VIOLET AND THE BOW STREET RUNNER

Garland Cousins #2

EMILY LARKIN

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Afterwards

Author’s Note

Claim your free books

Thank You

Primrose and the Dreadful Duke

Octavius and the Perfect Governess

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Emily Larkin

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Faerie godmothers do not exist.

Chapter One

Violet Garland enjoyed the bustle and busyness of the Season—the evenings at Vauxhall, the routs and soirées, the performances at the opera and the theater, the balloon ascensions and the picnics, the multitude of entertainments that London had to offer.

Two of the pastimes she particularly enjoyed were dancing and flirting. She was dancing now, performing a reel with a rather dashing duke’s grandson. They went through the figures energetically, enjoyed an extravagant flirtation, and parted ways happy in the knowledge that they didn’t wish to marry one another. The duke’s grandson preferred wealthy young widows and while he was rather dashing, Violet wanted someone even more dashing. Someone with an adventurous spirit. Someone who liked to ride fast and dance fast and live fast. Someone exciting.

Someone quite unlike the gentleman standing in the nearest corner, who was so nondescript as to be almost invisible. Violet eyed him while she sipped a glass of orgeat. The man was blandness personified, everything about him unremarkable, from his brown hair to his navy-blue tailcoat to the tips of his black shoes. It wasn’t that he was unattractive, more that he was profoundly uninteresting to the eye. If he wished to catch an heiress, he needed to exert himself rather more.

But it appeared that the bland man had no wish to catch an heiress. Violet glimpsed him several times during the course of the evening, and each time he was standing in a corner, observing the other guests, as unexciting as a piece of furniture.

Violet danced and flirted with an earl’s son, a marquis’s son, two fortune hunters, and a rather rakish viscount. Her dashing and adventurous husband-to-be would stroll into a ballroom one evening, she was certain of it, but tonight wasn’t the night. She danced one more set and left the ball early, along with her brother, Rhodes, and her younger sister, Aster. Rhodes left early because he didn’t much care for balls now that he was a widower. Aster left early because she liked peace and quiet more than she liked noise and crowds. But Violet left early because as much as she enjoyed dancing and flirting, there was something she enjoyed doing far more. Something secret and thrilling that she could only do in the dead of night.

Accordingly, she allowed her maid to remove the delicate ball gown, with its pretty silk rosebuds and its spangled gauze. The pearl necklace and matching earbobs went back in their case. Her hair was unpinned, brushed out, and plaited in a tidy braid.

Violet climbed into bed—and once the maid had gone, she climbed out again and latched her door. She danced across to her dresser and unlocked the bottom drawer. The clothes Rhodes had bought for her lay folded there: long pantaloons, half a dozen shirts, neckcloths, a snug coat, a pair of sturdy shoes.

Everything was black, even the neckcloths.

Violet dressed quickly—shirt, stockings, pantaloons, shoes. The coat had a clever little pocket into which Rhodes had tucked a house key and a penknife. Just in case, he’d said, but there’d never yet been a just in case.

Violet wrapped one of the unstarched neckcloths around her throat like a muffler, tucked the ends down the front of the coat, and put on the mask she’d sewn. It wasn’t the sort of mask one wore to a masquerade; it was the sort of mask a hangman wore, covering her face completely.

She tied the mask tightly so it couldn’t blow off, wiggled her fingers into a pair of black kidskin gloves, and examined herself in the mirror. Not one scrap of pale skin showed.

As well as men’s clothes, Rhodes had bought her a dark lantern. Violet lit it and set it on the hearth, adjusting the metal shades so that only the merest glimmer of light showed. Then she blew out her candles. Her bedroom became almost, but not quite, pitch black.

She parted her curtains, opened her window, and climbed up onto the broad sill, high above the ground. At her back was her bedchamber, quiet and safe. In front of her was . . . adventure.

Violet leaped off the windowsill—and flew, diving up into the night sky. High, higher, even higher. When the lights of London were no bigger than the merest pinpricks, she halted, hovering above the city. The air was thin and chilly. An almost-full moon hung overhead, as bright as mother-of-pearl. London looked beautiful from this vantage point, mysterious and otherworldly, a place of secretive dark spaces and twinkling golden lights.

A familiar medley of emotions swelled in Violet’s breast, wonder and awe and elation, tempered by a faint feeling of loneliness.

She was the only person who would ever see this view.

Violet’s Faerie godmother was a closely guarded secret. No one outside the family knew of Baletongue’s existence, just as no one outside the family received her grudging wishes. Violet was the only person in England who could do this, the only person in the world, and it was exciting and thrilling and she loved it, but sometimes she did wish she could share it with someone else.

But Violet wasn’t prone to melancholy, she preferred action to contemplation, so she gave a loud whoop, high above the city where no one could hear her, and arrowed down again.

Faster and faster she went, exulting in the speed. Wind tore at her clothes and whipped her laughter away as fast as she uttered it. London’s rooftops came closer and closer—closer—and then she soared up again, tracing a vast, exuberant somersault in the sky.

When she was tired of soaring and plummeting, Violet drifted, a furlong above the rooftops. Contentment hummed in her veins. She loved these nighttime excursions for the thrill of flying, the unrestrained freedom, the exhilarating speed, but she also loved them for the silence and the solitude, the sense of being apart from the rest of the world.

London was hustle and bustle, it was noise and crowds, carriages and pedestrians. But not up here. It was a different world, high above the rooftops. Here, she was alone. Here, she saw things that no one ordinarily saw.

Here, she saw London’s secrets.

Grosvenor Square lay beneath her. In fact, she was drifting above the very house where she’d danced earlier that evening.

Violet glided lower, until she could see the house clearly: the tall façade with its glittering rows of windows, the flambeaux flaring in their brackets, the guests descending the stairs to the flagway, the carriage that had just pulled away.

But tall townhouses in Grosvenor Square weren’t very interesting, even if balls were taking place inside them. In fact, Mayfair as a whole wasn’t very interesting. Violet preferred to explore further afield. There were so many unexpected places in London, so many curious sights.

One of her favorite things to do was to follow people and see where they led her—and there, descending the marble steps below her, was a man. She’d follow him and see where he took her.

Most likely, he’d lead her to one of the clubs where gentlemen liked to spend their time, drinking and playing at cards, but he might take her to his home or to a gaming hell or to one of the brothels near Covent Garden.

Not that she actually knew that the buildings men visited near Covent Gardens were brothels. She’d never looked in windows to check.

Which wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been tempted. She had. But Violet had standards. She was a duke’s daughter, and dukes’ daughters didn’t peek in windows.

