox Street, the home of her dearest friend, Sophie Daventry. Sophie was the only daughter of Baron Hastings and she and her brother lived in Mayfair with their parents in a fashionable three-storey town house, one of several sleek homes that lined the walk in a reflection of influence and affluence. The baron and his wife travelled extensively and often abandoned London for months at a time, which afforded Sophie and her brother Crispin a lifestyle of unusual freedom. The two were friends as well as siblings, less than a year’s span between their births.

A small smile played about Vivienne’s lips as she climbed the fancy red brick steps and dropped the brass knocker. Many good memories existed here. Lost in mourning, she hadn’t realized the depth she’d missed her friends until this very moment. How very different life seemed across town. Nettlecombe, with its dour grey stone and narrow corridors, had kept her caged for too long. Of course, she amended, her stepfather’s home spoke more to history than style. Lord Huntley seemed a more traditional, reserved sort, who never spoke of family relations and hadn’t had one caller the entire time she’d resided at Nettlecombe.

As expected, Gilbert, the Daventry butler, answered the door with a cheerful greeting.

‘Miss Beaumont, it is lovely to see you.’ He took her cloak and passed it off to a nearby servant before leading her down the pristine marble hallway. ‘Miss Sophie and Master Crispin will be pleased with your visit. The house has missed your company, if I may be so bold.’ He stopped before the door and waited on her answer.

‘Of course you may, Gilbert. I would expect no less.’ She followed the servant through the double panels into an elegant salon where her name was received with an enthusiastic squeal and clap of conversation, an immediate balm to her soul. The shared friendship in this house was one of her heart’s treasures.

‘Vivienne.’ A smile broke across Sophie’s face as she hurried to embrace her in a warm hug. ‘I can’t believe my eyes. Have you decided to re-enter society? The time is right with the season set to begin. I couldn’t be happier.’

Accustomed to Sophie’s fast-paced chattering, Vivienne nodded in agreement, knowing better than to interrupt.

‘Indeed.’ Crispin approached the twosome, his grin broader than his sister’s. ‘At last I have reason to breathe again.’

‘Good heavens, Crispin, you sound like a lovesick fool.’ Sophie waved her brother away before he could reach for Vivienne’s hand. ‘None of your teasing today.’ She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer. ‘He’s such an intelligent man, yet he behaves like an empty-headed sop whenever you visit. One would think after your extended absence he’d abandon his foolish antics.’

Crispin persisted and snatched up Vivienne’s hand next. ‘My deepest condolences once again.’ His grin vanished, replaced by an expression of sincere compassion.

‘Thank you.’ She offered him a gentle smile. ‘I’m faring better.’

‘Crispin, must it be one extreme or the other?’ Sophie skewered him with a wide-eyed stare. ‘Let’s not discuss anything sombre today. Vivienne is here after so very long and I’ve missed her company dearly. Come sit and talk. We’ve just rung for tea so your timing is ideal.’

‘I’ve missed you both. Know that well.’ Vivienne settled on the sofa across from her friend and Crispin took a seat at a distance from the tea table. ‘The mourning period has been long and distressing.’ Her voice faded. ‘You know the closeness Mother and I shared.’

‘Of course.’ Sophie frowned at Vivienne’s dismay and the room fell silent for several long beats. ‘Have you come straight from Nettlecombe?’

‘No.’ Vivienne’s spirits buoyed at the chance to retell her adventure from the morning. ‘Actually, I planned to meet the Salvation Saviours but when I arrived at the church, no one was there.’ Well, not exactly no one. Mr Sinclair was there. She carried his calling card like a dark secret in her reticule.

‘I admire your charitable endeavours.’ Crispin moved closer and took a seat beside his sister. ‘The unfortunate and needy exist in great number in this city and it speaks well of your generosity to think of others.’

‘It’s a selfish act in truth. Charity work was so meaningful to my mother; it’s one way to keep her spirit alive,’ Vivienne added with a slight smile.

‘Crispin is right. You’re a gem and I’ve missed you so. Having my brother accompany me to every social event without you by my side has been a chore.’ Sophie shot Crispin an impish look.

‘True enough, the condition is bilateral,’ Crispin concurred. ‘Conversation has suffered greatly without your pleasant company.’ His eyes twinkled with the compliment.

‘I don’t think I’m ready to embrace a round of festivities.’ Vivienne shrugged her shoulders with the quiet admission, although the convivial conversation fit as snugly as her best gloves. How she’d missed her two dearest friends.

‘Oh, I believe you have the right of it. Your charity work will honour your mother and also help you heal.’ Sophie’s face gleamed with hopeful compassion. ‘If you’re hesitant about re-entering society, you should put your heart into a cause and let that involvement lead you into the mix.’

‘Dedicate my time to charity, as my mother did. Yes. It’s what I planned and why I’d written to the Salvation Saviours in the first place.’ She nodded her head in the affirmative. ‘Since my earliest years Mother instilled the desire to offer assistance to those less fortunate. Over time I grew to truly understand the impact she created in so many lives through her kindness and generosity. I’d like to carry on this tradition.’

‘Exactly. You’ve always spared time for the needy and those who have left the path of wholesomeness.’

The tail end of Sophie’s comment planted a seed of inspiration that bloomed a smile on Vivienne’s face. ‘I owe the forlorn a debt of gratitude. By helping others, I often forget my own troubles.’

‘But what if charity repaid the debt to you?’ Sophie warmed to the subject, her idea drawing everyone’s apt attention.

‘Whatever are you babbling about?’ Crispin appeared sceptical.

‘Vivienne has always brightened the room with her presence.’

‘Indeed.’ Crispin agreed with a lopsided smile that earned him a dismissive wave from his sister.

‘I think Vivienne is most comfortable when she shines light and positivity into someone’s life.’ Sophie’s stare pierced her brother before it settled on Vivienne. ‘Perhaps you should dedicate your efforts to those truly in need. You could impart irreparable change to any of the forsaken while at the same time bringing peace to your soul by continuing your mother’s fine work. Beneficence is a two-sided coin and charity on a personal level could prove most rewarding. Just think of all who need the advantage of reformation.’ Sophie flipped her hand up, fingers splayed as she ticked off a series of worthy considerations. ‘Orphans at the Foundling Hospital, unwed mothers, the infirm, condemned, jailed.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Crispin popped from his chair and strode closer. ‘Within reason, Sophie. You can’t mean to suggest Vivienne should hie off to Whitechapel or St Giles and mingle with the sad sort lining the streets.’ His tone rang stern, his face echoing the sentiment. ‘There is danger within the vice of the lower classes.’

‘Not at all.’ Sophie rolled her eyes in exasperation. ‘But she could find someone in need through the church or another organization: a person in dire need of reformation.’

‘I intend to work closely with my mother’s favourite charities, but I do understand what you mean.’ Vivienne nodded her head in agreement, an immediate image of Maxwell Sinclair strengthening her conviction. ‘I could strive to find a solitary someone in need, perhaps a lost soul in this great city. A person more than a cause. Someone in a—’

‘Brothel?’ Sophie offered, although from her friend’s mischievous expression, Vivienne suspected she meant to goad Crispin more than present a valid idea. And just like a fish on a hook, Crispin took the bait and jumped in with a sound thrashing of his sister.

‘How could you suggest such a thing?’ He came to stand beside Vivienne’s chair and she looked up at his profile, his brows drawn low.

