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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Anna Harrington

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Katie Anderson

  Cover image © Shirley Green

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to Dance Tonight Chattanooga for teaching me how to waltz.

  And to Valkyrie Axe Throwing for teaching me how to throw a Viking battle axe.

  (Because an unmarried miss never knows what kinds of skills she might need for the marriage market.)

  One

  Late October 1816

  London

  Bloody hell. The prince regent had made him a baron.

  Blowing out an aggravated breath that left a cloud of steam on the damp midnight air, Merritt Rivers quickened his pace through the rain-drenched back alleys and narrow passages between Lincoln’s Inn Fields and St Paul’s. He flipped up his greatcoat’s collar against the ice-cold drizzle, yet he was thankful that tonight’s rain had prevented another riot from breaking out and kept the City relatively quiet for once.

  A barony. Christ. If he’d known that the infamous Mrs. Fitzherbert had been in the carriage he’d saved from attack last month, he’d have fled in the opposite direction as fast as he could run.

  He grimaced. No. He still would have rescued her, but he would at least have had the foresight to give a false name.

  Maybe that was what he needed, he considered as he continued to scan the foggy darkness around him. A secret identity. An easier way to separate his daytime career as a barrister from his nighttime activities on the streets. After all, didn’t he already become a different person when he put on his black clothes, armed himself for battle, and headed out into the night? Had to. It was the only way he could survive.

  The Night Guardian…the City Watchman…

  “The Black Baron,” he muttered.

  He rolled his eyes. Bloody hell.

  He turned south toward the Thames. There was plenty of time left before dawn to search the area and find the contacts he kept within London’s criminal underworld, to question them about an escaped convict named Ronald Chase. The Home Office was certain the man could provide information on the recent spate of riots that were raining havoc across the City, and they had asked Merritt to catch him.

  He’d agreed, but not to support the Home Office as much as to give himself an excuse for stalking the streets tonight and burning off the tension coiling inside him.

  An excuse for hunting.

  As with most nights, sleep wouldn’t be forthcoming anyway. Especially tonight, when restlessness pulsed in his veins like poison and gripped every muscle like a vise. He’d never be able to simply lie still in the darkness and close his eyes without the ghosts coming to—

  A shout broke the stillness, followed by a smashing of wood and the sounds of running footsteps.

  He bit back a curse. So much for a quiet night.

  Merritt ran after the noise, dodging down a passageway in almost pitch-blackness. He broke out into a fog-banked alley and skidded to a halt, staring at the scene in front of him. What the hell…?

  A large man stood with his back pressed against the brick wall. His hands rested at his sides; his eyes were as large as plates and his face pallid. A small barrel lay broken on the cobblestones beside him, its contents spreading around him in a dark puddle. Less than ten feet away, the door of the shop hung splintered on its twisted hinges. So…a burglar.

  But it was the person who’d caught him who stole Merritt’s attention, who even now stood in front of the man with the tip of a knife pointed at his chin. A woman. And one unlike any Merritt had ever seen.

  She held the knife with its tip pressed lightly into the soft flesh beneath the man’s jaw and at such an angle that its sharp blade would slice through his throat if he dared try to shove it away. Not a trace of fear showed anywhere in her. But then, what else would he expect from a woman dressed in a man’s black work shirt beneath a tightly cinched waistcoat made of thick leather and metal studs, black breeches, and short boots? Two short knife sheaths were tied to both forearms, with a pair of handcuffs dangling from her right hip and a small sword strapped to her left. Thick, coppery red curls were tied back at her neck with a black ribbon, yet stray curls as wild as she was had slipped free and framed the sides of her face. Good God…who was she?

  “Thank you for coming,” she called out, her eyes never leaving the man in front of her. A faint foreign accent Merritt couldn’t identify thickened her voice. “But I’m not in need of rescue.”

  Well, he could certainly see that. He arched a brow and leaned his shoulder against the wall, settling in to watch whatever happened next. “Who says I’m here to rescue you?”

  Her sensuous lips curled with amusement. “In that case, he’s mine. I got to him first.”

  “I would never attempt to pull rank.” Not with a woman. And certainly not one armed to the teeth. Good Lord, was that a gladius sword sheathed at her hip? “But I’m a bit foggy tonight, so you’ll have to explain to me why I would want him.”

  “He broke into the shop.”

  “I see.” Actually, he didn’t have a clue. “And you are…?”

