Page 1 of The Last Chance
Chapter One
Fortune’s Den
Aldgate Street, London
The knock came in the dead of night. A loud thud on the door as violent as a thunderbolt shaking the heavens. The incessant caller hammered hard, determined to take the door off its hinges.
Cursing the inconsiderate devil, Aaron Chance threw on his trousers and shirt, grabbed a sheathed blade from the nightstand and padded barefoot downstairs. Few people dared to knock on his door during daylight. Only a man with a death wish would disturb him at this ungodly hour. Whoever it was would feel more than the sharp whip of his tongue.
Sigmund, his man-of-all-work, trudged into the dim hall, half-dressed and rubbing his eyes, making excuses for not being first to the door.
“It’s not like me to sleep so soundly. Happen I drank too much of that herbal tea Mrs Maloney bought from the apothecary.” Sigmund yawned and stretched like a bear waking from hibernation. “After the trouble with Lord Howard, I barely slept a wink last night.”
Lord Howard—a foppish ne’er-do-well who should be on leading strings—had knocked over his chair at the hazard table and accused the club of using weighted dice. Aaron threw him out, but the fool harassed punters on the street, grabbing their coats and warning them not to gamble with cheaters.
“Howard deserved a good hiding,” Sigmund said when the mysterious caller banged again. “I know he ain’t no fighting gent, but his antics are bad for business.”
Aaron fought against his growing frustration. He did not punch weak men, but Sigmund was right. Someone needed to teach Howard a lesson.
“One thump would likely kill him. I’ll not visit the scaffold for that bastard.” Aaron glanced at the door, unsure why he hesitated. This was not a family matter. His kin would make themselves known. So why had the caller not shouted Aaron’s name and demand he open the door? “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“There might have been an accident on the road,” Sigmund said. “Gilbert’s dogs are forever darting in front of carriages and spooking the horses.”
“Then where are the cries for help?”
A gaming hell owner did not open his door to strangers. Not when men wanted him dead. Wastrels drowning in debt would queue to enter the churchyard, all desperate to dance on his grave.
“It might be Miss Lovelace,” Sigmund dared to suggest.
They did not talk about the woman who owned the ladies’ club across the street, though Aaron had dragged drunken louts from outside The Burnished Jade twice this week.
“A woman taps gently and identifies herself,” Aaron countered, though perhaps the lady feared he wouldn’t open the door. “She doesn’t pound the wood with her fist.” Miss Lovelace had delicate hands. Hands made to caress a man’s firm jaw. Hands made to draw light circles in his chest hair as he slept.
Sigmund shrugged. “Happen she’s locked out on a cold, wet night. Whoever it is sounds desperate.”
Instinct said Aaron should leave by the back exit, vault the wall and meet the devil on the street. But he approached the door and opened the viewing hatch. Keen to avoid being shot in the eye with a lead ball, he waved his hand before the opening, counted to three, then looked out.
His heart leapt to his throat.
It was a woman.
Not just any woman.
The golden-haired beauty from The Burnished Jade stood in the rain, distress etched into every captivating line on her face.
Aaron couldn’t draw the bolts quickly enough. He opened the door, grabbed the lady’s arm and pulled her into the club’s opulent hall.
His mind raced, imagining what traumatic event had driven her out into the dark mere hours before dawn. “Why are you out in the rain? What is so urgent you must wake the household?” He gestured to the damp silk wrapper clinging to her curves, though he refused to let his gaze linger. He tried not to inhale the potent scent of her rose perfume, for it affected him more profoundly at night. “It’s November, for heaven’s sake. Look at you. You’re barely dressed.”
He spoke with a husband’s familiarity, though they were as good as enemies. Miss Lovelace despised him, which was just as well. Her disdain helped to bolster his defences. He lacked the tender heart women wanted in a lover. Few could tolerate his unrefined manner.
He hated lies.
He hated vanity.
He hated the ploys women used to attract a man’s attention.
The lady clutched her heaving bosom and tried to calm her breathing. Water trickled down her cheeks and dripped from thetip of her nose. Rain, he hoped. Her tears would rattle his composure.
