Chapter 1

Chapter One

Fortune's Den

Aldgate Street, London

The knock came in the dead of night. A loud thud on the door as violent as a thunderbolt shaking the heavens. The incessant caller hammered hard, determined to take the door off its hinges.

Cursing the inconsiderate devil, Aaron Chance threw on his trousers and shirt, grabbed a sheathed blade from the nightstand and padded barefoot downstairs. Few people dared to knock on his door during daylight. Only a man with a death wish would disturb him at this ungodly hour. Whoever it was would feel more than the sharp whip of his tongue.

Sigmund, his man-of-all-work, trudged into the dim hall, half-dressed and rubbing his eyes, making excuses for not being first to the door.

"It's not like me to sleep so soundly. Happen I drank too much of that herbal tea Mrs Maloney bought from the apothecary." Sigmund yawned and stretched like a bear waking from hibernation. "After the trouble with Lord Howard, I barely slept a wink last night. "

Lord Howard—a foppish ne'er-do-well who should be on leading strings—had knocked over his chair at the hazard table and accused the club of using weighted dice. Aaron threw him out, but the fool harassed punters on the street, grabbing their coats and warning them not to gamble with cheaters.

"Howard deserved a good hiding," Sigmund said when the mysterious caller banged again. "I know he ain't no fighting gent, but his antics are bad for business."

Aaron fought against his growing frustration. He did not punch weak men, but Sigmund was right. Someone needed to teach Howard a lesson.

"One thump would likely kill him. I'll not visit the scaffold for that bastard." Aaron glanced at the door, unsure why he hesitated. This was not a family matter. His kin would make themselves known. So why had the caller not shouted Aaron's name and demand he open the door? "I have a bad feeling about this."

"There might have been an accident on the road," Sigmund said. "Gilbert's dogs are forever darting in front of carriages and spooking the horses."

"Then where are the cries for help?"

A gaming hell owner did not open his door to strangers. Not when men wanted him dead. Wastrels drowning in debt would queue to enter the churchyard, all desperate to dance on his grave.

"It might be Miss Lovelace," Sigmund dared to suggest.

They did not talk about the woman who owned the ladies' club across the street, though Aaron had dragged drunken louts from outside The Burnished Jade twice this week.

"A woman taps gently and identifies herself," Aaron countered, though perhaps the lady feared he wouldn't open the door. "She doesn't pound the wood with her fist." Miss Lovelace had delicate hands. Hands made to caress a man's firm jaw. Hands made to draw light circles in his chest hair as he slept .

Sigmund shrugged. "Happen she's locked out on a cold, wet night. Whoever it is sounds desperate."

Instinct said Aaron should leave by the back exit, vault the wall and meet the devil on the street. But he approached the door and opened the viewing hatch. Keen to avoid being shot in the eye with a lead ball, he waved his hand before the opening, counted to three, then looked out.

His heart leapt to his throat.

It was a woman.

Not just any woman.

The golden-haired beauty from The Burnished Jade stood in the rain, distress etched into every captivating line on her face.

Aaron couldn't draw the bolts quickly enough. He opened the door, grabbed the lady's arm and pulled her into the club's opulent hall.

His mind raced, imagining what traumatic event had driven her out into the dark mere hours before dawn. "Why are you out in the rain? What is so urgent you must wake the household?" He gestured to the damp silk wrapper clinging to her curves, though he refused to let his gaze linger. He tried not to inhale the potent scent of her rose perfume, for it affected him more profoundly at night. "It's November, for heaven's sake. Look at you. You're barely dressed."

He spoke with a husband's familiarity, though they were as good as enemies. Miss Lovelace despised him, which was just as well. Her disdain helped to bolster his defences. He lacked the tender heart women wanted in a lover. Few could tolerate his unrefined manner.

He hated lies.

He hated vanity.

He hated the ploys women used to attract a man's attention.

The lady clutched her heaving bosom and tried to calm her breathing. Water trickled down her cheeks and dripped from the tip of her nose. Rain, he hoped. Her tears would rattle his composure.

"Mr Chance." She was panting so hard she failed to utter anything but his name. "Mr Chance." She spoke like he was a crutch she could lean on.

"Sigmund, fetch Miss Lovelace a nip of brandy." Aaron studied her, praying she was cold and not shaking because of a horrible encounter with a patron.

"I—I need you," she cried, the words waking something primitive in him. "I need you to come to The Burnished Jade. I need you to come now."

She had never needed him before.

The thought could drive a man to behave recklessly.