  “Rich man, poor man, beggar man…thief,” she mused, chanting out the beginning of the old children’s rhyme. With a slow smile, she added, “Taker.”


  He narrowed his eyes on her. The streets were filled with thief-takers these days, lurking about in the wakes of the riots to arrest opportunistic men who used the confusion and destruction to cover their own crimes. Low-hanging fruit. Merritt had no patience for them, knowing they were profiting off the riots as much as the men they captured. But this one… Sweet Lucifer. He’d never seen one like her before. Hell, he’d never seen a female thief-taker at all.

  His boring night had suddenly turned interesting.

  “So as you can see, I don’t need your help,” she reiterated.

  Apparently not. “Good. Because I wasn’t offering it.” He ran a deliberate and assessing gaze over her. “I didn’t realize Bow Street employed women.”

  “Bow Street?” Keeping the knife lightly pressed under the burglar’s chin, she turned sideways to shoot Merritt an expression of such disgust that he wondered for a moment if he’d sprung a second head. “Do I look weak and corrupt to you?”

  “Not at all.” Actually, she looked…magnificent. And deadly.

  “Bow Street,” she muttered in an aside to her prisoner. “He thinks I’m a runner. No honor among thieves with that lot. Did I behave like a runner to you?”

  The thief stiltedly shook his head, afraid to move more for fear of slitting his own throat.

  She slid her eyes to the criminal. “Did I ask you for bribery money to turn you loose or make an offer to split the profits of what you’ve stolen? Of course not.” She scoffed a snort of revulsion. “Bow Street…please.”

  “Then who are you?” Merritt asked.

  “You first.”

  Damnation. Where was a good false identity when he needed one? He really needed to work on that. The first name that popped into his head—“Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

  “And I would have guessed you were Lady Jersey.”

  It was her turn then to finally scrutinize him with a good long perusal. If she were surprised to see him looking like a wraith in the night, the hilt of his own sword visible beneath his open greatcoat, she didn’t show it, and her expression remained as enigmatic as ever.

  She arched a brow. “Prinny’s tastes in women have definitely turned unique, I daresay.”

  His lips pursed in mocking insult. “Are you saying I don’t look feminine enough to entice a prince?”

  “Not at all. Only that you look…younger than I would have assumed.”

  He sent her his best rakish grin. “It’s not the years. It’s how you wear them.” And speaking of wearing… He nodded toward her sword. “That’s an interesting choice of fashion accessory.”

  “My dressmaker was all out of matching parasols.”

  “Really.”

  “I’d show you what she substitutes for reticules, but I’m not certain you’d survive.”

  Good Lord, she was sharp. So were all three blades she carried, he’d wager. “What—no pistols?”

  “A weapon that’s useless up close, has to be reloaded after a single use, and kills more people who pull the trigger through misfires than those whom the barrel is pointed at?” She shook her head with only slightly less disdain than she’d expressed at being confused for a Bow Street runner. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  She took a step toward Merritt and sheathed her knife on her left forearm. From the curious way her gaze journeyed over him, she couldn’t quite fathom him or what he was doing lurking in the rain-soaked streets so far from any place respectable. But then, he could barely understand it himself.

  Her eyes drifted down from his shoulders and across the black tunic he wore instead of a shirt and waistcoat, then down his black trousers. His cock flexed shamelessly when her attention landed on his crotch.

  He grimaced. That look was certainly more likely done to note if he carried a pistol tucked into his waistband than because this unusual encounter was arousing her. Disappointingly.

  Behind her, the burglar moved to step away from the wall and run.

  “Stay.” With a lightning quick reflex, she drew her sword and pointed it at the man’s chest, not looking away from Merritt.

  The burglar froze like a well-trained dog.

  She cocked her head as she studied Merritt. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  She’d said earlier that she’d beaten him to the burglar. She must have thought him a fellow thief-taker. He didn’t correct her. That omission was far better than the truth.

  Like her, he looked nothing like a thief-taker. He looked nothing like a baron either. Thank God.

  “I’m a peer of His Majesty’s realm.” Merritt could still barely say that without laughing. Or wanting to flee.

  She shook her head. “Claiming to be Mrs. Fitzherbert was more believable.” She kept her sword pointed at the burglar, who was too afraid to flee. “As you can see,” she pointed out, “your assistance is unnecessary.”

  In other words, he could go rot, and she could be on her way, criminal in tow, to the nearest watchhouse.

