Chapter One
London, 1727
Another night wasted in the fruitless pursuit of amusement. Disgusted, Lord Percival Falloure, Marquess of Tavistoke, turned from the blurry reflection in the carriage window. Honesty had poisoned him, ruining his enjoyment of the simplest God-given pleasures.
The carriage stopped, and Percy alighted to stare up at the finest house in Leicester Square. Even his home seemed to belong to some other man. It didn’t make any damned sense. This was his world, and until recently he’d been quite content with it.
But his eyes had been opened, and he could not unsee what had been seen. Memory assaulted him, and anger surged, rising in a bitter, impotent tide. He stifled it. “Dead men make poor targets,” he muttered to himself. “Better to focus on those still living.”
Going inside, he tossed his coat to a footman and at once proceeded to the library to pour himself a brandy. The chair by the fire beckoned like an old friend. Easing himself into it, he kicked off his shoes and rifled through the pile of correspondence awaiting his leisure.
A letter from his solicitor. One from Lady Sotheby. Another from Mother. One from Cousin Lucy. He left their seals intact. They could wait until morning.
The graceful script on the next envelope, however, caught and held his eye. The name it bore was that of Henry Herbert, Lord Montgomery, but the hand in which it was written belonged to Lady Montgomery—Sabrina.
Breaking the seal, he scanned the page. A wistful smile curved his mouth for a moment. He seared it away with a gulp of brandy and tossed the letter into the heart of the fire. It wouldn’t do for anyone but Montgomery to know how close they remained. No one else would understand.
The next letter was from one Miss Jacqueline Trouvère. Under the guise of her new identity, Raquel—the first woman he’d ever helped escape London’s seamy underworld—now ran a charity school for girls on the outskirts of London. The spidery lines contained a request for additional funds. The building he’d purchased had been spacious enough to accommodate an increase in the number of pupils, but she feared running short of provisions and was in need of more staff. He’d have his solicitor see to it in the morning.
Yet another letter waited, one written in a rather untidy hand, thanking him for the doll he’d sent and asking him to please visit again soon—with assurances tea and scones would be provided along with the very best in doll society. He would have to see about arranging it with her mother.
Remaining correspondence consisted of invitations to balls at which he would be accosted by marriage-minded mamas and their uninspiring offspring. The approaching Season filled him with antipathy. Since his disastrous attempt to woo Sabrina two years ago, he’d been treated like choice stock on the auctioneer’s block. To make matters worse, his once-favorite pastime of tupping other men’s lonely and obliging wives had lost its appeal.
In fact, most of his vices had lost their appeal. He’d tried to pick up where he’d left off prior to meeting Sabrina, but there’d been no satisfaction in it. Though she’d never intended it, the woman had forever altered his perception of life.
Thanks to her, ignorance was a bliss now denied him. The persistent demon of his newborn conscience never allowed him rest, never permitted him the carefree hedonism he’d once practiced with such fervor. Thanks to her, he’d been afflicted with the pestilence of actually giving a damn about other people besides himself.
Having seen the horrors Raquel had endured the day he helped Sabrina rescue her, he’d never visit another brothel again. And how could he seduce another man’s wife when the idea of being made a cuckold now inspired nausea? After seeing firsthand the plight of London’s unwanted children, how could he ever risk siring another bastard? Some of his issue had been passed off as other men’s get, but others would grow up in full knowledge of their illegitimacy, forever tainted by it, through no fault of their own. They would suffer for it, and all because of his selfishness, his lack of self-control.
Thanks to Sabrina, he knew what it was to love someone and lose her because he was unworthy. Unwittingly, she’d shown him the contemptible truth of himself, and he’d been unable to live with it. Too much the coward to consider ending his miserable life, his only alternative had been to live it differently.
I’ve been bloody well reformed. The depressing thought made him take another swallow. Amber fire slid down his throat, but it brought little comfort.
It wouldn’t be so bad if every unwed female in London didn’t seem to sense this new weakness. They gave him no peace. Like bloodhounds on the scent, they were—relentless, always nipping at his coattails. The thought of getting cornered and marched down the aisle by one of their insipid number made him break out in a cold sweat. One day he would stick his neck in the nuptial noose, but not yet.
; Desperate men took desperate measures, and he was damned well overdue. He set down his glass. It was time to reestablish some notoriety. Yes. One good round of harmless mischief and he would be left in peace again.
His gaze lit upon the pile of invitations he’d intended to ignore. Choosing one at random, he strode to his desk and penned a swift acceptance. The Wyndham ball would be as good a place as any to start.
“Milord?”
He turned, annoyed. “Yes? What is it?”
“There is a…young woman here who insists upon seeing you, milord. I would not have bothered you but for this.” The servant’s face showed his disapproval as he held out a small parcel wrapped in a rag that was none too clean. “She says she was sent here to deliver a message from a mistress Seraphina.”
The name brought Percy up short as he reached out to take the parcel. There was only one Seraphina who knew his real name. He didn’t need to open the wrappings to know what lay inside. “Send her in at once,” he commanded. “And if I ever see you reveal your dislike for one of my guests again, you will find yourself dismissed without a reference. Do you understand?”
Face reddening, the man nodded. “Yes, milord.”
The urchin who shuffled in a few moments later looked a frightened, bedraggled mess.
He waited until the door closed before speaking. “I am Lord Tavistoke. You have a message for me?”
“Mistress Seraphina sent me, your worship.” The child’s thin voice trembled as she spoke. “But it weren’t to deliver no message.”
“Then why did she send you to me?”
“It’s me sister, Abigail. She—she’s gone. Mistress Seraphina told me you helped her once. Said you would help me.”
Oh, God…“You were right to come to me. What is your name?”
“Fanny, your worship.”
“Fanny, I’ll help you if I can. Tell me what happened.”
The girl looked up at last, leveling a watery brown gaze at him. “She’s just a babe, me sister. Mum died an’ I had no choice but to find work, or we’d have starved. Madam promised not to let none of the men near us as long as I did me work an’ kept me mouth shut. An’ that’s what I did. I worked days, when there weren’t no men about, an’ kept quiet.”
Her chin began to quiver, but she took a deep breath and went on. “Last night Madam told me to come downstairs an’ clean up after a brawl. One of the men saw me an’ wouldn’t stop starin’—it scared me. Madam called me to her an’ threatened to hurt Abby if I didn’t do as she told—if I d-didn’t…”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Percy’s heart burned. “Tell me how your sister disappeared,” he said to avoid her breaking down before he learned what he needed to know.
“I waited until the house quieted. Then I took Abby an’ we climbed out a window. One of her bully boys must have heard summat, ’cause he come ’round back lookin’. I’m quick on me feet an’ got away, but he got Abby. I was too afraid to go back. I didn’t think she’d hurt Abby, her being so little, but I knew she’d kill me for sure. Even so, I went back the next day to see if I could get her to let Abby go if I stayed in her place, but she weren’t there. Abby was gone, too. I asked, but no one knows where they went. Seraphina said Madam had sold the place. Then she told me to come to you. Said you’d help. Said you was London’s St. Michael, she did.”
That a prostitute should call him an angel, much less the Archangel, almost made him laugh aloud. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, your worship.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said, trying not to sound irritable. “I am to be addressed as ‘my lord.’ How old is your sister?”
“She’ll be ten this year.”
Nine years old and at the mercy of a flesh-peddling brothel proprietress. God help her, and God help him find her before it was too late. “I’ll do what I can, but I need to know as much as you can tell me, starting with a detailed description of your sister and this Madam.”
One week later—the Wyndham ball