Chapter 1

C hapter 1

London, England, 1803

Mama was in fine form tonight.

“Now, one glorious effort!” she cried out as she swept to the center of the stage, her jewelry glittering in the candlelight. “A daughter’s arm, fell monster, strikes this blow! Yes, first she strikes.”

The Theatre Royal at Drury Lane was generally alive with whispers and gossip during a performance, but tonight, Mama held her audience captive, breathless.

Including me. I’d attended dozens of her plays over the years, been subjected to endless rehearsals at home, but when Mama took the stage, all that fell away. She became someone else— something else.

I managed to pull my eyes from the stage to focus again on the playbill in my lap. My sketch of Mama stared back at me from the paper, shadowed and unfinished. I adjusted the shading, giving her face sharper angles, making her eyes dark, flashing pools.

“That is very good.” Elizabeth leaned over, eyes twinkling as she looked down at my drawing. “You should showcase your skills more often. The gentlemen would surely flock.”

I grinned. “What would I do with a flock of gentlemen? I’d hardly know what to do with one .”

She laughed. “I know what you do in your spare time, darling. I doubt a few fops and dandies are much of a challenge for Verity Travers.”

“Hush, both of you,” Lady Harwood whispered from behind us, thankfully saving me from responding.

Elizabeth sent me a look of amused long-suffering before we obliged her mother and turned back to the play.

“An injur’d daughter’s arm,” Mama declared, her voice echoing as she raised her dagger high, “sends thee devoted to th’ infernal gods.”

In one thrilling movement—practiced dozens of times—she struck Dionysius with the dagger. The actor made a great show of dying, protesting his death with a villain’s disbelief. But I watched my mother, the face I knew so well. It was a fascinating dichotomy. To me, she was simply Mama. But to all else in the theatre tonight, she was the ethereal Trinity Travers, the greatest tragedienne of her age, whose talent made ladies swoon and gentlemen collapse into fits.

I tore my eyes from the stage, and my pencil flew across the paper, filling in the missing details. The sharp point of the dagger, the shadows of Mama’s draped dress. I darkened her ebony hair, the only physical trait I’d received from her. It was unfortunate because while I liked my hair, a generous figure like Mama’s might have been the better inheritance.

When Mama gave her final bows, Drury Lane trembled from the thunderous applause. She curtsied graciously, catching my eye and sending me a mischievous wink. My mouth twitched to one side. Some girls had mothers who embroidered pillows or did charity work. Mine put herself on full display for the entire ton every Season.

The actors retreated from the stage as the curtains descended, and the crowd broke into a thousand conversations.

“Oh, she is unparalleled!” Lady Harwood exclaimed as we gathered our things. “I declare, Miss Travers, your mother is the finest actress I’ve ever seen. I cannot imagine a more expressive Euphrasia.”

“Indeed,” I said with a hidden smile. Lady Harwood needn’t know that Mama was not particularly fond of the role of Euphrasia. If she had her choice, she would perform Lady Macbeth every evening. Anything less than Shakespeare was aggravating.

Sir Reginald—Elizabeth’s father, who had snored through the entire third act and now looked a bit bleary-eyed—led us out into the corridor and down the stairs.

“Should you like to greet Mama?” I offered, facing the inevitable head-on. “I imagine she would be pleased to see you again.”

“Oh, not tonight.” Lady Harwood looked flustered at the idea. Flustered . And she the wife of a baronet. “I daresay she is tired after such a performance. No, I shall save my compliments until the unveiling party in a few days. Your mother is coming, isn’t she?”

“You have asked Verity that three times tonight, Mother,” Elizabeth said with some exasperation.

Lady Harwood sniffed. “I just want to be sure.”

“Mama is coming,” I reassured her. “And I would not miss it for the world. The Woman in Red is a favorite of mine, though I’ve seen only prints.”

Lady Harwood had curated an expansive art collection over the years, which I had been awed by in the past, but her newest acquisition was unmatched in reputation— The Woman in Red by Giuseppe Romano. It was the most famous of Romano’s paintings and had surely cost Sir Reginald a pretty penny. Though he had little interest in art himself, he could not resist owning such an unmistakable symbol of wealth and status. Lady Harwood had organized a dinner party to unveil the painting. I counted myself fortunate to have been invited.

“Oh, it is stunning, my dear.” Lady Harwood’s eyes were bright. “There is truly nothing like it in all the world.”

“Come, it is late.” Sir Reginald herded us through the saloon, though his eyes crinkled as he regarded his wife fondly.

As we crossed the long saloon, enormous Doric columns presiding over the open space, I found myself glancing to my right. I didn’t know why—it had been more than two years since my brother, Jack, had last stood guard there, hired by Drury Lane in his capacity as a Bow Street officer to watch for pickpockets. I should have been used to his absence.

I frowned when I saw who stood in Jack’s place—a great beef of a man, whose shrewd eyes searched the crowd. Nettleton, if I remembered right. I pressed my lips together, pulling my eyes away.

