He’d known. All this time, he’d known who her father was. And still, he’d made love to her. Still, he’d held her in his arms and fed her and touched her and listened to her. Trusted her.

  Loved her.

  Impossible. He must not understand. “Alfie doesn’t just own a warehouse in Lambeth. He’s the leader of The Bully Boys. The gang is literally named for him.”

  “Two rival gangs, brought together by a fearsome leader.” This, too, he knew. “The scourge of South London. Believe it or not, they’ve come up in Parliament a time or two.”

  “And you’ve paid attention?”

  He looked positively offended.

  “Apologies,” she said instantly. “Of course you did. You’re you.”

  “That, and my brother has been in debt to them on more than one occasion.”

  She shook her head. “Your brother is not very intelligent.”

  “I am hoping his new bride will sort that out.” He fed her a slice of apple. “He is the handsome brother, though, so at least he has that.”

  She smiled. “What with you being so ghastly looking.” Even bruised and bloodied and full of half-healed wounds, he was the handsomest thing she’d ever seen.

  “Not anymore.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head and said, “Not now that my nose is broken.”

  She laughed, and the moment was a gift—a calm before the storm she was about to loose. “My father—he was . . . a king. He has never owned a single thing he did not believe he might one day sell for more than he paid. Everything had a price, and Alfie Trumbull’s goal was to demand the highest one. Always. Everything in his possession, everyone in his employ—if they did not hold monetary value, they were not for Alfie.” She paused, then added, “And that included me.”

  His touch stuttered on its path down her spine, just barely. Just enough that she looked to him again, finding his eyes clouded with something she might like if she were willing to think on it.

  “My being his daughter wasn’t enough. I needed to pull weight.”

  “So you became a pickpocket.”

  She nodded. “A nipper. Lots of girls did—when you’re small and fast, you’ve a better chance of cutting a purse and not being caught.”

  He nodded. “And you were good.”

  She couldn’t stop her proud grin. “Aye,” she said, letting the South Bank into the words. “Stickiest fingers in all South London. Mayfair never saw me coming.”

  He laughed. “They deserved what they got, I assure you.”

  “Toffs never expect it inside their own circles. And let me tell you,” she underscored, “there are a half-dozen people with titles who are cutpurses themselves.”

  His brows rose. “Really?”

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “Oxford. Tillborn. Lady Weatherby.”

  He was astonished. “They’re good?”

  “No, they’re terrible. They’d be knifed inside of two minutes in Lambeth. But like I said, toffs never expect it inside their own circles. And unlike the rest of us, aristocrats don’t get caught.”

  His grip tightened on her hip. “You’ve been caught?”

  “You don’t get to be the best cutpurse on the South Bank without learning what happens if you fail.”

  “Tell me.”

  She risked a look at him to find him there, watching her. For a moment, she searched his gaze, sure she’d find judgment. Instead, she found him, open and welcome. A man who’d shared his own secrets, thinking they were dark. Not knowing what a secret might be. “Sunlight is the enemy of most criminals, but it was always my friend. I cut most of my purses early in the morning, when the sun was just peeping over the rooftops, turning the whole filthy place to gold. The pockets were light from nights of drinking, but easier to take. Drunk and tired marks made for stupid ones. And I learned early to take advantage.” She paused. “That, and if I made my quota early in the day, I could spend the rest of the day doing as I pleased.”

  “Exploring London’s bridges?”

  “Every one of them,” she said. “’Course, it was the bridges that got me into trouble.” She lifted a bit of food from the plate and nibbled at it, taking the excuse to think. “I mistakenly thought that early morning in Mayfair would be the same as early morning in Lambeth.”

  He sucked in a breath, even as she gave a little laugh. “The mark caught me the second I sliced his purse.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  He went hard like stone, every muscle in his body tensing, and she looked at him. “Henry—”

  “I want his name.” The words came on a scrape, like carriage wheels on cobblestones.

  “For what, punishment?”

  “Damn right.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You’re so righteous.”

  “You were a child.”

  “And you know better than most that such a thing did not matter.”

  His eyes were dark with fury, his words clipped when he asked, “What happened?”

  “The magistrate took pity on me.”

  “Released you.”

  She cut him a look. “No. He gave me sixteen days.”

  “Sixteen—” He stopped, his fists clenching. “Christ, Adelaide. In jail.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to find that bastard and destroy him. I’ll end him alongside his friend who thought to send an eight-year-old to the magistrate.”

  She couldn’t help the warmth that flooded her at his angry words. “You think to destroy every person who has ever harmed me?”

  “Yes.” The response was instant and categorical.

  What would her life have been if she’d had this man by her side from the start? What a partner he would have made. Would make. What a father.

  A vision flashed, a row of dark-haired, blue-eyed moppets, each one so loved. So cared for, with their father the duke watching over them. Their father, and their mother, who would be his match in all things. Pretty and perfect and pristine—born graceful and sweet-tempered. Adelaide’s opposite.

  “Where was your gang?” he asked, unaware of the riot of thoughts in her head.

