Chapter 14

“You know,”hissed Kit, tugging at the new waistcoat as they waited in the receiving line, “when this plan was proposed, some people might’ve thought it’d be me in the gown.”

“Dinnae be silly,” fluttered Bull from behind his fan. “I doubt even ye would look as fabulous as I do tonight.”

Unable to stop herself, Kit snorted, a smile twisting one corner of her lips. “If this were played upon a stage now, I would condemn it as improbably fiction.”

“What?” Bull sent her a scowl.

“It’s a line from Twelfth Night. Shakespeare?” Kit absentmindedly ran her fingers over the delicate teal embroidery of the waistcoat, which did nothing to help calm her nerves. “It just means sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Darling, there’s a bit of truth in all fiction,” Bull drawled, fluttering his fan, “and a bit of fiction in all truths. That’s what makes life exciting. And stop fussing.” He snapped the fan closed, smacked her shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Ye look magnificent, and ye cannae afford to stand out as uncomfortable in our natural surroundings.”

The last was a reminder that they were supposed to be a pair of siblings from the same level of Society as the guests around them. To be fair, Kit and Bull were children of an earl and a duke, respectively…just from the wrong side of the blanket, as it were.

And if the people attending the Bonkinbone betrothal ball discovered that, or that they were planning to rob their host, they’d be in trouble.

Kit swallowed and lowered her hand from the silk waistcoat, which admittedly was magnificent. In a short amount of time, Bull had managed a full set of evening dress for her, subtle and beautifully made, with only a hint of the threatened teal in the embroidery of the waistcoat.

But for himself…

To be fair, she’d seen the outrageous way Bull preferred to dress normally, and tonight he was far more subdued. He was, however, dressed rather differently than he did on a daily basis.

He was, not to beat about the bush, wearing a gown.

Granted, it was a beautiful gown, in a shade of pale aqua which went well with his coloring, his figure maintained and partially created by elaborate corsetry Kit herself had never worn. Bull went in where he normally went out, and rather more out in the bust region than the lad had ever expected in his life.

Kit wondered if he knew someone like Evie to ask for help in this department, because while it was common to see men dressed as women on stage, Kit had never seen a costume quite so effective.

She herself had visited the theater district to acquire the false hair braided into Bull’s natural auburn hair, agreeing that the two of them had hair a similar enough color to pass as siblings. Years of helping Mother with her hair meant that Kit had been the obvious choice to sit with Bull for almost two hours today, styling and pinning his elegant coiffure into place.

“Titsworth, I dinnae ken how ladies can stand such torture,” the lad had groused, as the stone-faced butler delivered them tea. “Have ye ever seen anything so ridiculous?”

To Kit’s surprise, the butler had stepped back and seemed to truly examine Bull in the mirror. Then Titsworth’s gaze traveled to Kit’s hair—the curls waving free around her shoulders the way Thorne liked them, signaling her femininity to the world.

Then the older man had sighed and gently patted his own hair, releasing a cloud of the powder he wore to make himself look older. “I suppose, young master Bull, that we must all be comfortable in how we look, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us.”

Bull had gaped at the butler’s reflection. “That is surprisingly insightful, and rather helpful, Titsworth, thank ye.”

Kit’s smile had been genuine. “Do you need help making it down the stairs, Titsworth? I worry about your aged bones.”

The older man had bowed stiffly, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, my lady, for your concern for my infirmities. I shall endeavor to persevere.” His hobble was more pronounced on the way out than the way in.

But that my lady had stuck in Kit’s mind as she returned to wrestling Bull’s disguise into place.

Thorne’s butler had been the one to hire her, albeit as a footman. There’d been no formal announcement after Thorne discovered her gender.

After all, what was there to say? “Och, by the by, inform the staff my valet actually owns a magnificent—if smallish—pair of tits, and I’m boinking her nightly. Sometimes afternoonly. Thrice on Sundays.”

It lacked a bit of panache.

