Page 1 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Prologue
London, 1868. Four Years ago.
Tonight’s theft was Nicholas Thorne’s last.
There were rumors that The Earl of Kent’s mistress had a vast jewelry collection that rivaled the queen. If those whispers were even the slightest bit true, Thorne would have quite the bounty by morning. He’d stolen many jewels, of course—necklaces, bracelets, rings, ear-bobs, even hair combs. Whatever they wore, he lifted with little difficulty at all.
As effortless as breathing. It only took patience.
And Thorne was a patient man. He had cased the townhouse for over a month—but he needn’t have taken so long. Few people came and went: the earl himself, his mistress, and her servants. Not a single guard or intimidating footman in sight. The place was effectively unprotected.
Thorne could not imagine such comfort. He’d seen the size of the rock Mrs. Cecilia Dunn wore to the theater a fortnight ago. There was a certain arrogance in wearing a fortune around one’s throat, secure in the knowledge that its absence would mean nothing. Her life would not change.
In Thorne’s case, it meant freedom. Influence.
Power.
He was taking it one day at a time. One jewel at a time.
Fuck the richwasn’t his life’s motto; it meant the difference between living and dying in the streets these aristos shunned and regarded with disgust. The Old Nichol wasn’t kind, but it was home. With his stolen fortune, Thorne was going to seize control of the East End from the man who’d made him into a criminal.
But first, the jewels.
He slipped through the garden, rounding to the servants’ entrance.
The house was quiet, every light extinguished. The servants would be long abed by now. Thorne had memorized their schedules, right down to when the scullery maid laid her weary head down to rest. He wouldn’t risk being thrown in the gaol on his last night of thieving.
“Last time,” he murmured to himself, a reassurance.Last time.
Last. Time.
He reached into his pocket for the small bundle that held his tools and picked the lock. It came apart with such ease that he scowled. Thorne had known for a long time that money and comfort created a false sense of security. This woman’s neighbors were successful actresses, other mistresses, businessmen, writers, artists. They had no reason to secure their homes past a flimsy lock.
Thorne might have reflected on the unfairness of it once. When he was young, his low birth often occupied his thoughts. He’d lie in the cold, dark cellar with the rest of Whelan’s lads, and decided this was God’s punishment. Perhaps for the people he’d stolen from. Or for the men Whelan had forced him to kill in exchange for a roof, some food, and protection in the streets.
Later he’d go to bed at night and decide the answer was simpler: God didn’t give fuck about him. He’d have to change his own fate.
Last. Bloody. Time.
He slipped through the kitchens and headed up the stairs, his steps slow and quiet. Mrs. Dunn would not return anytime soon. Earlier in the evening it took three maids to prepare her for a gathering that would likely last until the sun peeked through the morning fog. As for the Earl of Kent: he was scarce on Sundays.
Thorne had hours; all he needed was minutes.
The bedchamber was redolent with the scent of perfume, something floral that made his nose itch. He picked his way through the various drawers that constituted the vanity. The creams alone were worth enough to buy a starving family food for a whole year. That didn’t even get into the cost of this woman’s clothes and baubles. The lowest silver spoon could pay what Thorne owed Whelan for protection this month.
Ahh. There we are.
At the back of the vanity Thorne spied a hidden compartment with a tiny lock. He almost almost laughed at the absurdity of it. This might keep the servants from slipping a diamond necklace into their pockets, but it wouldn’t stop even the greenest of thieves. He had the mechanism picked within seconds.
The sight inside made Thorne draw a breath.
Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds—thrown in carelessly. As if they were worth nothing more than a secondhand pair of boots. Mrs. Dunn was about to regret her negligence. The whole bloody collection would be enough to pay his debts to Whelan—hell, the debts of every lad who owed Whelan blunt. More, besides.
This came with power. An end to thieving.
How could he turn down the opportunity? Thorne wasn’t a moral man; desperate ones couldn’t afford morality. Not when he answered to a man who demanded payment for services rendered. Not when those services includedprotectionat a steep cost.
No, he had little time for guilt. That was for those with choices.
