Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Henry Davies had but one wish—to retire early at his bachelor's apartment that evening after a long day at court.

In silence.

There would be brandy, a good book, and perhaps a small fire to chase the anticipatory chill of the coming autumn days. He would turn in for the evening at nine, promptly.

Many would consider it boring, but for him, it would be heaven. Or very close to it.

Instead, Henry was flanked by five colleagues prodding him none too gently to join in on their fun evening.

"No thank you, gentlemen." He grabbed his texts and stood, examining the dwindling crowd in the courtroom. What a day it had been. He had argued his case, and well, but the judge had been tough, and he feared he would lose.

"Come out with us. We promise to find you some company."

"Yes, of the female persuasion. Might do you good."

"Not necessary." He stood, glaring at everyone. "I have no interest in company. No time."

His friend Benjamin Currey threw his head back and laughed. "No time? That is all you have outside of the law."

Henry navigated the narrow aisles and weaved his way out into the hallway. His friends could laugh, but he had worked years to reach this point, and he wouldn't take his eyes off his goal of becoming attorney general. It was hard now, and it would be for a while, but he had a duty to his family to make something of himself like his father.

"Come on now, Davies, it's my birthday. Couldn't you allow yourself to break free for one night?"

True, Stephen Greenwald was in fact celebrating his thirty-fourth year, but why Henry…

The simple fact of it was, Henry had no interest in spending his night at the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens with his fellow colleagues, seeking and participating in all sorts of raucous trouble. No, he had a near-flawless reputation for a reason, and he would not be tempted.

Could not be tempted.

He tugged at his jabot , convinced it wasn't straight.

"Are you telling me that the tightrope act won't lure even you out of your apartment for the evening and away from your precious law texts? There will be fireworks as well," said Benjamin.

Henry scoffed, glancing back over his shoulder as his friends chased at his heels. "I study the law so that I am the best."

"And you are," Stephen said, tossing his arm around Henry's shoulder. "You are the very best at what you do. Your mind is something men will study for years to come." He held out his free hand and waved it. "Your passion, your devotion to the law…"

"They'll say ‘What a prized, legal mind Henry Davies possessed.'" His friend Michael Webb jogged a few steps ahead, descending through the front entrance, about to burst out onto the streets of London.

Henry might as well have been a wallflower, trying his best to remove Stephen's arm and retreat into the small sliver of silence London had to offer—his apartment.

"One night. That's all," Michael insisted, spinning to address him on the street after they all poured out of the courthouse. He tore off his wig, revealing a head of black matted curls.

"Better yet," Stephen said, pulling a flask from his jacket and draining the well-worn vessel, "give me one hour. Surely you can afford to spare one hour from your evening?"

Henry normally hailed a hackney to convey him home, but tonight, even that wouldn't be fast enough.

"No." He glanced up the street, then down, searching for any escape as his colleagues encircled him.

"I promise it will be the best night of your life." Stephen reached for Michael's flask and handed it to Henry, who flatly refused. "May I remind you about my first point? There will be women there?—"

Henry growled, shoving the flask back against his friend's chest.

"At some point, Henry," Benjamin cut in, "you will need to admit that your unpleasant arse needs female companionship."

Complete rubbish. He needed nothing of the sort. More like he needed a quick escape, so he could retire to his apartment. Alone. Have that brandy and enjoy a book. That was what he needed.

Women, love, even his bloody acquaintances… he had no time for such nonsense. He had no interest in spending his nights rambling around London drunk and gambling and visiting the brothels. He left that to his younger rake of a brother, Lieutenant Rafe Davies, lately of the Royal Navy.

Henry knew his strengths, which consisted precisely of the law and being the dutiful eldest son. He considered anything else a waste of his time, which he fiercely guarded. He considered time a far more valuable and precious currency.

"You are beautiful when you blush," Michael teased, elbowing Henry as he stretched up onto his toes to search the busy street for a hackney.

This was London, late in the afternoon, on a beautiful September day. Where were all the damn hackneys?

"I am not going. I wish you a happy birthday. Now, excuse me…"

"Wait!" yelled Stephen, grabbing Henry's arm. "I can arrange a dinner with Judge Leeson."

Henry froze, studying his boots and playing over the name in his mind. He had tried to have his dinner with Judge Phineas Leeson for almost two years now. Knowing him would serve Henry well. He wouldn't always be arguing civil cases. He had ambitions. There would be nothing more pleasing to him than spending his days seeing those who commit wrong in the world pay their due.

