Unknown



ENSNARED!


 

Lily Masters is picking pockets and telling stories—and surviving London’s slums. She’s caring for herself and her lively young sister, Alice, and she’s never been caught. Well, there’s always a first time.




ENTICED!


 

Gideon Cole is a brilliant barrister with an unfortunate weakness for clients who can’t pay. His latest charitable misstep: buying the freedom of a daring, beautiful thief. To repay the debt, Lily agrees to his proposition: pose as the object of his desire and help him snare a wealthy bride. All he has to do is transform the impudent Lily into a diamond of the first water.




ENTHRALLED!


 

But the education of Lily could cost Gideon his carefully planned future. While she plays cards with his invalid uncle and Alice charms the servants, the honorable Gideon is harboring less than honorable thoughts. For sweet, stubborn, and sensual Lily has a way of slipping past a gentleman’s defenses—especially when she’s stealing his heart!

Also by Julie Anne Long

The Runaway Duke

NEW YORK BOSTON

Contents

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For Ken
—
for uncommon patience
in the face of second-book angst. And maybe I owe
you a dinner or something, too.

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to Melanie Murray, because—well, because she rocks; to Bill Reiter and David Blackburn, for serendipitously owning and graciously loaning to me the
exact
books I needed, just when I was beginning to believe they didn’t exist; to the friends and loved ones who believed me when I swore I wasn’t
shunning
them, honest—I was just really, really,
really
busy (honest); to Elizabeth Pomada, for her unflagging belief in me; to all the lovely people who wrote to me about
The Runaway Duke
—your warmth and enthusiasm fueled
To Love a Thief
, and I hope you enjoy it just as much as
Duke;
to Elizabeth Fulton for her kindness and wisdom; and to Cecil, who used to oversee every word I wrote from his perch on my desk… I miss you, my dear buddy.

Chapter One

Come at once, Gideon
, the missive said.
Uncle Edward is dying
.

Uncle Edward was
always
dying.

“If the man doesn’t actually die soon, Laurie,” Gideon Cole gloomily told his friend, “I may just strangle him.” He crushed the note in his fist.

No one knew the precise nature of Uncle Edward’s illness, only that it seemed to require him to be bedridden and waited on hand and foot and had created handsome dowries for each of the parish doctor’s five daughters. For five years Lord Lindsey had in fact been the most jovial sick person Gideon had ever seen. And because Gideon stood to inherit the baronetcy and his uncle’s extraordinary estate, Aster Park, Edward sent for him every time he felt a twinge.

Uncle Edward was forever feeling twinges.

Tremendously
ill-timed
twinges.

Gideon yanked off his hat and pushed his fingers agitatedly through his hair. The warmth of the day was oppressive; the crowds that eddied around them on Bond Street felt oppressive, the circumstances of his life felt oppressive. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to the chambers at Westminster, to donning his wig and robes and eloquently pleading a case while beads of perspiration raced each other down the back of his neck. At least it was a case he would win easily.

Kilmartin—Lawrence Mowbry, Lord Kilmartin— sighed a long-suffering sigh. “By all means, go to your uncle instead of to Lady Gilchrist’s ball, Gideon. I’m sure Jarvis will be happy to dance all the waltzes with Constance in your stead—yet again.”

“You’re not helping, Laurie.”

“And you’re not listening, Gideon. You cannot afford to leave the
ton
now that Jarvis seems to be making a run for Constance. Jarvis
already
has a title and a fortune. And he’s not exactly a gargoyle.”

Usually Gideon found Kilmartin’s particular brand of insight—honesty undiluted by tact—bracing. Today, however, his pride was tender. “Constance is fond of me,” he insisted stubbornly.

“Of you, and grand houses and new carriages and fine clothes and
attention
and—”

“Hullo, Cole!
Wonderful
to see you! How are—oh, hello there, Kilmartin.”

