Prologue
1816
Easing from beneath the naked woman, Andrew Augustus Corbett left the bed. He froze, muscles bunching, as she stirred beneath the red satin sheets… still asleep—Praise Jesus. A widow twice his age, she’d put him through his paces. He had ample experience with the voracious ladies of the ton and hadn’t been surprised by her appetite, but it had made him reconsider how he charged for his services.
As he tugged on trousers and boots, belting a dressing gown over his bare torso, he mused that he ought to be compensated for satisfaction given rather than time spent in a patron’s company. After all, he’d brought the lady in question to climax a half-dozen times: no small feat by anyone’s standards. Stamina was never a problem for him—by virtue of his hot-blooded nature and his expertise in his trade—but his expenditure of energy should count for something, shouldn’t it?
He glanced at the bed: in her sleep, the widow stretched toward the place he’d vacated like a cat seeking a sunny spot. Another satisfied customer. Yes, he’d definitely talk to Kitty Barnes, his employer and lover, about upping his fees. Like any commodity, pleasure lost worth when it was sold too cheaply. At eighteen, he’d been in the business long enough to know that he had to make the most of his prime years.
And if I want to make it past my prime, he thought darkly, I’d best secure us that extra blunt.
Kitty had made some disastrous decisions in the past year. Despite his advice, she’d expanded her business with reckless abandonment. When her string of brothels failed, one after another like a line of dominoes, she’d compounded her error by betting on even riskier investments. Now she was up to her ears in debt to Bartholomew Black, a cutthroat not known for his patience.
Last week, a dove had appeared on her doorstep, a note tied to its snapped neck:
Pay—or face the consequences.
His chest clenching, Andrew closed the door behind him, his booted feet striding down the empty corridor. At this early hour, guests and employees of the bawdy house were sleeping, and he welcomed the stillness. The momentary solitude in which he didn’t have to charm or cajole or be anything but what he was. A man with worries. A man who could no longer staunch his fears—for his lover, himself… and the girl in their care.
His gut knotted at the thought of Primrose. At four, the blonde tot was as bright as her namesake, her sweetness as unexpected as a flower springing up in the stew’s dirty streets. Wherever she went, her charm and sweet songs made strangers smile; hell, she’d even wound her way into his jaded heart. She was the little sister he’d never had, and he was determined to protect her innocence—in and of itself a bloody miracle, given her murky origins.
Three years ago, Kitty had brought home the infant girl, surprising Andrew—his older lover wasn’t what you’d call the maternal sort. Kitty’s brisk explanation had cleared up any confusion: some rich cove was paying her to take care of his by-blow. Personally, Andrew thought a man could do better for his daughter (even if she was a bastard) than placing her with an infamous bawd, but who was he to judge?
He knew nothing about fathers. Self-deprecation twisted his lips as he treaded up the steps to Kitty’s private suite. He’d neither met nor been acknowledged by his own putative sire; the only thing he had from the man was his middle name, which Kitty had fashioned into part of his nom de plume.
The world knew him as Augustus Longfellow. A better man might cringe at the crude moniker, but Andrew didn’t fool himself: he was no gentleman. Honor and pride were luxuries he couldn’t afford. He was a survivor, one who’d parlayed his every God-given asset—Longfellow wasn’t false advertising—to make his way up in the world.
As his departed mama had put it, If you have it, sell it.
But it would take his less obvious gift—the one between his ears—to keep his ragtag clan of three safe. Over the years, he’d stashed away some savings, gifts and the like from grateful customers. He’d kept the money a secret from Kitty for pragmatic reasons. Whilst his paramour had many talents, fiscal responsibility wasn’t one of them, and there was no use throwing good money after bad. He didn’t have enough to clear her debts, but if he invested wisely, he might be able to appease Black with regular payments.
Thus, he’d been keeping his eyes and ears open for the right opportunity…
Shattering glass pierced his reverie. For a moment, he froze, staring at the projectile that had smashed through the window. A bottle—fire spewing from its rag wick.
“Bloody fuck!”
The words exploded from him as he sprinted to the window, yanking down a curtain, using it to beat down the flames spreading over the carpet and floorboards. He whacked at the fire as it strained hungrily toward the tinder all around. He fought off the conflagration—then heard more glass breaking, followed by terrible thumps, the whoosh of air being consumed.
Heart thudding, he spun around: the corridor—littered with flaming bottles.
Everything was ablaze.
Holy hell.
“Kitty!” he shouted. “Fire!”
The door at the end of the hall flew open, revealing a night rail-clad Kitty.
“Dear God.” The inferno raged in her wild gaze. “It’s Black, he’s after us—”
“Sound the alarm, get everyone out!” Andrew was on the run, battling flames to reach the stairway at the other end of the hall. “I’ll fetch Primrose and meet you outside!”
He raced up the spiraling steps to the garret room. At the top, he twisted the doorknob, cursing when it was locked, even though he’d been the one who’d lectured Primrose to keep it that way.