"Come for one hour this evening, and I will see it done."

Everything within Henry tensed, and he swore he felt the beginning twinges of a headache pulse at his temples. The temptation of home was all too alluring, but he pushed past the knot in his throat and glanced up at his ruddy-faced friend with narrowed eyes.

"He owes my father a favor. It can be arranged next week."

There was something to be said about merit. Henry wished to be recognized by his talent, not necessarily by his connections. His time in London had taught him otherwise. It was not necessarily who you were, but who you knew. And Henry craved to become something. He was hellbent on making something of himself.

He would do nearly anything as long as it was legal, of course. That was often the moral sticking point for barristers. The better ones, at least.

He whacked his top hat against his thigh, glancing up at the September pink sky as dusk quickly approached.

"Fine. One hour."

The group cheered and pulled him down the street in the opposite direction from his apartment. Carriages rumbled by on the street, and a little girl stood by a fruit stall clutching a wilting handful of flowers.

"One last thing, Henry," Michael said. "You'll need a mask for the masquerade."

"I didn't agree to costumes."

"Technically," Stephen started, "you agreed only to an hour. There was no discussion of attire for that hour."

There was no point in arguing with a solicitor, especially one who excelled at discovering the loopholes in a case. He might as well have been a hound smelling out a fox.

"Very well. One hour and a mask. I will not make any further exceptions."

"Of course not. We wouldn't want to ruin your carefully planned evening of poring over law cases."

Fifty-five minutes into the agreed-upon hour, Henry was lost among a swarm of people descending upon Vauxhall Gardens with such merriment, the excitement buzzing around him was almost catching.

Almost .

Henry was convinced the excitement was more because he was nearly five minutes closer to freedom.

He snapped his father's timepiece shut. Four now…

The warm September night wrapped around him, but he swore he could smell the faint hint of autumn. Time was on a cusp, and Henry stood there, overlooking the party, and felt rather adrift. He felt far too restless lately, and he couldn't shake the feeling.

It never usually bothered him. Being alone, that is. His father had passed away when he was ten, then he'd been sent to live with his uncle's family in London. At the time, he had craved to be with his mother at the pink seaside cottage in Wales, running wild with his younger brother and sister, chasing the seagulls darting through the crashing surf. But he had lived in London on and off, and his younger brother Rafe was sent to become an apprentice to his father's friend, Captain Ackerman, or rather Admiral Ackerman now. And as for his sister, Mari, well… they were never close before, and it was certainly difficult after the accident.

"Davies!" Stephen shouted above the din, waving Henry over to a very merry and very large group of women.

No time in his thirty-one years had Henry wished to flirt or frequent brothels or, worse, fall in love. He had one goal, and one goal only.

Henry removed his watch from his vest and pointed to it as an answer, but it didn't matter because Stephen was already continuing with whatever one did at a masquerade. Which seemed like a lot. A lot of drinking, a lot of laughing, and a lot of behavior that normally the ton would frown upon in the grand ballrooms of Mayfair.

Funny what rules could be pushed when darkness swept over the city and masks were worn.

London was a social battleground with mamas hungry to make excellent matches for their daughters. It was often black and white, so why men were allowed to live and play in the gray was baffling to Henry.

Zeus and all his lovely wives, but Henry's mask was damned uncomfortable. He wished to tear the stupid thing off.

He turned his back to the crowd and tugged at it, burrowing his thumb under the left eye hole so it would fit better. Henry was certain it was scraping off the bridge of his nose, and though he had been teased for his long Roman nose throughout school, he wished to leave the masquerade whole.

Henry peeked over his shoulder, toward his friends in the supper box, a small pang radiating in his chest. He should stay, but he had promised an hour, and his time was nearly up. It was finally time to retire for the evening. He had plenty of studying to do.

One day, his life would be what he worked so hard to create. One day, he would prove to everyone that Henry Davies wasn't only Captain Davies's son, he himself was distinguished.

He weaved through the crowd, nearly tripping over his own feet because of the damned mask. Henry cursed to himself, adjusting it once more before slipping behind a tree to take the blasted thing off.

His fingers fumbled for the tie at the back of his head when a branch snapped. He froze beside the tree, his arms still stretched up behind his head when an emerald blur raced into him.

