Lady Havistock nodded, looking relieved. “Helene is visiting friends in the country.”

  Adelaide’s full lips curved. “How lovely for her.”

  She crossed to him, at the door, her gaze shielded by the webbing of her veil. Rip it off. Her hat disguising the brilliant red of her hair. Loose it. Her lips, pink and soft, tasting like sunlight and rain. Kiss them. Tall enough that it wouldn’t be difficult to do just that.

  “I’ve never seen such a straight nose,” she said.

  His brow furrowed in surprise and confusion at the words. What did she care about his nose?

  Before he could ask, she answered, simply, “Hard to believe some people get through life without breaking them.”

  She was silent for a moment, as though sizing him up, and then she stepped closer, and his breath caught in his chest at the nearness, inappropriate in any room considering they were strangers.

  Not entirely strangers, though.

  As though he’d willed it, the woman lifted a hand and reached for a tender spot high on the ridge of his cheek.

  Lady Havistock let out a little gasp. Even she, who hadn’t hesitated to summon him to her home, would never have dreamed to touch him. It simply was not done. No one had told Adelaide Frampton such a thing, apparently, because she touched him.

  No. Not quite. But there, in the space between her glove and his skin, the heat of her was electric. The threat of her touch more powerful than the thing itself.

  It took him longer than it should have to realize that she was hovering over the graze he’d taken earlier in the day. The punch that had half landed, delivered by one of The Bully Boys in the alleyway between the warehouse and the south bank of the Thames.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  “You ought to have someone look at that.” The words were far too soft considering their location. Far too private. A straight shot of pleasure from this woman who was ever more maddening.

  With a nod to Lady Havistock, she pushed past him, the scent of her, the heat of her, the slide of her lingering against him, long enough to tie his tongue. At the door, she looked over her shoulder. “I suppose you intend to follow?”

  He cleared his throat, the only indication of the inappropriate way he responded to her. Follow whom?

  His brother. Lady Helene. Gretna Green. Her. “I do.”

  “Fair enough.” In the shadow of that infernal veil, she smiled. Why did he like it so much? “It shall be a race then.”

  Chapter Four

  That evening, after the sun set over the rooftops of Covent Garden, Adelaide readied her carriage for the drive to Scotland. It was not the first time she’d done such a thing in the dead of night. Not the first time she’d headed north to stop a misguided match. Not the first time she would do it alone, with only a coachman in tow—carriages moved faster with fewer passengers, and Adelaide was adept at going unseen.

  It was, however, the first time she was excited for it.

  It shall be a race, then.

  The look on the Duke of Clayborn’s face when she’d said it, like he’d been waiting a lifetime for such a challenge, had been enough to set her heart pounding.

  The duke was the kind of man who absolutely relished going head-to-head with women like Adelaide Frampton. His superior snobbery made him deeply unpleasant—how many times had he referenced his title that evening?

  He could make a body feel unwelcome with nothing but a cool glance, which Adelaide knew firsthand, as she had been on the receiving end of more than a few of those for the past year. From a distance, of course. The Duke of Clayborn wouldn’t deign to get near her.

  Not in public at least.

  Or rather, not in Mayfair public.

  South Bank public was different, apparently. In South Bank public, he got so near to her that he kissed her. Not that she gave any additional thought to the kiss. It was absolutely forgettable.

  As was the feel of his arms, like steel around her. The roughness of his beard against her skin. The low rumble of pleasure that came from deep in his chest.

  Forgettable. All of it.

  Wasn’t that what he’d said when it was over?

  No . . . he’d said something far worse. He’d said it was a mistake.

  Ignoring the wash of heat that filled her at the embarrassing memory, Adelaide added extra carriage wheels and a hamper of food and drink to the inside of the vehicle, carefully balancing the weight as she ticked off the items required for her preparations, working quickly and efficiently, eager to get on the road.

  Inside her pocket, a list of stables with strong horses.

