Please enjoy this sneak peek at Theresa Romain’s FORTUNE
FAVORS THE WICKED, first in an all-new historical romance series! Coming from
Kensington Zebra on March 29, 2016.
Chapter 1
From the Slovene Lands to the South Sea, no place in the world smelled
like one’s first whiff of London. The world of the London Docks was acrid from
coal smoke, pungent from yesterday’s spoiling fish and the sludgy water of the
Thames.
When Benedict Frost was a boy of twelve, new to the Royal Navy, these had
once seemed the scents of home, of freedom from the small cage of shipboard
life.
Now, as a man of twenty-nine, he would rather encounter them as a
farewell before a journey—and the longer the journey, the better. If a ship
were a small cage, England was nothing but a large one.
With determined strides, Benedict disembarked from the Argent. He wouldn’t need to stay in
England more than a few days. The Argent
was leaving port before the end of the week, and he’d be back in his familiar
berth when it did. Before then, all he needed to do was to deliver his
manuscript to Pitman and arrange payment. The precious handwritten pages were
heavy in his satchel; in his right hand, his metal-tipped hickory cane thumped
the solid wooden planks underfoot.
“Frost!”
He took another step.
“Oy! Frost!” The unmistakable tones of a sailor: wind-coarse and
carrying.
Benedict halted, donning an expression of good cheer at being thus
summoned. He didn’t recognize the voice, so he said only, “Oy, yourself. How
goes your day?”
“Thinking of a treasure hunt. How about you? Goin’ to seek the royal
reward?”
The what? Benedict covered
confusion with a devil-may-care grin. “Not this time. A man’s got no need to
hunt treasure if he makes his own.” He ignored the snigger of a reply, adding,
“Good luck to you, though.”
With a wave of his cane that fell somewhere between a salute and a bugger-off, he continued on his way.
But something was off about the Docks. Step by step, it became more
obvious. Where was the usual ribald clamor? What had happened to the sailors
negotiating with hard-voiced whores, to the halloos and curses as cargo was
unloaded? Instead, quiet conversations clustered behind broadsheets, the cheap
paper crackling as sailors passed it from hand to hand.
“Theft o’ the century, they’re callin’ it,” muttered one as Benedict
walked by. “Aye,” agreed another. “You’d want balls of brass to steal from the
Royal Mint.”
Or balls of gold, Benedict
thought. Ever since the war with France had begun, England had been bleeding
gold—so much gold, the whole system of currency had recently been revised.
Still, creditors were reluctant to take paper money or silver.
Benedict couldn’t fault them. He wasn’t interested in those either.
And so he listened a bit more closely to the conversations he passed,
easing free of his sea legs with long strides that carried him westward from
the docks of Wapping. Miles of pavement, a test of his memory of the city. On
every street, the city shifted, with roughened naval types giving way to sedate
professionals. But the sounds were the same. Newspapers rustled, and that odd
phrase echoed from person to person: the
theft of the century.
As the year was only 1817, this seemed a premature declaration. But as Benedict
stowed away more overheard details, he could not deny that the crime sounded as
audacious as it was outrageous. Four guards had been shot, and six trunks of
the new golden sovereigns had been stolen before any of the coins entered
circulation. The loss was estimated at fifty thousand pounds.
And that was it. There had been no further clue for weeks, not a single
incriminating coin spent. The Royal Mint had just offered a substantial reward
for the return of the money.
So. That was the royal reward of which the sailors had spoken. England
would soon become a nation of privateers, hunting for coin in the name of the
Crown.
Benedict turned over the possibility of joining them. He had attained the
frigid summit of Mont Blanc; surely he could spend a few balmy May days to
locate a hoard of coins on his native soil. And the reward offered by the Royal
Mint would allow him to increase his sister Georgette’s dowry from pitiful to respectable.
Tempting. Very tempting. The mere thought of a treasure hunt eased the
hollow ache of being in London’s heart. Why, it might be like…like not being in
England at all.
But his manuscript would offer the same reward while still allowing him
to depart on the Argent. Just as he
had told the sailors: he had already drafted his own treasure. Now it was time
to claim it.
And so he strode forth, cane clicking the pavement with his renewed
determination, in the direction of Paternoster Row and the office of George
Pitman, publisher.
Two weeks later
“He wore a cloak with a hood coverin’ his face,” the serving girl held
forth to an eager group of listeners. “But I looked beneath the hood and saw
his eyes. They were demon eyes, red
as fire!”
