Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

" L ydia, you either need to calm down or get out of the carriage," Barbara, the twenty-three-year-old daughter of the Earl of Mauntell, stated, a sneer on her cupid's bow lips.

"I am just saying that this is preposterous," Lydia hissed, waving a beautifully gloved hand toward her. "Do you have any idea what could happen to you if you are found out?"

"If the police are to find me out, I shall simply say I am walking home from performing a play and was too tired to take off my costume before the journey home," Barbara answered in an exhausted tone.

"Now, hold up the mirror again, I need to make sure my cravat is properly tied," she added, sitting on the edge of her carriage seat. "I hear this gambling hell is quite posh, and if I can't get in, I have no chance of finding the owner and getting my father's debts settled."

"We may have only become friends as of late, Barbara, but I know enough to surmise that you have let your father use you as a crutch for too long," Lydia shot back defiantly, keeping the mirror on her lap.

When she spoke again her voice came out low, firm—a warning.

"This is not just some debt from a bank or the Crown, Barbara. This is a debt from an illegal gambling hell. They do not settle their unpaid debts in a civilized manner. I know you are accustomed to cleaning up your father's messes, but this is too much of a sacrifice for you to make. Do you think I am afraid of the law getting its hands on you? Oh, no, my darling, I am afraid of a man getting his hands on you. A man who will see you as a target, an invitation to ‘correct' you because of your attire. You and I both know this to be true."

Barbara did indeed know this, and she hated that she held that knowledge. It was one of the reasons she'd vowed to never marry—though her father had benefited from that decision greatly as well. Men were, in essence, a threat, and though they could be admired at times, they could never be trusted.

She felt the urge to be honest with her new friend, to open up about her dirty little secret, but then she banished it immediately. The truth was, this was not the first time Barbara had dressed up as a man, acting as her father's valet to settle other debts. It was a task she'd had to take on years ago, one she'd gotten rather good at. After she finished putting her costume together, Lydia would see just how incredible transforming her character could be.

"You and I both know what it is like to be crutches for our fathers, do we not?" Barbara asked smoothly, giving Lydia a level look. "Have you not made your own sacrifices for your father? Raising your sisters so he would not have to."

Lydia Knight grimaced at her friend, her cold stare accusing. But instead of answering, she rolled her eyes lifted the mirror in her lap, and pressed her lips together tightly.

"Thank you." Barbara sighed in relief, moving toward her reflection.

Although Barbara and Lydia's younger sister, Alice, had been friends for years, it wasn't until a few months ago that she and the older sister had given one another a real chance. They were both spinsters, yes, but that was as far as their similarities went. While Lydia was prim, proper, and the epitome of London etiquette, Barbara was a Bluebonnet and proudly so. She believed in manners to a certain extent and did adhere to some, but found most to be a rather vulgar display of chauvinistic power.

Barbara adjusted the tailored black shirt and vest until they were perfectly situated over her bound breasts, making sure that her usual ample chest was perfectly covered. She then perfected the bow in her cravat before picking up the artfully padded jacket—a design created by herself that would give her upper body a more manly look.

The coat had been a menace to perfect, needing not only to look real but also feel real in case anyone patted her on the back or squeezed her arm. She had experimented with several different types of fillers for her faux muscles and had finally perfected them by stuffing small bags full of ground flax seeds and then wrapping them several times in a thick, firm fabric. Sewing them into the perfect places had also been quite a feat.

After she had the jacket exactly how she wanted it, Barbara pulled her makeup and faux facial hair from her reticule. With proper shading and blending of slightly darker skin tones, she had discovered that she could make her angular face look fuller, more masculine, and with the help of the artfully crafted sideburns, everything about her but her eye color changed.

Bluebonnet Barbara did not look back at her in the mirror, but instead there sat Asland Porter, the faithful valet of the Earl of Mauntell. Glancing up from her reflection, Barbara saw that Lydia had finally conceded to look at her again, and her face was a mask of pure shock.

Unable to help herself, Barbara smirked, sat back in the seat, and spread her black leather-gloved hands—yet another illusion to make herself look more manly.