  Eager to win.

  A map of inns friendly to women traveling alone. Her carpetbag, complete with clothing, medicinal supplies, and Clayborn’s unopenable box.

  It had been barely six hours since he’d inserted himself into her life with his alleyway brawling and his turning up at Havistock House and his insistence that he follow her to Scotland, and his my brother loves the lady. As though it mattered.

  And his long, lanky body and his unnecessarily tempting kisses.

  Which she had already forgotten.

  Adelaide cleared her throat and checked the rear hatch of the carriage, carefully confirming that she had all she needed for her journey. It was a lesson left over from her childhood, learning to cut purses.

  Speed ain’t worth a damn if you ain’t made a plan. Her father’s words, punctuated with a twist of her wrist, punishing her for taking two shots at the strings of his purse as she practiced.

  Taking the extra time here, in the alleyway behind her apartments, would prevent her losing it on the race north.

  She expected she’d need every minute if she was going to beat Clayborn to Helene and Jack, wherever they were. He did not strike her as the kind of man who took competition lightly. Which worked well for Adelaide, as she was not the kind of woman who lost.

  She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t half thrilled by his rising to her challenge. It had been a long time since she’d felt she’d met her match in battle. There was nothing like this battle—racing to find a girl who was in danger. To protect her from those who would harm her. To ensure that she could make a future for herself, free and without compromise.

  What a gift for a woman in the world.

  Satisfied with her work, Adelaide straightened and closed the hatch.

  “So, the girl is off to Gretna Green.”

  She turned to discover the Duchess of Trevescan approaching from the rear door of the tavern that abutted the alleyway—the tavern above which Adelaide kept rooms.

  Adelaide palmed her skirts. “Like so many before her—choosing the hope of security over the promise of it.”

  “You think she marries the boy only to escape the father?”

  “I think any woman with a brain in her head who chooses a hasty wedding over freedom is doing it for a reason.” Adelaide tightened a cinch on one of the matched greys she’d selected for the first leg of the journey before heading to the front of the carriage to check bridles and halters.

  “So cynical.”

  Adelaide cut her friend a look. “Since when do you believe in love?”

  Long married to a duke who never left his estate in the Scilly Isles, the Duchess of Trevescan was more merry widow than she was duchess, delighting in what had to be the best of all marriages—one that included an absentee husband. Instead, Duchess spent her days diminishing the duke’s vast fortune, living in his vast home, and growing her vast network of informants—all in service to a higher good: destroying the worst of London’s men.

  “Oh, I believe in it,” Duchess said, approaching. “I believe it’s an absolute mess, which leads me to also believe the girl loves him, as the plan went entirely sideways.” She set a hand to the nose of one of the horses, lowering her voice to please the animal. “I suppose we can’t really blame her. If he’s charming and handsome.”

  “Is he?” Adelaide moved to the side of the carriage.

  “Charming?”

  Adelaide inspected a carriage wheel she’d inspected twice before. “Handsome.”

  One of the duchess’s brows rose in a perfect high arch. “I think he must be if he looks anything like his brother. Clayborn might be insufferable, but he’s not the worst thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  Adelaide was grateful for the darkness and the way it hid her flush. “I have not noticed.”

  Silence fell and she crouched, peering into the inky blackness beneath the carriage, as though there were something very important within, feeling suddenly as though she’d said the exact wrong thing.

  Duchess gave a little laugh. “You absolutely have noticed, Adelaide.”

  She sighed and stood, facing her friend. “The man is arrogant and superior. He’s awful, and I shall enjoy absolutely demolishing him on the race north.”

  Something lit in Duchess’s gaze. “You’re out for blood.”

  “He deserves a proper setdown. He lacks anything to recommend him—he is pompous, stiff, stern, unpleasant . . . pompous.”

  “You said pompous twice.”

  “Because he is twice as pompous as any other peer,” she replied. “But the point is, all of that flatly diminishes any value found in his handsome face or his decidedly unducal lips.”