She had never shown herself to be this vulnerable.

"Why?" he snapped. Although she had saved his sister's life and could be trusted, most people were capable of betrayal. "Your patrons left hours ago." He never went to bed until she'd closed for the night. "Do you have rats?" He prayed rats were the only vermin occupying her premises.

"I have a much bigger problem than rats."

Sigmund returned with the liquor.

Miss Lovelace snatched the glass and tossed back the brandy, hissing as the amber liquid scorched her throat, determined its potency would not overwhelm her.

Aaron found her reaction strangely charming. "Now you've gathered your wits, you will tell me what the hell this is about."

She grabbed his forearm as if drowning from the weight of her burden, unnerving him as her fingers firmed over the corded muscle.

"Can I trust you? You must believe me. I had nothing to do with what happened at The Burnished Jade tonight." She shook her head in confusion as her ramblings took a worrying turn. "Perhaps my mind is playing tricks and I have imagined the whole thing. Perhaps past fears have returned to haunt me. Please say you'll come."

He held his temper. Now was not the time to gloat or remind her she'd acted against his advice and invited men into her club. He was having a hard enough time trying to imagine what wickedness had occurred.

"Did someone threaten you?"

Much to his relief, she released him and thrust the glass at Sigmund before gesturing to the door. "I'll explain once you've examined the scene."

The scene!

The comment sent a shiver shooting down his spine, but her bare feet stole his attention as she crossed the threshold. "Where are your shoes?"

"I left in a hurry."

"It's raining."

"Rain is the least of my concerns."

For a heartbeat, he considered carrying her but banished the thought instantly. "The slightest cut may lead to infection."

She pointed to his bare feet. "Then we'll die together."

Those words had a strange appeal for a man who expected to die alone.

Focusing on his current predicament, Aaron had Sigmund lock the door and accompany them to The Burnished Jade. The street was deserted except for an alley cat, a drunkard asleep in a shop doorway, and the relentless pounding of rain on the pavement.

Aaron had stood outside her club many times these last few months, contemplating why a young woman would assume control of her father's failing business. What had happened to Arthur Lovelace? Why had he upped and moved abroad, leaving a vulnerable woman in charge of his affairs? Discreet enquiries confirmed the bank had seized his Cheapside home.

Aaron knew one thing for certain .

Miss Lovelace had a secret.

One he was determined to discover.

"Follow me," the lady said, shaking off the rain before escorting them through the dim hall, painted an elegant shade of blue now she had stripped away the shabby wallpaper. "The problem lies upstairs."

Aaron mounted the stairs behind her, focusing on the new Axminster carpet and not the lure of her perfume or the gentle sway of her hips.

"Wait," he commanded, urging her to pause on the landing. He never walked into a situation without knowing the facts. "Before we proceed, you will explain your dilemma."

Her bottom lip quivered. "Where do I begin? This will be my undoing." She spoke like the world had gathered an army against her, and Wellington led the charge. "It's been a constant battle these last six months."

Aaron did not want to hear a tale to incite his pity. He did not want to hear about her personal affairs. The little he knew kept him awake at night.

"Just tell me what sent you racing across the street barefoot in the rain. What is so shocking, you'd drag me out of bed?"

She put one hand to her mouth and gripped the banister. "M-murder," she stuttered. "That's what had me fleeing the house. That's what leaves me fearing for my future."

"Murder?" Such things did not faze a man who'd fought thugs since the age of twelve. The horrors he'd witnessed beggared belief. "When did this murder occur? I assume you're taking me to see the body."

He doubted it was murder. More likely, a wallflower had swooned and smacked her head on the grate. Had a spinster suffered her tenth rejection and taken a lethal dose of laudanum?

"It must have happened before we closed tonight." She glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor and paled. "No one is permitted up here. It's never been a problem before, but men like to wander."

Men liked looking for places to conduct illicit affairs.

What did she expect when welcoming reprobates into her club?

"Were there any incidents prior to closing?"

She looked him in the eye. "What do you want me to say, Mr Chance? That you were right? That inviting men here was a mistake? Mr Daventry said?—"

"Daventry!" Aaron straightened. He should have known the scheming devil was involved. "What the hell has he got to do with this?"

"I spoke to him at Delphine's wedding. He said under the right circumstances, my wallflowers could achieve miracles. He suggested inviting men so the ladies could practise the art of engaging conversation."

"Engaging conversation," Aaron mocked.

