Authors: Erica Monroe
I Spy a Duke (38 page)
Vivian exhaled, her heart beat returning to normal. James stopped at the door, holding up five fingers. She should wait five minutes before exiting after him. He opened the door, glancing around to make sure no one was coming. Then he stepped out. He’d meet her in the music room, where some of the
ton
’s most eligible debutantes were performing a set of staid classical numbers, each one more boring than the last.
Yet the rest of the guests clapped eagerly, as though this night was the highlight of their lives. She couldn’t help but pity them. They all turned up their noses when she entered a room, but she did not need their approval. She was the Duchess of Abermont. Their existences were sedate, a strict adherence to social strictures.
Her life was not summed up by the title, but in the thrilling missions of the Clocktower and the adoring embraces of her husband.
She knew real excitement, and she would never trade that.
The minutes passed. She peeked at the pocket watch she’d slipped into her reticule earlier in the evening. Five minutes were up. Time to meet James, and hopefully retire early from this dreadful party. Provided they weren’t waylaid by any of his seemingly endless circle of acquaintances, they should have several hours to themselves at home before any of his sisters came home to the townhouse. Lord Thomas would already be asleep. Though she loved having his family near, she did cherish the alone time she spent with James.
She made her way back to the music room, cringing at the excruciating sounds coming from the pianoforte in the corner, as though the instrument was being beaten into submission by the raven-haired woman on the bench.
“I see we still need to work on hiding your emotions.” James sidled up behind her, his breath hot on her neck. He stood with his back to the wall. He was far too close to her for society’s standards, yet she certainly wouldn’t tell him so.
“What can I say? I’m a work in progress,” she murmured. “One success at a time.”
His voice was so low that only she could hear him over the raucous tune. “I’ve handed off our bounty to Archer.” Deacon Drake attended the party, and he’d take the note to Wickham. Soon, they’d arrest Rivers for his treason.
“So that means we’re free to take our leave?” She didn’t bother to keep the hopefulness from her tone.
Because she stood directly in front of him, his hands were not visible to the greater crowd. He took advantage of this, squeezing her rear. “Precisely, Your Grace.”
She felt his grin against her skin, and she spun around. “Good. Because I am quite ready to leave.”
“Do you remember when I told you that there were things sweeter than revenge?” He placed his hand on her arm, leading her toward the exit. “I think I shall show them all to you tonight.”
Acknowledgments
There are books that are easy to write. This book was not one of them.
I am thus eternally indebted to the kind, wonderful people who took time from their own busy lives to help me beat this manuscript into submission.
Eileen Richards, who always makes me laugh, even when I’m in the middle of a breakdown. Thanks for reading this when you were on your own crazy deadline! Emma Locke, who gives me the best line edits ever and keeps me sane. Morgan Edens, Erica Ridley, Tracey Devlyn, and Christy Carlyle all read this book on a super tight deadline, and for that I am extremely appreciative. Gaylin Walli, Kristine Wyllys, Isobel Carr, Kristen Koster, Alyssa Alexander, and Elisabeth Lane all helped me out with research.
I am also very grateful for the support of my family. My mother, for understanding when I don’t call for a week that I’m not dead, I’ve simply flung myself into a new story. To my husband, Kevin, for picking up every last bit of the slack—and then some—while I wrote for long hours. And to my grandmother and my brother, for always saying they’re proud of me.
I am blessed to have a fantastic editor in Meghan Hogue, who never flinches no matter what craziness I throw at her. All mistakes in this manuscript are of course my own.
Thank you to my Romance Writers of America chapter, Heart of Carolina, for their continued Book in a Week events, through which I wrote most of this book. Thank you also to Sarra Cannon and her online sprinting group, which often motivated me when I needed that final kick.
The original concept of this series was “Regency spies meets the
Birds of Prey
comics,” so I am thankful to Chuck Dixon for creating my favorite vigilante team, and to Gail Simone for her strong writing of Huntress, Oracle, and Black Canary—the basis for the three Spencer sisters. If you’re a
Birds
fan, you might notice homages throughout this series.
Thank you to Rachel Platten for the tune “Fight Song,” which inspired Vivian’s story arc. Also thank you to my constant music muses, Taylor Swift and Gaslight Anthem, who have been the soundtrack for every book I’ve written so far.
And lastly but never least, thank you to you, reader. Writing is my full-time job now and I never thought that could be possible. Thanks for helping me to live my dream.
Thank You for Reading
Out of all the books you could choose, thank you for picking up
I Spy a Duke.
I hope you’ll take a few minutes out of your day to review this book – your honest opinion is much appreciated. Reviews help introduce readers to new authors they wouldn’t otherwise meet.
Covert Heiresses
I Spy a Duke
is the first book in Covert Heiresses, which features four women that by day are the talk of the
ton,
and by night, England’s top spies. Though each book is a standalone, it is best read in order for optimal character development.
To keep up to date on Covert Heiresses, sign up for Erica’s newsletter and get exclusive excerpts, contests, and more
Covert Heiresses:
I Spy A Duke – available now
A Spy Never Surrenders – Spring 2016
For Your Spy Only – Fall 2016
Spies Are Forever – Spring 2017
Read on for an excerpt from Erica Monroe’s
Beauty and the Rake
A Rookery Rogues Novel
Once she was beautiful…
Abigail Vautille dreamed of escaping the Whitechapel rookery and starting a new life, until one tragic night left her scarred and penniless. To save her family from debtor’s prison, she strikes a deal with the rogue who owns her father’s gambling vowels–if he excuses the debt, for two weeks, she’ll give him her body, but not her heart.