But clearly Thorne’s staff had figured out Kit was a woman. A woman who had free run of the Duke’s bedchambers and study, and spent her hours in private company with the man. She called him Thorne and teased him and knew his secrets.

Surely they suspected Kit was his mistress.

But Titsworth had called her my lady. As if Kit was…more than a half-American bastard bedmate to the Duke.

The realization made her feel both proud and like an imposter.

It had been a disturbing realization, and she’d been in a subdued mood all afternoon. Luckily Bull had taken it as nerves, and had talked more than usual in either an attempt to reassure her or calm his own worries.

“Ye’re going to have to do the talking,” the lad now hissed at her from behind his fan.

Kit glanced over at him. A lovely thick choker—sparkling subtly with paste jewels—cleverly hid Bull’s adam apple, but the lad was being careful to stay hidden behind his fan. The oppressive heat on the staircase as the crowd shuffled upwards helped with that.

“Why?” she murmured in return, tilting her head toward her “sister” as if Bull was particularly shy.

“My accent sounds nothing like yers.”

“Aye, well,” she drawled, mimicking Bull—and Thorne’s—Scottish brogue. “I’m American, and that’s even worse, ye ken.”

Another step, and suddenly she could see their host. Her father.

On her arm, Bull made a little noise of understanding. “Want me to fake a fainting spell so ye dinnae have to actually meet him?”

Kit briefly considered it, but ultimately shook her head, despite a stomach full of knots. “I’ll borrow yer accent and he’ll no’ recognize me. No’ dressed as I am.”

That had been the point of coming to London as a lad, after all. In a gown, she looked enough like her mother. But tonight, dressed as she was, she didn’t think the man would guess her identity.

And frankly, she was looking forward to fooking him over. Although he’d hopefully never know his bastard daughter had been the one to facilitate tonight’s break-in, she’d know, and looked forward to telling Mother all about it.

“Och, I say, that’s quite a good impression,” Bull murmured. “But I’ll still try no’ to talk.”

“Likely for the best,” she agreed absently, attention elsewhere.

The couple in front of them were being presented to their host and Kit swallowed, preparing herself. In a moment, she’d be shaking her father’s hand.

William Stoughton, like Titsworth, had aged well; his hair was still dark and his skin mostly unlined, with clear pride taken in his large mustache. Kit supposed he could be called handsome, if one didn’t know the crimes he’d committed.

That afternoon in Thorne’s study, when she’d learned “Blackrose” was marrying Lady Emma, she finally put two and two together. There’d been that newspaper article on Thorne’s desk the day he’d licked her cunny and asked her to marry him. Kit had almost forgotten the headline in the revelations of that day, but it had come crashing back to her.

Lord William Stoughton, Earl of Bonkinbone, to marry Lady Emma, daughter of the Earl of Stallings.

But it wasn’t until Thorne had casually mentioned Blackrose was betrothed to the woman that Kit realized Blackrose—the heartless traitor who’d forced Thorne and his friends to do so many horrible things—was her father.

Now she was looking forward to betraying him even more.

For Mother.

For herself.

And now, for Thorne.

Smiling grimly, she stepped up beside the impassive man accepting invitations.

“My Lord, may I present the Honorable John Smith and his sister, Miss Mary, of Lincolnshire,” he intoned, barely glancing at the gilt-edged papers.

Kit held out her hand and a clearly bored Earl of Bonkinbone accepted it. Her father’s handshake was firm and over quickly, as if he too was desperate to move along.

“Welcome to Bonkinbone, young man, miss,” he barked out with a polite nod. “I’m certain Lady Emma will be delighted to see you again, I believe she’s dancing already.”

He pointed them toward the ballroom, already turning to the next couple, and Kit exhaled.

Thatwas her father.

That was the man who’d betrayed his country and countless idealistic young men, all in the name of money. All in the name of gaining this fine estate and a fine wife and prominence among the people surrounding them.

“I’m going to take him down,” she hissed to Bull as she led him along the corridor.