Well, not run into—rather plowed down.

"Oof."

The impact knocked him over, and he struck his head against a stone lodged at the base of the twisted sycamore tree. For a moment or two, his ears rang while pain radiated up his neck. Perhaps that was why, when the soft female body collapsed on top of his, he thought he had died.

Because angels walked the earth.

The air left his lungs in a heavy whoosh , and he blinked up to a mess of fire-orange hair and a smile DaVinci would be jealous of. Mona Lisa had nothing on these two perfectly lush crimson lips, curved with an enticing amount of mischief.

"Damn it, not again," the woman muttered.

He would have laughed if he had any breath left, but all sense had been knocked out of him it seemed. He was speechless. What an absurd thing to say. He didn't for a moment miss the Irish lilt to her voice, soft and warm like that brandy he had dreamt of all day.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

The woman blinked, staring back at him with the lightest green eyes he had ever seen, like pistachio cream. She smelled just as sweet—vanilla and jasmine.

"I haven't hurt you, have I? Oh, I have, I have. Let me just…"

She sat up and scurried backward, grabbing her discarded champagne glass. "Careful, it broke."

Henry pushed himself up to his elbows, his head throbbing. Everything spun, and somehow it felt more like July than September as he studied the woman in front of him, sprawled on the ground in an emerald gown and a gold mask with a broken champagne glass in her gloved hands.

Again?

Did she have a habit of running into men?

She set aside the broken glass and leaned forward. In the dim light from the lanterns hung overhead, he noticed her squinting. "Are you well?"

Well, enough, enough to know that something bigger and well beyond him had happened.

Well enough to know he had plenty to say and yet couldn't speak a single word because he was so utterly struck by this stranger.

"You should watch where you are running," he snapped instead.

Henry sat up, rubbed the back of his head, and gawked when his hand returned with blood smeared against his fingertips.

Tilly had almost made the perfect escape before running smack into this man…

She tilted her head, studying him and his dark eyes peering back at her from behind the black mask.

Oh, blood! Right. For the love… she had really outdone herself this time.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You're bleeding."

Tilly reached into the bust of her gown, fumbling as a button on her glove caught at the lace trim of her emerald satin bodice. The dress was magnificent if not entirely too fancy for a masquerade, where it seemed the majority of people were attending in hopes of not being seen. Temptation lay at her feet, literally, but her reputation was all she had left. Without it, she would find herself lifting her skirts in some East End alley to ensure her siblings and Ethan were fed and had a roof over their heads.

Too much had happened, and she had worked too hard to give up what she had now at Drury Lane.

She ripped the handkerchief out from beneath her neckline, waved it around like a white flag of peace, and hoped the stranger wouldn't inquire about her name or why she was running, or where he could send his physician's bills. Because she had hoped tonight would be one night where she could live the fantasy of being almost anyone else besides Matilda Brennan.

The mask certainly helped.

Perhaps it was habit, but she glanced behind her to ensure she hadn't been followed. He always seemed to follow her. Or worse, this morning he had delivered a simple missive and so easily shattered her day. He threatened her life and those she loved.

He had, mere moments ago, had the nerve to place his hand on the small of her back and lean in for a kiss while the rest of London milled about.

Mr. Roger Haskett was a royal arse, and unfortunately her stage manager.

Tilly climbed up to her knees and leaned one hand on the ground as she reached behind his head with the other.

"I've not met someone like this before," she whispered. Maybe more to herself than to the man who bowed his head indecently close to her bust as she pressed the handkerchief against the cut at the back of his head.

"First time for everything," he grumbled.

His voice vibrated against her skin, sending a dangerous shiver down her spine. Welsh, if she heard correctly. And that made him all the more interesting.

The stranger had thick, black hair brushed back, with not a piece out of place. And his cravat was perfectly tied, his face just as flawlessly clean-shaven.

So, he was like that.

"I apologize," she said, at last, removing her handkerchief from his wound.

But the stranger surprised her and clamped his hand over hers. She gasped, her body instantly tensing, her heart racing in her throat.

His eyes widened, and he released his touch. "I didn't mean to startle you. It needs pressure, is all," he explained. "I have it, so you can let go."

She withdrew her hand and moved away, hissing as she felt the glass pierce her white glove and embed itself near her wrist. Tilly sat back on her heels, laughing to herself as the panic subsided.

