Page 8 of Gone with the Rake

Love,

Honor

With a groan, Lydia crumpled the note in her fist and tossed it onto the massive mahogany desk in front of her. Her leather chair let out a weary creak as she sank back into it.

Could things get any worse?

Lydia looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Three hours before dawn. Damn and blast!

Not only had her night at Hades been unsuccessful, but she wouldn’t be able to rectify her mistake for quite some time. Or would she?

She had already spent the entire day haunting the corridors of her rented townhouse like a restless ghost, pacing endlessly as she agonized over how to steal the cursed jewel from the man she had sworn to never face again.

After a decade, she had convinced herself she wouldn’t panic at the thought of seeing him. She had been wrong.

She was a completely different person now, and likely, so was he.

When Lydia had first entered the ton a few years ago, she was terrified she’d see Art there. She’d prepared what she’d do and how she’d try to stay away from him without ruining her standing in society for months. She had almost lost her nerve and turned tail before ever stepping foot into a society ballroom, but she’d persevered.

With Honoria’s help, Lydia had polished her manners, forged a few documents, and feigned her relation to a wealthy—and more importantly, diseased—magnate, thus securing herself a place among the ton, however tenuous that place was.

It was enough, however, for her to get invites to a few balls and soirees. Knowing everyone’s financial situations, inheritance details, and people’s habits through gossip, and learning the layouts of the wealthy people’s houses was paramount to her plan—the plan she and Honoria had concocted a few months after their initial meeting.

Masquerading as a wealthy widow, she was afraid she’d have to see her former lover, who abandoned her and tossed her onto the streets like she was nothing. She was afraid he’d recognize her and ruin her disguise. Or worse… he wouldn’t recognize her and break her heart all over again.

As it turned out, all her worries were for naught since he was barely a presence in London, much less during the social events of the Season. She had even celebrated—way too early as it turned out—never running into him in all this time.

Lydia let out a shuddering sigh.

She had to finish this one job. One job, and she’d be out of England forever.

Gah!

Lydia rose to her feet, picked up the note, and reread it again.

It was dated four days ago. The journey from Caldwell’s estates would take them around three days, which meant that barring any complications, Honoria had already arrived in London.

Crumpling the paper between her fingers, she walked toward the hearth and tossed it in. The paper shriveled and slowly turned to ash, the flames flaring and reviving the dying fire.

Lydia glanced at the mantelpiece again. Three hours before dawn.

All she had to do was ride to the disreputable viscount’s house, break in either through the window or the servants’ entrance, and steal the blasted jewel. Normally, she could do that in thirty minutes, much less three hours.

Her current situation was not normal, though, was it?

She hadn’t seen her former lover in over a decade…

Lydia wondered if he had changed. He used to be a handsome young lad, tall and lanky, but athletic and graceful in his movements. He had full lips… so soft and sweet when—

She scrunched her nose and shook her head.

She hated that man! She would not think about him in amorous scenarios. He was a scoundrel, a liar, and an uncaring lout.

A part of her was almost giddy at the prospect of stealing from him. Her fingers trembled with anticipation, and something warm collected low in her belly and spread through her entire being.

No, she couldn’t let her feelings for him—either positive or negative—get in the way of her mission. She was a professional, and she had a job to do.

With a brief nod to herself, Lydia turned on her heel and strode from her study. She gathered her auburn locks into a bun before draping a cloak over her shoulders and pulling up the hood. Tugging on her black wool gloves, she slipped out the door.