The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3)

by Jillian Eaton

  Not now.

  Not ever again.

  Lucas Black was a man who procured things.

  When he’d been a young orphan stuck under the thumb of Mastiff Brown, a mean bastard with an even meaner right hook, that had meant purses and watches and whatever else his quick, clever fingers could swipe off the rich toffs as they took their morning strolls through Hyde Park.

  When Lucas changed into a man full grown and put Mastiff into the ground where he belonged, thus earning himself the title of the Devil of Duncraven, those purses and watches evolved into priceless jewelry and works of art. But with the rise of the Bow Street Runners, stolen goods became harder and harder to sell. And Lucas, never one to overlook an opportunity, had adjusted his business model accordingly.

  Now he recovered what had been stolen or gone missing. For a pretty penny, of course. Then he took that money and invested it in any manner of ventures. Some lucrative, others not so much. But despite his lack of a formal education, Lucas had always had a knack for finances, and he’d rapidly turned enough of a profit to live–and travel–in comfort.

  He’d been drinking wine in the middle of Sussex when none other than the Duke of Glastonbury came knocking at his door. Generally Lucas reserved any talk of business for London, but it wasn’t every day a duke had need of his services, especially one with such deep pockets.

  The conversation had been blunt and to the point. A good thing, as he’d found Glastonbury to be annoyingly condescending. But the duke hadn’t batted an eye when Lucas told him what he required for a retainer, and the job itself seemed simple enough.

  Find the Duchess of Glastonbury, and return her to her husband.

  Typically Lucas was hired to search for objects instead of people but there’d been nothing typical about the astronomical fee the duke had agreed to pay, including a bonus of a thousand pounds if the duchess was returned before months end.

  He’d returned to London the very next day to begin his search. A search that had taken him from Mayfair to Grosvenor to Winchester Manor, before ultimately leading to a brick townhouse in Berkley Square.

  The sun was beginning to set off the Thames as he bypassed the front door and went around to the rear garden, blending seamlessly into the shadows that slithered away from a long hedgerow dividing the home from its neighbor. The rough edge of a leaf caught on his jacket as he slipped between two holly bushes. With his sole focus on the delicate fairy sitting partially obscured behind a tall wooden easel, he wasn’t as careful as he should have been, and the branch that had snared him broke with a loud crack.

  Like a deer startled by a wolf in the middle of the wood, the fairy leapt up out of her chair and whirled towards the line of shrubbery, her eyes wide and fearful as she searched the encroaching darkness.

  Lucas sucked in a sharp breath.

  So this, he thought silently, was the missing Duchess of Glastonbury.

  The duke had given him a miniature of his wife for reference, but Lucas didn’t need to take it out of his pocket. This woman was clearly the one he had been sent to find; he’d be a fool to mistake her for anyone else.

  And Lucas, while many other things, was not a fool.

  The duchess’s hair was a shade lighter than the picture, he noted. Sable streaks intermingled with silky black in a loose coiffure that accentuated her delicate countenance. She had violet eyes framed with thick lashes, a tip-tilted nose, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was a tad top-heavy. To his disappointment, most of her body was concealed beneath a green shawl, but he could tell by the size of her wrists peeking out beneath the embroidered gold fringe that her bone structure was as slight as that of a song bird.

  She was a tiny little thing, hardly bigger than a minute. And he wondered at the unexpected surge of protectiveness that roared within his chest, even as he stepped out of his hiding place and began to saunter towards her, his long stride making short work of the small garden.

  “S-stop right there!” Her voice was an octave higher than where he suspected it normally resided, and full of barely-restrained panic. “I’m warning you!”

  How darling. The kitten had claws. Or at least, she liked to pretend she did. But despite his amusement, Lucas couldn’t help but admire her bravery. It was obvious she was scared out of her wits.

  And he wondered about that as well.

  When Lucas had been a boy of twelve, long before he made a name for himself by murdering Mastiff, he’d taken up work at a livery stable. He had wanted to make an honest go of his life, or at least give it a shot. As he had always had an affinity for animals, he’d decided unsaddling and grooming the horses of rich noblemen would suit him. And if he occasionally slipped a shilling out of a pocket or two, well, who was the wiser?

  The job hadn’t lasted for more than four months, but there was one horse he would always remember. Opal had been of Arabian descent, a gleaming chestnut with a dished nose and bright, inquisitive brown eyes. He got in the habit of carrying a sliced piece of apple for her whenever she was brought by the yard, and a bond was quickly formed between the high-spirited mare and the young lad desperately searching for a true friend.

  Then one day Opal was sold to an earl of something or rather. An earl who wanted to use her for racing, never mind that she hadn’t the temperament for it. Lucas never saw his friend again until, nearly seven years later, he was passing by Tattershall’s, an equine auction house, when his head was abruptly turned by a familiar dished nose and a soft, pleading nicker.

  Tattershall’s was known throughout Europe for its excellent horse flesh, but there was also a wooden pen, hardly bigger than a sitting room, where men could sell their beasts that were beaten down or otherwise unusable. The poor, worthless things normally went to the butcher, and were rarely worth a second glance. Which was why Lucas was stunned to see Opal huddled in the corner of the pen, her once glossy coat dull with age and neglect, her brown eyes sunken in, her ribs plainly visible.

