Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

Whoosh, whoosh—moonlight winked wildly off the flailing weapon, setting off a ghostly flutter of silvery sparks.

As he danced away from the danger, Alessandro darted a quick glance over the tower’s parapet. The water below was dark as midnight and looked colder than a witch’s—

“Crispini—watch out!” The warning shout had an all too familiar ring. “Le Chaze is behind you!”

“Damn!” muttered Alessandro. He had told—no, no, he had ordered—the young lady to flee while she had the chance. But no, the headstrong hellion was as stubborn as an—

“Damn!” muttered Miss Anna Sloane, echoing the oath of Count Crispini, the dashingly handsome Italian Lothario whose sexual exploits put those of the legendary Casanova to blush. Throwing down her pen, she took her head between her hands. Several hairpins fell to the ink-spattered paper, punctuating a heavy sigh. “That’s not only drivel—it’s boring drivel.”

Her younger sister, Caro, looked up from the book of Byron’s poetry she was reading. “What did you say?”

“Drivel,” repeated Anna darkly.

Caro rose and came over to peer over Anna’s shoulder. “Hmmm.” After a quick skim of the page she added, “Actually, I think it’s not half bad.”

“I used a knife fight to liven things up in the last chapter,” said Anna.

“What about those clever little turn-off pocket pistols we saw in Mr. Manton’s shop last week?” suggested Caro.

“Chapter Three,” came the morose reply.

“Explosives?”

Anna shook her head. “I need to save that for when they hijack the pirate ship.” She made a face. Hijacking—even that sounded awfully trite to her ears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to be running short of inspiration these days.”

Caro clucked in sympathy. Like their older sister Olivia, the two younger Sloane sisters shared a secret passion for writing. “You’ve been working awfully hard these past six months. Maybe the Muse needs a holiday.”

“Yes, well, the Muse may want to luxuriate in the spa waters of Baden-Baden, but Mr. Brooke expects me to turn in this manuscript in six weeks and I’m way behind schedule.” Anna was much admired by London’s beau monde for her faultless manners, amiable charm, and ethereal beauty. Little did they know that beneath the demure silks she wore a second skin—that of Sir Sharpe Quill, author of the wildly popular racy romance novels featuring the adventures of the intrepid English orphan Emmalina Smythe and the cavalier Count Alessandro Crispini.

“Perhaps you can bribe Her with champagne and lobster patties,” quipped Caro, whose writing passion was poetry. “We are attending Lord and Lady Dearborne’s soirée tonight, and they are known for the excellence of their refreshments.”

Anna uttered a very unladylike word. In Italian.

“You would rather wrestle with an ill-tempered Word Goddess than waltz across the polished parquet in the arms of Lord Andover?”

“Andover is a bore,” grumbled Anna. “As are all the other fancy fops who will likely be dancing attendance on us.”

Caro lifted a brow. “Lud, you are in a foul mood. I thought you liked Andover.” When no response came, she went on, “I know you’ll think me silly, but I confess that I’m still a little dazzled by the evening entertainments here in London. Colorful silks, diamond-bright lights, handsome men—you may feel that the splendors of Mayfair’s ballrooms have lost their glitter, but for me they are still very exciting.”

A twinge of guilt pinched off the caustic quip about to slip from Anna’s lips. Her sister had only recently turned the magical age of eighteen, which freed her from the schoolroom and allowed her entrée into the adult world. And for a budding poet who craved Worldly Experience, the effervescence of the social swirl was still as intoxicating as champagne.

“Sorry,” apologized Anna. “I don’t mean to cloud your pleasure with my own dark humor.” She shuffled the stack of manuscript pages into a neat pile and shoved it to the side of her desk. “I supposed we had better go dress for the occasion.” Knowing Caro’s fondness for fashion, she forced a smile. “Which of your new gowns do you plan to wear? The pale green sarcenet or the peach-colored watered silk?” Her own choice she planned to leave in the hands of her new lady’s maid. The girl was French and had already displayed a flair for choosing flattering cuts and colors.

“I haven’t decided,” replied Caro with a dreamy smile. “What do you think would look best?”

“You are asking me?”

“Only because I am hoping you’ll ask Josette to come with you and give her opinion.”

Anna laughed.

“Not that you don’t have a good eye for fashion,” said her sister. “You just refuse to be bothered with it.”

“True,” she conceded. “I find other things more compelling.”

Caro cocked her head. “Such as?”

“Such as…” A restless longing for something too vague to put a name to.