Page 1 of Better Off Wed

Prologue

Lady Sterling had been born of darkness.

Not the darkness of night, though much of her work was done between dusk and dawn. No, her name had been forged in the dark souls of men—men whose lust for power extended beyond empires and crowns, beyond land and titles, beyond even trade and politics, into the comfortless garrets and cellars of their domestics, often mere girls, whose pleas fell on deaf ears and whose refusals meant nothing at all.

On behalf of those innocent victims, Lady Sterling let herself be branded a thief.

Tonight, her hunting ground was Vauxhall Gardens. Paper lanterns danced languidly in the breeze, and beneath them strolled smiling couples, eager young men, even families. The warm air was thick with their awareness that the pleasures of summer must soon come to an end. In the distance, she heard music playing and people chattering over their suppers of ham, sliced paper-thin.

But her eye was drawn to the unlit alleys where other appetites could be satisfied.

On the fringes of a crowd of gentlemen stood Lord Penhurst, ripe for culling from the herd. Painting a seductive smile on her lips, she tugged her bodice half an inch lower and strolled past.

He had been a difficult one to track down, preferring as he did the hallowed halls and balls of the haute ton, where he angled for a wealthy bride and where Lady Sterling had no right of entry at all. She could almost regret her success in finding him here tonight. She had enjoyed the challenge, the chase.

But she must think of Betty, who would soon be unable to hide her swelling belly, who had lost her position and the roof over her head, thanks to Penhurst’s depravity. Well, those who danced must pay the piper, as the old saying went.

And tonight, she meant to present the baron with his bill.

She knew the exact moment he saw her—or at least her décolletage. She slowed her steps, the better to roll her hips. He would answer her silent summons. Of that, she had no doubt.

The only question was whether he would come alone.

“I say,” drawled one of the men, not Penhurst, “that bird’s ripe for plucking.”

A shiver of uncertainty passed through her, but she disguised it by turning her head away from the other man’s voice, displaying her slender neck, making the scarlet silk of her gown shimmer. With a backward glance, she boldly caught Penhurst’s eye, then fluttered her lashes down.

“Aye,” the baron agreed hungrily. “Not often one sees such a plump breast paired with such a fine tail.”

The men were all already drunk. If she had not known it by Penhurst’s unsteady steps toward her, she would have guessed from the comments his cronies exchanged behind him—ribald jokes about roasting spits and cream-filled sauces that evidently sounded quite clever to their ears.

Drink made some men easier marks. It made others mean. From what Betty had told her, she could guess the effect it would have on Penhurst. Another chill scuttled along her spine.

Then one of Penhurst’s friends spoke to him in a low voice. “There’s better sport to be had at Pandemonium, old man.”

Penhurst waved him off with a laugh.

A blaze of satisfaction drove away her fear. Pandemonium was a notorious, high-stakes hell, and a man with Penhurst’s reputation for failing to honor his vowels could not expect to gamble there on credit. If he had managed to scrape together some sum of money in preparation for tonight, he must have it somewhere about his person.

Of course, a fat purse could never make up for what Betty had suffered and would suffer. But even a thin one would satisfy the girl’s immediate needs better than the pocket watch Lady Sterling had come to find.

Pleased by the additional prospect of bankrupting him, she did not even flinch when the baron’s arm circled her waist to urge her along the shadowy path and his brandy-soaked breath wafted over her skin. “I’ve got a busy night ahead of me,” he said, “but I’ll give you sixpence for a quick spit and polish, dove.”

Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. She had never yet had to make good on what men seemed to regard as the promise of her courtesan’s garb. Tonight would be no different.

Unlike Lord Penhurst, she was clever, perfectly sober—and armed.

Fearing nothing so much as injustice, she turned and ran a palm over his fitted silk waistcoat, deftly snatching his watch as she passed. Even as she seemed to lavish her attention on him, her eyes were focused on that promising bulge lower down—the purse his friend ought to have advised him to guard. Her eager fingers drifted to his waist. “Ooh, gov. Me mouth’s already waterin’.”

It was not. But her eyes were. Why did gentlemen prefer dousing themselves in cologne to a thorough application of soap and water? Holding her breath, she leaned closer, clinging to him, curling her fingers against his chest, tracing the decorative stitching on his waistcoat.

As she had suspected, the purse was hooked to his clothes, probably by a loop of thread over a hidden button, so it couldn’t easily be lifted by a pickpocket. Nevertheless, she managed to dislodge it when she pressed closer still and wrapped her arms around him. Though they were only just off the gravel path, hardly out of sight of passersby, his hands settled heavily on her shoulders, urging her toward the ground. Her body slid over his, obligingly, sensuously. By the time she was face-to-face with the front of his satin breeches, the purse was sagging free, visible below the hem of his waistcoat.

He gripped the back of her neck as she knelt before him. “That’s it. I do like the sight of a girl on her knees.”

That much Betty had already made clear.

Fighting the impulse to deal the man more than a pecuniary injury, she spread one hand over his thigh and dug her fingertips into his flesh. He hissed and tipped back his head in anticipatory pleasure. Now, while he wasn’t looking, she made her most important move, leaving her calling card where the watch had been.