Chapter 3

Eleven Months Later

Lori was perched atop a stack of packing crates outside The King’s Purse, peeking in a second-floor window when something small and hard slammed into her back.

“ Aaarrgh !” Her startled shriek was joined by an ear-splitting mreeeeooooooow as sharp claws embedded themselves into her shoulders.

She scrabbled at the windowsill for purchase, but her thick leather gloves skittered uselessly across the rough windowsill. Time seemed to stand still as the precarious pillar of pallets swayed from side to side.

And then the claws in her back scaled up her neck and Lori screamed again and thrashed her arms, trying to dislodge her tormentor.

Down the tower went, both Lori and her squirming passenger screeching the entire way to the ground.

The journey was short, but still long enough for Lori to be grateful that she’d had the foresight to empty several crates’ worth of softwood shavings at the base of her platform. But even with that to break her fall, Lori hit the cobbles hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

The cat suffered no such loss of wind thanks to having Lori’s body as a cushion. It screeched loudly in her ear, used her back as a mounting block to push off, and disappeared into the moonless night with a final feline yowl.

Panic seized her when she couldn’t breathe, but without any air in her lungs, Lori was at least spared the mortification of howling like the cat.

It felt like a lifetime but was probably less than a minute before she could finally inhale. The first thing she did after drawing a thin stream of air into her starved lungs was make sure she could still move her arms and legs.

Her legs felt undamaged, but a sharp pain shot from her right wrist when she tried to rotate it. It didn’t hurt enough to be broken, but it was a painful sprain. Lori grimaced. Wonderful; she needed her right hand to write.

Not if you don’t get this story.

That was true.

Something fluttered far above her and Lori squinted. “Oh, bother!” she hissed when she recognized her cloak; somehow it had become snagged on the brickwork just beneath the window.

It wasn’t just her cloak that was lost; her money was in the hidden pocket of the heavy wool garment.

“Drat, drat, drat,” she muttered. If this wasn’t the most humiliating night of her life, it was certainly close.

Lori tried to look for a silver lining in the situation. At least she was alone and nobody except the cat had witnes—

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” a deep, cultured voice demanded from the darkness.

Lori uttered a shriek and scrambled to stand. An ominous riiiiip accompanied her hasty movement and cool night air whispered along bare skin that should not have felt it. She hastily pulled up her torn bodice and held it closed while she pushed up onto her knees.

Or at least she tried to do so, but her skirt held her back, evidently snagged on something.

Lovely. Just lovely.

“Is this tattered look the new fashion for ladies in London?” the same male voice as before asked. “I would have returned to England decades earlier if I had but known.”

Male laughter filled the air and three—no, four—men materialized from the gloom. One of the men was huge —even bigger than Lord Severn—and all four of them loomed over her.

“Very droll,” she retorted, pleased when her voice didn’t shake. At least not much. “I don’t suppose one of you gentlemen would help me up?”

“Allow me.” The owner of the voice came closer. Lori recognized him as one of the men she had seen with Lord Severn in the past. He was garbed in far nicer clothing than his three cohorts—snug buckskins, a neatly tied cravat, and a well-fitted clawhammer coat—and wouldn’t have been out of place riding in Hyde Park. He smirked down at her, his sharp featured face devilish in the low light, and held out a hand. “Up you get, miss.”

Lori reluctantly set her hand in his, and then yelped as a piece of rough, splintered lumber scraped across her bare bottom when she began to stand.

“ Do stop yanking on my arm,” she demanded, rather unfairly as the man hadn’t been pulling at all.

He immediately released her. “Sorry, love,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. Certainly not looking sorry.

“My skirt is still caught on something,” she said, pulling on the fabric, which stubbornly refused to budge. “I need help to get it loose,” she added, when the obtuse fool refused to see that she only had one hand available as the other was needed to hold her torn bodice closed.

“By all means use both hands. You needn’t bother yourself about modesty. It’s nothing we’ve not seen before.”

“I beg to differ, you—you cad. I am very much something you’ve never seen before.”

The men hooted, causing Lori to feel as if she had her very own Greek chorus.

“That’s enough, lads,” the leader chided smilingly. He gestured to the mountain of a man. “Help the lady, Barker.”

“Aye, Mr. Gregg.” The huge man’s low voice seemed to vibrate the very cobbles.

Lori’s eyes narrowed; ah, so that’s who this man was: Piers Amory Gregg, Lord Severn’s former first mate. She had seen his name in the newspaper whenever their ship, the Vixen , had seized other vessels.

Barker strode behind her, tossed the broken pile of lumber aside as if it were tissue paper, and then jerked on the gray wool.

Lori briefly squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of fabric tearing. “You oaf! If I had wished to rend it to shreds then I could have done it myself.” Cool air on her bottom told her the rip was substantial. She scowled up at the giant while trying to hold both her bodice and her skirt in place.

Gregg chuckled. “She’s got the wind up her sails, Barker. You’d best carry her.”

Before she could open her mouth to object to both his vulgar assessment and his order, the giant bent low and scooped her up, holding her cradled in arms that felt as huge and hard as the thick wooden piers that secured the docks.

“Put me down immediately!” she ordered, squirming and twisting.

Barker shifted slightly to get a better grip.

Lori slapped away the big paw that brushed against her bosom. “Watch where you put your hand!”

“Sorry, miss.”

“Barker, are you getting fresh with the lady?”

“No, Mr. Gregg.”

