Chapter One

November 1832

Madame Toussaint's Modiste Shop

Bond Street, London

"I tell you true and honest, the Revivalists are primed to attack again."

Juliette sighed. Them again.

Couldn't the ladies discuss something else— anything else?

"Marianne, you ninny, how could you possibly know such things? Have you direct knowledge of their evil plans?" A haughty scoff came from the overstuffed bench along the near wall. "I think not. Not with the way you bury your nose in every novel that flits your way. You've a mind filled with fiction, you have. The Revivalists are no more likely to attack this night because you say so than I am to leap across the crest of the moon."

" That I would look up from my novel to witness if you could indeed achieve such a feat, sister dear."

"You are decidedly aggravating."

"Yet not wrong about the Revivalists," Marianne Martingale pointed out with a prim, satisfied smile. "They are set to pounce again at any moment, scattering all of us like mice away from a hungry stray cat."

Inwardly recoiling, Juliette flinched while she pinned and tucked her finest rose silk across the bust of Marianne, pretending to ignore the young ladies' unguarded chatter. The Revivalists. Mon Dieu , she hoped it was not true! Those murdering aristocrats had spent the better part of a year terrorizing London before a long, blessedly silent hiatus. After their massive attack on Seven Dials nearly three years ago, the group had gone quiet for a time, leading authorities and citizens alike to hope they had disbanded and quit—or, best of all, were dead.

The way they had made so many other people.

Mark her—even if it made her an awful person for thinking so, she had hoped it was the latter. It was no more than they deserved.

A chill suddenly swept down Juliette's spine, and she sucked in a breath, hand jerking in reflex.

"Ouch!" cried Marianne.

" Excusez-moi , I'm so sorry!" Juliette said in her lightly accented voice, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch the flash of pain rippling across Marianne's freckled countenance. "That was clumsy of me." As proprietress of the shop, she knew better than to stab a customer with a pin! It never boded well for repeat business.

Perhaps that was what she deserved for having such unkind thoughts.

Juliette continued her work, focusing on not stabbing her client. The rose silk, soft and luxurious, draped elegantly over Marianne's form, her discomfort momentarily forgotten amidst the whispers of danger and intrigue as the young debutante listened eagerly to the gossip around her.

"Primed to attack again, you say? The Revivalists?" queried Lady Eugenia Hartfield, a statuesque woman wearing a gown of azure satin, its voluminous skirts swishing with every indignant turn she made. "This city has become a hotbed of sensationalist tales. Every gossip rag abounds with them. Do tell me, when did you become an oracle, Marianne?"

"Oh, hush, Eugenia. There's no need for sarcasm. I heard it from Lady Henrietta's footman, and you know they hear everything," Marianne retorted, a challenging glint in her eyes.

"And you believe a footman's gossip is reliable information?" Lady Eugenia scoffed, dabbing a delicate lace handkerchief at her powdered nose.

"Of course I do!" Marianne returned. "Staff know everyone's business. Who doesn't accept that fact? That's why Mother shoos the help from the room when Mr. Hanvelian comes to visit."

Juliette, needle in hand, listened with keen interest. The Revivalists, a name she had tried to erase from her memory, surged back with a vengeance. Her heart quickened, though she couldn't pinpoint why. Confusion shrouded her past like the morning fog, leaving her with fragments of a life. Not even enough to hold on to. Just enough to know it was there. Nagging. Haunting. Day in and out for the past three years. It was exhausting.

As she continued the delicate dance of pinning fabric, she overheard snippets of conversation—of whispered threats, masked identities, and the urgency of Captain Catamount Castlebury's pursuit. The mere mention of the Bow Street Runner sent shivers of a different kind down her spine, a reaction unexplained by her forgetful mind.

"Captain Castlebury has sworn to put an end to their reign of terror. I hear he's closing in," Lady Eugenia remarked, her tone full of admiration. "I certainly hope so, for all our sakes."

Juliette's fingers trembled slightly. She redirected her attention to her work, attempting to stifle the unease clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

"That Captain Castlebury is a dashing hero, no doubt," gushed Isabella Martingale from nearby the velvet selections, a vision in lavender silk, her blonde ringlets bouncing as she spoke. "I heard he single-handedly faced down a group of ruffians in Whitechapel. Such bravery!"

