London 1805

The hour of her rendezvous was nearly upon her.

Worry made Grace's heart pound and her hand tremble as she
stepped into her bedchamber and quietly closed the door.
The music of a four-piece orchestra drifted upward from
the drawing room downstairs. The house party, a gala event
that had cost a small fortune, was another of her mother's
unending attempts to fob her off on one of the ton's aged
aristocrats. Grace had stayed as long as she dared,
forcing herself to make dreary conversation with her
mother's guests, then pled a headache and retired
upstairs. She had urgent business to attend this night.

Outside the window, a winter wind whipped leafless
branches against the sill as Grace stripped off her long
white gloves. Her palms were sweating. Uncertainty coiled
like a snake in her stomach, but her course was set and
she refused to turn back now.

Hurrying toward the bellpull, she kicked off her kidskin
slippers along the way, rang for her lady's maid, then
reached up to work the clasp on the diamond-and-pearl
necklace around her neck. Her hand lingered there, testing
the smoothness of the pearls, the rough facets of the
diamonds set in between each one.

The necklace had been a gift from her best friend,
Victoria Easton, countess of Brant, and Grace treasured
it, her only possession of any real worth.

"You rang, miss?" Her maid, Phoebe Bloom, was a bit of a
featherhead at times but good-hearted nonetheless. She
poked her dark-haired head through the door, then hurried
in.

"I could use a little help, Phoebe, if you please."

"Of course, miss."

It didn't take long to get out of the gown. Grace managed
a nervous smile for Phoebe, pulled on her quilted wrapper,
and excused the girl for the balance of the evening. The
music downstairs continued to play. Grace prayed she could
complete her mission and return to the house before anyone
discovered she was gone.

The moment Phoebe closed the door, Grace tossed aside her
robe and hurriedly changed into a simple gray wool gown.
She blew out the whale oil lamp on the dresser and the one
beside the bed, leaving the room in darkness. Stuffing a
pillow beneath the covers to create the illusion that she
was sleeping if her mother chanced to look in, she grabbed
her cloak and swung it around her shoulders.

As she headed for the door, she picked up her reticule,
the purse heavy with the weight of the money she had
received from her great-aunt, Matilda Crenshaw, Baroness
Humphrey, along with a ticket for a cabin aboard a packet
sailing north at the end of the week.

Raising the hood of her cloak to cover her auburn hair,
Grace checked to be certain no one was out in the hall,
then slipped down the servants'stairs and left the house
through a door leading out to the garden.

Her heart was pumping, her nerves on edge, by the time she
reached Brook Street, hailed a hackney carriage and
climbed into the passenger seat.

"The Hare and Fox Tavern, if you please," she said to the
driver, hoping he wouldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

"That be in Covent Garden, eh, miss?"

"That is correct." It was a small, out-of-the-way
establishment, she had been told, chosen by the man whose
services she intended to purchase. She had gleaned the
man's name from her coachman for a few gold sovereigns,
though she didn't tell him the nature of her business.

It seemed to take hours to reach her destination, the
hackney winding through the dark London streets, wooden
wheels whirring, the horse's hooves clopping over the
cobbles, but finally the painted sign for the Hare and Fox
appeared.

"I'd like you to wait," Grace said to the driver as the
coach pulled up in front, pressing a handful of coins into
his palm. "I won't be inside very long."

The driver nodded, a grizzled old man whose face was
mostly hidden beneath a growth of heavy gray beard.'see
that ye aren't."

Praying the man would still be there when she returned,
and careful to keep the hood of her cloak up over her
head, she made her way around to the back of the tavern as
she had been instructed, opened the creaky wooden door and
stepped into the dimly lit taproom. The place was low-
ceilinged and smoky, with heavy carved beams and scarred
wooden tables. A fire blazed in a blackened stone hearth
and a group of hard-looking men sat at a nearby table. At
the back of the room, a tall, big-boned man in a slouch
hat and greatcoat sat at another of the tables. He stood
as she walked in and motioned for her to join him.

Grace swallowed and dragged in a courage-building breath,
then made her way toward him, ignoring the curious glances
of the men in the tavern as she took a seat in the ladder-
back chair he offered.

"Did ye bring the blunt?" he asked without the least
formality.

"Are you certain you can see the job done?" Grace was
equally forward.

He straightened as if she'd insulted him. "Jack Moody
gives his word, ye can count on it.Ye'll get what ye pay
for."

Grace's hand shook as she pulled the pouch out of her
reticule and handed it to the man named Jack Moody. He
poured a fistful of golden guineas into his palm, a dark
smile lifting a thin pair of lips.

"It's all there," Grace said, trying to ignore the bawdy
jokes and coarse laughter of the men at the table next to
them, glad they were mostly occupied with their drinking
and the lusty tavern wenches who seemed to keep them
entertained. The smell of greasy mutton made her stomach
roll and Grace felt a sweep of nausea. She had never done
anything like this before. She prayed she would never have
to again.

Jack Moody counted the coins, then dumped them back into
the pouch. "As ye say, seems t'all be there." He rose to
his feet, his features partly shadowed by the narrow brim
of his hat. "The plan's been set. Soon as I give the word,
t'will be done. Yer man'll be well outta London come
mornin'."

"Thank you."

Jack hefted the pouch, making the coins rattle. "This be
all the thanks I need." He tipped his head toward the
door. "Best get along now. Later it gets, more chance of
trouble findin' ye."

Grace said nothing to that, just rose from the chair and
cast a cautious glance at the door.

"Mind ye keep yer silence, lass. Them what talks when they
shouldn't don't live very long."

A chill went through her. She would never mention Jack
Moody's name again. With a faint nod of understanding, she
drew her cloak around her and made her way silently out
the back door.