A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

  Before you can steal something small, Yeti had told his trio of eager pickpockets, you need to learn how to steal something large. Then he’d set them loose in Mayfair, a tidy district of middle class homes and businesses just outside of Grosvenor Square.

  Bran had nabbed a flower vase.

  Eddy had returned with a pair of riding boots.

  And she’d brought back a wash basin.

  Muffling a yawn with the back of her hand, Juliet pulled out a collared shirt and a pair of brown trousers from the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed. After a cursory glance at the door to ensure it was still closed and locked, she stripped out of her nightdress, shivering slightly as the cool air stirred against her naked flesh. It may have been the first month of spring, but winter wasn’t quite done with London yet.

  Every morning the ground was covered in a layer of cool silver and chimney smoke continued to darken the sky. The tree branches were still skeletal and barren, although if she looked close enough she could just see tiny green buds beginning to emerge.

  Spring was one of her favorite seasons, if only because it meant summer was soon to follow. Town was not a particularly pleasant place to be when the sun burned hot and the smell of unwashed bodies hung heavily in the air, but it meant empty houses and easy makes as the Ton flocked en masse to the country.

  She already had a few pieces of jewelry in mind. One bracelet in particular. But she wouldn’t be doing any stealing with a runner hot on her trail. Which meant she had to shake him loose and go about it quickly, as she didn’t have the luxury of sitting idly by with her heels up.

  A scowl darkened her countenance as she wondered how the runner had managed to track her down. Someone had to have tipped him off. She was willing to bet her life on it. He may have been good – there’d been a moment where she’d genuinely feared he was going to catch her – but he wasn’t that good. No one was. And she was always very, very careful.

  There was a reason she’d never spent so much as a night in Newgate. It wasn’t enough just to know how to steal. A good thief also needed to know how not to get caught. Which was why she always planned out every take down to the last, tiniest detail. She never made any impulsive decisions. Never let herself get greedy. And she never, ever told anyone what she planned to steal.

  From an early age she’d discovered she worked best alone. Both in her work and out of it. It was simply easier that way. To rely on herself instead of someone else. To trust herself and no one else. It was the American inventor Benjamin Franklin who had said that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead, and it was a phrase she’d always abided by. Yet despite all of her precautions, the runner had known precisely where to find her. More than that, he’d known about her last two jobs. Which meant someone was spilling secrets.

  And when she found them they were going to pay dearly for their mistake.

  Before Juliet pulled the shirt over her head she bound her breasts with a long, sturdy strip of cloth. Truth be told there wasn’t much to bind. She was a naturally slender woman, her body long and willowy slim. But there could be no questions as to her sexuality, and so wrapping her breasts had become as much a part of her daily routine as washing her face or brushing her hair.

  She’d just pulled her shirt over her head when a fist rapped against the door. Quickly yanking on her trousers, she grabbed the knife she kept on her writing desk – one could never be too careful – and padded silently to the door, her bare feet barely touching the floorboards.

  “Who is it?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. Her roommate knew better than to bother her before noon. Only a stranger – or someone with a death wish – would come knocking before she’d had her first cup of coffee. For an instant she imagined it was the runner from last night…and the same queer, fluttering sensation filled her belly as she rose up on her toes and peered out the small hole she’d cut in the middle of the door.

  “Bran.” Rolling her eyes, she fell back onto her heels with a heavy thud and unlocked the door. Opening it, she beckoned him into her room with a quick, irritated flick of her wrist. “What the bollocks are you doing lurking about? Shouldn’t you still be in bed with one of your whores?”

  Smirking, Bran strolled past her and dropped his rangy body onto a velvet settee. A tall, strikingly handsome man with the face of an angel and the heart of a devil, he was Juliet’s brother in every way but blood. Aside from Yeti, there was no one she trusted more. Although she could have done without the constant parade of strumpets marching past her room at one in the bloody morning.

  “Jealous much?” His eyes, the icy blue of a frozen lake in the middle of winter, flashed with amusement.

  “Of your venereal diseases?” she snorted. “I think not.”

  “I’m clean, love.”

  “And I’m the Queen of England.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Bran? Besides a swift kick in the arse. Do you’ve any idea what bloody time it is?”

  “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

  Only because I never went to sleep, she thought silently. She knew she needed to tell Bran about what had happened and she would…eventually. But first she needed to find out who the runner was, and who the devil had tipped him off.

  She knew it wasn’t Bran. He would never betray her. But he kept company with all sorts of unsavory characters; ones who would sell their own sister to a brothel if it meant a few extra coins in their pocket.

  “Well?” she said instead. “What are you doing here? And be quick about it. I’ve better things to do with my time than spend it looking at your sorry mug.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

  “I kill flies. I don’t catch them.”

  His husky laugh filled the room. “And Yeti wonders why more men aren’t knocking at your door. You’re a tough one, Jules.” His expression sobered. “I’m here because of the runners.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “What about them?”

  “They’ve been a pain in the arse ever since that Steel bloke took over. Do ye know they caught Remy last night? He’s sitting in a cell in Newgate as we speak. And last week they pinched Holloway right out of his bed.”