  If that was the worst of it, he might have been able to make an excuse. Maybe the earl had sold her to a family in want of a gentle riding horse, and they’d fallen on hard times. Maybe she’d been lost in a wager, and her new owners hadn’t been as mindful of her care as they should have been as she grew older.

  But then he stepped up to Opal, and he went to rest his hand on her neck, just like he’d done a dozen times before. He waited for her to turn her head and nudge his chest, just like she’d done a dozen times before.

  Instead, she flinched, and the whites of her eyes flashed, and he felt a pit deep in his stomach because he knew her fear came from more than a lack of good grooming and oats.

  Someone, somewhere, had beaten that terror into her.

  And it broke his heart to know they’d broken her spirit.

  He’d paid three copper pennies for Opal, and brought her back to the same livery barn where they’d first met. He’d rented her a stall, and given her all the apples she could eat, and brushed her coat until it shone. He’d showed her nothing but love and kindness to her last day, and held her head in his arms when she passed.

  Opal’s story had a happy ending, but he knew that for as long as he lived, he would never forget that terrible fear in her eye. It was the same fear he saw now, in the distressed violet eyes of the Duchess of Glastonbury.

  “I–I have a knife, and I’ll use it! I swear I will!”

  His gaze automatically slid to her shaking right hand, where she held…

  “Are you threatening me with a paint brush?” he drawled.

  “N-no,” she said, brandishing her makeshift weapon like a sword. “It’s a knife. A very s-sharp knife.”

  “It looks like a paintbrush to me,” he said, not unkindly.

  Her snow-white cheeks flushed a very attractive shade of pink. “Well, it’s not! So you should just-just run away!”

  Lucas shook his head, and there was genuine regret in his voice when he said, “I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

  “W-why not?” she whispered.


  He knew he should keep his distance from the duchess. But he’d always been drawn to frail, beautiful things.

  And Persephone Stillwater was no exception.

  She gasped when he emerged from the shadows. The small, helpless sound drew his attention to her mouth. He was fascinated by her plump top lip, curved in the shape of a cupid’s bow. By the ton’s strict standards of beauty it was no doubt considered an unfortunate blemish in an otherwise flawless countenance.

  But to Lucas, it was perfect.

  She was perfect.

  She was also terrified.

  The paintbrush she’d been threatening to run him through with fell to the ground when he gently cupped her chin and tilted her head back. Her skin was soft as satin. Her lashes, long and full. Her eyes, wide and wary.

  She studied him as a frightened rabbit would a hungry wolf, but he thought he detected a glint of fierceness amidst all that fear. Her spirit had been bruised, but it wasn’t yet broken. He didn’t know why that should fill him with relief. His concern wasn’t for Persephone’s welfare or wellbeing. He needed only to return her to her husband in one piece, and collect his reward.

  But as he gazed down upon her pale face, Lucas knew in his heart he could no more turn her over to the duke than he could have returned Opal to the earl.

  Persephone was his now, whether she realized it or not.

  And Lucas always protected what was his.

  “Why not? Because you’re the Duchess of Glastonbury,” he said huskily, his thumb brushing across her pale cheek. “And I’ve been hired to kidnap you.”

  Chapter Two

  Dear heavens.

  As Percy stared wordlessly up into the golden eyes of her captor, she wondered if anyone would hear her if she screamed. Helena was not due back from the theater for another two hours. Mr. Hodgson, the widower who lived next door, was notoriously hard of hearing. But maybe if she yelled loudly enough…

  “No,” the golden-eyed stranger said mildly when her lips parted.

  Percy blinked. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “You were about to call for help, in which case I would be forced to put a gag on you, and it’d be a right shame to cover up that pretty mouth.”

  She gasped.

  He grinned.

  “I am going to let you go now, love. Do us both a favor, and don’t try to run.” He released her and stepped back, his hands lifted innocently in the air.

  But Percy wasn’t fooled. She knew there was nothing innocent about this…this scoundrel. He was taller than her by at least twelve inches, and ruggedly built, with broad shoulders and a wide chest that tapered to narrow hips and long, muscular legs enclosed in black calfskin breeches. His dark brown hair was pulled back off his temple with a simple leather tie, revealing flat, thick brows, and eyes the color of the sun moments before it sank below the horizon. His nose was slightly crooked in the middle, indicating it had been broken at least once, and a silver scar in the shape of a hook peeked through the bristle along his hard jawline.

  His attire was as disreputable as the rest of him. She’d never seen Hessians so worn, and he hadn’t even bothered with a cravat, leaving his bronzed throat exposed for all the world to see. His coat was black, like his breeches, and fell all the way past his knees. The blood drained from her cheeks when he shifted his weight, and the edge of his coat slipped open, showing a pistol resting comfortably on his hip.

  “Oh,” she said softly as her heart pitched into her throat.

  Following the direction of her gaze, the stranger’s grin softened into a crooked smile that was strangely reassuring. “Not to worry, love. I did not come here to hurt you.”

