The Vixen Read online

  Connor shot a last glance over his shoulder.

  “A debt paid,” he mouthed.

  It was the motto ingrained into every one of the boys and girls miserable enough to find themselves in Diggory’s clutches.

  A debt paid.

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Spring 1826

  One of the luxuries of being the most successful investigator in England lay not only in the wealth one possessed but also in one’s ability to accept or decline whichever case one chose.

  There could not be any doubt. Connor Steele had built a vast fortune through his work.

  As such, he’d considered not coming.

  When the note had arrived on his desk, he had contemplated tossing the missive into a dustbin.

  In the end he’d granted the upcoming audience not because of monies needed, but because one was wise to gather information. From each appointment he could decide what to do with a case, but he’d not flourished as the head investigator by turning down assignments from the wealthiest, most powerful peers in London.

  Despite the presence of two uniformed servants, a heavy silence loomed in the soaring foyer.

  While the surprisingly fresh-faced butler examined the card he’d handed over, Connor touched his gaze on the grand space, from the white Italian marble floor to the sweeping red-velvet, carpeted staircase and the crystal chandelier that hung overhead. Aye, the gentleman who sought to utilize his services was deep in the pockets.

  “If you’ll follow me?” The tall, ginger-haired servant murmured the only words exchanged since he’d opened the door and Connor had offered over his card. After handing Connor’s cloak to the footman, the butler started down the corridor that intersected the foyer.

  Connor glanced over to the liveried servant who, garment in hands, melted into the shadows.

  Keeping a slower pace behind the butler, Connor followed after him. The most skilled of investigators, he missed nothing and saw all. It was a lesson not known by most, and one Connor had come by not in the ten years since he’d established his own business but rather from the years he’d spent living on the streets.

  To miss a detail could see a man with his throat sliced. It was a rule of life Connor was not so naive to believe was reserved only for the streets of East London, but for all of England, from its dark alleys to its glittering ballrooms.

  The butler looked over his shoulder and then adjusted his pace as he led them down a bisecting hall. “This way, Mr. Steele,” he muttered, and then another blanket of silence descended as Connor was ushered along.

  While they made the long journey through the Marquess of Maddock’s Mayfair townhouse, Connor cataloged every detail, ultimately settling on the single most defining element of the palatial residence.

  Silence.

  It was the single word that defined this household and the staff contained within. A manner of quiet that felt sharp in a person’s ear and discouraged discourse, all the while punctuating what otherwise would have been mundane sounds: the distant tick of a clock, the tread of a quiet footfall, the groan of a floorboard.

  The young butler slowed his steps, bringing them to a stop. He paused, waiting until Connor reached the heavy oak panel before rapping.

  That pressing silence remained.

  And then a harsh voice sounded from within the room. “Enter.”

  The efficient servant was already twisting the door handle, allowing Connor entry.

  Doing a sweep of the room as he stepped inside, Connor at last settled his stare on the figure seated at the desk. Head bent over whatever task occupied him, the man didn’t even deign to look up.

  The butler cast an apologetic glance in Connor’s direction and then cleared his throat. “My lord, Mr.—”

  “I know bloody well who it is,” the man seethed. From where he sat at his desk, a ledger open before him, and by both his command of the room and the fear he evoked, there could be no doubting the man’s identity. “Get the hell out, Quint.”

  The butler may as well have been politely dismissed for the grace with which he exited.

  “And close the door after you’ve gone,” the gentleman whispered, still not bothering to lift his head.

  The young servant inclined his head.

  Once the man had gone and the room was quiet, Connor strode forward, uninvited. With every step that carried him closer, he intensified his study of that figure who’d long been whispered about amongst Polite Society: the Mad Marquess.

  And with his unkempt blond hair hanging over his face and his frenetic assessment of that page, there could be no doubting the man’s insanity. The Mad Marquess’s wife had been burned alive while he’d remained remarkably untouched and conveniently out the night she’d been ravaged along with their child.

