The White Sorceress and her husband fought the flames, but the fire was magical. It yielded to neither water nor sand nor wind, but burned on relentlessly. She watched as first her husband burned to death, then one by one her four eldest children perished in the flames, screaming for their mother. Finally only her youngest child, a girl of six, remained, clutched in the White Sorceress’s arms.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

The problem, Hugh mused as he waited for the carriage to be readied, was that Alf would be off like a shot if he let him. The boy would stubbornly go back to St Giles—and might be dead by nightfall. He wasn’t used to taking orders and apparently had an innate suspicion of those trying to help him as well, if last night’s argument was any indication.

Hence Hugh’s decision to simply bring the boy with him on his errand to see Shrugg this morning. This way he could keep Alf by his side, where he could watch him and protect him.

The boy also seemed to enjoy flouting authority—Hugh hadn’t missed that Alf refused to address him properly as a duke. Usually he didn’t pay much attention to the nicety of people addressing him as Your Grace—his men often didn’t, used as they were to his command position in the army. He knew that when his men addressed him as sir instead of Your Grace, no disrespect was intended.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

When Alf addressed Hugh in his cavalier manner as guv, Hugh was fairly certain that more than a touch of disrespect was intended. What was more troubling than the boy’s mockery was Hugh’s own reaction: he found he didn’t mind.

Worse: he found Alf’s teasing rather amusing.

“This ’er?”

He turned at the sound of the boy’s voice.

They were in the entry hall—an opulent room, naturally, with gray-and-green-marbled floors and green fabric walls. Alf had been squinting at the chandelier above—a great, gaudy thing that Katherine had bought in the first year of their marriage—but now he saw the boy had wandered to the grand staircase. He stood staring up at Katherine’s portrait.

Hugh had the urge to snap at him to mind his manners and get away from the painting, but that was rude. And the lad was merely curious.

He took a breath and walked over, glancing at Katherine. It was a full-length portrait and she stood in what looked like classical ruins, one arm leaning on a broken pillar. She’d chosen to be painted in a draped white dress, almost a chemise, with an ermine cape carelessly thrown over it. Her mahogany hair—her pride and joy—was undone, cascading down one shoulder, and her head was half turned away from the viewer, the better to reveal the long line of her white neck.

She was beautiful in the portrait as she had been in life, but Hugh had never thought the painting did her justice. The pose was too static. The artist, however accomplished, hadn’t captured Katherine’s essential vivaciousness. She’d been able to walk into a room and instantly command it, drawing the attention of both men and women.

He looked at her now and felt nothing. “Yes, that’s Katherine, my late wife.”

“When did she…?”

“Last September.” She’d been gone almost five months.

He felt the quick look Alf darted at him. “I’m sorry, guv.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that without appearing rude. He kept the portrait up only for his sons’ sakes.

The boy tilted his head. “I can see Lord Peter in ’er. They ’ave the same eyes. Pretty and blue.”

Hugh glanced at Alf in amusement. “You like blue eyes?”

The boy scuffed his shoes against the floor. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know.” He examined the boy, realizing he knew very little about Alf. “Do you have a sweetheart with blue eyes?”

“Me, guv?” Alf looked at him, wide eyed, and Hugh thought he must’ve hit on some truth. He’d never seen the boy so flustered.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Or a lass that you’re interested in?”

Alf blinked and seemed to regain some of his customary aplomb. “Tell you what, guv, if’n I did ’ave a lass I fancied, it wouldn’t be because of the color of ’er eyes. At least not that alone.”

“No?” Hugh felt his lips twitch. He really oughtn’t to tease the lad. “Tits or arse?”

Alf appeared to goggle for a moment. Then he glared. “Arse. Most definitely arse. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what?”

“Other things.” Alf waved his arms over his head in illustration. “Bigger things. If she laughs and what she laughs at. If babies and little children make ’er smile. If she takes care of ’er family even when they drive ’er wild. And if she likes looking at the stars at night.” The boy set his hands on his hips and glared at him. “Those things are more important in a sweetheart than the color of ’er blasted eyes.”

Looking at the stars at night? Hugh looked at Alf a little sadly. “Why, imp, you’re a romantic.”

A blush lit the boy’s downy cheeks. He lifted his chin. “And that’s not allowed, is it? That an urchin from St Giles should have romantic dreams? Is romance only for rich coves?”

