LONDON
A SNOWY NIGHT, LATE NOVEMBER 1808
Miss Eva Tiding’s hands were surprisingly steady, considering she was on the doorstep of London’s most disreputable rogue.
And on the brink of committing a felony.
Her heart hammered as she crouched in the dimly lit corridor of the Albany, jiggling a silver hairpin in the door lock of the Earl of Frostbough’s bachelor apartment. She glanced over her shoulder, tucked an errant curl into her fur-trimmed hood, and inserted the pin at a different angle.
The earl’s lock was only the second she’d attempted to pick. The first had been her own, for practice, a few hours ago. That had gone swimmingly. But this lock was newer, the keyhole was smaller, and—
Click.
Thank heaven.
The brass handle turned, the door swung open, and Eva almost tumbled into the apartment. Or the dragon’s lair, as she preferred to think of it. She’d never met the earl, who also happened to be the heir to a dukedom, but on the few occasions she’d seen him from afar, his face was a thundercloud. A knee-meltingly handsome thundercloud, to be sure—but a thundercloud, nonetheless.
The gossip rags said he could freeze the Thames with a sideways glance. Eva’s maid claimed he’d once sacked a footman for merely spilling a cup of coffee. Even the most ambitious of matchmaking mamas deemed the earl too coldhearted, too jaded, for their precious daughters.
All of which made Eva shudder to think what he might do if he happened to discover her skulking around his apartment. Indeed, she refused to dwell on the possibility. She was on a mission not only to right a grave wrong but also to save Papa’s Christmas—and she simply had to succeed.
She quickly shut the door behind her and, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, breathed in the mingled scents of cheroots, brandy, and pine. A small table in the entryway held a candle, which she lit, bracing herself for décor resembling anything from a brothel to an opium den.
But a swift survey of the room revealed no risqué paintings, no lewd sculptures, nor any other obvious signs of debauchery. A bit disappointing, that, for she’d hoped her first foray into a bachelor’s apartment might prove at least a little enlightening.
Between the earl’s dubious reputation and the whispers of his sexual prowess, Eva supposed her curiosity was only natural, but she refused to let it deter her from her goal. She had it on good authority that he dined at his club every Thursday evening and—after enjoying a few drinks, no doubt—generally returned home at about half past ten.
Which left her less than thirty minutes to locate the watch.
Now, where would he keep the gold-plated timepiece that he’d heartlessly swindled from her dear papa? Did dark-tempered, titled gentlemen have trophy cases for such things? The sitting room she walked through had a wall full of open shelves, but few drawers or cabinets suitable for hiding contraband.
No, the best hiding spots were undoubtedly located in the dark depths of Lord Frostbough’s bedchamber.
An open door at the back of the parlor revealed a massive bedpost and a glimpse of rumpled sheets. Eva hesitated but reasoned that the sooner she located Papa’s watch, the sooner she’d be able to depart the devil’s den. So she crossed the threshold, stole a quick glance at the decadently huge bed, and went directly to the bureau sitting against the far wall. The surface was bare, save for a small portrait of an older gentleman—his father, the duke, perhaps—and a pair of gloves. Very large gloves.
Feeling rather warm, she set down the candle, grasped the handles of the top drawer, and nibbled her lip. Part of her balked at rifling through a stranger’s personal effects, but the watch was the one thing that would bring Papa a smidgen of happiness this Christmas. The only present capable of bringing a smile to his dear, wizened face.
To retrieve Mama’s precious gift to Papa, Eva would have done worse.
Firmly tamping down her guilt, she slid open the drawer and sifted through mounds of white and buff linen searching for the gold engraved case. Stashed amid the neckcloths, handkerchiefs, and gloves she found an assortment of calling cards, cuff links, and coins. Goodness. Given the state of disarray, one would think Lord Frostbough couldn’t afford a valet.
Then, in the back corner of the drawer, something glinted in the flickering light. Eva grabbed a fistful of linen with one hand and, with the other, reached—
A hand clamped her upper arm and spun her around. Dear God. No.
“Who are you?” The earl’s voice was dangerously low, his fury barely contained, as he pulled her close, searching her face. “And what the hell are you doing in my bedchamber?”
Eva’s knees wobbled like a cranberry curd, and her pulse echoed in her ears. She briefly considered kicking the brute in the shin and attempting to run for the door, but his broad shoulders, long legs, and stormy countenance told her escape was nigh impossible. So, mustering every bit of boldness she possessed, she tossed off her hood and raised her chin.
