Please enjoy this sneak peek of Lord of Lies by USA Today bestselling author Amy Sandas
London, June 1817
Portia Chadwick was terrified. And furious.
And terrified.
Perched on the edge of her seat in the racing carriage, her legs braced for action, Portia clenched fistfuls of her skirts in a vain attempt to contain her panic.
Not twenty minutes ago, her sister Lily had been abducted right off the street in front of their great-aunt’s house in Mayfair. They had just arrived home after an evening out when the assailant had come out of nowhere, knocking their driver to the ground with one blow and hauling Lily off her feet. Portia had scrambled from the carriage just in time to see her sister being tossed into a waiting vehicle that took off as soon as the kidnapper climbed in after her.
Portia’s immediate instinct had been to chase after the carriage with her skirts lifted to her knees. If her great-aunt hadn’t shouted after her with the uncharacteristically rational observation that she had no chance of outrunning a racing carriage, Portia would still be sprinting down the street.
Angelique had insisted there was another way.
And now here they were, driving at breakneck speed to the East End to search the streets for a boy wearing a red cap.
It was ludicrous! Angelique had clearly lost her mind this time.
Portia’s gaze darted toward the elderly lady. Despite the perilous nature of their current plight, the Dowager Countess of Chelmsworth appeared shockingly unperturbed. “We should have contacted the authorities,” Portia argued once more, fear making her combative.
“The authorities will do nothing but write up a report. Word of this will spread like a disease through the gossip mills,” Angelique replied. A heavy French accent still colored her words, though she’d lived in England for decades. “We need to save your sister, and quickly, but the authorities will be more harm than help.”
Portia wasn’t sure she agreed, but she had accepted Angelique’s lead on impulse and now had no choice but to follow it through.
She hated feeling so ineffectual, so bloody useless.
If only she had gotten out of the carriage first, then she would have been abducted instead of Lily. She would give anything to be in her sister’s place right now. At twenty, Lily was more than a year older than Portia, but she was far too gentle and trusting to fare well in the hands of a ruthless kidnapper.
And Portia had no doubt her sister’s abductor was quite ruthless. The kidnapping had to be the work of Mason Hale, who had been sending threatening letters to their oldest sister, Emma. The same man who had accosted Lily just two nights ago, demanding repayment of a loan their father had incurred before his untimely death.
But Hale had given them until the end of tomorrow to come up with his money. Why would he kidnap one of them now? It made no sense.
Unless it was not Hale after all…
Portia’s throat closed up in fierce rejection of the thought. It had to be Hale.
“How in hell is a boy in a red cap going to help us?” Portia pressed again, desperately needing assurance that they were not on a fool’s errand as they raced toward a corner of London’s East End where no gently bred lady should ever consider visiting.
“The boy knows how to get in touch with a man who can help us,” Angelique answered. “Trust me, darling. It is our very best chance to save your sister.”
Portia’s stomach twisted.
“What kind of man?” she asked. “Who is he? How do you know he will help us?”
“He is known to do many things…for the proper incentive,” Angelique replied evasively.
“Incentive?” Portia’s anxiety spiked. “But we have little money.”
“We have enough to bluff, ma petite. Now stop arguing.” The elderly lady leaned forward to peer out the window. “We are almost there. Keep your eyes alert for the boy. Remember to look for a red cap.”
Portia shivered—from fear, anxiety, and the effort it took to suppress the urgent need to take action. Her heart was wedged firmly in her throat, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth against the desire to shout her sister’s name as loudly as she could into the night on the insane hope that Lily might somehow hear her and know they were doing all they could to get her back.
She was desperate to be moving, running, talking. Something to produce progress. While they rolled through the narrow, twisting lanes, Lily was being taken farther away from them.
Instead of bolting out of the carriage and scouring the streets uselessly, Portia focused all of her energy on scanning the streets through the window. Streetlamps were sparse, casting deep shadows through which anonymous figures moved about. It was near midnight, and the East End was rife with activity.
Questionable activity.
