It all started with Lady Findercombe’s rather impressive bosom.

Born of rather common parents and less than passable beauty, Miss Lucilla Trent was delighted when, at the tender age of sixteen, she developed what can only be described as “a woman’s figure.”

Lucilla, never a romantic sort, was overjoyed when her womanly figure caught old Lord Findercombe’s rather jaundiced eye. The jaded bachelor was entranced enough to toss caution to the winds and beg for Lucilla’s hand in marriage without regard for either her lack of dowry or the fact that her left eye had a rather disturbing tendency to wander.

Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Trent were enthused. Though Lucilla found Lord Findercombe both old and dull, he was well connected, was invited everywhere, and was willing to set her up with an indulgent amount of pin money. They were, many said, a perfect match.

Once married, Lord Findercombe bestowed a wealth of heavy decorative brooches and necklaces on his wife that drew attention to her finest features. The combination of bountiful bosom and jaunty jewels soon became an accepted sight in society.

All was well and good until the night of the Hearsts’ Grand Ball. The ball was held every year two weeks prior to the beginning of the season. Located only a half day’s ride from town, the event was a stopping place for all the best of the best on their annual move to their London town houses.

It had become something of a tradition; the large sitting rooms and the impressive ballroom crowded to the fullest. Every year, Lady Hearst flitted from guest to guest, gathering and passing on gossip like a bee pollinating a colorful garden.

Normally, the Hearsts’ Grand Ball was held up as an example of a well-thought-out and unique entertainment, a fact that delighted Lady Hearst no small amount. However, this year things were not going as planned. Within an hour of beginning, the ball was, in fact, in dire danger of falling apart.

The wonderful orchestra Lady Hearst had hired had come down with the ague. At the last minute, she’d been forced to replace them with a smallish local quartet, which was hardly the thing for a large, crowded ballroom. Then she discovered that the long sheers she’d ordered draped around the ballroom to add an air of gaiety had an odd smell—rather musty and barn-like—a fact she did not discover until too late to order their removal. But the worst disaster was the ices.

A spate of unusually mild weather had caused the front hallway to be far warmer than usual, and all the lovely ices she’d ordered specially from London had begun to melt before the first guest had arrived. She’d been so excited about those ices, too. They had been shaped to look like Admiral Nelson on board the Victory to commemorate the glorious Battle of Trafalgar, a topic much on the minds and tongues of the ton.

As the ices melted, hundreds of small Admiral Nelsons began to shrink. Worse, his left arm, extended and holding a sword to the throat of a panicked Frenchman, fell off completely and landed on the upturned face of his vanquished foe, giving the entire scene a rather cannibalistic air.

The real Admiral Nelson had indeed lost an arm in battle, and Lady Hearst feared her guests would think her insensitive or, worse, unpatriotic. Her fears were quite justified when she caught not one but three spiteful women whispering just such a thing to one another during the evening.

All in all, the ball was filled, which made it acceptable, but the rooms languished with yawns and desultory small talk. The guests were bored, which was the worst thing that could happen to a society hostess, even over the advent of a fire or a fatality of some sort. At least that would have been interesting.

Into this listless event came the noisy entrance of Lord and Lady Findercombe. It was well past midnight, and Lady Hearst had long since abandoned her post by the door, but at the suddenly animated bustle, she and her husband hurried to see who had just arrived and in such an excitable state. Lady Hearst reached the entryway first and found the Findercombes standing amid a rapidly growing crowd.

“We,” Lord Findercombe said, his voice trembling in outrage, “were robbed!”

In a flash, the ennui that had held the company at bay for the past four hours disappeared.

“Good God,” said Lord Hearst over the noise of the now-buzzing crowd. “Lord Findercombe, how did this come to happen?”

His Lordship turned to his wife. “Lucilla, show them!”

Lucilla untied the bow at her neck, tossed open her cloak, and exposed her low-cut gown. Her magnificent décolletage was framed for viewing, the object of all attention.

For a moment, the busy hum of voices abated.

Lady Hearst’s cheeks heated, while a rather inebriated gentleman by the door leaned forward and squinted. After a moment, he said, “They look just fine to me! Both of ’em!”

