Prologue

Paris

Oscar Flint raked the razor down the hollow of his cheek, dispensing with the beard that had been part of his identity for

the past six cities.

He would become someone new. Again. Someone refined, cultured and wealthy. Someone who looked like he belonged at the Count

du Maurice's gaming tables.

After all, how could he resist such a temptation? Word had spread as far as Prague about the deep pockets of the reckless

aristocrats on the invitation list. And there was nothing he enjoyed more than taking the fortunes of other men.

Oh, and he would take them.

Ruthless when it came to cards—and everything else—he knew what it took to win.

It took knowing what it felt like to fight a rat over the core of a rotten apple. Or how to ignore the rapacious gazes from

the toffs who'd paid a farthing for a pretty boy to shine their buckled shoes, then being prepared to do whatever came afterward

for a sixpence so that his sickly mother could eat.

It took having nothing left to lose. And that was why Oscar always won.

In the mottled mirror that hung cockeyed on the wall of this dank lodging room on the fringes of Paris, his flinty gaze tracked

the movement of the door.

Without knocking, Ignatius Cardew strolled in, his teeth clenched around the stub of a cheroot. A curl of smoke rose up past a pair of wizened gray eyes and a Caesar of short white hair to disappear amid the water-stained ceiling.

"The forgery is flawless, if I do say so myself," Cardew said while surveying the parchment in his hand with a self-satisfied

grin.

Wiping the blade against a square of flannel, Oscar gave the page a cursory glance. "Never doubted you."

According to the self-canonizing mythology of Cardew, he'd been mastering languages and appreciating the great artists since he was old enough to hold a brush. And when there'd been no money left to buy canvas and paint—usually

after spending it all on wine, women and song—he'd turned to other forms of replication.

He could copy a man's signature as well as his voice and bearing. And he was good at it. So good, in fact, that he'd developed

a reputation. Which didn't bode well if a man traveling with him ever intended to spend time in one place for long.

"Of course, I had to weather the paper to make it appear as though both you and the invitation had traveled far and wide,"

his mentor said with a familiar edge of accusation.

Oscar slapped the razor against the strop and waited for the rest. Waited to hear the harping of how he hadn't applied himself

enough and, with one iota of effort , he could have become a truly exceptional charlatan.

But in the seconds that followed, the expected shower of castigations did not come. Pleasantly surprised, he lifted his chin

to scrape the sharpened blade upward along his throat.

In the mirror, the tip of Cardew's cheroot glowed orange on another drag. "Although, if you'd ever bothered to be precise

in your elocution in any language, I wouldn't need to take such pains."

Aaand there it was.

"Eight postmarks. Eight. And all because your French sounds as though it spent a night of debauchery in a Florentine brothel with a Scot and a Spaniard."

"If the best lies contain a kernel of truth, as you say, then why should I force my tongue to disguise the fact that I've

spent my entire life roaming from one continent to the next?" Oscar asked.

" Entire life. You're still a cub, barely eight and twenty. Why, I was older than that when I first met your father."

"And just how old were you then?"

Cardew exhaled a curtain of smoke. "Older than your left boot."

It was a familiar retort between them. This time, it was tossed over his shoulder as he crossed the room toward the bottle

of brandy waiting on the sill. While conceit kept him from ever revealing his true age, with his timeless aristocratic features,

tanned by the sun, he could pass for any worldly gentleman between the ages of fifty and seventy.

In fact, Cardew had looked the same for as long as Oscar could recall. He'd been about seven—hungry and already jaded after

his father had abandoned him and his mother—when Cardew had first come to the door.

He'd doffed his tricorn with a flourish and claimed that he was sent to look after them until his friend could return. Though,

calling himself a friend of his father's did him no favors. John Flintridge—or whatever name he was currently using—never

had any luck staying in one place for long. Sooner or later, the creditors came a-knocking.

Even so, Cardew had seemed like a savior, sweeping in and rescuing them from a rat-infested hovel to provide a sense of security.

But Oscar had soon realized that nothing was ever too permanent with Cardew.

