A Bride by Moonlight

PROLOGUE

A Vision in Blue

1847

Whitehall

Truth.

This simple word was Royden Napier’s stock in trade. The means by which he made his way in the world. The yardstick by which he measured every person who came into his life and into his office.

But truth, like beauty, was often elusive, whereas lies were common as houseflies. Sooner or later, in Napier’s experience, everyone lied. Or cheated. Or pilfered. Or worse—sometimes much worse. And thus was the whole of the Metropolitan Police employed in the service of Her Majesty the Queen.

Oh, Napier had often been called cynical, but every person who climbed the four flights of stairs that led from Whitehall Place up to his offices inevitably had a tale to tell, from the government toadies who came to bluster and to press their political influence upon him, to the investigators who served under him, all the way down to the criminals occasionally hauled up from Scotland Yard to face him.

Most all of them were willing to sacrifice the truth—or push it bloody near a precipice—in order to get what they wanted. To make things look as they wished them to look, and to achieve something that would bring them influence or revenge or freedom.

And the beautiful woman waiting outside his office was, in Napier’s hard-honed estimation, right amongst them. In what way, and to what end, he could not quite make out. Not yet.

But she intrigued him all the same.

What tale, he wondered, would such a beautiful woman tell? What self-serving need drew her here to this place of angst and shadows where no one came of their own volition, unless they wanted something quite, quite desperately?

Cocking his head a tad to the left, Napier cut an assessing glance through the crack in his office door and down his long, wood-planked antechamber. The room housed his clerks to one side, and to the other a row of high-backed, notoriously uncomfortable chairs.

Generally speaking, it was his policy to keep visitors squirming, and to dispatch them out again with all haste. Number Four Whitehall was rather like a gristmill, with more work to grind out than wanted weighing, and Napier was booked from now until death with meetings, appointments, and general government arse kissing.

But the long-legged, whippet-thin redhead beyond his door looked ruthlessly determined to wait him out, like some harrier haunting a foxhole.

He let his gaze drift over her, taking her measure. Her gloved hands were fisted hard in her lap, while her chin was lifted almost arrogantly. Perhaps five-and-twenty, he guessed, the lady wore a hat, a small but passé confection of dark blue net and velvet that oddly suited her cloud of wild, fiery hair.

She had not dressed that hair in the insipid loops and ringlets currently in vogue, but instead had twisted it loosely into a soft chignon that had fought its constraints and was winning. Tendrils curled about her face, and let down, he estimated, it would have fallen halfway to the floor like a cascade of red satin. Interestingly, a small, shabby portmanteau sat at her feet.

Napier was especially mistrustful of women—thrice so when they were beautiful.

The redhead, however, was not precisely beautiful.

No, she was . . . striking. And furious. He knew enough of human nature to recognize that raw emotion when he saw it.

No matter. He yanked open his door, and prepared to dispatch her back down the stairs with the rest of them.

Assistant Police Commissioner Napier, he said brusquely, blocking the width of the door with his shoulders. How may I be of service?

Her head swiveled toward him, her eyes sharp as shooting stars on a moonless night.

By doing your job, she said, rising in a rustle of crisp, dark blue silk.

I beg your pardon, he said coldly, but I believe I’ve not the pleasure of a proper introduction.

The lady did not so much as blanch. You might remember me as Elizabeth Colburne.

It was a common enough name, but one he couldn’t place. Still, she was looking at him expectantly, and he felt a curious shiver; a premonition, he was later to think. With a wave of his hand, he stepped back and ushered her in.

Your servant, ma’am.

Dark, angular brows flew aloft. Are you indeed? she said curtly. London’s newspapers leave one with the impression you are the Earl of Lazonby’s servant.

Napier was left in a rare moment of speechlessness.

The lady swished past, the portmanteau in one hand, her skirts lightly lifted in the other, as if she feared his very presence might sully them.

He shut the door rather harder than was his habit. Understand me, madam, he said rounding on her. I am no friend of Lord Lazonby’s. Besides, the man is edging near his deathbed—cancer, I hear. No friend but God can help him now.

Oh, what drama! She gave a disdainful sniff. "The man is a Welham, is he not? That vile, vulgar breed is hard to kill—as I believe his son and heir has so aptly—and so repeatedly—demonstrated to you."

Rance Welham may have thumbed his nose at the law and survived a long life on the run, said Napier grimly. But I am neither judge, nor jury, nor executioner, ma’am. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. And we’ve done our job with regard to Lord Lazonby’s son. And done it admirably.

"Admirably? she said shrilly. Good God, you could not even kill the man properly! And now I read he is about to be exonerated and let out of prison again! It is unconscionable!"

Napier planted one hand flat on the corner of his desk and leaned into her. I beg your pardon, he said coldly, but the matter is practically settled.

