Dedication
For my sisters and brothers: Crystal, Jay, Molly, Kevin, Cornell and Matthew, who always make me feel as if I’ve never left home, no matter how long I’ve been gone; and for Scott and Conrad, who are always in our hearts.
For my beautiful niece, Sarah Greuel, whose friends don’t believe her Aunt Rachelle is a famous author. For Meg Ruley, who encouraged me toward “exciting new worlds.”
Annelise Robey for being my sanity and support. I don’t know what I would do without you!
And always, for my husband and kids, because they are my everything.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Scandalous Lady
She forced herself to look up into his face, and oh, crikey, wished she hadn’t. The bloke was even more handsome than she’d first judged and did not do her fantasy justice. Raindrops slid off the brim of his hat to soak his shoulders, turning the gray to black. A shadow of whiskers darkened his sharply angled jaw and chin and surrounded a nicely bowed mouth too unsettling to dwell on. The bridge of his nose was straight as a dagger blade, unmarred by the telling bump she so often saw on those prone to brawling, the tip rounded, the nostrils nicely flared. Unfashionably short sideburns looked freshly trimmed, as did the coal black hair pulled back behind his ears and secured at his nape. And his eyes . . . God’s teeth, the man had glorious eyes. Spiky lashes swept out above irises the color of mist on stone, and long hooded lids drew down at the corners in a sensual curve that made her think of how a man might look at a woman waiting in his bed. . . .
Prologue
San Francisco, California
1887
It had been a deception of such magnitude that even the queen of cons couldn’t comprehend the feat. One brother’s betrayal against another, four lives torn asunder, two little girls stolen from their family—
And Faith Jervais had been one of them.
A salty Pacific breeze blew in from the ocean, where forgotten memories of waves crashing against jagged rocks became reality. Aniste Jervais-Justiss stood upon the terrace, leaning against the wrought-iron railing overlooking the water. Even her name didn’t fit. She’d been Honesty McGuire, daughter of the greatest con man in the West for so long that she still had trouble comprehending that she was, in truth, Aniste Jervais, joint heiress to the greatest shipping fortune in the country. How did one adjust to the fact that her entire life as she’d known it had been a lie?
She closed her eyes and tried to absorb all that she’d missed while she’d been away. Sixteen years, she thought. Sixteen years since she’d stood in this spot, felt the cool, balmy air caress her face, breathed in the redolence of marine life, coastal mint and eucalyptus, and her favorite fragrance, lilac, growing profusively in the gardens beneath her. Sixteen years since she’d been taken from it all by a man with greed in his heart and vengeance in his soul. How often had she dreamed of this place, without understanding why? Without knowing its significance?
Then again, she and her sister had only been children when it all began, a plan hatched by a devious uncle to load his pockets, no matter how innocent the victims or how grave the sin. While she’d grown up traveling the West with Deuce McGuire, rooking the gullible, conning the cons, she’d never once suspected that the man who’d raised her, loved her, and taught her everything she knew, the man she’d always believed to be her father, hadn’t been her father at all. And she never would have known differently if not for his death and one man’s dogged determination to uncover the truth.
As if the thought of him could make him appear, her bedroom door opened, and he stepped inside. Honesty would have known it was him even if she hadn’t turned around. It had been that way since she’d first met Jesse Justiss back in Last Hope, Colorado, the ability to sense his presence before she saw him. Her entire existence seemed to narrow down to pure feminine sensation: tingling nerves, quickening pulses, giddy delight. And even after all these months, the sight of his rugged frame and windswept blond hair, so incongruous among the dainty white lace and porcelain bric-a-brac, still took her breath away.
The door shut softly behind him. He leaned against it, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and gave her one of those hooded examinations that always turned her bones to mush. “What are you still doing awake, wife?” he asked.
Wife. Another thing she still found hard to believe. Honesty glanced back to the ocean lest he see the longing in her eyes. “Just thinking.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” he said, joining her on the terrace. “Every time you think, I wind up in trouble.”
She gave him a playful swat to his shoulder. Grinning, he caught her against him with one arm around her waist and drew her against his chest. Honesty leaned against him, welcoming the solid strength at her back as together, they gazed upon the ocean where moonlight danced upon the curling waves. How could she ever have gotten through the last few days—the last few months—without him?
“So what were you thinking about?”
“I never in my wildest dreams would have thought my life would turn out like this.” Discovering herself the long-lost heiress to a shipping fortune, meeting her true father, a man she’d never known existed, and learning that she had a sister out there somewhere. How did someone forget her own twin? “And I can’t help but wonder about Faith.”
Her gaze turned to the picture on the nightstand beside the king-size canopy bed. It was a miniature-size replica of a portrait that hung in the library downstairs—her father, asleep down the hall; her mother, buried long ago, and a pair of identical blond little girls, one returned, the other . . . “What if it’s been too long? What if we can’t find her?”
“We’ll find her—wherever she is. I give you my word.”
