Chapter Two

London, November 1885

Kat swung the grappling hook high into the fog-shrouded air and heard the ting of steel striking stone as the hook’s claws latched firmly onto the first-floor balcony railing of the Viscount of Somerville’s residence.

Gripping the attached rope with her gloved hands, she began climbing up the stone wall, her leather boots and trouser-clad legs easily finding purchase along the stone grooves, assisting in her ascent.

Garbed in the usual black outfit she wore for her clandestine activities, Kat was glad for the warmth the mask and cape provided against the chill night air, along with the anonymity of both her identity and gender that the trousers and shirt allowed.

She reached the top railing and gripped the ledge. Swinging her body over it, the balls of her feet landed softly on the stone floor of the upstairs terrace. The terrace and house appeared dark and soundless, the thick layer of fog below nicely masking all sounds.

Looking to her left, she counted two doors down to where the French glass doors led into Lord Somerville’s bedroom. If all had gone according to plan, her informant should have left them unlatched. But Kaitlyn was never one to trust things to go according to plan, not in her particular vocation. Which was why she never went anywhere without the trusty weight of her lockpick set settled comfortably in her trouser pocket. That and her daggers, of course. One never knew when either would be required.

Without a sound, she strode across the balcony and stopped near the entrance to Somerville’s bedroom. The thick drapes were closed across the glass, obscuring her view into the space. Pausing for a moment, she listened for any sounds coming from within, but heard nothing. Carefully, she reached out and turned the door handle. It opened effortlessly.

Silence continued to greet her, so she stepped into the room and left the glass door ajar, ensuring her escape route was easily accessible if needed. Glancing around the barren bedchamber, Kat’s eyes drifted across the ancient mahogany bedframe standing like a giant sentinel in the middle of the room. Thick blue drapes hung from the canopy above it, tied haphazardly to each wooden post by a crimson satin sash. A thick layer of dust covered the duvet and what little bedroom furniture was in the musky room.

Clearly, Lord Somerville didn’t care to let his servants into his bedchamber often, or else his eyesight had deteriorated to the point of gross inattention. But she suspected it was the former, particularly if what her informant said was true. The man was paranoid to the point of madness, which was probably correct. After all, those who dabbled in blackmail did tend to live rather shortened lives.

Kat spied the painting her informant had mentioned, a bland watercolor hanging almost forgetfully above the mantel, looking about as dilapidated as the rest of the room. She stalked over to it and felt along its edges until her fingers ran over a small button on the underside of the right hand of the frame. When she pressed it, the painting gently swung open from the left side to reveal a wall safe concealed behind, just as her informant said it would.

Assessing the black iron panel of the safe in front of her, she found her interest piqued. Lord Somerville had invested in a safe made by the American company Day and Newell. A safe even more secure than its English counterparts, and nearly impossible to open without its custom cut key. Nearly, but not completely. And there wasn’t a speck of dust on the thing.

For an old recluse, Somerville obviously had items inside the safe that he was willing to spend a great deal of money to protect and look after, having purchased the best safe money could buy. And if one of those items was a journal mentioning the Chameleon, as she hoped it would be, then she could understand his investment in such a fortified safe.

Fortunately, Kat was a believer in being prepared for any possibility and her investment in private lessons with the world’s foremost lockpicking master, the American Mr. Hobbs, would now pay off. The man had, after all, worked for Day and Newell and designed the very safe in front of her.

A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth upward as anticipation coursed through her at the thought of cracking open the lock. It was one of her most favorite pastimes. Pulling her small leather lockpicking kit from her pocket, Kat selected the two most appropriate picks and slid them into the barrel; one at the bottom, the other at the top. She began raking the top one carefully backward and forward against the pin tumblers within the casing, adjusting the torque on the pick at the bottom of the lock as she did so.

It took her slightly longer than she had planned, closer to three minutes she would guess, but gradually the tumblers fell into place as she continued to rake the top pick against them, while placing a gentle amount of torque on the bottom one. With a final twist of the bottom pick, the lock made a distinct clicking sound as it twisted open. A sound Kat always found satisfying.

Twisting the handle on the safe, she pulled it open, and there, nestled on the bottom level, was a brown leather-bound journal. Disregarding the other assorted items in the safe, Kat reached in and pulled it out, before flipping through the pages and briefly scanning the contents. Her fingers clenched around the leather when she read the words “my Chameleon” scrawled across several pages.

“I’m afraid that’s not yours to take,” a deep voice rumbled from behind her.

Kat snapped the journal closed and whirled around. A man stood in front of the now fully opened glass doors, his face concealed by the room’s shadows. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his voice was that of a gentleman, but certainly not that of old Lord Sommerville. He was also strategically blocking her only exit. How had she not heard him? A man of his size should have made ample noise to alert her to his presence. Sloppy work, Kaitlyn. Very sloppy, indeed.

“A masked bandit. How interesting.” He sounded somewhat amused as he took a few steps into the room, his eyes taking in the entire space in a glance.

Kat gasped as the shadows receded from his face. Standing there, his six-foot-four-inch frame engulfing the doorway, was Marcus Black, the Earl of Westwood. Her uncle’s most favorite protégé.