They did follow people, though. And this man was headed briskly in the direction of Piccadilly, the soles of his shoes making faint slapping sounds on the flagway. He turned onto Charles Street and then Mount Street. As he passed beneath a streetlamp, Violet saw that he was the earl’s son she’d danced with earlier. Freddy Stanhope.

She paused in midair. She didn’t like to follow people she knew. It made her feel like a snoop.

Someone else walked along the street below. His shoes didn’t make the slapping sounds that Freddy’s did. He moved as silently as a shadow.

Freddy Stanhope turned into Berkeley Square. So did the man behind him.

Violet drifted after them.

Ahead of her, Stanhope crossed the top of the square and turned into Bruton Street. Violet decided to follow the man who walked so silently, except that he turned into Bruton Street, too.

In fact, every turn that Freddy Stanhope made for the next ten minutes, the silent and shadowy man made, too.

Was Freddy being followed?

Was he about to be robbed?

Violet picked up her pace, drawing ahead of the silent man. She flew low, much lower than she ordinarily did, and landed on a colonnaded portico and crouched there. As the man passed under a streetlamp, she glimpsed his face.

It was the bland man from the ball. The man who had as much presence as a stick of furniture.

Violet stared after him in astonishment.

Mr. Bland was following Freddy Stanhope?

It was so inconceivable that she flew ahead for another look at his face.

Yes, it was Mr. Bland.

Mr. Bland followed Freddy Stanhope all the way to a house on Soho Square.

Violet had seen men enter that particular house before. It was either a gaming hell or an upmarket brothel, she wasn’t certain which—and she wasn’t going to peek in the upstairs windows to find out.

Freddy Stanhope was admitted into the building.

Mr. Bland didn’t follow him inside. He paused in the mouth of an alleyway where shadows gathered deeply. Violet could barely see him.

Two men crossed the square. They were loud and laughing, steadying one another as they walked.

Violet had seen many drunken men in her nighttime explorations. They held no interest for her. She returned her attention to Mr. Bland in his patch of shadows—and discovered that he’d vanished.

She sped along the square at rooftop level, searching for him, afraid that she’d lost the most interesting person she’d ever followed—and caught movement out of the corner of her eye. It was Mr. Bland. He ducked into Frith Street, hugging the shadows, walking briskly and silently.

Violet darted hastily after him.

Usually when she followed someone, she stayed above the rooftops, but Mr. Bland was so determined not to be noticed that Violet had to fly lower. She almost lost him when he navigated a series of alleyways, and again when he ducked into Newport Street. He kept checking over his shoulder as if he thought he was being followed, but she couldn’t see anyone behind him.

Mr. Bland headed purposefully southeast. Violet hoped his destination wasn’t Covent Garden. If he set foot in a brothel—or worse, decided to take his pleasure in an alleyway with one of the cheaper ladies of the night—she would have to stop following him.

He turned into Hart Street, which meant that Covent Garden was his destination.

Violet used a word that Rhodes sometimes used when he thought he couldn’t be overheard: “Damnation.”

But Mr. Bland surprised her yet again. He continued along Hart Street to its end, where he left the shadows and strode up the steps of a building on Bow Street. A building that had a watchman at the door. A building that most definitely was not a brothel.

A building that was in fact the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court.

Violet watched open-mouthed as the watchman greeted Mr. Bland and opened the door for him. Mr. Bland went inside.

Half a minute later, lamplight flickered in one of the upstairs rooms. Violet flew closer than was prudent and peered in through the window. If the watchman looked up, he might possibly see her, but right now she didn’t care. She wanted to know what Mr. Bland was going to do next.

What Mr. Bland did next was peel off his gloves and set his hat on a desk. He sat. He opened a drawer and took out a notebook. He trimmed a quill, dipped it in ink, and began writing.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn. That was Mr. Bland’s desk, his chair, his notebook, his inkwell.

Violet stared at him through the windowpane. He looked so ordinary.

But he clearly wasn’t ordinary.

Magistrates didn’t follow suspects, and neither did law clerks or secretaries.

Which meant that Mr. Bland was a Bow Street Runner.

Chapter Two

Violet knew that she’d stumbled upon an adventure, but she didn’t know exactly what the adventure was or how to participate in it. Mr. Bland didn’t give her any clues. He wrote in his notebook for several minutes, returned it to its drawer, picked up his hat and gloves, and departed.

Violet followed, gliding forty feet above his head.

Mr. Bland walked for five minutes, glancing over his shoulder multiple times and pausing once to scan the street in every direction. Then, he turned into a lane behind High Holborn and let himself into a house with a latchkey. The house was tall and narrow, with dirty brickwork and lopsided shutters. Some of the windows were lit, most were not. Violet darted from window to window, trying to see inside. She caught glimpses through the crooked shutters, enough to tell her that it was a lodging house.

Candlelight bloomed in the attic window. Violet swooped upwards for a closer look.

The window stood open, allowing her to see into a cramped little room with a sloping ceiling. There was a bed, a washstand, and a wooden chair. The floorboards were scuffed and unpainted, the whitewash on the walls flaking, the ceiling water stained.

For the second time that evening, Violet watched Mr. Bland remove his hat and gloves. His tailcoat and breeches had looked plain at the ball; here in this shabby little room they were positively sumptuous.

Mr. Bland peeled out of his coat—and Violet abruptly felt uncomfortable. If she stayed any longer, she’d be a Peeping Tom.

She turned away from the window and sped towards St. James’s Square and home.

Why was a Bow Street Runner following Freddy Stanhope?

That question occupied Violet’s mind until she fell asleep and was the first thing she thought about when she woke. She pondered it while she dressed and ruminated on it while she ate a very late breakfast. Her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Sevenash, set off to visit friends in Surrey in the early afternoon. Violet stood on the marble steps with Aster and Rhodes and Rhodes’s children, three-year-old Hyacinth, five-year-old Jessamy, and seven-year-old Melrose. She waved her parents good-bye and wondered what on earth Freddy Stanhope had done to attract the attention of a Bow Street Runner. The traveling carriage clattered briskly across the square and disappeared from view. Hyacinth looked ready to cry, but Rhodes had brought a ball down from the nursery, so they trooped through the house and went out into the garden at the back to play a game with the children. Violet speculated about Bow Street Runners and earls’ sons while she caught the ball and dropped the ball and ran after the ball, and she cogitated on it further when they went indoors again. The children ran upstairs to the nursery where refreshments awaited. Violet changed from her morning dress to a carriage dress.

Her parents had gone into Surrey for a fortnight; Violet only went as far as Hyde Park with her sister, Aster, and her cousins Clematis and Daphne. Aster and Clem and Daffy discussed the latest fashion in bonnets while they took a turn around the park in the open-topped landaulet. Violet paid them no heed; she was too busy puzzling over earl’s sons and Bow Street Runners to have any interest in whether brims were getting shorter or longer. On their way back, the coachman took them to Berkeley Square, halting under the maple trees in the middle of the square so that they might partake of ices from Gunter’s Tea Shop. A waiter brought menus across to the carriage, but Violet was unable to concentrate on the delights described therein. The choice between neige de pistachio and glacé d’épine-vinette was inconsequential when one was on the edge of a mystery.

