Prologue
September 29, 1809
Solomon Hathaway was drunk. He was drunk, and he didn't
want to go to a brothel. On the other hand, Mme Deveraux's
front steps were cold and windy. "'The mouth of strange
women is a deep pit: he that is abhorred of the Lord shall
fall therein,'" he said, and clung to the wrought–iron
railing.
Ashton and Braithwaite shared a disbelieving look. "Is the
parson's son quoting Scripture again?" said Ashton.
"Don't—don't call me that."
"D'you prefer 'tailor's nephew'?" Braithwaite asked. Drink
always made him cruel.
Ashton snickered. "Leave off. It's normal for a virgin to
be nervous."
Solomon straightened. The motion made his head whirl. "I'm
going back to the hotel."
Ashton grabbed his sleeve. "Oh, don't take it like that,
Hathaway. Come along, this is the best house in London!
This is why we came up to town on quarter day, isn't it? To
spend our blunt on things we can't get in Cambridge?"
"Yes..." Solomon was already regretting it. He should have
gone home and let Elijah lecture him on obscure French
poetry instead. "I was going to buy a cal—calor—
calorimeter."
"A what?"
"It measures heat. Lavoisier disproved the existence of
phlogiston with it. No, wait—I'm getting my experiments
confused—"
Braithwaite pushed open the door of the brothel. "He's just
making up words now. I'm going in. If Hathaway wants to
turn twenty–one without ever knowing the touch of a woman,
let him." Heat gusted out in his wake, and after a moment
his two friends followed him.
Inside, Solomon took a deep breath into his cold lungs—and
choked on an attar–of–roses fog. Scalding tears sprang to
his eyes, refracting the room into red and gilt and skin. A
great deal of skin, multiplied by dozens of elegant
mirrors. He averted his eyes, but not before a flash of
petticoat revealed raised red welts on a smooth thigh.
A girl touched his arm, startling him. She was pale and
dark and hit him like a fever, hot and cold at once. But
even that chill grounded him, blocking out the heat of the
salon. Were the fires kept too high, or had the brandy
affected his senses? It would be an interesting experiment,
the exact effects of alcohol on the blood—
"Come upstairs," she said.
Solomon blinked, focused his eyes on her again. She was
looking at him, but her eyes were empty. Nothing there. No
human connection at all. He swallowed, trying to keep the
bile down. "I think I should go."
"You'll like it."
He followed her up a red–carpeted stair; she never once
looked back, even when he stumbled. She wore a thin
lavender percale, inexpertly embroidered with seed pearls.
Its single muslin petticoat revealed every angle of her
legs—or would have if he could have taken his eyes off the
stairs long enough to see much above her ankles. They were
neat ankles.
The gown was stylish and becoming, but second–rate, he
decided as they went down a dimly lit corridor. The muslin
was not quite of the best quality. It wasn't well–fitted
either, but maybe she'd lost weight. She was very thin. His
mother would want to feed her, give her bread with extra
cheese and bowls of clotted cream the way she'd done to
Solomon and Elijah when they were younger. "To put meat on
their bones"—oh Lord, why was he thinking about his mother
now?
She went through an open door into an unoccupied room. The
fire lit an enormous bed with hangings the color of red
lead. He pressed his hand against the door frame, trying to
stop his head from spinning. "It's very warm downstairs."
It was warmer here. Only the girl's cold face and the cool
of the corridor against his back steadied him. There was a
tiny round birthmark above her left eyebrow. He wanted to
touch it.
"It's nearly October. Gentlemen don't like gooseflesh. Just
take off your coat."
He nodded. "Of course." She met his eyes then. Hers were
gray, gray and still empty. He was fairly sure she hated
him. "We really needn't—"
There was a flash of scorn in her face. "Come in." She
wrapped her pale fingers around his arm and pulled him into
the room. Her breasts pressed against the front of his coat
as she reached behind him to pull the door shut.
A tremor ran through him, a tremor that was all heat. This
wasn't how he'd imagined his first time with a woman, but
maybe—
She went backwards, and he followed—but the bed took up
most of the room, and he didn't notice when she stopped
moving. Suddenly he was pressed up hard against her, the
busk of her stays jabbing into his stomach and her legs
trapped between his own and the bed. They both grabbed at
the bedpost for balance; his fingers meshed accidentally
with hers and she kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft.
She smelled like almonds and cheap perfume.
She leaned back. Dazed, he tried to follow, but she'd
brought her arm up between them to pop the buttons at her
shoulders. Her bodice fell away entirely, revealing bare
shoulders and arms and the tops of her breasts swelling
above her stays. There was a little round birthmark there,
too.