The forger's fortune often altered in the span of a single night. But, to his credit, he'd always managed to keep them fed, clothed and with a roof over their heads. Whether that roof would be in the same location from one day to the next, however, remained to be seen. But Oscar couldn't hold that against him. Risk was just in his nature.

Though, no matter what flaws he might possess, Cardew had been the one constant fixture in his life.

"My left boot was once an ancient cow who roamed the earth at the dawn of civilization," Oscar said in flawless French as

he toweled off his face.

His mentor narrowed his eyes. "Ah. So the cub possesses proper elocution, after all."

"I prefer to let the cards speak for me."

Cards, and numbers for that matter, had always made more sense to him. The moment he'd first spied a pair of blokes hunched

over a gaming table, everything clicked into place. Without any effort, he could remember every ace, king and queen laid and

could anticipate which card would follow.

He hadn't known at the time that his abilities were considered cheating. Not that it mattered. Cheating, lying and stealing

were all tools of the trade. All tools of survival.

Even so, Cardew had helped him disguise it with a few simple tricks. And, over the years, he'd learned to hone his skill into

an artform until he was the one who kept a roof over their heads.

But now, food and shelter weren't his only motivators. In the years since his mother had died, he'd only wanted one thing:

to hunt down his father and make the bastard pay for what he'd done.

"I suppose you'll do," Cardew said, his gaze appraising. "With your lean face all smooth-shaven and those high shirt points

framing that mulish jaw, you nearly look the part of haute society."

" Nearly ?" he scoffed, buttoning the stiff collar. "I could pass for nobility."

"Hmm... perhaps. There's just one thing missing."

Cardew tossed back the amber liquor and crossed the room. Reaching into the open neck of his shirt above a snuff-colored waistcoat, he gripped the cord perpetually tied around his neck and tugged. Then he freed the black onyx ring. The same one he'd never parted with, no matter how many times they could have used the coin from selling it.

Resting in the palm of his hand, lamplight glanced off the faceted black stone, cut in a unique star shape.

Oscar frowned and lowered his arms to his side. "You don't expect me to wear that. A gambler drawing attention to his hands

is asking for trouble."

"But you're not just any gambler, are you, my boy? And wearing a ring will show everyone that you've got nothing to hide.

It will help to earn their trust. After all, these men are playing for high stakes." Impatient, Cardew snatched Oscar's hand

and shoved the ring onto the fifth finger. "There. Perfect fit."

Oscar yanked his hand back and tried to remove it. But the bloody thing refused to budge. And the weight seemed heavier than

he'd remembered from all those times in his youth when he'd asked about it, but that might have been his imagination.

Then, as if in an afterthought, Cardew said, "Oh, and you should probably know, they've posted guards at the door."

"Guards?"

Ring forgotten, a shiver snaked down Oscar's spine, like a ghost rattling its chains over his bones. Even though it had been

eight years, the memory of his time in an Italian prison still haunted him.

He didn't want to know what a French prison was like. Though, considering the guillotine on display in the Place du Carrousel,

he could hazard a guess that any stay at the Conciergerie would be of brief duration.

"This is all due to your arrogance," Oscar fumed, reaching for a length of pristine white silk draped over the back of a spindle-legged chair, then he faced the mirror again. "If you hadn't tried to sell one of your supposedly lost Titians to an infamously bloodthirsty Spaniard known as El Coleccionista, we wouldn't be in this fix in the first place."

"How was I to know that Miguel Ladrón's lovely auburn-haired mistress was also my muse?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Perhaps think twice before painting her wearing the ruby necklace and ermine cloak that she stole from

his wife?"

Unbothered, Cardew wielded the cheroot like a brush, signing the air in whisps of smoke. "I called it Venus in Winter . The pelt was necessary. Besides, what can I say? Women are my Achilles' heel."

"Then, it's time to consider hobbling yourself to save me the trouble."

"Well, you're the one who promised to make arrears of four times the amount that he paid for my Venus. Even though she was

an exceptional work of art."

