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  PRAISE FOR CHRISTI CALDWELL

  “Christi Caldwell’s The Vixen shows readers a darker, grittier version of Regency London than most romance novels . . . Caldwell’s more realistic version of London is a particularly gripping backdrop for this enemies-to-lovers romance, and it’s heartening to read a story where love triumphs even in the darkest places.”

  —NPR on The Vixen

  “In addition to a strong plot, this story boasts actualized characters whose personal demons are clear and credible. The chemistry between the protagonists is seductive and palpable, with their family history of hatred played against their personal similarities and growing attraction to create an atmospheric and captivating romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Hellion

  “Christi Caldwell is a master of words and The Hellion is so descriptive and vibrant that she redefines high definition. Readers will be left panting, craving, and rooting for their favorite characters as unexpected lovers find their happy ending.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Hellion

  “Christi Caldwell is a Must Read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh

  “A Christi Caldwell book never fails to touch the heart!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Tessa Dare

  “Two people so very broken in different ways, and their journey to becoming whole again. This is Christi Caldwell at her absolute best!”

  —Kathryn Bullivant

  “One of [Christi] Caldwell’s strengths is creating deep, sympathetic characters, and this book is no exception . . .”

  —Courtney Tonokawa

  OTHER TITLES BY CHRISTI CALDWELL

  Sinful Brides

  The Rogue’s Wager

  The Scoundrel’s Honor

  The Lady’s Guard

  The Heiress’s Deception

  The Wicked Wallflowers

  The Hellion

  The Vixen

  The Governess

  The Bluestocking

  Heart of a Duke

  In Need of a Duke (A Prequel Novella)

  For Love of the Duke

  More Than a Duke

  The Love of a Rogue

  Loved by a Duke

  To Love a Lord

  The Heart of a Scoundrel

  To Wed His Christmas Lady

  To Trust a Rogue

  The Lure of a Rake

  To Woo a Widow

  To Redeem a Rake

  One Winter with a Baron

  To Enchant a Wicked Duke

  Beguiled by a Baron

  To Tempt a Scoundrel

  The Heart of a Scandal

  In Need of a Knight (A Prequel Novella)

  Schooling the Duke

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  A Matchmaker for a Marquess

  Lords of Honor

  Seduced by a Lady’s Heart

  Captivated by a Lady’s Charm

  Rescued by a Lady’s Love

  Tempted by a Lady’s Smile

  Courting Poppy Tidemore

  Scandalous Seasons

  Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

  Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

  Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

  Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love

  A Marquess for Christmas

  Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love

  The Theodosia Sword

  Only For His Lady

  Only For Her Honor

  Only For Their Love

  Danby

  A Season of Hope

  Winning a Lady’s Heart

  The Brethren

  The Spy Who Seduced Her

  The Lady Who Loved Him

  The Rogue Who Rescued Her

  Brethren of the Lords

  My Lady of Deception

  Her Duke of Secrets

  A Regency Duet

  Rogues Rush In

  Nonfiction Works

  Uninterrupted Joy: A Memoir

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Christi Caldwell Incorporated

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503905313

  ISBN-10: 1503905314

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover illustration by Chris Cocozza

  My Wicked Wallflowers series was set to be complete at four books. That is, until one morning—more specifically, in the dead of night, which is the time when all great ideas come to me—a character slipped forward. She stole my sleep that night and in the nights to come, demanding that I tell her story. That character was Clara Winters. Clara is a secondary character in my book The Scoundrel’s Honor. From the moment I met her, I was intrigued by her. She was strong, direct, and honorable. There was, however, a vulnerability to her as well. She was a woman with a past. Her past does not make her any less worthy of a happily-ever-after.

  Fortunately, my editor agreed.

  Alison, when I came to you needing to tell Clara’s story, you were as supportive as you’ve always been. Thank you for believing in her as a heroine and in me as an author.

  Clara’s story is for you.

  Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  PART II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  PART I

  The Storm

  Chapter 1

  East London

  England

  1826

  Henry March, the Earl of Waterson, lived a well-ordered existence. Every minute of his every day was carefully laid out, organized in a neat schedule that he devoutly followed.

  Even with the meticulous planning he’d put into every part of his existence, there was one area he’d never given much thought to: how he’d die.

  If he had thought of it, given the life he’d led as a staid, proper, ever-vigilant lord, dutiful son, and devoted brother, he’d have expected to be one of those doddering lords who lived long after eyesight and hearing failed.

  Mayhap there would be a wife and a pair of sons—the whole requisite “heir and the spare” to preserve the title—at his side. Of course, a nobleman would have to be married in order to leave behind either a loving widow or children.

