Chapter One
London, 1814
Julius Blackwell dug his fingers under the mask covering his face. The damn thing itched like the dickens. And smelled like a swamp. He tried to remember the last time he’d worn it. Vauxhall Gardens? That assignation with Godfrey’s sister?
His lips scratched the wool as they curved beneath the mask. That had been a lovely evening, notwithstanding his flight along the banks of the Thames with Godfrey’s men in pursuit. The man’s outrage seemed disproportionate to Julius’s offense. His sister was a lovely widow who had more than her fair share of trysts. Her behavior was well known throughout London. In Godfrey’s defense, however, it was one thing to know of one’s sister’s behavior, but quite another to come across it along one of the garden’s winding paths.
Julius’s escape through the filthy river had been hard won. It also explained the smell.
He readjusted the mask. If only bed sport were the reason he wore it tonight.
The floor board beneath him groaned, and Julius froze. The felt he’d attached to the bottom of his boots was no protection against an ill-constructed house. Blast Lord Liverpool for sending him on this fool’s errand. No earl should condescend to sneak through a widow’s home in the middle of the night to steal a painting. Not even at the request of the prime minister.
The previous Lords Rothchild would roll over in their graves if they knew what the current one was doing. It had been ingrained in Julius since infancy that honor was the mainstay of the aristocracy. Honor and idleness. Julius was sure none of his ancestors had ever worked a day in their lives, much less worked for the Crown as a spy.
And blast Ashworth for getting blackmailed by Mrs. Abigail Westmont in the first place. Julius always seemed to be the Crown’s first choice to clean up the messes the peerage left behind. If Liverpool didn’t seek some form of retribution for Viscount Ashworth’s latest indiscretion, Julius damn well would.
Easing into another sitting room, Julius examined the walls, but didn’t find his object. All that remained to search were the Widow Westmont’s own bedchambers. A pulse throbbed behind his temple. Of course, the harlot would keep it close. That painting was worth twenty thousand pounds to her, or a certain disgrace to Viscount Ashworth if he didn’t pay.
His footsteps were mere whispers as he crept down the hallway. Julius prayed the widow kept her door well-oiled. Liverpool’s instructions were to recover the item at all costs, but violence against women didn’t sit well with Julius. Even against conniving blackmailers.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the door open, the wood hissing over the raised carpet. Moonlight streamed in through the uncovered window, falling on the form beneath the coverlet. Her chest rose and fell smoothly, enjoying the sleep of the innocent.
Julius bit back a snort. Mrs. Abigail Westmont was anything but. Although Julius had never enjoyed the pleasure of her favors, he’d known many men who had. Many, many men. How many of them had she blackmailed, too?
The shadowed walls were bare. He narrowed his eyes. Where would she keep it? He peered over the back of her settee. Nothing. In her wardrobe, Julius pushed aside swathes and swathes of fabric. Julius ground his teeth together and tossed a glance over his shoulder at the sleeping figure. Why did women have so many blasted clothes? It wasn’t to impress men. They didn’t give their first bollock about current fashions. The less worn, the better. Julius wanted the smallest barrier possible between him and a woman when he bound her wrists to a headboard and bent—
His gaze flew to the bed. On silent feet, he padded close, listening to her even breathing. Dropping to his hands and knees, he lifted the ruffle and stared into the pitch black beneath the mattress and frame. Feeling his way, he searched the floor, finding nothing. He flattened to his stomach and scooted as far underneath as he could, straightening his arm. His fingertips nudged a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Stretching his shoulder, Julius ignored the familiar pain that shot through the joint and grasped the edge of the painting, tugging it towards him. As quietly as possible, he pulled the two-foot square canvas free of the counterpane. Rolling to a crouch, he shot one last look at the Widow Westmont and slipped from her room.
Julius stalked to the window at the end of the hall. Moonlight streamed through the curtains. He unwrapped enough of the canvas to see that it was, indeed, a portrait of Ashworth. Tucking the picture under his arm, he escaped from the house the way he’d entered. He waited for the familiar rush of pleasure and satisfaction that came from evading detection, from gaining entrée where he didn’t belong, but tonight he just felt on edge.