The curtains were imperfectly drawn; a beam of moonlight
fell starkly across her skin. That strip of moonlit flesh
stood out like the mark of a whip. It shone with the faint
bluish–white sheen of arsenic.
Everything came to a head—the brandy and the sickening
stench of roses, her distaste and his nerves, and most of
all his uneasy guilt at trafficking in human flesh. He was
in hell, and she was a damned soul sent to tempt him.
Solomon stumbled back, his gorge rising. Hardly knowing
what he did, he tugged his purse out of his greatcoat
pocket. His entire quarterly allowance was in it, one
hundred and twenty–five pounds lovingly counted out that
morning at his uncle's solicitor's, and he held it out like
a beggar with his alms cup.
"Take it. Please, I'm sorry, take it." He'd regret it in
the morning, he knew that, but at the moment there didn't
seem to be much choice. Maybe if she took it, she'd forgive
him. Forgive him for coming here, for whatever sins Ashton
and Braithwaite were even now visiting upon some poor girl—
and most of all, for wanting to push her back onto the bed
and stare into her gray eyes and fuck her.
He groped behind him for the doorknob. It was difficult,
because his hands were shaking.
She didn't take the money, only watched him with her
unreadable eyes. He dropped it on the floor and fled the
room, covering his mouth with one hand.
Chapter 1
June 7, 1815
"There's a man to see you," Sophy said, sticking her head
through Serena's office door. "He says he needs your help
locating a missing object. What should I tell him?"
Serena, up to her eyeballs in ledgers, opened her mouth to
say no. Right now it was hard enough looking after her own
people. She didn't need to take on a stranger's problem.
On the other hand, he would probably pay her for her help.
God knew she could use the money; the Ravenshaw Arms'
profits were down by four percent from this time last year.
Because of the damned war, no doubt. Everyone had flitted
off to Belgium to gawk at the young men about to be
brutally slaughtered by Napoleon. As always, one person's
tragedy was someone else's entertainment.
Four percent wasn't too bad, but she couldn't help
worrying. She'd already put off buying new bed–hangings for
some of the rooms for months, out of a reluctance to
deplete her small reserve. She didn't like to risk
compromising the inn's wealthy, fashionable image, but it
was better than letting some of the staff go.
Serena couldn't face that. She remembered what it was like
to be penniless and on the street. "Show him in," she told
Sophy.
Serena had found that it was a good idea to make visitors
wait for her attention; it established that she was in
charge, and gave them time to get nervous. So when the door
opened again and the stranger came in, she finished her sum
and double–checked it before looking up.
It was him.
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't believe she had almost
sent him away. She'd been looking for him for years. The
Hundred and Twenty–Five Pounds, she called him, and she
remembered him as if it had been yesterday. Hair like ripe
wheat, freckles in a pale face, dreamy hazel eyes, a
flexible mouth, and that unexpectedly stubborn chin. He'd
looked like an angel.
Either she'd embellished, or he'd grown up, or both. He
didn't look like an angel now. He looked like a man, solid
and broad and taller than she'd thought.
He looked tired, too, and worn. His hazel eyes were
watchful now. It was idiotic how much it hurt her, that he
hadn't stayed young and unbruised forever. But he's still
beautiful, she thought. As if it made any difference what
she thought.
It didn't, because on top of everything else he looked
rich. Rich and stylish, in a well–cut coat and breeches,
tasseled Hessians, an exquisitely tied cravat, and a
fanciful crimson waistcoat, its enormous pocket flaps
embroidered in orange and pale green. Everything brand–new
and expensive, and cheerful in a way that jarred with his
expression.
She'd known he was a gentleman, coming into Mme Deveraux's
with his noble friends, but it still made her feel a little
queasy. People like him didn't associate with whores like
her.
"Good afternoon," he said. "I'm Solomon Hathaway." She
hadn't remembered his voice at all beyond his educated
accent; he'd barely spoken. Husky and a little rough around
the edges, it wasn't what she'd expected. "And you must be
Lady Serena."
She nodded, carefully keeping all expression from her face.
"I—" He took a deep breath. "I've been told you could help
me. There's been a theft—a family heirloom—" He flushed a
startling shade of red.
He couldn't even get the words out. No doubt he thought a
man like him asking a woman like her for a favor went
against the natural order of things. "Ashamed to ask for my
help?"
He frowned. "Of course I'm ashamed," he said
impatiently. "If Susannah weren't so superstitious, she'd
just get married without the damned things. Sorry. The
dashed things." He squinted at her. "Do I know you?"