“Excellent.” He hadn’t worn heeled slippers, so as not to tower over Kit, but he still gripped her arm tightly. Or perhaps that was to offer her support. “I’ll help ye. His study is this way.”

Thank God Bull had memorized the maps Fawkes’s wife had shared, because Kit was in a bit of a daze.

Fawkes was married to Blackrose’s niece. That hadn’t meant anything to Kit until the realization “Blackrose” had been her father’s codename. Now she knew this Danielle person was really the daughter of George Stoughton, the old Earl of Bonkinbone.

And Kit’s cousin. Which made Fawkes family. And he was Thorne’s cousin. Oh, what a tangle. Not even a half-crazed author with apparent masochistic tendencies could concoct such a web of connections.

Logically she’d known that she had family besides Mother. Mother herself had a younger sister in New York who had taken holy vows and thought “opera singer” was a thoroughly improper career choice. Kit had met her second-cousins on Mother’s side exactly twice, and could barely remember their names.

But to realize her father had nieces, and thus Kit had cousins…it was a strange thought. One she really didn’t have time to focus on now.

“Kit,” hissed Bull as he tugged her around the corner. “There’s nae one down this way. Ye ken what that means?”

She was already reaching into her pocket to pull out the lockpicking roll Bull had requested she carry, “Because it’ll completely ruin the line of this corset, why do ball gowns no’ come with pockets?”

“I’ll keep watch,” she murmured, handing him the roll and forcing herself to focus. “If someone comes, pretend to faint.”

Bull snorted, already hiking up his petticoats to squat by the door to her father’s study while she pressed her back to the wainscotting and peered in both directions. “Pretend to faint?” he muttered. “Och, aye, just because I’m wearing a gown, I must be feeling faint. How verra stereotypical. I’ll have ye ken that women are strong, successful, and perfectly capable of picking a lock without fainting.”

“Fine,” she growled. “If someone comes, you can pick a fight with me about feminism.”

“And pockets. Remind me to introduce ye to my sister Marcia—got it!” he crowed triumphantly in a whisper.

Hurriedly, Kit pulled him to his feet, glancing about to ensure they were still unseen. Bull was already turning the doorknob and then they were both inside the room, no one the wiser.

As Bull turned the lock again, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

But when the knock came from the window, Kit gasped in alarm while Bull whirled about, pulling a knife from a hidden location, proving he did have at least one pocket.

The pale face on the other side of the pane of glass frowned at them, but Kit’s lips pulled into a smile.

“Thank fook.”

Thorne was certain that,during his years taking missions for Blackrose, he’d been in more nerve-wracking situations. He must have. He had the scars to prove it. It was just that he couldn’t remember a single one. He’d been crouching behind the shrubbery for an hour, his back to the brick wall of what he hoped was Blackrose’s study, terrified as two of the most important people in the world to him went into danger without him.

Still, his years as Blackrose’s cat burglar had served him well, and he’d had no trouble slipping onto the grounds unseen. Having long ago burned his old uniform, he’d had Bull find him a new suit of light-weight, easy-fitting dark gray.

His trousers were tucked into stockings, to the soles of which Bull had sewn leather to Thorne’s specifications. There’d been newly installed spikes embedded along the wall surrounding the Bonkinbone estate, but it hadn’t caused Thorne any issues.

Nay, it was the fear which threatened this mission.

The fear for Kit, and for Bull.

What if Blackrose recognized them? What if Bull wasn’t as graceful in a gown as he’d appeared? What if Kit, suddenly face to face with the man who’d abandoned her mother, punched Blackrose.

Cursing himself quietly, Thorne allowed his head to drop back against the bricks. Ye’re no’ helping, coming up with all these worst-case scenarios. They’ll be fine.

They had to be fine.

Some sixth sense dragged him back to alertness and Thorne tensed, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet so he could throw himself into action if needed.

The guard who strolled past was nearly as silent as Thorne, a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. The faint glow from the cigar dangling from the man’s lips was the only hint obvious in the darkness—it must’ve been the scent of the thing which alerted Thorne.

