Her invisibility was on full display on that particular October afternoon in 1839 when, as the autumn sun crept low across the sky, she entered the warehouse that acted as the official headquarters of London’s largest gang of muscle for hire, Alfred Trumbull’s Bully Boys. The crew had been renamed in the wake of their violent merger on her failed wedding day with a portmanteau devised by her father—a man who knew well how an inexpensive gift could bring bad men to a cause.

  It had been five years since Adelaide had seen the inside of the warehouse—five years since she’d left Lambeth and begun a new life across the river—but she remembered the place as though no time had passed at all. It remained full to the brim with the gang’s stolen goods—booze and jewels, silks and sterling, and a collection of firearms that should have blown them all up by now, considering the group’s notorious lack of sense.

  Wearing a high-collared, trim fitting navy coat over a dark shirt and drab skirts, Adelaide made her way through the building. The clothes, along with the unadorned grey cap that hid her hair, were designed for ease of movement during just this kind of activity, ensuring that when she tucked into shadows or ducked behind crates of contraband, she disappeared.

  Three separate patrols stayed her passage to the top floor, where her father’s office sat empty. Alfie Trumbull took “tea” every afternoon at four o’clock at the Wild Pheasant—a bordello he owned in the shadow of Lambeth Palace. The location of the place, mere yards from where the Archbishop of Canterbury laid his head, was no doubt part of its charm for Alfie, who had always thought himself the highest of beings.

  The first patrol had required her to make a quick stop behind the stairs on the ground floor, the second sent her into hiding at the back corner of the warehouse, and the third had nearly caught her as she slipped inside her father’s office, sliding between several large barrels of whiskey to wait them out.

  Five years, and while the world was changing with wild speed beyond those walls, absolutely nothing was different inside Alfie’s dominion. Same patrol schedule. Same hiding places. Same conversations—a bout that had sent a boy to the surgeon the night before but won them a decent amount of blunt.

  Adelaide waited for them to lumber off, grateful that her father continued to value brawn over brains when it came to his watchmen. Once they were gone, Adelaide moved to Alfie’s workspace and sat, stilling in surprise.

  Not everything was the same. Her father had bought himself a desk. One with drawers and locks and a bright shine that Adelaide imagined gave him pride every time he sat behind it.

  He wouldn’t be happy when he realized his locks were no match for a thief.

  Quickly, Adelaide extracted a snuffbox from the deep inside pocket of her coat and pulled a long gold chain from beneath the collar of her shirt. At the end of the chain hung a narrow brass tube, the tip of which she removed before opening the box to reveal the heads of a dozen brass keys. In seconds, she selected the proper one and attached it to the pendant.

  Turning her newly created key in the desk lock, she reveled in the clean thunk of the steel tumblers within and began her search. She did not find what she was looking for in the first two drawers, nor was it in the deep, locked drawer at the bottom of the heavy desk. Except . . .

  She extracted three heavy ledgers from the drawer, deep and well balanced on casters—her father had spared no expense—and set them on the desk, calculating their height before pushing back in the chair and considering the exterior of the drawer itself. A little smile played across her lips. Alfie Trumbull didn’t trust his boys after all.

  Sliding her fingers over the wood inside, Adelaide found the hidden catch in seconds and threw it to reveal a secret compartment beneath the drawer’s false bottom.

  “There you are,” she whispered, triumph flaring as she lifted a tiny black book, small enough to fit in a gentleman’s pocket. She opened it, confirming that it was what she sought: the locations of the eleven caches of munitions The Bully Boys had hidden throughout the city, along with the names of the Boys assigned to each, the schedules of the changings of the guard, and the provenance of each of the weapons within, each meticulously accounted by Alfie Trumbull himself.

  Slipping the book into her own pocket, Adelaide moved to restore the drawer to rights before pausing, her gaze falling to the other item in the hidden compartment.

  A block of ordinary wood.

  With a little frown, she reached for it, lifting the six-inch cube. A lifetime of thieving had taught Adelaide that ordinary things were rarely that—especially when her father kept them in false-bottomed drawers—and so, she did what she often did when something piqued her curiosity.

