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Chapter 1
London 1821
Lydia Lawless was a lady of her word. Granted, most of the time, her words were pure lies, but when she struck a deal with someone, she always delivered on her promise.
One of those promises was the reason why, at the moment, she stood in the shaded, dark corner, watching the front door of the most notorious gaming hell dressed as a man.
She hid her bright copper curls beneath a tall hat that pressed uncomfortably against her scalp, a black cloak heavily draped around her shoulders. The borrowed men’s boots fitted with the tallest heels she could manage, in her quest to appear taller than her diminutive five feet and two inches, pinched her toes mercilessly as she stuffed them too tightly with excess cloth.
The night air bit at her cheeks, the wind carrying the acrid smoke from nearby chimneys and the fetid stench of the Thames. Wrinkling her nose against the smell, Lydia thanked the stars that it wasn’t raining. The last thing she needed was to get soaked while standing on that corner, unsuccessfully trying to figure out how to get into the disreputable establishment undetected.
It wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it’d be. Gentlemen who walked into the hell all performed a secret knock and then were questioned by the guards before signing a heavy-looking, leatherbound book. In order to get into the place, one had to know exactly what to do, what to say, and who to say it to. Add to that the complication that Lydia was in fact a woman—which would not be difficult to ascertain under the harsh light of torches hanging by the entrance—and all plans of sneaking in seemed futile.
Lydia had noticed a few side exits while circling the building earlier. But those doors lacked doorknobs on the outside to be deemed entrances, so unless some drunken chap left the door wide open upon exiting the establishment, allowing Lydia enough time to slip through, those doors were useless to her.
Besides, she’d already been stalking this building for over an hour, and in that time, only one person had used that side exit. The door had shut instantly after him, shattering all Lydia’s hopes of gaining entrance that way.
How was she supposed to get into the owner’s offices if she could not even get inside the building?
Lydia shivered and drew the corners of her cloak closer together. She needed to get in and soon, or she’d catch a cold and die outside without getting what she came for.
No. She would not let that happen.
Her very life depended on the success of this mission, not to mention Honoria’s. And she couldn’t let her friend down… not again.
As if summoned by her desperate thoughts, two carriages clattered to a stop a few feet from the entrance. The carriage door flew open and a few gentlemen stumbled outside, tripping over their own feet, chattering and laughing loudly while slurring their words.
A group of drunken gentlemen was exactly what Lydia needed. She slowly made her way toward them, and silently attached herself to the back of the group, careful not to draw any attention to herself. One of the men performed the secret knock, and then the entire group filed inside the notorious hell.
“Yes, my dear man, I can cert”—a hiccup—“certainly sign this!” With a loud declaration, one of the men knelt over the heavy book.
As the gentlemen shed their coats, Lydia slipped beneath one man’s arm, using his half-discarded cloak as cover before twirling past the guards and into the shadowed corridor beyond.
She pressed her back against the wall as soon as she reached her salvation, breathing deeply. Quickly raising the collar of her cloak and lowering the hat down to her eyes, she made her way down the corridor.
Lydia tensed as two men approached from the other side, but aside from drunkenly shouldering their way past her, they did not pay her any heed.
Lydia stepped out of the corridor into a wide, crowded room and stopped cold. Thick smoke wrapped around her like winter fog as the loud buzz of conversation overwhelmed her senses. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of tobacco, spilled spirits, and cheap perfume. She squinted, trying to see through the haze, but it was difficult to make out anything but shapes past a few feet. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped forward, willing herself to move with the casual confidence of someone who belonged in this den of iniquity.
Lucky for her, everybody was too preoccupied with their own pursuits even to notice her presence.
Men hunched over the large, round tables, clasping a fan of cards in their hands, fisting a glass of drink in another. Some were leisurely smoking and drinking, while scantily clad women bounced on their knees or draped themselves across shoulders, whispering something in their ears.
Was this all there was to it? This place was notorious!
Perhaps for an average man this smoke-filled atmosphere might have seemed rather enchanting, but for Lydia, this depraved room enticed nothing but disgust.
The sight of young drunk dandies in their wrinkled silk waistcoats and old, sweaty men with spirits-soured breath openly caressing the harlots was not Lydia’s idea of a perfect evening.
She was surprised, however, that England’s brightest minds couldn’t find anything more exciting to do than this! More than half of the men in the room were likely married. Many of them were in substantial debt if the rumors Lydia had heard were to be believed. Yet they returned to this Godforsaken place to lose more money and embarrass their wives.
Lydia wrinkled her nose. Good thing she hadn’t married a lord, or anyone for that matter.
Once upon a time, she thought it to be her dream. She was even betrothed to a viscount—not that he was ever serious about marrying her, as she had found out later. After all, he had left her to pursue a life just like this, filled with vice. Lydia pushed the wayward thought away.
She needed to concentrate on the job.
Moving with the confidence she didn’t possess, she silently crossed the hall to the southwest corner. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the hell’s owner lounging on the balcony, overlooking the entire hall. Perfect. It meant that the owner’s offices stood empty.
