Chapter One

London, England, April 1849

T he man had a superb arse.

Ordinarily, that thought would have alarmed Harry Holmes.

He chuckled to himself as he focused on the enigmatic figure across the room. Harry wasn't in the custom of admiring the curvy figures of the upper-crust men who lost their fortunes night after night in his little slice of iniquity. But, then again, this peer—this lad with the trim waist and slender neck—wasn't an ordinary customer. Nor was he ne'er-do-well voyeur. This young buck had turned up at the Lucky Fish every night for the past week, and—though he kept his head down, though he kept his voice low, though he never met anyone's eye—he'd managed to catch hold of Harry's full and undiluted attention each and every time. The superb arse was only the half of it. The more pertinent fact was that the man was clearly a woman. And for some ridiculous reason, Harry was the only one who knew it.

"Who the hell is she, Vine?" Harry muttered around the signature cigar clenched between his teeth.

Thomas Vine glanced up from the open ledger in his hands and sighed when he noticed that his boss had not bothered to listen to him as he'd carped on. Shoving his glasses higher on his nose, the factotum followed Harry's sights to the young man standing ramrod straight next to a chum as they played at one of the club's packed card tables.

"Holmes? Harry?" Vine said curtly. He cleared his throat, which, because of his love for the pipe, sounded like broken glass being swept up by a thick broom. "Did you want to have a talk with Spector?"

Harry blinked, eventually tearing his eyes from the long, nubile legs of the young woman that were tastefully hidden behind a pair of badly tailored trousers. The gentleman appeared to love the game vingt-en-un. It was all she ever played. Once she found the table, she never left until her night was over. She won more than she lost, but that wasn't much in any case. Harry always made it a point to ask.

Vine's grainy voice scratched at his periphery again. What was he asking? Something about Spector?

Harry rolled the cigar around in his mouth, skimming it lazily along his teeth. Five times. The act was comforting, serving to always bring him back to the matter at hand, which unfortunately meant dealing with his nervous right-hand man's never-ceasing questions. Usually, they didn't bother Harry to this degree. Creating lists, creating order, was what he excelled at. It was one of the few things that helped him relax at the end of a long day. Only now, as he watched his club, the rich degenerates and poor lords mingling together like a busy ant colony, Harry's mind continued to wander. All he wanted was a brandy and a comfortable seat…and an answer to this woman's foolishness.

"Spector?" Harry asked, finally turning to one of the only people he trusted in the entire world. And even then, not much.

Small and thin-boned, Thomas Vine was an unfortunate-looking man with one wandering eye and a circle of dusty hair around his head better suited for a monk. Because there was nothing remotely religious about Thomas Vine. Harry once saw him rip off a man's ear with his bare teeth when the man deigned to cut in front of him in line at the pub. Vine had been thirteen at the time. Harry hadn't been much older, and he learned an important lesson that day—never mistake size for strength. Never get in the way of Thomas Vine and his ale, either.

"Yes, Spector," Vine replied, not hiding his impatience. "There's been some talk. Too much. I hear he's unhappy that Dugan and his men are muscling in on your old territory."

"Dugan's not muscling in ," Harry answered tersely. "I gave him my blessing. Dugan knows those light-handed days are behind me."

Vine sighed. "Yes, and as we discussed before, Spector and many of your men continue to be confused by this…about-face."

About-face? Harry managed to keep his expression blank, though he did betray his annoyance and sucked hard on his cigar, launching a thick plume of smoke into the air to join the clouds of others that clotted along the scrolling plasterwork on the high ceiling.