"Bravery or foolhardiness, I wonder," Lady Eugenia mused, a skeptical arch to her perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Regardless, it's heartening to know someone is taking action. We can't have our city overrun by such scoundrels. It's bad for the complexion."

As the lively chatter of the customers echoed through the shop, Juliette worked tirelessly, her mind wrestling with the conflicting emotions stirred by the mention of the Revivalists and the enigmatic Captain Castlebury. Her hands moved with practiced grace, concealing the turmoil within her.

"I heard from Lady Felicity that the poor souls in Spitalfields were utterly defenseless when the Revivalists attacked," exclaimed Lady Penelope, Countess de Winter, dressed in a gown of delicate lace and intricate embroidery. Juliette recognized it from last year's set. A year later it still held up. Because she did great work. "Those brutes descended upon them like a pack of wolves."

Juliette continued to work on Miss Marianne's gown. The rose silk seemed to mock her, a reminder of a world that trembled under the threat of violence. The mention of Spitalfields sent a chill through her, and she struggled to focus on the delicate task before her. Breathe, Juliette .

"Imagine the audacity of attacking in broad daylight!" gasped Isabella, younger sister to Marianne, her gloved hands fluttering to her chest. "One can't even stroll through Spitalfields without fearing for one's life. Not that I'm strolling through Spitalfields, mind you. But still, it's positively scandalous."

A vivid image flashed in Juliette's mind, an image she couldn't fully grasp, and she gasped. Shadows, faces, and the echo of distant screams danced on the periphery of her memory, teasing her with fragments of a past she couldn't quite piece together. Spitalfields? Attacks? What was happening with her mind?

Lady Eugenia, overhearing Juliette's subtle gasp, said, "Madame Toussaint, you seem quite affected by the tales of the Revivalists. Is there something amiss?"

Juliette struggled to maintain her composure, the swell of anxiety threatening to engulf her. "N-nothing, Lady Eugenia. Merely the musings of a city haunted by shadows," she stammered, feigning a nonchalance that barely concealed her unease. She brushed a lone auburn lock of hair from her cheek and offered a small smile.

"Did you hear they left a calling card at the scene in Spitalfields? A morbid token of their handiwork," revealed Lady Penelope, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and interest. "It's a new development in their behavior."

"Captain Castlebury will make them pay for their atrocities, mark my words," declared Isabella, her eyes ablaze with unwavering confidence in the Bow Street Runner. Clearly the youngest Martingale possessed admiration for the detective.

Captain Castlebury —his name echoed in Juliette's mind like a distant drumbeat. She fought to comprehend why his pursuit of the Revivalists stirred a profound, disconcerting reaction within her. Her heart raced, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Just his name made her ache deep down inside. Why?

Attempting to divert her thoughts, she focused back on her work, desperate to finish pinning the rose silk gown. Yet the threads of fear, woven into the fabric of the conversation, entangled her, making each stitch a laborious effort. Her fingers felt clumsy. Thick.

She felt the weight of the conversation pressing on her, an invisible burden that demanded a reprieve. With a forced smile, she excused herself, mentioning the need for a specific thread to complete Marianne's gown. As she retreated into the backroom, the door closed with a muted thud, leaving her alone in the sanctuary of dimly lit solitude. Leaning against the door, she let out a shaky breath. Her palms still sweaty, she pressed a fist against her stomach, attempting to quell the riotous storm within. The voices of the customers, their tales of the Revivalists, still echoed in her ears, and she couldn't escape the lingering unease that clung to her like a bad stench.

" Mon Dieu , what is happening to me?" she muttered, searching the room as if the answers she sought were hidden within its walls. She tried to piece together the fragments of her life beyond the last three years. It was like trying to grasp at smoke—elusive, fleeting, and frustratingly insubstantial.

She paced the small room, her footsteps echoing against the wooden floor. The air seemed charged with a strange energy, of fear and uncertainty. Juliette continued to mutter to herself, her words a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the turbulent sea of her memories. "I remember Bond Street, the shop, the delicate fabrics from France. I remember the past three years and nothing more. But who am I? What happened three years ago, and why can't I remember my life before then?" She ran a hand through her auburn hair, questions tumbling swiftly through her mind. "Why do I fear the Revivalists, and why does Captain Castlebury's name resonate in my heart?"