Fook. Blackrose had patrolling goons who were nearly as well trained as Thorne himself was? He needed to get out of here before they noticed his faint footprints, or some other giveaway.

Kit, where are ye?

After the guard had passed, Thorne risked pushing himself to his feet so he could peek into the window. The room was dark and he couldn’t be absolutely certain this was Blackrose’s study, or even if the safe was there…but he had to trust the floorplans Fawkes had brought them.

Come on, come on.

If he hadn’t been looking right at the door, he would’ve missed the flash of movement, then the spill of light as the thing opened and two figures darted through before closing it again.

In that moment, Thorne released the breath he’d been holding.

Bull’s coiffure might be ridiculously elaborate, but Thorne thought he’d recognize Kit’s features anywhere.

They’d made it. He was in the right place.

The smell of cigar smoke wafted back over him and he cursed again, silently. Raising his hand, he risked a quick rap on the glass pane, and was rewarded by Bull and Kit both whirling toward him, the lad with a knife balanced as if ready to throw.

But then Kit smiled, and Thorne knew everything would be alright.

The two of them unlocked the window and after he determined the guard wasn’t paying attention, made short work of opening it just enough for Thorne to pull himself up and through.

He tumbled to the rug, turning it into a graceful roll, and before he was upright, Bull was tugging the lower sash back into place. Grateful, Thorne used the moment to pull Kit to him, burying his head in her pomaded hair and assuring himself she was safe.

She was safe.

“Thorne, do ye ken there’s a man out here with a gun?”

Bull’s whisper jerked Thorne’s attention to the window, where he was pleased to see the lad had pressed himself to the wall and was using one eye to study the garden. Bull might make a decent spy one day, after all.

“As long as the bastard isnae looking this way, let’s no’ give him a reason to,” Thorne said in a disciplined tone, setting Kit away from him. “Nae light, spread out, find that safe.”

Blackrose had moved it from the location Danielle remembered, but thank Christ it was still in the room. Kit was the one to feel the discrepancy under the carpet behind the desk, pushing it aside to reveal the safe hidden among the floorboards.

“Bull,” she hissed, “bring your lockpicking tools over here.”

Thorne scooped up her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of her glove, only able to spare a moment to thank her. Then it was down to business.

“Kit, listen at the door. Bull, ye brought the light?”

The lad was already turning away, hiking up his skirts and petticoats. “Likely easier if ye just reach up in there and find it.”

“Oh God,” Thorne groaned, going down to one knee to reach up Bull’s gown. “If ye ever tell anyone about this, I swear to Christ, I’ll—”

“Ye think I’m thrilled about it?” Bull clucked his tongue. “Nay, that’s my thigh. It’s against my arse.”

“Yer arse?” Thorne was doing his best not to touch any part of Bull he didn’t need to. “Why would ye—”

“Because these bustles are fooking amazing. I could hide a whole ham under this one.”

Thorne found the lantern. “Tell me ye didnae,” he muttered, struggling with the tie.

“Careful!” Bull whispered, “If ye untie my bustle and my petticoats fall down, I’ll never forgive ye. Kit and I still have to stroll out of here through the front door like respectable people when this is over.”

Hopefully it’d be over soon, and nothing would go wrong, and they would be able to leave as they came, while Thorne snuck out the window once more.

“Got it,” he announced quietly, pulling the special dark lantern from beneath Bull’s gown. “And have I told ye how beautiful ye look tonight?”

“Nay, ye havenae.” Bull sank into a surprisingly graceful curtsey. “Marcia helped design the gown, believe it or not.”

From the door Kit murmured, “I think the coiffure suits ye, lad.”

“Too many pins,” Bull disagreed.

Thorne lit the lantern, then closed the little door so the barest sliver of light emerged. “Get down here and pick this lock, laddie, and if ye cannae do it, we’re fooked.”

Bull snorted softly and lowered himself to his knees in a cloud of pale silk. “I’ll have it opened in five minutes.”