"It worked extremely well until one gentleman mimicked Miss Beckett's stutter and the lady punched him on the nose. There was a terrible scuffle when he seized her arm and shook her quite violently. Miss Durrant whacked him with an iron poker. It was chaos after that."

Aaron did not laugh at her absurd story. He was so bloody angry he would wring Daventry's neck. Moreover, he suspected that wasn't the only distressing incident of the evening.

"Miss Lovelace," he began, grappling to keep his temper on a tight leash. "Trust me when I say Daventry always has a secret agenda. In future, listen to the man who deals with louts for a living."

She raised her chin, her confidence returning. "I would if your comments weren't so self-serving. You want rid of me and criticise all my suggestions."

He almost smiled at a job well done. "If I wanted rid of you, I would not be standing here barefoot, keen to help you avoid the noose. Let me speak plainly. This isn't the life for you. This isn't the right place for a ladies' club. I've made no secret of that."

She raised her hands and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Forgive me. I didn't realise change was so simple. I shall marry a wealthy merchant and retire to the country. Or perhaps I might purchase a property on The Strand like your brother Theo. Shame on me for not considering my options."

"Perhaps if you told me what you're really doing here, I might learn to be civil." He would not. Riling her temper meant she kept her distance. "Where is your father? And don't say abroad."

He caught a flicker of fear in her eyes, eyes that were usually so confident and self-assured. That said, with a dead body upstairs, she should be terrified.

"I don't know where my father is." The pain of betrayal clung to her voice. "The Burnished Jade belongs to me. I inherited the property from my maternal grandfather years ago. If you don't believe me, I have the documents as proof."

"I believe you." He was like a bloodhound and could smell a liar from a hundred yards. "I assume you've looked for your father. That you've enquired at the relevant places."

"Relevant places? You mean the morgue?"

Aaron shrugged. "Men fasten bricks to their ankles and jump into the Thames to escape their debts. Moneylenders will only listen to excuses for so long." His father was forever evading his creditors. He might have been found dead in an alley had he not forced his young son to brawl with beasts.

"People disappear all the time."

"People do not disappear," he countered. "They do not evaporate into the ether. Forgive my blunt manner, but your father is either hiding from his creditors, or he's dead."

She inhaled deeply and looked at him, hope glistening in her eyes. "There is another option. Someone may have kidnapped him. Taken him against his will. "

"Kidnapped him?" Aaron gave a mocking snort. "Perhaps you drank too much ratafia tonight. What would anyone want with that reprobate?" Aaron sounded like a heartless rogue, and though he did not wish to hurt her, she had to acknowledge the truth. "Have you received a ransom note? He's been missing for months."

She hung her head. "No."

The urge to comfort her overcame him, but he shook it off like an itchy blanket. "It's of no consequence now. You have a more pressing problem."

Miss Lovelace considered him through damp eyes. "Have you ever felt like you're sinking in quicksand, and there's no one to pull you free?"

Aaron swallowed past the bitter memories. The first night his father dragged him to the fighting pits, he'd been beaten by a man twice his age and size. He'd received a slap on his bruised back and a shilling for his trouble and told he would fight again the following week. There was no respite from the torture. Some nights, he prayed he would die.

"Many times," he confessed but did not mention he found the house suffocating now his siblings had flown the coop. How the air seemed so much colder. How the chill penetrated his bones. "But I'm a man of action." Keeping busy kept his demons at bay. "Is that not why you roused me from bed in the middle of the night?"

Her gaze fell to the open neck of his shirt, and she swallowed. "I'm sorry. You have enough to deal with, but I had no one else. No one capable."

Don't be sorry , he wanted to say.

"You'd better show me her body. I assume you know her identity. Let's pray her death can be easily explained, and we're not hauled before the magistrate at Bow Street."

Miss Lovelace frowned. "Mr Chance, the victim is a man."

"A man?" God, he prayed he wasn't a peer .

"Yes, or a woman posing as a man. It's hard to identify him. He is lying face-down on the floor like a fallen statue, cold and in silent repose." She moved towards the stairs. "You'd better see for yourself."

He followed her and had almost forgotten Sigmund was behind him until he heard the heavy stomp of his man's feet.

"Survey the crime scene so you can be called as a witness," Aaron said, issuing instructions to Sigmund. "Then wake Godby and have him drive you to the Wild Hare. The innkeeper will send word to Lucius Daventry. Await his arrival and tell him what's occurred. Be quick. We need his advice before we summon a constable."

"Aye, sir."