“Miss Eva Tiding,” she said proudly.
The earl narrowed cold, dark eyes. “Why does that sound familiar?”
Anger sparked inside her, incinerating her fear. “I cannot imagine…,” she answered wryly. “Oh, wait. Perhaps you recall my name from the two letters I recently sent you”—she leaned forward till their chests were a mere inch apart—“letters which you ignored.”
“I don’t correspond with people I don’t know,” he said evenly, but his grip on her arm loosened slightly, and his mouth curled into the hint of a smug smile.
She clenched her teeth. “Well then, now that introductions are out of the way, I have a question for you. Why did you steal my father’s watch?”
“I didn’t,” he said with a snort. “He wagered it. I won.”
Eva shrugged. “Steal, swindle, scam—it’s all the same to me. I want the watch back. And I’m willing to purchase it.”
“Are you?” Amusement flickered across his face.
His patronizing tone stretched her patience to a frayed thread. “As I mentioned in my letters, the piece has considerable sentimental value. Name your price.”
His large, warm hand slid down the length of her arm. Beneath the sleeve of her soft wool cloak, her skin tingled with a disconcerting mix of apprehension and awareness. Slowly, deliberately, he circled her wrist and lifted her gloved hand, in which she still clutched a wad of linens.
“Well, Miss Tiding,” he drawled, “you might start by giving me back my drawers.”
Heavens. She dropped the earl’s underclothes like they’d scorched her fingers, provoking a chuckle from deep within his belly. The rich sound vibrated through her as though he’d plucked a string at the base of her spine.
“I’m not the least bit intrigued by your wrinkled undergarments, rakish reputation, or perverse habits,” she lied.
He arched a thick, dark brow. “If you say so.”
“I just want my father’s watch,” she choked out. “So I can bring him a little joy this Christmas.”
“How touching,” he said, his voice as hard as a chestnut shell. “But the watch is not for sale. It’s mine now.”
Eva squeezed her fists in frustration. “I’m willing to pay you twice its worth. You could purchase a new one, engrave it with your own initials. Or those of all your conquests. It matters not to me.”
He smirked at that. “Let’s repair to the parlor,” he suggested, “where we can sit and discuss the matter civilly. Unless you’d prefer to stay here and lounge on my bed?”
She blinked at the thick mattress, littered with luxurious pillows and linens. “The parlor it is,” Eva snapped, striding through the doorway.
Jack Hardwick, Earl of Frostbough, followed Miss Tiding into his sitting room, lit a lamp, and poured himself a glass of brandy. Raising the decanter, he turned to her and asked, “Drink?”
Predictably, she wrinkled her pretty, portrait-perfect nose. “I think not.”
Jack shot her a suit-yourself grin and sank into the leather chair opposite her. She wore an emerald velvet cloak that matched the brilliant green of her eyes, and she perched on the edge of his sofa like it was a park bench soiled with bird droppings.
He reminded himself that she was not the enemy. She wasn’t the monster who’d turned his father into a mere shell of a man over two decades ago. Perhaps she was ignorant of the strife between their fathers, but Jack wasn’t. He might have been too young to fully comprehend their feud at the time, but he understood it all too well now. He was still living with the damage that Miss Tiding’s father had inflicted.
Six-year-old Jack had witnessed his own powerful, vibrant father—Duke of Northcott—shrivel into a shadow of himself, almost overnight. His father withdrew from society, cloistered himself behind the stone walls of his country estate, and distanced himself from his only son. All because Lord Gladwood had eloped with the woman Jack’s father had loved beyond all reason. The woman who was supposed to have become stepmother to a lonely and heartbroken boy.
Admittedly, Miss Tiding wasn’t to blame for her father’s sins; she hadn’t even been born when the scandal took place. But since she had just unabashedly broken into Jack’s apartment with the intent of committing burglary, it seemed to him that the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.
“Now then,” he began, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and producing the watch. “I believe this is what you were looking for.” He casually laid it on the table between them, leaned back in his chair, and stretched out his legs.
Miss Tiding’s heart-shaped face remained impassive—except for the unmistakable flare of her nostrils. The evidence that he’d managed to wriggle under her skin gave Jack more pleasure than it probably should have, and yet he couldn’t resist twisting the knife.
“I generally keep the watch with me. So, your robbery attempt was destined for failure.”
She sniffed. “I haven’t failed yet. I still plan to leave with the watch in my possession.”