Vivienne had known Crispin for years and over that time he’d become as close to a brother as she’d ever have. He was protective of her person, respectful, and quick to chastise Sophie for her far-fetched ideas whenever they surfaced. No social reform would ever be needed for Crispin Daventry.

‘I agree.’ That earned her a smile and a frown. ‘But I’ve another idea. I could work to reform someone who needs my help, but at the same time wouldn’t place me in harm’s way.’

‘Where would you find this person?’ Crispin eyed her with affectionate amusement, his expression sharing he thought the notion foolish.

‘Oh I don’t know…’ She hesitated, not sure how either of her friends would react. ‘Perhaps a place where people congregate for activities but don’t necessarily break the law. Somewhere that more adventurous spirits gather…’ She feigned a pensive expression. ‘A gaming hell comes to mind.’

‘A gaming hell?’ Sophie and Crispin answered in unison as if they’d rehearsed it.

‘Yes.’ Voicing the idea boosted her confidence.

‘And what would you know about the goings-on at a gaming hell, sweet Vivienne? Ladies as refined as the two of you do not frequent scandalous establishments such as jails, brothels and hells. I’d wager the last raspberry tart on the tea tray neither one of you could name a single place of nefarious reputation in all of London.’

Crispin looked sufficiently pleased with himself, but Vivienne couldn’t stop the truth from erupting. ‘There’s the Underworld.’ She let the words settle, more than a little curious, while she reached for the last tart on the tray.

‘The Underworld.’ Crispin’s brows rose all the way to his hairline. ‘That topping house is a well-kept secret and no place for a delicate lady. Every scoundrel, rogue and rake holds an account there. How do you know of it?’ He leaned closer as if he could see the answer in her eyes and for a brief moment, Vivienne thought his expression altered, softened, until a look of absolute surprise slid back into place.

She settled against the cushion and relished Crispin’s shocked expression, Sophie’s laughter and prompt applause. If she were to visit the Underworld, she would see Mr Sinclair and that in itself was intriguing enough to motivate a continuation of the discussion. ‘Never mind that. You’ve proved my point. If the ton seeks to keep the hall secret, there must be good reason. What better place to find a gentleman to reform?’

‘Oh, now that sounds intriguing,’ Sophie added.

Crispin chuckled loud and long. ‘It is called a hell, not a hall and, Vivienne, you are the veriest delight.’ He sat beside her on the couch. ‘You will not find a gentleman there.’

‘Enlighten us, dear brother.’ Sophie drew closer too, aware her brother enjoyed being the centre of their attention.

‘A gaming hell is a magnet for low women and high stakes. People who dally at such places are not fit company for either of you.’ He spoke to them both but somehow his focus remained solely on Vivienne. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of you rubbing elbows with the lowest levels of humanity in the dimly lit interior of a gaming hell.’

Sophie cleared her throat and Crispin amended his statement.

‘Or you either, Sis.’

‘I’m just wondering—’ Sophie flashed a knowing smile ‘—at your exuberance for the telling. It ignites my curiosity as to how often you’ve visited the Underworld club.’

‘Not a club. Not a hall.’ He shook his head back and forth as if he was explaining something simple to a young child. Then he expelled a long breath to indicate he tolerated their foolery and by obligatory bond would impart his privileged male knowledge and eradicate why their reasoning remained flawed. ‘I mean to protect Vivienne lest you put some hare-brained idea in her head.’ He paused to eye his sister with what could only be considered a glare of warning.

Sophie pulled a mulish look in return. When silence ensued, Vivienne interjected.

‘I don’t believe it can be as bad as all that. I’m sure there is a man who oversees the activities of this hell.’ She made sure to emphasize she’d stated the word correctly. ‘Someone in control.’ Absolute control. Mr Sinclair exuded authority like others perspired.

‘Let me speak plainly, ladies. The proprietors are neither well-mannered men nor company for anyone in good standing with the ton. I’ve heard stories about one of the owners, Mr Sinclair.’ The latter was said with calamitous gravity.

Vivienne’s head shot up with the mention.

Sophie wasn’t as patient. ‘And?’ She practically begged the question.

‘If I must.’ Crispin lifted a meaningful eyebrow. ‘The man is a by-blow: child of a mother with light heels and a father with poor judgement.’ He shifted on the couch though he didn’t break eye contact. ‘I’ve heard he is a violent man with a wicked temper, too clever by far to be caught at his misdeeds. Details would curl your hair so I will spare you both, but association with the scoundrel would bring about any woman’s ruin. Let that erase any ambitious thoughts simmering in your lovely brains.’

‘But wouldn’t his poor reputation suggest he was in need of reform more than most?’ Vivienne slid her gaze from one friend to the other.

‘There’s no reforming Lucifer.’

‘Oh, Crispin, you exaggerate. I think Vivienne’s logic makes a fine point.’ Sophie shook her head for emphasis. ‘All this talk of dark and dangerous strangers makes me more curious than ever. Besides, everyone deserves a chance for atonement.’

‘Perhaps,’ Crispin answered. ‘But not by the two of you. Father would lock you up for the rest of your life, darling sister.’

‘I never said I wished to provide salvation to the wayward.’ She backtracked with hurried explanation. ‘I merely suggested an idea to assist Vivienne to ease into social circles now that she’s returned to us.’

Vivienne half listened to the continued debate between brother and sister, stalled on Crispin’s description of Mr Sinclair as wicked and clever. He’d certainly seemed that way when he’d discovered her against the ivy. Lord, when he’d looked at her she’d gone all fluttery inside. And the more Crispin spoke of the man’s daunting reputation, the more she became convinced he warranted her attention. Besides, any man known to his friends as Sin begged for betterment, didn’t he?

Chapter Four

‘So did you spit on Rowley Johns’ grave?’ Cole shuffled a deck of cards with lightning speed before splaying them across the table to flip back and forth in senseless distraction. The reassuring chatter of conversation mingled with an occasional shout of celebration from below. The hell was crowded again tonight.

‘No.’ Sin answered with a grunt of regret. He hadn’t achieved his objective at the graveyard yesterday. Not because the man deserved better but because Sinclair was a better man. And, too, he’d become distracted by Ransom on the hunt for a runaway ebony-haired sprite. He should have learned more of her, but his mind had been all over the place, emotions a muddled mess.

It wasn’t until early this morning after closing the hell and returning home to his town house that he allowed himself the luxury of fantasy. She was no doubt a beauty, but something else about the lady fired his blood with unexpected desire. Jaded by wealth and opportunity, myriad women had warmed his sheets and left the next morning without his second glance. But this one, with her raven hair and emerald eyes, gave him pause. Not that he had any room in his life for a woman. Binding relationships were off limits. Life seemed much simpler when not emotionally anchored to another person. The remembrance spoke well of his mother’s hardship and father’s fickle attention.

Like the flick of an overturned card, Sin remembered being called to the headmaster’s office all those years ago. He’d worked hard to achieve the grades expected of him, though he knew his efforts were not valued. He walked a fine line with the headmaster and a false story had given cause to have his mother summoned. With a heartless economy of words, he’d learned his mother had been killed, set upon by highwaymen, and already buried while he’d studied for midterm exams, none the wiser.

His heart shattered in that moment, never to be mended, his mother the only person of value in his life. He was often at her hip, just the two of them through his formative years, and despite his father making brief appearances the rare meetings were composed of reserved conversation and a stilted report of his progress in school. His father would never fail to remind him of his place and the difference between Max and the legitimate heir he’d fathered across London.

