Page 2 of Better Off Wed

A necessary risk. Men—all men, as far as she could tell, but most especially ones like Lord Penhurst—were presumptuous, avaricious. Creatures of their appetites, yet sure of their superiority over the so-called weaker sex.

She wanted them to know the identity of the woman who had bested them, wanted them to understand who held their secrets, and their futures, in the palm of her hand.

Thanks to the reputation she had built, a simple rectangle of stiffened paper bearing the name Lady Sterling had the power to ensure that a man would think twice before continuing to tally victims.

With nimble fingers, she tucked the card into the slit pocket of his waistcoat, while with the other hand she pretended to fumble with the buttons of his fall as she slipped the purse from its hiding spot. When the little leather pouch landed on the damp leaves beside her, the weighty chink of coins was the blessed music of reassurance. Betty and her child would not be condemned to starve.

Penhurst froze, tightening his hand against the back of her skull. For a moment, she thought he too had heard the sound of his purse hitting the ground.

But no, his attention had been caught by another noise entirely: footsteps. Someone strolling along the path, coming from the opposite direction. The perfect distraction. Luck was definitely on her side tonight. She would not have to resort to her weapon to get free. Surreptitiously, she danced the fingers of her free hand over the dirt until she found the little leather pouch, and then drew back her head against the baron’s hand, intending to rise.

Penhurst, however, was not to be so easily put off. “Go on,” he ordered, jerking her by her wig and tightening his hold so that she could not turn toward the sound. “They’ll pass by, if they know what’s good for them.” A grunt of laughter. “Unless they’re the sort who like to watch.”

They. A group of men, perhaps? Men who might conclude from her present position that she was more than willing to entertain…

For the space of several breaths, she feared she had pushed her luck too far.

Then she heard a man’s voice say, “Let’s turn back, Julia. We shouldn’t have come this way.” Relief flooded through her. The footsteps belonged to a man and a woman. Just a couple who had got into one of the darkened alleys by mistake—or intended to claim as much, if they were caught.

“But we’re nearly to the end of this walk.” The woman sounded young, though not a child. “See, the light’s much brighter just over th—oh! Oh, my.” Shock warred with curiosity in the young woman’s voice. Easy to picture her craning her neck for a better look. “What are those people doing in the shrubbery?”

Lady Sterling didn’t wait to hear her companion’s reply. Instead, she seized her chance and shrieked. Startled, Penhurst released her, and she scrambled to her feet, gathering up her skirts in two clenched fists, the better to disguise her bounty. “How dare you, sir?” she shouted as she scurried back into the relative safety of the unlit walk, indifferent to the bite of gravel through the thin soles of her slippers. “He was trying to—to f-force—” she stammered to the couple as she darted past, intending to disappear into the night.

And she would have done if the man had not caught her by the arm.

“Are you harmed, ma’am?”

She could make out little of his features in the near darkness, but she wanted to damn the solicitousness in his voice. If men truly cared about the fate of women, they would stop their brethren from doing to innocent girls what Penhurst had done to his parlor maid.

“Unhand me, sir.” The shakiness in her voice was not put on. She had no more than a moment to get away. Even a notorious slowtop like Penhurst would soon discover—

“Why, you little—!” the baron exclaimed, the hedge behind her rustling as he fumbled with the buttons she’d undone. “Our business isn’t finished yet!”

Expecting the other man’s fingers to tighten around her upper arm in response to Penhurst’s words, she did not at first realize he had released her. When she didn’t move, he whispered, “Run.”

For a moment, she remained frozen in disbelief. Her gaze skated over what little she could see of the stranger’s face, the shadowy profile of a Grecian nose and glittering eyes whose color was indistinguishable. Then, tightening her grip on Penhurst’s pocket watch and purse, she escaped into darkness.

Chapter 1

Even before Captain Jeremy Addison stepped into General Zebadiah Scott’s study, he had some inkling of the trouble he must be in.

After all, being called before one’s commanding officer was not ordinarily a good sign. Given that the general made a point of keeping his domestic affairs strictly separate from his military affairs, the order to appear at Scott’s Audley Street home was even more ominous. Receiving said orders several hours before noon was worse yet.

But Jeremy had spent most of the past few weeks in the Underground, a network of subterranean offices that housed and hid the activities of some of the most skilled intelligence officers in the British army. General Scott’s note had provided a welcome excuse to stretch his legs and clear his head, to escape a dungeon, grown musty with the stench of his failure. He had all but given up on cracking the cypher contained inside what appeared to be a French cookbook.

The moment Jeremy’s booted tread passed from the marble tile of the foyer onto the plush carpet of the study, however—which was to say, the moment he found himself eye to eye with General Scott’s speculative gaze—he knew a wiser man would have found any excuse to have stayed put.

Scott inclined his head in greeting. “Much obliged, Captain Addison. I wonder if you have been at leisure to read today’s paper?” He gestured toward the copy of the Times spread across his otherwise empty desktop.

Only twice in nearly a dozen years of army life had Jeremy seen the inside of General Scott’s office in the Horse Guards. Both times, the sight of the sloping, sliding mountain of books, letters, and maps on the man’s desk had made Jeremy’s palms sweat.

Somehow this—this blank expanse of mahogany, not even a blotter or an inkstand, only a small slice of the glossy wood covered by a single sheet of newsprint—was worse.

Officers in Scott’s service had long speculated that the general was a first-rate actor. The genial, grandfatherly air. The haze of pipe smoke. The rumpled clothes and the forgetfulness and even the spectacles, perpetually perched on his forehead and usually too smudged to be an aid to vision. All props, so it was said, for a performance Scott directed with scrupulous care.

Jeremy had always had his doubts about such theories. Why would a man in Scott’s position bother with theatrics?

Now, however, with the cleverly painted backdrop no longer disguising the stage’s scaffolding, the dreadful truth of it settled over him. A man might fancy he had caught an accidental glimpse past the costumes and the greasepaint. But the fact of the matter was, he had seen those things only because Scott had invited him backstage.