  Connor, however, had dealt with demons in the streets and men and women bound for Bedlam. He’d long been jaded to fear or feeling anything around men such as the marquess.

  “You came,” the marquess observed in the rough tones of one unaccustomed to speech.

  Taking that as his invitation to sit, Connor claimed the chair closest to the gentleman’s desk. Not bothering with permission, he tugged it out and sat, his fingertips leaving trails upon the dusty arms.

  Minuscule specks danced around in the air, the uncared-for offices at odds with the gleaming mahogany furniture outside these rooms.

  Connor measured his words. He nearly hadn’t come. His wealth afforded him decisions in the cases he took on. However, even in the earliest days of his career, he would have sold his soul to work on the case of a child killer. “You expected I would not,” he settled for, gauging the other man for any reaction.

  Not breaking his study of the ledger, Lord Maddock flipped the page. “I don’t hold any expectations anymore, Mr. Steele,” he said in deadened tones. While the marquess worked his gaze over the paper, Connor straightened his neck, studying the words written there.

  Name after name filled the rows. Some of the names held stars beside them.

  At long last the marquess set aside his book and picked up his head. He glanced, almost bored, at the D carved just above Connor’s brow. Where most in Polite Society swiftly averted their horrified stares, Lord Maddock’s lips turned up in a grim smile. “Do you know who I am?” he asked with an almost sick relish.

  Connor narrowed his eyes. He’d survived hell on the streets. The last figure that could ever rouse a hint of fear in him was the Mad Marquess. “I’ve not come to be toyed with. You sought my services, and I’ve come to hear you out. So say what it is you’d say.”

  Another mirthless smile that would have withered a lesser man curled life-hardened lips. “I would hire you to oversee a case.” Reaching inside his desk drawer, he withdrew a single sheet. He pushed it across the desk.

  Connor eyed the page a moment and then picked it up.

  “It’s what you stand to earn,” the marquess explained, sitting back in his carved mahogany King Lion throne chair.

  Connor skimmed the paper.

  One hundred thousand pounds.

  Mayhap years earlier, he would have been impressed by that exorbitant sum. It was a fortune greater than that of most kings and princes.

  “I don’t decide upon my assignments by the size of the purse to be obtained,” he said bluntly, shoving the sheet back.

  “You’re a fool, then.”

  No, he was a man with some integrity. Or rather, one who’d sought to reshape himself from the cutthroat he’d once been. “I’m a man who has means enough that I don’t need to take cases unless I wish.” He sharpened his gaze on the marquess’s face. “Particularly by one who insults me.”

  A brief war raged in Lord Maddock’s eyes.

  “You want to tell me to go to hell,” Connor observed, further establishing his foothold. “You want to toss me out on my arse, but you cannot.” Because he required his services.

  Despite his relaxed pose, the marquess’s shoulders went taut. “It is about a
child,” the marquess said gruffly, a faint glitter of triumph in his eyes. “A boy.”

  Connor steepled his hands and continued studying the other man. “Dead or alive?” he asked bluntly.

  A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth. “Alive.” Just that. One word and no further details.

  In a bid for nonchalance, Connor drummed his fingertips together.

  Children. They had forever been Connor’s weakness as an investigator; those cases presented to him that involved a child were ones he’d been hard-pressed to decline. It was a detail that too many had gleaned and had resulted in impoverished mothers and desperate fathers appealing to him for rates that would see no man rich. He finally stopped his distracted movements. “You wish me to help you find a child,” Connor waded through in measured tones.

  “My son.” Speaking in that cool, emotionless way, the marquess may as well have referenced the way he took tea or the bloodlines of his mount.

  “Your son was killed,” he said, training his gaze on the other man’s face.

  The marquess chuckled, the coarse sound of empty amusement filling the office. “You have done your research, Mr. Steele.”

