Prologue

Autumn, 1851

S he first glimpsed him in the dark of night, looming out of a thick London fog.

They were in a narrow back alley, in the midst of a police raid. The light of wildly swinging lanterns flared for an instant across the most fascinating face she had ever seen—lean, dark, and aquiline. Strong, oddly beautiful bones beneath taut skin…a high forehead, black brows arched over deep-set eyes…full, sensual lips, a determined, slightly pointed chin.

Tall and lean, yet broad of shoulder, the man was both striking and handsome. When the mist swirled between them once more, she actually moved closer so that she could keep looking. He paid her no attention. He was gazing upward, at the roof of the tall building where the subject of the raid had fled, hotly pursued by several policeman and at least one gentleman.

She had only come here to provide protection for an old, somewhat na?ve friend and her companion, the entirely surprising Lady Grizelda. Native curiosity had something to do with her presence too, as had the entertainment value. She found it delightfully piquant that she, well known as a courtesan and a brothel madam, should be here in respectable, fashionable dress, escorting the daughters of a duke and a banker respectively, both in the unmistakable, gaudy garb of prostitutes. They imagined they were in disguise, which would not have saved them from the fury of the women whose territory they were invading.

All of which was great fun. But who the devil was this unusual and intriguing man?

He sprang upon her so suddenly that she barely saw him move. He slammed into her, and she staggered backward several paces. She would have fallen had his arms not held her up. Shocked, she could only stare as the body of a man tumbled past her eyes and crashed sickeningly onto the cobbles, almost exactly where she had stood the instant before. Surely the thief and murderer they had all come for.

The man who had saved her life blocked her view of the horrific sight. The commotion all around them seemed to fade. There was only this man who held her in his arms. He smelled of fresh soap and delicious spice, with just a hint of brandy on his breath, and other people’s tobacco on his clothes. He was all muscle and sinew and power against her, his steady, dark eyes profound and compelling. She could not look away. Excitement swept through her. Desire .

Slowly, his arms loosened. “I beg your pardon.”

Dear God . His voice, velvet soft and deep, melted her bones. Stunned, she could not even thank him with more than a slight inclination of the head in response to his graceful bow.

“Ah, you’ve met,” said Lady Grizelda mischievously. “Mrs. Constance Silver, Mr. Solomon Grey.”