"I told you." She chuckled, before lowering her voice to Asland's surprising alto. "I am incredibly convincing when I want to be. I am handsome, though, aren't I?" she teased, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off her jacket. "For a lady."

"I am… I…" Lydia sputtered. Her eyes roamed up and down Barbara repeatedly, as if she could not believe what she saw was real. A blush bloomed in her cheeks as her mouth began to move a little as if she were trying to form a response. Finally, her eyes met Barbara's, and she whispered, "This is so dangerous."

Barbara's amused smile dropped, and she furrowed her brow as she looked at Lydia. "Which is why I need your secrecy on this, Lydia," she replied gravely. "If I did not need your help with this task, I would not have asked for it."

She sighed, then in a softer voice added, "Trust me, I do not want anyone other than me paying for my father's bad habits. And if this is too much for you, if you have changed your mind, let me know now. I will find another way out, but I have to know now. I cannot depend on you, waiting for you at the back door, and then come up short when I find you absent."

"I am in shock!" Lydia cried with a cough of a laugh, surprising her. "A lady is allowed to be in shock when her friend does such things, but I am not abandoning you, Barbara. I just needed to know that you are sure of what you are doing though. That you were aware of the risk. Now that I know that you do, I'll be waiting for you exactly where you told me. Have no fear of that. I just hope this works the way you need it to."

Lydia reached out her hand to Barbara, and the two women gave one another an affectionate squeeze. Lydia was not the only one who prayed this would work. Because the gambling hell was "underground," she would face multiple challenges to get to her goal.

She would not only have to pass as a man, but a man who would be deemed unsuspicious and backhanded enough to deserve to be there. Stating that she was the earl's valet would be a big boost, but even then, because she had not been there before, she might get turned away. Then, once she got in, she had to mingle, interact, and blend in with her fellow gentlemen to sluice out exactly who the owner was.

This task would be most difficult because the members of such an establishment were extremely protective of the owner, as he was the one who was doubling or depleting their fortunes depending on skill and luck. He was a cloaked holder of the great coin—the deity worshipped sometimes more than God himself, and men both looked up to and protected him.

But Barbara had no choice. Her alcoholic and gambling-addicted father's debt to the man was too high, and a demand for payment had already been sent twice. She had to get to the owner and plead for an extension, a payment plan, anything, before her father's poor habits destroyed their family.

"Go to the spot I told you about immediately and have the driver extinguish the left light as soon as you get there," Barbara commanded as the carriage pulled to a stop. "I'll be as quick as I can, but this will probably take some time."

"I'll be waiting for you," Lydia stated diplomatically, setting the fine but not too formal top hat atop Barbara's slick-backed hidden hair. "Be careful."

Barbara nodded, then looked in the mirror one more time to make sure the hat was properly placed. Satisfied she was ready, she gathered her breath and her courage and stepped out of the carriage. Praying to anyone who would listen that she would not be caught.

"Which one is he?" Ambrose asked, his crystal blue eyes scanning his crowded gambling hell.

"At the bar near the tap, my lord," Colter replied, carefully not using his master's proper title. Not here.

Though some members knew who Ambrose was by day, most did not, and he preferred to keep it that way. He knew all too well what happened to a desperate man when luck turned on him.

"The one in the top hat and dressed all in black."

As usual for a Friday evening, it was packed to the brim with fat-wallet members, willing to gamble it all away on the smaller chance they could walk away richer. It wasn't that they never won. Many a member of the secret gambling hell had walked away with a new fortune on a lucky night. Most of the time though, the house won, and therefore, Ambrose won.

Ambrose spotted the man easily—one of the very few who still wore their hats once inside the gambling hall. He had been in his office, going over the numbers of last evening with his accountant, when Colter appeared and informed him that a young gentleman was looking for him, stating he had a debt to settle. This piqued Ambrose's curiosity immediately, as all members knew that money was handled by the cashiers in the back left corner of the hell—whether it was to collect winnings or settle a debt.

Ambrose had asked Colter if anyone had given the gentleman—a Mister Asland, his valet discovered—any information on him and was pleased when he heard there was none, and that all members had directed the man to the cashiers. According to the rumors Colter had heard, the young man had been insisting on settling the debt with the owner personally on behalf of Josiah Hutcher. This, as Ambrose knew by experience, was rarely ever true or good, and often involved a bruised ego and a pistol.