  It was a story still occasionally whispered about in ballrooms: the remembered tale of the blaze set by the marquess when his wife, expecting their second child, and his son and heir had slept following a violent row between the husband and young mother.

  Then all feigned hilarity withered as a dark, somber mask settled over the marquess’s heavy features. “My son was stolen.”

  Mayhap this was the man’s madness at play, a bid to reshape and twist his past to make it more bearable for his moments of lucidity. “Your child is gone seven years, and you’re now making claims he’s been kidnapped,” Connor said, letting his incredulity seep in.

  Lord Maddock pursed his mouth. “I didn’t have reasons to believe he was alive.” He paused. “Until now.” He dangled that pronouncement.

  A familiar hunger to know more gripped Connor.

  For him it had been a lifelong compulsion. He’d sought it as an eager student with his long-dead mother, who’d been his first tutor. Then as a student at Cambridge . . . and ultimately as an investigator working the streets of London. It filled him even more now.

  When Connor spoke, he did so with a matter-of-factness. “What information have you discovered that should lead you to believe your child survived a fire?” A fire you set. It hung unfinished, as real as if it had been spoken.

  Ice frosted over Lord Maddock’s brown eyes.

  He grabbed a small leather journal at the corner of his desk and held it out. “There are names.”

  Wordlessly, Connor accepted the book.

  He opened it and caught the pages sloppily ripped from gossip columns, slightly faded and showing the beginning signs of age.

  “Begin with my notes,” the marquess ordered as one accustomed to being obeyed.

  Connor removed the miscellaneous sheets and set them aside. He quickly worked his gaze over the first page.

  Names. Just like the ones scratched in a sloppy hand upon the marquess’s journal that still rested open.

  Only these were well-known ones, more recently spoken of and written about in Polite Society.

  Helena Banbury, the Duchess of Somerset.

  Ryker Black, Viscount Chatham.

  Connor paused, his gaze lingering an additional moment on the information gathered on the viscount: his gaming hell partners. Nay, one in particular.

  Niall Marksman.

  Ya’ave to do what ’e says, Connor . . . just loike Oi did . . . unless ya want to end up loike Ryan. Just shut yar mouth and do whatever he tells ya to do.

  He blinked, keeping his head down, as he attempted to reorder his thoughts. He’d not thought of Niall or any of the boys and girls he’d served with in the streets of London.

  Nay, he’d not allowed himself to think of them. The demons intruded enough, where keeping his memories buried had proven far safer.

  Thrusting them back once again, he finished reading.

  “They were taken,” the marquess spoke, bringing Connor’s attention from that sheet. He jabbed a finger at the newspaper clippings. “It took time for me to make sense of it,” he said like one possessed. “The Duke of Wilkinson’s two children turned over to Diggory. It was all just useless gossip, and then with every lurid story, the pieces began to fall into place.”

  “The pieces?” Connor echoed slowly. They claimed the man was mad, and the frenzied glitter in his eyes lent those whisperings credence.

  The marquess’s words rolled together in a frenzy. “Children, taken. Stolen. Used.” He stopped abruptly, his stare moving through Connor, beyond him, to a point only he could see. “Until it all made sense,” he finished on an eerie whisper.

  Connor, who’d long believed himself immune to unease, was proven very wrong in this instance. Shivers raced along his spine. “What did?” he urged, reaching for the stack of clippings.

  The marquess blinked slowly, and it was in that moment Connor knew he’d forgotten another’s presence—until now. “Why . . . he was taken by someone in the streets. Sold, perhaps.”

  Despite his earlier aloofness, pity tugged. Yes, perhaps it was easier for the gentleman to explain away his own crimes with a re-created imagination of what had truly taken place that December night.

  “I didn’t kill my son,” Lord Maddock said, unerringly following Connor’s thoughts and revealing an unexpected cogency.

