Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

August 26 th , 1818

The cellar-room Molly had been confined to with seven other children was cramped and cold. The space was devoid of furniture, with only the packed dirt floor on which to sit. Back pressed against the uneven stone wall, she tried to be brave and to push back the tears that threatened.

If only she hadn't believed the man who'd promised to show her a puppy and give her some sweetmeat. If only she hadn't gone with him, she'd be at home with Mama and Papa. Safe and warm. Protected.

Her vision blurred despite her best efforts and her lower lip started to quiver. Seeking comfort in knowing she wasn't alone, she looked at the other children. All were scruffier than she, their vacant expressions offering no assurance.

Instead, they seemed to warn her of what lay ahead.

Her heart beat faster, tripping over as it tried to keep up with each panicked breath. A hand caught hers, fingers curling in a firm hold that pulled her back to stability.

"Easy does it," a low voice murmured.

She turned her head and stared into the brown eyes of the boy who sat at her side. Charlie was his name. Taller than the rest of the children, she reckoned he had to be ten years old at the very least. Besides this, the first thing she'd noticed about him had been his hair. It was so mangy he reminded her of one of the street dogs that often came begging for scraps at Papa's butcher shop.

"What do those awful men want with us?" she asked, her voice a thin breath of air.

"I've no idea," he whispered back. Something in his tone told her that wasn't completely true, that he sensed what lay ahead and that it would not be pleasant. But then he added, "Wha'ever it is, I promise to do wha' I can to protect you."

Molly's eyes stung with the fresh onslaught of tears. "I just want to go home."

"You're lucky you have a home," Charlie said as he drew her against his side. "That means you've go' a mama and papa who'll be worried for you. Who'll be searchin' for you."

She nodded against his chest, her tears spilling onto his grey jacket and dampening the fabric. He'd told her that he and the rest of the children were either orphans or runaways who lived in the slums. They'd worked for a man who'd given them shelter and food in exchange for the stolen goods they brought him. A man who'd provided protection until he'd been killed, making them easy game.

Unlike her, no one would know they'd been taken. In that regard, she was fortunate.

"All is not lost then," Charlie murmured, the warmth from his body soothing the damp chill gripping her spine. "There's hope of you being found, Molly."

He squeezed her hand and added nothing further, but she took comfort in his words even as her gaze sweep the room. The rest of the captives remained quiet, their eyes blank, as though they'd sought internal refuge. Not one of them met her gaze or gave any hint they remained focused on their surroundings. Until a sound broke the silence – the squeaking of hinges followed by footsteps – the sound of someone descending the stairs.

Apprehension swept the room. All eyes shifted toward the locked door, the jangle of keys standing out sharply as everyone sucked in a breath. Charlie's fingers tightened around Molly's hand.

A key was shoved into the lock, metal grating as it was forced open. One of the men who'd initially brought Molly down here appeared. Tall, broad-shouldered, and beefy, he looked like he could snap a child's arm as though it were no more than a twig. His features were harsh, dominated by mean eyes set beneath flat brows, a crooked nose, and an ever-present sneer.

He was accompanied by a thinner man. The kind who would likely slit a man's throat while laughing. He strode forward and dropped to a crouch directly in front of Molly. A slow smile curled his lips but there was nothing kind or pleasant to be found there.

Unsettled by it, she pressed herself closer to Charlie's side. The man chuckled, low and with disturbing promise of what was to come, before sliding his knuckles along the edge of her jaw. A damp chill slithered over her skin, and she felt Charlie stiffen as if he too could feel the man's unpleasant touch.

"Do ye know what ye are?" asked the man as he leaned in closer. Molly shook her head, her golden curls brushing her cheeks. "Ye, my dearest, are our most prized possession. The money ye alone is goin' to fetch will keep us in business fer years to come. Which is why I give ye my word, ye'll not be harmed." His gaze flickered toward Molly's hand, still clutched in Charlie's. "But I make no promises for yer friend. If ye misbehave in any way, he will receive the punishment ye deserve twice over. Understood?"

