“Must you leave?” Emily Parr flopped ungracefully onto the bed in a fashion more becoming of a girl of seven rather than seventeen.
Her mother, Clara, smiled at her as she pulled on a dark-red pelisse and fastened the buttons. She presented an elegant and willowy figure. Emily hoped she would someday be as beautiful as her mother. They shared the same violet eyes and dark-auburn hair.
“Yes, my heart. Your father and I need to have some time together. You know I don’t like it when he leaves us.”
“So instead you leave me to go to New York,” Emily reminded her. “I’ll be coming out soon. What if you miss my first Season?”
“I would never miss that. I have the most wonderful plans for your debut. I promise to be there.” Her mother leaned in and embraced Emily in a fierce hug. “You will be fine. Mrs. Danvers will take care of you, and your uncle Albert is here in London if you need him.”
Emily winced. Her father’s brother was not a pleasant man. He cared little for his brother’s family. Her mother straightened and started for the door. Something about seeing her mother leave sent a sharp cry of warning through her, almost feverishly, that she should say something.
“Mother! I love you!” she called out.
A deep sense of dread filled Emily’s chest in that heartbeat of an instant before her mother glanced over her shoulder and replied, “I love you too, darling . . .”
Emily tried to leave the bed as her mother and the sunny room dissolved around her.
Emily bolted upright in bed with a start. She blinked, breathing hard as a sob caught in her throat. The air was silent, cold, and stagnant around her, and the darkness that was usually a comfort was now oppressive. A light sheen of chilled sweat covered her skin. She trembled.
It was a dream. Just a dream. A dream she’d had so often of late.
What she’d seen in the dream hadn’t happened a year ago when her parents left. Emily had never said goodbye or that she loved her mother and father. No, she had decided that sketching a bunch of silly flowers was more important than making sure to be home when they left for New York. Now she would never have the chance again.
Emily sat up and pulled her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and stared into the dim, moonlit room. It was not her bedchamber that she now slept in, but one of the spare rooms in Uncle Albert’s townhouse.
She had been here almost a year, ever since her parents’ ship had sunk on its return journey from New York.
Everything had changed. She was eighteen now. Her beloved governess, Mrs. Danvers, had taken another post with a little girl in need of a good tutor, and Emily had no choice but to live with her uncle. His London townhouse had perhaps been impressive once, but it was clear that her uncle’s mismanaged investments had made a decent upkeep of the house almost impossible. They had only a butler, a cook, one groom, one maid, and one footman to tend to the large townhouse.
Much of the furniture from her parents’ country home had been sold, and her beloved horse had been auctioned off so her uncle would have money to keep her fed and clothed. She’d had barely a few days to resign herself to losing everything of her old life before Uncle Albert had taken it all away from her.
She’d thought she had two choices: live with Uncle Albert or travel to Yorkshire to live with her mother’s distant cousin, Mr. Garrity. He was placed in charge of Emily’s inheritance, a small but decent-sized fortune that had been put into a trust for her. When Emily had asked Mr. Garrity whether she could live with him, he had objected quite strongly, asserting that he traveled often and could not see to the needs of a child. So her only option had been to live with Uncle Albert.
A child . . . Emily hadn’t been a child in a long time. If anything, in the last year she’d begun to feel ancient, in soul and spirit. It was clear that Uncle Albert did not want her either. She had done her best to leave him undisturbed as often as she could, and she tried to help around the house as best she could. But he usually grumbled about her being underfoot. A bloody nuisance, he always said.
Emily lay back down in bed. Dawn was still a few hours away, but fresh worries danced sinisterly around the edges of her mind like dark wraiths. Today her uncle would meet with two new business partners, and she had been ordered to be invisible while the men paid their calls. One man, a Mr. Blankenship, had had discussions about investing with Albert before. But the second, whose identity her uncle wouldn’t disclose to her, was new.
Perhaps her uncle would have some luck, and things would turn around. Uncle Albert hadn’t been pleased to learn that Mr. Garrity was Emily’s trustee, and that only small amounts of money were to be released each month for Emily’s care. It wasn’t enough. Even when Emily had pleaded her own case, Mr. Garrity had refused. He cited her uncle’s poor investment history as a dangerous circumstance, and he did not trust her uncle to spend the money on her.
Uncle Albert wasn’t so villainous as that, she thought, but he would certainly enjoy more money now that Emily was contributing to his bills. She had to agree that they needed more to live on, since she had her first ball in a month. If she didn’t have enough money to present herself well to society, she’d be trapped with Uncle Albert even longer than either of them wished—possibly forever.
