LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      London—1819

      This wasn’t the first time Phineas Attwood, the Earl of Hartwick, had stepped onto a London rooftop at night in the rain—however, it was the first time he discovered he wasn’t alone.

      Hart had to drag himself from Theodosia’s resplendent tester bed on such a dreary night. He wished he could have taken her once more, but there wasn’t time. Her husband would arrive home soon and Hart had no interest in running into the man. He could have been brazen and left by the front door, but there was nothing like the thrill of finding alternative ways to escape the town houses of his female companions—even if one was forced to do so during a downpour.

      Shielding his eyes from the cold raindrops pelting his face, he stepped to the very edge of the roofline. Taunting death, he leaned over. It was a straight drop to Mount Street below, four storeys with nothing to grab on to or brace his feet against to climb down. It would also be in view of any approaching carriages.

      To his left, the adjacent rooflines of the next three buildings ended at an alleyway that led to Reeves Mews. That appeared to be his best option. The building at the far end might have some architectural mouldings to aid his descent. Just as he was about to have a look, movement to his right caught his eye.

      A slim, dark figure about fifty feet away was walking along the roof towards the back of an adjacent house. Apparently it was time for all assignations to come to an end. This gentleman was smart enough to wear a cape and cleric’s hat to shield himself from the rain, although Hart would wager he was no priest.

      ‘Fine weather for ducks,’ Hart called out.

      His interruption startled the fellow so much the man lost his footing. Skidding over the slippery slate tiles, Hart caught him by the forearm the moment the man fell over the edge. It would be a long drop to the back gardens below.

      Hart dug his fingers into the stranger’s arm and prayed he wouldn’t be pulled off the roof by the counterweight. ‘I have you,’ he ground out. ‘I won’t let you go.’

      Even through his sleeve, Hart wouldn’t be surprised if the man’s nails were drawing blood as he held on to Hart for dear life while he dangled precariously over the edge. He didn’t have much meat on him, which made him appear more of a boy than a man. It didn’t take much effort to tug him back onto the roof.

      A light mist was now falling, replacing the earlier downpour. A thank you was in order, however the huddled form next to him was silent as stone, probably mute with fear or shock. Pushing his hair away from his eyes, Hart surveyed his companion—and wished the rain would have continued to obscure his view.

      ‘Dash it, Miss Forrester, what are you doing up here?’

      The daughter of the American Minister to the Court of St James sat up. The cape she wore parted just enough to reveal the open neckline of a gentleman’s black shirt and the curves of her breasts. He recalled seeing her wearing those clothes about a year ago at the Finchleys’ masquerade, where she’d had the nerve to dress as a highwayman, which had also been his costume of choice that night. Now her shapely legs were stretched out before her, encased in black trews and top boots. Those legs were just as enticing as he remembered.

      ‘Do not tell me you are leaving a masquerade from up here,’ he said, tearing his attention away from those legs to stop himself from imagining them wrapped around his waist.

      She arched one of her finely shaped dark brows. ‘I’d ask where you’re coming from, but I can already guess. Is this the time your assignations typically come to an end?’

      An unmarried woman should know nothing of assignations. In the few times he had been in her presence, he had noticed that Miss Sarah Forrester enjoyed unnerving people with her candour. He was not about to let her best him.

      ‘I’m coming from seeing a business associate. More important, does Katrina know you’re prowling the rooftops of London at night?’ he asked to regain the advantage. Katrina was the Duchess of Lyonsdale, a dear friend of Miss Forrester.

      ‘No.’ She looked away too quickly. Apparently his friend’s wife knew exactly what this chit was up to. He wondered if Katrina would have told Julian.

      ‘How were you planning on getting down from here?’ she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

      ‘That is the beauty of leaving in such a manner as this. It forces you to consider multiple options.’ The fact that he hadn’t decided how he would make it off the roof was inconsequential in this discussion.

      The clomping of horse hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels on the street below caught their attention and they both crawled to the edge of the roof. A black lacquered carriage rolled to a stop directly below the house next to them and a footman from Theodosia’s house darted towards it, carrying a large black umbrella. Hart had left her bed just in time and smiled at his luck.

      ‘That might have been a bit awkward, if you remained longer with Lady Helmford,’ she said.

      He had momentarily forgotten the pest was beside him.

      She leaned closer and the faint scent of lilacs filled the damp air. Her brown eyes held amusement mixed with curiosity as she looked up at him. ‘Have you ever been caught?’

      He scoffed at the absurdity of her question. ‘No.’

      ‘Never?’

      ‘Not once.’ His chest puffed up at his declaration, then he realised what

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