He looked harder and fiercer than when she saw him last, when she’d only been a girl of fourteen, and there was an air of grim purpose and danger surrounding him like a second skin. And even now, after all these years, he had the power to unsettle her completely. She was loathed to find herself still attracted to him, her body clenching in recognition and longing as her gaze locked with his.

The young man she’d known was gone. His eyes were different now; they no longer held the laughter and hope they once did. Instead, they were filled with unflinching and impenetrable blue steel.

And no wonder. In the intervening years since she’d last seen him, the man’s wife was brutally slain, and his brother, Nathaniel, who Kat had trained with for several years after returning from the ladies’ school, had been branded a traitor and then killed in an explosion in Paris.

Each time she thought of Nathaniel, a deep sadness filled her. He’d been like a brother to her in some respects, though she doubted Marcus even knew that she and Nathaniel had trained together. By the time they did so, Marcus was already living in Europe with his new wife, conducting various missions on behalf of the government.

“Now be a good chap and put the journal on the bed,” he said. There was no threat in his voice. There didn’t have to be. His calm, autocratic demeanor and crisp diction were all that was needed to convey the fact that the man was used to being obeyed.

Kat weighed up her options. He thought her a man, which was good as she certainly didn’t want him to know who she was, particularly since after all this time she had no idea if she could trust him or not. And if he was after the journal, too, it meant one of only two things: he was also hunting the Chameleon, or he was the Chameleon.

The latter made her stomach churn, though she doubted it, although nothing would surprise her anymore. Not after Victor’s last secret had tilted her world on its axis. One she still hadn’t righted herself from.

“It ain’t yours, either,” she said, disguising her voice with the deepest cockney accent she could muster as she tucked the journal into the pocket of her jacket.

Marcus smiled though the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes. “The item may be in Somerville’s safe, but in point of fact, it is mine. It belonged to my late wife.”

Kat felt a moment’s hesitation. “Your wife?” She’d heard about the late and beautiful Countess of Westwood, a woman Marcus had apparently been besotted with.

Taking another step closer to her, Marcus’s footfalls were surprisingly silent for a man of his size. At least now, Kat didn’t feel so incompetent about not hearing his approach. “Yes, my wife’s. As you can see, it does indeed belong to me.”

Well, if he was being truthful, then he was correct in that regard. But Kat had hunted the Chameleon for too long to simply relinquish possibly the best lead she’d ever had to find the assassin. She couldn’t let the fiend slip through her fingers any longer. And she would fight Marcus to ensure that didn’t happen, if she had to.

“I suggest you hand it over now. Otherwise, I will take it from you.”

There was a silent promise in the depths of his eyes and an unflinching pledge in his words. This was a man who would intimidate most people, but not Kat. She’d been trained as well as he had, and she knew that under the hardness, there was an honorable man, or at least there had been. “You can try to,” she said.

For a moment, it looked like Marcus was amused, but then he sighed. “Must we really do this dance?”

“It seems so.” She assessed her exit options, as he was clearly going to try to prevent her from leaving with it. “I warn you though, dancing with me will be perilous.”

“Consider me warned,” he drawled.

Kat saw the intention in his eyes a moment before he lunged for her. She dove toward the floor and tucked into a tight ball, rolling forward and then back onto her feet, just behind where he’d been standing.

He anticipated her move and pivoted, grabbing ahold of her arm. “You’re fast, I’ll give you that.”

Kat twisted her body back toward him and struck him in the chest with her other arm.

He grunted as he was forced back a step, his hand losing its grip on her arm. She twisted to the side and aimed a spinning kick at his chest. He blocked her leg with his left forearm and used his own leg to swing out to strike her.

She managed to avert the full force of his attack using a block of her own, followed by a strike with the back of her arm. Deflecting her, he matched her strikes and blocks as they fought each other, parrying back and forth across the room.

He’d been taught well by her uncle. Kat generally prided herself on her ability to outfight any man, but she was no fool and was loath to admit that Marcus’s size and strength were difficult to combat, even for a woman with her height and skills. The very thought she might be bested was surprisingly thrilling, for no man had truly been able to challenge her before. But Marcus could.

Kat cursed when she realized he was maneuvering her close to the wall, where there would be little room left for her to strike. Knowing she would have to resort to another tactic, she paused in her strikes, allowing him to grab hold of her arms and pin her to the wall so she was trapped, his frame pressed hard against her own.

She could feel the strength of him leaning into the soft curves of her body and unexpectedly her breath quickened. His chest was so broad and his muscles so hard, that it made it difficult to ignore the heat and masculinity radiating from him.

His shocked eyes peered down into hers. “You’re a woman?”

“Hello, Marcus.” Kat smiled up at him through her mask, trying to ignore the ripple of awareness radiating down through to her center, acutely aware of her femininity against his masculinity. “I wish I could say it was nice to see you again after all these years…” She shrugged. “But in the circumstances, I’m not so sure.”

It took a moment for him to recognize her voice. “Lady Kaitlyn?”