But what was the mystery?

She chose at random. The waiter scurried back across the street. Aster and Clematis and Daphne had stopped discussing fashion and were now talking about Violet’s older sister, Primrose, who lived on Berkeley Square and whom they would ordinarily visit when they stopped for ices. But Primrose was in Brighton right now, with her husband Oliver. “I wonder if they’ll go sea-bathing?” Aster said, to which Clematis replied, “Oliver will!” and Daphne said, “He’ll splash about like a walrus and make everyone wet.”

Violet stopped listening. Mr. Bland had followed Freddy Stanhope through Berkeley Square. He had walked past this very spot.

Why?

The waiter trotted across to the carriage carrying a tray of ices in pretty goblets. Aster and Clematis and Daphne accepted theirs with Oohs and Aahs of delight. Violet took the remaining goblet absently.

Had Freddy murdered someone?

No, that was impossible. Freddy Stanhope might be a mad rattle, but he wasn’t a murderer.

Had he fought a duel?

If he’d done that, everyone in the ton would be talking of it, and they weren’t, so it wasn’t a duel.

Had he stolen something?

That was as impossible to believe as murder was. Freddy might not be his father’s heir, but his horses were expensive and his clothes the height of fashion.

Although . . . he did still reside with his parents on Manchester Square, so perhaps he wasn’t as flush in the pocket as he appeared? And he did have six younger siblings. Had his allowance been reduced? Had he lost heavily at the gambling tables? Had he fallen into debt and decided to steal something to replenish his funds?

Violet tabled that as possible but extremely unlikely, and tried to think of other reasons a Bow Street Runner might follow Freddy Stanhope, but every reason she came up with was more preposterous than the last.

Was Freddy planning to abduct an heiress?

Was he selling secrets to French agents?

Was he blackmailing someone?

Violet cogitated on that latter possibility for a few moments and decided that blackmail was as unlikely as theft and murder, because Freddy was an earl’s son and earls’ sons just didn’t do things like that.

Or did they?

She scraped the bottom of her goblet, licked the spoon, and belatedly realized that the ice she’d eaten had been lemon.

Was Freddy conducting an adulterous liaison with someone? That, she could believe. In which case, who was the wife . . . and who the husband who’d hired the Runner?

Violet frowned across the square. People passed by on the flagway: gentlemen sauntering, the ladies strolling, servants hurrying about their errands.

One of the gentlemen caught her eye.

Someone nudged her elbow. “Violet,” her cousin Clematis said, in a tone that indicated she’d been saying “Violet” for quite some time.

“What?”

Clematis waved a paper bag under her nose. “Would you like one?”

“What are they?”

“Sugar drops.”

Violet looked past her cousin, trying to spot the man who’d caught her attention. Something about him was oddly familiar.

“Violet,” Clematis said.

Violet found the man. There was nothing remarkable about him at all. He wore a nondescript hat, a nondescript tailcoat, a nondescript—

She suddenly realized why he was familiar. She thrust her empty goblet at Clematis and sprang down from the carriage. “Don’t wait for me!” she cried, and pelted in pursuit of Mr. Bland.

Running in Berkeley Square wasn’t at all convenable, but Violet didn’t care. Fortunately, by the time Mr. Bland turned into Davies Street, she’d almost caught up to him.

They proceeded along Davies Street, twenty yards apart, Mr. Bland walking in that unremarkable way of his, Violet lurking behind.

Mr. Bland paused at Oxford Street. Violet surreptitiously shaded her face with the brim of her bonnet, so that he couldn’t see her features. She waited for him to cross, and then followed. As they walked, she tried to be as unremarkable as he was, which was difficult when one’s carriage dress was the height of fashion and one’s bonnet was a gay confection of ribbons and flowers.

Mr. Bland led her to Manchester Square, where the Stanhope family had their residence, but he didn’t pause to observe that edifice. In fact, he didn’t so much as glance at it. He walked briskly west and took a turn around Portman Square; then he crossed Oxford Street again and walked all the way around Grosvenor Square. Violet was quite baffled. Why would someone walk around Manchester Square and Portman Square and Grosvenor Square?

Mr. Bland turned into Charles Street, presumably heading for Berkeley Square, which he was going to walk around, too. Violet followed, still twenty paces behind, feeling hot, sweaty, confused, and frustrated. There was absolutely no logical reason for Mr. Bland to take such a route.

She turned the corner into Charles Street and discovered that Mr. Bland had vanished.

Violet looked left and right. She even looked up, as if he could fly, but Mr. Bland was nowhere to be seen.

Charles Street was very short. Halfway along it, mews opened on either side. If Mr. Bland was in the mews, he would have had to have run to reach them so fast, but there was no earthly reason for him to have run, which meant he must have entered one of the houses.

Violet walked along Charles Street, trying to determine which building Mr. Bland had entered. Did one of them belong to whoever had hired him? She reached the mews, peered around the corner—and came face to face with Mr. Bland.

“Oh,” she cried, leaping back, pressing both hands to her chest, where her heart was trying to batter its way out of her ribcage.

Mr. Bland didn’t apologize for startling her. He stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

“Me?” Violet’s voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not following you.”

Mr. Bland crossed his arms. His expression was sardonic. “Manchester Square. Portman Square. Grosvenor Square.”

Violet felt her face become red. “I like to walk. For my constitution.”

Mr. Bland had the breeding not to roll his eyes at her, but his eyebrows rose a good half inch in disbelief. “In a carriage dress? Without a servant?”

Mr. Bland’s appearance might be nondescript, but his vowels weren’t. He sounded like Rhodes and Freddy Stanhope and all the other men Violet knew. Which was intriguing. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Who are you?” he countered.

“Violet Garland,” she said, omitting the Lady.

His gray eyes narrowed further. “Any relation to the Duke of Sevenash?”

“He’s my father,” Violet admitted.

Mr. Bland didn’t bow, which was what most men did when they learned she was a duke’s daughter. He looked her up and down. His frown deepened, as if she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Violet wasn’t used to being looked up and down like that. “Who are you?” she demanded imperiously.

“My name is Wintersmith.”

“Any relation to Viscount Wintersmith?” Violet asked, mimicking his earlier question.

“Uncle,” he said shortly. “Why were you following me?”

Violet debated her answers. This was an adventure, after all. Why not take hold of it by the horns? “Because I know you’re a Bow Street Runner and I want to see what you’re doing. You’re investigating Freddy Stanhope, aren’t you? What’s he done?”