A wave of laughter arose from the crowd.

Lord Findercombe glared at the young buck. “Not her bosom, you fool! Her jewels! Gone, all of them! A highwayman stopped our carriage and stole everything!”

“You don’t say!” Lord Hearst exclaimed.

“Yes, and the ruffian had the audacity to tell Lucilla that she might keep one of her brooches did she give him a kiss!”

Lady Hearst gazed anxiously at Lucilla. But the younger lady did not appear at all outraged. A faint, very secretive smile touched her lips. For a moment, Lucilla’s rather plain features assumed a very attractive and somewhat sensual look.

The gathering swarmed with excited whispers. More people tried to crowd into the narrow entryway, many craning their necks to see who was speaking. Lady Hearst could have burst with pleasure. Every single person in the ballroom must now be glad he’d been invited. Nothing could have been more wonderful.

She bustled forward and put an arm through Lucilla’s. “Oh, you poor child! Whatever did you do?”

“Do?” Lucilla’s smile never wavered. She slowly lifted her left hand. There, in the center, rested a huge emerald brooch.

Lady Hearst burst into laughter and hugged Lucilla. “Oh, you naughty puss! A kiss for a brooch!”

Lucilla looked at the brooch, a sense of wonder in her eyes. “I have never seen such a highwayman. His voice”—Lucilla closed her eyes a moment, the smile still on her lips—“so smooth, like silk. And deep. I have never heard such a voice. And he was so cultured, so handsome, so polite—”

“My dear!” Lady Hearst exclaimed. “You were held up by none other than Gentleman James!”

Lucilla opened her eyes wide. “Who?”

“Gentleman James—or Gentleman Jack, as some call him—is our local ruffian. He holds up only the plumpest pockets.”

“Gentleman James?” cooed a lady who was standing nearby, her eyes wide. “Is he a bad man?”

“I don’t believe so,” Lady Hearst said. “He seems quite civilized and he has never harmed a soul.”

“That’s true,” Lord Hearst agreed. “They say he’s the devil with a rapier and a demmed fine shot, too.”

Lord Findercombe fisted his hands and said rather enigmatically, “Ha!”

“The Gentleman has the most impeccable manners,” Lady Hearst continued, ignoring Lord Findercombe’s outburst. “Some think he may be the illegitimate son of a nobleman.”

“Whatever he is or isn’t,” Lord Findercombe fumed, “the lout deserves to swing from the end of a noose!”

“Not an easy trick, that,” Lord Hearst said bluffly. “No one has ever caught him, try as they might. He comes, he parlays, and then he disappears like a puff of smoke.”

“I hear he is tall,” Lady Hearst said. “Very tall, with black hair and—”

“Oh no,” Lucilla said. She flushed, then glanced at her husband from under her lashes. “The thief was not tall. I did, however, get a glimpse of his eyes. They were as blue as—”

“Lucilla!”

Everyone turned to an apparently shocked Lord Findercombe. “He was indeed tall! Quite tall! And his eyes were gr—”

“Nonsense. Gentleman Jack was of short stature and his eyes were blue. My lord, you have had too much to drink.”

Lord Findercombe’s mouth opened, his eyes bulging wildly.

“You heard me,” Lucilla said stoutly. “You were drunk. You had two glasses of scotch before we left the house. Then, in the coach, you were sipping from your flask the entire way.”

Everyone looked at Lord Findercombe, who flushed. “I am not drunk and you know it!”

Her Ladyship merely raised her brows. Those watching wondered if perhaps Lord Findercombe’s outraged reaction was fueled by brandy.

Lord Findercombe seemed quite aware of this. “You, madam, have a lot to explain yourself!”

Lucilla’s lips thinned. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“What I mean,” Lord Findercombe snapped, “is that you were very quick to kiss that man, and all for one little brooch.”

“It isn’t one little brooch; it’s one large brooch. And why shouldn’t I kiss him? At least he doesn’t smell like onions!”

Lord Findercombe stiffened. “My doctor recommended I eat onions to help with my digestion!”