The cool April air enveloped us as we left the Theatre Royal, and I gratefully inhaled a deep breath. The crowd around us dispersed, escorts helping glittering ladies into carriages. Sir Reginald looked about for his own equipage and sighed when he spotted it two blocks down Drury Lane.

“A bit of a walk, I’m afraid,” he said, extending his arm to his wife.

She barely acknowledged him, still lost in the glow that came from a shared experience of excellence. “Yes, yes,” she said distantly.

Elizabeth linked arms with me as we trailed behind her parents, dim moonlight falling upon us. “Thank you for coming tonight,” she said. “The company would have been terribly dull without you.”

I laughed. “You needn’t worry about wounding my sensibilities, Elizabeth. I know I was a replacement for the guest you truly desired. Let us hope your Lord Blakely recovers from his cold quickly.”

Elizabeth smiled, and it reminded me again why I was grateful to have her as a friend. Not because her smile lit up beautiful features, so lauded by the gossip papers upon her recent engagement, but because of the inherent goodness that shone there. I had yet to meet her intended, the Earl of Blakely, but I certainly had my doubts about his deserving her. I could only hope he was a better match for her than that flighty Mr. Hall she’d had her heart set on last spring.

“Of course I am sad he is ill,” she said, “but I am also glad you came. It has been so long since I’ve seen you.”

“ You are to blame for that.” I tapped her arm. “Though I suppose traveling with your aunt was certainly a more pleasant prospect than wintering in Town.”

Elizabeth’s steps faltered. “Y-yes,” she said, forcing a laugh. “It is entirely my fault. But now that I am returned, you will see so much of me that you shall wish me gone again.”

“Quite likely,” I said. “I do find old friends rather irritating.”

We laughed together as we crossed the intersection, still following behind Lady Harwood and Sir Reginald. In truth, I’d been surprised by Lady Harwood’s invitation to join them tonight—I was far beneath the notice of a baronet’s wife. After all, an actress’s daughter was not usually a highly sought-after social companion, and my shadowy parentage lowered my prospects even more, though Lady Harwood did not know of my true background. But Elizabeth’s friendship with me must have held more sway than I’d realized.

The street was full of carriages, and the Harwoods’ coachman turned onto a quieter lane ahead to escape the bustle. We went after it, the noise and blazing lights of the theatre fading behind us. It seemed silly to allow the Harwoods to see me home—I could easily walk there myself in the space of five minutes—but Lady Harwood was all propriety. I did not want to shock her by suggesting I make my way back alone.

“Spare a penny?” A beggar limped out of the shadows ahead of us, dirty hand outstretched before him. Moonlight broke over his features just enough to make out hooded eyes, a beak of a nose, and a skinny neck.

Lady Harwood stepped back, grasping her husband’s arm.

Sir Reginald eyed the beggar cautiously. “I am sorry, my good fellow,” he said. “I haven’t any coins on me at present.”

“Just a farthin’,” the man pressed.

Beggars were plentiful in Covent Garden—we’d seen half a dozen when we’d entered the theatre earlier that evening—and yet, in this brief moment, a sudden awareness sharpened inside me. Jack called it instinct, Grandmama my sixth sense. I had no exact word for this twisting in my gut, but I knew I trusted it. The only time I’d ignored the feeling, I’d regretted it dearly.

Sir Reginald began to steer Lady Harwood around the man. “Good night,” he said pointedly, continuing toward his waiting coach.

But the beggar stepped to block their path.

And suddenly, his hand wasn’t empty.

Moonlight glinted off a pistol pointed directly at Sir Reginald. My heart stilled in my chest, and my disbelieving eyes traveled from the pistol to the beggar’s face, harsh and cold.

“Give it here,” he hissed. “All your lurries. Jewels, money, everythin’.”

Elizabeth clutched my arm, her face white. My mouth went dry, and I could not make myself move, as though I had lead in every limb. It seemed a hazy impossibility, more like a scene from the Greek play we’d just left than reality. This man could not truly be robbing us here, a stone’s throw from the theatre. Heavens, Bow Street office itself was only one street over.

“Hurry,” the man snapped. “No screamin’ now, or you’ll not see daylight.”

The Harwoods’ carriage was still ahead, too far to see what was happening. I threw a desperate glance behind me. Another group of playgoers was just up the street. I could ignore the thief’s warning and scream, call for help. But I discarded that plan immediately. I might frighten him and provoke his twitchy trigger finger.

Lady Harwood let loose a small squeak, and the pistol turned to her.

Sir Reginald stepped in front of his wife, raising his hands. “Please,” he managed, his voice hoarse. He glanced back at Elizabeth and me. “Do as he says.”

Lady Harwood and Elizabeth obeyed, their shaking hands unclasping bracelets and necklaces while Sir Reginald gave up a gold ring and cravat pin. But I stood stock still, hands gripping my reticule. My reticule, which contained a comb, hair pins, a handkerchief, my playbill—and a tiny pistol.

Jack had gifted it to me when I was sixteen. “You never know when you might find yourself in a spot of trouble,” he’d said, handing me the pistol with an inlaid pearl handle. Perfect for a lady. If a lady were to need a pistol, that was.