Behind her veil, Charlotte’s mouth curved. She could not help but roll
her eyes—which were non-demon features, closer to the color of a leaf than a
flame.
Alone of the reward seekers in the common room of the Pig and Blanket,
Charlotte had heard Nance’s tale time and again. It was different with each
retelling, and therefore each account revealed something different about Nancy
Goff herself. About what she thought important, or shameful, or likely to win
her the coins of a stranger.
Somewhere within that coil was the truth.
Which was why, for a second endless day, Charlotte sat alone, listening,
in the corner of a Derbyshire inn’s common room. The Pig and Blanket was
ordinary in every way, from the middling quality of the ale and food to the
indifferent cleanliness of the tables.
Ordinary in every way, that is, save one. A week ago, in this very inn,
Nance had been paid with a gold sovereign. Since no one had gold sovereigns yet
except the Royal Mint and the thieves who had stolen six trunks of uncirculated
coins…well.
It was the first clue related to the theft, and it was a good one. And
like seemingly half of England, Charlotte had followed it. All the way from the
squalid rented room she had just taken in Seven Dials. She was in far less
danger among the neighborhood’s thieves and cutthroats than she was in her luxurious
town house, or promenading the rarefied streets of Mayfair.
In Derbyshire, she was still in danger, but of a different sort. Thus the
veil.
And the solitude.
“I knew he was a wrong one,” preened Nance, tossing the brunette curls
she had today left uncovered by the usual cap. A pretty young woman of about
twenty years, she swanned about the common room of the Pig and Blanket,
distributing drinks and scooping up coins. “Had that look about him. It was as
much as I could do to carry his ale without spillin’ it. So afraid, I was!
Shiverin’ in my boots.”
This last was spoken in a tone of such relish that Charlotte smiled
again. Ten years ago, nearing the end of her teens, she’d had the same sort of
vigor. Would she have told a story ten times, embroidering it more with every
telling?
No, she would have told it eleven. Twelve. As many times as someone would
listen, and in her dark-haired, bright-eyed enthusiasm, she might have looked
very much like Nance. Even now, she wanted to join in; even now it hurt to sit
at the side of the room, alone. It hurt to cover her face with a veil, to miss
the shadings of expression that flitted across the faces of others when they
were interested. Bored. Curious. In thrall.
Despite the crowds packed into the common room to drink in Nance’s
dramatic tale along with their ale, the other seat at Charlotte’s table
remained empty. Somehow the sweep of blurry gray net across her face made her
as fearsome as the demon-eyed stranger who had given Nance the gold coin.
The veil was a nuisance, like peering through smoke. But years of
notoriety had taught Charlotte that sometimes the annoyance of a veil was
preferable to the greater inconvenience of being recognized.
With a wiggle of her significant bosom, Nance scooped up a stray coin from
a table. “’Twasn’t
only his demon eyes that gave me that sort of shivery feelin’. No, it were the
cloak, too. Nobody covers up like that in spring, does they? Not unless they
has somethin’ to hide.”
Behind her covering veil, Charlotte chuckled. Nance was a shrewd girl.
The inn’s door was shoved open, marking the entrance of a new visitor.
From her seat near the corner, Charlotte had a view of everyone who entered the
small foyer before passing by or turning into the common room.
This was an odd sort of shove at the door, slow and deliberate and
interrupted by several thumps. And the figure who accompanied it, washed by
golden afternoon sunlight before the door closed behind him, was no less
unusual. He was broad and large and dark, wearing a naval uniform. Through her
veil, Charlotte could not pick out detail enough to determine his rank. But
whether an admiral or a lieutenant, a sailor had no business in landlocked
Derbyshire—unless he, too, were hunting the stolen coins.
Nance must have thought the same, for she cut off her tale and began
swiping the nearest table with a grimy cloth and an expression of pious
concentration. A few coins would set her to talking again, like an automaton
being wound.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
The boisterous common room had gone very quiet, watching the new arrival
progress across the room. Before each step, he smacked his cane against the
floor like a gesture of emphasis. I have
arrived, damn you. Look my way. And who could not? His determined features
were like a thundercloud on this spring day: one ought to be wary lest a storm
drew close.
Until he reached the center of the room and spoke in a low, pleasant
tone. “Greetings, all. I heard such a welcoming din as I approached that I
couldn’t help but enter.” His brows lifted in a puckish curve. “There is no
need to end your party on my account. I’m quite a pleasant fellow, I promise
you.”