Wintersmith’s frown became thunderous. “Who told you that?”

“No one.” Violet couldn’t tell him that she’d followed him across London last night, so she said, “I saw you watching him at the Montlakes’ ball.”

That answer didn’t please Wintersmith. His mouth tightened.

“What’s Freddy done? I can help you investigate! One of his sisters is friends with one of my sisters, so I’m invited there all the time. I can search Freddy’s room or—”

“No.”

“But I want to,” Violet said enthusiastically. “Just think! I might see something or hear something—”

“No,” Wintersmith repeated. “Absolutely not.” He uncrossed his arms and took a step back, turning away from her.

Violet saw her chance of an adventure slipping through her fingers. “Oh, but please! I’ll be such an asset! No one will guess that I’m helping a Bow Street Runner!”

“No,” he said again. “And it’s Principal Officer, not Bow Street Runner.”

Violet knew that, but Bow Street Runner sounded better. Runners ran and followed and investigated and were active and daring. Principal Officers sat and wrote and were boringly officious. She ignored his remark. “If it’s murder or theft, then I’m certain Freddy didn’t do it. I can find proof for you! I can clear his name!”

“Go home, Miss Garland,” Wintersmith said forbiddingly, and then he corrected himself: “Lady Violet.” He paused and glanced at the mews, taking in their surroundings. His expression tightened, as if he suppressed a grimace, and then he said, very stiffly, “Allow me to escort you home, Lady Violet.”

“I don’t wish to be escorted home. I wish to investigate. What is it that you think Freddy’s done?”

Wintersmith folded his arms again. “Go home.”

Violet folded her arms, too, and matched him glare for glare. A whole minute passed, and then another one. Violet decided that Mr. Wintersmith wasn’t nondescript and dull, he was aggravating and annoying. And disobliging. And odious.

A carriage turned into the mews, forcing them both to step aside.

“Very well!” Violet said. “I’ll go home, but you’re missing a singular opportunity. I can go places you can’t.”

She turned and strode crossly down Charles Street, muttering about odious Principal Officers under her breath. When she reached Mount Street, she discovered that Wintersmith was following a discreet twenty paces behind, which irritated her even further.

He followed her to Berkeley Square. Violet marched all the way around the square. Wintersmith trailed after her. When she’d completed the circuit, she looked back and bestowed a dagger-like glance upon him. His expression was unimpressed. Violet was tempted to march around the square a second time, just to teach him a lesson, but she’d already done a lot of walking, so she headed briskly for Piccadilly.

Wintersmith followed her all the way home to St. James’s Square. Violet climbed the gleaming marble stairs to Sevenash House. A footman opened the huge door for her. If he thought it was odd that she had left in the landaulet with her sister and cousins but was coming home on foot alone, he didn’t show it. His expression was perfectly blank. Mr. Wintersmith’s face, when she glanced back, wasn’t blank. He wore a good riddance expression.

Violet sniffed, and stalked inside. If the footman hadn’t been there, she would have slammed the door.

She climbed the stairs to her room and threw her bonnet on the bed. What a detestable man, to follow her across Mayfair as if he didn’t trust her to know her own way home! As if he thought she might follow him if he didn’t follow her. And then it occurred to her that Wintersmith might have followed her to make certain she was safe. A duke’s daughter, alone and unattended in England’s biggest city . . .

Violet didn’t know whether to be cross with him or not—and then she remembered their conversation in the mews. Cross. Definitely cross.

“Wherever did you get to?” Aster demanded, when Violet went downstairs to the garden parlor, so named because it looked out over the garden at the back of the house. “We drove around Mayfair forever, looking for you!”

“I saw someone I knew. Where’s Rhodes?”

“You could have told us,” Aster said, sounding very put out, which was unlike her. “We were worried!”

“Sorry,” Violet said, contritely. “Do you know where Rhodes is?”

“Up in the nursery.” Aster put down the book she was reading. “Who was it?”

“Oh, just someone.” Violet left the parlor and hurried upstairs to the nursery. Childish laughter spilled out through the open door.

Rhodes was sitting on the floor with the children, surrounded by a vast expanse of toppled dominoes.

“Rhodes?” Violet said. “Do you have a minute?”

Rhodes looked up, and for a moment Violet stopped thinking about odious Bow Street Runners and thought instead that she hadn’t seen him smile like that, with pure joy, since Evelyn had died in childbirth two years ago, mother and infant both perishing during that long, dreadful night.

“Again! Again!” young Jessamy cried, clapping his hands gleefully.

Rhodes looked from Violet to Jessamy and back again.

“I’ll come back later,” Violet said.

“No, it’s all right,” Rhodes said. “We need to gather up all the tiles again.”

Melrose and Jessamy set eagerly to work, collecting up the scattered dominoes. Hyacinth stayed where she was, in Rhodes’s lap. Rhodes stayed where he was, too, on the floor. He cocked his head and looked up at Violet. “What is it?”

“You were friends with a Wintersmith at school, weren’t you?”

Rhodes lost the last of his smile. “Endymion Wintersmith, yes.”

“Is Viscount Wintersmith his uncle?”

“He was. Endymion died at Seringapatam.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I met someone today. He said he’s Wintersmith’s nephew.”

Rhodes’s brow creased. “Is it Perry? Periander?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t see who else it could be. Endymion and Alexander both died in India. What’s Perry doing here? I didn’t know he was back.”

“Back from where?”

“India. They all went into the army. Bit of a scandal at the time. Their father lost his fortune at cards and then had an accident with his gun.” Rhodes’s tone told her exactly how accidental he thought that mishap had been.

“Oh,” Violet said, inadequately.

“The viscount shoved the boys into the army, told them he didn’t want to see their faces in England again.” Rhodes, who was normally the most placid of men, looked as if he wanted to spit. “Close-fisted son of a . . . hmm.” He glanced at his children, and then back at Violet. “Are you certain it’s Perry? I would have thought I’d’ve heard if he were back in England.”

Violet was tempted to tell him that Wintersmith had been at last night’s ball, doing an imitation of a stick of furniture, but she didn’t. “It might not be him. It could be another nephew.”

“Not unless there’s a branch of the family I don’t know about.”

“Perhaps there is. Have fun with the dominoes. Thank you!”

Violet went back downstairs and into one of the parlors at the front of the house. She peered out a window. No odious Bow Street Runners loitered in the square.

She ought to have felt relieved, not disappointed.

