CHAPTER ONE

London, 1817

“They say she was once a stage actress, you know.”

Standing in the shadows of the terrace, Connor Monroe looked up from his brooding contemplation of the moonlit landscape beyond the balustrade at the sound of the feminine voice.  Cool and disdainful, it drifted through the open French doors from the ballroom, cutting across the pleasant waft of orchestra music with the sharpness of a knife.

“Well, I heard she was a gypsy who put a curse on Lord Albright and refused to remove it unless he agreed to wed her.”

The round of high-pitched titters that followed that statement had Connor wincing.

Dousing his cheroot and sending it arcing out into the darkness, he unfolded his broad frame from his casual slouch against the railing and turned to face the house just as a group of young ladies swept out onto the veranda.

Just bloody wonderful, he thought, stifling a growl.  The last thing he needed was to get caught out here by a gaggle of gossiping chits just barely out of the schoolroom.

Where the hell was Tolliver?

Connor had lost track of how long he’d been waiting here for the Bow Street Runner to return from wherever it was he had disappeared to.  It seemed as if it had been hours, and he was fast running out of patience.

From the moment he and Tolliver had arrived at the luxurious mansion on Park Lane in the midst of a ball they obviously hadn’t been invited to, Connor had felt as restless and out of place as a virgin at a Bacchanalian revel.  At nearly thirty years of age, he might have been part owner of a prosperous shipping company, wealthy and well respected in his own right, but he had never been one to mingle with the titled and aristocratic members of the ton.  Though the Runner had assured him that the person they’d come here seeking tonight could possibly be of great help to their investigation, Connor had trouble believing that anyone who belonged to such a golden and glittering world could offer any insight whatsoever into Stuart’s death.

Or who was responsible for it.

For a fleeting instant, an image of his friend and partner, slumped over his desk at the shipping office, eyes wide and unseeing as blood spilled from the gaping knife wound in his throat, flashed across Connor’s inner vision.  But he pushed it away and forced himself to focus on the chattering females who had so unexpectedly joined him.

Fans waving wildly and heads bent close together, the little assemblage had come to a halt and formed a loose semi-circle just in front of the French doors, unaware of his presence in the gloom on the far side of the terrace.

One of them, a striking blond with an air of icy superiority, spoke in an imperious tone that could easily be heard over the babble of the others around her.  “My mother told me that Lady Albright behaved like a hoyden whenever the pair of them were in the city.  Once, Mama even saw her galloping her horse across Hyde Park, riding astride like a man.  Can you believe such a thing?”

“Of course.”  This from a tall, thin stick of a girl with a long, angular face and rather pinched features.  She was clad in a hideous shade of pastel pink that clashed with the bright red tresses piled high in an elaborate coiffure.  “What else can you expect from a woman of such common origins?  I understand she was quite the accomplished flirt, as well.  There were rumors that she’d had affairs with half the men in London.  One can only believe that Lord Hawksley did the poor marquis a favor when he...well, you know.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Such a scandal!” another young lady piped up. “The woman was an absolute disgrace.”

The redhead gave a sage nod.  “And Lady Jillian has caused her own share of gossip.  After that whole debacle with Lord and Lady Ranleigh’s heir three Seasons ago, I’m surprised her father even allows her to show her face in town.  I know I certainly have no wish to associate with her.”

Connor frowned and shifted with impatience, longing to escape, yet unwilling to risk drawing their attention by attempting to do so.  Damnation, but he had no desire to linger here and listen to these spiteful cats rake some poor soul over the coals, and he couldn’t help but feel an uncustomary nudge of sympathy for the unfortunate young lady they were maligning in such a vicious manner.  Was it any wonder he avoided society misses like the plague?

The blond-haired girl shuddered.  “Who could blame my darling Shipton for changing his mind about offering for her?  She cares not at all for her family or reputation.  One never knows what sort of outrageous stunt she shall pull next.  Why, I caught her strolling about Lord and Lady Fitzwater’s estate at their house party last year bare foot and wearing breeches of all things!”

“I can’t understand why the Dowager Duchess of Maitland seems to have taken Lady Jillian under her wing and insists on inviting her and her family to functions such as this,” one of the others interjected with a sniff.