From that rejection the bond with his mother grew stronger and they were inseparable until his schooling at Eton. Even then he’d begrudged having to leave her. She was an unending source of love and pride, determined to instil in him a belief his world was not limited by the circumstance of his birth. The impact of her death compounded every sorrowful regret he amassed since that horrible afternoon in the headmaster’s office. It wasn’t until years later that his world exploded for a second time.

Cole snapped his fingers a few inches from Sin’s face with impatient sarcasm. ‘Where are you? Are you listening?’

‘No.’ He smiled. Truth was truth and his friend wouldn’t be offended. ‘I was thinking about something else.’

‘When we met four years ago you told me you’d not rest until you located the three names on your list. With Ludlow having disappeared…’ he cleared his throat and smirked with the comment ‘…and Johns providing the local worms with a hearty meal, that leaves one last man to pursue. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’ Sin rubbed a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the strain. One floor down the tables were busy, the girls worked the customers and liquor flowed. Everything was as it should be; yet he couldn’t shake the tension holding his muscles tight. ‘I hired a man to investigate the matter. Pimms will be the hardest to locate considering he’s recently regained his freedom. Instead of providing a clean path to his location, Pimms’ release from prison enables the sneaky cur a wide variety of alliances.’ It was the most he’d shared with Cole whenever the rare conversation of his personal goals arose.

The conversation fell silent as the door to the office swung open.

‘Aah, two for the price of one.’ Lucius Reece, Luke to his friends, completed the ‘three of a kind’ propriety of Underworld. He was the missing bastard of the trio. ‘Anything interesting happen while I was gone?’

‘When did you return?’ Sin motioned to the brandy decanter on the table near the side wall. Peculiar how they shared equal ownership in the hell and each had a spacious office, yet Max’s seemed to be the place where they congregated most frequently. Either that or they more often came looking for him instead of the other way around. True, he’d been distracted of late. Finding two of the men he’d sought for years had a way of monopolizing one’s attention.

‘I rode into London a few hours ago, visited my apartments and then headed here. Is something wrong? The two of you look morose.’ He splashed a generous amount of liquor into two glasses and handed one to Sin. Cole didn’t drink and no one pried into the reason.

‘Not at all.’ Cole abandoned the cards and strode to the glass overseeing the floor below. One yank of the curtain pull and the men had a clear view of the tables; though were anyone to peer up at them, the gambling gents spending money and risking wagers would see a mural on the wall depicting blue-black caverns, hollow and empty, a distant golden moon, untouchable and out of reach now that one had entered the Underworld.

The window offered an irreplaceable advantage, which kept everyone honest, most especially patrons who strove to achieve the opposite. Cheats, punters, sharps, and pickpockets were easily monitored from above. If a swindler fell into his cups too deep, threatened a ruckus or handled one of the girls in an unacceptable manner, the action was noticed and remedied with fluid alacrity.

Tonight the hell hummed with energy, the promise of profit thick in the air, a tangible force that crawled across the carpet, inched up the gilt paper wallcoverings, invigorated by each outrageous wager at the tables, whether piquet, loo or faro. The discreetly lit interior thrummed with the forbidden temptation of fortune to be won or lost, a temptation most all high-flyers and skittle-sharps failed to resist.

Sin, Cole and Luke weren’t lords. They were bastards, but in this place, on their property, they ruled with more power and conviction than any dandy wagering coin on the felts. The situation suited and pleased on the shallowest echelon, allaying the itch of unresolved dispute that accompanied daily existence. Still they were intelligent men who battled demons on a personal level that no measure of wealth, success or acknowledgement could conciliate.

‘Any luck?’ Sin broke the quiet with his enquiry.

‘No. My stepbrother chose to hide his secrets well. I spoke to every mudlark and dredge man along the Thames, yielding not one bloody clue. Times are desperate when I beg information from a sweeping boy or doxy in Seven Dials and come away with little for my effort.’ Luke’s low growl echoed the pain the admission cost him. ‘But I’ll find my son. This I vow. Nathaniel deserves better than to be a pawn in my stepbrother’s deranged machinations.’

‘Rightly so.’ Sin eyed Cole beside him. ‘And you’ll have our assistance as needed.’

‘Thank you. At the moment, I’ve employed every device and opportunity possible, but I’m not so foolish as to turn away help if it leads me to my son.’ Luke shook his head slowly. ‘What could my stepbrother possibly stand to gain by taking Nathaniel? He might have hurt me in any number of ways, but this…this cuts the deepest.’

The three stood stoically at the window, perhaps contemplating their personal wounds and goals instead of their accumulation of wealth, which prospered and flourished with each roll of the dice under their feet.

Not wishing to waste one day in her efforts to reform Maxwell Sinclair, Vivienne dressed with renewed spirit. An ambient hum of excitement invigorated her senses at the thought of the new endeavour. Nothing else had achieved her interest since her mother’s passing. That alone proved it the right choice.

The house remained quiet, her stepfather and the servants the only other residents, but the fresh morning brought with it abundant sunshine, a rarity for London this time of year, and she embraced the warming rays as a good omen her intentions would be successful. With a slight nod Vivienne dismissed Ann, her young maid, and gathered her shawl and reticule, the calling card tucked safely inside.

She found her stepfather in the breakfast room. His demeanour appeared buoyed by the fresh day as well.

‘Good morning.’ She smiled and took a seat to his left. For many long months she’d taken a tray in her room, too broken to sit at the table and stare across at her mother’s empty chair, but of late she’d managed to accept the loss that scarred her life and plan for the future. Visiting Sophie and Crispin had underscored how much she needed to return to living within society. She was only twenty-three. Someday soon she would need to think about marriage. She flitted her eyes to her stepfather. He would be left alone when that day arrived and she would move on to build a life without him. The thought should sadden her, but for some peculiar reason the realization evoked something akin to relief.

‘Good morning. You look lovely.’ He motioned to the footman standing at attention near the sideboard. ‘Tea, James.’ He returned his gaze. ‘Would you like something special from the kitchen? I can have Cook prepare you anything you’d like. I’m so pleased to have company this morning.’

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’ She spread a thick layer of raspberry jam across a slice of bread, still warm to the touch. ‘Mother will be missed in my heart always but I cannot stay locked in my room for ever.’

‘Then it is time.’ He canted his head to the side and stared at her for what seemed an inordinate stretch—so long that her pulse began a race in her veins, the feeling most uncomfortable. Her chewing slowed in wait of what he might say.

‘Sometimes when you speak or when the sunlight slants through the window at an unexpected angle, I see such a strong resemblance, it is like your mother is still with us.’

Vivienne swallowed, though she needed to force the mouthful down. She took a long sip of tea. ‘But I am not Mother.’ Her soft-spoken statement seemed to jar him from whatever imaginings he’d entertained.

‘Of course not.’ He made a point of smiling in her direction before he folded and then refolded the napkin beside his plate. ‘Don’t listen to me, Vivienne. I am so pleased for your company at breakfast I should keep my mouth closed instead of conjuring maudlin thoughts.’

‘No.’ She would never wish for him to feel censured. ‘We may speak of whatever you’d like.’ She exhaled, feeling more comfortable than only a few minutes before.