Molly swallowed and gave a quick nod. The man pursed his lips, then snatched up a loose curl between his fingers, proceeded to study it for a moment. A flash of silver made her aware of the knife he'd unsheathed, the movement that followed so swift she barely registered what had occurred until it was done.

"Oi," the larger man chided. "Ye're not to damage the goods."

Crouched, with his back toward his comrade, the slimmer man sheathed his blade. A blonde strand of tightly curled hair dangled between his fingers. "No one will notice," he said as he straightened, uncurling himself to his full height. "And ye know how I like my mementos."

A shudder rolled through Molly in a sickening wave that pushed her heart into her throat.

The other man snorted but said nothing more. Instead, he produced a pistol, and ordered the children to stand. "Remember, ye can be replaced, so I'll take no issue with shootin' ye dead if ye give us trouble. Or leavin' ye here to starve in yer own piss. So go on. Get movin'."

No one dared put up a fight or question where they were going. These men weren't working alone. Even if they escaped them, two others would be waiting at the top of the stairs. With no weapons at their disposal and their inferior size, there was no chance of winning against them.

Frightened of learning what would come next, Molly waited to see what Charlie would do. Without hesitation he pushed himself to his feet and helped her rise, then released her hand and presented his wrists to one of the men so they could be tied.

A nod encouraged Molly to do the same, the courage she found in Charlie's eyes helping her swallow the whimper that threatened when the rough twine chafed her skin. And then she was following him, up the stairs and into the hallway above. The house they were in was sparsely furnished and poorly kept with cracked plaster walls and peeling paint.

They passed a room on their way to the front of the house, the door standing slightly ajar allowing her to glimpse two chairs and part of a table. There was also a blackened fireplace and a window that looked to be stained by soot. The light that was fighting its way through the glass informed her it was daytime, though she had no sense of the hour until she stepped through the front door and squinted toward the sun. It's brightness instinctively told her it must be late afternoon.

Charlie had stopped his progress, his gaze sweeping across their surroundings as though he were searching for clues that might help him work out their location. Molly saw nothing distinctive besides the hills that hampered her view.

"That's enough gawkin'." A palm connected with Charlie's temple, the impact twisting his head to the left. It was followed by a hard shove that sent him stumbling toward the first of two awaiting carriages. "Get in."

Anger pulsed through Molly in hot feverish waves. She wanted to kick the horrid man who'd hurt her friend, but a stern backward glance from Charlie stayed her. Don't , he seemed to say. You'll just make it worse.

So she watched in silence as he set his foot on the carriage step and climbed in. Pretended not to care when she was led toward the other carriage. Separated from him, she sought solace in what he'd said about her parents, in the hope he'd provided.

Even as she worried they wouldn't know where to start looking for her. Which meant help wasn't coming any time soon. If at all.

Chief Constable Peter Kendrick was in the process of leaving his office at Bow Street when Billings, one of the few Runners on duty this early, stopped him on the way out. "Sir, there's a man who says his six-year-old daughter's gone missing. I was hoping you might be able to spare a moment and speak with him."

Glancing past Billings, Peter spied a large man who sat, hunched over in a chair, distorting the hat he gripped between his hands. Deep grooves puckered his brow. His mouth was a stiff line that matched the concern in his eyes.

Peter sighed. He'd been awake for almost thirty hours by now, having spent the entire night interviewing Croft and writing his report. Going home to squeeze in a couple of hours of sleep had made no sense. Instead, he'd waited for an appropriate hour to arrive so he could head over to Orendel House and provide the earl with new details pertaining to his daughter's murder.

That would have to wait another five minutes. Until he'd made sure the distraught father who'd come here seeking help was being assisted. That the proper procedure would be applied and his daughter located.

