Tangled Webs

by Lee Bross

  Copyright © 2015 by Lee Bross

  Cover design by Whitney Manger

  Cover illustration © 2015 by Teagan White

  Designed by Whitney Manger

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-8775-2

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my Dad, who showed me that life is too short not to chase your dreams.

  I miss you every day.

  Lord Huntington made his way through the crowded ballroom with the poise and elegance of an over-fattened Christmas goose.

  Arista watched, in no hurry to reveal her presence. She smiled, a languid movement that did not betray the way her heart thumped in her chest. The element of surprise worked in her favor on nights like these. She could almost hear his heart pounding from across the room. Every few seconds he tugged on the edge of his cravat, an outward sign of his agitation.

  Masked people spun by in a rainbow of dizzying colors. Excitement filled the air of the ballroom, causing bursts of laughter to erupt spontaneously around her. It did not matter if you were rich or poor, as long as you could afford the price of admission. Only at the public masquerades did the aristocracy mix with commoners without care; here, the rich dressed as milkmaids and the poor as queens.

  For Arista, it was the perfect opportunity to conduct business.

  Dressed in black silk, she blended into the background, unremarkable. Adorned only with a simple black mask, among all the other masquerade characters, she garnered little interest. No one ever approached her for a dance. Curious glances were met with a frosty stare or folded arms. With so many willing partners, she was soon forgotten.

  The ones who’d had previous dealings with Bones knew her, though they pretended otherwise. They stayed far away. And if they happened too close, or met her stare by chance, Arista never missed the contempt in their eyes. She was good enough when they wanted something, but otherwise she meant nothing to them.

  Arista’s gaze never lingered on any one person for too long, either, even as she kept the nobleman in question within view. Her clients didn’t often try to run, but when they did, she needed to be ready.

  This part, the predatory rush of stalking her prey across a crowded ballroom, was most satisfying. Anticipation buzzed in her head. She glanced casually over the masked guests until she spotted him again.

  The nobleman moved cautiously along the outer edges of the crowd, away from the throng of people. If he was planning to try and sneak out, he should have chosen a less obvious costume for the evening. The bobbling points of his bright jester hat made it easy to keep him in sight.

  Moments earlier, a servant had delivered a discreet note to Lord Huntington with only two words written on the small card.

  Library. Midnight.

  A quick glance at the enormous grandfather clock to her left told her it was only a quarter till. Lord Huntington still had fifteen minutes to try and do something stupid.

  You make a deal with the devil, you pay the price.

  They always seemed to forget that part.

  Arista ran her fingers over the familiar shape of her knife, safely strapped to the outside of her thigh and hidden under yards of satin. It gave her comfort. Courage. Sometimes all it took was the threat of the blade to encourage compliance. But there had been a few times, unfortunate as they were, when Arista had been forced to use it. That fact alone made her a target. Powerful men did not like to have their control stripped away, especially by a woman in a mask. They would not hesitate to stick a blade in her gut if they knew her face beneath the mask. If they ever found her alone.

  Desperate aristocrats dealt with Bones out of necessity, not choice. They dealt with her, with the infamous Lady A, who collected payment for the poor choices they’d already made.

  Bones was a “fixer,” a trader of information—or more often, secrets—in exchange for money. Now seventeen, Arista was the face of his operation, a pawn he had molded and groomed to use in a society he could not navigate. If they knew she was merely a marionette, they would not be so wary of her.

  In the past year alone, Bones had obtained more than enough secrets from the London aristocracy to bring them to their knees. But that wasn’t all he wanted. He wanted their indebtedness.

  Bones wanted to own them all.

  And when he did, his need for Lady A would end—something she tried not to consider. The future was an abstract place to Arista, though she often spent hours at the docks, watching the ships come and go and wishing she could change her own life. She found it safer to exist only in the present. That mindset had kept her alive so far.

  Lord Huntington glanced around furtively, then made a sudden move toward a set of open patio doors. Arista sighed. So it was going to be like that, then.

  She caught Nic’s ever-watchful eye and tilted her head in the direction of Lord Huntington. He understood right away and disappeared into the crowd.

  Nic would not harm him. The nobleman simply needed a reminder of his obligation. Of what he now owed, in return for using the services of her employer. Arista had practically delivered the title of earl to him, along with all that went with it, just one month ago. Thanks to Bones’s information—that the previous Earl of Huntington, cousin of Arista’s current quarry, was illegitimate—Huntington had been elevated beyond his wildest dreams. He had secured the earldom for his own, as the only rightful male heir still alive.

  And now he expected her to chase him down for payment? It was damned near impossible to run in a dress and heeled slippers.

  Nonetheless, she would chase him all over London if necessary.

  Arista had almost reached the open doors when a surly Lord Huntington reappeared. Right behind him was Nic. The earl shot a venomous glance over his shoulder, then pushed his way back into the crowd. Arista moved away from the doors, to a spot where she could see the earl and also the clock. They had only five more minutes to wait.