The carriage slowed as they wound their way along the dark lanes. Portia saw various characters moving about in the night—men, women, and far more children than she would have expected, but not a single red cap.
And then, as they turned another corner—there!
A boy strolled casually with a chimney sweep’s broom. One hand was stuffed deep in the pocket of his oversize woolen trousers, a red cap sitting jauntily on his head.
“Is that him?” Portia asked, a flash of hope making her chest tight.
Her great-aunt leaned across Portia to peer out the window. “Let us hope so.” She knocked on the roof, signaling for the carriage to stop. A moment later, Charles appeared in the doorway. A heavy bruise had already formed above his temple where he had been struck by Lily’s attacker.
“Go fetch that boy there,” Angelique said.
“Yes, m’lady.”
While the loyal servant did as requested, the ladies waited in tense silence. Several moments later, the carriage door opened again.
“Wot do you fancy pieces want?”
The boy in the red cap peered in through the open door while Charles stood stiffly behind his shoulder. The lad’s young face was smeared with soot, making it hard to discern his age. But judging by his size, Portia guessed him to be about eleven or twelve. A bit old for a chimney sweep.
He stood warily scanning the interior of the carriage, expertly assessing what danger they might represent. He dismissed Angelique quickly enough, but took a few extra seconds studying Portia. When he gave her a jaunty little grin and tipped the brim of his hat, Portia realized with a touch of shock that the child was flirting with her.
Angelique leaned forward from the shadows, bringing her face near to the boy’s. Her age lines looked deeper in the uncertain light, but her dark eyes were piercing and direct. If Portia hadn’t known better, she would have been intimidated by the sudden intensity within her great-aunt’s stare.
“We are looking for Nightshade.” Angelique spoke in a dramatic whisper, though there was no one beyond Portia and the boy near enough to hear her.
The child snorted and eyed Angelique as though she was daft. Portia worried again about having followed her great-aunt’s suggestion so readily. The dowager countess was generally just a harmless eccentric, but so far she had led them on a search for a boy in a red cap, and now she was asking for a poisonous herb.
“I ain’t no apothecary,” the boy said.
Angelique flashed a coin in the palm of her gloved hand. “You know whom I seek, boy. We haven’t the time for games and subterfuge.”
A shadow of respect crossed the boy’s face, and he reached to take the coin, testing it between his teeth before shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t take you to ’im. Not how it works. I deliver a message, an’ his man’ll contact you.”
“No, please,” Portia said, drawing the boy’s eyes back to her. “We don’t have time for messages.” She finally had some hope her great-aunt had not led them astray, and she was not going to let the opportunity slide away. “You must take us to this man directly. Immediately.”
The boy narrowed his sharp gaze and flashed another grin. “Fer another coin an’ a kiss, I may change me mind.”
Angelique made a sound that could have been a scoff or a chuckle or something in between. But she reached back into her purse. “Here is your coin.” She waved a hand toward Portia. “Give him a kiss so we can move this along.”
The coin quickly disappeared into the child’s pocket before he swept his hat off his head and turned his face to Portia. Feeling more than a little silly, Portia leaned forward to briefly brush her lips across the child’s cheek.
He gave a quick whoop then smashed his hat back on his head.
Turning to Charles, who still stood beside him, he said, “Head down the street a ways, then swing right after the butcher’s place. Keep going till you pass the park. There’ll be a row of houses that all look the same. Go to the one nearest the broken streetlamp. That’s where you’ll find Nightshade’s man.” He looked back to Portia and Angelique. “And I’d be grateful if you don’t tell him it was me who sent ya. He’d have me hide fer not following the rules.” The boy tossed a jaunty wink at Portia. “I like me hide.”
The boy was ridiculously charming, and Portia smiled despite her anxiety. “Thank you. We do appreciate your help.”
The boy tipped the brim of his cap then backed away. Charles quickly closed the carriage door, and a minute later they were off again.
Portia stared across the carriage at her great-aunt with a dose of newfound respect. “Who is Nightshade?”