  She’d heard about Holloway. “What should we do about it?”

  “What the bollocks can we do?” Shoving his thick mane of disheveled blond hair out of his eyes, Bran strode to the nearest window and stared out through the dingy glass to the alley below.

  Their townhouse was at the end of a long, narrow row of tenements. When they’d acquired it – in a card game, no less – it had been chopped up into tiny flats, each one hardly bigger than a closet. After extensive renovations, the majority of which they’d managed to do themselves, it was now one of the finest homes in all of St Giles. Not that anyone would know from looking at its shabby exterior of crumbling brick and cracked plaster.

  They’d left the outside untouched on purpose, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to their little safe haven. As far as anyone walking by on the street was concerned it was just another rundown tenement infested with beggars and rats.

  “The smart thing to do would be to lay low for a while,” he said without looking at her. “Let them spend all their time and energy gathering up the small bait. They’ll get tired of coming to the East End eventually, and when they do we can resume our…activities.”

  “Lay low?” If she hadn’t known for certain that Bran was deadly serious, she would have laughed. Instead she settled for another snort. “It was only a matter of time before those two green head’s got themselves caught. They don’t have a full working brain between them, and I for one am not going to roll belly up just because of a couple of runners.”

  “I knew ye would say that,” Bran muttered.

  “Then why bring it up in the first place?”

  “Because,” he said, glowering at her over his shoulder, “I thought for once ye might listen to bloody reason. But I guess that was expectin
g too much.”

  “I’m a thief,” she said flatly. “It’s who I am. It’s what I do. Don’t ask me to change that.”

  “No one’s asking ye to change who ye are. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” A bit of Irish slid into his voice as he shook his head in exasperation. Unlike Juliet, Bran knew who his parents were. Or at least who they had been.

  The bastard son of an English lady and an Irish blacksmith, he’d lived in Ireland until the age of seven when his grandfather, an earl, had tracked down his daughter and dragged her back home. She’d insisted on taking Bran with her, but after she died of consumption Bran’s loving grandfather had tossed him aside like a bucket of unwanted scraps.

  “Jest keep your head down for a little bit,” Bran continued. “We have enough blunt to tide us over without ye needing to crack any new houses. Have a nice rest, Jules. Go on a holiday. Ye deserve it.”

  “We both know what you would do with your holiday,” she said, her gaze dipping derisively to his nether regions before snapping back up to his face. “What the devil would you have me do?”

  “Bollocks if I know.” His rugged shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Whatever it is women do. And ye are a woman, whether ye like to admit it or not. Take up embroidery for all I care.”

  Juliet had heard enough. Tucking her hair under a wool cap, she swung her black cloak over her shoulders and headed for the door.

  “Where are ye going?” Bran called after her.

  She cast him a withering glare over her shoulder. “To find some sewing needles.”

  The Bow Street Headquarters had once been the private residence of Henry Fielding, a prolific author, magistrate, and founder of the runners. With the support of the Duke of Newcastle, Henry convinced the Crown to give him a yearly stipend of two hundred pounds to support the hiring of six men who he used to bring law and order to London and its outlying highways and villages.

  When Henry passed his brother John took over and grew the runners to a force of nearly two dozen men, but over the past five years a decline in crime and the rise of the Metropolitan Police force had seen that number diminish by over half.

  Upon his retirement, John attempted to make Grant his predecessor. Given that he was noble born with military experience he was the obvious choice, but much to John’s frustration and general annoyance Grant declined the offer and so it went to Owen Steele instead, a commoner who had fought alongside Grant on the bloody battlefields of France.

  During his first year as captain, Owen had proven himself to be the correct choice. He was a hard but fair man, with the patience Grant lacked to deal with all of the bureaucratic shite that came along with the position.

  Mrs. Wadsworth greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. A sleek black feline, she’d lived in the three story brick house for longer than anyone could remember. Her chest rumbling with a throaty purr, she allowed Grant to pat the top of her head before she jumped down from the windowsill and trotted off towards the kitchen in search of a nibble.

  Following the low murmur of masculine voices, Grant pulled off his great coat and hat as he walked into the drawing room. A fire crackled in the hearth, warding off the chill of a gray rainy morning. Draping his coat over the back of a chair, he gave a cursory nod to the two runners sitting on either side of a long wooden table.

  Running the length of the room and cluttered with a hodge podge of papers and various pieces of evidence, the table was where they conducted the majority of their meetings. In addition to the drawing room and the kitchen, there were two smaller rooms which were used mostly for storage and clerical work. Upstairs was the captain’s private office and flat, as well as three more bedchambers that were used on a rotational basis depending on who was manning headquarters overnight.

  “Is the captain back yet?” Grant asked, eyeing a steaming cup of coffee sitting in the middle of the table. Without asking whose it was he picked it up and took a liberal sip just as Felix Spencer strolled into the room.

  “Oy,” Felix protested, sharp amber gaze narrowing on Grant. With his brown hair slightly long and unkempt and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, he looked like exactly what he was – a thief turned Bow Street Runner. “That’s my bloody coffee. Get your own, ye lazy bastard.”