Once he was charming…
Inspector Michael Strickland of the Metropolitan Police has always had a way with women. Success comes easily to him, and he glides through life on his good looks and family name. But Abigail lights a passion within him he never knew existed. He sees the beauty within her, not the beast she believes herself to be.
Together, their love is beyond a fairy tale.
After a dangerous figure from Abigail’s past resurfaces vowing vengeance, things take a sinister turn. But Michael will stop at nothing to keep the woman he loves safe. When the stakes are high and the scars are more than skin deep, passion might be the key to a happily ever after.
Whitechapel, London
October 1832
Red was everywhere.
Abigail Vautille shouldn’t have been surprised. Since that fateful day when her left hand was forcibly rammed into a working loom, the color red had haunted her. Deep red scars from the punch card of the jacquard crisscrossed her skin. Pockets of exposed flesh remained, mangled red bubbles now crusted black. The bones had been reset to give her a range of movement, but she couldn’t feel the brace of a cold wind on her flesh or the touch of a man’s fingers against her skin.
If only she could staunch her emotions so effectively.
But no, she was fated to face crimson. Scarlet was even the color of her once-friend Poppy Knight’s hair. Poppy’s investigation into their past employer had led to Abigail’s torture.
Her stomach clenched at the shellacked ruby door of Cruikshank’s gaming hell. A battered wreath hung in the center, the previously garnet holly berries shriveled and dead. No one bothered to use the carmine-rusted iron doorknocker. This was no longer a place that required a doorman.
Scoundrels came and went, invited by the new proprietor, Arthur Cruikshank. He was in league with Joaquin Mason, who ruled the rookeries from the back room of his main property in Shadwell, the King of Spades. With Mason’s support, Cruikshank had turned this dank hole into a profitable gambling house.
Abigail knew the men here, their tells and their compulsions. Each battled a demon that only a hand of cards seemed to sate.
But familiarity didn’t breed ease. The hollers of foxed men drifted from Cruikshank’s, an unsettling cacophony. The building itself provided no comfort, constructed of crumbling gray stone, gray like her constant mood. Auburn brick made up the top floor, added after the original foundation.
Shivering in the frigid night air, Abigail drew her black cloak tighter around her to brace against the cold wind. With a glance upstairs, she brought the gloved fingers of her good hand to her lips to kiss for luck. She’d need all the help she could get in this godforsaken place.
After entering, she refused to give her cloak to the man who waited in the foyer. Cruikshank didn’t employ him. When unsuspecting people presented him with their garments, he fled to sell them in the rag and bone shops. She couldn’t help but admire his ingenuity.
Since she couldn’t hold down honest employment any longer, she’d do best to follow his example.
Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the crowd mingling in the lower rooms. Conversations drifted in and out, an indistinct hum. A sweet, pungent scent caught her attention from the open door to her right. Men reclined on dilapidated chaises in sleep or stupor, while two women blew into pipes, kindling the opium in their bowls until it glowed red.
“Mystery lady!” a man called, his unfixed gaze settling on her cloak. “Come back, mystery lady. Come play with me.”
A lump formed in her throat. All these people drowning their sorrows. Little she could do for them now. The longer she stayed the greater chance she had of being a potential target for Cruikshank’s less principled patrons.
She kept going, ignoring his summons, her skirts swishing against the dusty floor. Two staircases flanked the vast entrance hall. While the left staircase ended on a landing, the right staircase would take her up to the top floor where the faro and hazard tables were. The play was deep there.
She’d find her father at the back table. Inevitably, he’d be in the third chair, his hands shaking as he grasped his cards. There’d be a wrinkle where his thumb gripped too hard.
She reached down into the pocket in her cloak. No blunt. Not that she could pay the rest of her father’s debts with a few coins. Settling the vowels for his last visit to Cruikshank’s had taken the last of her savings. Years of hard shifts, aching knees and pricked fingers gone in an instant to the tables.
Now that she couldn’t work in the factory, she had no way to earn back that money.
Three prostitutes lingered at the stairs, clothed in gaudy dresses with chemises peeking out of their stomachers. They roamed the halls in between their shifts in the cellar, which Cruikshank had converted into a whorehouse. He was always looking for willing lightskirts to fill the beds.
Abigail gulped as a flamboyant redhead with a gap-toothed grin caught her eye and waggled a brow.
Soon, she’d be one of them.
She mounted the stairs carefully, her uninjured hand grasping the railing for support. The hood of her cloak remained over her head, and she pretended it gave her a modicum of security. A shroud to hide behind, when it seemed everyone in Whitechapel knew her name and face.
People moved around her, passing her on the staircase and cursing her slowness. One foot in front of the other was never easy. Even before she’d lost the use of her hand, her unsteady gait had marked her as a cripple. As a child, she’d worked as a scavenger, sliding underneath the machinery to collect the broken bits of silk for reuse. The labor had distorted her body, and years of standing on her feet for fourteen hours, six days a week had worsened her knock-knees.
Each step higher made her joints scream for relief. Her lungs, weak from the poorly ventilated conditions in the factories, burned with the effort.
But she persevered, for life had given her no other choice. Everyone she used to consider a friend had abandoned her. The sole kindness she’d known in the last six months was the whisper of a stranger when she’d been in the hospital.
Finally, she arrived at the top floor. A throng of people waited outside the faro room. Falling in line, Abigail peeked inside. Candles shimmered throughout, casting a golden glow. At least it was warmer than outside.
