William knocked. The townhouse stood on a street outside the most fashionable part of London. The neighborhood was safe, maintained, and known for housing the mistresses of London’s most wealthy men. He waited, not begrudging the time it took for Lady Cecilia’s maid to open the door. The girl could be anywhere in the house. He would give Cecilia more servants, but that would only increase the chance the marquess would find her.

“My lord,” the maid said as the door swung open.

“Is Miss Chastity at home?”

“She’s always at home to you, my lord.” The girl gave him a knowing smirk.

William offered a look somewhere between amused and bored. The girl backed inside, leaning forward as she curtsied. It would take a better man than William not to avail himself of the view her low neckline offered, but he was eager to see the lady of the house. He brushed past the maid and jogged up the steps to Cecilia’s private chambers. Once there, he looked up and down the hall and knocked softly. It was a courtesy no man would pay his mistress.

“Enter,” she called.

William entered to find his stepmother, Lady Cecilia Greydrake, third wife to the marquess, seated near the window. She stood, and smiled. He closed the door and offered a bow.

“You’re early,” Cecilia said.

“Please, sit.” William crossed the thick carpet to take the chair opposite hers as she sat. “I have news.”

“Good news?” she asked brightly.

Four years his junior, Cecilia had an effervescent quality that matched her spritely features and build. William could only thank God he’d removed her from the marquess before that joy was beaten out of her. She smiled at him now, her look expectant.

When William’s first stepmother, his sister Madelina’s mother, had mysteriously fallen to her death after her forth miscarriage, William had hoped the marquess wouldn’t remarry. He’d done all in his power to appear the perfect son, to give the old man no reason to want a third wife. Apparently, his powers were limited. In William’s twentieth year, the marquess brought a sixteen-year-old Cecilia into their home, and the nightmare began again. William had been too young to save Madelina’s mother or his own, but, so far, he hadn’t failed Cecilia.

He stretched out his legs. A smile crept over his face, despite his dark thoughts. “The marquess is dying.”

Cecilia’s mouth dropped open. She shut it. “Are you certain?”

He nodded. “Lethbridge is.”

She leaned forward, eager. “Is he very ill?”

“We can only hope so. I haven’t been to see him, but I will.”

Her expression shifted to concern. “You don’t need to. Not on my account. I’ve waited six years. A bit more won’t hurt.”

“I want to see him for myself.” William grimaced. “Maybe I can get out of the new torment he’s devised for me.”

“You mean, beyond demanding you conduct yourself as the most pompous, destructively wealthy rake in London?”

He grinned. “That was never his exact order. He said I must prove I’m not soft like my mother. No caring for anyone beneath me, no charity, no compassion. I added in the rake business.” He affected a bored tone. “He left me few avenues for happiness.”

Cecilia wrinkled her nose. “Ply your act somewhere else, William. I know you aren’t a rake. You use those clubs and private rooms just as you do this house, as cover.”

He shrugged. He did. Sometimes, it grew difficult to give up the act, even with Cecilia. He’d played a bounder for over a decade. “I won’t need to for much longer.”

She gave him a happy smile. “And I won’t need to hide in this house. Do you know how long it’s been since I stepped outside these walls?” She turned her face toward the window, leaning into the streaks of orange light from the setting sun.

William clamped his mouth shut over a reprimand. He didn’t like her to get too close to the windows. Even after so many years, the marquess routinely set men to follow him. Though William never provided any evidence, the old man seemed to sense his son wasn’t who he wished. William unclenched his hands from the arms of the chair. Cecilia’s rooms were on the back side of the house. He was being overcautious.

Or was he? She had only a week in the marquess’s clutches to go by. His mother survived seven years before fleeing with William. After they disappeared, the marquess had her declared a murderess, mad, and then dead. Later, when he had William back, he invented the fiction of Egypt to cover William’s decade-long disappearance, and paid Darington to help sell the tale. A man that devoted to his reputation, that ruthless, might do anything to Cecilia should he find her.

“What will you do once he’s gone?” Cecilia turned back to him. The sunlight reddened her white-blonde hair.

“I shall set you up in the Greydrake home, for a start, or in your own, if you prefer. You’ll be the dowager marchioness.”

She laughed. “A dowager at twenty-two. I shall feel so old.”

“You won’t be. I’m sure you won’t lack for suitors, if you wish a new life.”

“I don’t know. What if…” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I didn’t choose your father, mine did, but I didn’t protest. The marquess seemed mysterious and handsome. Aloof, yes, but that was all.” She turned her hands over, palms up. “I’m obviously not a good judge of men.”

