Her gaze flew to his. “And you weren’t.”

“Not until you.”

She nodded, her fingers playing over his shoulder. And then she met his eyes and said, “Show me.”

He did, pulling her close enough to scandalize Mayfair, rocking her and lifting her and swinging her and spinning her in time to the whirling, wonderful music. She clung to him, his strong arms keeping her safe and his. He spun her again, and again, faster and faster along with the music, their assembled audience clapping in time until she threw her head back and laughed, unable to do anything else.

And then he was lifting her into his arms and carrying her through the tavern and out into the street, where a fine autumn mist had turned the cobblestones gold in the light. He set her down as she caught her breath, kissing the last, lingering laugh from her lips. “Well, wife?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t like a dream.” He scowled, and she laughed again, reaching for him. “My love . . . my Devil . . . it was better. It was real.”

He kissed her again, long and deep. And when he lifted his head, he was smiling, wide and wicked and wonderful. She matched the smile with her own, coming up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Love me. Past, present, and future.”

His answer came like flame. “Yes.”






Author’s Note

Two years ago, in London, I met a man who regaled me with the tales of his grandfather, who sold shaved lemon ice from an ice block he’d cart from the docks into Covent Garden. I wish I remembered your name, but wherever you are, I’m indebted to you, as I am to Gavin Weightman for The Frozen Water Trade, which was an invaluable resource on the history of moving ice and how it impacted the world.

Around the same time, I became transfixed by the “Perfect Security” episode of the 99% Invisible podcast, which chronicles the invention of the unpickable Chubb Lock, and then the lock controversy of 1851, when a brash American turned up at the Great Exhibition, picked the lock, and ensured that the world would never feel safe again. Felicity Faircloth is fourteen years earlier than that American, but she picks the Chubb the same way he did, and I’m grateful to Roman Mars and his team for bringing the story to me at the perfect moment.

Felicity’s Whispering Bench is a replica of the Charles B. Stover Bench in Central Park’s Shakespeare Garden—the perfect place for secret-telling.

Covent Garden is a pretty posh place these days—very little like it was in the 1830s. I spent hours at the Museum of London poring over Charles Booth’s extraordinary anthropological survey of “Life and Labour of the People in London,” from later in the 19th century, and am so grateful to the Museum for making such a rich resource available to the public in digital format.

As always, my books are fostered and cared for by an incomparable team, and I am immensely lucky to have the brilliant Carrie Feron on my side every step of the way, along with Carolyn Coons, Liate Stehlik, Brittani DiMare, Eleanor Mickuki, Angela Craft, Pam Jaffee, Libby Collins, and all of Avon Books. My agent, Steve Axelrod, and publicist, Kristin Dwyer, are the very best.

The Bareknuckle Bastards would still be a whisper of an idea without Carrie Ryan, Louisa Edwards, Sophie Jordan, and Ally Carter, and they wouldn’t be on the page without my sister Chiara, and my mother, who teaches me every day how the world changes women, and how we change it right back.

And finally, to Eric, who takes all my research in stride, including the kind that ends with me picking the lock on a safe, getting drunk on power, and considering a life of crime: If I’m ever on the lam, I hope you’ll be with me.






Announcement to Brazen and the Beast


Read on for a sneak peek at Whit’s story—

Brazen and the Beast

The Bareknuckle Bastards, Book II

Coming 2019 from Sarah MacLean






An Excerpt from Brazen and the Beast

The last thing he remembered was driving the shipment. Crossing Oxford Street. A gunshot. A boy wounded. A blow to the head.

Insistent tapping against his cheek returned him to consciousness, too soft for pain, but firm enough to be irritating. He didn’t open his eyes, years of training allowing him to feign sleep as he got his bearings. His feet were bound. His hands as well, behind his back. He resisted the urge to stiffen. To rage.

Beast didn’t rage.

He punished, quick and devastating and without emotion.