It was four minutes and twenty seconds by Thorne’s anxious count when he heard the final tumbler click into place and a triumphant Bull sat back on his heels.

Grinning, Thorne slapped the lad’s back. “Yer fingers are talented.”

Waving said fingers, Bull hoisted himself to his feet. “I’ll stand right here.” He pointed beside the safe. “To watch for the guards. And so ye can be certain I’m no’ peering over yer shoulder.”

He settled into position with his back to Thorne, his gaze toward the window, and Thorne swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. He glanced at Kit and realized she too was facing the door, her ear pressed to the wood.

Both of them had worked together to put themselves in danger…for him. Kit had faced her father for him. And now they were trusting him enough not to even try to catch a glimpse into the reason they’d come this far.

Thorne lowered himself to his knees beside the safe and opened the dark lantern just enough to be able to see the stacks of documents and folios in the safe.

It should have been overwhelming, but truthfully, Thorne didn’t care. Aye, he wanted it all, but for tonight’s mission, he needed any piece of information he could find that he didn’t already know. Anything which couldn’t have come from Blackrose’s agents or nieces…something only Blackrose and his brother knew…

Thorne’s eye landed on a folio labeled Launder. He reached for it.

The Greede-Ahl Mine was located in the intimidating western mountains of the American continent, and Thorne recognized it from a stock certificate Blackrose had “gifted” Fawkes when he’d cut the man loose. Fawkes had never cashed it, and staring down at the neat columns of numbers before him, Thorne was glad he hadn’t.

The mine was a scam, completely false. Blackrose was using the cover company as a way to route money from others—was that blackmail? Was he blackmailing still? Thorne flipped through several pages.

Aye, here was a list of names and amounts listed, in Bonkinbone’s handwriting. One caught his eye.

Stanley, 100 guineas Dec 1, for L. Mary’s vices.

Stanley, as in Edward Stanley, the Earl of Derby and former Prime Minister? His wife, Lady Mary, was considered one of Society’s grand hostesses. What vices was she guilty of that forced her husband to pay blackmail to Blackrose?

Thorne flipped back to the neat columns of numbers. Aye, there was a hundred guineas entered into the ledger in December, and previously in September, June and March. The poor bastard was funding the “Greede Mine” as his blackmail, which the Stoughton brothers had completely made up.

Excellent.

This was exactly what Thorne needed.

He carefully replaced the folio as he’d found it, and randomly pulled out a few others, hoping for more inspiration—or at least damning evidence. The mine scheme and blackmailing a former Prime Minister—good Lord, how high did the rot go?—would be enough, but just in case, he’d spend a few minutes…

What was this?

Thorne’s hand hovered over a folio with Pastorino scrawled across the front. He glanced over his shoulder at Kit. She was dutifully listening at the door.

Did Thorne have the right to spy on her family’s business?

He was here to incriminate Blackrose. This would help.

With a deep breath, he opened the Pastorino folio.

Newspaper clippings were folded neatly, each a focus on one of Gloria Pastorino”s successes. They were accompanied by photographs of the beautiful singer in various triumphant roles. As the clippings worked backward in time, the articles became shorter, with fewer photographs. It was clear Blackrose had kept tabs on his past lover.

The only reference to the daughter he’d abandoned was a ledger after the clippings, with a neat tally of receipts. For eighteen years, every January and June, the man had sent money to Gloria. The payments had stopped about five years ago which, assuming Kit was twenty-three, would be about the time she reached her majority.

Hateful as he was, the bastard had sent money to his one-time lover to raise his child. At least he was honorable enough to manage that.

But then Thorne flipped the ledger and felt his heart drop into his stomach.

Blackrose hadn’t sent his lover guilt money.

Swallowing, Thorne fought to keep his hand from shaking as he reached for the single piece of paper, the last thing in the folio.

A certificate of marriage.

Dated twenty-four years ago, in New York, America.

Between one William Stoughton and Gloria Pastorino.

Blackrose hadn’t been sending money to his lover to raise his bastard. He’d been sending money to his wife.

His wife and his heir.