"I was—I am trying to save our lives," Oscar muttered, taking care not to wrinkle the silk as he tied his cravat. "And to think, I'd

thought Ladrón's promise of severing our heads from our bodies if I lose tonight was pressure enough. But now he's posted

guards?"

"The guards aren't for us," Cardew said as if that made all the difference. "They're here for some English rose. Apparently,

the Count du Maurice met her on the packet between Dover and Calais, instantly became besotted and was willing to grant her

every desire, even a stake at his tables. His wife, on the other hand, decided that she didn't want her husband unduly distracted

and likely to lose a fortune. To ensure it, she posted the guards to keep this supposed femme fatale from stealing inside."

Oscar shrugged into his coat, only to have the ring catch on a loose thread. Muttering a curse, he shoved his hand through the sleeve. "And so I'm being bloody inconve nienced because of your paramour, her possessive protector and now a jealous countess?"

"L'amour, mon fils." Cardew cuffed him on the cheek. "Someday you will understand."

No, he wouldn't. If Oscar wanted a woman, he had her. He didn't care who'd had her before or who would have her after. It

was a simple matter of basic need, seduction and an exchange of services without expectations.

"In the meantime, I need to win two thousand pounds or we'll be dead by morning."

"We've faced worse. Unless"—Cardew took another long drag on his cheroot—"you're worried that you've lost your touch."

Oscar scoffed at the taunt and sank a pin into his cravat. "You know very well there isn't a man alive who can best, bluff

or outplay me."

***

There wasn't a man alive that Honoria Hartley couldn't play like harp strings.

She wanted to crow. To throw her head back on a laugh that reached all the way up to the silver crescent moon hanging in the

midnight sky. Oh, how she loved Paris! She wanted to twirl. To dance. To taste every decadent pastry. Drink a flagon of fizzy

champagne. Marvel at the new gaslights illuminating the city beyond the ivy-enshrouded walls of this courtyard. And flirt

with dozens of men she would never see again.

Then again, the flirting would have to wait until she was more... herself, she thought wryly, as she looked down at her

aubergine velvet waistcoat and woolen Cossack trousers.

So, the Countess du Maurice thought posting a few guards at the door would keep any distracting females away? Ha!

Honoria grinned, the upward curl of her lips testing the glue beneath her broad tawny mustachios and pointed beard. But a surreptitious glance into the dark pane of the chateau's vacant conservatory assured her that the movement remained as natural as if she'd grown the whiskers herself. She knew from experience that she would have another hour before it would start to give way.

Even her father, a veteran of the theater, had said there was no one better at stage makeup than she. Of course, he had no

idea she would be using those skills to sneak away from her cousin and chaperone on her first night in Paris to gamble.

Better yet, none of those men at the tables realized they'd been playing against a woman either.

A sly giggle escaped before she could stifle it. Fortunately, no one was in the garden to hear it. And yet...

No sooner had she drawn a breath of relief than she heard the scuff of a heavy sole on the tiles behind her.

Devil's doorknocker!

She went still and quickly assessed her surroundings: the ivied wall to her left, a fountain and lichen-speckled lion to her

right, the shadows to her back and a gate to freedom twenty paces ahead.

Her first impulse was to make a dash for the gate. However, during her brief London Season as a debutante, in addition to

the handful of times she'd become Signor Cesario, Honoria had learned a few things about men.

The male animal was a rather basic creature.

Much like a dog, they were forever hungry, underfoot at the most inconvenient times, and they scratched themselves without embarrassment. Additionally, they were always up for a game of fetch or tug. Send them on an errand for one glass of punch and they'd hang about, watching every sip and waiting for you to finish so they could do it again. Or carry a parasol through the park and a gentleman would soon find a reason to playfully extricate it from your grasp. Though their nature tended toward mischief, they could usually behave for brief intervals when promised a treat...

Unless they caught the scent of potential quarry. When that happened, nothing could dissuade them from giving chase.