There was nothing slapdash about his current business decisions. Going legitimate, leaving his unlawful roots behind, was always the plan. A man couldn't build a future on criminality…Well, Harry could, but he just didn't want to anymore. It was that simple. He was tired of the perfidy, exhausted with always keeping one eye open at night. His gambling den was the most successful in town, and it was one hundred percent clean. That was what made it so successful. The precious dukes and earls searching for entertainment always wanted to believe they were in control, that the house wasn't taking their money, they were losing it fair and square—so Harry created a place that did just that. He wasn't square with those blue-blooded bastards—but he was fair…enough. And in the ten years since he'd opened the Lucky Fish, he'd made more money than God, more money than the queen herself, no doubt. And he'd shared it liberally with all those who had stuck with him from the beginning. The men who'd believed in him during his lying and thieving days. The men who'd slept in alleys and gone hungry all because of his far-flung plans.

And now they were upset with him? Now they were threatening mutiny because Harry no longer had the desire to steal in the dead of night and risk getting his hand chopped off?

What was so damned horrible about sleeping on your stomach in your nice, cozy bed without worrying about getting stabbed in the back?

Harry shouldn't have been confused. He'd seen it before. Some men lived for the chase, the adrenaline of never knowing what could happen from one day to the next. But Harry had too much responsibility, too many men eating at his table. He couldn't afford to be cavalier anymore. He'd turned into a family man without knowing it, with a gaggle of children to feed but no wife to cook the food.

Harry paused, waiting for his anger to subside. "Tell Spector or anyone else that if they're confused, then they can move on."

"Move on?" Vine chirped.

Harry lifted an elegant eyebrow. "Fuck off," he clarified. "If they don't want to make decent money with me, they can make a name on their own…or try their hand with Dugan. He's always looking for good men, since half of them end up dying from one thing or the other. Hazard of the trade."

Vine rubbed his eye. It was the one that could never look a man straight on. The eye that he would stab a man for mentioning. "With all due respect," he said, the words stumbling out of him. "I think we should use a gentler approach. The last thing anyone needs is a disgruntled gang—"

"But you already told me they're disgruntled, so tell them they can fuck off. I'm tired of ungrateful hangers-on. I'm tired of people asking and not giving. I'm tired…" Harry's words trailed off. His focus snapped back to the lovely lady in disguise at the table. The friend she always came with whispered something in her ear, only to lean back and bray at his own joke. The younger women didn't laugh. True to form, she stared studiously at her cards.

"You're tired…?" Vine prompted, waiting for Harry to finish his sentence, but Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that he couldn't. That was the end. He couldn't believe it himself, but Harry Holmes was tired. Of everything. All of it. Though if someone had asked him at the precise second what he was tired of, he wouldn't have been able to explain it. He had everything he could possibly want, and yet he wanted more. That fact didn't surprise him. A man who grew up with an empty belly would always be hungry, no matter how much food you gave him.

But as Harry continued to stare across the crowded room where laughter and tears, smoke and gin, lost dreams and childish greed competed jovially like perfumes in a whorehouse, an answer to his restless spirit almost knocked him to his knees.

Vine tried again. "You're tired…" he repeated.

With a flick of his head, Harry stopped a servant walking by with a tray of champagne and grabbed a flute. He downed it instantly before returning the flute, along with the end of his cigar, to the tray. All the while his gaze never wavered. "I'm tired of not knowing," he finished, surging into the crowd.

Vine's protestations thinned out as Harry escaped from him. Harry didn't worry. Vine would handle the men; he always did. No doubt he was worrying over nothing. Harry paid him an exorbitant amount of money to do so. Nevertheless, in the morning, he would increase the factotum's pay. It was the only reasonable thing to do. It wasn't Vine's fault that Harry had been so…unsettled of late. A transition was taking place. A new normal was being created. It was only natural that growing pains would occur—for Harry as well as the men.

He just had to solve this little mystery first. Then he could work out how to calm the rising tide of his ennui. Females weren't new to his club. Women of the night regularly bumped shoulders with high-class mistresses; however, ladies pretending to be gentlemen was something he didn't see every day.

And at forty-two, Harry had thought he'd seen everything.