  In the end, in his end, it would turn out that Henry would meet his maker with no one at his side, and dying not in the comfort of his four-poster bed but in the unlikeliest of places—on the dank, grimy cobblestones of St. Giles, facedown, and with his cheek submerged in a puddle.

  Henry lay there, on the hard, unforgiving London street, with his eyes closed.

  I’m
dead.

  It had come so fast, so unexpectedly. From behind in the form of two masked brutes—a blade slicing through his flesh and then blackness.

  And all because he’d been bent on good. Even in death, the irony of his demise was not lost on him. That he, leading MP, determined to see a universal constable force throughout the whole of England, should be cut down in his research of London’s most dangerous parts.

  Except . . .

  Henry forced his left eye—the one not submerged in water—open.

  Surely in death one wouldn’t feel pain. Unless one found oneself cast out of heaven and into hell. Which, given the mistakes he’d made in life, mayhap made hell his final resting place. And there could be no doubting his left side burnt with a searing viciousness that sent vomit climbing up his throat. The agony pulsing at his side caused his whole body to radiate pain.

  From the attack. His flight. And then his collapse, here.

  Now, the icy chill that came from lying wet upon the unforgiving streets of East London.

  But in death one was released from feeling . . . anything.

  So Henry wasn’t dead. He was dying.

  The frantic beat of footfalls came from around the corner.

  Closing his eye, Henry said a prayer to a God he’d been woefully neglectful of attending in his life that it was a constable.

  But the steps were too unsteady. They bore down on him, crashing through puddles.

  “Jaysus. There ’e is.”

  And it appeared there’d be no intervention from the Lord this night.

  “Oi told ya ’e couldn’t have gone far,” the other man said, his voice rasping and breathless. “I nicked him good.”

  Henry’s two assailants staggered to a stop over his prone form.

  “Is ’e dead?” That coarse Cockney slashed across the otherwise quiet London air.

  That appeared to be the question of Henry’s night.

  “Oi don’t know.” The admission, gravelly and rough, emerged almost hesitantly.

  The pair of masked brutes who’d taken him down leaned over him. He felt them rather than saw them, blotting out the faint slash of moonlight that periodically peeked out from behind the thick clouds that rolled past.

  “Oi stuck ’im in ’is ribs. Ya stick ’im if ya wanna be sure.”

  “Ya do it.”

  “Oi already did. It’s yar turn.”

  They were going to shove another blade into him. That realization came with the usual matter-of-factness that had been part of Henry. Only this time, there was a blessed numbness to that realization.

  One of his attackers grunted as his partner in crime pushed him. “Ya just want me to be the one to ’ave killed a nob. Only fair that ya stab ’im, too.”

  “’e’s dead anyway,” the other man groused. “Ain’t no need for me to do it, too.”

  As the pair fought, darkness plucked at Henry’s consciousness, muting the argument unfolding between the pair so that their words rolled together into an incoherent jumble that ultimately faded completely.

  And still, he fought that pull of unconsciousness. Knowing with an innate sense that if he gave himself over to the inky blackness, he’d never open his eyes again. Knowing that he didn’t want to die like this. Not here. Not now.

  And then . . . it was too much. The world went dark.

  When Henry came to, a thick haze of confusion clouded his head and his eyes felt as if they were weighted shut. He struggled to open them.

  Where in blazes was he? And why did his side hurt like the Devil had touched a pitchfork to it?

  “Didn’t say that we ’ad . . .”

  And with the guttural Cockney penetrating the confusion, it trickled in: his meeting with several MPs who were at odds with him on cleaning up the streets of East London, surveying those same streets, and then parting ways.

  The first thing Henry registered . . . was a voice. An unfamiliar one. Except . . . it wasn’t completely unfamiliar. Why did he know it? Why should he know a coarse East London Cockney? And then it came rushing back.

  The attack. The assault he’d suffered on the streets.

  He must have gone black for just a moment. And then a groan escaped him, piteous and—worse than that—damning.

  His assailants went silent.

  “Wot was that?”

  There was a grunt, followed by a curse. “Wot in ’ell do ya think it was? It was ’im.”

  And through the agony lancing at the wound he’d sustained, there was something more—terror, and a hungering to escape.

  I cannot die here . . .

  Digging deep for one last grasp at a fight to survive, Henry pressed his gloved palms against the cobbles and struggled to push himself to a stand. Only one thought compelled him: flee.

  Alas, Fate or God or, mayhap, the Devil had other plans for him this night.

  His body collapsed, weak from his earlier attack. Struggling to lift a hand but knowing his very life, or what remained of it, depended on the movement, Henry grabbed the purse from inside his jacket. “Money,” he rasped. “I have money.” He tossed the bag weakly at the pair, and it landed with a jingle that sent greed dancing in his assailants’ eyes.

