Chapter 1

Today, on this day, the twenty-fifth of June, in the year of our lord, 1838, Lady Isabelle Fairchild had married one Mister Rory Makem. Twenty years her senior, her new husband had little to recommend him personally or in any other regard.

Balding, missing teeth, mean as a snake, a man of questionable morals, and having made his money in tawdry affairs, he was the last man Isabelle had expected to sit next to at her wedding breakfast.

He hardly looked her way, instead taking a large slurp of his wine, the sparkling red her mother preferred and always kept stocked in the house. It was her husband's third, if she wasn't mistaken, which left Isabelle free to study him. Her mouth turned down in a decided frown. Try as she might to find something appealing in her new husband, there seemed nothing appealing about this man.

Her gaze shifted to her parents, the only other two people in the room drinking as heavily as the groom, her mother's glassy eyes and dazed smile evident as she raised her glass to toast the air again.

Her father slouched in his chair, his dark expression only growing darker with each sip he swallowed. Did he dislike this match? He couldn't hate it worse than Isabelle. Not that she'd protested the marriage. It was as necessary as breathing air.

A reminder that Makem did have one recommendable attribute. Money. Lots of it. And he'd paid her family handsomely for the privilege of marrying an earl's daughter.

She tried not to sigh as she looked at her two younger sisters. They needed dowries and a future that did not include whoremongering, gaming hell running, odious husbands. So she'd done her duty and married the lout next to her for their benefit and their benefit alone. But in her heart, Makem repulsed her.

On the rare occasion she'd found herself alone with him, he'd pawed at her body, her skin crawling as she'd tried to hold still to suffer his advances.

Still, she couldn't find it in her heart to really hate her parents. They were desperate, even if their problems were, at least in part, their own making. And her father understood Isabelle's nature. Practical and loyal, she'd always been the most likely to sacrifice herself for the good of the family. However, this sacrifice was pushing her to the edge of reason.

She gave her new husband a side glance…. Maybe he'd drink enough wine that he'd fall asleep before it was time for bed. She ought to offer him another glass.

He had almost no family at the breakfast, just a few men who were as troubling in appearance as her groom.

On her side, several of her family members had declined the invitation, not wanting the stench of a criminal tainting their good names by attending this farce of a marriage.

She'd actually heard her Aunt Mildred hiss those exact words to her mother. Tainting the family name…disgraceful…tawdry…

And while Isabelle's poor match would limit her sisters' opportunities, they'd make far better matches with dowries. Isabelle was certain of that.

Makem stood, swaying on his feet as he refilled his glass. "Sanks ye all for cooooming," he slurred, raising his glass. "Our families are gooooing to do…er…great sings."

Isabelle blinked and looked at her mother and father, her mother beaming back at Makem. And why not? She didn't have to share a bed with him. A life.

Her mother only needed to spend Makem's money—funds to replace the earldom's depleted resources.

Isabelle looked away from them, catching the eye of her younger sister, Kathryn. Her blue eyes, which mirrored Isabelle's, were set in a wince of sympathy.

Isabelle pulled her spine straighter. No need for Kathryn to worry on her behalf. At seventeen, Kathryn would be facing her own match soon and Isabelle could only hope her sacrifice had not been in vain.

Makem's hand clamped down hard on her upper arm, yanking her from her seat and her thoughts.

"My bride will suuurely wish say a few words about…about her benefact…bene…her husband."

Isabelle cleared her throat after catching her mother's wince. Was it the rough treatment of her eldest daughter or the lack of manners that made the countess uncomfortable? She found she had little sympathy for her mother's discomfort.

Drawing in a deep breath, she turned her gaze back to her new husband. "My entire family is very grateful?—"

He gave Isabelle a hard enough shake that her teeth rattled. Her father partially stood but her mother's hand stopped him, and he sat again, his features still black but his body still.

"I don't want to hear about them." He waved his hand toward her family, while still holding his glass, sloshing wine across the table and onto her mother's elaborately woven rug from the Orient. Her mother had spared no expense in the decoration of the house, which was another reason for their desperate need for money. "I want to hear it from you, wife." He leaned close, his foul breath blowing across her face and curling her nostrils. "Tell me how glad you are that we've wed."

Bile rose in her throat that she swallowed down as she gave a final glance toward her sisters. Kathryn and Anna were smaller versions of herself. Same brown hair, same blue eyes, and pale skin. "I'm very grateful."

"Good. We'll get along just fine." And then he let her go. She slipped back into her chair, ignoring the ache in her arm as panic threatened to overwhelm her. If this was how he treated her in front of her family, what did the rest of the night hold?

Her fears only worsened as they left an hour later, taking a carriage across town to her new residence. The one she'd never seen. And as the carriage ambled along the busy London streets, her groom fell asleep.

Glad as she was to avoid his company, she'd been hoping he'd sleep later…

They moved through the West End of London, further and further east as the neat hedges and polished stone of familiar streets gave way to sagging wood and dilapidated brick.

Where was Makem taking her? She didn't wish to wake him to ask. She knew he was wealthy at least. So why were they headed into the slums of London?

But when they pulled up to a three-story stone building in reasonable repair, she breathed a sigh of relief. The door to the carriage snapped open, her husband still snoring in the seat across from her.

"Ahem." The man, who stood just outside the door, loudly cleared his throat. His ruddy, pocked skin, and blurry eyes made him look as rough as Makem, and he gave her an assessing stare, his gaze lingering over Isabelle's petite frame. "You gonna wake him?"