“They might help your digestion, but they do not assist your other parts!”

Tittering erupted from the guests. Even Lady Hearst had to turn aside to keep from giggling in a most unseemly manner.

Lord Findercombe turned so red it appeared he might explode. “It was a mistake to come here so soon on the heels of a disaster. Neither of us is as we should be.”

“Speak for yourself, my lord; I am perfectly fine. Better than fine. In fact, I have never felt finer than now, having met a real gentleman!” Lucilla threw off her cloak and handed it to a nearby footman. Then she turned and took Lady Hearst’s arm. “My lady, might I request some ratafia? I am quite parched.”

“Of course, my dear!” Lady Hearst cooed. “Come this way and tell me all about your horrid evening!”

The other guests watched enviously as Lady Hearst led Lucilla toward the refreshment table, leaving Lord Findercombe loudly complaining in the foyer. This spectacle soon palled, and slowly, one by one, the guests returned to the ballroom.

To Lord Hearst’s chagrin, Findercombe continued to lament the loss of his lady’s jewels until a gentleman appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Westerville!” Hearst said with obvious relief.

The gentleman in question smiled and continued his leisurely stroll down the stairs. Fashionably attired in a multi-caped coat, his riding boots exquisitely shined, he was the epitome of fashion. Handsome in an almost classical way, tall, with broad shoulders, he paused at the foot of the stairs, regarding the two older lords with an air of faint amusement.

Lord Hearst hurried forward. “Westerville! Leaving so soon?”

“Urgent business calls me to London.”

“Demmed! I wish you’d find a way to stay another week. There is some top hunting to be had hereabouts.”

Findercombe harrumphed loudly.

Hearst started. “Oh good heavens! Almost forgot. Lord Findercombe, have you met Viscount Westerville?”

“No,” Findercombe said in a testy voice. “Nor do I wish to at this moment. I am too upset to—”

“He’s a fine fellow,” Hearst said, beaming at the newcomer. “A bruising rider to the hounds!”

The viscount grinned, his teeth flashing in a face lightly tanned. “Hearst, I would stay if I could, but I must get to London to file for my inheritance. I have hopes of purchasing that bay hunter of yours as soon as I have matters in hand.”

Hearst’s booming laughter filled the hall. “By all means, then, make haste to London!”

The viscount bowed. “I shall.” His amused gaze flickered over Findercombe’s flushed face. “Lord Findercombe, you look upset. Is something amiss?”

“Oh lud, yes,” Hearst said. “A highwayman importuned poor Lady Findercombe and forced her into a kiss. Worse, the minx looked as if she might have enjoyed it!”

“Hearst!” bellowed Lord Findercombe. “How dare you suggest Lady Findercombe—that she—how could you say—”

“There, there!” Hearst said, eyeing his friend a bit nervously. “I just said she looked as if she enjoyed it. For all I know, she detested it and was only being polite.”

“My lady is quite young,” Findercombe said, sending a red-faced glare at his host. “She doesn’t know what she likes. She was quite aghast when the knave forced himself upon her and—”

“Forced?” The viscount’s brows lowered over his pale eyes, which in the uncertain light appeared to be an unusual shade of silver-green. “The man must have been a complete cad.”

“He was,” Findercombe said stoutly. “He importuned my lady in a most unchivalrous manner.”

The viscount pursed his lips, a dark humor in his gaze. “I am surprised you did not call the man out. Or perhaps you did?”

“I would have, had the coward stayed! But he was away with my money before I could collect myself.”

“Yes,” the younger man said reflectively. “It is always so difficult to collect oneself whilst cowering on the floor of one’s own carriage.”

Lord Hearst gave an involuntary exclamation at this, but Findercombe merely blinked, his gaze riveted on the viscount’s face. “How could you know I hid on the floor of my carriage?”

The viscount smiled gently. “Your knees are muddied.”

The older lord bent over. “Oh. That. I slid to the floor, hoping to distract the man from—not that it matters, for I did not have my pistol with me, which will not happen again!”

“Of course,” the viscount said soothingly.