Chapter Three

Perry stood discreetly in an alcove, an untouched glass of champagne in his hand, watching first one suspect, then another. Giles Abbishaw was making his way through a quadrille with a young lady who looked to be in her first season. She was paying painstaking attention to her steps. Giles didn’t need to worry about his steps. His execution was easy, if unenthusiastic. He gave the impression of a man who would much rather be somewhere else—which was exactly the impression he’d given two nights ago, before leaving the ball early and giving Perry the slip in the vicinity of South Audley Street.

Giles Abbishaw was currently at the top of Perry’s list of suspects.

Giles’s brother, Saintbridge, was at the bottom. Lord Abbishaw didn’t suspect Saintbridge at all, but Perry was investigating the thefts and he’d placed Saintbridge on the list, because Saintbridge had had as much opportunity as Giles.

Although why would Saintbridge steal clocks from his father? Saintbridge was the heir, pampered and indulged and in possession of a handsome fortune. He had no need for money, no grudge to bear against a doting father, and—as far as Perry could determine—absolutely no interest in clocks, automatous or otherwise.

Giles apparently had no interest in clocks either, but he did have need for money. The viscount was as tightfisted towards his middle son as he was open-handed towards his oldest. A grudge was a possibility, too. Perhaps Giles resented Lord Abbishaw’s unequal treatment of his offspring?

Perry’s gaze drifted from one brother to the other. The set of their eyes and the shapes of mouth and nose were very similar, but there the resemblance ended. Giles was shorter, darker, and stockier than his brother. And the differences went deeper than height and coloring. Saintbridge looked down his nose with the arrogance of a man who would one day be a viscount; Giles didn’t. If Perry were to use one word to describe Giles Abbishaw, it would be diffident. If he were to use a second, it would be anxious. Diffident and anxious were not adjectives that anyone would use to describe Saintbridge.

Saintbridge was on the dance floor, too. His partner was an heiress. Saintbridge’s face bore a faintly disdainful expression, not because the heiress didn’t meet with his standards—although it was entirely possible that she didn’t—but because a little sneer seemed to sit permanently on his upper lip.

The disdain was why Saintbridge was at the bottom of Perry’s list. If Saintbridge was too fastidious to visit brothels or to consort with opera dancers and actresses, then it was highly unlikely that he’d steal automatous clocks with amorous scenes painted on their dials.

Unless he’d stolen them because he wished to remove such vulgarities from his father’s collection?

Perry didn’t think that was likely, but Saintbridge had a key to the cabinet, and was therefore on Perry’s list. If not Lord Abbishaw’s list.

Perry’s gaze roamed further. He located his next suspect: Devereux Abbishaw, the viscount’s nephew. Devereux stood in a knot of men near the card room, a glass dangling negligently in one hand, his head thrown back in a laugh.

Perry had spent ten years at school with Devereux—and been best friends with him for most of that time. The boy he remembered had always been up for a lark, and maybe stealing pornographic automatous clocks was a lark?

Devereux had never been given a key to the cabinet, but he’d been a visitor at Lord Abbishaw’s residence on Hanover Square. And he’d been friends with Wilton Abbishaw, the viscount’s disgraced youngest son. Had Wilton had given Devereux a key to the cabinet before he’d been bundled off to America?

It was possible—or rather, it wasn’t impossible.

It was also possible that if Perry asked, Devereux would tell him the truth. Devereux had always been full of mischief, but he’d never been a liar.

But Perry would prefer to solve this case without coming face to face with Devereux. He’d rule out all the other suspects first—starting with Giles, because men who crept away from balls and took circuitous routes through London often had mistresses, and automatous clocks that featured explicit acts of lovemaking were exactly the sort of gifts that men bestowed upon their lovers.

And if Giles proved to be innocent, he’d move on to Frederick Stanhope, because Stanhope had been a close friend of Wilton’s and might have Wilton’s key, and because he owned a pocket watch painted with an erotic scene, and what were clocks but overlarge and elaborate watches?

Perry scanned the ballroom again. His gaze skipped over matrons with nodding feathers in their headdresses and débutantes in pale gowns, footmen in livery, musicians playing their instruments—and jerked to a halt. Someone stood in the alcove across from him. A young lady.

He recognized her instantly.

Lady Violet Garland.

Perry managed not to scowl at her, although his fingers tightened on the glass of champagne. He looked away and checked that Giles hadn’t somehow vanished from the dance floor. Then he checked the whereabouts of Saintbridge, Devereux, and Frederick Stanhope. When he looked back at the alcove, it was empty.

“It’s something to do with the Abbishaws, isn’t it?” a voice hissed in his ear.

Perry couldn’t conceal a start. Champagne slopped from his glass.

Lady Violet stood alongside him, looking rather smug. She also looked, at this proximity, quite stunning. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate confection of braids and ringlets, with pearls woven through it. More pearls dangled from her earlobes. There were pearls at her throat and yet more pearls stitched onto the delicate fabric of her ball gown. Her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, her hair black and lustrous.

She dazzled the eye.

Perry was abruptly aware that not only had his ensemble been hired from a secondhand shop, but that it was too tight at the shoulders, too loose at the waist, and rather shabby at the elbows.

“You were watching Giles Abbishaw,” Lady Violet declared. “And both Devil and Saint.”

Perry stopped being dazzled and started being annoyed. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” Lady Violet squeezed closer to him in the alcove. The gleam in her eyes was bright and alarmingly enthusiastic. “Is it to do with Wilton? Was Jasper Flint’s death not an accident after all? Was it murder?”

“This has nothing to do with Jasper Flint.”

“Then why are you watching Saint and Devil and Giles? They were all at Abbishaw Park when it happened.”

“This is completely unrelated.”

“So you are investigating the Abbishaws!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t say that you’re not investigating them.”

“I’m not going to tell you who I’m investigating.”

Her mouth opened.

Perry rushed to forestall her. “And I do not need any assistance.”

Lady Violet closed her mouth. Her expression became faintly mutinous.

Perry looked around for somewhere to place his sticky glass and found a ledge behind him.

“Freddy wasn’t there when Jasper died, so why did you follow him yesterday?”

“This has nothing to do with Flint!” Perry said, exasperated.

“Then why have you spent the last hour watching Saint and Devil and Giles?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said curtly, and then he remembered that she was a duke’s daughter. “Thank you for your offer of assistance, Lady Violet, but I must decline it.”

“But—”

Perry gave her the briefest of bows and escaped from the alcove. He spent a few minutes discreetly strolling the perimeter of the ballroom, avoiding anyone who might possibly recognize him, although it was highly unlikely that anyone would. He’d been a scrawny little runt when he’d been packed off to India ten years ago. He was a foot taller now and fifty pounds heavier and his hair had darkened from blond to brown. His uncle had looked at him two nights ago and failed to recognize him.