His reassurance was enough to coax the din to recommence, first in a slow
trickle, then like the tumble of the nearby Kinder Downfall after a torrential
rain. Once Nance took the man’s order for ale, then picked up the thread of her
tale about the cloaked visitor with demon eyes, it was almost impossible to
hear the thumps of the cane on the wide-planked floor.
Until they sounded before Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon. Might I sit at this table?”
The broad figure was planted before her, the sailor’s tone quiet and
courteous.
But for a man to ask to sit with a lone woman to whom he had not been
introduced—this was so bold that for a moment Charlotte could only blink.
“Here? With—me?” Of course with her. It was the only empty seat in the common
room. “Yes, all right.”
To forbid him a place at her table would be to draw more attention than
to agree. And within her left sleeve, the hidden penknife was reassuringly
solid.
“You are very good, madam. Thank you. I don’t mean to bother you, I
assure you. Ah—are you quite alone at this table?”
“As you see.”
“Right,” he murmured. “Right.” With a deliberate gesture, the sailor drew
out the empty chair and settled his large frame within it. The cane that had
announced his presence with solid thumps was now balanced across his thighs.
Not that Charlotte looked at his thighs; she was only looking at the
cane. Lord. She’d had enough of men, and their thighs, and every other one of
their parts.
Nance flounced over and slopped a tankard onto the table, naming a price
that had both Charlotte and the sailor jerking with surprise. Every hour, the
prices at the Pig and Blanket went up. How much was this due to the owner’s rapaciousness
during this moment of fame, and how much to the serving girl spotting the rare
chance to line her own pocket?
A shrewd girl; very shrewd.
But one could never be shrewd enough, and Charlotte’s brow creased with
worry.
“Thank you.” The sailor took a few coins from his pocket, tracing a thumb
over them, then handed two to Nance. This won him a grin and a curtsy before
she flounced off.
He cocked his head. “It was no gold sovereign, but she liked that well
enough. Ah—did you want anything, madam? Shall I call her back?”
“I need nothing at the moment. Thank you.” Atop the smooth-rubbed wooden
table was a single pottery tankard in which remained an inch of yeasty ale. She
had sipped at it for hours, until the innkeeper’s wife began to cast resentful
glances her way. Soon Charlotte would have to buy something else—another ale,
maybe, or a bowl of stew—in order to keep her seat.
Her little sigh set the cloudy net
veil to dancing before her face. How warm the day was; she wished she could
sweep off her veil and deep-brimmed bonnet. She was perspiring under their
unaccustomed weight.
All right, not only because of their weight. Too long had she hidden
without taking action, and the knowledge prompted a dew of worry. But was it
safer to stay or to leave?
“Thank you for the seat.” The man broke into her thoughts. “I’ve been
traveling unexpectedly for some time, and the chance to sit is welcome.
Benedict Frost is my name.”
“Of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, I see. Have you been traveling by land or
sea?” Charlotte had learned the markers of rank; in her profession, one had to
pick out the important men at a glance. Now that he sat close to her, she could
make out the details of dress she had missed before. His high-collared blue
coat looked well enough, but the gold buttons and the white piping about them
proclaimed him a lieutenant.
In her previous life in London, she would have chilled him with a
quelling flip of her fan, then passed him by.
Now…she wondered about him. The cane; the careful touch at the coins; the
surprised lift of his brows when she spoke. Was his vision dim? If she could
sweep aside her veil and look at him—really look at his eyes—she would be able
to tell in an instant.
Not that it mattered for his sake. But for hers, it would mean that she
wouldn’t have to hide her face from him.
“I’ve traveled by both land and sea within the past fortnight.” He
sighed. “And river. On wheel and on foot, and if there are any other ways to
travel, I’ve probably found them, too.”
“Horseback? Hobby-horse?” Charlotte thought for a moment. “Ostrich cart?”
“Ah, there you’ve got me. It has just become one of the great sadnesses
of my life that I have never traveled by ostrich cart.”
Considering Charlotte had just made it up, this was no wonder. She had
missed friendly conversation of this sort, so she added, “From where have you
traveled, Lieutenant?”
“Most recently from France, then London. But I’m no longer active in the
Navy.” A flash of white teeth against tanned skin. “I’ve still the right to
wear the uniform, though, and ladies seem to like it.”
Some roguery made Charlotte ask, “What of the men?”