“Oh, it’s allowed,” Hugh said. “Just be sure to take care with your romantic’s soul. I have the feeling Fate doesn’t give a fig where you hail from or what the state of your finances when she decides to crush your dreams.”

Alf opened his mouth—and then closed it and looked from him to Katherine’s painting and back again. He grimaced in what looked like sympathy. “I can understand why you might feel that way, guv, but—”

“Actually, you understand very little,” Hugh replied crisply. He was tired of this ridiculous conversation. “Come, the carriage must be ready by now.”

He strode to the front entrance to his town house, feeling unaccountably irritable.

Alf, however, made sure to keep up, and as Hugh made to open the front door, the boy leaned toward him.

“One thing you got wrong though, guv.”

“What’s that?” Hugh growled.

“I’m not that partial to blue eyes.” He looked amused. “I like my lasses with dark eyes.”

SEEING LONDON THROUGH a carriage window was very different from walking the streets, Alf reflected five minutes later. She was on the edge of the fine red leather seat, peering out the glass. Strange to see the streets from inside a carriage. There were the sweeper boys with their brooms ready to clear the way for a penny or two for those crossing the street—and to flick muck on the clothes of those who refused to pay. Here were two ladies, arm in arm, one in a dark-red dress, the other in a blue striped skirt and a jacket. They tilted their heads together as a young officer on horseback rode by.

Alf was higher inside the carriage, the street sounds muffled by glass. Apart. Not down in the noisy, mostly messy street. Even those ladies in their lovely dresses had to rub elbows with the milkmaids and charwomen they passed.

She sat back in the seat. Little wonder the rich sometimes seemed to have trouble thinking of everyone else as people.

She glanced across the carriage at Kyle.

He sat staring out the window, lost in his own dark thoughts. Was he in mourning for his beautiful, dead wife? She wanted to keep prying, to crack him open, and find out if he was hurt inside or indifferent to that regal, gorgeous creature draped in ermine in the portrait. But that strange moment between them in the hall had passed—the man who had teased her about having a sweetheart had disappeared.

Just as well, really. He was a duke, her employer, nothing else.

Except that when she’d been wounded last night she’d fled to him. Not her nest. Not St. John. Him.

True, the way into St Giles had been blocked and she’d been fearful of more Scarlet Throats waiting for her there, but that hadn’t been the only reason she’d sought out Kyle for safety.

Even afraid and in pain, she’d instinctively known she could trust him, a man she hardly knew.

Maybe it was that kiss.

Alf snorted under her breath. She could just hear what Ned would have said to that thought. Never trust anyone, especially not a bloody toff. It had practically been her bedtime story when they’d lain together, curled tight against the cold. They might talk pretty, but they’re only after what you can do for them, or worse—what’s between your legs. Best trust no one but yourself.

Well, and Ned, of course, but he hadn’t been around for a long, long time. She’d had to learn to figure out whom to trust and whom to run away from on her own.

And she trusted Kyle.

Across from her he sighed and sat up. “We must be nearly there.”

Alf glanced out the window and realized that the carriage was pulling up in front of an enormous brick building fronted by two tall towers with a clock between them.

St James’s Palace.

Which was where the King lived.

She darted an incredulous look at Kyle, but he was already preparing to get out of the carriage and didn’t seem to notice. Surely he didn’t mean for her to go in?

But he was looking at her impatiently now.

She took a deep breath and stood, moving carefully because her leg was still giving her pain.

Kyle stepped from the carriage and turned to watch her descend, poised as if he might offer help.

She shot him a glare.

His mouth quirked up at that, and then they were walking into the royal palace. Alf tried not to stare, but really there was no help for it. There were guards all in fancy costumes and finely dressed people standing about, the ladies in ridiculously wide panniers. The guards seemed to recognize Kyle. A liveried footman hurried over, bowed, and led them through the reception hall and into another corridor, this one less crowded.

Alf looked around curiously as they walked, wondering if the King himself had trod this hall. Well, he must’ve, mustn’t he? This was where he and the Queen lived. The palace was grand, but not nearly as wonderful as she’d imagined a king’s home would be. For one thing the rooms were smaller than those she’d seen in the few aristocratic houses she’d been in, and for another they were a bit fusty and old-fashioned. Still. It was a palace. Princes and princesses and kings and queens slept and ate and breathed here, almost like real people.

Eventually their corridor narrowed, and it looked as if they were in the servants’ quarters, of all things.