There was only one person who reliably would recognize him, a fellow who’d been a classmate of Perry’s oldest brother and who’d served in India. Oliver Dasenby had been in a different regiment to Perry, but they’d known each other. Dasenby was now Duke of Westfell, and according to the newspapers he and his new wife were out of town. If Dasenby—Westfell—made an appearance at the ball, Perry would be gone like a shot, but for now the ballroom was empty of dragoons-turned-dukes, so he installed himself in another alcove. A new set was forming. Lady Violet took a place on the dance floor alongside Giles Abbishaw.

Perry watched in horror as the dance unfolded. Lady Violet said something; Giles replied. Lady Violet said something else; Giles replied to that, too. Dread curdled in Perry’s belly. He waited for Lady Violet to point at him, for Giles to stare at him, astonished and angry.

It didn’t happen.

Lady Violet danced and chatted politely with Giles Abbishaw. Then she danced and flirted extravagantly with Devereux Abbishaw. Then she danced and exchanged a few decorous comments with Saintbridge Abbishaw. None of the Abbishaws swung around to glare at Perry, or worse, abandoned the dance and strode over to demand to know why he was investigating them.

Perry’s jaw ached from clenching by the time Saintbridge Abbishaw and Lady Violet finally left the dance floor. Damn the woman. She was the most infuriating person it had ever been his misfortune to meet.

Lady Violet didn’t stand up in the next dance. After twenty minutes of keeping a wary eye out for her, Perry acknowledged that she must have left the ball early. This circumstance ought to have relieved him; perversely, it only annoyed him further.

Giles left half an hour after Lady Violet. He departed as surreptitiously as he had two nights ago, not saying his good-byes, just slipping quietly away.

Perry followed him.

Giles strolled along Brook Street, then turned north onto James Street. He picked up his pace, turning in swift succession into Chandlers, Hart, and George Streets. Perry only just managed to keep him in sight. Next, Giles hurried along Green Street, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

Perry kept to the shadows and glanced back over his own shoulder. A prickling across his scalp told him that he was being followed. The street appeared empty behind him, but his scalp never lied. That pins-and-needles sensation had saved his life more than once. Someone was following him. He knew it.

Ahead, Giles strode fast. His reflection strode fast, too, flickering across the panes of a darkened bow window. Perry’s reflection crossed those same dark windowpanes a few moments later.

Perry glanced at Giles, then at the windows on either side of the street. Some were lit behind closely-shut curtains, but most were dark and mirror-like. He saw Giles’s reflection, his own reflection, and behind him . . . That was someone, wasn’t it? A stealthy flicker of movement across the panes of a bay window, a distorted and wavering shape.

The person didn’t appear to be walking, though. In fact, it almost looked as if . . .

The person was gliding through the air.

Every hair on Perry’s body stood on end. He experienced two immediate and conflicting urges. One was to turn and attack, to leap at the person and wrestle him from the sky. The other was to flee.

Perry kept walking. The bay window fell behind him. The next two windows were lit, but the one after that was dark . . .

Yes, there was definitely someone following him. Someone dressed in black. Flying.

Perry watched that unnerving reflection slide across the windowpanes and shivered. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

Ahead, Giles Abbishaw vanished into South Audley Street, but Perry had more important things to do than follow a nobleman’s son who may or may not have stolen two automatous clocks. Someone was flying behind him.

How were they doing it? Did the person have a balloon attached to his back? Was it some fiendish new brand of thievery? Villains skulking overhead and descending to rob the unwary?

There was only one way to find out—catch the man—and to do that, Perry needed height. Not a lot of height, the man looked to be six feet or so above him. All he needed was a handy fence . . .

Perry turned left at the next corner. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder; his scalp told him that he was still being followed.

A chapel came into view, a squat building with a short bell tower and a shoulder-high iron fence topped with decorative spikes.

The fence halted to allow a flight of steps up to the door.

Perry burst into motion, taking three strides up the steps, turning and leaping for the top of the wrought iron fence.

If he’d slipped, he would have skewered himself, but he didn’t slip. His foot came down between the decorative spikes and he launched himself into the air, arms outstretched.

He collided with the villain and grabbed hold tightly.

The man gave a frightened screech. Whatever held him up broke. Together they tumbled to the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

Chapter Four

They rolled on the flagstones, wrestling for dominance. The man Perry had captured kicked and thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but Perry was larger and stronger. He subdued his captive swiftly, pinned him to the ground face down, and revised his assessment; this was a youth, not a man. “Who are you?” he demanded, leaning heavily on the lad, crushing him flat. “Why are you following me?”

His captive struggled weakly and said something in a breathless, inaudible voice.

Perry pulled the fellow’s mask off. “Who are you?” he demanded again.

“Get off me!” his captive said, still breathless, but more audible this time.

The voice rang alarm bells in Perry’s head. It almost sounded . . . feminine?

He eased off a little more and the ruffian he’d caught said forcefully, “Get off me, you great beast!”

Perry recognized that voice. He hastily released his captive and scrambled to his feet. “Lady Violet?”

Lady Violet rolled over and sat up. Perry couldn’t see her face clearly, but he knew it was her. He’d heard her speak twice today—once in Charles Street and once at the Peckhams’ ball. Her voice was cataloged in his brain under “annoying, but beautiful.” This was exactly the sort of stunt she would pull. She’d followed him in daylight, why not follow him at night? And why not dangle beneath a balloon while she did so?

She was as fearless as she was nosy—and he could have injured her, damn it.

“Are you all right?” he asked belatedly. “Any broken bones?”

“No thanks to you,” Lady Violet said crossly. She made as if to stand.

Perry extended a hand and helped her to her feet. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked again, and took the opportunity to pat her back, searching for the ropes that he knew must be there.

There were no ropes.

Perry patted her back more thoroughly, from nape to waist.

Lady Violet pulled away. “Stop that.”

Perry looked up at the sky, but the balloon was gone—and so was whatever had tethered it to her body.

“That was a very dangerous thing to do,” he told her severely.

“It wasn’t dangerous until you jumped on me.”

“Not dangerous? A gently reared female, alone at night, dangling beneath a balloon, and—” He examined her more closely. “Wearing pantaloons? It’s not just dangerous, it’s harebrained!”

So many things could have gone wrong, starting with broken bones and ending with death, with a frightful detour into abduction for ransom—or worse—in the middle.

“Harebrained?” Lady Violet said, in a tone that suggested she was deeply offended.

Perry picked up his hat, jammed it on his head, and took her elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

Lady Violet jerked free of his grip. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” Perry corrected. “I’m taking you home, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you.”

Lady Violet crossed her arms tightly over her chest. He couldn’t quite make out her features, but he knew she was glaring at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Perry crossed his arms and glared back at her. “Wouldn’t I?”

The stare-down lasted almost a full minute, before Lady Violet tossed her head. “Very well,” she said haughtily. “You may escort me home.”