So instead of bolting for the gate, she paused to place the bronze handle of her walking stick in the ever-roaring mouth of

the stone lion. Casually, she breathed on her monocle, rubbed the fog from the concave glass, then fixed it in place.

Taking up her walking stick, she ambled past the fountain, all the while keeping her senses on alert. After all, being dressed

as a man did not protect her from pickpockets and cutthroats. And there had been more than a dozen men inside the chateau

who'd wanted the two-thousand-pound purse she now had on her person.

When the clap of her booted footfalls on the tiles met with no responding echo of a pursuer on the prowl, she breathed a sigh

of relief.

The footfall she'd heard had likely been that of a servant. Or perhaps a guest stepping out for a breath of fresh air. Not

that it mattered. She was only a few paces away from the gate and the safety of her carriage, without anyone being the wiser

of who she really was.

Perhaps it was that sense of certainty that made her reckless. That made her hesitate with her hand on the smooth iron thumb

latch. And made her lips tilt slyly as she cast one final glance over her shoulder.

She should have known better.

Something moved within the inky shadows near the courtyard wall.

"I commend you on such a clever trick," came a man's voice.

A breath stalled in her throat as she recognized the timbre of it. Which was odd because the owner of said voice hadn't spoken

more than a handful of words.

Seated at the far end of the gaming table, his responses to the dealer's questions had typically been a nod, an almost imperceptible shake of the head or a double-tap of his fingertips on the table. To the footman serving drinks, his manner of speaking was economical, as though every word cost a shilling. And yet, there had been something undefinable in his tone that seemed to reach across the space between them and caused her skin to tingle with gooseflesh as if draped in a length of raw silk.

Honoria felt that same reaction now, her skin prickling as she searched the shadows and listened to the sound of his unhurried

approach.

Before she replied, she cleared the tightness from her throat. After all, it was important to keep her vocal folds relaxed

when using the lower register of her voice, in keeping with her disguise as a wealthy Florentine merchant.

"I am afraid I do not know what you mean, sir." The words were in English, but heavily accented with the romantic lyricism

of the Italian language.

"Never been choused by the likes of you."

She frowned, the glue of her carefully applied wiry eyebrows puckering as she shook her head in feigned confusion. But there

was no mistaking that he'd just called her a cheat. "Choused? Che cosa significa choused?"

The man emerged, stepping into a patch of moonlight. The pale beam shone down on thick wavy hair the color of wet walnut shells

that swept back from an escarpment of a forehead, above a pair of dark slashing brows that kept his eyes in shadow.

There was something feral about him. Something that strained against the layers of fine wool and silk. Like a wolf in the

forest, waiting for the shepherd to lose sight of one little lamb.

His features were more angular than most of the pampered aristocrats she knew—puppies with soft chins, doughy cheeks and the

fleshy promise of forthcoming jowls.

But this man's face was lean, his jaw hard, honed to a razor's edge. His nose, not quite straight, suggested a life beyond Eton, Oxford and afternoon teas. A life far removed from white-gloved dances with debutantes and talk of touring the Continent.

This man had lived.

There was something intriguing in that... if she found that sort of thing intriguing.

Which she didn't. At all. Because she was all too aware of the weight of the winnings tucked into the padded lining of her

waistcoat, and how little she knew about the man introduced to the party as Mr. Flint.

Then again, she was also conscious of the poniard hidden inside her walking stick.

Her gloved hand tightened around it. Though, as of yet, she hadn't been forced to use the blade to defend herself.

She knew how to fence—to win a match but not to save her life. In fact, most of her experience with fighting consisted of

what she'd learned from her eccentric father on the family stage. So she excelled in almost slapping someone and almost running them through with a sword.

To her, the choreography of a fight was like dancing in the center of a ballroom. But this? Somehow she doubted that if this

man meant to silence her or take her purse by force, he would be intimidated by her almost attacking him.

Nevertheless, Honoria knew she was quick on her feet. And, as her father always said during rehearsal, "When in doubt, feint."

Casually, she slid one foot behind her, balancing her weight.