  She swallowed around the knot in her throat. Focused on the story. “Alfie was outside when I was released.”

  “Your father came when you were released? Not before?”

  “What could he have done?”

  “I would have torn the place down, brick by brick, until they released you.”

  She smiled. “And they might have let you, Duke.”

  Perhaps he did not deserve the gentle reminder of his position, but Adelaide gave it anyway, to remind him of how distant they were from each other. To remind herself, she finished the story. “Alfie was there to give out my second punishment.” He froze, but she kept going. “Punishment for getting caught.”

  His fingers found the long scar on her back. Settled. “This?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That was the second time I was caught,” she said. “I was greedy. A fur muff. I wanted it for my father’s consort—the only one who was ever nice to me—for Christmas. He’d left her for a new girl, and she was heartbroken. I thought a muff would make her happy.”

  His chest tightened. “And?”

  She smiled. “Tough to hide a woman’s fur in a girl’s skirts.” She paused. “Fifteen lashes for the second infraction, and two months inside.”

  “God, Adelaide . . . Prison is no place for a child.”

  “Prison is no place for most of the people sent there,” she replied. And she’d been in the section of the prison that was reserved for children. “After my second trip, I vowed never to return.” She gave him a little smile. “I also vowed that I’d come for Mayfair eventually—the big fish I was determined to catch.”

  His brows rose. “And look at you now.”

  “Stealing kisses and secrets from dukes,” she whispered, even as he was the one who stole the kiss that followed the words.

  “And hearts,” he added on a low rumble when he released her.

  “Don’t give me your heart,” she urged him, softly. “I am not virtuous enough to return it.”

  He had to understand. She had to make him understand. If they could agree that being together would make more trouble than happiness, she could put this beautiful idyll behind her and let the rest of her life begin. He would become a dull ache—the kind that came in a long-broken bone when the weather changed. A distant memory from when she had fallen stupidly in love with a man she could not keep.

  She forced herself to add, “So there it is; the worst of it.”

  Now you know why you shouldn’t love me. Why there is no forever for us.

  He nodded gravely for a moment and then said, “Now tell me the best of it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “The . . . best?”

  “Tell me your happiest memory.”

  Had anyone ever asked her that? Worse, why was it so difficult to summon an answer? She thought for a long moment before settling on, “I do not dislike the memory of this morning.” Her name on his tongue. His touch on her skin. Her body on his.

  He smiled and kissed her temple. “Neither do I. But tell me one from before we knew each other.”

  “No,” she said softly, not wanting to give up another piece of herself. “You don’t understand. You can’t know more of me.”

  “Why not? What if I wished to know all of you?”

  She shook her head. “You can’t. We . . . can’t. Don’t you see?” She felt frantic, as though she’d lost her way in a dark alley. Or worse, in the bright light of Mayfair. “I can’t.”

  He was silent for a long moment, considering the words. Please, Henry, she begged silently. Please understand. I must hold back enough of myself to be able to stand tall when you leave.

  And still, when he repeated his request, she was powerless to resist. “One happy memory. Give me that, at least.”

  He made it seem like a barely there thing, impossible to refuse even as they both knew the truth. That every time she peeled off a piece of herself and shared it with him . . . it was more difficult to imagine letting him go.

  Still, she thought for a moment, looking for the kind of happy memories others discussed. Christmas feasts and birthday presents and holidays at the sea. But she’d had few of those things, and the ones she’d had were transactions—payment from her father for a decent haul or a quiet tongue. So none of them was really happy, because they didn’t come free.

  So she settled on, “I had a cat.”

  He tucked her into his chest and set his chin to the crown of her head. “Did it have a name?”

  She smiled. “Tail.”

  “A very ordinary name,” he teased.

  “He was black, with little white socks and a white bit on the tip of his tail,” she explained. “And a pink nose that looked like a heart.” He smiled at the description—unnecessary to the story and somehow extremely important for him to know. “Once, my father’s boys were hired to steal a shipment of illegal bourbon from a ship on the docks, and when it arrived, a handful of the cases were not bourbon at all. They were books.”

  He made an encouraging sound.

  She waved a hand. “Cavendish and Austen and the Norse myths.”

  “The shield-maidens.”

  “Among others.” She nodded. “My father wanted nothing to do with books; they held no value for him.”

  “So he gave them to you?”

  “Of course not. He would never gift me with something I might be willing to trade for. Those books—they could have demanded a dozen more purses cut.” She paused. “They were the first thing I ever stole from his warehouse.”

  “Mmm,” he said, the sound warming her with its approval. “And that is the happiest memory? Stealing books out from under your father’s nose?”

  She gave a little laugh. “It wasn’t meant to be, honestly, but now that you suggest it . . . I cannot say I did not enjoy it.”

  “Of course you did. You were free of him then. Of his rules. Free to take pleasure without having to pay for it.”

  She nodded, looking to him.

  “Adelaide,” he said, his thumb coming to stroke over her cheek. “Your joy—it should be free. It should come without taxes and tallies.”

  She put her head back to his chest then, afraid to face the words. Afraid of the truth—that if she asked, Henry would give her anything she wished. Free of charge.

