PROLOGUE

The stars shimmered, the moon glowed, and Madeline’s heart tumbled downward as she inched from her hiding place.

Not tonight. 

London had had the decency to be swathed in thick fog all week, yet this evening every object in the heavens seemed intent on emitting luminescent beams poets might rave about in iambic pentameter.

The wind, stronger on the roof, swept undeterred over the multitude of chimneys, and Madeline glanced downward. Glossy ebony coaches rolled outside the French ambassador’s home with the steadiness and majestic slowness of funeral processions. Women’s dresses glimmered under the moonlight, and even the coachmen, adorned with lustrous top hats and unused whips that swayed in the breeze, radiated elegance.

Madeline pulled her surreptitiously purchased greatcoat tightly about her body, lest her gown sparkle with unwanted potency. Few hues rivaled the impracticality of ivory.

The traffic had stilled. Most of the visitors must be inside now, feasting on the sumptuous sugary concoctions of the famous pâtissier whom the ambassador’s wife had procured. Ever since the war ended, everyone seemed delighted to indulge in all the French delicacies they’d denied themselves as they imbibed brandy and burgundies with glee.

Madeline moved from the chimney’s shadow and crawled over the slanted roof. The wind brushed against her, ruffling her locks and the hem of her gown, as if admonishing her for hampering its incessant path. Her heartbeat quickened, interfering with the rhythm of her movements.

Just a few feet more. 

She wound her way to the small window on the top floor.

Madeline rested her feet gingerly on the ledge. The elaborate facade that adorned the window frame seemed designed to aid unwelcome visitors, and she swiveled her body to face the room and lowered her torso. Athleticism came naturally to her, even if housebreaking remained a more novel pastime.

Madeline had spotted the window open last week and she swung her legs from the roof. She glanced at the street, wary of the cluster of guards below. Still, no vigilant sentry met her eye, pointing a stubby finger toward her and calling for others to stop her.

Roof clambering was not her favorite entrance method, but servants at these events possessed an unfortunate habit of announcing everyone’s arrival in a lofty, old world ritual. At some point the magistrate would investigate who’d attended the event, and she preferred for her name to be removed from any incriminating lists. Any guest who saw her would assume she’d been invited. After all she was a baroness.

Madeline tapped her legs against the glass panes, and the window swung open easily. The guards outside didn’t have the imagination to know to stop her, and she smiled. Breaking the window would have been unideal.

Even if the musicians tackled their violins with vigor, sending French songs floating through the air, someone might notice shards of glass tumbling from the heavens. Shattered glass had a propensity to damage her slippers even further than clambering on roofs.

She slid into England’s most French establishment, and her feet thudded against the wooden floor. She blinked into darkness and stretched out her arms to familiarize herself with her surroundings.

The stale scent and narrow corridor hardly denoted sumptuousness, but in her experience the French displayed a distinct tendency toward hypocrisy.

The Costantini family depended on her success, and Madeline strode down the darkened hallway.

She removed the unfashionable greatcoat and abandoned it on the floor. Later the magistrate could suspect that a man had committed the crime. She smoothed her gown. Hopefully she would find stairs that would lead to the ballroom.

She brushed her fingers against the wall, stopping when she came to an open space.

Stairs. 

This was it. The last chance to change her mind. She could still grab her coat, button it up, and sneak out the way she’d come.

Yet that was impossible.

This was the Costantini family’s inheritance.

Everyone dismissed the Italian peninsula as a compilation of romantic hilltops and the people as backwards and incapable of doing anything else except manage vineyards and the odd olive grove. It didn’t surprise her that the French ministers who’d been gifted the jewels by the jubilant army of peasants had ignored the forcefully worded letters from Italian solicitors which demanded the jewels’ return, but Madeline would not permit the Costantini family to lose their heirlooms forever, no matter how fond the French ambassador’s wife was of parading in the stolen sapphires.

Madeline was determined to retrieve the jewels, even if doing so involved entering a ball uninvited.

She crept down the darkened staircase and stepped onto the landing. Torches flickered from rusting sconces and cast a gloomy light over the corridor.

Voices sounded, the roughened noise denoting servants, and Madeline smoothed her dress. Flecks of dirt spattered on the shimmering material, and she lowered her hand to remove them.

“What on earth are you doing?” A stern voice berated her.

She righted immediately. A man dressed in footman’s livery scowled.

“I’m lost.” Her voice shook naturally.

“Young ladies do not get lost.”

“Then they are more gifted in direction than I am.” Madeline gave a helpless laugh, and the man’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

Unfortunately his eyes remained narrow. “Tell me if anyone is with you. Perhaps some man intent on defiling you?”

“Nonsense.” Madeline tossed her hair and gave him a regal glare. “Please tell me the way to the ballroom.”

He frowned. “Downstairs and to your right. In the direction of the music. Not the kitchen.”

Madeline hastily descended the steps, before the servant might decide to verify her identity with the butler, or worse yet, the hostess.

The music strengthened as she neared the second landing. Some guests clustered in the corridor, and she glided toward the ornate doors that could only denote the ballroom. Vibrant paintings in gilded frames adorned the hallway, and she pushed away the familiar wave of sorrow.

Instead she stepped inside the ballroom.

At last. 

Men in elaborately tied cravats and woolen coats sipped brandy, older women in turbans gossiped with one another, and young women in pastel gowns with elaborate ruffled hems paraded the ballroom.

