Chapter 1

LONDON

FEBRUARY 1727

A woman abroad in St. Giles at midnight was either very foolish or very desperate. Or , as in her own case, Meg reflected wryly, a combination of both.

“’ Tis said the Ghost of St. Giles haunts on nights like this ,” Shelly , Meg’s maidservant , said chattily as she skirted a noxious puddle in the narrow alley.

Meg glanced dubiously at her. Shelly had spent three years in a traveling company of actors and sometimes had a tendency toward melodrama.

“ There’s no ghost haunting St. Giles ,” Temperance replied firmly. The cold winter night was frightening enough without the addition of specters.

They were coming to a turn in the alley, and Meg thought she saw light up ahead. She held her lantern high and gripped the ancient pistol in her other hand a little tighter. The weapon was heavy enough to make her arm ache. She could have brought a sack to carry it in, but that would’ve defeated its purpose as a deterrent. Though loaded, the pistol held but one shot, and to tell the truth, she was somewhat hazy on the actual operation of the weapon.

Still, the pistol looked dangerous, and Meg was grateful for that. The night was black, the wind moaning eerily, bringing with it the smell of excrement and rotting offal. The sounds of St. Giles rose about them—voices raised in argument, moans and laughter, and now and

again the odd, chilling scream. St. Giles was enough to send the most intrepid woman running for her life.

And that was without Shelly’s conversation.

Meg took a breath as they turned the corner into a small, wretched courtyard. Two figures stood at the opposite end, but they scuttled away at their approach. Meg let out her breath. “Lord, I hate being abroad at night.”

Shelly patted the infant’s back. “Only a half mile more. Then we can put this wee one to bed and send for the wet nurse in the morning.”

Meg bit her lip as they ducked into another alley. “Do you think she’ll live until morning?”

But Shelly , usually quite free with her opinions, was silent. Meg peered ahead and hurried her step. The baby looked to be only weeks old and had not yet made a sound since they’d recovered her from the arms of her dead mother. Normally a thriving infant was quite loud. Terrible to think that she and Shelly might’ve made this dangerous outing for naught.

But then what choice had there been, really? When she’d received word at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children that a baby was in need of her help, it had still been light. She’d known from bitter experience that if they’d waited until morn to retrieve the child, it would either have expired in the night from lack of care or would’ve already been sold for a beggar’s prop. She shuddered. The children bought by beggars were often made more pitiful to elicit sympathy from passersby. An eye might be put out or a limb broken or twisted. No, she’d really had no choice. The baby couldn’t wait until morning.

Still, she’d be very happy when they made it back to the home.

They were in a narrow passage now , the tall houses on either side leaning inward ominously. Shelly was forced to walk behind Meg or risk brushing the sides of the buildings. A scrawny cat snaked by, and then there was a shout very near.

Meg’s steps faltered.

“Someone’s up ahead,” Shelly whispered hoarsely.

They could hear scuffling and then a sudden high scream.

Meg swallowed. The alley had no side passages. They could either retreat or continue—and to retreat meant another twenty minutes added to their journey.

That decided her. The night was chilly, and the cold wasn’t good for the babe.

“Stay close to me,” she whispered to Shelly.

“Like a flea on a dog,” Shelly muttered.

Meg squared her shoulders and held the pistol firmly in front of her. Win , her youngest brother, had said that one need only point it and shoot. That couldn’t be too hard. The light from the lantern spilled before them as she entered another crooked courtyard. Here she stood still for just a second, her light illuminating the scene ahead like a pantomime on a stage.

A man lay on the ground, bleeding from the head. But that wasn’t what froze her—blood and even death were common enough in St. Giles. No, what arrested her was the second man. He crouched over the first, his black cloak spread to either side of him like the wings of a great bird of prey. He held a long black walking stick, the end tipped with silver, echoing his hair, which was silver as well. It fell straight and long, glinting in the lantern’s light. Though his face was mostly in darkness, his eyes glinted from under the brim of a black tricorne. Meg could feel the weight of the stranger’s stare. It was as if he physically touched her.

“Lord save and preserve us from evil,” Shelly murmured, for the first time sounding fearful. “Come away, ma’am. Swiftly!”

Thus urged, Meg ran across the courtyard, her shoes clattering on the cobblestones. She darted into another passage and left the scene behind.

“Who was he, Shelly? ” she panted as they made their way through the stinking alley. “Do you know?”

The passage let out suddenly into a wider road, and Meg relaxed a little, feeling safer without the walls pressing in.

Shelky spat as if to clear a foul taste from her mouth.

Meg looked at her curiously. “You sounded like you knew that man.”

“Knew him, no,” Shelly replied. “But I’ve seen him about. That was Lord sebastian. He’s best left to himself.”

“Why?”

Shelly shook her head, pressing her lips firmly together. “I shouldn’t be speaking about the likes of him to you at all, ma’am.”

Meg let that cryptic comment go. They were on a better street now—some of the shops had lanterns hanging by the doors, lit by the inhabitants within. Meg turned one more corner onto metal lane , and the foundling home came within sight. Like its neighbors, it was a tall brick building of cheap construction. The windows were few and very narrow, the doorway unmarked by any sign. In the fifteen precarious years of the foundling home’s existence, there had never been a need to advertise.

Abandoned and orphaned children were all too common in St. Giles.

“Home safely,” Meg said as they reached the door. She set down the lantern on the worn stone step and took out the big iron key hanging by a cord at her waist. “I’m looking forward to a dish of hot tea. "

“I’ll put this wee one to bed,” Shelly said as they entered the dingy little hall. It was spotlessly clean, but that didn’t hide the fallen plaster or the warped floorboards.

“Thank you.” Meg removed her cloak and was just hanging it on a peg when a tall male form appeared at the far doorway.

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