“Well, her father is a marquis, and it is my understanding that Her Grace was a good friend of the late Lady Albright.”  The blond tossed her artfully arranged curls in a studied manner that had a quietly observing Connor restraining the urge to roll his eyes in disgust.  “And we all know that the dowager duchess is considered to be more than a trifle eccentric herself since the death of the duke.  I believe that she has agreed to act as a sponsor of sorts for the debut of Lord Albright’s middle daughter, Lady Maura.”  One corner of her mouth curved upward in a condescending smile.  “One can only hope that the girl makes a better job of it than her older sister.”

“Perhaps Lady Jillian is a gypsy like her mother.  Or a witch who can conjure up a spell to reel in some hapless, unsuspecting suitor for the Lady Maura.”

The blond gave a tinkling laugh at her red-haired friend’s comment.  “Really, Beatrice, Lady Jillian isn’t getting any younger, you know.  Why, she must be all of one and twenty, at least.  I would expect she would be much better served to conjure up such a spell for herself.”

“Oh, if I were going to cast a spell, Lady Gwyneth, I rather think I could come up with something a bit more original than that.”

The calm words came from the direction of the French doors, resonating with the impact of a shout despite the softness with which they were spoken, effectively bringing an abrupt halt to the conversation.

Absolute silence descended.

Something about the unfamiliar voice arrested Connor, its low, throaty cadences sending a tingle up his spine, stroking over his senses like the softest of velvet.

Could this be the infamous Lady Jillian they’d been discussing?

Curious in spite of himself, he moved forward just enough so he could see past the group of females to the figure who had stepped out onto the flagstones.  In that instant, a shaft of moonlight spilled over the newcomer, illuminating her in a pale glow.

And Connor’s mouth went dry with unmistakable desire.

Tall and statuesque, she wore a bronze satin ballgown that hugged every inch of her lushly endowed form, leaving very little to the imagination.  Her raven-black locks were a riot of curls, the ringlets framing a face of dusky-skinned, almost exotic beauty.  A pointed, stubborn-looking chin and high, patrician cheekbones were offset by a tip-tilted nose and the fullness of ripe, sensuous lips.  Slanted eyes of a color he couldn’t quite determine from this distance surveyed the females before her with thinly veiled contempt.

“If I didn’t believe it was impossible,” she continued in that unusually husky voice that had so affected Connor, “I might be tempted to try my hand at turning the lot of you into gracious and less shallow human beings.  But alas, I’m afraid that’s beyond the powers of even this heathen gypsy, so I shall have to think of something else.  Toads, perhaps?”

There were several gasps, and Lady Beatrice’s face burned as red as her hair.

Lady Gwyneth, however, leveled the Lady Jillian with a chilly stare.  “This is a private conversation.”

One elegant dark eyebrow arched upward.  “I do beg your pardon, but I gathered you were talking about me and my family.  I just thought I’d offer you some insight, as you know absolutely nothing about either.”

“I’m sure I know more than I need to know.  And your rude behavior only illustrates your distinct lack of manners and lends credence to what I was saying.  I can only hope for the Lady Maura’s sake that she has more skill at exhibiting the social graces than you do.”

Connor saw something shift in the Lady Jillian’s expression.  But though she looked as if she longed to speak, she merely glared at Lady Gwyneth, saying nothing.

Lady Beatrice cleared her throat and plied her fan nervously, looking from one verbal combatant to the other.  “Ladies, I do believe I hear the orchestra striking up to begin the next set.  We’d best return to the ballroom before we are missed.”

She herded the other young women in the direction of the French doors, and Lady Gwyneth followed behind.  But at the last second, as the rest of them disappeared inside, the blond spun back to face Lady Jillian with a calculating look.  “I’ve just realized that you have yet to congratulate me on my engagement.  The Viscount Shipton and I are to be wed in the spring.”

Connor noticed that the Lady Jillian’s countenance didn’t alter in the slightest.  Yet, he could sense the sudden tension that had settled over her, vibrating in the air with palpable intensity.  “Yes, I read the announcement in the Times.  Congratulations.”

“You don’t sound very sincere.  Why, I might almost believe you weren’t happy for me, Lady Jillian.”

“I assure you, Lady Gwyneth, that I am quite happy for you.”

“Are you certain?  I know that you and Thomas were once...close.”

Lady Jillian gave a careless shrug.  “That was in the past, and no longer of any importance.  I truly wish you and Lord Shipton all the luck in the world.  Heaven knows, the viscount shall need it should he marry you.”

Lady Gwyneth visibly stiffened, and Connor felt his mouth twitch with suppressed humor.  Bravo, my lady, he thought in admiration.  Obviously, the dark-haired miss well knew how to stand up for herself.