Abruptly the footman stopped before a nondescript door, opened it, and said, “The Duke of Kyle to see you, sir.”

They entered a cramped, crowded office.

Alf raised her eyebrows at the stout little man getting to his feet behind the enormous desk. He was well over fifty, with a jowly face and sad, lined eyes, and he wore a gray wig with tiny little curls across the front. If this was King George II, he looked nothing like his portraits.

“Kyle!” exclaimed the man, his cornflower-blue eyes bulging a bit. “What’s this I hear about you nearly being killed the other night?”

“Your spies are as quick as ever, I see, Shrugg,” the duke replied drily.

Definitely not the King, then. Alf fought not to feel disappointed.

“Yes, well, I shouldn’t have to rely upon whispers and rumors for information about your health.” The other man frowned, causing his face to slump into a mass of lines. “I had to tell Him over luncheon and you know how delicate His digestion is.”

Kyle arched a cynical-looking eyebrow as he took one of the chairs before the desk. “I’m surprised He had any reaction at all, frankly.”

Shrugg’s look was chiding. “You are his son, Your Grace.”

And that was when Alf realized that they were talking about the King. Stunned, she sank into the other chair before the desk, looking between the two men. She had so many questions, but she knew better than to interrupt this fascinating conversation.

“One of several and a bastard to boot,” Kyle was drawling.

“An acknowledged bastard, Your Grace,” Shrugg retorted. “And therein lies all the difference.”

Kyle waved away that point as if he’d grown tired of the debate—which Alf found very frustrating. “The attack is why I’ve come to consult with you.”

“Oh?”

The duke nodded. “It wasn’t a footpad who happened to cross my path. I was deliberately targeted and nearly assassinated by nearly a dozen men.”

Shrugg sat back in his chair and was quiet for a moment. Then, for the first time, he glanced at Alf. “Who is this?”

“My informant, Alf, from St Giles. Alf, this is Copernicus Shrugg, the King’s personal secretary. Amongst other things.”

Alf nodded at the old man, who was examining her closely. “’Ow d’you do?”

“You trust him?” Shrugg asked without taking his gaze from her.

“I’d not have brought him otherwise,” Kyle said mildly.

Shrugg nodded and at last looked at the duke again. “You think the attack was the Lords of Chaos.”

Kyle nodded once. “Yes, I do.” He sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees as he spoke. “I was returning from a dinner at the Habsburg ambassador’s residence, where I overheard a Russian spy delivering probable secrets to a Prussian—”

Shrugg interrupted with an exclamation.

Kyle waved it aside. “I’ll send you a report. The day after the attack I hired Alf to find out who sent the assassins after me, and he got a description, but not a very good one.”

Shrugg turned his attention to her.

Alf lifted her eyebrows. “The cove stank of rotten eggs. Maybe.” She glanced at Kyle pointedly. “Might not even be the one you’re looking for, guv—I told you that.”

“That’s it?” Shrugg looked incredulous.

“Apparently.” The duke didn’t seem perturbed either by Shrugg’s words or by her own caveat. “But mark: he didn’t have a foreign accent.”

“Pish!” Shrugg threw up pudgy hands. “That’s hardly damning evidence of the Lords, Your Grace.”

“No, but then Alf was followed and beaten last night,” Kyle said coolly.

Alf winced and cleared her throat. Both gentlemen glanced at her.

“About that,” she said. “See, the Scarlet Throats—those’re the roughs what tried to kill the duke ’ere,” she inserted for Shrugg’s benefit. “Them and me sort of ’ave a ’istory, you might say.”

“A history,” Kyle repeated, flat.

She nodded. “They ’ate my guts. And I’m not too fond of ’em, truth be told.”

“You never told me that,” Kyle said.

“’Adn’t ’ad the chance, ’ave I?” she retorted. “Between being stabbed last night and breakfast this morning and gallivanting off to see the King’s secretary, right nice gentleman though ’e is.” She smiled angelically at Shrugg.

Who cleared his throat and appeared to stifle a smile.

“Point is, they might’ve ’ad a reason other than me asking questions about your attack to beat on me,” she finished.

Kyle grunted. “Be that as it may, I still think this the work of the Lords.”

“I remain not entirely convinced, Your Grace,” Shrugg said, shaking his head lugubriously.

“’Oo are these Lords, exactly?” Alf asked.

Kyle answered her. “A club or society of aristocrats. They meet in secret, wear masks, and have a tattoo of a dolphin or porpoise on their person. When one shows another the tattoo the second must do whatever the first asks.”

