Page 1 of The Viscount of Shadows

Prologue

August 1898

London, England

Mary O’Toole has been alone and living on the streets since age sixteen. Society, judgmental as they are, saw her as a tramp, a dosser, and a vagrant. And since she was a woman, she’d been referred to as a strumpet, a tart—and a prostitute, to name a few insulting terms. No doubt, the two women sitting across from her in the Ten Bells pub in the East End of London assumed such. Mary couldn’t make out their expressions, for they kept them maddingly impartial.

One of the ladies was quite tall, the other about average stature for a female, and Mary guessed her height lay between the two. Both women stared at her with clear-eyed astuteness.

“I am Althea Galway,” the petite one declared. She reached into her leather case and placed a card on the table. With the tip of one finger, she slid it across to Mary.

Mary picked up the offered card. “The Galway Investigative Agency. Looking for a lost soul? There are plenty around here, love,” she observed sarcastically.

“We were searching for you, to be exact. Since you take lunch here, Olivia Durham suggested we seek you out at the Ten Bells. You came to her rescue this past spring. Do you recall the incident?” the taller one asked.

Mary remembered everything. Olivia Durham had been cornered in a dark alley by two repulsive men who had abducted her from a duke’s town house. Mary, along with her compatriots, came upon the scene. Pulling a knife from her garter, Mary stood them down, threatening to cut them from their throat to their bollocks. Perhaps she hadn’t quite verbalized that aloud, but she thought it. And tempted to do it if they hadn’t fled like the cowards they were and no doubt still are.

Mary tucked the card in her ample cleavage. “I remember Olivia. Pan tells me she married her duke. The best to her and all. She doesn’t owe me anything. I sought out the job at The Velvet Vine as she suggested. Thank her for me, yeah?”

Miss Althea Galway inclined her head to the tall woman next to her. “My older sister, Eleanora Galway-Bamford, and co-owner of our agency.”

Mary nodded in acknowledgment. How impressive. You did not hear about two sisters running an investigative agency every day. Good for them.

“Olivia, now the Duchess of Watford, recommended you for our agency. We wish to hire you,” Eleanora Galway stated.

What?

“You cannot be serious,” Mary balked.

“We most certainly are,” Althea Galway replied firmly. “You know the streets, are smart, can handle yourself with a knife. You would be perfect for undercover work and other assignments. We cannot pay the wages you earn at your present labor, but we offer steady employment and adventure.”

Adventure? Mary had quite enough of that in her life. As far as money was concerned?

“I am not earning as much as you think,” Mary said, her mouth quirking into a half-smile. “And I am not ashamed of how I made money to survive these past years.”

Mary had taken the position at The Velvet Vine and Tackle brothel to see that her friends had a comfortable and safe place to stay. It had taken intense negotiating with the owner and manager, Pan, to take them all on, with Mary agreeing to assist him in running the club while smoothing the rough edges off her friends. As part of the deal, Mary declined to serve customers in any capacity. To her utter astonishment, Pan had agreed.

“We offer room and board, all meals included. You would have your own room,” Eleanora Galway interjected. “And as to your current work? It is not a factor to us.”

Well, that was good to know about her present living. Anyone working at a brothel in whatever duty was looked down upon by humanity. As far as a room, she had her own now; in fact, it was Olivia Durham’s old one.

“I don’t know nothing of being an investigator,” Mary stated, embellishing her faux Irish accent.

But the notion had taken root. Mary was weary of street life, not knowing where the next crust of bread was coming from or if she would have a roof over her head for more than one night—these past months had been a blessed reprieve from existing on the streets. And to use her survival skills in a compelling career? To begin a new chapter, a diverse journey? It was enticing—very much so.

“We will train you. You read; do you write as well?” Eleanora Galway asked.

“Aye.”

“Most of our clients are women seeking a divorce, but we have had a few significant cases beyond that,” Althea Galway stated. “You would be living at our place on Cleveland Street. Our cousin, Sybil Norton, lives at the residence with another investigator, Edwina Callen. The rate of pay would be two pounds a week. To start.”

It was less than she made now, but not by much. It was an excellent wage, more than a senior clerk at a bank makes. It would be hard to leave her comrades after all they had been through. Mary needed to confer with them. But she knew that they would encourage her to pursue a new life.

Wait. Galway-Bamford?

Mary hardly read the papers, for who had time, let alone the coin, to buy one on a steady basis? She often retrieved newspapers from the rubbish bins and read them to her ladies. But her sharp recall flipped through her well-ordered memory to an article of a lady investigator marrying a duke. Again, this is not something you hear about every day.

She swung her gaze toward Eleanora. “Are you the Duchess of Allenby?”