Emily lay awake, exhausted from her dream, and when the clock in the hall chimed eight, she dragged herself out of bed. She rang the bell cord, and the maid, an older girl named Mary, eventually came to help her change and put her hair up. The blue day gown Emily wore was at least a year old, but it was made of a good strong muslin and still looked new. Some of her other gowns were not faring so well, as they were a few seasons old.
Having not yet debuted in society, she hadn’t needed new gowns each year. But that was about to change. She was eighteen now and would be stepping out into London society to present herself on the marriage mart. She couldn’t wear worn gowns to lavish balls. The delicate silks and satins she had were therefore well cared for and kept untouched unless she absolutely needed to wear them. As she had nowhere to go and needed to remain out of the way, the blue day gown seemed a sensible choice.
“Do you know when my uncle expects Mr. Blankenship?” Emily asked Mary.
The woman shook her head. “He made no mention to the staff, miss.”
“Right, well, I’d better go down and see if the cook needs help.” Emily left the maid to see to her duties. The amount of cleaning for such a large house truly required another three maids, but they couldn’t afford such luxury.
Emily touched the banister, and a thin layer of dust coated her fingertips. She softly cursed, something that would have made her mother frown and her father chuckle. So much for assisting the cook. She retrieved a white cloth and dipped it into some water, then carefully wiped the entire length of the wood until it gleamed. She let out a relieved sigh. At least all the small chores kept her busy. But she did miss the days when she could curl up in the library at her parents’ townhouse and read until dinner.
Emily put the cloth away and started for the kitchen, but her uncle’s voice stopped her.
“Emily?”
“Yes, Uncle Albert?” Emily approached her uncle’s study with trepidation. The door was ajar. She nudged it farther open and stepped inside.
Albert was a thin man with dark eyes, so unlike her father’s vivid blue eyes. He frowned over his account books, but he raised his head when he heard her approach.
“Ah, there you are. Remember to make yourself scarce today. It is imperative that these meetings go well.”
“Yes, Uncle Albert.”
“Oh, and about the ball in three weeks—I shall have to escort you myself. We cannot afford a chaperone. I hope that does not upset you?” Albert’s gaze was cool, as though he expected her to throw a tantrum.
“That’s fine, Uncle Albert. Thank you. I should be glad of your company.” She meant it. She and Albert may not have chosen to live together, but the tragic consequences of her parents’ death now bound them, and only Albert stood between her and the world.
Emily looked down at the worn carpet of her uncle’s office, feeling wretched and hating that feeling more than anything. She loved life and wasn’t afraid of the world. Her parents had raised her in high spirits, and she naturally longed for a life of adventure. With a head for mathematics, a tongue for languages, and actual cleverness, Emily had hoped her life would be so much more fulfilling. But now it all seemed so dark, so hopeless. Her uncle’s clear disdain for her only deepened the melancholia that had taken over her spirits in the last year.
Her mother and father had given her the gift of unconditional love, and Emily was only now beginning to realize how rare such a thing was. There was no one in the world now who loved her so completely. Now she felt utterly alone.
“Well, so long as you aren’t bothered by my attending, we can stay at the ball for a few hours that evening. That should give you a chance to snatch up a few dozen hearts.” Albert’s eyes softened slightly, but then they turned hard again. “Just make sure you find a man whose pockets are well lined. I won’t have much of a dowry for you, and that bloody fool Garrity won’t likely provide you with anything until you’ve got a man properly leg shackled, assuming the tight-fisted man will even approve of your choice.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Emily replied, but the words left a bitter taste upon her lips.
“Now, go and make yourself invisible.” He waved his hand, dismissing her.
Emily headed down to the kitchen to see what she could do to assist her uncle’s cook. After two hours, she believed it was safe enough to venture upstairs again. But the moment she stepped into the hall, she froze at the sight of her uncle and a man speaking to him not ten feet away.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” Her uncle was almost pleading with the man. “At least give yourself a few days to decide.”
The man’s voice was cold. “Silver mines are a nasty venture. I don’t believe the markets will hold them up.”
Emily knew she needed to leave, but the door to the servants’ stairs had creaked loudly, drawing the attention of both men. Her uncle paled as the other man, whose back had been to her, turned to face her.
He was tall, middle-aged, and his once relatively attractive face was marred by an underlying cruelty that seemed to glow out of his beetle-black eyes.
