London 1805

The hour of her rendezvous was nearly upon her.

Worry made Grace's heart pound and her hand tremble as she stepped into her bedchamber and quietly closed the door. The music of a four-piece orchestra drifted upward from the drawing room downstairs. The house party, a gala event that had cost a small fortune, was another of her mother's unending attempts to fob her off on one of the ton's aged aristocrats. Grace had stayed as long as she dared, forcing herself to make dreary conversation with her mother's guests, then pled a headache and retired upstairs. She had urgent business to attend this night.

Outside the window, a winter wind whipped leafless branches against the sill as Grace stripped off her long white gloves. Her palms were sweating. Uncertainty coiled like a snake in her stomach, but her course was set and she refused to turn back now.

Hurrying toward the bellpull, she kicked off her kidskin slippers along the way, rang for her lady's maid, then reached up to work the clasp on the diamond-and-pearl necklace around her neck. Her hand lingered there, testing the smoothness of the pearls, the rough facets of the diamonds set in between each one.

The necklace had been a gift from her best friend, Victoria Easton, countess of Brant, and Grace treasured it, her only possession of any real worth.

"You rang, miss?" Her maid, Phoebe Bloom, was a bit of a featherhead at times but good-hearted nonetheless. She poked her dark-haired head through the door, then hurried in.

"I could use a little help, Phoebe, if you please."

"Of course, miss."

It didn't take long to get out of the gown. Grace managed a nervous smile for Phoebe, pulled on her quilted wrapper, and excused the girl for the balance of the evening. The music downstairs continued to play. Grace prayed she could complete her mission and return to the house before anyone discovered she was gone.

The moment Phoebe closed the door, Grace tossed aside her robe and hurriedly changed into a simple gray wool gown. She blew out the whale oil lamp on the dresser and the one beside the bed, leaving the room in darkness. Stuffing a pillow beneath the covers to create the illusion that she was sleeping if her mother chanced to look in, she grabbed her cloak and swung it around her shoulders.

As she headed for the door, she picked up her reticule, the purse heavy with the weight of the money she had received from her great-aunt, Matilda Crenshaw, Baroness Humphrey, along with a ticket for a cabin aboard a packet sailing north at the end of the week.

Raising the hood of her cloak to cover her auburn hair, Grace checked to be certain no one was out in the hall, then slipped down the servants'stairs and left the house through a door leading out to the garden.

Her heart was pumping, her nerves on edge, by the time she reached Brook Street, hailed a hackney carriage and climbed into the passenger seat.

"The Hare and Fox Tavern, if you please," she said to the driver, hoping he wouldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

"That be in Covent Garden, eh, miss?"

"That is correct." It was a small, out-of-the-way establishment, she had been told, chosen by the man whose services she intended to purchase. She had gleaned the man's name from her coachman for a few gold sovereigns, though she didn't tell him the nature of her business.

It seemed to take hours to reach her destination, the hackney winding through the dark London streets, wooden wheels whirring, the horse's hooves clopping over the cobbles, but finally the painted sign for the Hare and Fox appeared.

"I'd like you to wait," Grace said to the driver as the coach pulled up in front, pressing a handful of coins into his palm. "I won't be inside very long."

The driver nodded, a grizzled old man whose face was mostly hidden beneath a growth of heavy gray beard.'see that ye aren't."

Praying the man would still be there when she returned, and careful to keep the hood of her cloak up over her head, she made her way around to the back of the tavern as she had been instructed, opened the creaky wooden door and stepped into the dimly lit taproom. The place was low- ceilinged and smoky, with heavy carved beams and scarred wooden tables. A fire blazed in a blackened stone hearth and a group of hard-looking men sat at a nearby table. At the back of the room, a tall, big-boned man in a slouch hat and greatcoat sat at another of the tables. He stood as she walked in and motioned for her to join him.

Grace swallowed and dragged in a courage-building breath, then made her way toward him, ignoring the curious glances of the men in the tavern as she took a seat in the ladder- back chair he offered.

"Did ye bring the blunt?" he asked without the least formality.

"Are you certain you can see the job done?" Grace was equally forward.

He straightened as if she'd insulted him. "Jack Moody gives his word, ye can count on it.Ye'll get what ye pay for."

Grace's hand shook as she pulled the pouch out of her reticule and handed it to the man named Jack Moody. He poured a fistful of golden guineas into his palm, a dark smile lifting a thin pair of lips.

"It's all there," Grace said, trying to ignore the bawdy jokes and coarse laughter of the men at the table next to them, glad they were mostly occupied with their drinking and the lusty tavern wenches who seemed to keep them entertained. The smell of greasy mutton made her stomach roll and Grace felt a sweep of nausea. She had never done anything like this before. She prayed she would never have to again.

Jack Moody counted the coins, then dumped them back into the pouch. "As ye say, seems t'all be there." He rose to his feet, his features partly shadowed by the narrow brim of his hat. "The plan's been set. Soon as I give the word, t'will be done. Yer man'll be well outta London come mornin'."

"Thank you."

Jack hefted the pouch, making the coins rattle. "This be all the thanks I need." He tipped his head toward the door. "Best get along now. Later it gets, more chance of trouble findin' ye."

Grace said nothing to that, just rose from the chair and cast a cautious glance at the door.

"Mind ye keep yer silence, lass. Them what talks when they shouldn't don't live very long."

A chill went through her. She would never mention Jack Moody's name again. With a faint nod of understanding, she drew her cloak around her and made her way silently out the back door.