Sapphires Are an Earl's Best Friend

by Shana Galen

  She headed for the window, glancing at the Turk over her shoulder. A knife protruded from his neck. Tueur had made certain the other man wouldn’t talk. He’d also made her decision easy. She leaned out the window and spotted Tueur hanging from the faded awning of the shop below. He dropped to the ground and made a rude gesture.

  Bygones were, apparently, not bygones in Tueur’s opinion.

  She did a quick calculation, then dove out the window, pulling her knees in so when she landed on the awning she would roll easily to the edge. She held her breath for the free fall and felt the air whoosh out of her when she hit the fabric.

  But she didn’t roll.

  She heard an awful ripping sound and reached out just in time to catch the edge of the awning before she fell through. Her feet dangled above the hard cobblestones as the material slipped through her fingers. With a sigh, she let go, dropped and tumbled. The ground was hard, bruising her hip and shoulder. She hobbled to her feet and wiped her bloody hands on her trousers. Where was the dashed man? She glared left and then right.

  Unfortunately, he’d seen her and took off at a fast clip.

  She went after him, her hip protesting the movement. Red clouded her vision, and she realized her forehead was bleeding. She swiped the blood away and rounded a corner, emerging onto a busy avenue lined with carts and vendors. Men and women walked leisurely along the avenue, shopping on the lovely spring day. Bollocks! Again she’d lost him. And on a crowded street, no less.

  Bonde noted a statue and raised fountain standing in a nearby esplanade and dodged horses and carriages to reach the monument. She climbed up, hanging on by one arm, and peered down the busy street. He was gone… no… wait.

  There! He’d climbed into a Bath chair, which two men were hastily pulling away. She jumped down, searching for another chair for hire and realized Tueur had taken the last. She glanced about, her attention landing on a sporty gig. A footman waited beside the horse, presumably while the vehicle’s owner shopped for produce. Bonde ran for it, hopping up before the footman could protest. He stared at her dumbly for a moment, but when she snapped the reins, he grabbed for the horse’s bridle.

  “Sorry!” she said, straining to control the skittish animal. The horse tried to rear and then shot off. Fortunately the beast chose the direction she wanted. Unfortunately, he was going much too fast for the crowded avenue. Men and women jumped out of the way as she struggled to gain the upper hand. The Bath chair was just ahead, but the horse bolted to the side before she could jerk him back. The gig’s wheel caught on the edge of a fruit stand, sending the vendor’s cart toppling over. Oranges and lemons tumbled into the street, and apples bounced in every direction. One bounced into the conveyance, and she caught it with one hand, took a bite, and snapped the reins.

  She was grinning. She had Tueur now. He yelled furiously for the men pulling his chair to go faster, but they couldn’t compete in a race with a horse. She gained ground until she finally pulled alongside the chair. “Ready for our chat now?” she yelled.

  “Go to the devil, Bonde!”

  “You first,” she muttered, steering the horse closer to the chair so the men pulling it were forced to move aside. Tueur didn’t wait for the inevitable. He rose and jumped from the chair, smashing onto the ground. She reined in the horse and jumped nimbly down, landing on her feet and running to grab Tueur before he could rise. She collided with a woman carrying an armful of flowers, and the woman tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Bonde spit a daffodil from her mouth and kept running. But the delay cost her. Tueur was up again and moving quickly toward a busy alleyway, where artists sold jewelry, paintings, and mementos. She pictured the city map in her mind. At the end of the alley was a canal. If Tueur reached the canal, he could jump on a vessel and she’d never catch him.

  She pushed two men out of the way and raced forward. Tueur saw her coming and began to jog. Some of the crowd saw them coming and parted, but others had to be thrust out of the way. Bonde jumped lithely over a stack of crates, wobbled, and regained her balance.

  Tueur was definitely headed for the canal. If she lost him, M would have her head. She sped up just as a young mother holding a little girl’s hand stepped out from behind a stall. With a yell, Bonde narrowly avoided them and crashed into a flower cart. Everything went dark and floral for a moment, and when she surfaced, this time spitting tulip petals from her mouth, the flower girl screamed obscenities. At least Bonde thought they were obscenities. Amidst the haze of petals and stems, she could hardly remember in which country she’d landed and the native language spoken. She pulled a rose from her hair, handed it to the woman and arrowed for the canal.

  Tueur was already there, and she saw his dilemma immediately. No vessels. Bonde reached for her pistol. She had him.