  The pair exchanged a look, and then as one, they made a grab for it.

  The bulkier of the two beat his partner to it and then cuffed the other man about the ears for attempting to best him.

  When he spoke, his reedy voice contained a whine to it. “Oi told ya ’e wasn’t dead,” he complained, stuffing Henry’s purse inside his tattered and patched wool jacket.

  “Ya didn’t. Ya asked, and Oi said if ya wanted to kill ’im that ya should see to it.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Henry said, his voice thin, weak, barely audible to his own ears. Please don’t do this. It was an entreaty that, because of a lifetime of honor ground into him as a peer of the realm, he couldn’t bring himself to utter. Not even with death facing him.

  “Ya don’t tell us what we ’ave to do or not.” With a growl, the burlier of his attackers buried his foot in Henry’s bleeding side.

  Henry cried out, the sound weak and threadbare, but the other assailant kicked him in the face. “Shut yar damned mouth,” he warned Henry, skittering his gaze about.

  The metallic bite of blood tinged Henry’s mouth and ran down his throat. He choked and spit into the muddy puddle already aswirl with crimson.

  “Oh, foine. Oi’ll do it,” one of the brutes muttered. There was a sharp hiss, the whine of a blade being unsheathed.

  Henry closed his eyes. This was it. They intended to finish him off, after all. Now. In this instance, with another blade to his body. “Don’t,” he whispered, determined that his last word come forward as a command and not as a plea.

  Then in the distance, the echo of a horse’s hooves sounded, and he was spared.

  At least, temporarily.

  “Bloody ’ell. We can’t do this ’ere,” the scrawnier of the pair muttered. “Get ’is legs.”

  “Ya take ’is legs. Oi’ll get ’is arms.”

  “Stop foighting about everything. Do ya want to be seen?”

  And as one of them grabbed Henry roughly under the arms, the darkness inched back over his eyes, pulling it across his vision like a curtain descending.

  “Bloody ’ell. ’e’s ’eavier than ’e looks.”

  “I can pay you more,” he whispered weakly as they struggled to lift him. Henry would likely end up with another knife wound before this night was through and felt desperation clutching at him through the pain, but he’d be damned if he humbled himself in his final moments by begging.

  “Pay us more?” One of the men snorted. “Wot do ya intend? To ’ave us join ya at yar townhouse, where ya’ll give us a fortune?” The thug grunted, panting from his exertions. “We’ll settle for yar purse.” He paused, bringing Henry’s dragging body to a brief stop. “Ya got a timepiece?”

  A gold timepiece. A signet ring. A silver carrier with his cards in it. They’d take
it all and end him anyway.

  “Will ya ’urry up?” the other man whined. “Oi ’eard someone, and yar blabbering ’ere with this nob?” As if to punish Henry for that annoyance, he punched him.

  This time there was a sickening crack, followed by the spray of blood.

  His assailant chortled. “Ain’t such a foine-looking nob now with a crooked nose.”

  Digging deep for a last bit of strength, Henry struggled, kicking. That unexpected showing startled the attacker carrying his legs into dropping him. The added weight sent the one at his shoulder stumbling, and he lost his hold on Henry.

  With a Herculean strength that could come only from a primitive place that lived within all to survive at all costs, Henry found his feet. Clutching at his side, he took off running once more. Blood soaked through his fingers, coating his gloves, the sticky warmth penetrating the thin leather. His breath rasping loudly, Henry staggered, and his legs weakened.

  All his life’s energy drained from him.

  He stumbled, and too weak to even hold the agonizing wound seeping blood from his side, he collapsed to his knees.

  And sensed the blow before it even landed.

  One of his attackers clubbed him hard at the back of his head.

  Light danced behind Henry’s eyes, flickering, vivid, bright specks that twinkled like false stars in the miserable St. Giles night sky. He fell forward, his cheek slamming hard into a broken cobblestone. Its jagged edge shredded the flesh.

  This time, as the pair of thugs grabbed him and began dragging him off, he surrendered the fight and turned himself over to the inevitable fate that awaited him.

  And he remembered nothing more.

  Chapter 2

  A person who’d lived and survived in the streets of East London knew one truth to be certain: never involve oneself in another person’s affairs.

  No matter how perilous a person’s situation might be, nothing good could come from interfering. Martyrdom only saw a person dead, and not much more.

  As such, Clara Winters, former whore, madam, and now, at last, a woman with a future, knew above all else that she should leave. That she should turn and walk away from the trouble unfolding twenty paces ahead, where two brutish thugs dragged a limp figure by his arms and legs.

  And she planned to leave. She planned to turn on her heel and take an alternate path to the modest apartments she rented and avoid whatever evil was unfolding.