Chapter One

He had caught gangs of murderers in the stews off Whitechapel High Street. Arrested opium dealers in seedy brothels near the London docks. But in all the years he had worked for Bow Street as a Runner, Trevelyan Foxton had never been required to investigate in a more foreign and intimidating place.

He stood in a shadowy, narrow passage between two buildings on Bond Street and watched the front of the shop across the street. He drew deeply on his cheroot and slowly let the smoke out of his lungs, but the gentle rhythm of smoking did nothing to ease the tightness around his heart.

Each time the door to the modiste's shop opened, a silver bell tinkled delicately. Ladies flowed in and out continuously, ladies of every age and every description. Slender, giggling girls with bright eyes and bouncing curls, along with their mamas, the formidable matrons of the ton. From within, all he could hear was incessant feminine chatter.

Trevelyan glanced up at the name above the shop, painted in burgundy and ivory on a large sign, glimmering with gilt.

No longer was she plain Sally Thomas. She was now Estelle Desjardins. The last time the door had opened, he'd caught a glimpse of her. A severe black gown clung to her slender figure. Her whiskey-brown hair was drawn ruthlessly back into a smooth chignon. Silver pins stuck out of her mouth, and she ordered a bevy of seamstresses about with a wave of her hand. Tapping her chin, she surveyed a girl who stood on a raised podium—a thin, sallow girl who looked miserable in an ivory dress. At the same time, she lectured the mother, a blonde, high-in-the-instep matron Lyan recognized as the Duchess of St. Ives.

A soft smile had tugged at his lips, lifting his cigar. That was the Sally he remembered.

She'd been the toughest, hardest, and fiercest woman he had ever known. All of the lads he had grown up with—the pickpockets, the mudlarks, the thieves—had been afraid of her. Except for him. He knew the one thing that frightened Sally. When he wanted her to shut her mouth, all he had to do was kiss her. Or show her he cared about her.

That had been a long time ago. Back in the days when he never would have dreamed he'd end up on the good side of the law as a Bow Street Runner. Back when he had promised Sally he would protect her forever. When he had pledged his heart to her and had even given up his virginity to her on a tattered mattress in his seedy rooms in the stews—on the night that had been their makeshift wedding night.

That had also been the night she had run away, vanishing from his life.

Lyan tossed away his cheroot and ground it into the cobblestones of the street.

Sally had done well for herself. It was a shame he was going to have to destroy her.

* * *

Estelle froze. All thoughts of what exact shade of ivory the daughter of the Duchess of St. Ives should wear vanished from her head. It no longer mattered that the fashion was now for long sleeves. Or that she could brighten Lady Amelia's complexion, even make her bosom look more ample, with the clever use of color, pattern, and strategic pleating.

He stood in the doorway, the proverbial bull in the china shop. At once, her lavender sachets were overwhelmed by the rich, masculine scent of him. He smelled of smoke from the stews, sandalwood and a cheroot, and even shaving soap and warm skin. His straight shoulders filled the entrance. His gaze was sharp, intelligent. She had never forgotten how brilliantly green his eyes were, and how beautifully his thick, black lashes framed them. Those unforgettable eyes now glinted with an amusement that made her shoulders quake as he fastened his gaze on her.

She had just argued with a duchess over a gown, yet after one look at Lyan, she could not force a word from her dry throat.

As a young man, Lyan had been bold and daring. Sinfully handsome, with a wild, wicked grin that had made her ache for his touch, dream of his kiss, yearn to capture his heart. Ten years had increased both his size and the lines on his face, and changed him from a rebellious-looking boy into a compelling, confident man.

Ten years had not lessened the way her wits seemed to flee when he looked at her.

She'd wondered if he would ever come and find her. And now that he was about to invade her shop, what did he intend to do? It would be so easy for Lyan to get his revenge, the revenge he must surely want. All he had to do was tell every lady in her shop exactly where she had come from and who she really was.

A pin jabbed her tongue. Estelle spat them all into her hand. The attention of every woman in her salon was riveted on Lyan, but he had eyes only for her as he slowly stepped into her shop. He took off his beaver hat as he ducked under the doorway, revealing his striking coal-black hair and the one streak of white that began at his temple and followed the sweep of his unfashionably long tresses to his shoulder.

"Madame Desjardins," he said, with a perfunctory bow. He straightened, then ensured he closed the door behind him. A sardonic smile lifted his lips as the bell tinkled. "Is it intended to mean ‘Star of the Gardens'? I like that very much."

Her stomach almost dropped away. What did Lyan want? "May I help you, Mr. Foxton?"

The buzz began.

"Goodness, Mr. Foxton is a Bow Street Runner," whispered Lady Amelia to her bosom-bow, Lady Caroline Trent.

Lady Caroline put her gloved hand to her mouth and her blue eyes glittered with thrilled delight. "What is he doing here? Do you think there's been a crime here?"

"Other than the prices?" muttered Lady Caroline's mother.

"Have you heard?" one young lady whispered. "It is said that Mr. Foxton is the heir to the Earl of Delamore."

Estelle froze. She took care to know the gossip of the ton. How could she not have known this? Yet if there was any ordinary man who possessed the autocratic beauty of a gentleman of the ton, it was Lyan.

"That cannot be true," declared the voluptuous Countess of Bournemouth. "I heard that he grew up in the East End stews. It is rumored he has a very sordid past." She said it in a breathy purr, as though "sordid" was a commendable thing.

"I think he is trying to look down Lady Armitage's bodice!"

That would not surprise her. Lyan had always enjoyed playing the rogue. At this very moment, he appeared to be enjoying shocking her clients. "Madame Desjardins," he began, in a voice that had deepened and roughened and grown even more magnetic in ten years. "I hate to trouble you, but I would like a private word."

The ladies gasped, for that meant he must walk through her shop, past the curtained rooms in which women stood in various states of undress. Estelle squared her shoulders and banished her quivers. She had learned to be strong to survive in London's stews. She would not let Lyan's presence make her feel like an uncertain girl again.

"Miss Sims, advise the ladies to keep their curtains closed," she instructed her best seamstress. With brow raised and what she hoped was a cool, placid expression firmly fixed in place, she turned to Lyan. "Mr. Foxton, you may come to my office. I assume a respectable representative of Bow Street will keep his eyes averted."