  The Duchess’s brows rose. “Unducal lips?”

  Adelaide waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

  The Duchess tilted her head. “It has been many years since I have been in contact with ducal lips, so I shall have to take your word on it.”

  Adelaide ignored the teasing in her friend’s tone, and the lingering silence as Duchess watched her curiously, no doubt considering her next words.

  Leaning against the carriage, she settled on changing the topic, for which Adelaide was immensely grateful. “So, if you had to wager, what is the girl up to?”

  “Idiocy,” Adelaide said without hesitation.

  Duchess laughed. “Fair enough. But map it out for me.”

  “Two weeks ago, Helene witnesses her father kill a peer.”

  “That we know.”

  “She tells us, but we’re not the only people she tells.”

  Duchess nodded, understanding. “The fiancé.”

  “Who, instead of asking his powerful, arrogant, irritating, pompous, angel-of-judgment brother for help, decides to take matters into his own hands, and—”

  “—we shall come back to angel of judgment,” Duchess interjected.

  They absolutely would not. “—and returns to Alfie Trumbull’s fight ring to make some quick blunt, and get the girl out of town.”

  “They’re not eloping,” Duchess added, understanding. “Or, rather, they’re eloping, but they’re on the run. Chased by the Matchbreaker, the Duke of Clayborn, and . . . if their luck runs out, her monster of a father.”

  “A butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker.” Adelaide paused. “I, of course, am the candlestick maker. Very clever indeed.”

  Duchess’s laugh heralded the opening of the rear door to the tavern, releasing the quiet roar of the teeming masses within, and revealing the tavern owner herself. Maggie O’Tiernen dropped an empty cask and let the door close behind her as she approached. When she spoke, her voice was lush and deep, rich with the sound of the Galway coast of her youth. “Alright, girls?”

  Adelaide smiled. Only Maggie would address a duchess and a thief as such, even as she found them in the alleyway behind her tavern, clearly up to something.

  A Black woman who’d left Ireland for London the moment she was able, Maggie had come with the clothes on her back to build a new life, where she could live freely as a woman, embodying her true self. Knowing, as she did, what the world could do to those who wished to live authentically, she’d built a safe haven here, in the dark corners of Covent Garden—a tavern known only as The Place. The rules were simple: if you were a woman, and you could find it, The Place would have you, however you came, whomever you loved.

  The Place was no different than the palace that rose not a mile to the west; in both locations, women reigned.

  If you asked Adelaide, however, she’d be the first to tell you she’d take Maggie’s over Victoria’s any day, because at Maggie’s, every woman could be a queen. Adelaide could still remember her first time inside The Place—the first time she’d felt home in the weeks following her escape from the South Bank.

  Maggie had seen her fear, her uncertainty. Adelaide’s panic that she might have to return and face the wrath of her father and the censure of the world she’d tried to escape. They’d become fast friends—two women born into a life that had not been for them. Destined for more. Within a week, Adelaide was living in the rooms above the tavern, working for Duchess, a part of a new, vibrant world she’d never imagined.

  “Makin’ plans?” Maggie asked.

  “Always,” Adelaide replied.

  Maggie lifted a chin in the direction of Duchess. “It’s usually you making them, no?”

  The other woman inclined her head. “Not tonight. Tonight, it’s Adelaide outlining the battle.”

  Battle. That word again. The promise of the formidable opponent she’d face along the way. Her pulse sped, readying her for what was to come.

  “Seen the papers this week, Duchess?” Maggie asked.

  A ghost of a smile flickered over Duchess’s face. “I have, in fact.”

  Maggie laughed, the sound warm and deep. “I should have guessed you’d be happy with it.”

  “With what?” Adelaide asked. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of lying about and reading the papers, you know.”

  “Poor babe,” Maggie teased. “The News has gossip from Scotland Yard.”