More became clear; he was on the floor of a moving carriage. Well-appointed, if the soft cushion at his cheek was any indication, and in a decent neighborhood for the smooth rhythm of the cobblestones beneath the wheels.

Whit considered his next move—envisioning how he would incapacitate his captor despite his bindings. He imagined breaking a nose with his head. Using his bound legs to knock a man out.

The tapping at his cheek began again, followed by a whispered, “Sir.”

His captor wasn’t a man.

His eyes flew open, the wash of golden light in the carriage playing tricks with him—seeming to come not from the lantern swaying gently in the corner, but from the woman leaning over him.

She was seated on the bench above him, looking nothing like the kind of enemy who would knock a man out and tie him up in a carriage. Indeed, she looked like she was on her way to a ball. Perfectly done, perfectly coiffed, perfectly colored—skin like porcelain, eyes kohled, lips full and stained just enough to make a man pay attention. And that was before he got a look at the dress—the turquoise blue of a summer sky, perfectly fitted to her full figure.

Not that he should be noticing anything about that, considering she had him tied him up in a carriage. She wasn’t a woman. She was the enemy.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and her eyes—was it possible they were violet? What kind of a person had violet eyes?—went wide. “Well. If that look is any indication of your temperament, it’s no wonder they’ve tied you up.” She tilted her head. “Why have they tied you up?”

Whit did not reply.

“Who tied you up?”

Again, silence.

She shrugged one shoulder and said, “Fair enough. I suppose it’s not my business. Unfortunately for both of us, however, you’re very inconvenient, as I have need of this carriage tonight.”

“Inconvenient.” He didn’t mean to reply, and the word surprised them both.

She nodded. “Indeed. You see, it is my birthday. And, frankly, I have plans for it that don’t include . . .” she waved a hand, “. . . whatever is going on here.”

He did not reply.

She blinked. “Most people would wish me a happy birthday at this juncture.”

Whit said nothing.

She nodded. “And here I was, ready to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Her brows rose. “You’re quite rude, you know.”

He resisted the instinct to gape. “I’ve been knocked out and tied up in a strange carriage.”

“Yes, but you must admit the company is diverting, no?” When he raised a brow, she said, “Fine then. But it strikes me that you’re in a bind.” She paused, then added, “You see how diverting I can be? In a bind?”

“I see how reckless you can be.”

“Some might find me charming.”

“I’ve never found anything charming,” he replied, wondering what possessed him to spar with this chatterbox.

“How sad for you,” she said, and it sounded like she meant it. “No matter. Even if you won’t admit it, you do need help, and as you are quite well bound and I am your travel companion, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”

And then she was crouching by his feet, as though it were all perfectly ordinary, untying the ropes with a soft, deft touch. “Whoever tied these knots did not want you getting free,” she said, as though they were discussing the weather. “You’re lucky I am quite good with knots.”

He grunted his approval as she set him free. “And you have other plans for your birthday.”

She hesitated, her cheeks pinkening at the words before she gave a curt nod. “Yes.”

Whit would never understand what made him press further. “What plans?”

She looked up at him then, her eyes too big for her face, and said, “I’m not sure I should tell you, though I suppose it would be fine, as we clearly don’t run in the same circles.”

He raised a brow. “We run in them tonight.”

She smiled at that, warm and full and natural enough to make Whit linger on it. The carriage began to slow, and she peeked out the curtain. “We’re nearly there,” she said quietly. “It’s time for you to go, sir. I’m sure you’ll agree that neither of us have any interest in you being discovered.”

“My hands,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t risk you taking revenge.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. “My revenge is not a risk. It’s a certainty.”

She did not look away. “I’ve no doubt of that. But I can’t risk you taking it via me. Not tonight.” She reached past him for the door handle, speaking at his ear, above the rattle of wheels and horses from the street beyond. “As I’ve said, I have plans.”

He turned toward her, unable to resist the scent of almonds coming off her. She was still leaning over him, tempting as hell. “Tell me the plan, and I’ll let you go.”