  He sighed, the heavy breath the only sign of his disappointment that she did not face him. There was no hint of it when he asked, “And what of Tail?”

  Her fingertips stroked along his arm, playing with the crisp hair there. “Tail is the happy memory. I snuck those books into my bedchamber like treasure—lined the underside of my mattress with them. And at night, I would light a small candle and devour them, while Tail lay on my chest and purred.” She paused, lost to the memory of those nights, when books had transported her from the real world and its threats and promises.

  One of Henry’s large hands slid down her spine, warm and heavy and perfect. “A book, a bed, and a cat is all it takes, is it?”

  She snuggled closer. “A duke might do in a pinch.”

  The words were out before she could stop them. Before she could stop him from breathing her in, lips at her temple and nose in her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered there. “For sharing it with me.”

  She wanted to share more with him. All the rest. Every tiny moment of joy. Every time she’d been the first into a snowfall. The taste of the lemon buns in the bakeshop by Lambeth Palace. The thrill of a successful pickpocketing. Instead, she said, “Those nights with book and cat and bed were the happiest I had. Before I became a . . .” She paused, the rest of the sentence surprising her.

  His hand stilled low on her back. “A . . . ?”

  She fiddled with a threadbare spot on the chemise she wore and considered the repercussions of her next words. He had trusted her with his secret, had he not? “A Belle.”

  He exhaled, the sound less surprised and more relieved. “So it’s true what the papers say—that this gang of women exists.”

  “It’s true. And can you blame us?”

  “I suppose that explains the dossiers.”

  “The Matchbreaker serves several purposes.”

  “Let me guess.”

  She stayed quiet as he thought, eager for him to guess. Wanting him to be one of the few who understood.

  “There’s the obvious bit. Your group of women, bringing down the worst of men—those with unchecked power and nonexistent morals.”

  “We would not have to if Westminster would do it for us,” she replied.

  “Instead, you are called to service. And you put yourselves in harm’s way.” His brow furrowed. “You realize that if you are ever caught . . . if you are ever named as the Hell’s Belles . . .” He pushed a lock of her hair back from her face. “Christ, Adelaide, I shall have to rethink Parliament. You need a body man.”

  She smiled at the words. “You’ve proven yourself a sound bruiser.”

  Frustration flashed on his handsome face. “Don’t joke. What you play at—”

  She leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet as he deserved, this prince among men. “I know what we play at, Henry. Even if we were not exceedingly good at the game, I’ve played it for a lifetime, on my own.”

  “Not any longer.”

  Irritation flared. “You expect me to, what, wait for those in power to police themselves? To change the rules? That’s a pretty suggestion, Duke, but while you make your speeches, the real world turns. And real people are caught in the balance.”

  She made to move off his lap, but he caught her. Kept her. “No, Adelaide. I don’t mean that at all.” She looked back to him, his beautiful blue eyes clear and honest. “I mean, not on your own any longer. Now you have me.”

  Adelaide caught her breath.

  “I pledge you my sword, shield-maiden. Let me fight with you. For you. Beside you.”

  Oh.

  This man. He would break her if she was not careful. He would destroy her with his vows and his promises and his beautiful eyes and his warm touch and the way he noticed her.

  She almost believed him and the promise he delivered. God knew she wanted to. But she knew the truth—she was lucky enough to have had him here, now, for a time. Like a dream.

  She ought to send Danny a note of thanks.

  “Henry—” she began, but he cut her off, as though he knew what she was going to say.

  “Tell me the rest. To tear these men down, to pull them from their pedestals . . . You need access to their information. Some of that comes from your friends, to be sure. But dinner parties don’t bring access to secrets. Not the important ones.”

  She nodded, allowing him the change of topic. “No one has looser lips than a woman attempting to escape a bad match.”

  “So you build the dossiers about the poorly chosen bridegrooms . . . like Jack . . . and collect the real secrets in the balance?”

  “There are secrets and there are secrets,” she said, wanting him to understand that the circumstances of his birth were not what the Belles were after. “We’re after the secrets that should bring a man down. The ones that should spell ruin. Building a file on Jack was easy enough—and it gave us access to Helene, who . . . has a secret of her own.”

  His attention sharpened on her. “What kind of secret?”

  She shook her head. She could not tell him everything. Not without knowing Helene was safe. “The kind that sends peers to prison.”

  He went to steel at the words, immediately identifying the villain. “Adelaide, you cannot go head-to-head with Havistock. He’s a monster. What he used to hide—what he hid from my father—now, he shows in full light. He sees the world changing and knows his time is borrowed. He’s against a wall . . . and will destroy you if he has the chance.”

  She nodded. “That is precisely why we must go head-to-head with him, don’t you see? No one else comes for these men. No one else brings them to justice.”

  He knew she was right. She could see it in his eyes. In the shadow of frustration there.

  “Havistock built a fortune on the backs of the worst of our sins—every one of them legal and every one of them corrupt,” she said. He knew that. He saw the way the world twisted in knots to keep Havistock and his ilk out of trouble.