A path opened for him. He was grateful, since the thought of touching anyone—however slightly—made every hair on his body stand on end. Harry's club was popular, but that didn't mean he was. Even with his fine clothes and silky manner of speech, he still recognized fear whenever his patrons dared to catch his eye. Which was how Harry preferred it. Whoever had said it was better to be feared than loved was right. From his limited experience on the subject, love didn't make money—it spent it. The men who ventured through his door lost just as much on cards as they did on love. Like all things, it was a gamble. And Harry's gambling days were long over.

Though he did dabble from time to time. When the mood was right. And his curiosity was piqued. And he had nothing to lose because there was nothing to risk.

That was how he separated himself from the men who came to the Lucky Fish.

Hearts were like fortunes—once lost, they were lost forever. Harry Holmes never played with his own money, only other people's. The same went for hearts.

The dealer at the vingt-en-un table noticed Harry before anyone else, his well-trained eyes bobbing up from the deck of cards in his hands. Arthur . A ruddy flush crept up to the tips of his cheekbones. He was a good lad, employed at the Lucky Fish for six years now. Nimble with his fingers. Harry had found him as he had most others, on the streets, fleecing old men and women left and right and separating them from their pearls and pocket watches.

A look passed between them. A fleeting glance. A question going back and forth between employer and employee. It happened every blue moon when Harry gave a signal to fix a game, and make sure the right (or wrong) cards were given to the right player. The Lucky Fish was a clean gaming hall, but there were times that merited interference. But not tonight. Harry answered with a barely there shake of his head, and Arthur set his attention back on the game.

Harry slid against the high table next to the gentleman with the long, shapely legs. She didn't acknowledge him, though Harry knew his appearance had caused a stir. Conversations lowered to a murmur; the air sparked with anticipation.

He waited for the surrounding noise to regather steam before he started his own little game. He leaned close to the woman, smirking as his lungs inflated with distinct notes of orange and rosemary. Normally, Harry couldn't stand perfumes—they made his head pound and his stomach threaten to turn—but this combination was different. Soft and thin, the smell reminded Harry of a woman's silk nightgown, barely there…a wisp of an idea.

Harry closed his eyes, suppressing a groan. It was a weakness in him—one that he kept to himself. Women that smelled clean and fresh like they'd rolled around in the grass, weaving intoxicating flowers in their hair like May Day queens. Women that reminded him of days when everything was exciting and new to him.

"I don't know you," Harry said lightly, canting his body to capture the mysterious lady with his full attention.

She kept her gaze down, swallowing. A thin muscle flexed along the side of her smooth and whisker-free throat. Harry smiled. Was everyone daft or just ignoring the obvious? This close, there was no way the girl could be mistaken for a man, no matter how far down she shoved her hat. She wore a finely starched collar, but there was no Adam's apple bobbing over it.

Harry was no stranger to subterfuge. People attempted to pull the wool over his eyes every day. Membership to his club was by invitation only, meaning everyone in town wanted to be a part of it. However, Harry allowed one sweet reprieve. Any member could bring a guest, and most of Harry's nights were filled with learning who the newcomers were and how best to accommodate their particular vice. But for some strange, bewildering reason, Harry had let this mystery person slide. He'd let his curiosity fester to a gargantuan level. Was he a masochist? Or did he realize that the reveal would inevitably be less intriguing than the riddle? Was he so bored with life that he was creating games for himself? Christ, that was what he had cricket for!

"I asked you a question," Harry said.

She had long, slender fingers, and she held her card close to her chest. Slowly, she lifted it to her chin as her eyes flickered down.

"You didn't ask a question," she returned in a comically deep and scratchy voice. Harry choked back a laugh. He wondered if it hurt her throat to make that wretched sound.

"It was implied," he lobbed back, crowding her with his body without touching her, noticing that they were almost the same height. Men always yearned for short, petite women; Harry couldn't understand it. Her mouth—her lips—matched his perfectly. There would be no crick in his neck when he kissed her.

