Chapter 1

Chapter One

The Olympic Theatre

Wych Street, Drury Lane

Theodore Chance dropped into the red velvet chair in a private box at the Olympic Theatre. Madame Vestris, the principal actress and manager, had addressed the audience, and her company of actors had finished singing the verse and chorus of "God save the King!"

Theo had not come to watch Madame Vestris don breeches and make a parody of a classical play, or to laugh until his sides hurt. He had come to prove a point to his estranged uncle, the Earl of Berridge. Despite being shot in his shoulder by a thug mere weeks ago, Theo was still a man to fear.

As the gaslights dimmed and the burgundy curtains parted for the first act, his sister-in-law Naomi tapped his shoulder. "Most men are here to watch the famed Miss Baker perform, though I hear she only has eyes for you."

Theo shot his brother a questioning glare. Aramis had been gossiping to his wife again. He was obsessed with the woman, forever whispering in her ear, always touching her hand. If a hard-hearted rogue like Aramis could be tamed, all bachelors were doomed.

"As I'm sure Aramis told you, I have taken a vow of chastity." If Theo avoided romantic entanglements, he could not fall into a matchmaker's trap. "While Miss Baker invited me to dine with her tonight, I came only to humiliate our uncle and spend time with beloved family."

Aramis snorted. "How long do you mean to keep up this charade?"

"Charade?" Theo clutched his chest as if mortally wounded.

"The pretence that you've abandoned your roguish ways. Your moniker is the King of Hearts, not Virtuous Victor. Avoiding women won't prevent destiny from knocking on your door."

"Destiny deems I shall die a bachelor."

A shiver chased down Theo's spine. Over the course of a few short months, three of his siblings had married. He was next in line. Doubtless fate lurked in the shadows, gripping a noose, ready to string him up by the proverbials .

"Look what happened to us. We didn't expect to fall in love." Naomi stared at Aramis as if he were a god amongst men. A curious combination of lust and longing encompassed them like a halo of gold. "We never believed we could be so happy. When you meet the right person, Theo, you will know true love, too."

Theo turned his attention to the stage and feigned interest.

He would rather rot in hell than trust a woman .

Bitter thoughts of Lucille Bowman clawed their way out of the dirt and into his heart. Painful memories were never truly buried. They lay like the undead in the darkness, waiting to grab a man by the ankle and drag him to his doom.

Being his usual intuitive self, Aramis was quick to grasp the problem. "Lucille Bowman was not the right woman for you. She toyed with your affections to frighten her father. She kept you dangling like a puppet. You were never good enough. You're not heir to a title."

The words hit hard—no man wished to think himself inadequate—though Theo kept his arrogant mask in place. "Don't spare my feelings. You may as well twist the blade and sever an artery."

"I'm your brother. I'll not serve the truth like a sweet treat on a lace doily. You were never in love with her. The sooner you realise that the better your life will be."

The urge to curse the woman stung like acid on his tongue. Deceit was a sin he could not tolerate. But he was the King of Hearts. Should he not be a man of great empathy? Should he not have an emotional intelligence above that of other mortals?

Perhaps he needed a different moniker.

Engaging with one's heart made a man weak.

He should be the King of Loathing. The King of Tragedies.

"What about Miss Darrow?" Naomi said above the crowd's sudden shriek of laughter when a donkey in a periwig appeared on stage. "Aramis said she came to Fortune's Den looking for you last night, though she wouldn't say why. Only a woman driven by an obsession would risk visiting a gaming hell after dark. "

Mention of the modiste had Theo grumbling under his breath.

Miss Darrow was obsessed, but not with him.

"Perhaps she came to offer an apology. She lied to me. She made me coffee and flirted outrageously, all in the name of deception."

It was partly Miss Darrow's fault he got shot outside her shop. He had gone to the dressmaker's to chaperone his sister, Delphine. Unbeknownst to him, she wasn't there for a gown fitting. It was a ruse arranged by Miss Darrow so Delphine could meet a man in the yard.

Miss Darrow had used him and treated him like a fool. She was no different to Lady Lucille. They were both conniving cats.

"Miss Darrow merely came to her client's aid," Naomi said, showing her unwavering support for womanhood. "Surely the days spent nursing you are reparation enough. Besides, everything worked out perfectly in the end. Were it not for Miss Darrow's intervention, Delphine would never have met her husband."

Seeing Delphine happy and in love was indeed a blessing.