As Juliette spoke, a soft rustling interrupted her soliloquy. From behind a stack of small boxes containing laces and threads, a tiny, fluffy kitten emerged, blinking sleepily. Its fur, a blend of whites, grays, and delicate patches of orange, created a stark contrast to the seriousness that filled the room. Such sweetness amongst all this grim talk. "Well, la petit Odette," she sighed, a slight smile breaking through the tension on her face. She knelt down and sat on the floor, gently stroking the kitten's fur. "At least you don't carry the weight of forgotten memories. Do you?"

The kitten, seemingly content in Juliette's presence, purred softly. It curled around her fingers, a warm, comforting presence in the midst of her confusion.

"Perhaps you hold the key to unlocking the mysteries of my past," she mused, half joking. Yet there was a hint of genuine curiosity in her voice as she continued to speak to her fluffy companion. "If only you could talk, my dear, you might unravel the threads of my forgotten life."

Odette, oblivious to Juliette's internal struggle, nuzzled against her hand, providing a small but tangible comfort.

Cradling the kitten against her chest, she surveyed the room she called her own. The low light revealed the intricate details of her attire, reflecting her keen sense of fashion.

She wore a gown of rich emerald-green silk that cascaded gracefully around her curves. The bodice was adorned with delicate lace, expertly embroidered by her own hands, drawing attention to her slender waist. The sleeves, puffed at the shoulders, tapered elegantly down to her wrists, each cuff decorated with tiny pearl buttons. The skirt flowed in soft, graceful folds, pooling around her as she sat beside a vintage chaise longue, an exquisite piece from a bygone era. Her hair, a cascade of rich auburn waves, fell in loose curls around her shoulders. A few strands were artfully pulled back with a delicate ribbon, allowing her freckled face to be illuminated by the soft glow of the room. The freckles, like tiny constellations, speckled her nose and cheeks, adding a touch of whimsy to her otherwise composed appearance.

Juliette took a deep breath, the sensation of the kitten's warmth against her chest grounding her in the present moment. She looked around at the eclectic assortment of fabrics, ribbons, and trinkets that filled the backroom of her modiste shop. It was a space she had meticulously curated, a place of creativity and elegance. "You know, my little friend," she murmured to Odette, a gentle smile playing on her lips, "I may not remember everything, but I have built a life here—a life surrounded by beauty and grace. That much is evident."

Odette blinked up at her, as if understanding the comforting words spoken in her direction.

Juliette continued, a sense of gratitude rising within her, offsetting the swirling anxiety. "I have this shop, these fabrics from France, and the joy of making one-of-a-kind, exquisite gowns for the women of London. Yes, there's an unease, a fear that lingers in the shadows that I don't understand, but perhaps that's the price one pays for the blessings we have." She gently stroked Odette's fur, feeling the rise and fall of the kitten's contented breathing. "You remind me to appreciate the simple joys—like the softness of your fur and the companionship you offer. Perhaps, in these small moments, I can find the peace I seek."

Perhaps that was all anyone truly had—small moments.

Small moments strung together, one after the other, to make a full life.

She gazed around her creative haven and resolved to embrace the beauty that surrounded her, finding centeredness in the present even as the ghosts of her past lingered in the dark corners. Juliette squared her shoulders, shaking off the lingering unease that had clung to her moments ago. Standing, she gave Odette one last snuggle and set her to rest on the chaise. "Nap well, petit chat ."

As she opened the door to return to the main part of the shop, the atmosphere shifted. The lively chatter of the customers continued, but a palpable excitement filled the air. Something, or rather someone , had captured their attention.

"It's him!"

"Shh, don't let him hear you!"

"I doubt verily that he can hear me through the glass."

"With your shrill voice, I would be shocked if he cannot."

"Move so I may have a better view of him. Ouch! Drat it all, Isabella, that was my foot."

"Well, I'm not giving away my prime viewing location. Find your own to ogle him."

"Oh, that Captain Castlebury. He's so manly," came the voice of Lady Penelope.

Juliette came down the hall and stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening with disbelief. "It is him."