Gregg came close enough for her to see the details of his face. He was lean and tall and reminded her of a knife with his aquiline nose, well-defined chin, and angular cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were heavy lidded and coffee brown, a shade that should have been warm but instead glittered coldly. The combination of brown eyes and ash blond hair was quite rare and striking. She would have thought him attractive if not for the annoying smirk twisting his thin lips.

He was close enough that she could smell a hint of bay rum and see the prickles of his ashy blond night beard. “I take it you wanted to see his lordship?” he asked.

“I don’t know who you mean,” she said.

The other three found her attempt at innocence laughable.

Gregg’s teeth briefly flashed in the dim light. “You didn’t need to risk life and limb to see Lord Severn, did she, lads?”

A chorus of no’s answered him.

“You could have just walked right up to the front door and knocked,” Gregg said.

“It is a brothel and I am a female . I could scarcely just stride right in.”

Another smile slid across his sharp face, this one slow and wicked. “Women are allowed inside.”

“Not as customers,” she retorted, refusing to allow him to cow her into submission just because the subject was salacious.

Her answer made all the men roar with laughter.

Lori glared from Gregg to the sniggering men behind him. She shifted in the giant’s arms, sitting up straighter. “I fail to see what is so amusing. No decent woman would step foot in such a place.”

“Now, now, miss, I wouldn’t be so cocksure about that if I were you.”

She felt a prickle of interest at Gregg’s words. “What are you saying?”

He just chuckled and shook his head. “His lordship spent time in America and some of those egalitarian notions they have over there rubbed off on him.”

Lori’s face flamed. Was he saying that Lord Severn’s brothel serviced women?

Surely not.

She had spent a great deal of time lurking in the less savory parts of London but had never heard of such a thing.

As much as she wanted to say something to wipe the superior smirk from his face, Lori knew that he was far more knowledgeable when it came to licentiousness than she could even imagine. Discretion truly was the better part of valor in such a situation, so she kept her mouth shut.

He clucked his tongue as his disconcertingly dark eyes wandered over her face and body. “A lady like you shouldn’t be out here at this time of night. Let’s get you inside.”

“If you really wanted to be of help you would go up there and fetch my cloak.”

All the men turned to look at the window. The cloak rippled lazily—almost mockingly—in the sluggish, malodorous breeze off the Thames.

“Any of you gents want to climb up to his lordship’s window?”

The men glanced at each other in silent communication.

“Naw, Guv,” one finally said.

Gregg shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head at her. “Sorry, love, it looks like that offer has no takers. Now, quit squirming and allow Mr. Barker to carry you. It’s for the best,” he added, gesturing for Barker to proceed before Lori could argue.

Gregg strode along beside them. “Why have you developed such an obsession with Lord Severn? Didn’t that fracas last year about the child slavery ring teach you anything?”

Lori would have scowled at the slyly mocking man, but she was already scowling. “I do not have an obsession with him.”

Gregg ignored her heated words and said, “I daresay you might have got away with your creeping and spying tonight it if not for Mr. Pouncefoot-Jones.”

Lori frowned. “Mr. Pouncefoot-Jones?”

Gregg pointed to the sleek black cat trotting alongside them, just as if it were part of their group.

Lori narrowed her eyes at the beast. “ You ,” she hissed.

The big tomcat cut her a haughty look—as if she had knocked him off his perch instead of the other way round—and then glanced away, evidently deciding that Lori wasn’t interesting enough.

“Lord Severn would have invited you inside if you’d just asked nicely,” Mr. Gregg said. “You didn’t need to scale the building and risk life and limb.”

She forced a sweet smile. “If that is the case then why don’t you instruct your giant to put me down, loan me your coat, and I shall go knock on the front door as you suggested?”

The men chuckled.

“I believe we’ll escort you right to his lordship’s door, Miss Fontenot,” Gregg demurred. “I must say it is a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face after all this time.” When Lori didn’t return the compliment, he said, “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time now.”

“What do you mean keeping an eye ?”

“I will leave his lordship to explain that, miss.” He flashed her a grin that showed altogether too many teeth. “He’s almost as vexed with you as Old Joe is.”

“Who on earth is Old Joe?”

“The rag and bone man who usually works this alleyway. He considers the rubbish bin outside The King’s Purse to be his property. He said you’ve been riffling the bin and stealing all the choicest bits for days, now.”

“I have not stolen the choicest bits. I have not stolen any bits.” But not for lack of trying; she’d simply not found any papers worth taking.

“Is that how you find information for your stories? In a rubbish bin?” He chuckled.

Lori ignored him and seethed in silence.

“I’ve enjoyed reading your stories—you’ve got an awe-inspiring imagination. But his lordship”—Gregg broke off and clucked his tongue. “Well…”

“What about his lordship?” Lori asked before she could stop herself.

Gregg stopped in front of an inconspicuous door on the back side of the brothel and slid a key into the lock. Once the door was open, he motioned for Barker to go ahead of him.

“What about his lordship?” Lori repeated, twisting in Barker’s arms to stare over the big man’s shoulder at Gregg.

“I’m afraid Severn doesn’t have my well-developed sense of humor—especially not since he’s been the subject of your prying.” Gregg’s voice floated up behind her as they ascended stairs so narrow and utilitarian that they must be used by servants.

“Prying?” Lori’s attempt at sounding innocent failed miserably. “Er, if you mean me digging in his rubbish, I assure you that I found nothing. What else could he be angry about?”

Gregg stopped on the landing and unlocked yet another door. His chuckle echoed eerily in the gloomy stairwell. “You’ll find out soon enough what he’s angry about, Miss Fontenot.”