  Her eyes flew to his face. “Just to kidnap me.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But you’ll come to no harm in my care.”

  For some reason, she actually believed him.

  It was the fumes from the paint, she decided. They’d gone to her head. What other reason could there possibly be for trusting this man at his word?

  “What is your name?” she demanded, mustering all of the courage she possessed. “Who sent you?”

  “There are those claws again,” he murmured, and Percy flushed when he reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “What are these little blotches on your skin? Blue, purple, and green. Like the colors of a rainbow.”

  “Watercolor.” She snatched her hand away. “I prefer not to wear gloves when I paint.”

  Arms behind his back, the stranger wandered over to the easel. He studied her work, his expression inscrutable, and she’d just begun to edge her way to the wooden gate in the corner of the garden when he said, “You’ve got a rare talent, love.”

  Percy stilled. It shouldn’t have mattered what this ne’er-do-well thought. He’d come here to kidnap her, for goodness’ sake. But when a flower was denied sun for too long, it instinctively turned towards the nearest sense of warmth.

  How many times had she secretly yearned to hear Andrew compliment her paintings? Instead he’d disparaged them at every turn, snidely calling her artwork “childish” and “embarrassing”.

  “Can you not do that somewhere else?” he’d said once, when he’d entered to see she’d set up her easel in the middle of the parlor in order to paint the thunderclouds rolling in over the fields. “I wouldn’t want a guest to stumble in here and see how pitifully untalented my wife is.”

  She’d put her brushes away after that. There was no joy to be found in mockery. No encouragement to be discovered in cruel taunts and cynical remarks. It wasn’t until Helena caught her absently drawing one afternoon on a scrap of paper, and then surprised her with a paintbox complete with porcelain mixing pans, fine wooden brushes tipped with marten hair, and blocks of chalk, that she took up her beloved hobby again.

  Now she painted nearly every day, having discovered what she should have known all along: her art was for herself, no one else. She’d never needed Andrew’s approval. She had wanted it. And those were two very, very different things.

  Still, it meant something, to receive a genuine compliment.

  Even if it came from a criminal. A criminal who had shown her more kindness in five minutes than her husband had in five years.

  “Do you–do you really think so?” she asked tentatively.

  He looked at her over his shoulder, his amber eyes piercing in their intensity. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  Percy trembled. Who was this man? This man who dressed like a blackguard and had the arrogance of a duke. Where had he come from? What did he want? And why did she find him so attractive?

  “Has my husband sent you?” She swallowed hard. “I–I know he has been trying to find me.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot tell you that, love. Client confidentiality, and such. You understand.” The edge of his mouth quirked up in another grin that would have been charming if she could have forgotten about the gun underneath his coat.

  Heat flamed across Percy’s countenance as self-disgust propelled her to take one step back, then another. She’d known her judgement in men was poor after Andrew had managed to fool her into falling in love with him, but she’d never known it was this bad.

  Attractive? Charming?!

  This man wasn’t charming or attractive, he was dangerous!

  And she needed to free herself from this situation immediately.

  “The only thing I understand is that you’ve come here with ill-intentions.” Forcing her hands to her hips, she lifted her chin and adopted the most imperious, duchess-y voice she could muster. “You need to leave. At once.”

  But he didn’t leave.

  He came closer, prowling towards her with the stealthy grace of a large, deadly predator as she stumbled away from him until she brushed up against the white picket fence that separated Helena’s property from the neighbor’s. Her gaze darted wildly from side to side, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. She’d been brought to ground, and was completely at the mercy of
a golden-eyed devil with the silver tongue of an angel.

  “P-please go away,” she said haltingly as the courage she’d been able to muster abruptly withered, like a plant that had gone too long without water. “Whatever Andrew is paying you, I’ll find a way to double it. It–it may take me a while, but I promise I can–”

  He silenced her by pressing his finger to her lips. “You don’t need to pay me a shilling, love.”

  A flicker of hope unfurled within her breast. “Then you’ll let me go?”

  His husky laugh did strange, unwanted things to her belly. “That, I’m afraid, is the one thing I cannot do.”

  She closed her eyes as tears welled on her lashes. “He’ll kill me, you know.” The gut-wrenching admission nearly brought her to her knees. “My husband. You said you wouldn’t harm me, but if you deliver me to Andrew, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”

  “That bastard is not going to touch a bloody hair on your head.”

  Percy’s eyes flew open in surprise at the savage fierceness in his tone, and what she saw nearly caused her to faint.

  Gone was the charismatic rogue with the engaging grin. Six inches from her stood a devil. A devil forged of granite and steel and hellfire. A devil who would not let anything–or anyone–stand in his way.

  “Come on,” he growled, taking her arm.

  “Where–where are we going?” she asked, struggling to keep up with his larger stride as he pulled her across the lawn towards the house. She hadn’t bothered to lock the door–why would she when she’d only intended for paint for a little while before returning inside?–and they entered through the glass doors without issue.

  “We’re going to collect some of your clothes,” he said bluntly.

  “And then?” she whispered, not knowing if she truly wanted an answer.

  His expression inscrutable, he finally turned to her at the base of the staircase. “And then we disappear.”

  Chapter Three