They kept to the alleyways and mews. Perry didn’t want anyone to see Lady Violet. She might be a duke’s daughter, but not even a duke’s daughter would survive the scandal of being caught wandering London at night while wearing pantaloons.

Despite the late hour, there was traffic on Piccadilly. They waited in an alleyway while several farm carts rumbled past, piled high with produce for the morning markets. While they waited, Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d tied the balloon to herself; she countered by asking why he was following Giles Abbishaw.

Perry didn’t answer.

After the carts came a carriage with a crest on the door. While it passed, Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d steered the balloon. Instead of telling him, she asked why he’d followed Freddy Stanhope last night.

A stagecoach hove into view next, with passengers perched on the roof and luggage strapped to the back. It lumbered past with a jingling of harnesses and clopping of hooves. Perry asked Lady Violet how she’d inflated her balloon and she asked him why he was watching Saint and Devil Abbishaw.

They were both frustrated with each other by the time they crossed Piccadilly and slipped down an alleyway into St. James’s Square. Sevenash House was in darkness, but lights were on in many of the other great houses around the square. “You have a latchkey?” Perry asked.

Lady Violet flourished something in her hand. It glinted dully. “May I have my mask back, please?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well, I don’t have it.”

It was probably still lying in front of the chapel. “Sorry,” Perry said, but he wasn’t sorry. Without the mask, Lady Violet would be less likely to repeat such a reckless stunt.

He halted at the foot of the steps leading up to Sevenash House. He couldn’t see Lady Violet’s face clearly, but her demeanor wasn’t chastened or cowed.

Her balloon was probably halfway to the moon by now, but what if she had access to another one? What if she broke her neck?

“Lady Violet . . . you must promise not to attempt that again. I don’t think you realize how dangerous it was.”

Lady Violet huffed out a breath and crossed her arms. “It wasn’t dangerous until you—”

“What if I’d been a ruffian? Or if you’d flown too high and fallen?”

She said nothing. If silences could have a mood, this one was mutinous.

“You put me in a very difficult position,” Perry told her. “I can’t allow you to take such risks. I must speak with your father.”

“What?” she said, an alarmed note in her voice.

If he called on the Duke of Sevenash tomorrow and told him that his daughter had been flying around London . . .

The duke would rightfully think he was mad.

But if he banged on the door now, roused Sevenash from his bed, showed the man his daughter dressed in pantaloons . . .

Perry sighed and squared his shoulders and climbed the steps. He raised his hand to the knocker.

Lady Violet caught his wrist. “My father isn’t in London at the moment.”

“Your brother is, though, isn’t he? He was at the ball tonight.” Perry twisted his wrist free and reached for the knocker, even though speaking with Rhodes Garland was the last thing he wanted to do.

She caught his arm again. “I won’t fly using a balloon! You have my word of honor as a Garland.”

Perry looked at her. “That’s not the only dangerous thing you’ve done tonight.”

Lady Violet released his wrist and huffed again. “I won’t walk around London alone at night. You have my word.”

Perry debated the wisdom of believing her. Violet Garland was reckless and foolhardy, headstrong and spoiled, but as a duke’s daughter she would have been brought up to believe in honoring her word.

If Rhodes Garland made such a promise, Perry would trust him implicitly. He ought to extend that trust to Rhodes’s sister.

“Very well.” He lowered his hand and stepped away from the door, wondering if he was making an enormous mistake.

“No balloons,” Lady Violet said. “And no walking alone at night. I promise not to do either of those things.”

She sounded sincere.

Perry watched her unlock the door. “Thank you for escorting me home,” she said politely.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, equally politely.

Perry waited until he heard the latch fasten again, then headed in the direction of the Peckhams’ ball. He’d loiter outside for a while, and see if Saintbridge or Devereux Abbishaw made their departures.

But it wasn’t Lord Abbishaw’s stolen clocks that he thought about as he walked, it was Lady Violet and her balloon. Where had she obtained it? How the devil did she steer it? She must have attached herself to it with a harness. He wished the balloon hadn’t broken free when he’d caught her and that he’d been able to see both it and the harness.

Perry winced, remembering how he’d flattened her to the ground. He could have seriously injured her.

A prickling sensation grew across the back of his scalp as he made his way along Albemarle Street. Someone else was following him. A footpad, most likely. Perry glanced at the windows up ahead. He saw his reflection, but no one else’s.

Although . . .

Was that someone? Not in the lowest window, but in the one two stories above?

Perry resisted the urge to turn around and peer at the sky. He peered at the windows instead. Yes, damn it, it was someone, thirty feet above him. An elongated dark shape moved across the windowpanes like a fish swimming through water.

It couldn’t possibly be Lady Violet. She hadn’t had time to attach another balloon to herself.

Was London populated by people who flew using miniature hot air balloons? Was it all the rage among the aristocracy and he just hadn’t heard about it?

Perry scrutinized that wavering and distorted reflection. He couldn’t distinguish a harness or ropes or a balloon in the windowpanes, but there was a house up ahead with a tall flight of steps, so he trod up the steps and paused under the dark portico as if fishing for his latchkey—and turned his head and stared intently at the spot where the person must shortly appear. If he was lucky, he’d see the balloon silhouetted against the brightly lit windows of the house opposite.

No one appeared.

Was he dreaming? Was he going mad? Had he fallen and hit his head and didn’t realize it?

Perry sidled out from under the portico and peered upwards—and almost yelped in shock when a face peered back down at him.

He recognized that face.

It was Lady Violet, crouched on the portico roof.

Shock turned to anger. He strode down the steps to the street, where he folded his arms and glared up at her. So much for the word of a duke’s daughter. She had promised not to fly with a balloon.

Although . . .

Where was the balloon? He couldn’t see one.

Perry uncrossed his arms and pointed peremptorily at the flagway.

A long moment passed. He didn’t need to hear it to know that Lady Violet had huffed out a breath.

She flew down from the portico. Flew. Without a balloon.

Perry crossed his arms again. “You promised—”

“I promised not to walk alone at night, and I haven’t,” Lady Violet said, folding her own arms. “And I promised not to fly using a balloon, and I haven’t.”

Perry walked all the way around her, looking for anything that might account for her ability to fly. A harness, or ropes, or . . . wings? But there was nothing.

“How are you flying?” he demanded, when he was facing her again.

“Why are you investigating the Abbishaws and Freddy Stanhope?” Lady Violet countered.

A linkboy turned into the street, followed by two gentlemen. Perry caught Lady Violet’s arm and hurried her in the opposite direction, around the corner and into the dimly lit mouth of an alleyway. “You shouldn’t be out at night. Someone might see you.”

“No one ever sees me.”

“I saw you.”

