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His best friend. Caroline had married him not two months after Henry left England. Even now he still burned with jealousy that Osbourne had given Caroline what Henry could not. A home, a title, a family.

Things a lovely girl like her deserved. Things that would make her happy.

He slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled, hard. God but it was complicated. He couldn’t tell if he felt relieved, riled, remorseful. He drowned in all those things and more. Henry turned at the sound of ungainly footsteps—more clomps, really—and took another swig of cognac to keep from laughing.

His old friend Mr. Thomas Hope tripped onto the balcony of his Mayfair mansion, leaning on his gilded walking stick as if for life itself. Immaculately, if gaudily, attired as the Sun King Louis XIV, Hope wore a towering wig of black curls that lent him the air of a disheveled pirate. The deep cuffs of his ivory
silk coat, embroidered with gold thread, glimmered in the light of the setting sun above. The sash slung about his breast was studded with an impressive collection of rare jewels.

Henry looked down to see the culprit of all that clomping: red-heeled pumps, fastened by diamond clips.

Hope was nothing if not thorough. Henry allowed himself a small smile at the memory of their time together on the Continent. As partners in service to His Majesty the King of England (in crime, too), they’d taken Paris by storm; armed with Hope’s intimate knowledge of French banks, they’d managed to foil several of Napleon’s more nefarious plots. Hope was a good man and a better agent; even so, he’d left the service to establish Hope & Co. here in London.

Now, as England’s preeminent—and wealthiest—banker, Hope had the blunt Lake did not. Which meant, of course, he had the means to purchase the French Blue from the Princess of Wales; which is exactly what Hope did some two weeks ago after Lake called in that favor.

With the diamond in hand, Lake need only attract the attention of the French so that negotiations might begin. Hope hatched a plan to display the jewel at one of his infamously opulent balls, this one titled “An Evening at Versailles: The Jewel of the Sun King.” All of London had been abuzz for
weeks
after last year’s ball (its theme had something or other to do with those poison-loving Borgias), so what better way to set fire to Old Boney’s arse than with this debauched little soiree?

“Give me that,” Hope said, swiping the cognac from Henry’s grasp. “I look ridiculous.”

Lake shrugged. “But I thought you liked costumes? In France you were all too eager to don a disguise. Remember the time you played a one-armed butcher—”

“
This
”—Hope impaled his wig with the gilded walking stick—“is a rather different scenario, don’t you think? The wig, the shoes . . . it’s a bit much, even for me. And dear
God
my head hurts.”

“Small price to pay for king and country, my friend. Though it does make you wonder how old Louis managed it. Fellow must’ve been bald as a bat to wear a wig like that.”

Hope set down the cognac on the stuccoed balustrade between them. “He was a masochist, no two ways about it. Actually, I’m beginning to think we have quite a lot in common.”

They both turned toward the house at the piercing sound of an opera prima donna warming up her instrument. The glass doors lining this side of Hope’s well-appointed residence were flung open to the warm breeze, revealing the ballroom within. Footmen and scullery maids and all manner of staff crisscrossed its marbled expanse in a frenzy of preparation; Hope’s first guests would arrive at any moment.

Lake inhaled, the intoxicating, sweet-fresh scent of the lilies strewn about Hope’s ballroom filling his head. The knot in his chest tightened; that scent, those flowers, they reminded him of Caroline’s perfume. He would never forget the way she smelled: like spring, like warm nights, like sweetness and promise and possibility.

He grasped the cognac between his thumb and forefinger and gulped, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Back to business. Business on which the lives of thousands of British soldiers depended; he did not have time to think about the past and its regrets. “When Bonaparte’s men make contact, send for me straightaway. And don’t lose sight of that diamond.”

“And you”—Hope grabbed the bottle—“don’t drink all my cognac. It’s bloody impossible to get these days. Who do you think is going to steal the French Blue, anyway? Everyone who’s coming tonight can buy their own damned jewels. If I were to peg anyone, it’d be you. Besides, I hired twenty extra men to patrol the ballroom, just in case. Trust me, Lake.
Nothing
is going to happen.”

Ah, if Henry had a copper for every time he’d heard that.