‘How will you spend your day? Are you in need of the carriage?’ He too appeared more at ease and opened the newspaper where it lay in wait at the corner of the table.

Still the arrangement was awkward without her mother present. Mealtime usually centred on conversation shared between the two women. She’d never felt the need to inform her stepfather of her daily schedule as she usually accompanied her mother on calls or received friends in the drawing room. With a twinge of guilt she finished her bread with large bites and hurriedly explained how she intended to continue her mother’s efforts.

He nodded with approval though she’d spilled it all out rather quickly. ‘See, I am correct. You are more like your mother each day.’

Accepting his words as praise she excused herself and informed Henderson, their butler, she needed the carriage brought around. Nettlecombe was located on the opposite end of London from Mayfair. Situated on Weymouth Street in Bloomsbury, the multi-level house represented old England more than the stylish design of the Daventrys’ three-storey town house.

At times, Vivienne believed when she crossed Oxford Street and travelled beyond Grosvenor Square she entered an entirely different world; though collectively the population, whether it included orphans, lords, nabobs or cits, composed the heartbeat of London. Apparently she would need to adjust her categorical consideration to include gaming hell proprietors. The idea caused her mouth to twitch as if she kept a secret on her tongue and refused to let it out.

The ride to Drury Lane was lengthy no matter the hour was early. She would leave her carriage to wait in the shopping district of Wellington Street and discretely hail a hackney to take her the remaining distance to Mr Sinclair’s establishment. A current of excitement accompanied the solidification of her plan.

Wanting to pass the time in a more productive fashion she removed her journal from her reticule and with capricious attention focused on the list she’d composed earlier, but after a few minutes she abandoned the attempt. Not much later the carriage rolled to a stop. She spoke briefly to the driver and then set off to purchase fresh flowers. She’d asked Cook to prepare a goodwill basket, the servant accustomed to Vivienne’s charitable requests.

Now, with the basket looped over her arm and a small bouquet of daisies in the other hand, she walked to the corner and hailed a hackney to take her to number eleven Bond Street, St James Square. The wiry driver, unshaven and potent-smelling, cast a curious eye at the basket and flowers before accepting her money with a grimy smile. They set out at a discombobulating pace. Vivienne sat primly, legs pressed together, basket and flowers on her lap, for fear she might bounce out of the flimsy gig. A sense of relief paled her excitement when the conveyance finally pulled to the kerb. She exited without a glance over her shoulder and across the cobbles she went.

At first her mind whirled with the right words to say, the exact conversation to be had with Mr Sinclair, but as she crossed the street and approached the address a diffident qualm caused her steps to falter. She stopped near the kerb, safe on the pavement beside an umbrageous chestnut tree where she could muster her courage and consider the residential location lined with two-storey buildings in varying shades of brick and slate. Nothing about the conventional environment suggested a lively gaming hell thrived across the street. If indeed she’d arrived at the correct address, Mr Sinclair proved cleverer than she’d given credit, his gambling establishment essentially hidden in plain sight. Deep in admiration, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a male voice questioned her from the other side of the tree trunk.

‘Watching number eleven, are you?’

The stranger was dressed in brown from head to toe, as flat and dull as the tree bark where he’d all but blended in aside from the startling scar on his face. No one could mistake it, a jagged white line from his eye socket to his chin and just as unsettling as the jarring hackney ride. She wasn’t one to speak to strangers, already troubled by her recent pangs of ambiguity, and so she moved away, staring over her shoulder to ensure he did not follow her as she took the steps, dropped the brass knocker and prayed the door would open.

She darted a glance across the roadway but as far as she could tell the man was gone, dissolved into the ever-present murmur of city life. Drawing a deep breath, she dropped the knocker again, more solidified in her purpose and quick to regain the delightful anticipation of seeing Mr Sinclair again. His hypnotic stare was the exact balm needed to soothe her ruffled feathers. But no one answered. Disappointment caused her shoulders to sag and she placed the basket at the foot of the door, uncertain how to proceed.

‘Looking for Sin, are you?’ A lad, no more than ten years at most, approached the bottom stair, his hands busy with a pair of dice tossed into the air in a pretentious game of catch.

‘I am.’ She reclaimed the basket and descended the stoop. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

The boy straightened his posture, a half-smile tilting his cheeks. ‘For a shilling I do.’

‘Oh dear.’ She should have anticipated the ruffian entrepreneur would place a price on the information. Clearly she’d need to develop more savvy business acuity. She placed the basket at her feet and opened her reticule to extract the coin but she held it tight, unwilling to offer it forward. ‘That depends on the information you share, young man.’

‘You should call me Ace.’

‘I’d rather call you by your given name. I’d wager your mother chose your name with heartfelt consideration so I’ll use it and you’ll answer if you have any hope of receiving payment.’

Thwarted, the lad dropped his grin, clasped his dice in one fist and flipped a peek to the locked doors above them. ‘I’m Thomas and you’ve no chance of catching anyone here now. ’Tis morning and the hell’s been open all night. Sin is sleeping with some bawd by now.’

Unimpressed by the lad’s mimic of swagger far beyond his years and likely obtained from places he should never have frequented, Vivienne waited. He stared at the coin and then, in his first show of boyhood, eyed the basket with earnest longing as he laid one hand across his flat belly.

‘I have raspberry jam and fresh bread, sugar biscuits and sesame cakes if you spend a few minutes telling me what you know, but be warned I have no patience for bouncers or Banbury tales.’ She adopted a strident tone and watched him closely. Indeed, she might be better at this than she originally thought.

‘Aye. I understand.’

They settled in companionable silence, on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the entrance of the gaming hell before she removed the linen napkins and other contents of the basket in an unlikely picnic. She allowed the lad to dine first and when his appetite was satisfied, good heavens he was a bottomless pit, she cleaned up their mess while he regaled her with everything observed as he earned coin at the kerb watching expensive cattle.

‘And Sin won’t want flowers.’ He ended with a sharp nod towards the abandoned bouquet. ‘Men like us don’t like flummery.’ He said this with such disparagement she almost laughed outright.

‘Then what do you suggest, Thomas?’ She stood, ready to take her leave. A part of her felt disconsolate for she hadn’t met Mr Sinclair, yet another brighter part rejoiced to have fed Tom thoroughly.

‘He likes Miss Mirabel well enough.’ He looked her over with wide-eyed assessment. ‘I reckon he could like you too.’

More than a little appalled, Vivienne cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t imply…’ What did she mean by soliciting advice from a streetwise urchin? ‘Very well, Thomas. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this morning. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘I doubt it.’ He had the dice in the air again, his boyish expression replaced with a contrived expression of cynicism. ‘But you never know.’

Chapter Five

Sinclair unlocked the front door to the Underworld and bent to retrieve a wilted bouquet of daisies left on the top stairs. He tossed it over the side railing with a confused shake of his head. It was hours before opening, but restlessness forced him out of his rooms, across the Thames and here, his home away from home and the one place where he validated his worth. Recent inquiries into the whereabouts of the final man on his list led nowhere. One dead end after another frustrated the hell out of him. Perhaps when he finished the task he would resolve the unrelenting restlessness that plagued his existence.

‘Sin.’

He jerked his focus to the kerb where Ace flailed an arm in an attempt to gain his attention. The lad took the stairs two at time and stood beside him before he could think better of it.

‘Mr Sin.’ The lad huffed the two words with a nod.