"What a pair we are."

She gazed down at her glove as red dotted the fine fabric, quickly spreading into an unsightly blob.

"Zounds!" The stranger quickly fumbled at his cravat and pulled at the knot until the crisp fabric slipped free, revealing the base of his throat. "Hold your arm up," he instructed.

It wasn't the first man's throat she had seen in her life, yet she couldn't look away. She blinked hard, inhaling through her nose as she tried to steady her nerves.

"Miss? Hold up your arm to help with the bleeding."

"Right. Right," she mumbled, laughing at herself. She had only had two glasses of champagne, but she felt a bit woozy. When had she eaten last? It had been a long day of rehearsal at the theater.

He motioned for her arm. "May I?"

"May you…" she repeated. Tilly couldn't concentrate, too focused on his mouth just then. And how he had a hint of a dimple on his left check, even as he blustered at her. It was altogether confounding, even though he was so surly.

"I am going to remove your glove and the piece of glass from your arm, then tie this length of fabric around the cut to stem the bleeding. The wound appears deep."

Tilly was about to glance down, suddenly sick to her stomach.

"It helps if you don't look. Are you unwell?"

He reached for her arm and turned it, laying it softly over the length of his thigh. His firm thigh. He was quite tall, this stranger. And his mouth was… kissable. Oh, and her stomach didn't like the sight of blood.

She shut her eyes and inhaled again slowly. If she tossed up her accounts all over this stranger, she would be mortified.

A very handsome stranger she couldn't keep her thoughts away from.

His fingers scraped against her skin as he gently slid her glove down the length of her arm, stopping short where the glass had pierced her. How perfectly intimate.

How scandalous to have his fingers caressing her bare skin here at Vauxhall Gardens, alone and in the dark.

No, no scandal.

She swallowed her silly fantasy of him removing the entire glove and dropping a kiss in her palm, though that would be perfectly romantic. This was not the time to let the champagne go to her head. Tilly could muster up some composure.

"You're sighing."

"Hmm?"

"You are sighing. Please refrain as I try to remove this piece of glass."

Tilly winced, instantly understanding. "You can't remove a piece of glass if I sigh?"

His head was tucked close to hers. She could smell the lemon and sage notes of his cologne and feel the heat of his body against hers.

"I am not a surgeon by profession, and the lighting here is terrible. I don't wish to make this worse."

"We could have fetched help."

He grunted, and she laughed.

"Right, no sighing. I will refrain from breathing as well, yes? Wouldn't want to trouble you too much?—"

With a quick pull, the glass slipped from her wrist, and his hand quickly circled around her arm to pull the fabric tight over her wound.

"This will help but don't look now."

Tilly had experienced a lot, but she hadn't ever almost fainted from the sight of her own blood.

"Have I ruined your breeches?"

"They were ruined the moment you collided into me, and I was smashed into a tree."

Very well. Her stranger was like that. "Sorry, I know how you Mayfair boys are."

It was impossible to tell with the mask covering his face, but she was near certain he arched his brows in a challenge. "Oh? How's that?"

"Particular."

The man brushed at the grass stain at his knee before glancing up in her direction with a smug smile on his face. "Interesting conclusion, however incorrect. I don't live in Mayfair."

"Well, that's very fine for you, then. Never mind."

"You've caught my interest now. You might as well explain your theory."

"Only that men who hail from Mayfair either have no respect for the rules of the ton and are the worst kind of rakes and scoundrels, or they are attached to their mother's hip and eat and breathe etiquette so that they may remain in the good graces of society."

"My mother still resides in Wales and will likely remain there until the day she dies."

Tilly's heart sank. Humility was not a virtue of hers, much to her mother's disappointment. "So not attached at the hip?"

"No."

"You're not wrong," he said after a time, peering out through the trees beyond to the party. "I aspire to reside in Mayfair, but I'm not sure I love how you have painted us men. I like to think I might offer more than a terrible reputation or boring morality."

"As if your sex doesn't paint all women as troublesome, nagging, or sinful. We're a burden. You need not tell us again, believe me."

"Have I treated you like a burden?"

Tilly glanced down at her wrist wrapped with his cravat, then swallowed hard, seeking out the courage to meet his heated stare. "Not at all."

It was the oddest thing, but she didn't wish for this stranger to leave her, even after she had been rude and was the reason behind the gash at the base of his skull.

