She's a liar.
She's a con.
She's a thief.
And God help him, but he'll do anything to keep her safe.
Beautiful and conniving, maddening and brilliant,
Esther is everything private detective Samuel Brass shouldn't want.
Esther knows she's put herself in terrible danger, but nothing will stop
her from making amends—not her family's enemies,
not old fears, and certainly not the domineering, interfering, and
undeniably handsome former officer of the Scotland Yard. Yet whenever
he's near, Samuel makes her long for a life that can never be hers…and
wish she were worthy of being saved.
Second in an exciting late Victorian romance series from a RITA Award nominee!
Fun Fact about the
Victorian Age
Victorians had a taste for invention.
In 1851, The Great Exhibition opened its doors in London. Showcasing
everything from the Bell telegraph to the latest in corset design,
the exhibition drew more than six millions visitors in the six short
months of its existence. With rapid advances being made in science
and technology—not to mention a nearly complete lack of government
oversight—it’s no wonder Victorian men and women dreamed,
planned, and experimented their way to all sorts of inventions,
including quite a few we still use today, like rubber tires, light
bulbs, pasteurization, and steel. And, naturally, they came up with a
few clunkers as well, such as the, no doubt well-intentioned, but
ultimately unsuccessful, “anti-garroting cravat.”
Samuel
grabbed Esther and shoved her behind him just as the gig raced by,
launching a great wall of ditch water over the curb and onto him.
It soaked
him through to the skin, and there was nothing he could do but drag a
hand down his face and flick the excess moisture from his fingers.
Esther
snickered. Actually, she coughed, but it was a hide-the-snicker sort
of cough. It didn’t fool anyone.
He glowered
at her.
She
snickered again.
“Get in
the carriage, Esther.”
For once,
she complied without argument. She clambered inside, one hand
covering her mouth. The moment the door was closed, her laughter
filled the carriage.
“Oh. Oh,
Lord.” She flipped up her veil. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly
sorry. But the state
of you. Good heavens.” She calmed herself a bit and reached over to
pat his knee. “My hero.”
Then she
laughed some more.
He ought to
be offended, really. Annoyed at the very least. But he couldn’t
seem to move beyond amazed.
He’d
never heard her laugh before. Not like this. Not with her head tipped
back and the sound just flowing from her.
Samuel
wracked his brain for a single memory of Esther laughing, really
laughing, and came up blank. Years ago, when she’d been little more
than a girl, she had giggled. Once or twice, she may have chuckled.
Certainly, he’d heard her snicker. But he hadn’t heard her laugh.
Not as a child, and not since he’d known her as an adult.
The woman
simply didn’t laugh in front of him.
It seemed
an odd thing not to have noticed before now. Stranger still that he
should find an ordinary sound so extraordinarily appealing. There was
a sweet, clear tone to it that made him think of wind chimes. Not the
tinny sort Mrs. Lanchor had hung in the garden two years ago (and the
beast had mauled into oblivion three days ago) but the solid sort
that put one to mind of woodwinds.
Her laugh
reminded him of wind chimes that reminded him of woodwinds. By God,
he was England’s finest poet.
“You’ve
changed,” he murmured. There used to be a brittleness about her, a
deep unhappiness she kept hidden away along with her kindness and
honesty, all buried beneath a layer of cool indifference. He couldn’t
see that brittleness anymore.
“Beg your
pardon?” Her laugh tapered off slowly, and she looked at him
uncertainly. “I didn’t mean to cause offense.” A spark of
mischievousness lit in her blue eyes. “Well, maybe a little
offense, but—”
“I’m
not offended… Maybe a little offended,” he corrected with humor.
“But I wasn’t implying that you’ve changed for the worse. It’s
for the better.”
“Oh.”
Her lips curved in a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re
happier, aren’t you?”
“I am,”
she agreed, and so readily that he could only assume she’d given
the matter some thought recently. “I am starting to be.”
“It is
nice to see.” It was more than nice. It was something else,
something more.
Here, he
thought, was the woman he’d caught glimpses of before. The
remarkable one who amazed and fascinated him. Only it wasn’t just a
glimpse. He remembered her insistence that he wasn’t a hard man and
her defense of the little boy. And he wondered now if the traits he
admired in her had never been quite as buried or transient as he
imagined. Anything could seem like a glimpse, he realized, if one
looked away too quickly.