"Me?" Isabelle pressed her hands together. She didn't exactly wish to enter the house herself but neither did she wish to be the person who woke Makem from his slumber. "I don't…"

"What?" Makem roared, sitting up suddenly, drool running over the deep line the carriage trim had left on his face. "What do ye want?"

She looked back at him, having no idea what he meant and for a moment she just stared.

And then, without any warning, his hand reared back and then came down hard on her cheek, pain exploding through her head as she crumpled sideways on her seat.

"Meant to warn you," the other man chuckled, as though her being hit was the most amusing thing he'd seen all day. "He doesn't like to be disturbed when he's asleep."

She reached a hand up to her aching cheek, tears springing to her eyes as she slowly collected herself and sat up. It was the throbbing pain that made her slow but also…fear and dread. How was she going to make it through this marriage?

No one helped her from the carriage, and she had to lift her fine wool skirts high up her calves to near her knees, to get down out of the vehicle.

When she made it to the ground, her husband's hand wrapped around her arm like a vise as he yanked her inside.

No servants waited for them.

Glancing into the parlor on the right, she saw several women, in various stages of undress lounging on settees.

Were they in a house of ill repute?

One woman caught Isabelle's eyes, her own filled with pity. Isabelle shook her head. How horrid was her husband that that woman was giving her pity?

"I've got business," Makem slurred, his foul breath washing over her face again. "I'll be upstairs later, and I expect ye to be ready."

She didn't answer, the worry of needing to be "ready" making her stomach churn. Would she ever be ready?

"Mabel," he barked at one of the women, "take her up."

One of the women rose, her chemise cut so low, that her ample bosom spilled from the gown.

"And show her what I want her to wear."

Sick dread pooled in her chest. She'd brought her trousseau, one of the night rails sheer enough to make her blush. Could the outfit he'd chosen be more revealing than that?

They climbed two flights and entered a large room with a four-post bed in the middle. Laid out on the bench at the end was a piece of thin cloth that could not be called clothing. It was so small and flimsy…

She gasped, stopping at the end of the bench to stare at the garment the size of a neckcloth. She picked it up, able to see clearly through it. Mabel cackled, showing blackened teeth. "Get used to it. Ye'll be seeing a lot of that sort of outfit around here."

Isabelle swallowed down a lump, reaching a shaking hand down to pick up the rail that would hardly reach her thighs. She was to be dressed as a whore on her wedding night. She was to live in a whorehouse.

Had her parents known any of this? Did they care? She set the garment back down with trembling fingers, wondering how this had become her life…

"When should I put it on?"

"After dinner. Before bed." Mabel turned toward the door but stopped to look back over her shoulder. "A bit of advice." Her smile was gone, her face serious as the plague. "Tonight, don't scream. He likes it if you do, so no matter how much it hurts, keep silent. It'll be better for you in the long term, if you know what I mean."

Isabelle did not know. She didn't know at all.

But there was little point asking. Tears sprang to her eyes.

She was about to find out.

* * *

Bode Armstrong stood outside the Wright House Whorehouse and grinned around his cheroot.

He was finally going to get his man…

Makem, the owner of this house, and several others, was about to fall. If Bode had his way, the fall would be long, painful, and hopefully end in death. Cold, he knew, but Makem deserved every malicious thought and many more. He wreaked havoc and destruction wherever he went.

Next to Bode stood his friend Lockton. "Are ye ready for this?" the Scot asked as he cracked his knuckles.

"I'm ready." He'd seen Makem enter earlier in the day, not a soul leaving since. Bode had men stationed at every entrance to make certain.

His goal…capture or kill Rory Makem. And if that failed…Bode intended to put a nice dent in Makem's businesses. Starting with this one.

It was fair, after all. Makem had been doing the same to Bode and his partners for months. And when he'd attacked Armstrong's business, a whorehouse, wounding two of Bode's girls, Makem had taken it too far.

Bode might be in the business of whores, but he took the safety and welfare of his girls seriously. And Makem had compromised that. The man was going to pay.

"We're not launching this attack a moment too soon," Lockton growled next to him. "Word is that Makem's made some move to make himself untouchable."

Men were always touchable. They were mortal. But taking down some men required more secrecy than others.

Bode's partners, the Smith brothers, had been under attack for months and the eldest Smith was a marquess. Makem had been robbing them and threatening their gaming hell clients with abandon. If he could do that to a marquess, then surely the marquess could hit back. That was Bode's job. To be the fist.

He looked at the ten men who had come to help him take down Makem. The man was about to get what he deserved.

The sun barely showed in the sky, the light growing dimmer and dimmer as his men, slowly, casually moved into position.

They'd been hiding in the deep shadows, in the alleys and behind buildings. But as light faded, they worked their way closer to the house to appear like clients loitering about until they were ready to attack.

Night fell, casting them into darkness, the house filling. Candles lit the windows as music and laughter filled the street.

Bode let out a single whistle, the signal to all who'd come with him that they were about to begin.

Throughout the alley and to the back of the house, the whistle chirped again and again, down a chain of twenty-five men.

He rolled his shoulders preparing for battle when a different call pierced the night. It was the sound of a lone dove. He cocked his head. Had a city bird just responded to their whistles? He shook his head. It didn't matter. He was here to finish a war.

The front door opened, and several men entered like they were prospective clients.

Bode drew in a sharp breath as he started up the stairs just behind them. He didn't plan to knock.

His entrance would be far more dramatic.

Checking both his pistols were properly loaded, he drew the short sword from his belt and then stepped back on his heel meeting the eyes of the guard at the door.