  There were not many people who would dare speak to Grant in such a fashion. As the captain’s lieutenant and the third son of a duke, he commanded respect wherever he went. From the ballroom to Bow Street no one ever dared challenge his authority.

  No one except for Spencer.

  Suffice it to say that while the two men managed to maintain a civil working relationship – most of the time – there was no love lost between them. Were it up to Grant, Spencer would be rotting away in Newgate. But for reasons that baffled Owen had seen something in the thief and instead of locking him up and tossing away the key he’d offered him a job instead.

  Grant would be the first to admit – albeit grudgingly – that Spencer had thus far proved himself to be an asset. As a former criminal, he had an insight into London’s dark underworld that no one else did. But that didn’t mean Grant had to like him.

  And he certainly didn’t trust him.

  “Get another cup if it means that much to you,” he said before he slowly and deliberately took another sip, causing Felix’s eyes to narrow and his jaw to clench. Their gazes met and held, neither man willing to give quarter. They would have likely stood there all morning had Archer Brentwood not entered the room. A recent graduate of Eton, he was the youngest runner on Bow Street and it showed in both his enthusiasm and naivety. It also didn’t help that his shock of red hair and smattering of freckles made him appear far younger than his nineteen years. But he had a brilliant head for numbers and the uncanny ability to see what others missed, making him a valuable part of the team.

  “Good morning,” he said brightly. “A bit rainy out, isn’t it?”

  Still holding Grant’s stare, Felix gave an amicable shrug before his teeth flashed in a mocking grin. “Drink up, then. My gift to ye.” Sitting down on the other side of the table, he tipped his chair back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Ye look like ye need it.”

  Belatedly sensing the tension simmering in the air, Archer stopped short. “Did I miss something?”

  “Here.” Having lost his taste for coffee, Grant shoved the cup into Archer’s hand. “Is the captain in his office?”

  “He got in just before you,” answered Ian Ferguson. He and his brother Colin had joined the runners around the same time as Grant. They were both broad-shouldered, strapping young men with brown eyes and dark blond hair, but that was where their similarities ended. Ian, the more serious of the two, was a man of the law whereas Colin, an affable sort of fellow who was never without a smile, preferred to dance right on the edge. “Although I don’t think he’s after seeing any visitors. Went straight upstairs without so much as a hello.”

  As if on cue a door slammed above their heads, causing Archer to wince.

  “Does this have anything to do with the stiff you two found in the theater district?” Grant asked Felix.

  “Hell if I know. But I’ll tell ye this much – the captain’s in a right pisser of a mood. I wouldn’t go up there if I were ye.”

  Grant’s mouth stretched in a flat, humorless smile. “Don’t worry, Spencer. You’ll never be me.”

  Chapter Three

  From an early age Grant knew he was different. Not because of the fine houses and the nannies and the trips to Bath. Those things certainly helped him understand there was something unique about his family. But what really opened his eyes to the fact that the Hargraves were unlike anyone else was how people treated his father.

  When the Duke of Readington walked into a room everyone else immediately stopped speaking. As a young boy, Grant had suspected his father yielded magic powers. Absolute rubbish, of course. But as he grew older and came to know more of the world and how it worked, he understood that being a duke was its own sort of power. And a man had to be very caref
ul about how he wielded it.

  Being the third son, Grant was as likely to inherit the ducal title as Mrs. Wadsworth. Both of his older brothers were in robust health and the eldest, Charles, had two sons of his own. Lacking for male heirs the Hargrave family was not. Which was one of the reasons Grant had never concerned himself with finding a wife and starting a family.

  While most men would have cursed their lot in life had they been born third in line to one of England’s oldest and most esteemed titles, Grant had always seen it as a blessing. It allowed him the freedom to seek his own path. One that had led him across continents and battlefields before steering him straight towards Bow Street.

  He still remembered, with vivid clarity, the day he’d told his father what he was going to do. What he was going to become. The smell of cannon fire and the stench of death had not yet left his clothes when he approached the duke in his private study. As richly appointed as every other room at Litchfield Park, it boasted mahogany wood paneling and towering shelves filled with his father’s beloved books. An oversized liquor cabinet held some of the oldest brandy in all of England, and antique brass wall sconces bathed everything in a soft yellow glow.

  The heels of his boots sank silently into the thick carpet as Grant walked across the study and poured himself a drink. His father had not spoken when he’d entered the room, but as dark amber liquid filled the crystal decanter he stood up from behind his desk and raised his voice.

  “Better make it two. I can see you have something you wish to discuss.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One he punctuated with a slight narrowing of his eyes.

  Tall and broad shouldered, Eric Hargrave was exactly the sort of man one envisioned when they thought of a duke. His black hair had begun to gray at the temples and there were more lines creasing his face than there had been before his youngest son went off to war, but he still cut an impressive – and imposing – figure. Grant looked more like his father than either one of his brothers. Charles and Thomas had inherited their mother’s fair coloring, as well as her sweeter temperament.