‘I told you to call me Max, Ace.’ Twisting the key in the lock, he stepped into the hallway, allowing the boy to follow. Ace was an indulgent distraction. Much like women. Something, anything, to keep his mind from the ever-present insistence of his unfinished tasks.

‘Is that what she calls you?’ Ace followed gingerly, the tips of his shoes nearly clipping Sinclair’s heels.

‘Who?’ He stopped at the foot of the stairs and cast a glance downward. ‘Does who call me Max?’

‘The looker with the midnight hair.’ Ace’s anxious voice echoed as they climbed. ‘The one who brought you daisies.’

Having reached the top landing, Sinclair chuckled and placed a palm atop Ace’s head to steer him inside the office. ‘Have you eaten?’ At the lad’s vigorous nod, Sin continued. ‘Take a seat and explain what you’re blathering about.’

‘I know what I saw.’ With a practised glower Ace settled on the couch. ‘This morning she came.’ He nodded his head in the affirmative. ‘The prettiest lady I’ve ever seen. She brought you daisies and a basket full of food although we shared it until nothing was left.’

Interest piqued, Sin hooked his coat on the wall and settled behind his desk. ‘Go on. Describe the lady.’

‘Hair as dark as the night sky with green eyes so bright I thought I dreamed them.’ As if he caught the poetic reference, Ace re-established a sullen expression. ‘But she left when I told her you only come around at night.’ He paused and then said, ‘Paid me two bob, she did.’ He held up the shillings to prove his claim. ‘Fed me ’til I burst.’

‘Indeed.’ Sin knew exactly who’d visited but like most refined ladies, she didn’t realize his livelihood forced him into a nocturnal lifestyle. This also kept him far and away from the social schedule of the titled and entitled, a group he would never be part of and would rather not consider. Regret was a waste of time. ‘Fancy ladies such as she are not for men like us, Ace.’ He dismissed the subject, unwilling to think more on it. The few women who’d occupied his interest for more than a night had endeavoured to take him to heel on a very short leash. He’d had no other choice but to snap the leather.

‘She was very kind.’ The boy’s words sounded wistful. ‘And she smelled good.’

Sin had to stop himself from asking exactly how she’d smelled. Too many details would lead to no good. Thankfully they were interrupted as Ransom scratched the bottom of the door and gave a sharp bark, his signal for a call of nature.

‘Take him out, Ace. Earn your keep.’ He followed the command with a snap of his fingers and watched the two depart. Damn him if he knew why the lady would seek him out. When he’d handed her his calling card he would have bet every pound in his possession she’d discard it right after. Yet she’d come the next day, daisies in hand. Daisies? He laughed. What was she thinking? There was often no telling with gentry. Hadn’t his father’s fickle behaviour convinced him of that? Hadn’t the heinous series of events perpetuated by the earl’s wife proven to Sin the only loyalty to be found was within?

Better to be a self-made man than slave to a keeper. With that conclusion, he flipped open the ledger on his desk and set to work calculating profits.

It was hours after dinner when Vivienne paced the carpet in the sitting room of her bedchamber. Frustration and a fair share of disappointment kept her mind awhirl. Unwilling to lie in bed when sleep evaded her, she’d risen. Experiencing a sudden chill, she glanced to the hearth to see the fire ablaze, then snatched her wrapper from the foot of the bed, tying the silk sash with a deliberate tug.

Her efforts earlier had failed. How foolish to presume a morning call would garner results. Crispin was correct. She knew little about the operations of a gaming hell and that information equalled the knowledge she possessed pertaining to men.

With wry concession she realized Crispin might be of more help than she originally considered, although if she solicited his advice in earnest he would likely become as protective as during their first conversation. Perhaps if he realized how important the issue he would seek to please her. He often favoured her ideas whenever she visited or they found themselves sharing a social event. Crispin would fetch her refreshments or strike up conversation when no one else was about. He was a makeshift brother that way.

Her stomach growled more in objection than agreement. With a shake of her head, she decided to seek a bite to eat in the kitchen and lit a hand candle from the lantern beside her bed, though upon opening the door she startled and almost dropped the light. Her stepfather stood in the hall outside her rooms.

‘Oh.’ She managed to withdraw within a hair’s width of collision and collect herself. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. I thought to get a biscuit in the kitchen. Is everything all right?’ Concern laced her words. It was unusual for him to be here for no reason, both her mother and stepfather’s bedchambers at a distance down the corridor. He too was dressed as if preparing for rest.

‘Everything is well.’ He offered a placating smile. ‘I could not sleep for thinking of something I forgot to give you. I didn’t know if you were awake at this hour but I thought to see if a light shone from under the door.’

Curious, she waited, her mind sorting through an array of responses and finding none suitable. He took the candle from her grasp and motioned that they walk, so she did for lack of a better response, uncomfortable standing still.

‘I sorted through some of your mother’s belongings earlier today and found an ornate keepsake box. I didn’t know it was in her possession nor did I attempt to open it and view the contents. The locked box had no key with it. I thought perhaps you would know of its importance.’

He stopped before his bedchamber door and emotion, unbidden and tremulous, flooded her. The mention of her mother triggered a plethora of memories, but it wasn’t that which caused her disquiet. She possessed the key to the box safely kept. Mother had given it to her once the illness proved unstoppable. Until this moment, she’d forgotten the little key tucked away inside her jewellery case. Still, why couldn’t this discussion have waited until morning?

‘Would you like to come into my sitting room? I can show you what I found.’ He touched the door and slanted it open though she took a decided step backward.

‘Why don’t you bring it down to breakfast in the morning? I’m more fatigued than I originally believed.’ Her heart hammered with alarm. It was unseemly and improper for her to enter her stepfather’s bedchamber. Still he grieved as she and likely did not realize the impropriety of what he suggested, anxious to solve the riddle of this new discovery.

‘You’re no longer hungry?’ His brows lowered with concern. ‘I can summon a servant to make you a tray.’

‘No.’ Her answer clipped his final word. ‘I wouldn’t think to wake anyone at this hour. I’ll be fine until morning.’ She retrieved the candle as he offered it forward. ‘Goodnight then, stepfather.’ She almost jumped when he placed his hand on her forearm.

‘Goodnight, dear Vivienne. Sleep well.’ He turned and entered his bedchamber, the door closing with a loud click that echoed in her ears.

The faint rays of morning yawned across the sky as Sinclair waited. Exhausted from a hectic night, he rolled his head in search of relief from tense muscles and lack of sleep. With the same predictability that labelled the seasonal population flow within London, the hell had erupted in disturbance last night. Some quick-tongued sharper with too much blunt and not enough common sense accused a regular patron of cheating. Fisticuffs followed, those who’d over-imbibed or mourned the loss of their pocket readily joined the fray and it took Cole and Luke’s additional efforts to re-establish order.

Sin touched his brow where a broken bottle had left a deep gash. He was the only one of the three who came away with an injury, but then it was he who threw himself into the fight with fervour. Cole worked to remove instigators and onlookers, herding the working girls into another room and collecting all monies left on the felt. Luke climbed atop the vingt-et-un table and cocked a pistol. That quieted the room with alacrity.

Now, acting on the message he’d received with inconvenient timing, he waited for Wilson to appear, the paid informant unusually late. With a heavy sigh, Sin leaned against the brick wall. Fatigue demanded attention. Bloody hell he was tired. Tired of too many things. Of chasing revenge. And feeling too much and by result feeling too little. Tired of the restlessness that coursed through his veins in kind to the blood that provided life. Would he always feel this way? A bastard with no ties or family, no roots from which to grow?