  She took it.

  The light was fading fast inside the building, so she worked quickly. Replacing the bottom of the drawer, she returned the ledger books, dismantled her skeleton key, and stood, tucking her snuffbox away and settling the wooden cube into the crook of her arm.

  “That doesn’t belong to you.”

  Her heart leapt into her throat as she looked to the doorway, her free hand already sliding inside her skirts to the false pocket at her thigh, headed for the blade she kept there. She preferred to remain invisible and not leave a mess on missions, but she wasn’t above taking out this bruiser if she had to.

  He was the opposite of invisible, tall and lean, standing in the shadows just inside the office door, peaked cap pulled low over his brow, doing absolutely nothing to hide the sharp lines of his handsome face—a long, straight nose and an angled jaw that appeared to have been honed by the best of bladesmiths.

  This was not one of her father’s bruisers.

  Even if she hadn’t been able to hear it in his proper voice, or see it in the way he held himself, as though it had never occurred to him that he did not belong in a place—even a dark warehouse owned by a hardened criminal . . . even if he didn’t look as though he’d spent his youth learning to fence instead of fight . . . it was the nose that gave it away.

  He’d never once spent a night hungry. Never once had to brawl for his safety or his supper. Never once had to steal, because he had obviously been born into all he had.

  The man was money.

  And he was going to get them both caught.

  She stood and headed around the side of the desk for the door, refusing to look at him or speak to him, considering her options. She couldn’t knife money. But she could certainly serve him a facer if he didn’t let her leave the room.

  Except, when she got to the door, he stopped her. He didn’t touch her—he simply set one hand to the doorjamb and said, “Once again, that does not belong to you.”

  “And what,” she retorted. “It belongs to you?”

  He stiffened at the words, as though he was offended that she would deign to reply to him.

  Definitely money. With absolutely no claim on this place. And he thought to tell her—Adelaide Frampton, the best thief Lambeth had ever seen—what she could and could not steal? The man should know his betters.

  “It does, as a matter of fact.”

  Surprised, she lifted her gaze to his face, past the rough scruff on his jaw and the low brim of his cap—a meager attempt at a disguise, as Adelaide recognized him instantly. And bit back a groan.

  He wasn’t just money. He wasn’t just some toff.

  And he most definitely wasn’t handsome.

  The man in front of her was the Duke of Clayborn. The absolute worst of the aristocracy, with a stiff upper lip and a stick up his—

  “Oy!”

  The shout came from outside the door, where she could see a decent-sized watchman headed their way, beady eyes trained on her.

  So much for invisible.

  “Dammit, Clayborn,” she whispered, her grip tightening on the box. “Of course you would turn up here and see us both killed.”

  He couldn’t conceal the surprise on his face. “You recognize me?”

  Of course she did. She’d know this particular duke anywhere. He was impossible not to know. The last time he’d been this close to her, they’d been north of the river in the heart of Mayfair, and he’d given Adelaide a scathing setdown—the kind arrogant, rich, titled men adored delivering with cool disdain to women far below their station. He was lucky she wasn’t in the habit of brandishing her blade at dinner.

  Though, if anyone could drive her to it, it was this man.

  Stern and cold . . . and absolutely rubbish at remaining unnoticed.

  “You there! Wot you doin’ in Alfie’s office!”

  Adelaide didn’t wait. Instead, she took off, ducking under his arm and flying down the hallway away from the guard.

  “Shit, boys! ’Ere’s intruders up here!”

  “My cue,” she said before flying down the stairs to the first floor of the warehouse, calculating that she had less than a minute to get herself lost in the shadows. If she could get herself to the far end of the building, where the large door stood open to the fast-darkening street, she might be able to disappear.

  Except she wasn’t alone.

  The Duke of Clayborn was matching her move for move, light on his feet and faster than she would have thought a man of his size would be, but no less difficult to hide. Which was not her problem.

  She tossed him a look. “Get gone, Duke.”