  Adelaide turned to Duchess. “What gossip?”

  The other woman made a show of brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve. “It’s important to note that it’s simply gossip. Rubbish alongside an account of Lord Draven’s demise.” She slid Maggie a look. “Which we had nothing to do with.”

  Maggie nodded. “I didn’t think so. It lacked your finesse.”

  Adelaide wasn’t a fool. She knew as well as anyone that gossip was never entirely false; certainly not when reported by the News. “Tell me.”

  “Sources from inside Scotland Yard have revealed that Detective Inspector Peck has a name for the group that staged an explosion therein last year.”

  The group. That had been them. Adelaide grinned. “Allegedly staged.”

  The Duchess dipped her head in agreement. “Quite right. Allegedly. Absolutely anything in that jail could have spontaneously combusted.”

  “Go on, then. What is he calling this group?”

  Maggie and The Duchess wore matching grins. Ear to ear. “Hell’s Belles.”

  Adelaide couldn’t stop the delighted laugh that bubbled out of her at the moniker. “That’s—” She shook her head. “It’s—”

  “Perfect, isn’t it?” Maggie laughed, big and bold.

  “Does Imogen know?”

  Duchess nodded. “She just told me she was going to pay Detective Inspector Peck a visit to praise him for his creativity.”

  Adelaide laughed at the idea—the last time Imogen and Thomas Peck had been in close proximity, an explosion had rocked Scotland Yard. “I can’t imagine Peck will let her anywhere near the place now.” She paused. “Hell’s Belles. Perfect.”

  And then, as though summoned by the name, a bell sounded in the darkness, from high above. A watch on the roof, signaling something was amiss.

  The trio stilled, nothing but the cool October wind whipping around them.

  Duchess’s gaze fell to the opening of the alleyway, over Adelaide’s shoulder. “Warm night.”

  “Unseasonably so,” Maggie added, moving shoulder to shoulder with Duchess, her hand sliding into her skirts, to the blade Adelaide knew was hidden within.

  Adelaide slowly lowered herself into a crouch, heading for her own blade, tucked into her boot. Before she could get to it, however, Duchess said, loud and bright, as though they were anywhere but in a Covent Garden back alley in the dead of night, “Your Grace! What a delightful surprise.”

  Adelaide froze, then spun around.

  Sure enough, the Duke of Clayborn approached, the light from the swinging lanterns on the back of the carriage lighting the blue eyes in his handsome face.

  What in hell? Why was he there?

  Not that she would ever give him the satisfaction of her surprise. Instead, she pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and leveled him with a cool look. “A bit far from Mayfair, aren’t you, Duke?” She paused, then added, “Oh, but after the places you’ve been today, why wouldn’t you try the Garden on for size?”

  “I’ve seen a fair bit of the city, I’ll admit,” Clayborn said, stopping a few yards away, the shadows of the alleyway painting over the harsh lines of his aristocratic face. His gaze took in the scene—the trio of women in a dark alley behind a legendary tavern.

  “Ladies,” he said, offering a little, gentlemanly bow, as though they were in a ballroom and not a back alley. “Going on a journey, Miss Frampton?”

  He knew.

  She lifted her chin in his direction. “North.”

  “How interesting. I’m headed in that direction as well.” He knew precisely where she was going. Which meant her veil had not hidden her in the slightest at Havistock House, and he’d known from the start who she was.

  She should have been shocked at the revelation. Angry. At least frustrated. But instead, she found herself . . . excited by it.

  A worthy opponent.

  And a dangerous one, as he knew the true identity of the Matchbreaker—a piece of information that half of London would pay dearly to learn. She’d have to deal with that, eventually. But the box tucked into the bag in her carriage was enough to ensure his silence for now. Even arrogant dukes understood information was currency, and revelation required retribution in kind.

  “I’ll say, Duke,” she said, “I did not expect that you would know where to find me.”

  “I think you’d be surprised by how much I know about you.”