There was a long, drawn out pause, then Lady Gwyneth stuck her nose in the air, whirled, and vanished into the house.

As soon as she was out of sight, the Lady Jillian expelled an audible breath, and some of the starch seemed to seep out of her spine.  Connor watched as she turned and wandered over to stand next to the balustrade, head bent and white-gloved hands gripping the railing.

Now was his chance.  With her facing away from him, he should be able to slip back through the other set of French doors that led into the foyer of the mansion, unnoticed.  The faster he could locate Tolliver and attend to their business here, the better.

But something held him in place.  A tangible magnetism that drew him to this mysterious beauty against his will.  Never mind that she was exactly the sort of female he had long ago made up his mind he wanted nothing to do with.  The daughter of a lord, wealthy and more than likely spoiled beyond measure.  Her boldness and fiery spirit as she had defended herself against the slings and arrows of the Lady Gwyneth intrigued him, and her exquisite features and velvety voice were potent lures.

You don’t have time for this, Monroe, he warned himself.  You must remember you have far more important things to contend with.

Such as hunting down the criminal who had turned his existence into a living hell.

Pain knifed at his chest and he closed his eyes against another mental picture of Stuart.  If only he had taken all of this seriously from the beginning, from the moment he had received that first threatening missive, he might have been able to stop it before things had gone so far.  But he hadn’t.  And now he had his partner’s blood on his hands, as well as Peg’s and Hiram’s.

Just three more names to add to the list of deaths he was responsible for.  A list that had begun six years ago.

With Brennan.

Connor’s hands tightened into fists at his sides.  This murderous bastard had to be caught before any more lives were lost, and he couldn’t afford to allow himself to be distracted right now.  Even should he be tempted to approach the captivating Lady Jillian, he had no idea what he would say.  He had always been a very blunt and straightforward sort of man, and he had never had much of a gift for engaging in idle small talk or polite flirtation.

He should walk away.  He knew that.  But she looked so dejected standing there alone...

And suddenly, without his volition, he found himself starting across the terrace toward her, pulled forward by some invisible force he couldn’t seem to fight or put a name to.

The sharp echo of his footsteps on the flagstones must have alerted her as he neared, for she glanced back over her shoulder and started as she caught sight of him.  At her surprised expression, he came to an immediate halt still several paces away.  He was well aware that his battered visage could be intimidating at the best of times, and he had no wish to frighten her.

He inclined his head in a slight bow, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  “I’m sorry, my lady.  I didn’t mean to alarm you, but you appeared so melancholy that I was concerned.  I thought I would ask if you were in need of assistance.”

“Assistance?  No, I--”  She blinked, peering past him in the direction from which he’d come before returning her wary gaze to his face.  “How long have you been out here?”

“For quite some time, I’m afraid.”

Even in the dimness, Connor could make out the becoming tide of color that flooded her cheeks.  “Then...then you heard...?”

“Your interesting altercation with the Lady Gwyneth?  As a matter of fact, I did.”  One corner of his mouth gave a rueful quirk.  This close, he could finally see that her eyes were a stunning shade of amber, shot through with specks of molten gold.  Cat’s eyes.  “And may I say that I have never seen an enemy so thoroughly vanquished with little more than the power of a few well chosen words?”

For what seemed a small eternity, she just stared at him, seemingly at a loss.  Then, her look of bemusement faded away to be replaced by one of quickly growing anger.

Swinging away from the railing, she faced him with hands on her hips.  “No, you may not!” she hissed, those eyes shooting hostile sparks.  He doubted she was aware of it, but her rigid stance thrust her generous breasts forward, calling his attention to the firm mounds where they swelled above the low-cut, pearl-studded neckline of her bodice.

God, but she was even more magnificent when she was in a fury.  Connor felt his heart skip a beat and a wry chuckle escaped him as he raised his hands, palms outward, in a sign of surrender.  “Please, my lady.  I am raising the white flag and ask that you not strike without due cause.  I am very much afraid I wouldn’t survive the lash of your tongue.”

“How dare you?  How dare you slink about like a common criminal and eavesdrop on people’s private conversations?”

Wait just one moment!  That accusation rubbed him on the raw and he dropped his hands, frowning at her.  “I was hardly slinking about.  I was out here minding my own business and enjoying a good cheroot when Lady Gwyneth and her coterie decided to join me.  Uninvited, may I add.”

“And you could not have made your presence known?”

“I wished to save anyone any embarrassment.”