"Nothing pleases me more than knowing Delphine is content." Theo rubbed his wounded shoulder and winced. Perhaps he should be grateful he'd gained a scar. It did add a certain ruggedness to his physique. "But being shot makes me look weak. Every coxcomb drunk on arak will think he has the strength to pummel me now."

Aramis found the notion amusing. "You could do with honing your pugilistic skills. Admit nothing brings you greater pleasure than thrashing a few arrogant lords. We could put you in the fighting pit and take bets on the outcome."

It was no laughing matter. Another attack was imminent. He could feel it in his blood. This time, he would be prepared.

"I shall consider fighting in the pit once I've won our current wager." Theo met his brother's gaze, and they both grinned.

Their latest bet involved Miss Darrow.

Miss Darrow had helped nurse him back to health as part of her penance. She'd closed her shop and spent hours at his bedside while he recuperated at Mile End—now his sister's marital home. Yet he'd often wondered if the modiste had another reason for wanting to leave town. Throughout her vigil, she was never without her mysterious wooden box.

You hug that sewing box like it's a beloved pet.

These threads are expensive.

Who in their right mind would steal haberdashery?

You'd be surprised.

One might ask why a simple sewing box came with a small gold key. Or why the modiste wore it on a red ribbon fastened around her neck. When feigning sleep, he was certain Miss Darrow had retrieved something from her bodice and buried it beneath the threads.

It was a puzzle he longed to unravel.

So, in an act of retribution, he stole the box and hid it in his bedchamber at Fortune's Den. The longer he kept it, the closer he came to winning the wager.

Not that he cared about the prize. Toying with Miss Darrow was part of his recuperation. A means to heal his wounded pride. Indeed, he would make sure the modiste never lied to him again .

"What made you think your uncle would attend the theatre tonight?" Naomi glanced into the auditorium. The crowd's laughter proved contagious, and she chuckled, too. "Would he not have arrived in time for the performance?"

"The aristocracy likes to make a statement," Aramis said, settling his wife's gloved hand on his thigh. "They come to be seen, not to watch Madame Vestris and her amusing burlesques."

Excitement coursed through Theo's veins. He lived to wipe the smile off Berridge's face. "And when he finds us in his private box, this horde will watch the pompous Earl of Berridge reduced to a laughingstock."

Berridge had been goading the men at White's to make bets as to which one of Theo's brothers would die first. It didn't matter that Theo had been hit with the lead ball. The fact a fool had found the courage to fire weakened his family's defences.

They did not have to wait long for the battle to begin.

Yet it was not the pathetic Earl of Berridge who barged into the theatre box, eager to cause a scene. It was the devious Miss Darrow.

"Good evening, Mr Chance." Swathed in a pink satin cloak, the lady projected an air of confidence while pinning Theo to his seat with her intense green gaze. "You're a hard man to find."

Damnation!

How the devil had she known he was at the theatre?

"Missing me already, Miss Darrow?" He cursed inwardly, vexed by the prospect of being publicly berated by a shrew. "I should think you've seen enough of me to last a lifetime."

As part of her nursing duties, she had changed his bandages and mopped his brow. He'd drawn the line at a bed bath. He'd not give the woman the satisfaction of knowing her touch roused a cockstand.

The lady whipped back her hood, revealing waves of lustrous red hair—the mark of a vixen. "I prefer your temper to your teasing, sir. You know why I'm here. After all I have done for you, I demand you stop treating me like a fool."

Miss Darrow had the devil's cheek. She had kept him talking in the shop, offering her little witticisms while Delphine conducted an illicit encounter in the yard. Doubtless she giggled at his naivety every time she escaped to the fitting room.

Arching a brow, he attempted to look bewildered. "Forgive me if I have given you the wrong impression." He turned to Aramis, keen to make this woman pay for every wicked lie she'd told. "Nurses often become infatuated with their patients. It's a common malady. As you can see, poor Miss Darrow is desperate for my attention."

Mischief—the harmful kind—swirled in Miss Darrow's stormy green eyes. "Only a woman lacking in self-respect would seek the company of a libertine."

Theo clasped his injured shoulder. The damn thing still pained him. "You wound me, madam. Though it would seem we have some things in common. Arranging secret meetings and lying to hide your deception are the traits of a scoundrel."

A sly smile touched her lips, lips he'd admired before discovering they belonged to a devil. "You make an excellent point, sir." She slipped the gold button on her cloak, drew the garment from around her shoulders and draped it over the empty seat beside him. "Perhaps keeping you company is the best way to achieve my goal. "

Aramis and Naomi grinned. Apparently, they found the situation more entertaining than the farce on stage.