“You were sixteen. I’m sure you’ll do better now.” He grinned. “Besides, I know every rake in London. If one dares approach you, my dear step-mama, I’ll shoot him.”

“That’s very sweet of you.” She studied him. “You haven’t answered my question, though. I meant, what will you do for yourself, not for me.”

“That depends on the next score of days.” His smile evaporated. “The old bastard says I must marry by then, so he can approve my bride, or he will sign everything over to Madelina.”

“She’s only sixteen.”

“Lethbridge will be her guardian.”

Cecilia frowned. “That’s not good. I don’t trust that man. No one could work for your father for as long as he has and be honest.”

“I agree, so I must wed, and quickly.” For Madelina’s sake, Cecilia’s, his own, and his plans to help keep other women from ending up like his mother. For those, he needed the marquess’s money. He would find justice in using the old man’s hoard to aid the downtrodden of London.

“So you must wed.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “Surely there’s someone you’ve noticed? Someone who intrigues you?”

Darington’s daughter, as painted by his letters, flittered through William’s mind. “It wouldn’t matter. The old bastard had Lethbridge draw up a list.”

Cecilia nodded, compassion in her eyes. “Of course he did. Why leave the choice of your wife to you?” She sighed, then cast off her moment of gloom like tossing off a cloak. “Will I see you at breakfast? I finished the latest Walter Scott. We might exchange thoughts on it.”

He shook his head. “I can’t give the appearance of staying here all night. The marquess is suspicious I love my mistress. I’m sure to be followed and the hours I remain reported.”

“Shall we change out the servants and choose a new name again?”

“Likely, but that would necessitate another meeting with Lethbridge. Besides, I’m fond of Chastity. I enjoy the irony.”

“So long as you feel it’s safe.” Her smile brightened. “I was thinking Valentina for next time.”

He shook his head, amused. “You can’t pull off Italian, and there won’t be a next time. The old man will die soon.”

“We can only pray you’re right,” she said fervently.

William rose and bowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to check the streets.”

“You will be careful, won’t you? You know I enjoy practicing my surgical skills, putting all my study to test, but last time you gave me a worry. That knife would have killed you if it hadn’t hit your rib.”

“But it did hit my rib, and that was nothing but a small scrape. A minor inconvenience. You stitched it up beautifully.”

“Yes, well, I get plenty of practice. Has it occurred to you that you may not be very good at what you’re doing, with how often you’re injured?”

William put his hands to his heart, affecting a hurt expression. “You wound me deeper than any blade.”

Her expression softened. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Yet you never tell me not to go.” He wouldn’t have listened, but he wouldn’t have blamed her.

“I don’t know why you do it, William, but I can tell you must.” Her smile returned. “Besides, I do know you’re quite good. I was only cossetting you. Someone must, and I am your stepmother.”

“And I appreciate it very much, step-mama dearest.”

“When you return, would you like me to yell and scream and rail against you marrying, so the servants can hear?”

“We can do it another time. It’s not worth waiting up for. Will you lock the doors?” It wouldn’t do for a servant to come by and find no one in a compromising position.

She nodded. “Happy hunting.”

Using the adjoining door, he entered her bedroom, ignoring the door to his own. A key unlocked a compartment hidden in the heavy headboard. William slid out a set of common garb, a wide brimmed hat, and the scarf that covered the lower half of his face. After changing attire, he crossed to her dressing table and released the secret drawer beneath it, large enough to hold a knife, pistol and powder. He loaded the pistol and put it through his belt, then slipped the knife into a boot.

A glance showed it was dark now, night coming quickly in the gathering London fog. William doused the candles and opened the doors of the Juliet balcony. A blur in the dark, he climbed onto the railing and jumped upward. He easily caught the edge of the roof and pulled himself up. The marquess’s men watched the house from the street, so he kept low as he ran along the garden-side of the roof. A short five-foot jump carried him to the next roof over, and the next.

The rooftops grew lower and closer together as William made his way into the poorest section of London. From his vantage point above, he patrolled the streets he and his mother had called home for a decade. Good people lived there. People who were doing their best to have peaceful, decent lives and feed their children. They were easy targets for the worst sorts of opportunists, for the bulk of the city couldn’t be bothered to right their misfortunes.

The night seemed peaceful. William was pleased. He would finish his rounds and return to Cecilia. If she was awake, they could discuss Walter Scott’s latest work before he left. He knew she was starved for company, locked in that house nearly alone, with servants she could never fully trust.