  He saw her coming, then looked back at the water. Then back at her. He took a step forward.

  “No!”

  But it was already too late. He took two more steps back and fell. When she reached the edge of the canal the water was splashing back down, mud from below churning up and darkening the already filthy waterway.

  “Come up. Swim, damn you,” she muttered. The ripples grew larger and the water stilled. She stared at the place he’d gone under for a long moment, her gaze scanning the rest of the canal.

  Nothing moved.

  “Bollocks,” she said.

  “Hey!”

  Bonde turned to see a crowd of angry merchants and shoppers approaching. Some waved damaged goods, some waved fists, some didn’t have the courtesy to wave.

  “Bollocks,” she said again. There was nothing for it. She pulled off her cap, allowing her golden hair to spill down her back, and smiled prettily.

  Two

  London Season, 1816

  “I don’t care how beautiful or rich or bloody socially acceptable she is,” Dominic said, turning fiercely from the drawing room mantel. “I am not marrying her.”

  “Sir, need I remind you that your mother is present?”

  The marchioness waved a dismissive hand. In her pale blue muslin morning gown, she seemed almost one of the furnishings of the drawing room, which had been done in blue and cream and a panoply of gilt and ormolu. “I have heard it all before,” his mother said. “One does not raise four sons without hearing a bit of the vulgar tongue.”

  Dominic gestured as if to say, See?

  “I do not give a bloody farthing,” the marquis said, standing and pointing at Dominic. “You will show your mother some respect.”

  Dominic refrained, just barely, from mentioning the contradiction inherent in his stepfather’s curse. The man had no sense of humor and would not appreciate the irony. He also had a selective memory. At the moment, he chose to forget that his wife possessed a somewhat less than savory past.

  Dominic wished he could forget.

  “My lord,” Dominic said, tamping his fury down from long habit, “I do not wish to marry. I have no obligation to produce an heir as I have no lands or titles to pass on. There is no need—”

  “There is every need!” Lord Edgeberry boomed. Dominic clenched his fists to keep from using them. He was a grown man and did not enjoy being treated like a child. But he would tolerate it for his mother’s sake. “Your behavior is scandalous, and I’ll be damned if I will stand by while you produce a passel of bastards who show up on my door, begging for money.”

  Dominic cut his gaze to his mother, and the marchioness hissed in a breath and shook her head at her eldest son, her eyes pleading for forbearance. “My lord,” she said, rising and taking her husband’s arm. “Might we speak in private for a moment?”

  Dominic turned his back on the room and faced the mantel, staring at the figure of a small porcelain shepherdess. She was a typical English beauty with flaxen hair, rosy cheeks, and huge blue eyes. Dominic hated the type. Behind him he heard his mother’s rapid whispers. Every few moments, he was a
ble to discern one of her words. “Fatherless… Pride… Careful.”

  The door opened, and Carlisle, one of Dominic’s half-brothers, entered. “Oops! Sorry.” He stepped back out just as quickly, but not before catching Dominic’s eye and giving his older brother a grimace.

  “No, no, Carlisle,” their mother said. “Your father and I will speak in the parlor. You go ahead.” And she tugged the marquis out of the room, leaving Carlisle little choice but to enter.

  “I’m not going to ask what that was about,” Carlisle said, “so you’ll have to volunteer the information.”

  Dominic couldn’t stop a smile. Carlisle was his youngest half-brother and just out of school. At nineteen, he was not yet jaded by the world. But then again, why should he be? He was the son of a marquis, he was handsome, with blond hair and brown eyes, and he was wealthy. Nothing could touch him.

  “I’ll give you one guess,” Dominic said, lifting his teacup from the drawing room side table. He’d always liked his youngest brother. With thirteen years between them, they were too far apart to be rivals.

  “The woman who showed up with the babe last week?”

  “Your father wants me to marry before I bring more shame on the family name.” He sipped the tepid tea. He’d not had a chance to even taste it before his stepfather had launched into his tirade.

  Carlisle popped a teacake into his mouth and reached for another. “Is marriage so bad?”

  “I don’t see you rushing into the parson’s mousetrap.”

  Carlisle held the teacake in front of his chest like a shield. “I’m far too young. You’re an old man.”

  “Charming to the last,” Dominic retorted.

  “Was the babe yours?” Carlisle asked, his mouth full. Dominic rolled his eyes. The boy had no sense of decorum.

  “No.”

  “Who do they want you to marry?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He seemed to consider as he reached for a dainty sandwich. “It might.”