Harry frowned at the bizarre thought. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed a woman. Years. But here he was, quite certain that he would do it tonight, and he wasn't even unsettled by the idea. Why the hell not? He could do it; he didn't have to feel her entire body—only her lips. He just had to steal her away from her friend first. That shouldn't be too difficult. The silly oaf was so enamored by the game that he hadn't even looked at Harry. They couldn't be together …Could they?

Harry watched as she rolled her tongue over her front two teeth, her eyes still stuck on her cards. Was that a tell? Hell yes, it was. Harry could spot one a mile away. His little minx had a winning hand. It would be gentlemanly to let her reveal it. But the curtness of her behavior was leaching all the gentlemanliness from him. And besides…Harry Holmes was no gentleman.

The dealer was busy sliding a card to the oaf. The lady was next. Harry couldn't wait that long.

"I want to speak with you. Now ."

Her fingers tightened around her card, and she hugged it against her heart. Still, she did not look at him, her pointy chin directed down, her body guarded. "After this hand," she answered, her voice somehow ridiculously deeper.

"I think not," Harry said, a shiver of irritation running through him. Clenching his jaw, he reached out and covered her card with his gloved hand, using more force than he'd intended to break it from her grasp.

She gasped, finally raising her face to his.

Blue. Lovely blue eyes. Clear as day. And— Lord above —freckles? The sweet, light brown spots dotted her skin like tiny stars. Harry was certain if he stared long enough, he would find patterns to answer all the questions of the universe.

For now, though, he would settle for one.

But his mystery lady beat him to it.

"Who do you think you are?" she spat, ripping herself away from his grasp. He settled his hand on her upper arm, herding her away from the game, never so grateful for the layers of fabric between them. It always made touching others so much more tolerable.

"Why don't you answer that question first?"

Fear made the lady turn to stone under his touch, and all the ridiculous affection was lost in her voice as he led her away from the table. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"I didn't say you did."

"Then why won't you let me keep playing?"

"I told you," Harry replied, weaving her through the parting crowd, avoiding the eyes of all the onlookers who were salivating at the notion of him ostensibly throwing a customer out of the club. Usually, he had men perform that honor for him.

He held his prisoner close as they moved into the foyer and her earthy scent knocked him in the chest once more. "I don't know you, and I'm tired of being ignorant," he said through gritted teeth. "So, you either help me with that or you leave."

The lady squared her shoulders, yanking her elbow from his hand. She backed away, maintaining a dignified distance, allowing Harry to once more admire the femininity that she tried so hard to hide. Despite the smattering of freckles, her cheeks were pale and creamy. Harry didn't have to run his fingers along her sharp jaw to know that it would feel as soft as a rose petal, and even more delicate.

That didn't prohibit the willful woman from jutting it toward him now though in abject— annoying —defiance. "I'm Charles Waitrose," she said, forgetting or just not caring to answer in her fake voice. "I'm in town visiting my cousin, Sir Reginald Coffer, who is a member here," she added imperiously. "And he suggested we come tonight and have a bit of fun. No harm in that."

Harry squinted. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? A better question was—who the hell did she think she was speaking to? Even now, the chit's wig was sagging precipitously over her right eyebrow. Her top hat was doing its damnedest, but it wouldn't hold for much longer. Her game was over—in more ways than one.

Harry crossed his arms. Throwing a lady out on her arse was not what he had in mind for the night, but hard people always benefited from hard lessons. He was a testament to that.

"All right, then," he said, feigning heavy regret. Before she could dodge him, he struck out quickly, handling her upper arm once more. She struggled, but apparently, Charles Waitrose wasn't the bulky, strong type of country gentleman and was simply no match. "Out you go."

She tripped as he dragged her toward the door. "What?" she exclaimed, panic rising quickly and uncontrolled. "You can't. I have to stay. You don't understand."