"I don't recall inviting you to sit," Theo said when the lady gathered her skirts and settled into the plush velvet chair.

Miss Darrow leaned closer, filling his nostrils with the sweet scent of jasmine. "As you said, I am suffering from a dreadful malady. An obsession with my patient. An addiction I cannot control." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I mean to hound you night and day until you give me what I want."

Oh, he would give her what she wanted, and he wasn't referring to the silly sewing box. Despite trying to avoid staring at her soft breasts, pressed enticingly against the fashionable pink gown, his traitorous gaze dipped.

Merciful Lord!

This woman would make a monk question his vows.

Thankfully, her perfidious character lessened her appeal.

"I know what you want," he uttered, draping a languid arm over the rail of her chair. "But I have taken a vow of celibacy and have no plans to make love to any woman, least of all you."

Her eyes blazed. "No. The only thing you make love to is your own reflection. I suspect there's an enormous mirror at the foot of your bed, littered with smudge marks where you've practised kissing."

A chuckle burst from Aramis' lips, though he quickly averted his gaze to the stage when Naomi nudged him.

"You'll never know, Miss Darrow." Theo's blood simmered with the need to prove a point. "Be assured, I'm no amateur when it comes to kissing." He could have the lady panting in seconds .

The flash of curiosity in her eyes accompanied her satisfied grin. "The truth is, Mr Chance, I know exactly what you keep in your bedchamber at Fortune's Den."

It was a lie. Women weren't permitted inside the gaming hell, let alone given leave to search their private rooms. "Feel free to enlighten me." This was another attempt at manipulation, a common stratagem of the fairer sex.

"There's a large gilt mirror propped against the wall," she remarked casually, diverting her attention from him to the unfolding farce on stage.

"Most people keep such an object in their chamber."

"The entire room is painted midnight blue. I suspect your carved ebony bed came from France. The opulent rug is Persian."

What the devil!

His pulse rose a notch.

The minx excelled at this game.

"No doubt Delphine has been exercising her tongue again." What had his sister said about him? Perhaps she had spoken of his selfless deeds, the kind gestures that made a man look feeble. "They say a woman shares her deepest secrets with her modiste."

The lady looked at him, the shadow of an unknown burden dulling her eyes. "Yes, you'd be surprised what information people entrust to a stranger. I admit, Delphine told me your room was blue when we spoke about the colour of her favourite gown."

While Miss Darrow's confession brought a triumphant smile to his lips, a subtle undercurrent of disappointment left him perplexed.

Was it wrong to wish she had been a more formidable adversary? Why did he enjoy these verbal tussles? What was it he liked about this cat-and-mouse game?

"And I'm quite certain I mentioned my bed during my convalescence," he said. Having been force-fed opium by the doctor, he'd been drowsy at the time and could have told her anything. "That's how you know it's ebony."

"Perhaps." There was a playful glint in her eyes as she proceeded to taunt him with facts. "You might wonder how I know you sleep with your right leg out of the bedsheets or that the third board from the door creaks."

His heart leapt a little.

But he firmed his jaw and studied her intently.

"The cufflink box on your chest of drawers is made of leather and brass," she continued, almost gloating. "You possess every cologne one might purchase from Floris, though you favour sandalwood and clove. You keep an empty bottle on the bottom shelf of your armoire." A sensual sigh breezed from her lips. "Everything smells of you."

Theo straightened. The lady had his undivided attention, but the constant howling from the audience made it hard to think. "What else do you know about me?" He prayed Miss Darrow had mystical abilities because the alternative meant she had been in his room.

Impossible.

"You keep a tincture of opium on your nightstand, though your desire to prove you're as strong as your brothers prevents you from taking the tiniest drop. Even when your shoulder pains you, which it does most nights."

Devil take it. He must have spouted nonsense in his sleep. No wonder she'd barely left his bedside. She'd been rubbing her hands in glee while he mumbled like a drunken fool at the fair .

"You feel safe in the dark," she added.

The comment had him jumping out of his seat.

He had not uttered those words to a living soul.

"Excuse us for a moment." He didn't look at Aramis as his fingers encircled Miss Darrow's upper arm. The softness of her skin sent an unexpected surge of awareness coursing through him. Damn the woman. Something about her stirred a complex mix of emotions. Evidently, the line between desire and disdain was perilously thin. "This conversation demands discretion."