"Come with me," Peter told Billings and crossed to where the man sat. He paused before him, waited while he slowly straightened and finally raised his chin to meet Peter's gaze. The agony there was overwhelming. "Good morning, Mr…? "

"Atkins," the man rasped. He pushed himself upward as though with great effort.

"I'm Chief Constable Kendrick." Peter gestured to the Runner who stood by his side. "Billings here tells me your daughter is missing."

Mr. Atkins nodded. "She was playing in front of my butcher shop yesterday afternoon. When my wife went to tell her to get herself ready for supper, she'd disappeared. Vanished into thin air. I… I searched the nearby streets and asked everyone I happened upon if they'd seen her. Nothing. Didn't know what else to do besides come here."

"You made the right decision," Peter told him, even as dread for the girl poured through him. At only six years old, she'd be in danger of any number of things. Even if she'd only wandered off on her own. "Billings will take your statement. We'll proceed from there."

"Can't you do it?" Mr. Atkins's voice cracked.

"I'm afraid I have a few pressing matters to see to first. But don't worry. Billings is more than capable of completing this task." Peter turned to the Runner. "Get as many details as possible, then run the case by Sir Nigel."

"Very good, sir." Billings was already grabbing paper from a desk drawer.

Peter addressed Mr. Atkins once more. "Please know that we will do all we can to find your daughter. You have my word."

Relief washed over Mr. Atkins's face and as Peter took his leave, he hoped with all his might that he would live up to the promise he'd made him.

Stretched out on a Portman Square rooftop, Samantha Croft observed the activity taking place at Number 5 through her spyglass. It was nearing nine o'clock. Ten hours had passed since her husband's arrest, during which she'd not slept a wink.

Last night's events kept repeating in her head. The shocking sight that greeted her when she arrived at Miss Fontaine's lodgings – the shattered door and blood-splattered walls. Miss Fontaine and Mr. Benjamin Lawrence both dead. Adrian standing over the latter, a pistol in his hand. The look he'd sent her when Kendrick arrived on her heels.

She'd done what she could to prevent being followed when she'd gone to warn her husband about the plan to take him out. Kendrick letting that information slip had put her on guard, so she'd taken measures when she'd left home, just in case it was a ploy to figure out where her allegiance lay.

And yet the chief constable had managed to track her. Worse, he'd made it sound as though she'd deliberately helped him catch Adrian in the act of killing a man. The fact that Benjamin Lawrence was guilty of murder wouldn't matter. Especially since it was highly unlikely anyone would believe he'd been capable of the feat. Having spent several months pretending he'd lost the use of his legs.

Again, the betrayal she'd seen in Adrian's eyes speared her heart. Looking downtrodden and defeated, he'd not even tried explaining himself to Kendrick, but had chosen to go with him to Bow Street while she… She'd run, because that was the only way in which she could help her husband escape the fate that would find him at trial.

He'd killed a man – a marquess's son.

Death by hanging would be the sentence. To suppose anything less when most of the peerage wanted him gone would be foolish. All that was needed was an excuse, and Kendrick had found it. She'd bloody well handed it to him. An acknowledgement of fact that forced a series of curses from her lips.

For the hundredth time since fleeing through Miss Fontaine's window, she reconsidered every action she'd taken. Was there anything she could have done to gain a different result?

It was an exercise in futility. Nothing constructive would come from it. The only path now was forward. So she paid attention when the carriage she'd been expecting pulled up in front of the house, watched closely as a bulky man climbed out. He brought two other men with him – a pair of Runners, based on the bright red waistcoats they wore beneath dark blue coattails.

This was the chief magistrate, come to enact a search of the house, no doubt. He'd want the rest of the files Dorian Harlowe – the man who'd raised her and trained her to be a skilled agent for the Crown – had tasked her with acquiring. Compiled by the Crofts through multiple generations and filled with damning facts about members of Society, the files were primarily meant to provide them with leverage over others.