He didn't recognize her. He was branded into her mind and
he didn't recognize her?
He was getting married?
Who cared? She wasn't some daydreaming schoolgirl. She'd
known the odds were slim that she'd ever see him again. She
hadn't expected anything to come of it even if she did.
Yes, this was perfect. He didn't know who she was. She'd
find his missing object and they would be even. She'd repay
her debt, send him on his way, and be free of him.
Perfect.
"No, we've never met." She gave him a smooth smile. "Now
tell me, why do you think I can help you?"
"My uncle Dewington says you know every rogue in London by
his Christian name." There was a beat, and then he sighed,
as if he'd just realized that was a strange thing to say
but was resigned to it.
He'd heard part of her reputation, anyway. "His or her
Christian name, yes," she said dryly. His uneasiness
intrigued her. It seemed to be about a quarter self–
consciousness and three–quarters not focusing on the
conversation. What was he really thinking about?
It annoyed her that she wanted to know, and, annoyed, she
gave in to the temptation of a little rudeness. Just to see
if she could make him blush again. "Solomon Hathaway. And
the Earl of Dewington's your uncle. Then—hmm. Your mother
married beneath her, didn't she?"
He focused on the conversation then, his hazel eyes going
green and piercing. "No one with Lord Dewington in her
family could possibly marry beneath her," he snapped. Well,
she agreed with him there.
Usually she liked to keep her desk between herself and
visitors, but on impulse she came around and leaned back
against the front edge. From up close, he looked even more
tired, and thinner than she remembered. What had happened?
Did it have anything to do with the help he wanted from
her? "So, what is this heirloom you're looking to recover?"
He gazed out the window behind her. "It's the Stuart
earrings. My grandfather's great–grandfather, John
Hathaway, let Charles the Second spend a couple of nights
in his printing house when the King was fleeing one of
Cromwell's victories. Charles gave him the earrings as a
reward. If you ask me, it's a blot on the family escutcheon—
not that we have one. I'd prefer a 'death to tyrants!' sort
of forebear. But last week the earrings were being sent up
to Shropshire by special courier for the wedding, and a
highwayman robbed the coach. Susannah won't get married
without them."
Ah yes, Susannah. If he was engaged, why was he running on
as if he'd barely spoken to anyone in who knew how long?
The amount of words convinced her that she was right and he
wasn't shy, only distracted or unhappy. Clearly Susannah
wasn't taking proper care of him.
Not taking proper care of him? she mocked herself. Who are
you and what have you done with Serena? Next you'll be
making him calf's–foot jelly. "The earrings are valuable, I
take it?"
He shrugged. "The workmanship is excellent. Two good–sized
rubies set in gold filigree with four tiny diamonds—very
grand for a Hathaway, but nothing out of the common way for
a Ravenshaw."
Serena didn't wear jewelry. Possibly he was realizing that,
because he glanced up at her hands and neckline and then
launched back into speech without ever meeting her eyes.
"But that isn't it. It's the family superstition. The King
told John that they would bring him good fortune. There's
even a verse saying to give them to one's wife for luck.
And sure enough, the woman John loved was widowed in a
tragic oven accident and they were able to marry. Since
then all the Hathaway brides have worn the earrings. By
now, that means that if one doesn't wear them—"
"Bad luck, yes. But surely you, Solomon, are not so—unwise—
as to be swayed by such things."
He looked at her then. "A pun on my name, how original."
But he was smiling a little, which threw her off. "Susannah
lacks the scientific temperament."
She couldn't help it: she leaned forward. "And yet you're
marrying her."
He blinked. "What? Oh—Lord, no. Susannah's my sister. It's
not my wedding."
Relief flooded her throat; she swallowed it and took refuge
in sarcasm. "My apologies. Susannah is lucky to have such a
scientific gentleman for a brother."
He stiffened. At first she thought he was taking exception
to her tone, but then he said, sounding affronted, "I'm not
a gentleman. I work for my living. My lady."
She raised her eyebrows, startled. "I apologize if I've
accidentally dampened your pretensions to being a member of
the lower orders." Of course, she worked for a living, and
she had an aristocratic accent and dressed to the nines.
But she was a special case. Wasn't she?
He looked down at his clothes, and went faintly pink. "Oh.