He guided Miss Darrow into the candlelit hall and yanked the curtains closed. Never had he felt so exposed.

"How did you arrive at that conclusion?" He drove her back against the wall and braced his hands above her head. She was at his mercy now. "It's certainly not something I would say."

Perhaps she was a mystic who could see into a man's soul.

Maybe she had read the leaves in his teacup.

She blinked rapidly. "It was merely an observation. I dress people for a living. There's a vast difference between the person they present to the world and the one they keep hidden."

"You dress women, Miss Darrow. Men are a species unto their own." Yet he wondered what the complex knot in his cravat and his penchant for new coats said about him.

"That's not true." She swallowed hard. Clearly, his proximity unnerved her. "An alluring gown might be a lady's weapon of choice. Men choose arrogance. Both serve the same purpose."

"Is that why you've come armed to the teeth tonight?" Lured by the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, his errant gaze skimmed the neckline of her gown. "Did you hope your pretty countenance would leave me defenceless? That you would force me to surrender and admit I have your beloved box?"

"Do you have it?" Her sudden alertness came as no surprise, though the flicker of hope in her eyes tugged at his conscience. "Tell me, Mr Chance. I have been mindless with worry."

"Over spools of expensive threads?" It made no sense. She was hiding something, though he'd be damned if he knew what. After picking the lock on the box, he'd found nothing valuable.

"It's a family heirloom."

Theo knew enough about antiquities to know that was another lie. He'd get the truth from this woman if it killed him.

"Then one wonders why you were careless enough to lose it."

"I didn't lose the box." A fire ignited in her eyes, and accusations flew like hot sparks from her tongue. "You stole it from under my nose. You crept into my room while I slept. It was on my nightstand when I went to bed and was gone the next morning."

Guilt weighed heavily in his chest.

Yes, he wanted to keep the box and win his wager with Aramis. He wanted to punish Miss Darrow for making him coffee and smiling at him over the top of his newspaper. Both were devious tactics she'd used to cover her tracks.

"Have you searched the rooms at Mile End? Have you questioned the staff? One of them may have moved it."

"With your sister's permission, I scoured every room."

Keen to drag a confession from her lips, he said, "If it makes you feel better, I shall buy you a new box. Pick whatever threads you need and send the bill to Fortune's Den. Choose something expensive. It's the least I can do."

She shook her head and seized his gold waistcoat in her fist, gasping like a drowning sailor struggling against the tide. "You have my box. I know you do. You'll give it to me tonight, or I shall sneak into your room at Fortune's Den and shoot your good shoulder."

While he should demand to know how she planned to enter the club without a key, the threat of violence intrigued him.

"So the vixen breaks cover and bares her teeth."

"Had you been civil, we might have joked about this over a bottle of claret and a game of piquet. As it is, you force me down a road I had hoped to avoid. I mean to reclaim my box, Mr Chance, by wicked means if necessary. "

He wasn't the least bit fazed. "Challenge accepted. You sound like my kind of scoundrel, Miss Darrow, and I am more than willing to play your game."

Indeed, he could not recall when he'd last felt the potent thrum of excitement coursing through his veins. Any hopes of outwitting her evaporated when he noticed three people appear at the end of the long corridor.

The popinjay leading two ladies towards them was not the Earl of Berridge but his only son and heir, Viscount Wrotham—Theo's inept cousin. The beauty gripping his arm was none other than Lady Lucille Bowman. The deceitful wretch who'd refused Theo's suit so she might marry the heir to an earldom.

Panic ensued.

He could handle Wrotham, but the sight of the woman who had tricked him brought bile to his throat. His arrogance, once a sturdy coat of armour, had taken too many hits to be effective.

"Are you well, Mr Chance?" Miss Darrow's worried tone jolted Theo back to the present. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

She was still gripping his waistcoat in her dainty hand, still standing so close they looked like lovers. That's when he realised there was a way to bolster his defences. A way to slake his curiosity, too.

"Shall we make a trade, Miss Darrow?"

"A trade?"

"I shall tell you where you can find your box." Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder, he held Miss Darrow's gaze. Her eyes had a tranquil allure, like a verdant meadow beneath the moon's soft glow. "In exchange, I have a demand of my own."

Miss Darrow was near breathless when she said, "What could you possibly want from a lowly modiste, Mr Chance?"

He smiled to himself.

"A kiss, Miss Darrow. That's what I want from you."