He had taught me how to shoot, and I had practiced anytime I could, becoming rather a decent markswoman. I’d taken the pistol everywhere with me since then, always tucked into my reticule. I’d had it with me that night three months ago—when I had needed it most. The night everything had changed.

I shoved the memory away. I had to think logically. I could not possibly load and aim my pistol with the man already pointing his at Lady Harwood. The safest thing to do was to follow his instructions. Better to lose a few trinkets than our lives.

Still, I was loath to give up my weapon. While the thief was leering at Elizabeth, I quickly slipped my reticule behind the shawl draped around my arms. Just in time, as he jerked his pistol toward me in the next moment.

“You, lady.” He stepped closer to me, weathered skin contrasting with his eyes, young and alert. “Get on with it.”

I raised my trembling hands to remove my pearl earrings—the only things of value I had on my person—and dropped them into his ragged little sack, heavy with our belongings.

Satisfied I was complying, he focused again on Elizabeth. “The bag,” he insisted, voice sharp as broken glass. He glanced up and down the street, shifting his weight uneasily.

Elizabeth still had her reticule on her wrist. She grasped it with her free hand, eyes wide. “No,” she stammered. “Please, you mustn’t.”

The man moved closer, the pistol’s barrel not a foot from her chest.

“Elizabeth.” Sir Reginald tensed, looking ready to throw himself in front of his daughter. “Give it to him.”

She stood frozen, then inexplicably shot me a desperate look. But there was nothing I could do to help her.

“It is all right,” I managed. “Do as he says.”

The man lost his patience. He reached forward and tore the reticule from Elizabeth’s wrist. She stifled a yelp, clutching her arm. He stuffed the reticule inside his sack as he faced Sir Reginald.

“There, you have everything,” Sir Reginald said. “Let us—”

Faster than I thought possible, the thief smashed Sir Reginald alongside the head with the handle of his pistol. The baronet staggered back and fell to the cobblestone street, Lady Harwood’s scream echoing in my ears.

The thief bounded away, disappearing down the dark alley.

Shock charged through me, followed closely by anger—furious, pounding anger. Lady Harwood dropped to her knees beside her husband, holding his shoulder, sobbing. I stared. He’d attacked Sir Reginald. Right here on the street.

I took a step after the thief.

Stop , the voice of caution in my mind said. But I could barely hear it over the rushing in my ears. Why hadn’t he just taken our valuables and fled? I would have let him. There had been no point in confronting him when he’d had the upper hand.

But now.

Now, how could I possibly stand by while such a fetid curse of a man made his escape?

I spun to Elizabeth, my body moving before I even realized I’d made a decision. She stood with both hands pressed to her mouth in unadulterated shock as she gaped at her father bleeding on the street. “Elizabeth.” I grasped her shoulders. “Run to the theatre. There’s a Bow Street Runner inside. He will help.”

Elizabeth shook her head, dazed. “I—”

“Go now!” I crouched by Lady Harwood kneeling beside her husband in the street. He was moaning, a gaping cut on his brow seeping blood onto the stones beneath him. I tore open my reticule and found my handkerchief. Behind me, I could hear Elizabeth’s footsteps running back toward the theatre.

“Help!” she shouted. “Help!”

“Put pressure on the wound,” I ordered Lady Harwood, showing her how to press the handkerchief against Sir Reginald’s forehead. “Hold it there until help arrives.”

“Where are you going?” she cried, but I did not answer as I darted down the alley.

After the thief.

Fool , I said to myself. Idiot. Clodhead . Why was I doing this? I knew how this ended. I’d been here before.

But I kept running, convincing myself that this time would be different. I would not try to apprehend the man. That would be foolishness incarnate. No, I would follow him until he thought himself safe. I would discover his hiding hole, whatever dank place he called home, and return with an officer.

I pulled my pistol from my reticule as I ran, though I had no intention of firing it tonight. I certainly couldn’t load it as I dashed down an alleyway. However, if the thief surprised me, he would not know it was empty.

The shadows of the buildings obscured all but the center of the alley, bright with moonlight. The thief could be hiding, but I doubted it. Escape was his aim. But to where?

I came to an intersection and paused, keeping to the shadows, my chest heaving, my unloaded pistol at the ready. Where had he gone?

Then I heard retreating footsteps to my left. A figure escaped toward the light of another street.

I went after him, acting on instinct alone. All I could feel was the fire in my chest, the burning indignation that had never led me anywhere good. I focused on the darting shadow even as I hid within the dark angles of the walls, taking light steps and quick, shallow breaths, as Jack had taught me.

The thief threw a harried glance over his shoulder, but he didn’t see me. Not that he would have felt particularly threatened even if he had seen me. I had neither Mama’s statuesque height nor Jack’s intimidating brawn.

The thief reached the next street and plunged across, causing a jarvey to shout and draw up his horses. He entered the alley directly across and disappeared once again. I dashed into the street, determined not to lose—

A blurred figure at the corner of my eye, moving fast.

Then I slammed into something solid as a stone wall.