“A horrid happening, but over now, thank heavens,” Hearst said in his bluff manner. “Westerville, you’ve a distance to travel this evening, so we shall not hold you further. Send a letter when you’re ready for the bay and I’ll have her brought to you.”

“Thank you, my lord. I shall do that.”

“I hope you will!” Hearst opened the library door. “Come, Findercombe! Try some of my port. It’s the best to be had. Westerville himself brought it all the way from France!” He winked over Findercombe’s head at Westerville and then shut the library door behind him.

The viscount grinned. Whistling softly, he left the house and made his way to his waiting carriage.

“There ye be, Master Jack,” said a large, red-haired Scotsman, heaving a sigh of relief. “I’ve been waiting.”

Christian James Llevanth, Viscount Westerville, shrugged. “I apologize, Willie. I would have been here sooner, but there was a bit of a disturbance at the ball.”

“Aye,” Willie said, a twinkle in his eyes. “I seen the gent and his lady arrive. A puddin’ heart, if I ever seen one.”

“Indeed,” Christian agreed. “I thought he was—”

A dapper figure dressed in the sober black coat and neatly pressed breeches of a butler walked from around the carriage. Tall and thin with an elegant air, he bowed to Christian. “Ah, my lord! I did not hear you approach.”

“I just arrived, Reeves,” Christian said. The butler had been with him for only two months, and it still felt a bit odd. After years of an existence consisting of no one but Willie for company, of living in taverns and never staying anywhere longer than was necessary, now there was Reeves, a complete entourage of servants, and a luxurious house in London. All of it Christian’s.

He flickered a smile at the butler. “I apologize for being late. There was a bit of drama at the ball.”

Willie snorted with humor. “Aye, a bit of drama! Seems someone held up a coach belonging to a snot-nosed gent and—”

Christian sent a warning glare at Willie and then hoped the sharp-eyed butler had not witnessed it.

Reeves’s attention was locked on poor Willie. “Tell me more, Master William, about this ‘snot-nosed’ gent? How exactly do you know the gentleman to be so, ah, predisposed?”

Willie shifted from one foot to the other, casting a wild look at Christian.

Christian took pity on poor Willie. “Reeves, we should leave. Tell the groomsman—”

“My lord,” the butler said, disapprobation thick in his voice, “is there something you wish to tell me? Something about the gentleman who entered the house not long ago, claiming he’d been robbed?”

“No.”

Reeves sighed. “One day there will be a reckoning.”

“Och, now!” Willie said. “We were just out havin’ a wee bit of fun. No need to get your snood in a snocker.”

“My snood is not snocked,” Reeves said severely. “Lord Westerville just came into a vast inheritance. These little wayward contretemps are no longer necessary.”

“No one said they were necessary,” Christian said. “But they are certainly enjoyable.”

Willie chuckled. “The lady was properly stocked in the miff, was she not, Master Jack?”

Reeves winced. “My dear William, pray at least try and call His Lordship by his proper title of Lord Westerville.”

“I’m proper,” Willie huffed, wiping his nose on a none-too-clean sleeve. “But I won’t be a-callin’ Master Jack ‘me lord’ whilst we’re upon the High Toby, I won’t.”

Reeves eyed Christian with a resigned air. “My lord, when your father sent me into the world upon his death to locate you, I never thought to find you so dangerously employed.”

Christian’s smile froze a bit. In order to survive, one had to stay focused, clear-minded. Even now, just hearing someone mention Father sent a wave of…fury? Sorrow? Something cold and powerful, racing through him, making him both frightfully strong and yet painfully weak at the same time. He gritted his teeth. If he wished to find Mother’s killer, he had to become more accustomed to hearing Father’s name. At one time he’d desired to hear Father’s name over all others. But that time was long gone.

Christian caught Reeves’s speculative gaze. “Had my father wished me more gainfully employed, then while he was alive, he should have bothered himself a bit more with me and my brother. He paid us so little heed that I find it odd he thought of us at all while upon his deathbed.”

Reeves sighed a bit. “If you would allow me to explain—”

“It does not matter. I want the fortune; I will use it to further my search for the man responsible for betraying Mother and causing her death. That is what is really important.”