She well knew that Jesse never broke his word. Still, she wished she had his confidence. She couldn’t forget that someone’s clothes had washed up on the bay after the abduction of herself and her twin sister, and obviously they hadn’t been hers. “But what if it’s been too long? What if we’re far too late?”
“She’s a survivor, darlin’. The same blood runs through her veins as yours.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “If you ask me, you’re worrying for nothing. She’s probably married to some upstate bluestocking, has a passel of kids tugging at her skirts, and is living high on the hog.”
“I hope you’re right, Jesse.” Honesty sighed as she stared at Faith’s young likeness. “I hope you’re right.”
Chapter 1
London, England
1887
The blow came swiftly and suddenly, a sharp crack of flesh against flesh that snapped Fanny Jarvis’s head back and knocked her off her feet, onto the solid rock floor.
“This is all you brought me, you worthless piece of rubbish?”
She barely heard him. Her ears rang, her head spun. Blimey if he didn’t split her lip again, too. Only half a lifetime of mastering her own actions kept her from pressing her hand to the broken flesh or to her stinging cheek, or give any other sign that he’d caused her discomfort. Weakness of any kind was not tolerated by Jack Swift.
Aware that the rest of the band watched her from various corners of the antechamber, Fanny swallowed the sharp taste of disgrace rising in her throat. She dragged one foot under her for support, then the other. Every last one of the lot darted glances in her direction—a couple played dice, one whittled, the others drew or sewed or sharpened their knives—but not a one came to her defense or her aid. Not that she would have accepted it anyway. Being the only female in a league of boys had not earned her special treatment for the last ten years; she’d not expect that to change now. As usual, she was on her own, and she would die before letting them see her brought to her knees.
Once again on her feet, she brushed back a screen of wet, tangled hair that had fallen across her eyes and faced the keeper of the band. Most times, Jack was a decent fellow, and any woman would tell you he was a handsome one. Wavy, whiskey brown hair touched his collar, thick eyebrows of the same shade winged above his eyes, and trimmed sideburns reached the hinge of his jaw. His skin was clear and his teeth straight, and fancying himself a gentleman of means, he liked to dress the part. This eve he sported his favorite—if not faded—gold vest over the only white shirt he owned, the one with ruffles at the collar and cuffs. A black serge coat lined in fur fit snugly about his shoulders. His breeches matched his coat and his shoes—the fancy black ones with the faux-silver buckles—had been polished to a high shine.
But under the dandyish layers of a man known commonly on the outside as Gentleman Jack waited the quicksilver temper of Jack Swift, the most cunning thief on two continents.
“There’s hardly anyone about this eve, Jack,” she softly explained, bowing her head in a subservience that grated against every nerve in her body. “With the season nearly over, most all the gents worth bilkin’ have left.” Jack must know that. He prided himself in knowing every peculiarity of the noble classes. He could cite the moment the first lords and ladies arrived in London each spring to attend their fancy parties and balls, and the last to leave the city each July.
Crikey, even if they were in the midst of the season, no one with their wits about them would venture out in such miserable weather. It had been raining since dawn, a steady pouring that overflowed sewage ditches and turned potholes into cesspools. Fanny spoke none of her thoughts aloud, of course. Excuses would only enrage him more.
He turned away from her to examine the evening’s pickings piled at the corner of the supper table: a drawstring purse, suspiciously light, two leather wallets, three gold pocket watches.
The moments dragged on like lead pipes across concrete as he counted the swag in each billfold. Her heart pounded so hard that she feared he could hear it. Sweat dampened her palms. Her hands clenched and unclenched. She hid them in her pockets before he took note of her nervousness, and prayed he’d be quicker about counting the spoils so she could escape.
Finally, he tossed the last billfold upon the table and turned to her. “I think you are holding out on me, Fanny.”
His eyes, deep-set chips of jade known to as easily entice a trollop as freeze a pugilist in his tracks, narrowed to slits. She’d seen more than one man look into them, then tuck his tail between his legs and run. At this moment, Fanny knew exactly how they felt. “I’d never do that.” Only a fool would think he could cheat Jack Swift and get away with it.
“Empty your pockets.”
Fanny’s fingers tightened around a precious chunk of sweet cake that she’d swiped an hour earlier, nearly severing it in two. If he learned that she’d slacked in her duty for even a second, there would be the devil to pay. At the time, with her stomach pinched tighter than Queen Victoria’s corset, Fanny couldn’t bring herself to care a whit whether or not Jack Swift lost his temper. She’d lain in wait in the alley, her eyes trained on the coffeehouse across the street instead of the pub on the corner. It was crucial to get there the instant the light was snuffed, else you wound up clawing your way amongst dozens of anxious scavengers eager to claim the eve’s bounty.
Now, beneath his brittle glower, the victory she’d felt in reaching the rubbish barrel ahead of the pack turned to throat-closing dread.
“Have you gone cloth-eared, Fanny? Empty your pockets!”