  “A Miss Jane Bonde.”

  Carlisle dropped the sandwich, and it rolled under a chair. The boy ignored it. “And you refused?”

  “I don’t want to marry, and I certainly won’t marry some chit I haven’t even met.”

  “But you’ve seen her?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dominic avoided social events. He had nothing to say to the ton. He was well aware they looked down on him. He did not need to be reminded of it nightly.

  “That explains it, then.” Carlisle reached for another sandwich.

  Dominic drank his tea. “You imply if I laid eyes on her, I would change my mind.”

  “Maybe not,” Carlisle mumbled around the bread. “But you’d think twice.”

  Dominic set his teacup down. He was beginning to think it a good idea to escape while he had the chance. “I doubt we have the same taste in women.”

  “She is every man’s taste, I assure you. Are you leaving?”

  Dominic was halfway across the room. “Yes, but I must say, Carlisle, you have intrigued me. I might have to see this Miss Bonde for myself.”

  “There is a long line of men ahead of you.”

  Dominic opened the door. “Give Lord Edgeberry my regards.”

  “That ought to be a pleasant task,” Carlisle muttered. Dominic closed the door and started for the stairs. He hadn’t made it far before his mother stepped in front of him. She was petite, dark and exotic with her gypsy coloring. As far as Dominic knew, she was not of gypsy blood, but she did nothing to dispel the rumors. He was a great deal taller than she. His father must have been a man of some height, for Dominic was a head taller than his stepfather and his three half-brothers. But woe to the man or woman who equated height with power. Titania Griffyn—now Titania Houghton-Cleveborne, Marchioness of Edgeberry—was a force to be reckoned with.

  “A word, my darling son.” She gestured toward her boudoir, where she met with her closest friends, and set off, not waiting to see if he would follow.

  Dominic sighed and followed.

  Want more of

  Lily and Andrew?

  They appear in the other titles in Shana Galen’s Jewels of the Ton series

  And don’t forget to stop by Shana Galen’s website,

  shanagalen.com, for a special series epilogue featuring all of your favorite characters

  Acknowledgments

  It’s an amazing feeling when a book is complete, and as I sit at my laptop in the wee hours of the morning and contemplate typing The End, I am thankful for those who have helped me in some small way with Lily’s story.

  First of all, I want to thank my readers, who encourage and inspire me.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to my agents, Joanna and Danielle, who are my biggest cheerleaders.

  I would sleep a lot less if not for my awesome assistant Gayle, who takes all the tedious administrative tasks off my plate. Jen and Maddee at xuni.com are also indispensable.

  When I get stuck, I can always turn to the Brainstorm Troopers for ideas or suggestions. Thanks, Margo, Robyn, Anne, and Emily. When I need a boost, the Peanut Butter on the Keyboard Moms can always make me feel better. Thanks to Kieran, Maisey, Ellie, Robyn, and Emily.

  When I’m stressed, Emily and Amy are only a text away and always “ready to rock” at 5 a.m.

  Thank you to Grace Burrowes, who answered my horse-related questions. Any mistakes in the manuscript are my own.

  As an author, it’s a gift to have an editor who loves my work and allows me to take risks. Thanks to my wonderful editor Deb Werksman. And thank you as well to the team at Sourcebooks who works so hard on my behalf—Rachel Edwards, Susie Benton, my cover designers and copy editors. Danielle Dresser, you are a rock star.

  And finally, thank you to my family for their support and sacrifices.

  About the Author

  Shana Galen is the bestselling author of fast-paced, adventurous Regency historicals, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married to a man she calls Ultimate Sportsfan and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers: visit her website at www.shanagalen.com, download her free author app for exclusive content and first looks, or see what she’s up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.

  Check out these other great Regency reads from Shana Galen!

  The Sons of the Revolution Series

  The Making of a Duchess

  The Making of a Gentleman

  The Rogue Pirate's Bride

  The Jewels of the Ton Series

  When You Give a Duke a Diamond

  If You Give a Rake a Ruby

  The Lord and Lady Spy Series

  Lord and Lady Spy

  The Spy Wore Blue (A Novella)

  True Spies

  Love and Let Spy (Available in 2014)

  Praise for Shana Galen

  “BRILLIANT AND SEXY! Once you start a Shana Galen book, you won’t put it down until you reach the end.” —Sophie Jordan, New York Times bestselling author of Wicked in Your Arms

  “Galen strikes the perfect balance between dangerous intrigue and sexy romance.” —Booklist