“I don’t have to remind you there are no more famous last words than those,” he said.

Hope turned to the ballroom at the sound of female voices, his first guests; Henry turned and in one swift, silent motion, launched himself over the balustrade.

It was an admittedly self-indulgent move—he did so enjoy witnessing Hope huff and puff over his theatrics—but Henry had business to see to, and the night was getting on.

Henry landed noiselessly on his feet in the mews behind
the house and limped round to Duchess Street. His leg ached fiercely tonight; with every step his being rang with misery.

Getting old, Henry decided, was a most depressing endeavor.

Above him, night began to bruise the sky, and faded stars gained pulsing strength. The air was warm and calm and pleasant against his skin. Tucking a stray lock behind his ear, Henry wove determinedly through the growing traffic gathered about the imposing façade of Hope’s town house. To Cheapside, he wondered, or was it best to head for the bridge . . . ?

That was when he saw her.

It was only a glance, a quick sweep of his eye to the shadowy alley tucked between two houses. But he would know that face anywhere; he could pick out the proud set of her shoulders in a crowd.

He drew up suddenly, pressing his back to a nearby wall. His heart beat unevenly, insistently inside his ears. He turned his head, daring another glance over his right shoulder.

With the help of a liveried footman, Lady Caroline Townshend—no, wait, she was Caroline Osbourne now, wasn’t she?—descended from a gleaming carriage lacquered a brave shade of blue. Even as she stepped carefully, she caught her slippered foot in the silken expanse of her skirts and pitched forward, arms flying above her head.

Henry’s belly turned over and his hands shot up as if he might catch her from where he stood. Praise heaven the footman broke her fall, and together they tumbled in an elegant knot to the ground.

For half a heartbeat Henry’s chest flared with jealousy. Even though the man had rescued Caroline from a nasty spill, Henry hated the sight of his hands on her person. It was all he could do not to leap from his hiding place and help her to her feet himself.

But he couldn’t. He would not embroil her in his plot. He’d learned, twelve years before, the suffering his bloody doings could bring to those he loved. Caroline would be spared.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard. He felt dizzy. His palms were sticky with sweat. His heart felt as big around as the moon.

“Oh, oh, thank you, Collins, I’m afraid this won’t be the first time I’ll be mauling you,” he heard her saying. Her voice
sent a shiver of recognition down his spine; he winced against the longing that surged through him.

“. . . and please,” she whispered, “please keep this . . . outing of mine between us. I shall meet you at this very spot.”

Henry’s eyes flew open. Caroline wasn’t supposed to be here? He snuck another glance. She was indeed alone, without an escort; her rakehell brother the Earl of Harclay was nowhere in sight.

Caroline looked up and Henry ducked just in time. He held his breath as she passed an arm’s length from him onto Duchess Street. He watched her back disappear into the crush; her hair was swept high onto her head, leaving the nape of her long, swanlike neck bare. He could see the tiny hairs there glimmer in the light of the streetlamps.

He swallowed. His fingers began to twitch.

Holding a fan up to her face, Caroline slipped between two carriages and mounted the front steps of Hope’s mansion.

Of course
. Her intricately embroidered ivory silk gown and enormous panniers should have given it away.

Caroline was going to Hope’s ball.

Sneaking
into Hope’s ball, more like it.

Henry brought one of those twitching fingers to his lips. He shouldn’t do it. Really, he couldn’t. There was the diamond, and the whole of the British Empire to serve and protect . . .

He thought about Caroline’s bare neck, and her perfume.

Henry stalked across the street, ignoring the catcalls and curses of the drivers he passed. Safe in the shadows on the dark side of the street, he ducked into an alcove beside a bay window.

He did not wait long. A gentleman dressed in a ridiculous robin’s-egg blue coat and white satin knee breeches passed by, obviously bound for Hope’s Versailles-themed ball.

Lake stepped out into the street. The man’s wife or mistress was nowhere in sight; even better, he swayed a bit on his feet.

He was drunk.

It was all Henry could do not to rub his hands together with glee.

Reaching out, Henry grasped the man by the back of the neck. Before the drunkard could cry out, Lake brought his fist down on the top of his head. For a moment the unfortunately attired chap wavered, and then he fell into Lake’s arms.