However, they also included information about the Croft family's dealings. Evidence that could be used against Adrian. Thankfully, she'd had the frame of mind to remove the most damning material yesterday. As soon as she'd realized the authorities were closing in. Before she'd gone to warn Adrian, unwittingly bringing Kendrick with her.

Palms pressed into the roof tiles, she watched Sir Nigel Clemens bang on the door with his fist, then held her breath, and released it when it was opened by Shaw.

Not the butler as one might expect, but Adrian's solicitor.

He and the chief magistrate exchanged a few words. Shaw retrieved a piece of paper. Additional words were spoken, then Shaw stepped back and the door was closed, denying the magistrate entry.

A smile pulled at Samantha's lips. So far so good. Croft House remained off limits. The servants still had a home and Adrian's private belongings would not be riffled through by strangers just yet. Phelps' funeral could also proceed as planned. Samantha's only regret that neither she nor Adrian were able to attend. Their loyal coachman deserved better after getting shot while attempting to drive them to safety, but her showing up posed too great a risk. She would without doubt be snatched up immediately.

She scooted backward, returned her spyglass to her jacket pocket, then leapt to her feet, and sprinted across the roof. Murry would help her strategize once she gave her report. And with the information he'd hopefully gathered, the options available to them would be made clearer.

The dependable valet and his men would provide the support she needed. They'd sworn to it last night when she'd rendezvoused with them in the woods just north of the City. The words they'd spoken in unison pulsed through her veins as she leapt toward the next building.

Upon our honor, we swear to serve the Crofts in the name of justice, to defend them with our lives, and to aid them by whatever means may be required.

The lighting was shit, Adrian decided, the comfort no better. Stretched out on the hard wooden bench his cell offered, he stared at the ceiling and focused on his breaths. It was the only way to stop from roaring with rage.

Trapped. He'd been hunted and caged like a beast. And who had aided his capture? His own damn wife.

God help him, he hoped she'd be there when they slipped the rope around his neck. Prayed he'd find her among the crowd for the simple pleasure of having her hear his last words. He'd use them to send her a message, tell her to pray. Because if she ever arrived in hell, he'd be there, waiting for her.

Rigid fingers curled into fists, nails digging against his palms while he gritted his teeth, the tension pulling his muscles taut. He reminded himself to relax, to let the anger burning inside him abate. A conscious effort accompanied by deep exhalation helped. Yet his heart continued to pound, like someone shouting the truth in his ears.

You're a fool. An embarrassment to your name. You let her deceive you. Not once, but twice. Whatever comes next, you deserve it.

Again, his hands fisted, but the anger now blooming inside him was not directed at her. This time it ran deeper, spreading roots through his past, through every decision he'd ever made, the choices that had guided his path and brought him here. Had his father still lived, he'd have called him a useless failure, and as much as Adrian hated the man, he would have been right in his assessment.

It was barely a year since he'd died and in that time, his son had managed to wreck an empire built by six generations. Nothing anyone told Adrian would ever be worse than the words he aimed at himself.

A snort of derision echoed against the cold walls. He'd tried to explain his actions last night because hell, why not? It wasn't as though he had anywhere better to be. So he'd taken his time with Kendrick, had offered him information leading back months, to the first account of Benjamin Lawrence's fall. The constable had scribbled away in his notebook, his pencil eagerly scratching across every page.

Disbelief had shown on his face several times and why wouldn't it? Had Adrian heard the tale from somebody else, he'd probably have dismissed it as absurd. But after figuring out what had happened and learning how driven Lawrence had been in his quest for vengeance, there was no disputing the man's devious nature.

It proved he'd not just been mentally ill, but brilliant in his patient plotting. Had it not been for the baser need that made him engage Miss Fontaine as his mistress, he'd probably have gotten away with it too. Instead, he'd sent a lead ball through her head without second thought, had planned on killing Adrian next in an act he would likely have claimed as self-defense.