He relaxed his grip a fraction, though he still did not release her. Instead, he pulled her hands above her head and switched his grip so her wrists were pinned by only one of his hands.

Her breasts were unintentionally pressed farther into his chest, while he removed her mask, and Kaitlyn couldn’t help but gasp at the contact.

She heard his swift intake of breath as he scrutinized her face. For a moment, she wondered what he was thinking, but his gaze gave little away.

“You’ve grown up.” His voice was thick, and she could see his jaw clenching. Probably in annoyance, as that had always been an easy emotion to rouse in him when she was a girl. She had enjoyed poking fun at him, after all.

“Twelve years does tend to age a person,” she replied. Although, instead of looking aged, Marcus simply appeared more dangerous and harder than he had before. Compelling, in fact, to the point where she found herself slightly breathless, and Kat didn’t get breathless for any man.

His eyes narrowed rather treacherously. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Is it not obvious?” she all but purred, as she tried to return her thoughts to the task at hand. “I’ve come to retrieve this journal.”

“Damn it! I could have hurt you, you foolish woman.” His face was mere inches from her own, and she could see small flecks of grey mingling with the blue in his eyes. She’d never been close enough to him before to notice such an intriguing thing.

For a brief moment, Kat found herself slightly mesmerized by the intensity of his stare and the woody scent of his cologne as it engulfed her nostrils. It was a scent of sandalwood and something else she couldn’t quite identify. She gave herself a mental shake. Stay focused, Kaitlyn. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted, even if this man was making her feel more like a woman than she ever had.

“So,” he demanded, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

“That I am truly sorry for what’s coming next.” And she was, but she could see no other solution to the situation. She had to get away from him, and away from the unfamiliar sensations he stirred up inside her.

Before he could formulate an answer, Kat lifted her right knee up as hard as she could toward the junction between his thighs. Marcus swore when her knee connected fully with his body and then he grunted as pain overtook him and he crumpled to the floor.

Kat stood there for a second, panting from the exertion as she looked down at his face. “I’m sorry, Marcus. Normally, I do try to fight fair, but against a man of your size and experience, a woman must use every weapon at her disposal.” Belatedly, she realized she was still calling him by his first name, a habit she’d formed as a girl. She hurried around him to the balcony door. She had definitely overstayed her welcome.

“Damn it! Get back here,” he choked out, still writhing on the rug in the middle of the room.

“After I obtain what I need from the journal, I will return it to you.” And next time, she’d have these foreign feelings of attraction firmly in check. She looked at him one last time before turning and sprinting out of the door and across the balcony to where she’d left the grappling hook. Swinging herself over the balustrade, Kat gripped the rope and slid to the ground, her feet landing gently in the shrubs.

Seeing Marcus again after all of these years had shaken her greatly, which had to have been the reason she’d been stupid enough to allow him to maneuver her toward the wall in the first place. She’d never permitted such a thing to occur before. It was highly disconcerting. As was the fact that her body seemed to mold against his to perfection, sending a fluttering of awareness through her.

And she never fluttered for any man. In fact, she’d always had little patience for a woman claiming to have succumbed to a man’s charms, yet when confronted by the Earl of Westwood, that very thing had nearly occurred with her. It was unacceptable, and she would not let it happen again.

Kat flicked the rope up, and the steel hooks lifted from the balcony railing before dropping to the ground next to her. Gathering up the equipment, she stuffed the items into the bag she’d left by the shrubs. Kat frowned when she noticed her hands were trembling a little. No man had ever made her tremble before. She didn’t like it one bit.

She was trained to be better than this. Victor would have expected more. She couldn’t let any awareness of Marcus’s allure distract her again.

“I will find you, Lady Kaitlyn, make no mistake about that,” Marcus said from above. “And I will retrieve that journal from you.”

Kat stifled her gasp and looked up to see him staring down at her from the edge of the balcony, his blue eyes filled with determination. He’d recovered sooner than she’d expected. Not surprising, though. Marcus had always been stronger than an ox. “You can try,” she stated, picking up her bag. “Though I don’t like your chances. At least, not unless I wish to give it to you.” She had to portray an air of nonchalance, for if the man sensed any weakness, he would pounce. It’s what they’d both been trained to do.

“I’m serious, Kaitlyn,” he said. “This is no jest. I will come for you and I will take the journal.”

There was a dark promise in his words. And rather than fear, Kat felt exhilarated. But then the reality of the situation intruded and she found herself wondering if the honorable man she once knew was gone. A lot could change a person over the years, and where once there was hope, too easily it could be replaced by the dark shadow of vengeance. That she knew only too well.

“This is no jest for me, either,” she replied. “And I’ll give you the journal once I’m done with it, providing it does not implicate you as having anything to do with Victor’s murder. Because if it does, then I promise you, you will have no need to look for me, for it will be I who will come for you.” She pivoted, and without looking back she strode through the grounds of the back of Somerville’s townhouse to where her carriage waited. The dark promise in Marcus’s words and the intensity of his gaze were fixed firmly in her mind.

The man would not give up, of that she was certain. And the thought thrilled her as nothing else had in a long time.