I—I borrowed these clothes from the shop. My uncle
Dewington hates it when I visit him looking like a
tradesman." He gave her the edge of a crooked smile, as if
waiting to see if she'd smile back. "You can't see it, but
there's a hole in my stockings. Here." He circled a spot on
his breeches just above the knee. His kid–gloved index
finger rubbed against the buckskin, only inches above the
row of buttons stretching the leather tight around his
calves, and Serena felt her temperature rising. She didn't
smile back. "And I gilded the watch–chain myself."
"You did?" The chain looked brand–new and perfect. Why
would he know how to do that?
"I'm a chemist," he said proudly. "Well, I do some design
and pitch in with the tailoring when Uncle Hathaway needs
the help, but mostly I make all our dyes. We match any
shade, and we're famed for the brilliancy of our colors."
And then the whole story came back to her. Hathaway's Fine
Tailoring, the men's shop on Bond Street that was all the
rage these days. It had been opened almost thirty years
ago, before Serena was born, by a pair of brothers fresh up
from the country. But one of the brothers, having more of a
taste for religion than business, had soon left the shop to
be ordained. During his studies, he'd supported himself as
a Latin tutor—in the Earl of Dewington's household, among
others. Lady Lydia had run off with him, and not been
acknowledged by the family again until her father's death.
Her brother, the present earl, had been generous enough to
send her son to Cambridge, only to be neverendingly
mortified when the boy chose to work at Hathaway's Fine
Tailoring after all. And that was Solomon, apparently.
There was something else, though, something Dewington had
told her about his nephew. What was it?
"So will you help me?" he asked.
It was such a tiny favor, tracking down a stolen piece of
jewelry. Would it really even the scales? She didn't want
to be in his debt anymore. Maybe you just want to keep him
around, she suggested scornfully, and then told herself to
shut up. "Certainly. I'd also like to order some cloth from
you. Some of our beds need new hangings, and the wallpaper
would have to be matched." She tilted her head. "Are you
sure you can do it?"
He straightened. Ha! She'd thought that would get
him. "Yes," he said curtly. "I could match the color of
your eyes better than your current modiste, too."
She glanced down at her gray bombazine in surprise. "Could
you?" Didn't it match? And—he'd noticed her eyes?
For the first time since he'd got there, he looked into her
eyes for longer than a few seconds. Stared into them, and
she couldn't look away. Couldn't help breathing faster.
He frowned, a tiny line between his brows. They arched so
perfectly. She was drawn to him, and she didn't want to
be. "Solomon?" she said coolly, or meant to. Her voice was
rough and hot.
He might not have noticed. That deep, deep flush swept over
him again, and she smiled involuntarily. "Now I understand
why you dyed your waistcoat that enchanting shade of red."
"Wh—?" He cleared his throat. "What?" he asked, his husky
voice dropping even further.
"It matches the tips of your ears to perfection."
He rolled his eyes, but he smiled sheepishly back.
Christ, she was flirting with him. She had to get him out
of here before she completely lost her dignity. "As
charming as this interview has been, I'm sure you have
business to attend to. Have supper with me tonight, and
we'll discuss the details of your little robbery."
"Then you'll help me?"
She nodded.
He looked relieved. "We can pay you, of course—"
There. Now she didn't feel like flirting. "No," she
interrupted. You will never pay me for anything, ever
again. She swallowed the feeling of claustrophobia. Maybe
if she paid back this one great debt, she would feel free
for once in her life. "Let Sophy show you to your room.
You'll be staying here. Gratis."
His jaw dropped. "I couldn't dream of it! This is much too
elegant an establishment for me—I have rooms—"
"I daresay you do—in Cheapside," she said, naming a
neighborhood in the City filled with warehouses, butchers'
shops, and tradesmen's lodgings.
He glared at her. "I'm not ashamed of my address."
He was so prickly. She tried not to smile again. "As worthy
and respectable as Cheapside no doubt is, it's some little
distance from me, and I want you on hand to consult with."
"I don't see why that's necessary."
It wasn't necessary. In fact, it was probably a terrible
idea. Too late. "You want my help, don't you? Susannah and
her betrothed are waiting..."
"You won't help me unless I stay here?" He sounded as if he
didn't know whether to be annoyed, or just puzzled.
"Believe me, you won't be arguing with me once you've had
supper. My chef is the best in the business." You just
think he hasn't been eating enough. You're acting like
somebody's mother. She crossed her arms. "That's my offer.
Take it or leave it."
He spread his hands in a frustrated, resigned gesture. "If
I'm going to stay here, I'll have to bring all my equipment
from my rooms," he warned her.
"Then do so at once." She rang the bell on the wall behind
her desk. When she was done with him, he'd be so far in her
debt he'd never get out. She just had to do it before he
realized who she was and headed for the hills.