They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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Mabel Darling stepped out of O'Reilly's Drawing Room—the elegant name she'd suggested for something rather inelegant at its core, as though pretty words could make sin acceptable—and walked toward the stairs that led to the small flat where she lived. It was still part of O'Reilly's, but the outside entrance at least made her feel as though she were stepping away from the dregs and into a better life.
Not that she didn't have the means to live in a fancier dwelling. She did. Feagan's lads treated her as an equal, and she shared in the profits from their ventures. She could live in a palace if she wanted, but the money she earned was never for her. Others were far more deserving.
As she made her way up the stairs, she smelled the familiar richly scented tobacco. It was a much more pleasant aroma than it had been when they were children. Hunter could afford the very finest customized tobacco now.
Yet still he packed it into the long clay pipe he'd begun using when he was a lad of eight. It wasn't unusual for Feagan's lads to smoke and drink spirits at a young age. Keep them warm. The pipe was part of Hunter's past, a reminder of what he'd been before Hero's grandfather had offered them a chance at a better life. They'd all brought something with them.
Hunter had stayed in the residence in St. James's only long enough to learn what he needed in order to gain what he wanted. He'd never been happy living with the Earl of Claybourne. But then as far as Mabel knew, he'd never been truly happy anywhere—except for the slight contentment he seemed to have with Feagan. Hunter had been the most skilled of their little band, always bringing in the most coins and handkerchiefs, always sitting by the fire with Feagan—Feagan drinking his gin, Hunter drinking gin and smoking his pipe—both of them whispering late into the night. As far as Mabel knew, Hunter's was the only opinion Feagan ever sought.
"'Ello, Mabel," he said as she reached the landing. Outside the gaming hell, he was never the businessman he was indoors. Still, he was astute. Always looking for the angle that would give him more than he held.
"O'Reilly." In their youth, he'd been O'Reilly more often than Hunter. He'd been skilled at dodging the hands that wanted to grab him when the target realized his pockets were being picked. It was usually the other thief who clumsily tipped off their intended prey. They'd all scatter when that happened.
Only once had Hunter gone back to try to help a thief who wasn't quite as nimble. He'd gone back for Hero. It had been the only time Hunter had ever been caught.
"Lovely evening tonight," she said.
"Oh, yeah, the fog is fuckin' luvely. Think there's anywhere in England where they don't have fog?"
"Would you move if there was?"
"Not likely. I doubt there's a city anywhere where I can make more money."