“Like what?”

“They’re powerful men. They’re in the government, in the church, in the military, in society. One might ask another to back a bill in Parliament or to marry his daughter or to give his son a commission in the army.” He glanced at her, his black eyes grave. “The members don’t know each other, apparently. And if they try to leave the Lords or if they talk about the Lords to outsiders, they’re killed.”

“Huh,” Alf said, sitting back in her chair. “’Cepting for that killing people if’n they talk, I don’t see that much difference between these Lords and most of swell society.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “You’re always working together, ain’t you? Making deals, deciding amongst yourselves ’ow you’re gonna run the rest of us. These Lords ’ave just made themselves a smaller secret club within your whole bigger secret club.”

Shrugg frowned. “You are a very cynical young man.”

Kyle held up his hand to the older man without looking at him. He was watching her intently. “I suppose in an odd way you might be correct, though I think those in government might disagree.”

Shrugg snorted.

“However,” Kyle continued, “there’s another matter to consider—one much darker.”

Her eyes narrowed, unease trailing up her spine. “An’ what’s that, guv?”

“What these Lords of Chaos do at their meetings. They call them revels.” He grimaced and studied his hands, clasped between his legs. “More like drunken parties in obscure country locations. Various victims are brought in for the night. Women. Girls. Boys. Some do not leave alive.” Those black eyes flicked up to hers and for a moment they were unguarded. She saw anger, sorrow, and determination in his gaze, and it took her breath away. “Do you understand?”

She said slowly, “I’ve lived all my life in St Giles, guv. I knows well enough what men in their cups can do to women and girls and boys.”

It was why she donned a mask and motley and went hunting in the dark woods at night, after all.

To bring down the monsters.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Then you know why the Lords of Chaos have to be destroyed.”

She stared at him a moment, transfixed. Oh, she knew why these animals must be stopped, but the very fact that he knew—knew and cared enough to do something about it—gave her pause. In her experience, aristocrats looked the other way or simply didn’t care when the poor, the weak, the less clean were hurt and exploited.

Any more than they’d care if a beetle were trampled underfoot.

Yet Kyle did seem to truly care.

“Alf?”

She blinked. He was waiting for her answer.

So she nodded once. “Aye, ’spect I do know why these Lords need to be destroyed.”

“And yet,” Shrugg sighed, “we still have not established that there is any link between the attack on you, Your Grace, and the Lords. Have you learned anything new from the information you already have?”

Alf frowned. “What information’s that?”

Kyle grimaced impatiently. “The Duke of Montgomery, before he sailed off to Istanbul last fall, was kind enough to leave me with a list of the names of four men he implied were members of the Lords. Nothing else, mind you, just the names. And no”—he turned to Shrugg—“I haven’t been able to find anything more on them, despite keeping them under watch. They all appear to be respectable members of London society. Very lucky members of society, mind—they’ve all improved their fortunes in the last ten or twenty years—but there’s nothing illegal that I can find.”

“Why can’t you just arrest them?” Alf asked.

“Because,” Kyle replied, sounding as if his patience was wearing thin, “they’re all aristocrats, and powerful aristocrats at that. One of them is the Earl of Exley. If I bring them in with only the say-so of Montgomery, of all people, it’ll do nothing but cause a great scandal, and they’ll be released and gone to ground before I learn anything at all.”

“But if they’re out there right now…” Alf bit her lip. She hated to think of these men possibly hurting children at this very moment.

“They aren’t the only ones,” Kyle said gently. “Remember it’s a society. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds of members. Besides,” he continued, “Montgomery was kind enough to send me another letter, which I received yesterday.”

He took a letter out of the pocket of his coat and passed it across the desk to Shrugg.

The other man opened it and started reading, then grunted. “He’s prattling about water pipes here. Tell me the pertinent part.”

Kyle nodded. “He says that the old leader of the Lords was killed last fall and to his knowledge there wasn’t a successor.”

Shrugg threw the letter on the desk in apparent disgust. “That doesn’t mean much. I respect Montgomery’s sources of information—God knows the man has more spies than I do—but he’s been out of the country for over a month now.”

“Yes, but he goes on to say what I’ve always suspected: the leader had a list of names of the members,” Kyle said, tapping his finger on the letter. “Someone still has that list of names—either the new leader or simply someone keeping it safe until the new leader is chosen. If we find that list we have everyone.” He sat back in his chair. “And then we destroy the bastards.”