  “Not a chance.”

  With an irritated sigh, Adelaide checked behind her as they exited the stairwell, their original pursuer halfway down the stairs from above, and three others coming up from below. Biting back a curse, she headed down a long row of stacked crates, as far as she dared before tucking herself behind one.

  He slid in beside her, barely there a moment before he inhaled, clearly planning to speak.

  Adelaide covered his mouth with her hand, the scruff of his day-old beard rough-soft against her fingers. Not that she was interested in how he felt against her fingers. If the fire in his blue gaze was any indication, he wasn’t interested in that, either. He was annoyed, no doubt, that she was taking charge. Well, he’d have to get used to it if he wanted out of here unscathed.

  She shook her head and pointed to beyond the stack of crates, where two of Alfie Trumbull’s guards thoroughly searched the passageway. Leaning in, she whispered close to his ear, barely a sound, “Can you fight?”

  As she hadn’t removed her hand from his lips, he raised a superior brow in reply, his offended answer clear as a bell. Of course I can fight.

  He likely couldn’t fight worth a damn—aristocrats were generally useless—but there wasn’t a choice. Adelaide hadn’t been caught in sixteen years, and she wasn’t about to start now. The men approached.

  Releasing him, she shifted silently on the balls of her feet and reached beneath her skirts, slipping her blade from the sheath inside her boot with one hand, clutching the wooden cube in the other. She put a shoulder to the stack of crates that shielded them.

  Five yards.

  He shifted with her, matching her stance, facing her, his shoulder to the rough-hewn wood.

  Two.

  The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers curved into fists. He’d need them. What they were about to do would bring every guard in the place.

  One.

  With a prayer that he could, indeed, fight, she nodded once. Twice.

  “Now,” he mouthed. As one, they pushed, knocking the tower of boxes toward the pair of bruisers that were nearly on top of them.

  Twin shouts were punctuated with an ear-splitting crash, but Adelaide didn’t stay to look at their handiwork. Instead, she ran, getting nearly as far as the skeleton stairs at the front of the warehouse—the ones that led to the streets outside and freedom.

  Clayborn was on her heels, and though she did not look back—no time—she did call back to him, “This is no place for a duke.”

  “Ideal place for a lady, is it?” he retorted.

  She wasn’t a lady, but she didn’t correct him, telling herself that it was because she was too busy tearing down the stairs. She headed for the door, where two guards were waiting. Without hesitating, she clocked one in the head with the wood block. “I was doing just fine before you turned up.” She ducked as the other man swung a ham-sized fist at her head.

  She heard it connect with a heavy thwack, and something she didn’t care for had her turning back to see what had happened.

  Clayborn had caught the blow in one large hand. “That wasn’t very gentlemanly,” he said, all calm, the thug’s eyes going wide at the words. “And you’re lucky you didn’t strike her.” He punctuated the words with an excellent facer, dropping the villain to his knees.

  Her eyes went wide in surprise as she stared at the unconscious man. “What if he had struck me?” When the duke did not reply, she added, “So you can fight.”

  He tossed her another irritated look. “I don’t lie.”

  Of course he took offense to that. Honestly, it was surprising the whole of the South Bank hadn’t gone up in flames when the Duke of Clayborn arrived like the angel of judgment.

  She’d barely had time to roll her eyes at him before they were off again, out of the warehouse and into the street beyond, Adelaide quickly ducking behind a pile of rubbish and slipping her knife back into the pocket of her skirts, where a scabbard was fastened tight at her thigh.

  Clayborn watched her and she ignored the heat that somehow came from his cool gaze. “The Duchess of Trevescan’s cousin, are you?”

  She hid the surprise that flared when he identified her. For a woman who was practiced at remaining unnoticed and invisible, the Duke of Clayborn’s undivided focus proved unnerving, especially since it was clear her secret was out, and he was fully capable of returning to Mayfair and telling the whole of London that she was nothing close to an aristocrat’s cousin. Still, Adelaide brazened it through. “What, you don’t have remarkable fruit on the family tree?”