Two blocks away, he climbed into his carriage and headed for White’s. He found Liverpool where he expected, ensconced in a private room, a stack of papers on the table next to him, smoke curling from the end of his pipe.
“I see you were successful,” Liverpool said. Turning a page in The London Gazette, he flicked a glance at Julius. The man had only been prime minister for a couple of years, and Julius hadn’t yet learned the art of reading him. His predecessor had certainly never communicated with Julius or his friends in person, not when it came to their unofficial government duties. Julius supposed he should appreciate the risk Lord Liverpool took in speaking with him face to face. Either that or the man didn’t trust his messengers.
“Did you doubt I would be?” Julius strode to a sideboard, unwrapped the canvas, and propped it against the wall. Taking a step back, he grimaced. “Bloody hell. Ashworth deserves to be blackmailed. He posed for his mistress like this?”
Liverpool peered over the paper, his spectacles glinting in the light. He harrumphed. “I understand the lady painted it from memory. Not very flattering to the man, is it?”
“I’d object more to the girlish pose on the settee than the lack of proportion.” Julius cocked his head. “Maybe.” Not wanting to look upon it a moment more, he rewrapped the canvas. “I assume the wine-colored birthmark above his groin was the source for the blackmail?”
Liverpool nodded. “Something only his wife and doctor should know.”
“A lot of men have affairs.”
“Not all of them have the ear of the Prince Regent. Not all of them have built a political platform on family values. The man seems particularly aggressive in wanting to imprison adulterers. Of the lower classes, of course.” The prime minister shook his head. “No, Lord Ashworth was a fool to be so indiscrete.” He flipped to another page, dismissing Julius.
Another job done. Julius’s shoulders sagged. Finishing a job for the Crown usually left Julius in high spirits. Eager for more adventure. Being a spy had given his life purpose. Tonight, he felt drained. He just wanted to get home, go to bed.
With a curt nod, Julius strode for the door.
“Good job, Rothchild.” Liverpool’s words stopped Julius.
Julius turned and looked once more at the canvas. “You know Mrs. Westmont can paint another picture.”
“Yes.” Liverpool sucked at his pipe. “It’s no longer your concern.”
Julius hesitated. “If everyone knew about the birthmark, there could be no recourse to blackmail. A friendly prank among friends that went awry.”
Liverpool pursed his lips. “Perhaps. Goodnight, Rothchild.”
Crossing the club, Julius ignored the greetings of acquaintances. How tenuously Mrs. Westmont’s life hung in the balance. Everything she knew could be taken away from her tomorrow if the prime minister wished it. A scandal created to destroy her reputation. A crime faked to separate her from society. Which path would Liverpool take to eliminate the threat?
The prime minister called upon Julius and his friends in the House of Lords to help the Crown in times of need. But there was a limit to his service. Tasks he wouldn’t perform.
Liverpool called upon others less honorable for the jobs Julius refused to do.
It was a messy business keeping an empire together.
Climbing into his carriage, Julius sagged into the velvet seat and called, “Home.”
The driver closed the door and poked his head in the open window. “Home, my lord? Or the Duke of Montague’s townhouse?”
Julius leaned his head back on the seat and stared at the ceiling. Bugger. That was his home now. At least while Marcus was touring the continent with his new bride. His friend’s stifling townhouse with its crush of servants watching his every move.
Its other occupant made him feel just as uncomfortable, but for an entirely different reason.
He sighed. “To Montague’s. And don’t look so relieved. I know you like staying in the duke’s carriage house more than mine.”
His driver kept his lips even. “No, my lord.”
The carriage shifted as the man took his seat. The flannel-wrapped bricks at Julius’s feet had long since cooled, and he tugged his coat tighter about him. Both carriage windows were open, but he made no move to close them. A soft breeze chilled his face and he breathed deep.
His shoulder ached, and he idly rubbed the old hurt. He felt a hundred years old, in both body and soul. He’d seen too much in life. No matter how hard he and his friends worked, nothing would change. The same battles were fought every year. If it wasn’t France, it would be the Russian Empire or an internal enemy that threatened the peace. Human nature was set.