Ambrose immediately knew of the debt. It was one of his most outstanding yet. Normally, all losses were settled at the end of the night. Shortly after the first notice was sent, at the latest. But the Earl of Mauntell had been sent three. Ambrose did not align himself with gangster-like violence, but he was quite serious about his money, so the repayment would have been… uncomfortable. Still, it should have been handled by the cashiers.

Now, with his eyes on "Mister Asland," recognition slammed through him so violently that a sharp chuckle escaped his chiseled lips. He quickly gathered himself though, his amusement at whom he saw quickly fading as he realized what she had done. What dangers she had put herself through to find the gambling hell owner. Agitation ate through his humor like acid, burning it away as his lips set into a grim line.

"Bring Mister Asland to my office, Colter," Ambrose demanded quietly, keeping his eyes on Josiah's daughter and friend of his little sister, Helena. "And do it discreetly. I don't want anyone noticing."

"Is everything well, my lord?" Colter asked, concern lacing his quiet, deep voice.

"It will be if we handle this right," Ambrose murmured, forcing himself to turn toward the hallway that led to his office. "Just get it done."

"This is a most appreciated moment, good sir," Barbara stated jovially in her best Asland voice. "It will do my master good to have this matter taken care of."

"It would have done him better if he had handled this properly," Colter retorted, bristling.

Barbara felt a shot of fear rush through her as she heard the anger in his voice. She—or Asland—had been told all night that it was most unwise to ask around for the owner and that all debts would be settled with the cashiers. Every time she ignored that advice and moved on to another group of men, she felt her chances of a successful mission dwindle further. Suspicion was being drawn, and it was her fault. She had massively underestimated the difficulty of getting to the owner and had not planned properly.

Feeling as if her luck and performance were about to run out, Barbara had just been ready to make for the door when she'd turned and nearly knocked her hat off when she ran into a massive, tall, wide man with nearly black eyes and matching hair. Intimidating was not the right word for this man—it was not strong enough.

"My name is Colter. The owner has requested your presence," the man stated, his voice so low and deep that Barbara almost missed what he said.

Colter said nothing else before turning away from her and walking toward the hallway entrance at the opposite end of the gaming pit. Her turn of good luck took her aback for a moment, but she had an act to perform, so she forced her feet to move into quick, confident steps beside him. She'd made her comment of thanks when they'd entered the quiet hall and was now wondering if being led away from the crowd was a good thing.

Colter stopped abruptly in front of the last door on the left and whirled around to look at her with accusatory eyes. She felt the color drain from her face, and as he looked at her so intensely, she wondered if she should just confess and plead for mercy. But then a pitying, almost disgusted smirk touched his lips as he let out a huff, and he shook his head as he put his hand on the doorknob.

"I don't know what made you so lucky tonight, but no one gets to do this ever," Colter told her. "I suggest that you keep everything you see and hear in this establishment, particularly this room, completely to yourself. Do you understand?"

Barbara swallowed hard, nearly choking on the dryness of her throat, and forced a raspy, "Yes, sir. Of course."

She stepped into the office, the door behind her closing with a quiet but resounding thud, and saw a tall, muscular gentleman standing with his back to her, his front facing the empty fireplace. There was something curiously familiar about the man. Dark, golden hair that fell just to the collar of his dark blue jacket. His stance, with one hand on his hip and the other braced on the hearth—was one that had towered over her before.

"No, no, no," Barbara said aloud, her thoughts bubbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "You? It cannot be you, it cannot!"

Ambrose Curtis, the Duke of Larsen, her friend Helena's overly protective older brother, and the best friend of her best friend's husband, turned away from the darkened fireplace. His eyes, a startling lapis lazuli, glittered with streaks of gold as he stared at her, his bottom lip trapped between his white teeth. By the pulse of red that formed beneath the surface of the delicate tissue, she guessed he'd bitten through it more than once since catching her in her act.

"If I was not so furious right now, I would be impressed by your bravery, Lady Barbara," Ambrose stated dryly. "Unfortunately, however, I am that furious."