He pounded his fist against wood. “Primrose, wake up! There’s a fire!”
No reply. He backed up, readying to break down the door when it squealed open. Primrose blinked drowsily up at him, her toes peeping beneath her nightgown. “Andrew?”
“Come with me. Now,” he said urgently.
Without a word, she lifted her arms, and he scooped her up, heading back the way he’d come. Smoke thickened the air, stung his eyes. He came to a halt as waves of heat blasted into him: flames engulfed the floors, walls, ceiling. He jumped back as a beam collapsed in a shower of embers. No way to make it to the last flight of stairs. Against his chest, Primrose’s small body wracked with gasping coughs, her arms tightening around his neck.
Cursing, he retraced his steps back up to the garret room. Slammed the door to shut out the choking smoke. Sprinting to the chamber’s only window, he threw it open and pushed Primrose’s head through.
“Breathe, little chick,” he said, his voice gritty from the smoke.
As she drew in great gulps of air, shouts and the clang of a fire bell came from the front of the building. Andrew took rapid stock of his options. Here, at the back of the house, there was only one way out: a twenty-five-foot drop to the empty alleyway. To climb down, he would need a rope…
He went over to the bed, yanking off the bedsheet. He tore it in half, twisting and knotting the pieces together. He tested the makeshift cord: strong but not long enough. Adding the curtain panels to extend the length, he secured the rope to the bedframe, tossing it out the window. The end dangled some fifteen feet above the cobblestones. Still not long enough—but a damned better option than being burned alive.
He crouched in front of Primrose. “I need you to do something for me.”
“All right.” Her trusting reply came readily, despite the fear in her wide jade eyes.
He placed a hand atop her sunny curls. “We’re going to climb down that rope together, but I’ll need both of my hands. That means you must hold onto me very tightly. You’re not to let go under any circumstances, understand?”
“Yes, Andrew.”
“Then up you go.” He turned around, and she clambered onto his back, her arms circling his neck and her legs clamping his waist. He grabbed the makeshift rope and exited through the open window onto the narrow ledge of the roof. When the cord held after another testing tug, he readied to make the descent—and heard her frightened whimper.
“Trust me, sunshine,” he said.
Her arms tightened around him; her curls brushed his neck as she nodded.
With a silent prayer, he stepped off the edge.
They swung in a dizzying arc before his boots hit the wall of the building. Bracing with his feet, he lowered them down the rope, fist over fist. He made the mistake of looking down: the cobblestones swam in his vision, miles away from where they hung, suspended, one false move away from certain death. Primrose’s heart hammered against his back, and her face, buried against his neck, was slick with tears.
“Don’t look, sweetheart,” he panted. “We’re almost there.”
Trembling, she burrowed closer. His muscles bulged, straining as he climbed down foot by foot. He didn’t have a plan for when they ran out of rope. He’d have to do a free fall for the last fifteen feet, to somehow cushion Primrose’s body with his own—
“I’ll be there in a minute!”
His head whirled in the direction of Kitty’s voice, the clip-clop of hooves. Relief blasted through him at the sight of the wagon barreling down the alley, and he had a crazed desire to laugh. How could he have underestimated Kitty? If he could count on one thing, it was that she always landed on her feet—which meant, in this instance, that he and Primrose would too.
Strength renewed, he continued the hand-over-hand journey to the end of the rope, beneath which Kitty had now aligned the straw-filled cart, closing the gap to less than ten feet.
“Hold on,” he told Primrose.
When she clutched him tighter, he let go of the rope. He twisted in the air, shielding her small body with his. His back hit the cart, the breath knocking out of him.
Primrose scrambled off of him and peered into his face.
“Andrew?” she said fretfully.
“I’m fine,” he managed.
She burst into tears.
Gingerly, he sat up and patted her rumpled curls. “There, my brave chick. No use crying after the fact, is there?”
“I w-wasn’t brave. I was scared,” she sobbed. “You s-saved me.”
Survival had rid him of any capacity for self-delusion. He knew what he was, and it wasn’t a hero, not by a longshot. Yet her words wended through him like dawn’s first rays through the rookery’s dark streets.
“Shut up, you stupid girl! Or I’ll give you something to truly cry about.”
Kitty’s threat drew his eyes to the driver’s bench. His lover’s russet tresses were loose around her cloaked figure, her beautiful features hard with rage. Primrose instantly quieted, biting her lip, her breaths fitful as she tried to obey.
Andrew’s gaze clashed with Kitty’s.
She said defensively, “There’s no time for bawling. Black’s not done with us yet.”
Bloody hell, she’s right.
He tucked straw over Primrose, murmuring, “Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right?”
When she nodded, he vaulted into the seat next to Kitty.
He took up the reins. “Where to?”
“Somewhere far,” Kitty said, her features feral. “Somewhere beyond the devil’s reach.”