There, outside the expansive front window of her shop, stood Captain Catamount Castlebury. The subject of gossip just moments ago now materialized before her very eyes, a mysterious, impossibly handsome presence in the London fog clinging to Bond Street outside.

Though she had not met him before, her everything lit up inside at the sight of him.

Recognition . Her everything recognized him.

But how?

His appearance matched the vivid descriptions she had heard—the tawny, sun-kissed, shaggy hair, pale green eyes that seemed to pierce through the foggy gloom, and the long outer jacket that accentuated his rugged, tough physique. His tall, broad-shouldered frame commanded attention, and the ladies within the shop erupted into another chorus of delighted whispers at the sight of him.

"You move."

"No, you move!"

"Why, he is utterly delicious to gaze upon, isn't he?" This from Lady Eugenia in a shockingly adoring tone.

"Aren't you married?" Countess de Winters inquired with surprise.

"Widowed like you, two seasons past. I'm fully allowed to enjoy this unexpected delight, Penelope."

"Of course. As you were, dearest. Of particular note, his thighs are rather robust and hearty. Good for certain activities, you understand."

"Indeed, I do. Indeed ." The way Lady Eugenia drew out the word made it sound rather indecent.

If Juliette hadn't catered to aristocratic ladies every day for at least the past three years, she might have been shocked by the discussion. As it stood, she barely noted the crudeness anymore.

Suddenly the room seemed to blur around her as her heart skipped a beat, caught in a rhythm the Bow Street captain seemed to dictate as she stared at him through the front window. She had never met him, didn't know him personally, and yet an inexplicable connection tugged at her from within—and it led straight toward him. A magnetic pull that defied reason and logic. A gasp escaped her lips, barely audible amidst the excited tittering of the ladies.

Captain Castlebury stood out there on the sidewalk in front of her shop engaged in conversation with a nearby shopkeeper, his confident demeanor and authoritative presence casting a spell over all the ladies inside. Maybe it was the gold-tipped hair. Maybe it was the rugged confidence. Or the acre-wide shoulders. Or the—well, yes— thighs . Whatever it was, ton ladies could not get enough.

And neither, apparently, could she.

As her customers gossiped around her, Juliette found herself rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the man whose very name stirred emotions she couldn't comprehend. The urge to run to him, to seek refuge in the embrace of a stranger, overwhelmed her. That she instinctively knew she would be welcome was even more odd. Unsettling. Upsetting .

"He's even more handsome in person!" exclaimed Isabella, her blue eyes sparkling with admiration.

"He looks like he could handle those Revivalists single-handedly," remarked Lady Eugenia. "All those muscles ."

Juliette snorted at that and struggled to regain her composure. The presence of Captain Castlebury, so close yet still a stranger, sent a ripple of conflicting emotions through her. Trying to quell the fluttering in her chest, she forced herself to move forward, joining the group of ladies who gathered near the window, their eyes fixated on the charismatic Bow Street Runner.

"He's positively dashing, isn't he?" Lady Penelope said, fanning herself delicately with her lace handkerchief.

"He looks like a man who's seen his fair share of danger," added Marianne, narrowing her eyes with obvious curiosity.

"He's the only one who will put an end to the Revivalists' reign of terror," one of the other ladies whispered, a sentiment echoed by the others.

Juliette, still captivated by the scene outside, nodded along absently. A part of her mind urged her to break away from this fascination, to focus on the tasks at hand in her shop. Yet an irresistible force kept her bound in the moment, her eyes drawn to the man who represented both danger and an elusive connection to her past. Somehow she just knew it.

A gust of wind ruffled Captain Castlebury's hair as he turned, catching her gaze through the window. Their eyes locked for a brief, electrifying moment, and something unspoken passed between them. As if the currents of destiny whispered secrets that her conscious mind couldn't decipher.

The ladies continued to gossip around her, but Juliette felt a strange detachment. She finally tore her gaze away from the Bow Street captain, focusing on the vibrant colors of the fabrics in her shop. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to push aside the inexplicable emotions and concentrate on the practical matters at hand. It was hard, but thankfully, she managed.

"Come, ladies, let us return to the fitting room," Juliette suggested, her voice betraying no hint of the chaos within. "There are gowns to be fitted and beauties to adorn."

And handsome Bow Street Runners to avoid daydreaming about.