"Let us leave the games behind us, hmm?" He stopped and offered a good-natured shrug. "I merely wanted to congratulate you,

from one Captain Sharp to another."

Gone was the ruthless gambler she'd met at the tables as one lean cheek lifted to form a bracket beside his mouth. Earlier she'd thought he was smirking at her, which had made her immensely glad to best him at that last hand. But now, the lopsided quirk seemed almost affable. Charming, even.

So when he held out his hand, she responded reflexively. Felt his grip enfold hers. It made her feel fragile and altogether

too feminine.

Honoria realized her mistake at once.

She tried to withdraw, but he held fast. And before she could blink, he removed her black lambskin glove. Simply peeled it

down from wrist to fingertip!

"As I said before, you're clever. But not quite clever enough. Not even for a woman."

"I beg your pardon," Signor Cesario said with a huff of indignation and a futile attempt to free himself.

The stranger took a step closer, lifting her captive hand. "If not for these nimble fingers, you might have fooled me. The

bitten manicure is a nice touch, but there are certain ways women move that men do not. It's from needlework, I think. That

dainty pinch of fingertips. Nevertheless, I suggest you watch the way you lift your cards from the table in the future. If

you're going to continue this charade."

"How dare—"

She stopped on a gasp when he bent his head and licked the top of her finger. Actually licked her, where she had painstakingly

drawn and shaded a series of very masculine-looking hairs.

But her outrage was quickly overshadowed when she felt the heated rasp of his tongue. The sensation was so startling that

it stole her breath. Her stomach gave a curious little hop.

Distractedly, she watched as the ink smeared underneath the circular rotation of his thumb, and she didn't know whether to

demand satisfaction at dawn or...

Ask him to do it again.

"You are mistaken," she said in her best Signor voice, albeit a tad raspy since all the saliva had dried up in her mouth.

But she jerked her hand free, cradling it almost protectively.

The man grinned and wagged an accusatory finger. "And that's another tell. You're too quick to shy away. Any man, even one

so much smaller in stature, would have displayed affront with his chest out, shoulders back. A woman on the other hand will

make herself appear smaller, hunching her shoulders ever so slightly to protect her soft underbelly. And yet, even as she

does that, her eyes will flash with ire—just as yours are doing now—while she plots six different ways to murder a man in

his sleep."

"Only six?" she asked, and he chuckled. "I'm not saying you're correct. However, if you were, just what would you do with

that information? Extortion? Blackmail?"

"I may be a scoundrel, but I draw the line at blackmailing a woman. Though, I'm guessing you're hardly..." He cast an appraising

glance from head to toe, his mouth pulling at a frown.

She huffed, forgetting to lower her voice. "That I'm hardly what?"

"It would be ungentlemanly of me to say."

"I thought you were a scoundrel."

"Even a scoundrel wouldn't dare suggest that you might resemble your disguise." When her nostrils flared with irritation,

it only seemed to encourage him. "For all I know your voluminous mustachios are concealing a rather hairy mole. I once knew

a woman who had one in the shape of Australia. It had three hairs growing out of it."

One dark brow arched as he stared suspiciously at her mouth.

This was a novel experience, indeed. In all her life, no one had ever accused her of being anything less than goddesslike.

Flattery was such a common occurrence that she took it for granted. And she'd had no idea that being called unattractive would cause her defenses to rally.

"I'll have you know that I'm quite pretty."

He had her so vexed that she didn't realize she'd pulled out her poniard and was brandishing it at him.

His brow flattened and his eyes—still immersed in shadow—seemed to darken even more. "I don't take kindly to threats."

"And I don't take kindly to insults," she said, refusing to back down. "Those guards inside? They're here because of me, you

know. I'm that beautiful."

"Or that delusional."

He took a step toward her. She cut through the air in a warning feint. But he was quick. Too quick.

He took hold of her wrist in a punishing grip that forced her to drop the blade. "Since we've apparently exhausted all niceties,

I'll be blunt. I need that purse."

"Pocket's thin from paying for your chères amies ?"