  But Merritt wasn’t ready to saunter off just yet. Not once had he experienced a night like this since he’d returned to England last year, taken up at the bar again by day, and been compelled to patrol the streets at night to keep from going mad. The Home Office’s mission for him tonight suddenly fell out of favor. Who needed an escaped convict to distract him when a woman like this stood before him?

  “You think I’d dare try to steal credit for your arrest with the night watch?” He feigned offense. “What kind of gentleman would I be to do something like that?”

  She shrugged. “A thief-taker.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I leave the thief-taking to better men.” And better women, too, apparently. “I’m the exact opposite, in fact.”

  Good Lord, was he ever. In his daylight profession as a barrister, he encountered more thief-takers than he could shake a stick at, and God knew how much he wanted to take a stick to the corrupt, lying lot of them. As far as he was concerned, only the foot patrols had worth. Men who walked the streets to look for crimes as they were happening, to arrest the criminals right then rather than hunt them down after the fact the way most runners did. After all, wasn’t that what he did himself almost every night, patrolling the streets to protect innocents?

  She must belong to one of those patrols.

  And clearly didn’t believe him. “Then why would you be out on a night like this, prowling the dark streets at this hour?” She sardonically clucked her tongue. “A defenseless thing like you might get hurt.”

  I’m hunting. And not just for an escaped convict.

  “I could ask the same of you,” he dodged, pushing darker thoughts from his mind. “I’ve never met a female thief-taker before.”

  “Then we’re even,” she shot back. “I’ve never met Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

  With a lazy grin, he let that pass. There was no good response to that, and he had more important things to focus on at the moment. Or at least more pointed things.

  He nodded at her sword. “Do you truly know how to use that thing without hurting yourself?”

  “Do you?” She gestured at his.

  He pushed back his greatcoat to fully reveal his sword. “Want to find out?”

  She studied him for a silent moment, her eyes flickering eagerly at the temptation. “Are you asking me to dance, my good sir?”

  Dance, fight…anything else she felt like doing with him. “Yes.” Oh yes.

  Her attention flicked to the burglar as she weighed her options, then she conceded. “All right.” She lowered her sword and stepped back. “It’s your lucky night,” she told the burglar. “Leave.”

  The man turned and ran, stumbling over himself and the cobblestones in his scramble to vanish into the darkness of the passageway.

  Slowly, she stepped into the middle of the alley. The challenge Merritt had tossed out now tingled like an electric storm
between them, and the deserted street came to life beneath the cold and damp night.

  Who the devil was she? The desire to find out coiled in his gut.

  Merritt pushed himself away from the wall and deliberately drew his sword in a controlled slide from its scabbard. He didn’t know her, didn’t know how she’d been trained or how skilled she was, how controlled in her reactions and emotions. The last thing he needed was for her to startle at any quick movement and decide to run him through.

  But that worry quickly turned baseless. Judging from the way she circled him, now assessing him openly with the cool detachment of an adversary, the woman possessed control of emotion, body, and weapon that wouldn’t have faltered even under cannon fire. A well-trained and experienced soldier. Each fluid, graceful move she made reminded him of a lioness stalking its prey.

  He stood still and let her circle him, his sword drawn but pointing nonthreateningly at the ground. He followed her path with a glance over his shoulder. “You’ve had significant training, then?”

  “I have.” Her boot heels clicked softly against the cobblestones, and every breath she took sent up a cloud of steam on the cold air. “I’ve studied under some of the best fighters in Spain and France.”

  “What a coincidence.” He turned his head to glance over his other shoulder, keeping her in sight as she completed her circle. “I’ve killed some of the best fighters in Spain and France.”

  She stopped in front of him. “Then you might possibly offer a challenge.”

  An amused grin tugged at his lips. Oh, he was enjoying this! “Possibly.”

  She dragged her gaze over him one last time. “Until I skewer you.”

  “Very possibly,” he returned, deadpan.

  Light laughter bubbled from her lips, and the inscrutable mask she wore splintered to reveal the humor beneath, the amused glimmer in her eyes, and the tug of her lips into just the start of a faint smile.

  But immediately, her world-weary mask fell back into place, all her emotions once more controlled. What a damn shame, too, because he would have loved to have seen what she looked like with a beaming smile on her face.

  “Shall I call off?” She stepped back until they were arm and sword’s distance apart.