  Nic wouldn’t let Lord Huntington out of his sight now, but she still glanced back at Huntington every few seconds. In crowded spaces like the ballroom, it became harder to keep a watchful eye on the nearly unnoticeable tics that gave away a person’s intentions. Most people gave off small clues—tensed muscles, a slight shift in movement, a subtle glance—that indicated what they were about to do. Body language told her what people were thinking before they even knew it themselves.

  When she was a child, sent to the market to pick pockets, Arista had spent hours watching people. The way they held their heads; what their hands were doing; the way they walked or stood. All were useful clues. This skill showed her the best people to steal from: the ones who were thinking about something else, who were distracted or daydreaming. It
also made Arista one of the best thieves Bones had.

  Her abilities had saved her life on more than one occasion. Just last week, the Duke of Conley—a thin, vapid man who sniffed into a perfumed handkerchief the entire time Arista waited for payment—had thought to use several hired men to attack her to get out of his obligation. Unfortunately for him, Arista had seen the flicker of the duke’s gaze, the merest nod of his head, and the shine of victory in his eyes—all of which gave away his lackeys’ location.

  “Behind me. Left,” she’d said, without breaking eye contact with the duke. Nic had sprung into action. The hired men were disarmed and unconscious before the duke could even blink.

  Nic was powerful, fast, and deadly accurate.

  The look of disbelief on the duke’s face had almost been payment enough. Arista had smiled during the rest of the transaction, even when the duke hissed out a new threat before disappearing into his carriage. “I love it when they think they’re gonna outsmart you,” Nic had said with a wide grin. He lived for the fight. The scars on his knuckles proved it.

  But Arista already knew Lord Huntington would not fight. He was entirely too soft to have ever gotten physical with anything more than an oversized roast duck.

  A couple swept by, and Arista could not help but notice the way the woman tilted her head back, just enough to let the gentleman sneak a kiss where her neck and bared shoulder met. For one fleeting moment, Arista wondered what it would be like to be that woman. To lean in close, her hands on a man’s chest, and smile coyly up at him. To see the flare of desire make his eyes dilate in the candlelight.

  Arista met Nic’s dark stare between the dancers. Did he wonder the same thing?

  He had dressed as a pirate for the masquerade, and looked as dark and dangerous as the real thing. His clothes were not of the finest materials, but they hugged his lean body like a glove. The mask he wore was a simple eye patch that covered his left eye.

  Arista’s chest tightened, and for a moment, she could picture them as guests, dancing to the soft strains of the orchestra. Nic would brush his lips over hers, whispering in her ear, like he did with the girls at the docks. Those unknown words that made the girls smile flirtatiously as they slipped their hands into his, leading him up the scarred wooden steps to the floor above.

  Heat pooled in her stomach and she pressed her fists against it to try and physically force the feeling back down. When had she started to see Nic as more than just her bodyguard? He was the only person in the world that she trusted with her life on a nightly basis. She wouldn’t be alive if not for him. He was her friend. That was all.

  And still…

  The restlessness had been growing stronger lately. The urge to get away from everything; to have a different life without fear hanging over their heads. More often than not, when they left a party, she had to fight the urge to keep going. To simply disappear. But they had nowhere to go. No means to afford even a cheap hackney to the outskirts of London. Bones owned them both.

  They were stuck in this life, but at least she had Nic.

  The brow over Nic’s eye patch rose, and a knowing grin tipped one corner of his mouth. Wisps of black hair curled around the strings of his disguise. Damn him. He knew what he did to her. He always played the rakish flirt when they were working. He made her blood do crazy things inside her veins, yet he reverted to acting like her friend the moment the masks came off. It frustrated the hell out of her.

  As she watched, a woman sidled up to him and he turned his attention to her. She leaned in and said something as he reached up to trace a lazy circle on her shoulder. When she leaned against his arm, fiery jealousy exploded inside Arista. He should be paying attention to the job, not to some barely dressed woman. She pushed through the crowd, hand on the knife hidden under her dress. A knife that Nic had given to her.

  He had not yet noticed Arista getting closer. The woman held all of his attention. She wore a costume of shimmering blue satin. The bodice dipped down very low in front, and the entire costume rippled like waves when she moved. A swan’s mask obscured the features of her face, but Arista could see the hungry gleam in her eyes as she looked up at Nic.

  The woman could have been a street-corner flower girl or a princess, and every man there would still want her. The anger fell away from Arista like a discarded cloak. There was no comparison between her and the radiant girl that held Nic’s gaze.

  Arista stopped before she reached them. What was she thinking—was she going to pull her knife and demand the woman leave Nic alone? He didn’t belong to Arista. He didn’t belong to anyone except Bones. None of them did.

  The fire in her gut turned to ice.