"I can explain," Barbara said quickly, dropping her Asland act. This was bad. This was terribly, terribly bad.

"You had damned well better," Ambrose demanded, striding toward her with his finger raised.

She pulled her top hat off, then her sideburns. Her fingers moved to remove the jacket, but then she froze. He already knew who she was, why on earth was she undressing?

"Is Helena in on this?" he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I swear if you have her wrapped up in whatever this?—"

"That is enough, you pompous, arrogant hypocrite ," Barbara sneered, her fear over being caught turning into something else.

A growl escaped Ambrose's large chest and gnashed his teeth. But he held back the words on the tip of his tongue.

"I would never bring Helena into this," Barbara went on, her forest-green eyes staring unabashedly up into his blue ones. "This is my mess to clean up and mine alone. Now, I understand that you are upset. It is within reason, sir, but to pretend that what I am doing is more dangerous than what you are doing? Don't be a fool!"

"I am not a fool," he ground out, taking a step toward her, his head towering above hers.

It was a rare feat for a gentleman to be able to do so, seeing how she was taller than most. But for as tall as she was, Ambrose was taller by a good head and could easily make her feel small. That was if she would allow him to make her feel small. Which she would not.

"I am well aware of the dangers of running such an establishment, especially being a titled man," Ambrose went on. "That is why I take such great precautions! But we are not here to discuss my secrets, we are here to discuss yours. Tell me right now why you are here, attempting to pay off your father's debt instead of him, and why the bloody hell you thought it a good idea to do so dressed as a man. In a poorly made costume, I might add."

Barbara balked. Her costume had fooled dozens of other well-to-do business establishments throughout London! Poorly made her foot! She'd even fooled her family's solicitor once—a feat she was most proud of. She wanted to boast of this so terribly, to open her mouth and preach of her success. Instead, she wrinkled her nose in disgust, knowing that she would have to explain herself, and reorganized her thoughts until they were no longer scathing.

"My father is not well," Barbara explained, her voice tight. "He is not able to leave the house anymore. He does not even travel to Mauntell for his duties anymore. My Uncle Reuben has taken over."

It was not a lie. Josiah Hatcher's severe dependency on drink had caused many health issues in the past years. His eyes and skin were yellowing. His breathing was labored. Pain randomly shot through his body, and he vomited every day—usually due to over-imbibing. The physician stated it was his liver suffering.

Ambrose stared at her steadily, as if he knew the gross truth of her father's real condition, both physical and financial. But Barbara did not cower under his stare. Instead, she lifted her chin, smoothed the disgust from her face, and stared back at him coolly, challenging him to negate her story.

"Why does your father not send a real valet then?" Ambrose asked, his deep tone devoid of emotion.

There was a game being played here, Barbara could feel it. Ambrose was not one to ask useless questions. She knew him well enough to know that he was leading her somewhere. Pushing her delicately into obedience. It was not only Helena to whom Barbara had seen Ambrose do this, but his friends, Morgan, Ezra, and Duncan. As well as a couple of other gentlemen who had disappointed him while she had happened to be at their manor for tea with Helena. Lying, she realized, would be futile.

"The debt to your—" She paused, trying to find the polite word. " Establishment." Her eyes flicked up to his again, and he gave her a subtle nod and a smirk. She fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him and call him a brute.

"It is not the only debt my father owes," she went on with clipped, precise words. "I have trimmed our expenses the best I can to make our debts payable, and that includes letting go of unnecessary staff. I thought I was doing well keeping up with my father's debts, but he had kept yours hidden from me. I only found the notices by accident, and trust me, the row we had was probably heard by all surrounding houses."

At this, Ambrose let out a scoff, his body relaxing just a little. Barbara drew in another deep breath, finding the movement easier now, too, and pushed forward to finish.

"I do not care that you do this," she continued, waving a hand around the room. "As you can see, I am very good at keeping secrets, and I have no problem keeping this one for you. Let me find a way to settle my father's debt tonight, right now, and you will never see nor hear from my father or me again."

Ambrose's eyes hardened then, his dark blue eyes almost growing black as his golden brow furrowed. When he spoke his single-word reply, his tone sent a chill down her spine, and she almost took a step back toward the door.

"No."