“Spaulding,” came an exasperated male voice. “Did you hear a word I’ve said?”

Simon glanced up from his stack of notes on the Thief of Mayfair to see a clump of his colleagues outside his office door. “I’m sorry. I was lost in a case. What did you say?”

“A few of us are heading to the races,” said one of the other officers. “A new Thoroughbred is taking the Long Course, and we plan to rent a stagecoach to see it. There’s room if you want to join us.”

Simon put down his pen. Lately, he had become more aware that the other men kept inviting him to activities, despite his constant refusals. But how could they expect him to make the sixty-mile trek to Newmarket Heath in Suffolk, just to see a horse? He could not possibly turn his back on his cases for days on end.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, surprising his men as much as himself. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters here at home.”

“This isn’t home,” one of the inspectors reminded him with a wry look. “This is work. Take care to mind the difference.”

Simon inclined his head in acknowledgment. He couldn’t help but wonder what expressions his men might wear, had they glimpsed him dancing the minuet with a school full of street children.

Hiding a smile, he scooped up a select few of his scattered notes and tucked them into his breast-pocket for safekeeping on the ride to Grosvenor Square. Once he reached Mayfair, he paused on the opposite side of the road as the fashionable townhouses and removed the first handwritten note.

This was the list of houses the thief had targeted, in as near to chronological order as Simon could figure. Each time the thief struck, Simon investigated a multi-street radius.

The majority of his information had not come from the victims—who were in far too much popular demand to bother making time for a Runner, especially given their missing object had been returned—but rather, from interviewing pawnbrokers around the city.

None could describe their transaction with any more clarity than “grubby” or “street urchin.” By not being a person of importance, the client had failed to register at all. Particularly since the items themselves were not especially unique or attention-grabbing.

The pawnbrokers that agreed to speak with Simon had assured him they hadn’t had the least inkling of the items’ dubious origins at the time of its purchase. The prices then paid to retrieve each object were well over market value, making the entire transaction well worth the pawnbrokers’ time…and their silence.

The thief was not only counting on all of the above, but Simon also believed the malefactor had devised his crime specifically to exploit those exact traits. How could anyone investigate a robbery that few reported, nor would bear witness to?

But the clever thief had not counted on Simon. Even a single complaint was worthy of investigation.

He nudged his horse forward down the elegant row of connected brick façades. Because he had failed to be born into the Beau Monde, Simon had never met most of the inhabitants. He knew a few names from Debrett’s and a few faces from the caricatures, but without the list in his hand, he would be hard pressed to distinguish the owners of any given townhouse from another.

Except for one.

The Hawkridge residence was the specter of all Simon’s foolish childhood dreams. Of being welcomed inside the primary residence. Given a seat at the table with all the others. Perhaps he’d be offered a kaleidoscope for his amusement, a puzzle of Europe to improve his mind, and a brother to play with.

Humbug. He had never stepped foot into any of the grand townhouses, much less been invited to take part in anything that went on inside. Worse, he hadn’t even been able to keep what little family he did have. His mother had been ripped from him far too soon.

She and the marquess had gone away on one of their many trysts. As always, his mother had entreated Simon to join them on their clandestine holiday, but by then he was no longer a child but a grown lad, angry with his father for refusing to acknowledge either of them, and frustrated with his mother for accepting it as her lot in life.

As it turned out, the Big Secret was not meant to be kept. On the way back to London, an armed highwayman robbed their carriage.

Neither of his parents survived the encounter.

To this day, Simon did not know the details of what happened. The carriage and the corpses were found the next morning. The highwayman, never. The grief was still with him.

For years, he had blamed his father for his mother’s years of misery and senseless death. No man should indulge in a relationship, secret or otherwise, with a woman he was ashamed to acknowledge.

Once he had finally realized no amount of rage could alter the past, Simon turned his focus to the future. He hadn’t been able to save his mother…but London was full of mothers.

Full of nearly one million people just trying to live their lives.

He hadn’t been born Quality, but he could still be important. Simon held far more pride in his Bow Street calling card than he would have held in inheriting a coronet. He had earned the title of Inspector. Continued earning it every day. The world could be capricious and unfair, but the law was just. All written down in black and white. With men like Simon, dedicated to upholding justice.

