Page 6

Helen stifled a grimace of pain. It was all worth it to have her daughter in her arms again.

“Apologies, ma’am!” A nursemaid rushed with her arms outstretched to take the babe away.

Helen turned her torso away, shielding the babe and holding her close. “No, Betsy, let her play.”

“Plah!” Laney exclaimed and then screeched with glee as she continued jumping on Helen.

Her infectious laughter was so beautiful that it drew a smile from Helen’s lips. “Yes, let’s play!”

Chapter 3

In the annals of society, the infamous Lord Ian McAllistair, a notorious drunkard and wastrel, has taken a tumble from grace. It may be noted, however, that he possessed very little grace to begin with, and his descent has caused little harm to his already lamentable reputation.

Ian’s eyes slid up from the words and to the cartoon of a man—him—stumbling from a tiny step and into the gutter.

Gutter. Yes, this would perfectly describe his current predicament. Although, he didn’t feel like he fell off a tiny step. No. He felt as though he had tumbled down from Ben Nevis and crashed head-first into a pile of horse excrement.

He mindlessly trailed his finger over the surface of the bottle, leaving behind smeared impressions of his finger pad on a smooth glass.

Smeared. This was exactly the state of his reputation. He grabbed the bottle and brought it to his lips. He tilted his head back and took a large swig of the cool, burning liquid.

This was the first time in a long time that he’d allowed himself a drink. He didn’t bother even bringing a glass with him. As soon as he received the paper and noted the headline, he grabbed the first bottle of whisky on his way out of the study, then plopped on the floor of the corridor by the front door, waiting for Mr. Samuel Davenport, his handler, to show up.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to drink more than a few sips. He knew, as well, that Davenport would be here before Ian had finished those sips.

Ian should have come up with excuses or a plan, perhaps, on how to leverage his miserable reputation now that he was the most popular man in England rather than being the mindless drunk to whom nobody paid any heed. Instead, he decided to play the part of said mindless drunk and drown in this brief state of despair.

Perhaps the whisky had dulled his senses and that was why he sat there with the bottle in his hand, tilting it this way and that, watching the liquid shift and roll against the glass.

He seemed lost in thought as he examined the bottle from every angle, although no thought was penetrating his mind. It was completely blank.

A knock sounded at the door, bringing him back from his foggy state. He lithely jumped to his feet, then had to pause for a moment to let vertigo pass.

Damn. I shouldn’t have done that.

He fisted his hands, crumpling the paper that was still between his fingers. He glanced at it before throwing it to the floor. Then he took two steps to the front door, straightened his appearance, and opened it.

Davenport, a tall man, dressed in a dark cloak that enveloped his slender figure and a top hat worn low on his ears, stepped inside.

“How was your night?” he asked emotionlessly as his eyes darted to the crumpled paper and an abandoned bottle by the side of the wall.

“Fruitful.” Ian decided to side-step the conversation Davenport obviously wanted to have, and instead concentrated on the positives. “As suspected, our man Hardgrove changed his allegiance because he is being blackmailed to side with the Jacobites.”

“You have proof?” Davenport didn’t seem surprised, but then again, he rarely looked surprised.

Ian nodded. He turned and proceeded to climb the stairs toward his study. “I was able to break into Hardgrove’s house and retrieve the letters from his cellar last night after…” He cleared his throat. “After the incident.”

“You work fast.” Davenport’s reply was dry.

“I do.” Ian entered his study and proceeded to his desk. He turned to the handler and raised his brow. “Do you mind?”

Davenport turned around. “Not at all.”

Ian walked a few feet toward his safe which was sitting just behind the desk. He unlocked the three-point lock system and retrieved the letters he’d stolen from Hardgrove’s cellar, closed the safe, and approached the handler. “Here they are. But you will notice that the Jacobites aren’t doing the blackmailing themselves. They outsourced it to someone called Erebus.”

Erebus was the leader of a secret society of vigilantes that had been terrorizing the London population for centuries, but they’d become particularly active in recent years.

“Erebus had instructed Hardgrove to burn the letters once he received them, but lucky for us, the earl is an idiot. Or he had planned to expose them, I don’t know. Either way, it worked to our advantage.” He handed the notes to Davenport and continued, “That’s not all. I also found some documents hinting at Hardgrove’s involvement in the illegal slave trade.”