Madeline inhaled. Her heart pounded, and she smoothed her hair again. Moisture dotted her brow, and she was certain her face must appear red, given the warmth that rushed through her body. If her hem was dirtier than normal, she hoped people would simply assume the journey from her carriage to the front entrance had been imperfect. At least her gown was well-cut, formed from expensive fabric that would make her blend in.

She moved through the ballroom. If she appeared confident, no one would stop her. If anyone recognized her, they would not find her presence unusual. Baronesses were not an uncommon sighting at balls, even if most were more inclined to enjoy lemonade than reclaim jewels.

The French Ambassador’s wife fluttered from the punch to the profiterole station, and her sapphire and diamond necklace sparkled under the eight-hour candles.

I have her. 

CHAPTER ONE

Arthur Carmichael, Marquess of Bancroft, settled into an armchair at Whitehall and prepared for the familiar onslaught of praise. The past seven years had been a blur of commendations.

“Ah, Bancroft.” Admiral Fitzroy entered the room. His once forceful stride had devolved into a waddle, and his distinguished salt and pepper hair had shifted to a consistent white. He placed some papers onto the table. “Let’s get started.”

“We should wait for the prime minister,” Arthur reminded him.

“Liverpool?” Admiral Fitzroy’s bushy eyebrows soared to a higher perch, and then he shook his head. “He won’t be joining us.”

Arthur blinked.

The prime minister always attended the meetings. Usually with some gold medal to flourish over Arthur’s shoulders. At times some simpering general, relieved at having been rescued, might accompany him. No journalist ever attended the meetings: spying was a secret occupation, no matter the success rate of Arthur’s missions.

But now the dark paneled room that had always seemed majestic was nearly empty, and the heavy furniture seemed old-fashioned.

Applause sounded from an adjoining room. Likely the prime minister was giving a laudatory speech on another person’s analysis on shipping tariffs. Or filing technique.

“The war’s over, Bancroft. No need to huddle with him anymore. He has other things to concern himself with. The budget, and those returned veterans.” Admiral Fitzroy stretched. “We had a damned good run of it, didn’t we old boy?”

Arthur stiffened. “I’m not old yet. Just experienced. Very experienced.” The “very” was perhaps superfluous, but he couldn’t have the person hiring any fresher sorts for the exciting jobs.

Assuming there were still exciting jobs.

The government seemed to have settled into a permanent nonchalance, unwilling to do much besides celebratory festivities now that Bonaparte was not forcing them into action.

Arthur hesitated and tapped his fingers against his armrest. “I was thinking about being more active in the House of Lords. Lead one of the committees.”

Life was good here, even though he had a decided preference for the more dangerous regions of the world.

“Good lad,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “I was hoping you would suggest it.”

“I aim to bring you pleasure,” Arthur said casually, but his heart leaped, as if it had mistaken itself for a horse and were attempting to jump a fence.

This was good.

Something was lacking in his life. Something…wonderful.

Clearly it was a political career.

“I could see you in the cabinet,” Admiral Fitzroy mused. “Perhaps even as foreign minister. We’ve a need for you there, Bancroft. It could be your crowning glory. Or…” He winked. “A stepping stone to PM.”

Foreign minister. 

Prime minister. 

Arthur’s heart seemed to leap higher, as if seeking to replicate the athleticism of a prized racehorse, but he kept his expression neutral. He’d been trained to be calm, and he certainly wasn’t going to abandon that principle before the admiral.

“You think I’m qualified,” Arthur said.

“Pitt was PM at twenty-four,” the admiral reminded him. “And you have rather better social skills than he had. Politics is about personality, Bancroft.”

“He was a scholar.”

“As were you,” the admiral said. “I saw the Latin accolades next to your Cambridge diploma. Moreover—you’ve shown a clear ability to think on your feet. I’ll be honest with you, Bancroft. We need someone like you at the top. No one in government has traveled as much as you have. You’ve been privy to negotiations with all of our allies. And besides—it would make me proud to see you succeed.”

“Oh.” Arthur was taken aback.

The admiral wasn’t one for huge displays of emotion. One needed a cool head when deciding how best to defeat enemy fleets.

“But,” the admiral said. “This is all hypothetical. You did an excellent job at maintaining your wild reputation. Regaling the regent at his beastly pavilion, stealing army officers’ helmets…”

Arthur grinned. “Ah, the cartoonists adored that. They’d never drawn so many feathers before in their life.”

“People will need to think you’ve reformed. You require a wife.”

Lady Madeline Mulbourne, widow of a renowned art critic, has secrets.

Pretty secrets.

Sparkling secrets.

Ever since the wars on the continent ended, she's been determined to return the jewels the French confiscated to their rightful owners...even if it means stealing them herself.

Lord Arthur Carmichael, Marquess of Bancroft and a former spy, is in need of a bride. Who is more suited than the woman he'd once intended to marry?

But when jewels disappear at balls Madeline attends, Arthur suspects Madeline might have more than one reason for not wanting to marry him...

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Bianca Blythe has written over twenty fun and frothy Regency-set historical romances, filled with wallflowers, spinsters, dukes, and rogues. On occasion, she also writes historical mysteries under the name Camilla Blythe.

Born in Texas, Bianca earned her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College and completed a graduate degree in her beloved Boston. She spent four years in England, working in a fifteenth-century castle. Sadly she never spotted dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

Bianca credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. She remains deeply grateful for blustery downpours. 

After meeting her husband in another library, she moved with him to sunny California. On occasion she still dreams of the English seaside, scones with clotted cream, and sheep-filled pastures. For now, she visits them in her books.