Looking up to make sure no one was about, Lake quietly dragged the man into the alcove and got to work. He left a handful of coins in the man’s clammy palm; clothes this ridiculous must have cost a small fortune.

Tugging at the embroidered lapels of the robin’s-egg blue coat—it was more than a little snug, and the breeches, dear God!—Lake emerged from the alcove a few moments later.

The crush to enter Hope’s ball was already immense; costumed guests jostled and pushed against Henry’s elbows, his shoulders. As he ran a hand over the powdered expanse of his wig in an attempt to smooth it, his palm brushed against his leather eye patch. He hesitated.

And then he pushed on. He was a head and a half taller, his shoulders twice as wide, as any gentleman in attendance—since when had Englishmen gotten so damned small?

Besides, considering the selection of costumed guests—and bared bosoms—he’d already seen, no one was going to pay him much mind.

With a speed of which he did not think himself capable, Henry darted up the steps, weaving and ducking between bejeweled guests like a boxer in the ring. He slipped through the doors, narrowly avoiding a run-in with Caroline’s scalawag brother, the Earl of Harclay, who wore a purple waistcoat of so vibrant a hue it made Henry’s eye smart.

He stalked through the hall and into the colonnaded gallery that ran the length of the ballroom. He stopped to survey the crowd: lots of wigs, lots of indecently exposed skin, but no Caroline.

Swiping a coupe of champagne from a passing footman, Henry watched as Hope’s bewigged head crisscrossed the ballroom, nodding here, sagging there; his grim-faced guards waited in the shadows. Still no sight of her.

Henry began to panic. What if she’d already left, snuck away while he was busy assaulting a stranger behind a bay window? Worse, what if she was ensconced in some private room upstairs with an unscrupulous gentleman, intent on indulging the freedoms allowed her as a widow?

It wasn’t any of his business, he reminded himself. She wasn’t his. Not anymore.

His blood rushed hot at the unwelcome thought, nonetheless;
he downed his champagne in a single gulp and set the glass down none too gently on a nearby table. He took another from a nearby footman, and downed that one, too. Taking a third, Henry pushed his way into the ballroom.

Still no Caroline.

Just when he was about to give up and give in, across the ballroom he caught sight of a familiar pair of shoulders.

She was alone (thank God); even so, his heart fell.

Lady Caroline Osbourne was looking for someone. He could tell by the way she was trying to look like she was doing anything
but
.

She turned, stray wisps of hair brushing against the skin of her nape as she looked over her shoulder.

She looked right at Henry.

His heart tripped inside his chest. The pressure in the ballroom changed, suddenly, and Henry could feel his pulse moving inside his head.

Her eyes were heavy and full. Oh, but she was lovely.

Caroline looked away, color rising to her cheeks. He watched the rise and fall of her chest. He wondered who she was looking for, what she meant to do with him.

She moved through the crush, and he moved with her, always maintaining a safe distance even as he drew closer, bit by bit. He had no idea what he was doing. What would he say, if he drew close enough? Would she even speak to him?

But he couldn’t help but follow her. He trampled toes, mauled debutantes, overturned a footman’s tray; Henry hardly noticed the wreckage he left in his wake as he trailed Caroline across the ballroom.

Every now and again she would turn and look at him, knowing he’d be there, staring at her like a man possessed. She would meet his gaze, and then, her blush deepening, she’d look away.

He watched her sidle up to the refreshment tables and accept a coupe of punch. He grinned when, after taking her first sip, her eyes watered and she let out a little sputter of surprise. Hope’s punch was a criminally potent brew.

Her eyes flicked up to meet Henry’s over the rim of her crystal coupe. Her eyelashes were long, and darker than he remembered. Girlish, and pretty.

Her costume was neither fashionable nor daring, but it was
her
: slightly careless and entirely unique; she looked elegant, a creature from another place and time. Her dark hair was pulled back, revealing the profile of her face. Strong jaw, soft chin, raspberry red lips.

So distracted was he by those lips that Henry was caught up in the swell of the crush. The press of bodies urged him to the edge of the ballroom, toward the tables where Caroline now stood. He panicked, and then he gave in.