Lady Violet pulled free from his grip and crossed her arms again. “You’re the only person who’s ever seen me, and I’ve been doing this for years.”

Years? She’d been flying around London at night for years?

“How are you flying?” Perry demanded again. “What magic is it?”

“Why are you investigating the Abbishaws and Freddy Stanhope?”

Perry scowled at her.

He couldn’t see Lady Violet’s face clearly, but he had no doubt that she scowled back.

Silence grew between them. Half a minute. A full minute. Perry gritted his teeth, then unwillingly said, “I’ll tell you why I’m investigating them if you’ll tell me how you’re flying.”

“We have an agreement.”

Lady Violet held out her gloved hand. Perry reluctantly shook it.

That done, they both crossed their arms again. “You first,” Perry said.

Something rustled in the gutter.

“Is that a rat?” Lady Violet asked.

It was almost definitely a rat, but Perry didn’t want her to scream, so he said, “No.”

“It is a rat,” Lady Violet said, and hastily retreated to the street.

Perry looked left, and saw someone with a lantern approaching. Damn, was that a watchman? “We can’t talk here.” He took her by the elbow and hurried away from that lantern. Ahead, a door opened. Lamplight spilled out onto the street. Several gentlemen emerged.

“Up in the air,” Perry said. “Quickly.”

For once, Lady Violet didn’t argue. She simply rose upwards, her elbow slipping free from his grip.

How the devil did she do that?

Perry resisted the urge to look up and see if he could spot her. He dodged around the men—it was a card party breaking up, judging from their conversation—and headed briskly in the direction of St. James’s Square, but when he reached the next corner, a voice above his head said, “Let’s go to your place.”

“My place?”

“Yes. It’s more private than Sevenash House. You wouldn’t believe how many servants we have.”

Perry might not have any servants, but his tiny attic bedroom wasn’t something he wanted anyone to see, least of all a duke’s daughter. “We can’t go to my place.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wouldn’t be at all the thing!”

“I don’t think you’ll compromise me. You seem very prudish.”

“Compromise you?” Perry said, stung by the word prudish. “I should think not!”

“Men have tried, you know. I’m very wealthy.”

“You’re the last woman I’d ever want to marry!” Perry said furiously. “You’re spoiled and headstrong and dangerous.”

“At least I’m not an officious stick-in-the-mud,” Lady Violet retorted.

Officious? Stick-in-the-mud?

Perry opened his mouth to inform her that he was neither officious nor a stick-in-the-mud—or prudish, for that matter—but Lady Violet continued: “I shall meet you at your place. I know where it is. I followed you last night.”

“You what?” He craned his neck, trying to see her.

“Followed you last night.” Lady Violet was the vaguest of shadows overhead. “I’ll wait on the roof. Don’t take too long.”

Chapter Five

Violet sat on the roof for almost half an hour, perched on the low parapet outside Wintersmith’s window. The window was open. She could have climbed in if she’d wanted to, but climbing into a man’s bedchamber seemed a rather foolish thing to do. She’d already done too many foolish things tonight.

Wintersmith had spotted her. Twice! No one had seen her in more than two years of flying, and this man had caught sight of her twice in one night. And he hadn’t merely caught sight of her, he’d caught her.

She was going to have to tell her parents. And Rhodes.

Violet knew that she was lucky in her family. Not the status and wealth and the magic, although she was very lucky in those, too, but lucky in what her parents let her do. She was allowed to wait for a love match. She was allowed to fly at night. That didn’t mean her parents wouldn’t scold her for tonight’s misadventure, though. They would. And she deserved to be scolded. She’d been careless and overconfident and had allowed curiosity to overcome good sense—and she’d been caught twice. In one night!

Violet sat on the roof and castigated herself, but there were only so many ways to call oneself a fool and only so many promises one could make to be more careful in the future.

After castigation came worry. Should she have agreed to tell Wintersmith the truth? Her family’s great secret, revealed to a stranger?

But Wintersmith had seen her. He knew she could fly. He’d already used the word magic. And he was a Bow Street Runner, a man used to ferreting out secrets. Far better that she tell him the truth under oath of secrecy than that he start asking questions about the Garlands.

But perhaps she ought to have taken him back to St. James’s Square and woken Rhodes? Rhodes always knew what to do, what to say, how to fix things.

Violet chewed on her lip, and decided that it didn’t matter. She needed to speak with Wintersmith and she needed to tell Rhodes what had happened. Both things had to be done, but they didn’t have to be done at the same time. She might as well salvage what she could from tonight’s disaster. Information received for information given.

Finally, candlelight illuminated the attic window, spilling out onto the grubby parapet. Violet turned and saw Wintersmith close the door. He crossed to the window. “Lady Violet,” he said, with stiff politeness.

“Mr. Wintersmith.”

He hesitated, and then said, “Please come in,” and retreated to stand by the door, gesturing that she take the chair, a rickety thing beside the window.

The chair had been draped with clothes when Violet had peeked in yesterday; now those clothes lay on the trunk crammed into the narrow space at the end of the bed.

She clambered in through the window, sat, and realized that she hadn’t appreciated how awkward this conversation would be. Her presence in Wintersmith’s chamber felt invasive, and not just invasive but uncomfortably intimate.

Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea. True, there were no servants who might hear voices and decide to investigate, but there was a bed close enough to lay her hand on.

Violet fastened her gaze firmly on Wintersmith. Don’t think about the bed, she told herself. Don’t even look at it. But it was impossible not to see the bed when it took up most of the tiny attic room. Its head was by the window, the sole pillow within touching distance.

Wintersmith felt the awkwardness, too. Violet deduced this from the very determined way in which he was not looking at either the bed or at her. His gaze went past her shoulder, to the window frame.

The sense of invading his private space grew even stronger. This had not been one of her better ideas.

“My brother went to the same school as you,” Violet blurted.

Wintersmith stopped looking past her and looked at her instead. After a moment, he said, “Yes, he did.”

That connection, acknowledged out loud, seemed to ease some of the tension in the room. Wintersmith didn’t look away. He frowned at her. “How do you fly? What magic is it?”

Violet pulled a face before she could stop herself. If her parents knew she was revealing the family secret to a stranger . . .

Not quite a stranger. A man who’d been at school with Rhodes.

“You must promise not to tell anyone.”

His frown deepened. “Does your family not know?”

“Of course they know. But no one else does, and you must promise not to tell anyone.”

“Your brother knows? And your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. You have my word.”

Violet eyed him. He looked trustworthy and honest and upright and dependable—and if she didn’t think he was all of those things, she wouldn’t be here, would she?

She took a deep breath and said, “My family has a Faerie godmother.”

Wintersmith’s frown transformed into an expression of incredulity, eyebrows rising, mouth crimping in disbelief.