A young boy skittered by in a familiar scene, the lad on his way to retrieve dailies to be sold on the corner for pennies, in hope of buying food. Sinclair had money. More money than he could ever spend, but except for a wolfhound and a few friends, what else could he claim? He grunted, somewhat amused, and recalled Ace’s description of yesterday’s visitor. Vivienne. How different her life must be. High-born, established in society and nurtured by a loving family. Able to give of her heart by working for the poor.

Why had she visited him?

And what did she want?

He inhaled, the fetid scent of the docks causing him to exhale just as quickly. In his peripheral vision someone approached through the shadows to his left. His fingers curled into a fist, sore from their use last night; but no, it was Wilson aligned near the wall, a casual pose that spoke of two friends admiring daybreak rather than an informant reporting his find.

‘Morning.’

‘Aye.’ The man shifted and flitted a glance to make eye contact before returning his attention to the horizon. ‘Pimms is on the run, anxious to leave London. I’ve got no leads on his whereabouts as of yet but the talk is he’ll settle low and hide in Cheapside for a spell. I’ll find him and be on watch. He’ll surface sooner than later.’

‘He may have heard of Ludlow’s demise or perhaps his own cagey conscience is too much to tolerate.’ Sinclair punctuated the statement with a foul curse. ‘I want you to find him, that’s all. Pimms is to pay a higher price than the other two.’

‘Worse than death?’ Wilson pushed from the wall, prepared to step away.

‘That I promise.’ Sinclair’s vow could not be mistaken.

‘Tell me everything.’ Sophie grasped Vivienne’s hands and with an anxious tug pulled her into the Daventry music room. ‘And do hurry before Crispin arrives and spoils our fun.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ She settled on the chaise beside the pianoforte and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I did visit the Underworld, but the door was locked tight, the building closed.’

‘Oh, how dreadful and disappointing.’ Sophie acknowledged the news with a frown, though her expression transformed before Vivienne could reply. ‘I took it upon myself to accept an invitation for us to Lady Chutterly’s dinner party. It promises to be delightful and with Crispin as escort it will be just like old times.’

‘That’s wonderful. Thank you. I hope Lady Chutterly will not think poorly that you’ve included me in your response.’ Any opportunity to escape the dreary loneliness of Nettlecombe seemed a good one.

‘She dare not. I’ve attended her daughter’s appalling violin recitals for three years in a row without a word of complaint. She owes me a great deal more than a friendly favour.’

‘Sophie, bite your tongue.’ Vivienne admired her friend’s frank truthfulness though at times her candour broke all rules of etiquette. ‘Will you forever say what’s on your mind without a thought first?’

‘To you, yes.’ Sophie gave an emphatic nod. ‘I’ve always believed honesty to be the best policy.’

‘Honesty is the most noble of all qualities and I do not lie.’ Crispin entered with a broad smile aimed at Sophie then proceeded directly to Vivienne where he sketched a bow and raised her ungloved hand to his mouth in august greeting.

‘To what do I owe such grandiose welcome?’ She reclaimed her hand and looked up as Crispin answered.

‘Vivienne…’ he paused as if by saying her name all was right in his world ‘…whenever you visit Daventry House it is a day deserving of celebration.’

Vivienne’s face heated and she touched her cheek as she eyed Sophie across the room. Her friend didn’t miss the notice.

‘Brother, you’re over the top.’ Sophie sent him a withering glare. ‘Your teasing and theatrics are best preserved for when some female catches your eye and you wish to steal her attention. Here your flirtatious nonsense is distracting, especially when we discuss items of importance.’

‘And what is the latest on dit? Lord Dander’s flaming defeat while playing Snapdragon last evening? Lady Thuglin’s inability to dance a quadrille without appearing a distressed chicken?’ His interest volleyed between the two ladies.

‘You’re incorrigible.’ Vivienne cupped her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle, but it proved to no avail. Laugher leaked out and Crispin’s grin widened.

‘Thank you. I accept your lovely compliment.’ He took a seat directly across from her in an overstuffed chair. ‘So what to do, ladies? I suggest we play Rhymes with Rose. The weather is dull and with our commitment to the Chutterlys later this evening, a relaxing afternoon would serve us well.’

‘I’m terrible at that game and you know it.’ Sophie sat beside Vivienne, seemingly in agreement with her brother’s suggestion of amusement despite voicing a complaint.

‘I shall endeavour to offer you the choicest lines, dear sister, and besides it is a silly game, meaningless, nothing more.’ He waved a hand as if he dismissed her objection.

Crispin may have been speaking to Sophie but Vivienne noticed how he watched her the entire time. She fidgeted under his scrutiny. ‘Then let’s begin.’ She’d start anything to break the intensity of his interest.

As he moved to the edge of the cushion he wore a thoughtful expression. Several ticks of the clock passed before he began. ‘I fell asleep last night in a heavenly doze.’

‘You were so tired you wore your evening clothes,’ Sophie added and turned to face Vivienne in wait of the next line of rhyme.

‘You relaxed on your bed in elegant repose.’

‘Well done.’ Crispin winked and she giggled despite herself. Sophie chastised them for the interruption.

‘I dreamed of a lady as pretty as a rose.’ He spoke the line with the solemnity of a poet reciting a sonnet.

‘With eyes the colour of pistachios.’ Sophie waggled a finger in Vivienne’s direction.

‘I don’t think this is how the game goes.’

Engrossed, Crispin embraced the idea. ‘And the loveliest darling upturned nose.’

‘Hair blacker than plumage on crows.’ Sophie’s grimaced with the awkward comparison.

Vivienne raised her palms in surrender. ‘There’s no stopping you now, I suppose.’

‘And in my dream, I wrote her prose.’

‘Promising dedication for all tomorrows.’ Sophie sighed.

‘Paying homage to the beauty of her fine elbows.’ Sophie let out a graceless snort and pushed gently on Vivienne’s shoulder with the line, but the jocularity of the ridiculous game was exactly why she enjoyed visiting Daventry House. How easily she forgot her concerns and became lost in jovial friendship.

When next Crispin spoke, his voice dropped low, his eyes clear as he pierced her with his gaze. ‘Wondering if his fondness truly shows.’

‘Debating the right time to disclose.’

‘Thankful for your friendship that I chose.’ Vivienne offered a gentle smile.

‘Deciding the right time to propose.’ His words were an indistinct murmur.

‘I can’t think of anything to say.’ Sophie stood in a flutter of skirts. ‘All the good rhymes are gone. Let’s play something else.’

‘If you will excuse me.’ Crispin didn’t speak again and left the room directly.

‘Sophie.’ Vivienne rose from the chaise and met Sophie near the window, their faces mirroring an expression of concern.

‘I know.’ Sophie’s shoulders fell in defeat. ‘But there’s no dissuading him.’

‘He’s wonderful.’ Vivienne took a restorative breath and asserted each word. ‘He is a wonderful brother.’

‘Do you think he could be more? I mean if you could just imagine.’ Emotion riddled Sophie’s words. ‘We would be sisters in truth. I’m so torn between protecting my dearest friend and encouraging my loyal brother.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, but I cannot command my heart to feel a certain way and expect results. If that were true so many things would be easier. I would have my life sorted and be happier by half.’ They still held hands and Vivienne gave Sophie’s a squeeze of comfort for of late she didn’t know what she was capable of feeling other than the emptiness left in her life by her mother’s death.