Lawrence's overconfidence had been his downfall. He'd thought himself invincible and had not been aware of Adrian's blade until it had struck him. The choice to shoot him dead instead of just letting him slowly bleed out had forged a path from which there would be no escape.

Adrian considered that as he lay there, wondered if he might have acted differently had he known this was how it would all turn out. Maybe, but that didn't mean he was sorry for killing Lawrence. That bastard deserved what he got.

His only regret was how quick it had been.

A thought upon which he reflected until the sound of approaching footsteps distracted him. He glanced toward the barred door and the Runner who stopped on the opposite side, an older man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Do you need for the chamber pot to be emptied?" He jutted his chin toward the spot beneath the bench where the ceramic vessel was stored.

Adrian smirked. "What do you think? I've been here since last night. Can you hold your bladder that long?"

The Runner grimaced. "I'll have someone see to it while you meet with your visitor."

Interesting. Someone was here to see him?

Slowly, as though the notion bored him, he pushed himself upright. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Shaw. Claims to be your solicitor. For all the good it will do you." The Runner gave a low chuckle, only to school his features when Adrian snarled. A bit of fumbling produced a key and unlocked the door. "I'll need to tie your wrists together first. If you try to attack me or flee, you will be overpowered and beaten, your treatment here made worse. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly so." Adrian stood and placed both arms behind his back so the Runner could bind him however he wished.

"If it's up to me," the Runner murmured in Adrian's ear as he steered him from the cell moments later, "you'll be dead by tomorrow. Killed by your own hand, according to the report."

"You're mighty brave now that I've been restrained," Adrian said, "but I'm not at all sure that's what the report will say. Rather, I think it will question how a dead Runner wound up in my cell. For that is precisely what will occur if you try anything."

The man swallowed audibly then shoved Adrian through a doorway and into a small room where Shaw waited. Seated on one of two wooden chairs that faced each other across a plain table, Adrian's solicitor instantly stood in order to greet him.

He sent the Runner a stern look when the man remained where he was, one hand still gripping Adrian's arm. "You can go. What I have to say to my client does not concern you."

"It might be of interest to Kendrick," the Runner argued, his tone suggesting he meant to be difficult.

"Funny," Shaw muttered. "He did not seem the least bit inclined to fight my right to a confidential discussion with Croft when I passed him on the way in. But maybe you know his mind better. Shall we send for him so we can ask?"

"No. That…um…won't be necessary."

"Are you certain?" Shaw's green eyes were relentlessly sharp.

The Runner cleared his throat and released his tight hold on Adrian's arm. He stepped back. "Quite. I'll be back in ten minutes."

Shaw's gaze remained on the door until the Runner closed it, upon which he gave his full attention to Adrian. "We don't have much time, so let's not waste it. First things first, how are you faring?"

"Well enough, all things considered." Adrian sat and Shaw did the same. "News travels faster than I imagined. I didn't expect you to show up until much later."

"You're not wrong. I probably wouldn't have known what happened, were it not for the note that was brought to my house a few hours ago."

"A note?"

"Arrived at seven."

Shaw pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Adrian, who scanned the brief missive. Croft has been arrested by Kendrick. Murder charges will surely follow. Your help is required at once. Secure the house and protect your employer.

"I wrote up a legal document," Shaw informed him. "Managed to get a judge who owes me a favor to sign it. Presented it to the chief magistrate when he attempted to enter your home. He'll have to wait until you're found guilty now, which…"

Shaw's words faded into the background while Adrian stared at the elegant script adorning the paper before him. Even though there was no identifying signature, he knew the writing belonged to his wife. According to this, she had alerted Shaw – called upon him for assistance – and yet…

No. It couldn't be. Not after how she'd clearly betrayed him.

He shook his head, refused to let himself hope, because if he was wrong…

Lord help him, his heart would not survive it.

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