Harry nodded to his man at the door to get out of the way so he could haul it open himself. They stopped at the threshold; Harry gave the excited woman more than enough time to rethink her answer before he took a step onto the porch. "Oh, I understand, believe me," he replied icily as he led her down the three steps to the footpath. The moon was covered by dusty, fat clouds, and their only audience was a few drunken stragglers stumbling out of the club, despondent that their pockets were much lighter than when they'd entered.

He yanked the hellcat down the footpath, only releasing her once he knew she wasn't going to run back to the door. He put his hands in his pockets like this was just an ordinary occurrence, one that happened so often that it had lost its curious appeal. The lady's eyes blazed at his nonchalant, bored behavior.

"You understand nothing," she rasped. "My brother lost badly here. He always loses here." She wrapped her arms around her frame, warding off the cold.

Harry chided himself. He probably should have asked if she'd left an overcoat inside. Before he could rethink his decision, a sliver of yellow snagged his attention. A lock of wheat-colored hair escaped from under the brown wig and landed against the side of her straight nose. The asymmetry made him want to itch.

With a puff of breath, the woman blew the hair off her face, and a sob escaped her lovely throat.

"I need the money," she said softly.

"No, my lady, you need excitement." Pretending she was a man had lost its allure and its fun.

The woman seemed to agree. Those cornflower-blue eyes flew back to his, but she didn't bother correcting him.

"No. I need money. And I need it now. And this was my only way of getting it…until you came along."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that. He dug into his jacket pocket, taking out a cigar. He lit it and took a few contemplative puffs. "I can't allow nonsense in my club."

She crossed her arms. "Your entire club is nonsense. Do you know what the men do in there? The ridiculous bets they make with one another? Wait—" She clenched her fists at her sides. " Your club. You mean…"

Harry smiled broadly around his cigar. "Harry Holmes, at your service. And you, Miss Charles Waitrose, need to go home to your nice, warm bed before I call your father."

"He's dead."

Fuck . "Well, then your mother."

She shrugged. "If you can rouse her at this hour then you're a better man than I."

Harry growled. "You're not a man."

"That's beside the point," she replied with a flippant wave of her hand.

"That's the whole point—"

"I need money and it's in your club. So if you would just kindly forget this entire conversation and step aside?" She began to walk around him, and Harry was so dumbfounded by her bravado that he almost let her go. She was two steps past him before he collected himself and snaked out a hand to her upper arm again, this time without tensing every muscle to do it. Harry couldn't remember ever touching a person this much. That fact alarmed him more than her attitude. "You're going home," he insisted, hauling her into his chest.

Her eyes widened as they focused on his cigar. "You can't make me," she seethed. "However, if you're going to be difficult, then I will find someplace else to win my fortune. I hear there are some good games to be had down by the docks."

Harry's heart jumped, and he yanked the cigar out of his mouth. "You will stay away from there, you hear? The docks are no place for a lady."

The side of her mouth curled slightly. Harry hadn't appreciated her lips enough, more fixated on her freckles and arse and her long, lithe figure, but that little movement, that elfish curl, would, no doubt, haunt him in his dreams tonight. "How do you know I'm a lady?"

Harry's laughter was stilted and pained. So many people had tried to murder him in his eventful life, and this conversation might be the one thing that finally did him in. "Well, you're not a gentleman."

The indentation deepened in her cheek. "But why do you assume I'm a lady?"

Slowly, Harry released her, pleased that she didn't move away. He lifted his hand to her face, pausing for a daunting second before placing the tips of his gloved fingers along the sloping line of her jaw. How was he doing this? Why was his body not revolting in terror? He shook his head wistfully, his rampant thoughts choking his mind so thickly, all he could do was let them out. "Ordinary women don't feel like this."

Her eyelashes fluttered at his husky tone. Harry should have been ashamed of his behavior. He was like a lovestruck lad enamored with the first woman who gave him a smidge of attention, but he couldn't bring himself to dwell on the embarrassment…not when she looked at him like that, like he was a normal man doing normal things to woo a woman in the middle of the night.

"I'm young," she replied. "All young women have skin like this."