The wraith that haunted the halls of Montague’s townhouse attested to that fact.
So much pain in one so young. Fire burned in Julius’s chest. Each time he saw Miss Amanda Wilcox, he wanted to kill every man that had a part in putting the hollowness in her eyes.
He wanted a lot of things when he saw her. But she was his good friend’s sister-in-law and under his care.
He snorted. Marcus had left the chit under Julius’s protection while he was away with his new bride. The idiot. Like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. Or perhaps his friend was brilliant. Believing that if caring for Amanda was Julius’s duty, he’d never touch her.
That was putting a lot of faith in Julius. Faith he didn’t know was justified.
The carriage rattled to a stop. Julius trudged up the steps to the front door, the damned thing swinging open before he reached it. The butler must have stood sentry by the window watching for him. Always watching.
“Thank you, Carter.” Julius handed the man his gloves. “You didn’t need to wait up. I’ve told you that before. Many times.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man’s wig was askew and sleep creased his face, but Julius knew he would have stayed up all night just to open the damn door for him. Next time Julius left the house, he would tell Carter he was staying out till morning so the butler wouldn’t wait up.
Carter picked up a candle. “Shall I lead you to your room?”
Julius’s scalp prickled. “I know my way. You go on to bed.” He waved away the offered candle. “And keep your candle. I can see well enough in the moonlight.”
“Yes, my lord.” The golden aura faded as the man walked to his quarters. Julius faced the stairs to the second floor and sighed. Too many steps. Instead, he trudged to the duke’s library. It was Julius’s favorite room in the house, with high ceilings, large windows, and a surprisingly comfortable settee to sleep on.
He pushed the door open and frowned. It was black as pitch, all the curtains drawn. He’d told Carter to keep the drapes open. It wasn’t like the man to forget.
Julius crossed the room and pulled back the curtains. The muscles in his shoulders unknotted as the night sky opened up before him. Alone at last. As alone as one could be in a metropolis of one million denizens.
Fabric rustled, and he jerked his head around. Slippered feet disappeared under the hem of a skirt hanging over a bench seat. The body attached to the feet was hidden in shadow, but Julius knew to whom it belonged. Only one woman would be hiding in the dark in this house.
“Miss Wilcox, the hour is late for you to be out of bed.”
No answer.
“And sitting in a library without a light seems a bit pointless. Unless you can read in the dark.”
She sighed.
Julius moved closer, slowly, careful not to startle her. She moved around the house like smoke, and he didn’t want her to slip through his fingers. “Can’t you sleep?”
“I’ll leave you be if you wish to be alone.” Her husky voice surrounded him like a thick fog. The rasp that she’d developed in prison had never truly left.
“I didn’t say that.” He held out his hand. “But I would like for you to stop hiding in the dark. Let’s sit by the window.”
He waited, pulse pounding in his ears, until she placed her hand within his own. Satisfaction coursed through him. Amanda shied away from most contact, only stiffly tolerating her sister’s embraces. Her hand was cool, and he chafed it as he led her to the settee.
“What are you doing out of bed at this hour?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.”
Moonlight fell on Amanda’s cheek. A strand of dark hair lay across her neck, and his fingers itched to tuck it back behind her ear. “Was there something you needed? You’ve only to ask. You know I’m here in Marcus’s stead. Anything you would ask of him, you can ask of me.”
A smile ghosted across her lips. “I hope not. There’s something I wish to ask you that I could never ask my brother by marriage. My sister wouldn’t care for it.”
He squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her. “If it is in my power to deliver, it’s yours.”
Raising her other hand, she laid it atop his so both her hands surrounded his one. Tentatively, she brushed her thumb from his knuckles to his wrist, gently, like he was the one made of porcelain and could be broken.
His skin prickled. The air in the library thickened, grew heavy, and a longing filled him that stole his breath. Its strength had never been matched.
“What I want,” she said. “What I’ve wanted since the moment you moved into this house, is for you to take me to bed and have your way with me.”