His shoulders straightened. He shook out his piece of paper and forced himself to concentrate on the thief plaguing Mayfair today, not the one who had robbed him of his parents years ago.

One of the passing phaetons slowed, and its expensively foppish driver tilted his carefully styled hair at Simon. “I know you from somewhere…the Cloven Hoof!”

He recognized the well-dressed dandy as the one the gamblers had called Mapleton. The prat who had boasted his winnings were enough to make actresses perform any act he wished. Charming fellow.

“Indeed.” Simon forced a smile. “Mapleton, is it?”

“I knew you’d recognize me.” The dandy chortled in delight. “Everyone does. I’m friends with all the important people. Nothing happens in Mayfair that I don’t know about. But you’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m afraid not,” Simon said flatly. “Just riding through.”

Mapleton nodded. “I can tell by your horse. If you had any money, it would be pulling a carriage. Or at least it would be a nicer horse. I have several nice grays, myself. Matched pairs. I bought them at Tattersall’s. Nothing else will do, of course.”

“Of course,” Simon murmured, though he doubted his side of the conversation was necessary.

“Well, you must be connected enough, if you’re welcome at the Cloven Hoof. Gideon is very discerning when it comes to his patrons. I’m sure you noticed the Duke of Lambley is often in attendance?”

Simon gathered up his reins. “I—”

“He’s one of the only dukes in the club, but don’t let that fool you. Some of the others are too uppity for gentlemen’s clubs, like Ravenwood and the new Courteland. But Lambley, now that’s a man who throws a fine soirée. I presume you’ve heard of his masquerades? I shall be getting an invitation soon, I’m certain of it.”

“I have no doubt it’s in the post as we speak,” Simon murmured.

“Exactly so. Now that Fairfax has taken over as doorman—oh!—We’re not supposed to know such things, much less talk about them. It’s just that when one has the ear of everyone important, it’s impossible not to overhear the latest gossip. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so popular.”

Simon wished his horse wasn’t blocked in by the phaeton.

“At least my visage doesn’t appear in the caricatures,” Mapleton continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen all the drawings Wainwright had to endure? One might think they’d stop calling him the Lord of Pleasure now that he’s wed, but just this morning I spied a sketch of him wooing his wife at the opera. I have never seen a man more in love. It’s unsightly.”

While he was cornered with a man who vomited gossip, Simon might as well steer the conversation back to his investigation. Perhaps this Mapleton would be useful after all.

“Would you say you’re a regular at the Cloven Hoof?” he asked.

“Not just there,” Mapleton gushed. “I’m a regular everywhere fashionable people can be found. Most of them will be attending my dinner party next week. I only invite the titled ones, of course. I can’t wait to show off a new acquisition from my latest collection. They’ll all be dreadfully jealous.”

Simon’s brows arched. “Aren’t you concerned about the Thief of Mayfair?”

“A lesser man might be,” Mapleton said with contempt. “I’m smart enough not to keep my valuables on easy display. Besides, the names who attend my parties have no need to steal trifles. I’m friends with dukes, viscounts, earls… I even invited the Old Dragon!”

Simon blinked. “The what?”

“Lady Pettibone, who else? The queen of the Quality. She can make or break anyone with a nod of her silver head.” Mapleton gave a little shudder. “Her attendance at my soirée would make me literally as important at the Prince Regent.”

“Literally,” Simon echoed with a straight face.

“I would invite you, old man, now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag. But a party is only as exclusive as its guests, and you’re clearly not titled.” Mapleton waved a careless hand. “Obviously you understand why you’re not welcome where the important people are.”

Simon ground his teeth behind his smile. He’d understood the rigidity of class lines his entire life. This was the first time he was tempted to plant someone a facer for it.

Mapleton frowned. “And yet, I saw you at the Cloven Hoof. Very curious. Have you been a member long?”

“Not long.”

Mapleton leaned back in relief. “There. You see? I knew you could not have been.”

“Life would lose all meaning,” Simon murmured. He kept the conversation back on topic. “When did the Cloven Hoof first open?”

“You may be surprised to learn that I honestly don’t know. The two things Gideon doesn’t speak about are his past, and his private life. Even to me,” Mapleton added in obvious frustration. “I can say it’s been several years, although I didn’t gain my own admittance until last Season, after a particularly generous donation.”