“Probably some of them do, too. But I admit”—he leaned forward with a
conspiring air—“the true reason I wear it is because a man in uniform is always
in fashion and need not concern himself with the changing styles.”
“Ah, you are practical as well as attractive.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “You honor me, madam.”
“I simply repeat your own words.”
“You assume they are correct, though. You’ve only my say to support my practicality
or my effect on the female sex.” He grinned, a sliver of sunshine.
Ha. She had more than his word for the latter; she had her own response.
She had a weakness for strong men, for men who grinned at her as though she
were delightful. A sunrise smile always made her want to open like a flower—a
response that had led more than once to her plucking.
Benedict Frost cut a figure of rough elegance: hair very dark, and as
curling as Charlotte’s was stubbornly straight. A strong jaw, a sun-browned complexion.
Broad shoulders and ungloved hands. A cane that demanded a person look at him;
a voice low enough to allow him to listen.
“Though I have naught but your word,” she replied, “the fact that you
admit it is in your favor. In a coaching inn, no one knows anyone else. We all
must go on faith that we are what we seem.”
Not that he should have a bit of faith in her, as she added, “I am
called…Smith.” She could not give him the name familiar to the locals. And too
many in London knew the assumed name of Charlotte Pearl; a sailor who hadn’t
been in the Navy for some years might well be one of them.
He took a long drink of his ale. “Well, Mrs. Smith, I’m pleased to make
your acquaintance. But I haven’t the leisure for going on faith.”
“I don’t think the situation is so dire as to require that,” she said lightly. “These crowds
are not here because of faith, Lieutenant Frost. They are here because of
evidence.”
“The evidence of the serving girl,” he agreed. “And please, mister will do.”
This mention of the serving girl was timed excellently, for Nance had
been persuaded by a table of soft-bellied cits with Bloomsbury accents to
relate her encounter with the cloaked figure. Again. “Eyes like a cat, he had!”
the young woman exclaimed. “They glowed in the dark.”
Never mind the fact that her previous retellings had mentioned the
afternoon sun picking out the coarseness of the mysterious customer’s cloak. He
had left the gold coin at an hour much like the present one, divided in time by
seven days. If only Charlotte had been here to see the truth for herself.
“The coin was real enough,” said Frost. “Yes, we have that evidence.” He
spoke quietly, held his hands deliberately: first tracing the arc of the table
before him, then sliding them to find the tankard. They were careful hands, a
careful voice. As of one trying to hear rather than be heard.
He could not see—or not well. She was quite sure of that now, and relief
drew from her a tension that left her shoulders aching.
“She thought it a guinea at first,” Charlotte said. “Nance, the barmaid.
She hasn’t mentioned that in her tale lately, but she swore to it when the Bow
Street Runner questioned her yesterday morning.”
The London officer had grown more and more impatient as Nance’s tale
failed to yield identifying clues. Perhaps this was why each retelling now
popped with a surplus of detail.
“Hasn’t mentioned it for a day, hmm,” mused Frost. “So she’s ashamed.
Maybe that she did not know the difference between one gold coin and another.”
“Or,” Charlotte continued, “maybe
she’s ashamed of the fact that she did
know the difference, took a coin she knew to be stolen, and then lied to a Bow
Street Runner. One or the other must be the case.”
“There is not much one won’t hide to escape trouble. Or for the promise
of reward.” He took another long pull from his tankard.
Charlotte had been unable to do more than sip at her ale; she had let
herself grow fastidious during her London years.
All part of the job.
“Your name isn’t really Smith, is it?” he asked.
Charlotte pressed a hand to the anchoring wall at her side, the rough
mortar and brick cold through her glove. “Why…should you think such a thing,
Mr. Frost?”
“Because you don’t ask the question everyone asks when they meet me. And
that makes me think you don’t want to answer questions yourself.”
He seemed so large, and they were quite alone near the corner of the
room. Everyone else was watching Nance. Charlotte had created her cocoon well.
“You need not answer questions either,” she rushed. Why, she had not even
asked his name; he had volunteered that on his own. She would not ask, for to
seek an answer was to look behind a person’s veil. And she could not return the
favor.
“It’s all right. You are wondering.” He rested his fingers around the
tankard. “The answer is no, Mrs. Smith. I cannot see at all.”
As she fumbled for a gracious reply, he turned his smile upon her. “Now
that’s been addressed, how is the stew here? I’ll need a good meal before I
seek my fortune.”