Chapter One
March, 1814
London
The Lincolnshire Slayer.
That’s what theystillcalled him.
To be fair, they called him many things.
Rake. Ruthless. Indecent. Disgrace.
Monster.
Matthew Cooper, Viscount Lincolnshire, had hoped the moniker might fade over time. Theton’sattention span was short, but their fear was eternal. Admittedly, being a social pariah hadsomebenefits. He never needed to bustle his way through a crowd—paths parted for him with ease. Small talk? Ha! No threat of that! Wherever he went, his name acted like a beacon above his head, warning everyone to stay out of pistol range. Which was ridiculous, as he had slain only one man directly. As an arms manufacturer during wartime, his inventions had killed an untold number of men.
It was irritating to be infamous for one.
Every well-dressed, well-to-do gentleman who turned his nose up would have done the same, had it beentheirsister at gunpoint—if they had half the stones he did. And those who wouldn’t? He didn’t care for their opinion anyway. It was easier to weed out the weak when they showed their faces so plainly.
Even with his face fully covered by a black mask, everyone knewwho he was. Under a noxious cloud of costumes and perfume, aristocrats mingled and danced—careful not to touch him. Having the freedom of unfiltered expression, he glared at them all.
Duke Kendall’s masquerade ball opened the social season, and what a fine start it had been. As was his custom, His Grace decorated the ballroom with gold from the polished oak floor glinting in the low candlelight, to the dome above painted in sunset hues with clouds and angels.
The closest view of heaven I’ll ever get.
The orchestra played lively tunes with strings and woodwinds, and he longed to dance. He enjoyed dancing. He preferred when he could lose himself to the music instead of practiced steps, but he would find no dance partner tonight. Several of the ladies in the room had no complaints about sharing his bed,but to be on his arm? Definitely not.
He wouldn’t be here at all, but Duke Kendall invited him personally. As his favorite gunsmith, Matthew had designed a collection of one-of-a-kind rifles for him, each more deadly and complicated than the last. His current project was a pistol that needed to be fully accurate, with a fast-approaching deadline of the Duke’s birthday. An infuriating contraption he couldn’t sort out, waiting for him at his factory. He should be there,working on it, instead of—
“—hear me, brother?”
“Yes, Caroline,” Matthew lied.
His youngest sister turned to him with a devious expression. Dressed as a canary, her yellow dress matched her golden curls, pinned with delicately placed feathers. Her amber eyes matched his, but where he was tall, she was petite, and covered from head to foot in freckles. Thanks to his work, her dowry could tempt a prince, though it hardly mattered. Even after her third season, she hadn’t found a gentleman who interested her.
As her guardian, Matthew’s sole role in life was to protect her—which was difficult—because that look on her face always made him want to pitch her into the Thames.
“If you heard me, what did I say?”
He said nothing.
Caroline leaned forward on her toes. “I knew you hadn’t, because you certainly would have had a reaction to me saying,‘I think that’s Lady Jasmine—’”
“Where?!”
With his breath caught in his throat, he searched for her. Scanning the room, his eyes stopped at every flash of black hair.
He turned to Caroline and warned, “Do not test me, sister.”
Caroline smirked.
“Red dress.” She pointed. “On the staircase.”
Matthew pivoted, gaze shooting to the spot.
And there she was.