  He watched her for a moment, and then said, “None so remarkable as you.”

  Oh. She’d return to those five words at a later time.

  But now, Adelaide had somewhere to be. “This is as far as I take you, Duke. They won’t come for an aristocrat in daylight, but you’d best hurry if you want to avoid meeting Lambeth’s finest.”

  Before he could reply, she was off, disappeared into the afternoon throngs knowing that if she were caught, there would be no quarter.

  For Adelaide Frampton, née Trumbull, daylight in Lambeth was cold comfort, as her father and The Bully Boys ran all of the South Bank, and she would find no help anywhere here—not because she didn’t have supporters, but because they lacked the strength to go up against London’s largest gang of street thugs.

  She understood that truth intimately; she’d only gained the strength to fight The Bully Boys once she’d left the muck of Lambeth, so she didn’t blame those who had no means to do the same.

  Within minutes, the felled brutes in the warehouse would turn into half a dozen outside, so Adelaide turned north, aiming to disappear into the narrow labyrinthine streets of the South Bank—the maze she’d learned before she’d learned her own name.

  Unfortunately, her pursuers had received the same lessons.

  She’d made a half-dozen turns before she was trapped, somewhere between St. George’s Circus and New Cut. One of Alfie’s men stood like a silent, massive sentry on one end, and two more approached, blades out, from behind.

  The big one tilted his chin at the cube beneath Adelaide’s arm. “You’ve taken something that don’t belong to you, gel.”

  She touched a hand to her cap, hoping it would keep her from being recognized. Five years away didn’t make a new face, and didn’t change the color of one’s hair. “More than one thing, but who’s counting?”

  His companion growled.

  Adelaide would wager all she had that these two had no idea what she carried. She had no idea herself, and she was surely the cleverest of the assembly.

  Before she could say as much, however, the brute behind her spoke. “Set it down, girl, and no one gets hurt.”

  She definitely wasn’t giving it back now. Adelaide extracted her watch, checking the time. Damn. She was going to be late. “I think that if I set this down, someone will absolutely get hurt.”

  He grinned, showing several missing teeth, no doubt knocked out. “Why not try it and see?”

  The trio closed in on her, their lack of hesitation leaving little time for a body to calculate its next move—but Adelaide was no ordinary foe. Within seconds, she knew how hard she would have to swing to knock out Teeth, how long it would take for the others to reach her, and what she’d have to do to bring them down. Angles were measured, force calculated, timing predicted.

  She lowered herself to one knee. Set the oak cube to the ground.

  “That’s it, love,” Teeth said, closer now. Her hand moved, searching for the false pocket in her skirts, aiming for the blade strapped to her thigh. And then . . . “Hang on . . .” he said, softly, the tone shifting. No longer full of disdain and loathing.

  Now full of something else. Something far more dangerous.

  Recognition.

  “You’re—” he began, but before he could finish the thought, all hell broke loose.

  Teeth’s attention shot over her head even as Adelaide turned to look at the commotion behind her, the two brutes who’d been heading for her suddenly locked in a battle with the Duke of Clayborn.

  Dammit. This was a man who had a home in Mayfair and a seat in Parliament. Did he have nothing better to do than follow her through Lambeth?

  Returning to the situation at hand, she reached down for the block of wood at her feet, clasped it in two hands, and brought it up sharply to knock Teeth back. Adelaide was running before he cracked his head against the cobblestones.

  A shout sounded behind her.

  She shouldn’t look. She hadn’t asked Clayborn to get involved. She certainly didn’t require a protector. This would serve him right.

  That, and she had to get out of there before someone else recognized her.

  She looked anyway, just in time to see one of The Bully Boys land a heavy blow to the Duke of Clayborn’s face.

  He came back swinging like his life depended on it. And it did, she supposed; her father’s men were not known for mercy. The duke held his own, however, landing a tight jab and another, sending one of his opponents to his knees before turning to the other, throwing a wicked uppercut, knocking the man off balance and straight back into the closest wall, to sink slowly toward the ground.