He didn’t need to watch over the borough throughout the dark hours. Soon, decent folk would be abed. William had no care for what those who lurked on the streets in the wee hours visited upon each other. They weren’t his concern.

He was returning to Cecilia’s when a furtive movement caught his eye. A woman, worn coat fastened tight and bonnet pulled low, hurried down the street. Her gaze darted, trying to be everywhere. The way she clutched her hands to her chest bespoke of someone in possession of more money than they were accustomed to, and afraid of losing it. William slipped along the rooftops, careful to keep her in sight.

She didn’t see the man until he slithered from an alley into her path. She stopped with a gasp, then made to go around him. He sidestepped into her path.

“Where are you going so late, Miss?” His voice was rough, words slurred.

“To see the doctor. There’s sickness in my house.”

She said it as if it might stop him. William knew better. This man’s type was already dying. William lowered himself from the roof into the shadows behind the man. He dropped the final few feet, silent.

“What’ve you got there?” The would-be robber reached for her clutched hands.

“No. It’s for my girl.” She didn’t yell, likely aware that could attract as much unwanted notice as help.

“Yeah? It’s for my drink now. Give it here.”

William drew his pistol, took two steps, and pressed the weapon to the back of the man’s head. “If she gives you that purse, it will be the last thing you ever put your hands on.”

The woman gasped.

The man whirled and swung at William. He dodged back.

“Why if it isn’t Lord Lefthook, ruining a man’s fun.” The robber drove his fist toward William’s jaw.

William dodged again. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Aye, and I know you won’t use that pistol.” The words were accompanied by a wild swing.

William ducked. He stuffed the pistol into his belt. He preferred not to kill. He brought up his fists. “You’re correct. I won’t use it, unless I must.”

“You saying I’m not worth shooting?”

“Probably not. Gun powder isn’t cheap.”

The man dove forward, fists swinging wildly. William ducked under the flailing blows. He came up close enough to smell the man’s rancid breath. He slammed both arms out, throwing the robber’s arms wide. The man staggered back. William cocked his arm. A single blow sent the man flying. He landed on his back and skidded across the cobblestones toward the woman. She stepped aside as the limp form slid until the man’s head checked up against the rough stone of a building.

Wide eyes turned to William. “Lord Lefthook?” she whispered.

“At your service.” William moved to stand before her. He bowed. “You’re walking the streets rather late, Miss.”

“Missus,” she said quickly. “Missus Banke. I know, my lord, but my daughter is sick. I can’t go in the day on account of I had to work, and I had to try to feed her before I could come out.”

He doubted she’d fed herself. “The doctor won’t be in at this time of night.”

She looked about, forlorn. She was frail, and young. “I thought an extra penny might wake him.”

William knew the old charlatan, who claimed to be a doctor. A penny might wake him, but he would do her child no good. “You’ve been skipping meals to save?”

Her eyes grew rounder. She gave a shaky nod.

“I take it there’s no Mister Banke?” Beside them, the robber groaned. Eyes still on the woman, William kicked him in the ribs.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“A guess.” Her story was a common one. Men died, they deserted their families, they went to war and didn’t return. They beat their eldest son to death for fearing horses, causing a mother to run off with her remaining child and be declared a mad murderess. It was the dark side of life. If Mrs. Banke had a husband, she wouldn’t be so thin, or made to walk the streets at night because missing a day of work would mean no food for her daughter. His mother had lived like this for years to keep him from the marquess.

William handed her a card. It was monogramed with Lord Lefthook’s initials. “Take this to the doctor on Amber Street. He will help you. He may need to return with you to examine your daughter. It’s safe to let him.”

Her hand shook as she took the card. “I can’t pay him. He’s too fine.”

He wasn’t fine by London standards, but William knew him to be honest and good at his craft. They had an ongoing association, and a shared desire to alleviate the suffering in their city. “He’ll accept that card in payment. He’ll also have some coin for you, so you are to go during the day. He won’t be open at night,” he added, in case she thought to risk herself again and keep the extra coin.

“Thank you, my lord,” she stammered. “I never thought to see you with my own eyes. I wasn’t sure you were real.”

“You can best thank me by not putting yourself in such danger again. I am not everywhere.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You can see yourself home?”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy and hurried back the way she’d come.

William nudged the would-be robber with his foot. The man groaned. William dropped a couple coins on his chest as his eyes opened. “You look like you could use a drink, friend,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness to make sure Mrs. Banke got home.