“Who is this, Albert?” the visitor asked. He stared at her in surprised fascination.
“My niece . . . My brother’s child. He and his wife passed away a year ago. I’m sorry she intruded upon our discussion.” Albert shot Emily a glare, jerking his head to the side to signal her to leave.
“No, she’s not intruding at all. Come here, child. I wish to look at you.” He waved to a spot on the floor only a few feet away from him, summoning her like some sort of dog.
Emily obeyed, to avoid seeming rude and causing further damage to her uncle’s meeting.
The man caught her chin and raised it up so their eyes met.
“You are a pretty thing,” he murmured to himself. Then he turned to Albert. “She favors her mother, I assume?”
“Yes, very much. Clara was a veritable beauty.”
Emily wanted to look away from the man, but it was hard to avoid his gaze without jerking her chin free of his hand.
“Clara . . . I knew her once. Such an extraordinary likeness.” The man spoke to her uncle as though Emily were a portrait, or a sculpture. A possession.
Albert fidgeted behind him. “Er . . . Yes, well, I’m in the process of trying to marry her off.”
The man’s possessive gaze held her frozen as he swept his eyes over her. “Are you, now?” His fingertips lingered at her throat. “Parr, I changed my mind. I shall invest with you after all. Double the number we originally discussed.”
The man smiled, and Emily’s instincts screamed at her to run, but her training as a lady held her in place.
The man dropped his hand and turned away from her. Emily took the chance to run then. She scampered up the stairs like a frantic child and rushed to the small library, closing the door behind her. The shelves of books inside whispered comforting words of distraction to her. She wasn’t a fool. That man had changed his mind about investing with her uncle only after he’d seen her. She knew what that meant. She needed to find a husband, and soon.
Albert escorted Mr. Blankenship to the door, an uneasy mixture of pleasure and dread warring within him. Blankenship was wealthy and had many influential contacts at his disposal. An investment from him was a huge boon, one that would help Albert stay afloat another year.
But Albert wasn’t an idiot. He had seen the way the man had stared at Emily. He desired her, and Parr had heard whispers of Blankenship’s cruelty toward women.
Once, years ago, Emily’s mother had caught his eye. Albert pretended to know none of this, but his brother, Robert, had told him of another suitor vying for Clara’s hand. He said the name Blankenship only once, but Albert, while not as clever with investments as he wished he could be, had a brilliant memory.
It was one of the reasons why he’d wanted Emily hidden away. The two men he had invited here to speak about business opportunities were both frightening in their own respects. Blankenship had a terrifying reputation and a darkness about him, while the Duke of Essex, a hot-tempered young man, was said to duel upon any slight disagreement. The last thing Albert wanted was to have either of those men interested in Emily.
He did care about the girl, but the unexpected financial burden of caring for her was entirely unwelcome. The frustration from his inability to deal with that burden had made him unkind to her at times, something he was both ashamed of and unwilling to acknowledge.
He had sought in vain for support from Clara’s distant cousin, Mr. Garrity, but the man sent only a meager amount of her trust to Albert each month, not even enough for the child, let alone him. Only a marriage would see the child off his hands. He had no designs or illusions that he could marry her to someone who would share a bit of her inheritance with him. No man would willingly give up money he claimed as a husband, but at least Albert would no longer be responsible for her.
Albert peered through the curtained window as he watched Blankenship climb into his coach. Once he was safely away, Albert let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he returned to his office to prepare for his meeting with the Duke of Essex later that afternoon.
A sleek sloop sailed into London Harbor at midday. The Pool of London was teeming with vessels carrying goods from the West Indies, like sugar and rum, their aromas mingling with the dirty air hovering above the Thames. Other boats carried tea and exotic spices from the East, wine from the Mediterranean, and even furs, timber, and hemp from Russia and the Baltic.
Hugo Waverly stood on the upper deck, his hands braced against the railing. He had been in France for a full year, and it was a relief to be home. His wife, Melanie, and his young son, Peter, soon joined him on deck.
“Finally home,” Melanie sighed. She had detested France. Despite her beauty and intelligence, she had despised the French court with all its schemers and gossipers, even though she could have easily fit in among their glittering set.
“Let me take him.” Hugo lifted Peter, who was only a few years old, from his wife’s arms.
The boy pointed at the ships that passed them and squealed. Hugo’s heart swelled with love for the child. He had hoped that time away in France with his wife would have brought her around, but she still refused to let him into her bed. Hugo was done with being denied. He would find his pleasures elsewhere. He thought of his wife’s former lady’s maid and how sweet she had been, even in her terror of him. But there were other, more willing women out there. He had crossed a line that night. His actions toward that girl had been beneath him.
