Chapter 1

One

May 1826

I t could be the fog. Or it could be the whisky fogging his brain. Or it could be that his sister was stealing into a coach behind their house and… what? Going where? At this godforsaken hour? Only bounders were about this late at night. Early in the morning? Time didn't matter, but Alexandra did. Alexandra climbing into an old beaten unmarked hack. Bounders were about!

And Keats. But then Keats was— hiccup —a bounder, so he pushed away from the wall and the woman he'd been kissing.

"Keatsy, come back." She tugged at his lapels, her dark curls falling from her coiffure, the rouge that carefully shaped her lips smeared and faded. "If you die tonight, we'll never get to kiss again."

They would never kiss again, even if he lived. Keats never kissed the same woman twice.

"Off with you, love." He pushed her down the street with a hearty smack to her arse as a parting gift. Too hearty. He swayed and sought the strength of a solid wall to lean against. The box he cradled under one arm thumped against the brick, and he braced for an explosion.

Got only silence, thank God. But… curse God because it looked like the coachman was about to pull away. With Keats's sister.

"Shit." He ran and the world spun, but before the carriage could pull away from the dark alley behind his father's townhouse, he jumped aboard it, sat beside the rather shocked coachman, and set the box neatly on his lap.

"Hey there, now," the coachman cried. "Get off!"

Keats calmly opened the box and pulled out the dueling pistol. He pressed the barrel against the coachman's ribs. "I was going to use this in Green Park at dawn, but I don't see why I can't use it now instead. Besides, this is rather new and novel." He hiccupped. "I've dueled before, but I've never demanded answers from a coachman"— hiccup —"at gunpoint. Feel like a highwayman, I do." He grinned and dug the barrel deeper between the man's ribs. "Did I load this gun earlier? Or did I mean to do so at the park? Hm. Can't remember." He shrugged. "Shall we see?"

"You would'na loaded it and put it in the box." The coachman's hold of the reins tightened.

"Oh, who knows, really. I'm that foxed, I assure you." He hiccupped again. Proof of his circumstances.

"What do you want?" the coachman asked, his body a block of ice.

"Where are you taking my sister?"

The coachman's already tight jaw became flint—hard and sharp and breakable.

"Come, come. I'm the Earl of Ennis, and I have more right to my sister than you do. Tell me." Those last few words as hard as the man's jaw. More unforgiving. He could simply pull Alex from the carriage and toss her back into the house, but he'd never find out her destination that way, her intentions. She'd lace her lips up tighter than a lady's corset and with unbreakable ribbons. The coachman would at least know their destination.

The coachman swallowed. "Hawthorne House."

"And where the devil is that?"

The hack shook before the man could offer an answer, and the door swung open. A figure emerged, settling into a pale circle of light cast by the gas lamp above. A woman. No, not a woman. A bloody angel.

Her golden hair glowed in the soft gas light. She'd bound it tight atop her head in a practical twist of some sort, but wisps of it escaped here and there, little curls to make a man's hands ache with need. Those wisps curled a halo about her head. Fitting. And she lifted her full, lush, heart-shaped face to him. No, to the coachman. But no doubt she saw Keats, too.

Bloody hell. Keats would be found out before he got any answers. The whisky fog had begun to roll away from his brain, dissipating like a sour-smelling morning mist, and he dug the gun deeper into the man's ribs.

"You give me up," Keats hissed, "and I'll find out with the flex of a finger if I loaded this gun earlier."

"What in hell do you want me to say?"

"Figure it out."

"Mr. Sacks," the angel said with full, pink, kissable lips, "why aren't we moving? You know time is of the essence."

"Y-yes, miss. I… well, Mr. Beckett asked me to pick up a new boy for the stables."

"Boy? Do you want me to pull this trigger?" He was a man of eight and twenty. Nothing about him boy .

The coachman swallowed. "He's just jumped up, and… we're ready to go now."

The angel scowled. "Mr. Beckett told me nothing of it. And it's most unusual. Risky to add another body to tonight's activities."

Activities? Bloody hell, what had Alexandra gotten herself mixed up with?

"It was a last-minute thing, miss," the coachman said. "'E's my nephew. Just found out he was willin' ta leave his London post."

A wealth of dark and shadows separated the lady and Keats, but she peered at him through it as if she could see him as clearly as she could see her own reflection in the daylight.

"Very well. Quick now. No more dawdling. Lady Alexandra deserves our greatest care." Then she pulled a dark velvet hood up over her head and stepped back into the coach.

She took all of London's air with her, leaving none for Keats to breathe.