"And you think I'm too old to remember that?" Harry chuckled.

She blushed prettily. "I didn't say that. And you're not old."

"Older than you. Old enough to know a lady when I feel one."

"So, you've felt many ladies?"

"Enough," he grunted. But that was a lie. A very large one.

Her expression clouded, though she kept her tone light. "And if I tell you that I'm a lady, will you let me back in your club?"

Harry smiled. "Nice try, but no. How much is your brother in the hole for?"

"The hole?"

"Debt."

She nodded. "More than I care to say."

Yes. That sounded about right. "You should let him fix his own problems."

The lady shrugged his fingers from her face. The world had inserted itself back in their conversation. "I would do that, but my brother has a fondness for gambling, it seems. Only, he's not very good at it."

Harry's fingers still tingled as they fell to his side. He replaced his cigar in his mouth, feeling more like himself again, allowing the smoke to choke away her feminine smell. "And you thought that you would save the family farm, huh? With a little vingt-en-un? Tell me something, Miss Charles. I've seen you here every night this week and haven't heard of any great success…Are you any good at gambling?"

She backed up another foot, her lips losing all trace of a smile, screwing up in distaste. "I'm learning. Besides, how hard can it be?"

"Hard."

Her eyes rolled so dramatically, Harry thought they would roll right off her perturbed face. "It's just cards."

"Just cards?" he scoffed. Harry spun the cigar around in his mouth, not stopping until he reached five rotations. "If you believe that, then you are destined to be as bad at it as your brother—"

"Charlie! Oh—" Behind them, a shrill voice stopped short at the entrance. Harry turned to find the lady's pudgy cousin standing outside the door. Even with the paltry street lights, Harry could make out the man's sweaty, ruddy complexion. He had the look that Harry saw night in and night out. Winning and losing money in quick succession presented like a rash on these young men. Their faces were always red and sickly when they eventually left the club.

Sir Reginald Coffer locked his hands behind his back, his eyes darting nervously to Harry. "Charlie! Where have you been? I'm in desperate need of your good luck." He cleared the panic from his throat. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. We haven't formally met, but I'm—"

Harry threw up his hand. "I know who you are, Sir Coffer. And I just met your charming"—he fixed a wry smile on the woman—"cousin. And now, it's time for both of you to leave."

Coffer's mouth drooped. "Leave?" he squeaked.

The woman stepped forward. "No worries, cousin. We're going to the docks."

"You're going home," Harry growled. "Don't make me drag you there, because I will. If you don't think I will find out the location, you sadly underestimate me."

She rounded on him. "And if you think I'm going to let you stop me from saving my family, then you sadly underestimate me ."

"Um…cousin," Coffer said. "Perhaps we should listen to the man—"

"Stay out of this, Reggie."

"Come get your cousin, Reggie ," Harry said, holding the woman's death stare. His anger and exasperation had dug themselves so deep that he had lost his bearings on what was going on around them. More people swept past, coming and going to the club, but he paid them no mind. This woman—this infuriating woman, this Charlie Waitrose —was going toe to toe with him, and she was barely out of the nursery. Her youth was the only answer to this madness. Only the incredibly young were foolish enough to believe they could do what they wanted—that they could bend the world to their whim. Well, Harry was one of the best to ever do it, and even he had his limitations. So fucking many of them.

That was why he didn't pay attention to the lone man stumbling down the street. That was why he didn't register that although the man was acting like he was drunk, he didn't have the telltale stink of alcohol on him. That was why Harry's instincts didn't kick in until it was too late, when the gun was already in the air and pointed right at him.

The last thing Harry Holmes remembered was Ruthie's mouth. It had opened into a giant circle, so perfectly round, to unleash a mighty scream. But he didn't hear it.

The gun went off, and the earth crumbled under his feet. His head hit the pavement. Later he would be grateful that it wasn't a knife. Harry detested being stabbed. All the touching…all the tousling…It was such a disgusting, intimate thing.