"I suppose you'll head back then, yes?"

"I was leaving when…"

"You ran into me."

"I didn't see you."

"Now I'm also invisible? Well, thank you for your honesty."

She threw her head back and laughed, reaching out her uninjured arm and placing her hand on his shoulder. It felt so forward and yet so natural. She didn't know the man's name, and yet she was ready to bare her soul to him. What was that madness?

Certainly not too much champagne.

It felt as if she had known him always, maybe in another lifetime, as her mother would say. And surely even if that was a bit of magical thinking, it would only begin to explain why she continued talking to him as if reconnecting with an old friend.

Well, not friend entirely.

She was much too preoccupied with thoughts of kissing him for that to be true.

She might not have initially seen him before crashing into the man's chest, but truth be told, she hadn't been able to look away from him since.

"Why were you hiding?" she asked, ignoring the urge to peek back over her shoulder.

"I wasn't. I was leaving. Why were you running?"

She scrunched her nose and placed her hands in her lap. "I fear we don't have enough time to discuss that."

The stranger stretched, winced, then reclined back against the tree. "I don't have to leave."

"But you wanted to."

"That was before I knew you were here." He glanced down at his boots and chuckled. "That is, if you will allow it, I would like to talk with you further. You are very interesting."

Interesting? My, she hadn't heard that in years. Tilly instantly knew that self-deprecating laugh, and softened even more toward him, this strange grumpy man.

"How is your arm feeling?" he asked.

Tilly peeled back the blood-stained cravat and winced at the slice on her arm. Roger would be furious that she had been so careless. She hated how often over the past few months she needed to hide herself away to protect herself further.

"Oh, I'll manage fine enough. I suspect I won't lose it, and that's a winning outcome."

Again, that same exhale from the stranger who sounded similar to a laugh. Yet, not quite a laugh, as if he didn't trust himself enough.

"If only I will be so lucky. I should plan on leaving soon to find a surgeon."

Tilly leaned forward and held her hands out, desperate to keep this between her and the trees at Vauxhall. "Is it so bad as that?"

"Having a hole at the base of my head certainly isn't great."

She sat back and sighed. "I suppose not."

"Tell me something you hate," he asked.

"Hate? That's a strong word… Wait, should we introduce ourselves?"

"Names would make this too real, and I am still half-convinced I am knocked unconscious at the base of that tree. I propose no names for now. The mystery is an intriguing novelty."

She loved the way he spun his words. The formality was altogether endearing.

"Very well, something I hate..." Tilly was generally optimistic, despite growing up on the stages of Dublin, helping to care for her siblings after her father's illness caused the family to lose their farm. "I dislike those who act kind but are the very opposite. Do you fall under that trap?"

The man gently shook his head, hissing as he turned his head left. She would never forgive herself if she seriously hurt him. She only wished for some space from Roger this evening. He had his eye on a new production and had made sure she was seen around Town this week. There was much to be gained by Matilda's flawless reputation—mainly, benefactors for the theater.

She might have a house of her own that she shared with her family, and she might have money of her own, but none of that would protect her if the truth was ever released. And for five years now, she awoke every morning wondering if it had been revealed and went to bed every evening wondering if it would be the last day she had before London turned on her.

Because they would.

She was certain of it. And worse than losing their fickle appreciation, she feared losing Ethan and everything she had built for herself.

Women had lost everything for much less. Why would the world treat London's favorite actress any differently?

"I hate parties," he said, breaking up the silence. "Including this one. Would you like to leave?"

Tilly lifted his cravat pressed against her cut, then glanced back at the stranger. Her heart felt as if it were floating outside of her body. He was so…

Well, Tilly might be sunshine, but this man would be Hades at the gates of Hell looking none too pleased spring had arrived.

"Never mind." He muttered something else under his breath, which she didn't hear, before he continued, "It is forward of me assuming someone like you attended tonight's party alone. I will take my leave and let you have a fun evening with your…"

Tilly pressed her lips together, attempting to stem the smile threatening to emerge. Should she let him sit there and spin a tale that wasn't true? She had never been married, never been engaged. Roger had seen to that. "Friends," she finished for him, pity winning out. "I came with friends tonight, though I am sure I am not missed."

"That is their loss then, isn't it?"

She lifted her nose, smirking. "But I suppose your gain."