He barked a laugh. “And how will you manage it?”
“I’m hoping that you’ll listen to reason. That once you understand the watch’s sentimental value to my father, you’ll allow me to purchase it—for a fair price.”
“I’m already aware of the watch’s significance.” Her eyes widened, and he added, “I read the letters you sent. I know the timepiece was a gift from your father’s wife.”
“Yes. My late mother,” Miss Tiding said, with a wistfulness that caused a vexing tightness in Jack’s chest. He’d known that Lady Gladwood had died some years ago, but he’d always thought of her as the woman who betrayed his father. Not as someone’s mother.
“She had it made especially for my father. It was the token of a private joke they shared, and now that Mama’s gone … well, he values it above all things.”
“Then it was exceedingly foolish of him to wager it in a game of cards,” Jack replied bluntly.
“Agreed.” Miss Tiding crossed her arms in exasperation. “But, as you were undoubtedly aware, he was deep in his cups that night. By all accounts, he was enjoying quite the winning streak until that final hand—almost as though my poor papa was being conned.”
Jack snorted at that. Couldn’t summon an ounce of sympathy for the old viscount. After all, he was the villain—the blackguard who’d destroyed Jack’s father.
“I don’t cheat at cards,” Jack intoned. “You can’t blame me for your father’s error in judgment.”
“No,” she said, narrowing her shrewd eyes. “But I do wonder why you’re so intent on keeping the watch.”
“I have my reasons.”
She tilted her head and leaned forward, her curious gaze issuing a silent challenge. “Would you care to share them?”
He hesitated a moment, inexplicably lost in the deep, verdant green of her eyes. “No,” he said, quickly coming to his senses. He stood and raked a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say that it’s an important reminder to me.”
“I see,” she said slowly, as though she suspected he was addled in the head. “You’ve become attached to the timepiece. But it’s more than an interesting trinket, my lord. It’s exceedingly valuable to my father, and I’m prepared to fairly compensate you. Just tell me what it will take.”
Jack sauntered across the room to his desk and frowned at an opened letter from his dear grandmother. She’d written to inform him she was coming to London for Christmastide—and that she couldn’t wait to meet the young lady who had captured his heart. The young lady he’d made up out of thin air in the hopes of making his grandmother happy, damn it all. He never dreamed she’d come to visit. Not after all these years.
He shoved the letter aside and leaned against the desktop. “I’m a wealthy man, Miss Tiding. I don’t need or want your money.”
“It’s almost Christmas,” she whispered. “Surely you can find a glimmer of compassion in that cold heart of yours.”
He rapped a fist on his chest. “It’s frozen solid, I’m afraid. You’re wasting your time. In fact, I think you should go.” He strode toward the door, preparing to escort her out.
“No,” she said firmly.
Jack stopped in his tracks and cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“No,” she repeated. “I’m not leaving until you name your price for the watch.”
He blinked at her, disbelieving. “You intend to remain on my sofa?”
She nodded. “For as long as it takes.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t physically remove you. But I should warn you that I intend to go about my normal evening routine.” He shot her an irreverent grin, unknotted his cravat, and whipped it off. Then he started shrugging off his jacket with obvious relish. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she lifted her chin, the picture of determination. “Not at all. I hope you don’t mind if I sing Christmas carols while I wait. I’ve been told I have the voice of an angel.”
“Please. By all means,” he said dryly, “do go on.”
She cleared her throat and belted out, “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…”
Jack winced. Miss Tiding’s song was loud and impassioned—and anything but angelic. Still, he was certain he could tolerate a few verses of off-key singing longer than she could stand to watch him undress. So he ignored the assault on his ears and proceeded to throw his jacket over the arm of his chair. He arched a pointed brow at her before methodically attacking the buttons of his waistcoat.
“To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray…”
Miss Tiding appeared to be torn between averting her eyes and looking on in horror, which Jack took as an excellent sign. He didn’t even mind her dreadful singing. With perverse satisfaction, he tossed his waistcoat onto the potted palm in the corner, tugged his shirttails out of his trousers, and yanked his shirt over his head.
“Comfort and joy,” she choked out. “Comfort and joy, oh tidings of…”
Jack had to give her credit. Even in the face of his shocking behavior, she launched into the chorus with renewed gusto and a complete disregard for musicality.
Which left him no choice, really.
He threw his shirt to the floor near her feet, raised his chin in a silent challenge …
And reached for the buttons at the front of his trousers.