The ship docked, and Hugo escorted his wife and son into a coach. Hugo saw them on their way, and then he returned to the ship to see that their luggage was removed. Once completed, he left the dock and strode down the gangplank, only to find a familiar face waiting to greet him.
“Sheffield.” Hugo nodded at the tall, dark-haired man who was waiting for him. Daniel Sheffield had been his eyes and ears in England while he was away. They ran a covert line of spies for the Crown, and had been in regular communication through their intermediaries.
“Good to be back, sir?” Sheffield asked.
“Indeed. France wearied me.” It was indeed good to be home.
“Your wife and child fare well?”
“Yes. Peter is another few inches taller, I swear.” Hugo smiled fondly. His son was named after an old friend he had lost long ago. A lifetime, it seemed. He closed his eyes briefly, remembering Peter’s laughing smile, his eyes full of compassion and merriment. Peter Maltby had been a good soul in a world that held so little good.
Hugo wasn’t a good man. He’d never carried that illusion. But for a time, Peter had made him believe that he could be. Those sunny memories of his lost friend were always swallowed by dark, churning waters as a river from the past consumed Peter, and the last shreds of Hugo’s goodness had drowned with Peter’s last breath.
“Everything all right, sir?” Sheffield asked.
Hugo nodded. “Tell me what I’ve missed in the last few weeks.”
Sheffield fell in step alongside him, running through the latest developments of the new spy ring that they had created before Hugo had left for France.
“Avery Russell has proved himself a surprisingly capable fellow,” Sheffield said.
“Russell?” Hugo cringed at the name. He hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with any of the Russell family, but Avery had been moving up through the ranks of the Home Office with unbelievable speed.
“Yes, sir. He’s been a gifted decoder on our intercepted French messages, and has a knack for guessing where French spies will be.”
Hugo and Sheffield navigated the docks and left the port of London to enter the main city.
“Keep me informed of his progress. I may have a use for him.”
Sheffield did not question him. He knew what Hugo meant. When Hugo left England, he’d been trying to leave behind his need for vengeance, but now that he had returned, so had the need. Peter Maltby had to be avenged. The eldest Russell, Lucian, was one of the five men at the heart of Peter’s death. Having Avery working for him could only provide opportunities for the future.
Hugo suddenly jerked to a stop, and Sheffield halted with him. As if the thoughts of his enemies had summoned them, Hugo saw a pair of men across the street who were walking in his direction. One had blond hair and the other light-brown hair, but it was the cane that the latter man waved idly that grabbed his attention. The two men were in good spirits, their natural gaiety affecting the mood of the men and women around them.
To anyone besides Hugo, these men appeared to be handsome young bucks in their early thirties, the glow of health and wealth about them. But to Hugo, these men were a plague upon his existence, an ever-present reminder that England was the home of his most hated enemies—the men the local papers at times referred to as the League of Rogues.
“Careful, sir.” Sheffield’s warning brought Hugo up short again just as a carriage rushed by. He had been about to cross the street toward the two men, his vision so blinded by rage and hate that he hadn’t even heard the blasted thing. Sheffield released Hugo’s arm, and Hugo straightened his coat with a grimace, moving back from the curb.
“I believe it’s time we put our plans in motion.”
Sheffield said nothing at first, then quietly asked, “Which of the five do we start with?”
“I’m not sure yet. I need to see the players in the field. Lennox no doubt will be watching us. He has almost as many eyes in London as we do.” Hugo began to plan, moving the chess pieces across the board in his mind. Ashton Lennox, the wealthiest of the League, was also the lowest in social standing, yet he wielded power and influence beyond any of the others, even Godric, the Duke of Essex.
“Lennox is interested in acquiring another shipping company, the Southern Star line,” Sheffield interjected. “I know the widow who owns the company and can arrange contact for you. We could make sure that he has trouble acquiring it. It would prove a distraction to him, if nothing else.”
“Excellent idea. Start there first thing tomorrow morning.” Hugo brushed his fingers along his jaw as he watched the two men across the street pass by. Charles Humphrey, the Earl of Lonsdale, and Cedric, Viscount Sheridan, would pay for their crimes. But not yet. First, Hugo would tear their lives apart piece by piece, weakening the bond of friendship between the five men until it was no longer what kept them safe.
He would destroy the League of Rogues, even if it took his dying breath to do it.