Sophie embraced her and then pulled back with a slight shrug. ‘I understand. I do.’

‘I know you do. We are sisters in every other way. Just don’t encourage Crispin, please. I fear the moment when it must be confronted. I would never wish to hurt his feelings.’ She whispered the words, afraid to evoke the reality by saying them aloud.

‘Do not worry.’ Sophie viewed her with sympathy in her eyes. ‘Crispin is the most valiant gentleman I know. He will accept the news when the time comes. He will do what’s right.’

Chapter Six

Dinner at the Chutterlys’ proved pleasant. As a small gathering it offered an ideal opportunity to reintroduce Vivienne to the brisk round of social functions sure to proceed as the season gained momentum. The three friends shared the carriage ride home, replete from a fine meal and congenial evening.

‘Crispin, what I mentioned earlier couldn’t be truer.’ Vivienne watched as he slitted his eyes, his head leaning against the opposite bolster. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘One look at you across the room and I knew you were up to no good,’ Sophie confirmed.

‘Me? I’m taken aback. I thought you’d appreciate an introduction to Lord Dander.’ He laid his palm across the breast of his coat. ‘It was well done of both of you not to mention his singed eyebrows.’

They shared another laugh and the carriage rolled to a stop shortly after.

‘Shall I accompany you, Vivienne? It’s late and I’m not comfortable with you travelling home alone.’ He flipped his pocket watch open and held it near the brass lantern fixed to the wall. ‘It is late. Half ten. Lord Huntley may be concerned. I should see you home.’

She heard Sophie’s sharp intake of breath though her friend provided no rescue. ‘No, thank you. My stepfather turns in early. Our house is rather quiet these days and I have the family carriage and an additional footman to ride with the driver. Besides, he scarcely knows when I come and go these days.’ She didn’t add that his disinterest was a blessing. ‘As usual you are very thoughtful.’ She smiled, an ache in her chest abloom. Someday her refusal would break Crispin’s heart. She didn’t want to be the cause of his pain.

‘Very well.’ He looked to Sophie who nodded her head in agreement. ‘I have enjoyed this evening, ladies.’ He disembarked and waited outside to hand them down.

‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ Vivienne whispered across the coach. There wasn’t time to say more, still her dearest friend understood without further explanation.

Vivienne travelled two blocks before she knocked on the ceiling and gave the driver an alternative direction. Under the guise that she intended to see a show on Drury Lane, she allowed the carriage to take her within walking distance of the Underworld. She pulled her wrap around her shoulders, tucked her chin, and fixed her eyes on her slippers as she moved briskly across the cobbles towards St James Square. A solitary lamplighter passed her with a nod while a few couples hurried on their way to unknown destinations, the streets somewhat isolated.

How foolish of her to take the risk. Despite the better neighbourhood, crime lurked in all corners of London and perhaps the affluent show goers offered temptation to thieves and pickpockets rather than a deterrent. A skitter of apprehension akin to reckless disquiet chided her decision to seek out the gaming hell. So much more than simple curiosity prompted the choice. She’d become buried in grief, lost beneath her solemnity and this, wildly throwing caution to the wind and daring to breach a forbidden world, caused her to feel vibrant and alive. Her pulse raced with the idea of it all.

She approached the building, quiet as it stood yesterday morning, but when she reached the stoop she sensed a current of energy emanating from the hell’s interior. It thrived with activity and her pulse kicked up in tempo, her heart quickening as she climbed the stairs. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she straightened her posture and dropped the knocker.

Nothing happened.

Again she tried—convinced behind the panel an entire other world lived, thrived, with Mr Sinclair at the centre, overseer of goings-on and sorely in need of reform. A woman’s laughter reached through the glass of the downstairs window but when she leaned to peer inside nothing could be seen for the thick velvet drapery pulled tight.

‘You can’t enter through the front, Miss V.’

Startled she turned to see Thomas at the foot of the stoop, a pair of dice tossed without care from one hand, his smile as broad as his shoulders.

‘I knew you would come back. I told him so.’

‘Told who, Thomas?’ She descended the steps to return to street level.

‘Shhh. You must call me Ace.’ He glanced left and right as if someone might hear his correction.

‘If no one will answer the front door, how will I get inside?’ She resisted the urge to push back the too-long hair covering his brow, aware the streetwise character he strove to portray would resent the endearing gesture.

‘Go round the side.’ He slanted his head towards the right. ‘This way.’

True to his word Thomas led her around the building and rapped on a tall wooden door, which opened on silent hinges within seconds. She followed him down a long narrow hallway towards another door painted black; though a glow of yellow-white candlelight illuminated its outline. Her heart hammered with an exhilarating combination of apprehension and anticipation. She need only take a few more steps and she would enter the hell, a place forbidden to women of her station. With a glance aside she whispered gratitude to Thomas, only to discover he was gone, the scamp having shown her the way and hied to street level.

She couldn’t go back. Not after reaching this point and besides, Mr Sinclair waited behind that door and she meant to reform him. By some stretch of the imagination she believed she’d make him a better man by ameliorating the error of his ways. Powered by this wild urge, unexplainable but incredibly strong, the cause propelled her feet forward, the need to see him as alive in her as the thrum of the pulse in her ears.

‘Dammit to hell.’ Sinclair looked over the sea of gentleman and lady-birds littering the lower level, his anger palpable. He’d received credible information as to Pimms’ whereabouts only to discover he’d wasted his time—and too much of his life chasing shadows all over London. But he couldn’t let go, wouldn’t abandon his vow. Once he found the final man responsible for his misery he’d claim a better existence. This lie served its purpose and eased his temper a notch.

Daisies? The unbidden remembrance drifted into mind with curious amusement. Why had she brought him daisies? He almost smiled. Vivienne was light in the darkness. Too bad her jade-green gaze didn’t figure into his collection of misaligned emotions. Lost in regret he settled his focus on Mirabel who warmed the lap of a faceless lord, a tall pile of chips on the felt before him. She did her job well, distracting the entitled who ignored their cards in preference to a lewd fondle, often effective in donating their superfluous wealth to the Underworld, his charity of choice. Tonight Mirabel looked tired or mayhap distracted, her painted lips and rouged cheeks a mask to the lost woman inside.

With mundane predictability he watched the lord slide his hand into her bodice, squeezing Mirabel’s breast without finesse. Her smile widened with pleasurable surprise, until her expression transformed into alarm or something worse, eyes narrowed in a venomous glare. He followed her line of vision across the room through cigar smoke and low lighting to where two gentlemen, one notorious for wasting his seed as carelessly as he wasted his money, left the piquet table in favour of a more tempting distraction.

‘Bloody hell.’

He bolted from his office and down the side stairs, Ransom barking a loud objection as he passed the dog in the dimly lit hall. Opening the hidden panel in the wall, he reached through, gripped Vivienne by the shoulder and dragged her backward with no explanation.

‘What are you doing here?’

He locked the panel before he carried, dragged, shuttled her up the stairs and into his office where he performed the same routine, door closed tight. Then he pinned her to the panel, furious at what might have happened, at his disordered emotions and maddening reaction to seeing her nearly accosted within these walls.

‘Christ, what are you thinking?’ He growled the words fully aware he overreacted but unable to stop.