“What sort of man would you say he is?” Simon asked.

Mapleton stroked his chin in thought. “I would never gossip about a friend, especially not one as powerful as Gideon. I’d never heard of him ten years ago, and have often mused whether he’s connected to the underworld. He has so many secret dealings, I wouldn’t dare cross him. Yet, he can be kind when he chooses. Take Hawkridge for example.”

“Hawkridge.” Simon’s shoulders tightened.

He should have known no discussion of the Beau Monde would be complete without his half-brother being mentioned.

Mapleton nodded. “Hawkridge is the perfect example of what I mean. Everyone knows the man is all but penniless. He’s no stranger to the caricatures himself. But the marquessate was ruined by the time Hawkridge inherited it. The fact that he’s kept it afloat for all these years is testament to…well, something, I suppose.”

Simon lifted his brows. It would be a remarkable feat, indeed. If it were true. He doubted it. Their father had left Simon money. A relative pittance, but still. That only proved the point. Surely riches would have been heaped upon the marquess’s legitimate son.

“What do you mean, the estate was ruined?”

“That father of his.” Mapleton waved a hand. “Houses, horses, whoring. It all adds up. Look how fast Prinney is spending the budget.”

“Whoring?” Simon repeated, his tone lethal.

“Well, one cannot know for certain if there were whores, plural, but you cannot imagine the scandal when he died in the arms of his mistress.”

“Killed,” Simon said through clenched teeth. “They were murdered. By a highwayman.”

“Then you do recall the story! The marquessate still had some value, but because the new Lord Hawkridge wasn’t yet of age, some guardian controlled the purse strings and destroyed what little was left. The poor bastard had no choice but to marry a horse-faced heiress.”

Which meant Simon’s father had left his legitimate son money. Pots of it. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to have to wed for money because someone else had frittered an entire inheritance away.

“Wait.” Simon frowned. The story was off. “No, Hawkridge isn’t married.”

“Well, not yet. He’s postponing the inevitable, if you ask me. Always claiming doesn’t want any old horse-faced heiress. He wants to find one he loves.” Mapleton flapped his hands to his heart in mockery. “Have you ever heard such twaddle? Gideon and the others tease him all the time. Everyone knows marriage is a business decision.”

“Perhaps he has yet to come across an heiress that would do,” Simon offered, then grimaced. Had he just defended his half-brother?

Mapleton snorted his contempt. “Rubbish. He’s had mountains of opportunity. Or at least he did, when he was younger. With every year, the situation is more dire. The dowries that would have saved Hawkridge ten years ago won’t make a spot of difference against today’s debt. If you could only see the numbers on his account at his tailor’s.”

That sounded more like what Simon would have expected from a spoiled marquess. “He continues to incur more debt that he knows will never be paid?”

“He claims it will. Debts of honor, and all. But it’s his own stubbornness getting in his way. Gideon offers to buy him a bottle of port time every time he sees him, and Hawkridge always refuses. Same old mummery about accepting credit but not charity.” Mapleton shrugged. “When Hawkridge’s investments do take a turn for the better, he runs about town settling everything he can. Gideon is always first.”

Simon frowned. “Because Gideon is a dangerous man to owe debts to?”

Mapleton shook his head. “Because they’re friends. That’s what Hawkridge is like. I did invite him to my party. How could I not? It will be the feat of the year if he finds his elusive heiress under my roof. I’d be the most celebrated host of the Season!”

“I shan’t keep you.” Simon took this opportunity to quickly gesture toward the road. “I am certain a Town gentleman as popular as yourself has a thousand friends to attend to.”

“Lord,” Mapleton effused as he picked up his reins. “Someone like you could never imagine the burden it is to receive so many important calling cards.”

Simon should have been elated to watch Mapleton’s carriage disappear from view. Instead, all he could think about was the gossip about his brother.

If even half of it was true, Hawkridge wasn’t responsible for destroying his father’s legacy after all. Some unscrupulous guardian was.

Which meant Hawkridge was just a man postponing a loveless marriage as honorably as he knew how. He had friends. Fears. A future he couldn’t control.

Simon swallowed his years of envy. His half-brother might not be the judgmental, uppity one after all.

Neither one of them had won.