She flinched at his tone and forced herself forward. Her legs felt like wood, and a despised sob rose in her throat as she reached into the outer pocket of her coat and laid the evidence of her detour onto the table. Every muscle in her body tightened in preparation for another blow as he stared at the misshapen crust.
“You disappoint me, Fanny. Do I not feed you, clothe you, provide shelter over your pitiful head?”
“Aye, Jack.”
“Then why, when I ask only one small task in return, do you defy me?”
“I did not defy ye—”
“Did you not?” He swept his arm across the table. Coins spun through the air and pinged to the floor; a watch chain caught on the back of a chair while another skittered toward the blackened stove at the far end of the room. But it was the sight of her precious chunk of sweet cake dropping into a bucket of stagnant water that made her heart pitch.
“Had you gone to the wharf as you were told, you would have brought back more than this paltry amount. Instead, you deemed it more important to stake out the bloody pastry shop. Need I remind you what happens to those who do not earn their keep?”
Anger bubbled up inside Fanny. “I did not defy ye, Jack,” she insisted with strained calmness. “I waited outside Jorge’s for hours, but nary a soul came out of the tavern.”
“Then get back and wait some more. And don’t let me see you back here until you’ve got something worth bringing me.”
He turned away from her. Fanny hesitated a moment before taking a cautious step backward. Then another. And another. Only when she was safely out of his reach did she turn on her worn heel and flee.
The tunnels wound beneath the city, home to rats and vermin, thieves and beggars, and she raced through them with an ease born of nearly a decade of practice. Dripping water echoed through a darkened area to her right, the sharp odor of kerosene mixed with mildew clung to the crumbling walls, and the stench of sewage permeated through every crack and crevice. At the southernmost passage, Fanny swung right, then pushed open a steel door and slipped into an antechamber she’d claimed as her own years earlier. A moth-eaten scrap of wool was folded in half on the floor next to a crate missing three of its slats. The precious stub of a candle sat atop the crate, and a tiny window embracing the silhouette of a low-hanging moon crumbled high up on the stone wall.
Fanny dropped to her knees beside her pallet. Her muscles started to tremble. Tears of pain and humiliation at being set down in front of the band slipped from the control she’d fought to maintain. She swiped at her cheeks impatiently, hating the weakness of tears as much as the cause, and winced when her fingers brushed across a bruise Jack’s fist had left behind. If she were a man, she’d not have stood there and taken the hit; she’d have popped him back a good one. Let him see how it felt to get knocked on his arse.
Well, she’d not bear it forever. Jack didn’t know it yet, but one day she’d leave this place. If it took her last breath, she would. She’d find herself a snug little cottage in the country where the spring chill didn’t settle in the stones and refuse didn’t layer the floors. Food would be bought fresh at the market and served on platters, not dug up from the bottom of a slop barrel. And she’d wear fancy clothes that fit her instead of rags swiped off an untended clothesline, unfit to dust with. And people would call her by her given name. She closed her eyes and let the sound of it fill her mind. Faith. She hadn’t heard it spoken in so long that it surprised her that she still remembered it. Mark it up to another thing Jack Swift had denied her. Said it sounded too uppity, and he’d not give a worthless urchin any cause for putting on
airs. Aye, one day—
Oh, who was she foolin’? Fanny’s shoulders slumped. She’d never get away from Bethnal Green, never live in a nice place or eat decent food or wear fancy clothes, never be called anything but “Fanny,” as if she were the hind end of someone’s mistake. If she tried leaving, Jack would track her down and turn her in. He’d threatened to more than once. And when the coppers learned what she’d done—
“It’s about time ye showed up!”
Her heart stopped at the unexpected voice coming from a figure that popped into the room. It took her only a second to recognize the shaggy-headed, baggy-clothed teenager, but that one second seemed to last two lifetimes. “God’s teeth, Scatter, ye gave me fright!” She wiped her eyes quickly lest he see her weeping like a babe.
“Where ye been? A feller could starve t’ death waitin’ on the likes of you.” He leaped up and caught an overhead pipe, then hung from it by his knees. “Did ye bring me anything?”
“Don’t I always, ye li’l beggar?”
Fanny withdrew a half loaf of bread she’d hidden in a low, inside pocket, broke off a chunk, and handed it to Scatter. He stole it faster than spit on a stick and shoved it into his mouth. Like most of her fellow knucks, he had the look of a street rat stamped all over him—gaunt features born of too few meals, too much trouble, and far more misery than a boy his age should ever know. He claimed not to know his parents, but he had the look of gypsy stock. Black, stringy hair, thick brows, dark eyes, and a sharp nose. Hell, he could be the long-lost heir to a foreign throne for all either of them knew. What Fanny did know was that he’d attached himself to her almost from the minute he’d landed his skinny arse in Jack Swift’s band. Though six years her junior, he was the closest she could claim to family. She often thought of him as a younger brother, and had made it her duty to watch out for him. Why, she had yet to figure. He was as useful as a sore tooth.
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