Shrugg narrowed his eyes and inhaled for a long moment, then said, “Even presuming I take your line of reasoning, how do you go about finding this list?”

“At the moment?” Kyle held out his hands. “I’m not sure. I’ve had men inside both the Earl of Exley’s and Lord Chase’s town houses. My men have looked in the obvious places for anything damning and didn’t find anything. Sir Aaron Crewe and Lord Dowling have proven harder to infiltrate.” Kyle shook his head. “But if I was attacked by the Lords instead of foreign spies, then I think my best option is to go looking for the Scarlet Throat gang. I want to know who hired them to kill me.”

Alf cleared her throat. “Erm… as to that…” She took a breath and made a decision. This was more important than her fear of the Scarlet Throats. “I knows a gin ’ouse in St Giles where we might find some of the gang. I can take you there tonight.”

Kyle frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

She gave him a hard smile. “I likes to keep my sources secret, guv. They’re my bread an’ butter.”

“I’m paying you for your information.”

“And I just gave you some.” She lifted her chin, swallowing. “If’n you don’t want to dirty yourself, I can do the investigating just fine on my own.”

But Kyle shook his head and she couldn’t help the relief that flooded her—that is, until he said his next words: “No. You need to heal that leg before you go into St Giles again. You’ll stay at Kyle House while I take my men tonight.”

She felt her mouth drop open. “Stay abed? What do you take me for, guv? A lily-livered coward?”

“I take you for a boy.” He stood, big and broad and cocksure. Well, he was a duke, after all, wasn’t he? “One that has been hurt in my service. I’ll not let it happen again. You’re under my protection now. Until this matter is resolved, you’ll do as I say.”

IRIS WATCHED IN her dressing table mirror as Parks, her lady’s maid, brushed her hair in preparation for bed. Parks had been with her for nearly two years now. She was efficient, neat, and quite taciturn. She also never pulled Iris’s hair when brushing it, so Iris supposed she should be grateful. Parks might not be as fashionable as a French lady’s maid, but she wasn’t as expensive, either.

Which rather mattered, since James had left her a tidy but not extravagant income. Enough to live very comfortably on. Not enough to establish an independent household. As a result she made her home with her brother, Henry, and his wife, Harriet. Fortunately, she was fond of them both, but there were small inconveniences in living in someone else’s house, even a relative’s. For instance, lately she’d been thinking that she’d rather like to have a small dog, just to keep her company. But of course she couldn’t purchase one. Harriet loathed both dogs and cats. And sometimes Iris thought how nice it would be to paint her bedroom walls a soothing light blue. Right now they were a dark green—Harriet’s favorite color.

She supposed that when she married Hugh, things would be very different. She could have a dog or even two. Redecorate the house, if she so wished. Spend without worrying over the expense at all—though she really wasn’t the sort to be extravagant.

That was, if she married him.

Parks lifted the brush from her hair, cleaned it, and replaced it on her dressing table. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

“No, thank you. Good night, Parks,” Iris murmured.

The lady’s maid curtsied and silently left the room.

Iris picked up the lit candle on her dresser and carried it to the bed. It was quite a nice bed, with emerald-green hangings and a lovely soft mattress, and now she felt guilty for even thinking unkind thoughts about living under Harriet’s roof.

She set the candle on her little bedside table and climbed into bed. She didn’t lie down, though. She liked to read a bit before falling asleep at night.

Iris reached over and picked up the slim red leather book lying on her bedside table—Katherine’s diary. She’d been reading it for the past several nights, in bits and pieces, because of course it was hard and she often ended in tears.

But it was also lovely.

She could hear Katherine’s voice when she described a new gown she was having made. Or when she wrote scathingly about a soiree where all the refreshments ran out before eleven of the clock. Or when she laughed at a gentleman she’d seen with an odd manner of snorting snuff.

It was a way of remembering her friend again.

Had it been anyone but Katherine, Iris might’ve hesitated to read the diary with its sometimes very frank details of her lovers. But Katherine had enjoyed the attention of others, loved it when both men and women stood waiting on her every word with bated breath.

She would’ve laughed to know that Iris was reading her diary now.

So Iris opened the book to the page where she’d left off—Katherine had just taken a new lover—and started reading.

Five minutes later Iris felt her entire body go cold at the words on the page.

The diary fell from her hands.