Page 43 of Gone with the Rake

Miss Monroe heaved a long-suffering sigh as if Lydia were the one inconveniencing her, not the other way around. “Not yet. I have something to show you. Come.”

She strode toward the heavy curtains at the back of the room and disappeared behind them. Lydia followed, stepping into a small, dimly lit chamber. The walls were lined with crimson velvet, the furniture plush and decadent. A mahogany table stood at the center, a stack of papers resting atop.

Miss Monroe picked up a pamphlet and handed it to Lydia. “Read.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes before dropping her gaze to the bold headline:

The Mist is a Miss.

The headline alone sent a shiver down her spine. Below it, an exposé—a full paragraph unveiling her identity.

Mrs. Lydia Lawless is the elusive thief known as the Mist. The woman who dared to steal from the Queen of London’s criminal underbelly.

Her breath turned shallow, her fingers tightening around the pamphlet. With every word, her pulse pounded harder.

“What in the devil is this?” she whispered.

“An assurance.”

“Of what?”

“That you’ll deliver on your promise. That you won’t run off with my jewel.” Miss Monroe’s expression was unreadable, her gaze devoid of warmth. In that moment, she truly was the Queen of the Underworld.

Lydia’s hands curled into fists, her cheeks burning with fury. “This was not part of our agreement.”

“No. But I didn’t expect you to cut it so close to the deadline. Now, I’m beginning to wonder—can you do the job I hired you to do? Or are you simply unwilling?”

“Blackmailed me into doing,” Lydia corrected icily.

Miss Monroe shrugged. “I shall pay you as promised.”

Lydia scoffed.

“Do as you’re told, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.” Miss Monroe’s tone was deceptively light. “In fact, once you bring me the jewel, I’ll even let you burn every single one of these pamphlets yourself.” She tapped the stack. “But no one crosses me, Mist… and now you know why.”

She swept aside the curtain, tilting her head toward the door. “Gerald will take you home now. I trust I’ll see you at the masquerade.” Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “It shall be… a hell of a night.”

Chapter 13

The morning of the masquerade arrived far too early for Thorn.

Unable to quell his nerves, he rose with the sun, watching its first rays bathe the sky in a glorious shade of purple. The wind rustled the leaves outside his window, the world waking up in quiet perfection. And yet, he knew, it was about to get even more perfect.

Today, he would see his bride.

She had insisted on taking her own carriage to the masquerade, and while Thorn had wanted to protest, he knew the timing wouldn’t allow for it. By the time her final letter had reached him, she had already left for London.

In her last note, she’d mentioned staying with her aunt and sneaking away with her cousin and a couple of footmen to attend the ball. Thorn didn’t like the sound of that at all. So, he had found the address of Mr. Prescott’s sister and discreetly sent his own men to guard the house, instructing them to quietly follow his bride to the event—without her knowledge, of course.

Thorn would be waiting by the door at the masquerade, a red flower tucked in his front pocket.

He knew his role for that night—he’d mostly be acting as a chaperone to his bride and her cousin at this lascivious event. It wouldn’t be a liaison or a tryst. And Thorn wasn’t certain if he wanted it to be. Conflicting feelings warred inside him.

For now, dancing with her would have to suffice. Perhaps, upon seeing her again, he’d better understand what it was he was truly feeling.

His heart thudded against his ribs, a loud drum in his ears.

He called for a bath, pacing the floor as he waited, the minutes stretching on. When it finally arrived, he shed his clothes and sank into the hot water. His fingers immediately found the chain around his neck, his hand curling around the ring that dangled from it.