Gideon and Kilmartin swiveled to find the genteelly graying Lord Wolford hovering on the periphery of their conversation, merrily swinging a walking stick. Gideon tensed briefly, and then he remembered: he’d repaid Wolford. Gideon’s father had owed a fortune to nearly everyone in the House of Lords at one time, but Gideon had repaid all of them methodically—alphabetically, in fact, because given the sheer number of debts, it had seemed the only fair way to go about it—after his father’s death. Being a “W,” Wolford had been one of the last, but he’d been more or less gracious about it: “Seems the apple fell a good distance from the tree in your case, m’boy” had been his precise words. Meaning that Gideon was nothing like his father, Alistair Cole, who had left behind mountains of debt and a trail of disillusioned friends when he’d shaken off this mortal coil. Gideon had taken Wolford’s words as a compliment, and he’d done his best to ensure the truth of them ever since.

“Congratulations on the Griffith case, Cole.” Wolford gave Gideon’s back a manly thump with his free hand. “Very impressive work, indeed.”

“Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to win it for him.”

The marquis fanned out his gloved fingers and began counting off. “First Shrewsbury’s property dispute, then Lord Culpepper’s sticky little problem with his estate manager, and now Griffith. You’re making quite a name for yourself, m’boy. Shawcross is looking to fill that position in the Treasury, and your name came up, among others. Have you given any thought to a political career?”

Gideon noticed Kilmartin struggling to keep his face straight and resisted the urge to give him a little kick. Gideon fully intended to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, at the very least, someday; he’d mentioned it to Kilmartin two or three—or four thousand—times. And Shawcross—
Marquis
Shawcross—was Constance’s father.

“It has crossed my mind, sir,” he said mildly.

“Do let me know if I can help in any way, will you?”

You can ask Shrewsbury, Culpepper, and Griffith if they ever intend to pay me
. He didn’t say it. There were a number of reasons the
ton
held Gideon Cole in high regard, and discretion was one of them. “I shall, sir, and I thank you.”

“Well, I must be off, but we really must share a drink and a chat at White’s soon. Oh, and you come, too, Kilmartin.”

Wolford administered a paternal pat to Gideon and ambled away.

Kilmartin shook his head as they watched the crowd absorb the marquis. “
‘Oh, and you come, too, Kilmartin,’ ”
he repeated, bemused, and shook his head. “All that admiration. Almost makes me want to work for my living, too.”

By way of response, Gideon merely lifted a brow and regarded his friend in amused, unblinking silence.

Kilmartin struggled to maintain an earnest expression, but Gideon’s see-through-your-soul barrister stare made it impossible. “Oh,
very
well, then. Of course it doesn’t. But people have been congratulating you on the Griffith affair all morning. What must it be like, I wonder, to be so popular?”

Gideon snorted. “If it’s any comfort to you, Laurie, I would
much
rather be rich than popular. And furthermore,” he added, before Kilmartin could get the urge to remind him that it was probably his own bloody fault he wasn’t yet rich, “if I were rich, I wouldn’t be in my current…
absurd
predicament.”

“Gideon,” Kilmartin continued more gently, “I know you’re fond of your uncle, but you know very well he isn’t
actually
dying. Have you considered that Constance’s patience may not be endless? Perhaps she’d like a titled husband before she’s in her dotage. Perhaps she’s uncertain of your intentions.”

“Uncertain of my
intentions
? Nonsense. I have it all planned, Laurie: I’ll buy the town house—the one on the corner of Grosvenor Square that Constance wants so badly—”

“Because it’s the biggest, most
expensive
town house on Grosvenor Square—”

“Of course,” Gideon defended. “Constance wants only the very best of everything.”

“And this includes you, presumably.”

This made Gideon smile. And Gideon’s smile, the slow sultry curve of it, could crack the heart of any woman between the ages of eight and eighty. “Naturally,” he continued smoothly, eliciting a snort from Kilmartin. “As I was saying, I’ll buy the town house, and then I’ll present it to her—with a little speech, perhaps: ‘Constance, I would be deeply honored if you would consent to spend all the Seasons of your life with me in this town house. Will you be my wife?’”

“Very romantic, Gideon,” Kilmartin said dryly. “There’s just one thing: Jarvis wants that town house, too.”

This brought Gideon up short. “How do you know that?” he asked sharply.

“I’m afraid
everyone
knows that, Gideon. And there are now entries in White’s betting books wagering not insignificant sums on the possibility that Lord Jarvis will be engaged to Lady Constance Clary before the end of the season. Seems he’d like to spend all
his
seasons with Constance, too. You’ve a serious rival now.”