  Connor lifted his head. “What of your wife?” he asked quietly. He accepted cases for even a sliver of the amount he’d been extended, to aid those parents and kin searching for answers about lost or murdered children. But he did not take on the coin of murderers. “Did you kill her?”

  A desolation reserved for those who’d given up on life flickered in the marquess’s eyes. “Her death I am responsible for,” the marquess said flatly.

  Connor made to stand, the meeting concluded. But something gave him pause.

  Her death I am responsible for.

  It was a statement of ownership but devoid of an outright declaration of murder.

  He searched his mind for everything he recalled about the Marquess of Maddock, sifting through the nuggets of gossip and digging for more. And wishing for the first time he’d paid more attention to the sensational case that had riveted the whole of England, long after the marquess had been exonerated and the cause of the fire attributed to an unknown arsonist.

  Of course, it was far easier for the ton to contend with a nameless arsonist than to accept there was a killer in their midst.

  Or that is what Connor had accepted as fact.

  But what had he truly known of the case?

  “Did you kill your wife?” he repeated.

  “I gave you my answer,” the marquess said, unflinching in the face of Connor’s probing gaze.

  “I’d have you say it aloud.” Take ownership of the actual crime of which he’d been accused and then later acquitted.

  “I’ve already said it; my wife is dead because of me. I’ll not say it another way to appease you. Will you take my assignment and . . . find my son?”

  “Is this the only evidence you have to suggest he might be living?”

  The marquess’s silence served as his answer.

  Children were taken every day in the streets and made hired thieves, killers, and whores for the lords of the underbelly. Connor wore the mark upon his brow as eternal proof of that very truth. And yet—he directed his focus to the sheet—the cherished children of lords and ladies weren’t the ones who found themselves as pawns to grow those ruthless bastards’ power. They were boys and girls who’d had the same modest beginnings as Connor—some born to whores and sailors, others orphaned by a cruel fate, and others made orphans by the men who ruled their world. “Your child is . . . different from the men and women listed here,” he said at last, setting the book down on the marquess’s desk. “These are orphans—”

  “Chatham
—”

  “The viscount’s mother was a duke’s former mistress who became the lover of a gang leader,” he cut in. Everyone in London had recently discovered the tale of the Banbury mother.

  The marquess frowned; his confidence flagged.

  Determined to press his point and disabuse the marquess of any desperate or foolish hopes, Connor pointed to the Duchess of Somerset’s name. “She is Chatham’s sister and thus connected by blood. The other names here . . .” His gaze was drawn, unbidden, back to the middle of that page. “They were all common street orphans. There is no noble blood amongst them.”

  He made to stand.

  Lord Maddock held up a hand. “You are wrong.”

  In his career as an investigator, those three words had proven foreign to Connor, who’d been accustomed to only success.

  Still, Connor wasn’t one with an overweening pride. He’d seen too much, done even worse, that any slight had long ago ceased to matter. “Rarely,” he countered, coming to his feet. “I am rarely wrong.”

  “We are all wrong on occasion,” the marquess said gravely, again a man lost in his own musings and regrets.

  Connor took a step.

  “But in this you are,” the marquess snapped, bringing him reluctantly back to face him. Lord Maddock layered his palms to the desk, and the parchment wrinkled noisily under that pressure. “Tell me . . . were you the son of a whore and sailor? Common street blood, as you call it?”

  Connor went still.

  He is here . . . good God in Heaven, Connor, he is here.

  He stared blankly at the marquess, whose lips turned up in another smirk. Society often whispered of and wondered after the young man marked with a D who’d been adopted by the Earl of Mar. But no one knew all. No one amongst Polite Society knew any of it.

  Or that is what he’d believed.

  His jaw tightened.

  “You see, Mr. Steele, I, too, have heard rumors . . . of you.” The marquess flicked his finger over the precise area of his brow where Connor’s scar stood out, a stark reminder of his past. “Tales of how you were once with a different sort, saved by the Earl of Mar.”