“Well, in that regard, you have failed.”  She took a step toward him, lifting her chin at a defiant angle.  “No true gentleman would ever behave in such a fashion.”

That did it.  Now Connor’s own formidable temper was roused.  Lady Jillian was apparently every bit as haughty and difficult as every other society female he’d had the misfortune to meet, and he couldn’t deny the keen sense of disappointment that tugged at him.

He had told himself this wasn’t a good idea.  Why hadn’t he listened?

Closing what was left of the distance between them in just a few determined strides, he took a fierce satisfaction at her startled gasp as he scowled down at her.  “I never said I was a gentleman, my lady.”

“No, you certainly didn’t.”  Despite her obvious disgruntlement at his nearness, she didn’t back down, but studied his tall form with suspicion.  “And now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing you in the ballroom this evening.  For that matter, I don’t recall ever meeting you before, and I thought that I was well acquainted with all of Theodosia’s close friends.  Just who are you?”

Connor felt a muscle ticking in his jaw.  Here was the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t ask, but he didn’t see how he could possibly avoid answering it.  “My name is Connor Monroe, of Grayson and Monroe Shipping.  And no, I wasn’t present in the ballroom.  I...wasn’t exactly invited.”

“I see.  Then what exactly are you doing here?”

Not knowing what to say in reply to that, he remained silent.

At his reticence, Lady Jillian’s glowing amber eyes narrowed dangerously.  “Very well, Mr. Monroe.  If you won’t tell me, then you can make your explanations to the dowager duchess.  I’m sure she’ll be interested to know that there is someone present who isn’t on her guest list.”

She started to march off toward the house, but Connor reached out in one swift, desperate motion and seized her upper arm, pulling her to him.

And in that moment, he knew he’d made a mistake.

At the feel of her silken smooth skin beneath his fingertips, those delectable curves brushing up against his length, a wave of heat slammed into him with the force of a lightning bolt, bringing his nerve endings to singing attention and seizing his breath in his lungs.  Every logical thought was chased right out of his head, leaving him aware of nothing but the perilous need she seemed to be able to stir within him.

And there could be no denying that Lady Jillian was just as affected, for she stilled in his grasp and stared up at him with eyes wide in consternation.  Tall for a woman, the top of her head was on a level with his mouth, their faces only inches apart, and her fragrance filled his nostrils, a heady blend of jasmine and spice.  Full lips parted on a choked sound, and one of her hands fluttered up to rest against his chest as if to push him away, though she made no move to do so.  Connor was certain she must be able to feel the frantic pounding of his heart beneath her palm.

What would she do, he wondered dimly, if he were to lean forward and cover those lips with his own, if he were to taste her the way he suddenly realized he longed to?  Never mind that he had only just met her.  Never could he remember being so aroused by a female before.

“Ah, there you are!”

The hearty voice rang out in the stillness, breaking the spell that seemed to hold the two of them in its grip, and Connor looked up to see a rotund, gray-haired figure hurrying toward them.

Morton Tolliver.

Immediately, he dropped Lady Jillian’s arm and took a step away from her, praying that neither she nor the Bow Street Runner would notice the tell-tale bulge in his breeches.  What the bloody hell was wrong with him?  He had no doubt that if it hadn’t been for the Runner’s timely reappearance, he would have wound up kissing this woman.

A woman he had no business even touching.

Exerting every bit of will power he possessed, he forced himself to face Tolliver as the man puffed up to join them, his plump face red with exertion.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Monroe.  I thought I left you in the foyer.”

“You did.”  When he spoke, Connor was pleased to note that his voice remained steady and even, betraying not a hint of his disquiet.  “I felt in need of some fresh air, so I decided to step out here for a short while.”

“Of course, of course.  I didn’t mean to keep you waiting for so long.  I still haven’t managed to--”

“Mr. Tolliver?  What are you doing here?”

Connor swung his head toward Lady Jillian to find her staring at the Bow Street Runner in stunned recognition.

“Why, Lady Jillian.”  A pleased smile spread over Tolliver’s countenance and he offered her a polite bow.  “Fancy that.  Here I’ve had the dowager duchess’s footmen combing the ballroom looking for you and you were out here all the time.”

“Wait a minute.”  Connor’s gaze went back and forth between the two of them, and even before he asked the question, he was very much afraid he knew the answer.  “You two know each other?”

“Indeed we do.”  The Runner’s grin widened.  “Mr. Connor Monroe, allow me to introduce you to the very person I brought you here to speak to.  Lady Jillian Daventry.”

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