The lady’s expression was vague as she replied, “No one knows, ma petite cherie.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never meets his clients face-to-face.” The old lady gestured toward the window. “There is a strict process to getting in touch with the man. We are fortunate your kiss is so highly regarded,” she added with a sly glance.
Portia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Among young boys maybe. “Can this Nightshade be trusted?”
“He would not have gained the reputation he has if he were untrustworthy or incompetent. They say his insistence on remaining anonymous allows him to move through any environment undetected; that he is capable of infiltrating even the most elite social groups.”
Portia leaned forward, captivated by the idea such a man existed. “How do you know of him?”
“Word gets around when there is someone willing to do what others cannot. Or will not.” Angelique paused and looked down at the ring on her left hand. “A few years ago, I hired him to help me with a certain personal matter. If anyone can find Lily, it is Nightshade.”
Portia fell silent, hoping her great-aunt was right.
After several minutes, the carriage reached the area the boy had mentioned. It was a more residential neighborhood, and both sides of the street were lined with brick row houses two stories high with narrow fronts and identical entrances. Portia peered through the window, straining to locate the broken streetlamp that would mark the correct house.
There. The moment she saw it, the carriage pulled to the side of the street. Charles must have seen it as well.
Portia took her great-aunt’s arm in silence as they made their way up the walk to the dark front door. She swept her gaze in all directions, trying to pierce the night surrounding them, alert for any threat. The shadows were deep in front of the house, and no number marked the address. Two small windows bracketed the door, but no light shone from them. Portia tipped her head to look at the windows on the upper level. All was dark.
Blast. What if no one was home?
Angelique lifted the tarnished brass knocker and issued a loud, echoing announcement of their presence.
Silence followed. And then a soft noise.
The door opened unexpectedly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a petite man in his later years with a smallish head and iron-gray hair worn back in an old-fashioned queue. Despite the man’s diminutive height, he somehow managed to look down at them along the length of a hawklike nose.
“Wot?”
His one word, uttered with none of the graces assigned to even a poorly trained butler, threw Portia off. She stiffened in affront, then prepared to respond to the discourteous greeting with a bit of insolence herself.
Angelique saved her the trouble as she pushed through the door, past the little man who was helpless to stop her, and into the hall, saying as she went, “We have a matter of vital importance that requires Nightshade’s immediate attention.” She swung around to cast the little man a narrow-eyed look. “Where shall we wait?”
“Don’t know who yer talking ’bout.”
“Yes, you do. Now fetch your master, or I will seek him out myself.”
Portia was infinitely impressed. Who knew the woman who barely remembered to put on her shoes before leaving the house could display such an air of unquestionable command?
The little man pinched his face into a sour expression as he glanced toward the door then back to Angelique as though debating the benefits of tossing them both back onto the street. He cast a critical gaze over their appearances, seeming to take mental note of the quality of their clothing. Then he snorted and turned to amble into the shadows at the back of the hall.
Angelique released a pent-up breath, her previous arrogance falling away like a discarded cloak. She turned to Portia. “Come. Let us find somewhere comfortable to wait.”
The front hall was dark and narrow. Stairs rose up along the left side, and three doors opened to the right. The hall itself contained nothing but a small table set near the door. Portia wandered toward the first door to peek into the room beyond.
It was a small parlor.
“This way,” she said as she strode into the room.
The room was also quite dark. Only the faint glow of distant city lights filtered through the window, but it was enough to see the outline of the furniture and a small candelabrum set on a table near the sofa. Angelique took a seat in an armchair while Portia went directly to the cold fireplace, looking for something to light the candles.
It felt good to finally have something to do even if it was as mundane a task as lighting candles. It kept her thoughts from flying in all sorts of wild directions. Once the candles were lit, she found herself unable to sit still. Though she tried several times to take a seat, she inevitably jumped to her feet again in a matter of moments as fretful energy continued to rush unheeded through her body.
Rather than perpetrating a pointless battle against the urge to move, she took to pacing the tiny room.