"That has never been a problem for me. You, on the other hand, obviously cannot catch a husband because no man would have

you."

Drawing her arm down, he pinned it behind her back, bringing their bodies close enough that, even through all the layers of

binding and padding she wore to disguise the swell of her breasts, narrow waist and the flair of her hips, she could still

feel that he was a wall of solid muscle.

She caught the scent of him, a mélange of amber, smoke and sandalwood. Drat! He even smelled as if he'd roamed several continents

and lived three lifetimes before they'd met. It made her lightheaded.

Then she felt his free hand steal inside her coat and—

"Ouch!" He drew back sharply.

Knowing that he'd encountered one of the many pins keeping her disguise in place, she flashed a taunting grin. "Needlework."

She twisted out of his hold. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go. He'd corralled her into a corner. The cad.

So she maneuvered into a defensive position, prepared to dodge under his arm when he came at her again. "And for your information, I'm already betrothed."

"To a fellow troll, no doubt," he said crossly, examining the tiny beads of blood on the tips of three fingers.

"I'm certain my fiancé is quite handsome."

"Do you not know? Or is it that you keep him courting from a great distance to ensure that he does not see your actual face

and run in the opposite direction?"

"Oh, he would most assuredly run toward me."

"Then, perhaps he doesn't want you to see his bald head, mottled complexion and woodchuck teeth?"

She refused to laugh at that. "Our arrangement has been since birth."

That stole his attention. He stopped an arm's length away. "Wait a moment. Are you saying that you've never actually met the

man you intend to marry?"

"The arrangement was forged between his grandmother and mine. After eloping with an actress, his father had become estranged

from the family. Since he was the youngest of four brothers, he likely never thought his son would succeed to the title. It's

entirely possible that my betrothed doesn't know that he's a viscount."

"You're making this up."

She stiffened. "I am not. He is the honorable Viscount Vandemere."

"And you're simply waiting for this supposed viscount to arrive on your doorstep?"

"Obviously not, if I'm gambling to secure my future. So kindly let me pass."

He shook his head, slowly advancing. "As much as I've enjoyed our little tête-à-tête, I'm more concerned with my own future

than yours. I've got a lot of living to do yet, and I'm not leaving here empty-handed."

When her shoulder blades met the wall, she braced her hands against his chest. "But don't you see? That's what I'm attempting to do as well. We only have this one life. I aim to live it to its fullest extent. And I won't let anyone stop me."

She felt the weight of the locket she kept tucked against her heart—a reminder of the promise she'd made long ago. There was

no force on earth that would prevent her from honoring it.

But she saw her own firm resolve harden his expression. And she knew he wasn't going to be deterred by a few pins a second

time.

Therefore, there was only one thing she could do. Only one device left in her arsenal...

Feminine wiles.

In a flash, Honoria took his face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers. It was the most... unusual kiss of her life.

Even though she'd been kissed by a number of gentlemen, none had ever felt like this. Of course, her mustachios were a bit

distracting. But that wasn't all.

There was something almost familiar about him. Perhaps it was his scent, reminding her of girlhood daydreams of far-off places

while drowsing in the leather chair by the library hearth. Or perhaps it was the spicy essence on his breath, the hint of

port and some mysterious flavor that curled low in her belly. Then again, it might have been the warm pressure of his lips

as she angled her head, causing the ground to tip ever so slightly beneath her feet as it once had when she used to twirl

around in the garden amidst the twinkling lights of fireflies.

She wasn't sure. But whatever it was, it caused a hum to purr in her throat.

A peculiar sensation swirled in her midriff. It was both hot and fluttering at once, like moths foolishly drawn to the flicker

of stage lights... just before they burned themselves to ash.

She disconnected the kiss. Then, for good measure, she kicked him in the shin.

Caught off guard, Flint stumbled back. "What the—"

If he finished his rant, she didn't hear it because she flew as fast as she could through the gate.

Once she was safely inside the carriage, with her driver spurring the team, she let her head fall back against the squabs

and thanked her lucky stars that she would never see the likes of Mr. Flint again.