And if the police had done their jobs the first time, Rance Welham would have long ago rotted in his grave! But it was a travesty. It was a—a bungled mess of bureaucratic humbug! It was grossly, egregiously inadequate! Good God, sir, can you people not even tie a proper knot in a noose?

Napier forced a tight smile. You are a master of the adjective, ma’am.

But her eyes had begun to shimmer tellingly. Bad enough, sir, you could not even hang him properly, she went on. But now you mean to let him simply waltz out of Newgate Prison a free man?

Waltz? Napier muttered. A royal cavalcade, more like.

No, no, she went on, her voice rising, "better than a free man! Why, once that influence-peddling father of his actually is dead, Rance Welham will be a peer of the realm—he will be Lord Lazonby—and he will enjoy a life of leisure and wealth beyond measure, whilst his victims lie forgotten."

His temper finally slipped a notch. God’s truth, madam, he said coldly, do you think I’m any better pleased with this turn of events than you are? My own father fought this case to his dying breath—and it was not easy to convict the son of a peer, particularly one so rich as the Earl of Lazonby.

For a moment, the room fell perfectly still save for the clatter of afternoon traffic turning the corner into Whitehall Place, far below his open window. The woman had gone suddenly pale—more pale, that was to say, than she had been upon walking into his office, for her skin had a shimmering ivory translucence that showed her every emotion.

Yes, that’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it? Her voice dropped, oddly tremulous. Money, money, money—always, and every time—for this is England, and influence is bought by the rich, and the poor be damned. Oh, that much I well remember!

Thrown by her sudden turn, Napier hesitated.

It was a heartbeat too long. Mrs. Colburne still clutched the portmanteau, and in one smooth motion, she stepped toward him and upended it, sending a cascade of bundled banknotes down upon the burnished surface of his desk in an avalanche.

Napier could only stare. The heap shifted, and one bundle fell to the floor, bursting its string and sending the notes skittering across his floor in the autumn breeze.

My God, he whispered.

He lifted his gaze from the pile to her eyes, and his mouth went dry.

There was a look of unholy satisfaction in her cool, unblinking gaze.

Well, she said softly. "There you have it, sir. American dollars, yes, for I came in great haste. Still, I account it some twenty thousand pounds. So tell me, Mr. Napier: How much English justice will that buy me?"

I beg your pardon?

She waved a hand across his desk. Take it, she said. "It is all the cash I have in the world, or near it. But my money is as good as Lord Lazonby’s. And by my reckoning, twenty thousand pounds ought to be just enough to keep Rance Welham in jail—this time until he’s damned well dead."

Good God, I begin to believe you are mad. He jerked the case from her grip and began methodically shoving the piles of banknotes back into it. Madam, it is against the law to attempt to bribe a Government employee. Kindly take your money and get out or I swear to God I will arrest you.

Arrest me? Any softness vanished. My heavens, the law of the land must have changed mightily since I last lived in London. It is perfectly acceptable for stone-cold killers to walk free, but my outright bribe is thought an insult?

"Sit down, he ordered, and hush. Yes, I said arrested, madam. And do not dare try me."

But she did not sit down—or hush. Dear me, she murmured, watching him gather the loose bills. I have badly miscalculated you, Mr. Napier.

Napier rammed the last fistful home, dropped the portmanteau to the floor by her feet, and glowered. That, madam, is a grievous understatement.

Apparently undaunted, she crossed the office to stand mere inches from him. He could feel the heat of her anger rising and with it her scent; something warm and exotic, like Oriental lilies beneath a hot August sun.

Tugging off her gloves with neat, sharp jerks, she let her gaze drift down him; an assessing, almost artful glance. Well, she said, her voice gone husky. "If not money, Assistant Commissioner, is there any other way I might . . . just might . . . persuade you?"

Tossing aside the gloves, the woman flicked open the first button of her bodice, revealing an inch of tender flesh, pale and rich as cream.

There was a way, yes.

Or for an instant, it felt so. Napier felt lust shiver through him, surging like liquid heat into his loins. A rush of desire pooled in his belly. He wanted what she was apparently offering and was at once appalled that he would even consider it. Still, he was not a saint.

Napier swallowed hard and tried to force his gaze back up. Good Lord, the woman wasn’t even his type. Too thin, too tall. Too wild eyed and red haired. Too . . . intense.

She stepped another inch closer, and slipped free another button. Is that interest burning in your eyes, Mr. Napier? Her breath teased over his cheek. "Come, make me an offer. Quid pro quo. I am quite desperate, you see."

Napier willed himself to step back, but it was harder than it should have been. Everything was getting harder than it should have been. He fairly itched to set his finger to that seductive hollow below her throat, and then to draw it lower. And lower still.