  It did no good to wish things were different. Arista knew that. And even though Nic appeared engaged with his companion, his awareness was focused solely on Arista. If she gave him the signal, he’d abandon the woman without a single glance back.

  She met his gaze and raised one eyebrow at him. Nic only grinned back at her, his finger now sliding down over the woman’s collarbone. Arista turned away, her long dark curls brushing her back. The curls were an unfamiliar and heavy presence, even now. The wig had become a perfect accomplice to her charade, but she preferred the feel of her own much shorter hair, tucked safely under a wool cap.

  After all this time, Arista still had not gotten used to playing the role of Lady A. There was a certain vulnerability in wearing a dress—shoulders bared, breasts accentuated to the point of indecency—that she could not get used to. Even after Becky had raised the neckline, Arista complained it was still too low. By the end of nights like these, she only wanted to retreat back into her normal disguise. As a boy, no one bothered her, apart from an absent swipe or two from a disgruntled workman.

  Lord Huntington now stood at the buffet stuffing delicate pastries into his mouth as if this were his last meal. Only a few more minutes, and their business could be started. A dull throb had started at the base of her neck. She wanted to end the evening and go back to the quiet of her room. Absently, Arista rubbed at the source of the pain, and her knuckles brushed against the silk scarf wound around her hair.

  “You’ve been to India?” a deep voice from behind her asked.

  Arista half turned her head, enough to look up, and found herself face-to-face with a highwayman. A black silk scarf obscured the lower half of his face. He had an equally black hat pulled so low, she could only see a glimpse of his eyes, which were reflecting the flickering candlelight. It might have been a masquerade, but she could almost believe he was an actual outlaw. “Excuse me?” she asked, unable to look away from him.

  He fingered her scarf, his touch grazing the back of her neck. Tension coiled just under her skin. Should she stay? Run? The urge to do both overwhelmed her.

  “This scarf is from India, if I’m not mistaken. I only wondered if you’d traveled there.” She found herself mesmerized by his rich voice.

  “No,” she whispered. “Have you been?”

  “Yes.”

  His one-word answer sent a thrill of anticipation over her skin.

  How often had she visited the docks and watched the ships sail in and out? How many times had she wished she were on one of them, on her way to India? The men at the docks told stories of people who rode elephants and wore colors so bright you had to look away; of air full of the pungent aroma of spices.

  The scarf in her hair had been a gift from Nalia, the Indian laundress at the orphanage, the only woman there who’d showed any kindness toward Arista. When Arista had left, Nalia had given the scarf to her as a reminder that a whole other world existed out there. India became the refuge that Arista clung to on cold, dark nights. One day, she vowed, she would escape from London and go.

  Now she was closer than she’d ever been before. “Where did you go? What did you see?” she begged. The party around them faded as she focused on his answer. He leaned in close, and her pulse leapt in an unfamiliar way. She took a quick step back. Her instincts had saved her more than once, but
this didn’t feel unsafe. In fact, the feeling in her veins excited her.

  “We traveled to the West Indies, then to the islands, then to Fort St. George. My father owns a fleet of merchant ships, and I am working my way up to captain.” Pride shone from his eyes as he again leaned in close, as if he were going to share a secret with her. “This next trip, I hope, will be under my command.”

  “You don’t seem old enough to be a captain.”

  He laughed. He had a very nice laugh. It sank under her skin and made her want to hear it again and again.

  “I’m nineteen, so yes, maybe a little bit young. But I’ve been aboard ships since I could walk. I love the freedom; open ocean as far as the eye can see. Away from the rules of society, it doesn’t matter who you are. London is stifling. I hate coming back here. Well, until now, that is.” Light danced in his eyes. Their bodies were almost pressed against each other, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. Distracted by his words, she hadn’t noticed right away. People never got this close without her sensing it. Arista swallowed but didn’t move.

  “That sounds so perfect,” she whispered.

  More questions danced on her tongue. She wanted to know everything—what the air smelled like when no land could be seen; what kind of people he had met; what cities looked like across thousands of miles of ocean.

  “It is perfect.” His expression was so open; she kept waiting for his disguise to crack. It had to be an act. No one could be this…nice. Everyone wanted something from her. Yet he was talking to her as if they were equals. Maybe he thought they were. People pretended to be anything they wanted at the masquerades. Arista knew for sure that the milkmaid currently sneaking off to a dark corner with the very badly dressed king was in fact the Duchess of Harpswell. The very married duchess.

  “Have you ever been on a ship before?” he asked, drawing her eyes back to him. All his attention was focused on her, despite the array of beautiful women eyeing him as they walked by. A thrill of pleasure washed over her.

  Arista closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning herself on a massive ship with nothing but the sea in sight. She could not even imagine the kind of freedom he spoke of. Her life had been dictated by one man for so long, she barely even knew who she was—really was—anymore. She wanted that freedom more than anything, but it would never happen. Not for her.