Her eyes went wide, glittering with tears? Or challenge? There was no way to tell. With her skin flushed pink and hair pulled back in a wide bandeau, she looked as defiant and determined as a warrior.

She looked beautiful.

She was dressed in fine evening clothes, a gown of silk and satin, the perfect reminder she remained out of reach, despite his blood heating at the sight of her. He stepped away exhaling a breath to expend a measure of fury. Desire pulsed, his muscles hard, most especially the one in his trousers. What the hell was wrong with him? He threaded his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face where it fell in his rush to reach her. He drew another breath. He wouldn’t invite forbidden temptation in his life. This was madness.

‘Why are you here?’ He said each word slowly, the deliberate question bringing him a sense of order.

‘I wanted to find you.’

Her statement almost sounded a question. Did his reaction frighten her? The honest confession lit a flame of curiosity. He was accustomed to beating information out of thugs and snitches whenever he needed an answer. His eyes roved over her person. Long silken tresses reached her waist, a tiny waist at that, but not without the lush curves of a full-grown woman. She breathed deep, the motion giving rise to the swell of her breasts, smooth and pale where they tested the neckline of her fancy gown. His eyes refused to move on, memorizing every detail, the soft promise of delicate skin, how her pulse jumped at the hollow of her neck. At one time she’d been covered with a shawl, but now it circled her throat, thrust back when he’d hauled her through the panel. The wrap framed her cleavage. His blood ran white-hot.

She didn’t move when he stepped closer. His expression smoothed with the passing minute.

‘But why?’ He stood so close he could smell her and dammit to hell, Ace spoke the truth. She smelled divine. Some mixture of exotic florals that reminded him of a garden on the verge of bloom, the transient existence of innocence and ignorance before the world ruined and destroyed them. He breathed her in, a temporary potion and enchanted elixir, and his cock grew harder still. Somehow the scent tempted him on the most carnal level. ‘You placed yourself in danger.’ He leaned a little closer, drawn by an invisible thread, his voice a husky rasp. ‘Why?’

‘You said if I ever needed anything…’

Her eyes darted to his mouth. Did she fear he would pelt her with recrimination?

The thread of curiosity wound him closer still and he braced a hand against the door where she remained, back flat on the panel, his hand in kind, a few strands of black silk caught under his palm. His lips hovered over hers, that little cupid mouth, pink lips, heart-shaped face, wide beguiling green eyes. His heart pounded in his chest as if it demanded to be let free.

‘What is it you need, Vivienne?’

It was the first time he’d said her name, the syllables molten velvet, a caress disguised by letters and sounds. She swallowed, aware the slightest movement would close the infinitesimal distance between their mouths, his full lips near enough to feel every breath, sense the smallest sway.

‘I didn’t mean to anger you, Sin.’ She tried his name on her tongue, liking the sound of it, and a lick of excitement fuelled her courage. Control. This was power and control. Still he didn’t move away and a frisson of tension danced between them, the hum of unspoken words and forbidden suggestion.

‘Don’t call me that.’ He shook his head and his nose almost brushed hers.

‘Shall I call you Max then?’ A flicker of emotion lit his eyes. He blinked twice, long dark lashes framed eyes blacker than ink. A nerve ticked at the corner of his temple and for the first time she noticed the cut that sliced above his brow.

‘You’ve been hurt.’ Dismay caused her words to come out hushed. She snaked her hand between their bodies, careful not to touch though the urge was strong, and smoothed her fingers over the wound. He bristled but didn’t pull away. ‘What dreadful man did this to you?’

Her question must have amused. His mouth curled in a sly half-smile. ‘Why the daisies?’

Flustered by his change of subject and avoidance of the question, she inhaled a sharp breath and regretted the action. Warmth flooded her core. He smelled of brandy and leather and some woodsy cologne that spoke to the absolute virility of the man. He leaned over her, caged on one side by his muscular arm. Could he sense her fluster? Perspiration dotted her skin. ‘Flowers are pleasant.’ So was this. Dear heavens, so was this. Her heart exploded in applause to that conclusion.

‘I’ve indulged in many pleasurable things, yet never flowers.’ His gravelly tenor caused her pulse to leap.

‘All the more reason you should have them.’ Were she to move the tiniest space her mouth would touch his.

‘Do you bring bouquets to people all over London?’

He toyed with her now, but she truly didn’t mind. Inside her body, sensations bounced against her ribs as if they played a harmony.

‘Only those in need of reform.’ Had she said the words aloud?

His bark of laugher jarred her, but it was glorious, to be so close to his potent masculinity and see the sparkle of amusement in his obsidian eyes.

‘I can’t be reformed.’ He adopted a sympathetic tone as if he apologized and at the same time mourned the truth of his words.

He touched a lock of her hair with his free hand, winding the length around his finger and stroking it against her cheek. It was a terribly intimate gesture and her whole body revelled in that one velvet caress.

‘That’s not true.’ Her brows furrowed in dispute. ‘Of course—’

‘I’m a bastard.’

His eyes searched her face but she shared no reaction and when he saw none he leaned that much closer. She inhaled, wanting his scent inside her.

‘I’m a bastard and nothing can change the circumstance of my birth. I’m formed this way. There’ll be no reforming.’

The tension in his words was near overwhelming, the admission rife with too many emotions to label, yet no matter how he fought against it she could never allow him to believe it true.

‘I think—’

He captured her mouth in a demanding kiss that brought them against the door with its force. Good thing too. She melted beneath him, her legs of no use for support, her hands grasping the collar of his coat in desperate preservation.

He angled his head, fitting his mouth to hers in perfect position while his hand sunk into her hair, his fingers scraping across her scalp with tingling possession.

Dear Lord she must be dying. Leaving the earth and transcending to some other level of feeling, every cell of her body alive and drenched in invigorating sensation. His lips were strong, hot, powerful against hers and she arched into his body, opened her mouth to him and dropped her head back to rest against the curtain with a gasp of pleasure.

He took advantage.

He slid his tongue into her mouth, the first touch a mixture of liquid heat and wicked sin. She uncurled her fingers flat against his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his breath a reminder he was as affected as she. Somewhere in her dissolving better sense, a voice reminded she should fight against the liberties he sought, but whoever committed those rules of etiquette to feminine moral conduct had never been kissed by Maxwell Sinclair, bastard proprietor of London’s Underworld. How could she resist?

She was no fool, not so lost in the moment to neglect consuming passion. Drawing on scarce knowledge and innate instinct she rubbed her tongue against his and he groaned into her, the reaction an exhilarating rush of power. She relaxed in his arms, a pulse of rare courage and heady control coursing through her veins.

He changed too. Sometime during their kiss his posture eased, his tight hold turned into tender embrace and when he stepped back, he took her with him until he sat on the corner of his desk, his legs spread in a vee with her deposited between them.

Still the kiss continued. His hands framed her face to lock her to him. His teeth nipped, tongue rubbed and teased, all to lure her against his body, her breath high and fast, her weak legs threatening mutiny. A wave of light-headedness caused her to sway.

At last he pulled back and she used his shoulders for support, her hands set firm atop solid muscle.

‘Vivi.’ He spoke the word with aching tenderness and exhaled deeply. For a brief moment when she looked into his eyes she saw a different man.

Then it was gone. He straightened his posture and pulled in another long breath as if he braced for something. She watched with dubious concern.

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