Willie spat into the dirt. “Revenge,” he said with relish.

“Revenge never served anyone well,” Reeves said coolly.

“Och, there! How can ye say such? ’Tis the Highland way.”

Reeves shook his head. “My lord, I implore you to retire Gentleman James to become the legend he deserves to be. It cannot help your plans if you are caught and thrown into gaol.”

Christian knew Reeves was right. But…before he’d gained his title and the possibility of a fortune, he had never thought himself enamored of his chosen profession as highwayman. Oh, he’d enjoyed it well enough in the cold chill of the inky black nights and the uncertainty of each exhilarating encounter. But the real reason he believed he’d found it so satisfying was that every time he outwitted someone wealthier than he—someone perceived by society to be more powerful—Christian was really triumphing over someone like Father. Someone cold. Arrogant. Uncaring.

Lately, it had been borne upon Christian that perhaps he enjoyed being a highwayman for other reasons. The painful freedom that came with it. The taste of excitement that flushed his body when he and Willie approached a coach. The feel of a woman’s excited mouth beneath his, as today.

He smiled. Often as not, unbeknownst to their husbands and lovers, the gently born women he’d won kisses from had given him other tokens—rings, ribbons, items that could, and sometimes did, gain him entrance to the boudoirs of the mistresses of some of the greatest houses in England.

Now he was a lord in his own right, and access to those very boudoirs was his for the asking. He was now an equal, a member of the crème de la crème.

Christian grinned. “Reeves, you have my word Willie and I have taken our last ride. From this night forth, Gentleman James is no more.”

“’Ere now,” Willie protested. “Ye canna mean that!”

“I am certain he does,” Reeves said, looking at Willie with disapprobation. “You, Master William, had best concern yourself with what place you will take in His Lordship’s new establishment. Lord Westerville no longer has need of an accomplice to hold his mount whilst he is waving his pistols about.”

Christian chuckled at Willie’s outraged expression. “There now, Willie, my man! Just tell Reeves you already have a job, for you do, you know.”

Willie’s face cleared. “Aye, thet’s roight! In fact, if ye aren’t goin’ to ride the High Toby, I suppose I’d best be on me new duties right away.”

“Take your horse. I expect to see you within the week.”

“Sooner, guv’nor!” Willie sent a hard glance at Reeves before he walked away, dignified in his own manner.

“Where is Master William off to now?” Reeves asked.

“I don’t believe you want to know.”

The butler sighed once more. “I was afraid you might say that.” He nodded to a footman who had been hovering out of earshot. The man raced forward now to open the door and lower the steps. Christian climbed in. Reeves followed, and soon they were on their way.

The carriage swayed over the deeply rutted road. “My lord, may I inquire how you intend on accomplishing your goal, to discover your mother’s betrayer?”

“I know who betrayed my mother; the Duke of Massingale. But I need more evidence.”

Reeves’s brows rose. “The duke is a reclusive man.”

“Which is why I shall gain entry to his household by courting his granddaughter.”

Reeves was silent a long moment. “I assume, my lord, that she was part of the dastardly plot?”

“No. She was but a child when my mother died.” Christian read the disapprobation in the butler’s eyes. “I have waited over twenty years to right the wrongs done to my mother. I will have my vengeance one way or another.”

Reeves sighed. “Yes, my lord. I can see you are quite determined. I must say, having witnessed your last profession, I find your disregard for the law somewhat disconcerting.”

“I have never killed anyone.”

“That is always a good thing to hear from one’s employer. Pray do not become cross if I ask you to repeat that statement at various times. I find the words quite reassuring.”

Christian laughed and leaned back against the thick squabs of his coach. It would take all of Christian’s address to gain entrance into the duke’s household. But once he reached London and spent a few weeks charming the granddaughter…

“Vengeance,” Christian said in a low tone beneath the rumble of the carriage. The words blended smoothly with the creaking of the leather straps and the thunder of the horses’ hooves.

Smiling grimly, Christian watched out the window as the inky blackness sped by. Lights flickered in the distance and beckoned him onward. Vengeance indeed. London and all her inhabitants had best beware.