Miss Lovelace showed them upstairs. She paused outside the door before gathering her wits and escorting them into the dark, musty room.

"There," she said, pointing to the body of a well-dressed man with a silver dagger lodged in his back.

Aaron inhaled a calming breath and caught the metallic scent of blood. He had Sigmund light a lamp and observe the body before sending him to fetch Daventry. Then he studied his surroundings.

The room contained nothing but a rickety bed and a worn armchair. The faded wallpaper was peeling at the corners. Dust marks revealed where missing paintings once hung, like ghostly imprints of a forgotten past.

"I sold everything of value," Miss Lovelace said, as if she couldn't wait to be rid of her father's memory. "I doubted anyone would want the bed. My father used to rent this room by the hour."

Aaron cast no aspersions and had once done something similar to fill his club's coffers. "The aristocracy expects a range of services when applying for membership. When was this room last in use? "

"My ladies listen to recitals, make pretty journals, dance and drink negus," she said, keen to rebuke any suggestion of impropriety. "What use would they have for a room like this?"

"You admitted to inviting men here so your ladies could engage in conversation." Why Daventry had made the foolish suggestion was a damned mystery. Indeed, Aaron would demand an explanation. "Do you know what happens when a man and woman are free to speak openly to each other? When they're not bound by the rules of polite society?"

"I'm sure you're dying to tell me."

"An attraction develops."

She laughed, the sound devoid of genuine joy. "We speak openly and are not bound by such strictures, yet are forever bickering."

Were he not so skilled in the art of subterfuge, she would see something other than a firm jaw and a stern glare. Had he the capacity to be anything but a dangerous devil, he would have taken her in his arms tonight and kissed away her fears.

"You didn't let me finish. Flirtatious banter and physical attraction are a lethal combination." He motioned to the lifeless body of God knows who. A body that should have been seen by the coroner an hour ago. "One of your precious wallflowers may have been attacked in this room and resorted to killing this man in self-defence."

Miss Lovelace hugged herself like she was the victim of an unwelcome assault. "Do you know the strength it takes to stab a man in the back?"

"Do you?"

"No, but I imagine one needs a firm hand."

"A woman might conjure Lucifer's strength to protect her virtue."

The dark shadows of a memory passed over her face. "Clearly you have never had to subdue someone twice your size. "

The unsolicited pang in his chest had him inwardly cursing. Any emotion he felt was not for the man he'd become but for the child who wanted an end to the pain. "Which goes to prove your point. If we were on intimate terms, you would know that's the worst thing you could ever say to me."

Not the worst thing.

She could say he had failed his family.

That he was lacking as a man.

That he was selfish. Inconsiderate.

"I assume you have the names of all those in attendance tonight." He credited her with some intelligence. When Daventry wasn't interfering, she showed good business acumen. "You do keep a record of your members?"

"Of course. I relied on my patrons to confirm the gentlemen's identities and to point out any unsavoury characters. Miss Wickford singled out more than one rake, what with her brother being an absolute scoundrel."

"Excellent," he said, keen to get to the matter of the body on the floor before it was too stiff to move. "We should have no issue identifying the victim or making a list of suspects."

Aaron crossed the room and crouched beside the corpse.

Miss Lovelace did the same, her wrapper falling open and giving him a glimpse of her pretty nightgown. "It's no ordinary dagger," she said, staring at the intricate carvings on the hilt. "Do you suppose they're real emeralds?"

"If it's as I suspect, and this is a genuine Mughal dagger, then the gems are real." A host of questions darted into his mind. But they would consider the weapon's origins once they'd identified the victim. "There's blood on the boards, but most seeped into his coat."

"How do we turn him over without removing the blade?"

Aaron considered the man's thin frame, the fine cut of his dark coat and his swathe of blonde hair. "We'll roll him onto his side. I know most gentlemen in town. One glimpse of his face is all I need to identify him. I need you to support his weight. Can you do that?"

She nodded. "I'll try."

They should not disturb the scene, but he needed to know who they were dealing with if he was to help her escape the gallows.

It did not take brute strength to grip the man by the hip and shoulder and push him onto his side. It took strength not to shout, curse and spiral into a mad panic when he gazed upon the familiar face.

"I know this man." A wave of apprehension swept through Aaron as he examined the purple discolouration on the victim's face. In front of witnesses, he had threatened to throw the fool in the Thames. He had dragged the miscreant out of his club and flung him onto the street. Warned him he would be dead if he returned.

"Who is it?"

Fear gripped his heart. "It's Lord Howard."