"Who was that?" he asked as the coachman whipped the hack into a lurching trot forward.

"Not telling."

"Please?"

Silence and the stubborn set of a chin.

No matter. "I'll find out one way or another."

"Men like you !" the coachman exploded. "That's why Miss Jones does what she does. That's why Hawthorne House exists. Bounders, rakes, scoundrels, rogues. Devils, you are. Vipers. I should throw you from the coach, bullet to my chest or no."

"Miss Jones, then… that's her name." Too common a name for a goddess.

The coachman cursed, and the horses trotted a bit faster through the London streets, headed south. "To hear her name on the lips of a rogue like yerself." He cursed again.

"I'll not argue with you on my moral failings, but I'd rather not be thrown from the coach. Tonight is proving much more interesting than a duel. And again, you've got my sister inside. As well as my future wife, probably. I don't know. Probably not. But damn ." He whistled. He'd not seen much beneath her voluminous cloak, but there'd been no doubt—she was voluminous, too.

Voluminous? Not quite the right word, but the letters would rearrange themselves in the whisky fog. Perhaps it wasn't clearing after all.

Ah. Now he had it. Voluptuous . Curves for days, likely. Paired with bright eyes and a heaven of hair, with a sharp nose and a chin that tipped up with defiance, confidence… What a woman. He needed a closer look. To see if she had freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks, or a beauty mark near the corner of those kissable lips or?—

"Get off," the coachman demanded.

"I don't think so. I'd like to see this Hawthorne House." What was it? Where was it? Hell, if only his whisky-muddled brain could fully grasp the half thoughts yelling warnings at the thick walls of his skull, but they were like bouncing bumblebees, and if he ever managed to catch one, it would sting.

"Don't you have a date with a bullet in Green Park?"

"Or the other fellow does."

Mr. Sacks snorted. "Not in your state."

"Then it's best for me to do something else, don't you think?" He tickled the man's ribs with the gun barrel, though—damn—his arm had started to tire from holding it up.

"You'll lose what remains of your honor."

Keats's turn to snort. "I abandoned notions of honor ages ago. Let all of London say what they will. I want to know what sort of place abducts a young woman in the dark hours of morning." And as soon as he found out, he'd take her away from there. He'd bring Alex back home and convince his father to lock her up in her room. "Now, my good chap, settle in for the drive and find something entertaining to converse about because I'm already bored."

"You can take your conversation and shove it up your arse."

"Oh, that's a delightful start. I find conversation terribly dull unless there's some conflict to make it exciting."

"What do you think is going to happen when we arrive? What are you going to do in the country? Where will a toff like you go?"

"I'll take my sister and return?—"

"You won't touch her, do you hear? You've got the gun, but I'd jump in front of a bullet for the ladies that find themselves needing Hawthorne House. But what would you know about honor?" He snorted. "I'd place money on it—you've likely sent a lady here yourself at some point. Or if you haven't yet, you will one day."

"I could answer those uncertainties for you, if I had any idea what Hawthorne House was."

"A house for ladies in trouble. And if your sister is headin' there, she's?—"

"In trouble. Damn." In trouble . What did that mean? What kind of trouble? Why hadn't she told Keats? Or their father? Why run away with strangers?

Probably because of her engagement to Lord Provolone. Lord Provenance? Sir… oh hell, what was his name? Didn't matter because the man was old enough to be their grandfather. Their grandfather , and Alex had been given no choice. But why did she need one? Their father, the Marquess of Rainsly, knew what was best for her.

These people were after her dowry. Or after something else entirely.

Whatever it was, Keats would take them down, would save his sister from these shadow-shrouded con men.

But perhaps he should be sober first. The world spun a bit too much for heroics.

Keats dug the pistol harder into Mr. Sacks's ribs. "As long as you comply, you'll reach this Hawthorne House without an extra hole in your body. I need to know that my sister is safe. If Hawthorne House proves to be so, I'll leave on my own." But if he discovered she wasn't… he'd burn this house down.

Mr. Sacks flinched, his hands tightening on the reins. He gave a curt nod, and the hack rumbled south in silence but for the groan and crunch of wheels over pavement.

Keats wriggled. "How long is the trip?"

"You'll see."

"And what should we speak of until we get there?"

"Nuthin'."

"I can suggest a better topic of conversation." He sighed. "Miss Jones." Another reason to drive into the night, a secret stowaway on his sister's flight from London—another glimpse of the angel.

But if the angel proved a demon, he'd not hesitate to burn her with the rest.