Tangled Webs

Copyright © 2015 by Lee Bross
Cover design by Whitney Manger
Cover illustration © 2015 by Teagan White
Designed by Whitney Manger

All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End
Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

ISBN 978-1-4231-8775-2

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www.hyperionteens.com

1. Title Page
   
2. Copyright
   
3. Dedication
   
4. Chapter 1
   
5. Chapter 2
   
6. Chapter 3
   
7. Chapter 4
   
8. Chapter 5
   
9. Chapter 6
   
10. Chapter 7
    
11. Chapter 8
    
12. Chapter 9
    
13. Chapter 10
    
14. Chapter 11
    
15. Chapter 12
    
16. Chapter 13
    
17. Chapter 14
    
18. Chapter 15
    
19. Chapter 16
    
20. Chapter 17
    
21. Chapter 18
    
22. Chapter 19
    
23. Chapter 20
    
24. Chapter 21
    
25. Chapter 22
    
26. Acknowledgments
    
27. About the Author
    

To my Dad, who showed me that life is too short not to chase your dreams.

I miss you every day.

L
ord Huntington made his way through the crowded ballroom with the poise and elegance of an over-fattened Christmas goose.

Arista watched, in no hurry to reveal her presence. She smiled, a languid movement that did not betray the way her heart thumped in her chest. The element of surprise worked in her favor on
nights like these. She could almost hear his heart pounding from across the room. Every few seconds he tugged on the edge of his cravat, an outward sign of his agitation.

Masked people spun by in a rainbow of dizzying colors. Excitement filled the air of the ballroom, causing bursts of laughter to erupt spontaneously around her. It did not matter if you were rich
or poor, as long as you could afford the price of admission. Only at the public masquerades did the aristocracy mix with commoners without care; here, the rich dressed as milkmaids and the poor as
queens.

For Arista, it was the perfect opportunity to conduct business.

Dressed in black silk, she blended into the background, unremarkable. Adorned only with a simple black mask, among all the other masquerade characters, she garnered little interest. No one ever
approached her for a dance. Curious glances were met with a frosty stare or folded arms. With so many willing partners, she was soon forgotten.

The ones who’d had previous dealings with Bones knew her, though they pretended otherwise. They stayed far away. And if they happened too close, or met her stare by chance, Arista never
missed the contempt in their eyes. She was good enough when they wanted something, but otherwise she meant nothing to them.

Arista’s gaze never lingered on any one person for too long, either, even as she kept the nobleman in question within view. Her clients didn’t often try to run, but when they did,
she needed to be ready.

This part, the predatory rush of stalking her prey across a crowded ballroom, was most satisfying. Anticipation buzzed in her head. She glanced casually over the masked guests until she spotted
him again.

The nobleman moved cautiously along the outer edges of the crowd, away from the throng of people. If he was planning to try and sneak out, he should have chosen a less obvious costume for the
evening. The bobbling points of his bright jester hat made it easy to keep him in sight.

Moments earlier, a servant had delivered a discreet note to Lord Huntington with only two words written on the small card.

Library. Midnight.

A quick glance at the enormous grandfather clock to her left told her it was only a quarter till. Lord Huntington still had fifteen minutes to try and do something stupid.

You make a deal with the devil, you pay the price.

They always seemed to forget that part.

Arista ran her fingers over the familiar shape of her knife, safely strapped to the outside of her thigh and hidden under yards of satin. It gave her comfort. Courage. Sometimes all it took was
the threat of the blade to encourage compliance. But there had been a few times, unfortunate as they were, when Arista had been forced to use it. That fact alone made her a target. Powerful men did
not like to have their control stripped away, especially by a woman in a mask. They would not hesitate to stick a blade in her gut if they knew her face beneath the mask. If they ever found her
alone.

Desperate aristocrats dealt with Bones out of necessity, not choice. They dealt with her, with the infamous Lady A, who collected payment for the poor choices they’d already made.

Bones was a “fixer,” a trader of information—or more often, secrets—in exchange for money. Now seventeen, Arista was the face of his operation, a pawn he had molded and
groomed to use in a society he could not navigate. If they knew she was merely a marionette, they would not be so wary of her.

In the past year alone, Bones had obtained more than enough secrets from the London aristocracy to bring them to their knees. But that wasn’t all he wanted. He wanted their
indebtedness.

Bones wanted to own them all.

And when he did, his need for Lady A would end—something she tried not to consider. The future was an abstract place to Arista, though she often spent hours at the docks, watching the
ships come and go and wishing she could change her own life. She found it safer to exist only in the present. That mindset had kept her alive so far.

Lord Huntington glanced around furtively, then made a sudden move toward a set of open patio doors. Arista sighed. So it was going to be like that, then.

She caught Nic’s ever-watchful eye and tilted her head in the direction of Lord Huntington. He understood right away and disappeared into the crowd.

Nic would not harm him. The nobleman simply needed a reminder of his obligation. Of what he now owed, in return for using the services of her employer. Arista had practically delivered the title
of earl to him, along with all that went with it, just one month ago. Thanks to Bones’s information—that the previous Earl of Huntington, cousin of Arista’s current quarry, was
illegitimate—Huntington had been elevated beyond his wildest dreams. He had secured the earldom for his own, as the only
rightful
male heir still alive.

And now he expected her to chase him down for payment? It was damned near impossible to run in a dress and heeled slippers.

Nonetheless, she would chase him all over London if necessary.

Arista had almost reached the open doors when a surly Lord Huntington reappeared. Right behind him was Nic. The earl shot a venomous glance over his shoulder, then pushed his way back into the
crowd. Arista moved away from the doors, to a spot where she could see the earl and also the clock. They had only five more minutes to wait.

Nic wouldn’t let Lord Huntington out of his sight now, but she still glanced back at Huntington every few seconds. In crowded spaces like the ballroom, it became harder to keep a watchful
eye on the nearly unnoticeable tics that gave away a person’s intentions. Most people gave off small clues—tensed muscles, a slight shift in movement, a subtle glance—that
indicated what they were about to do. Body language told her what people were thinking before they even knew it themselves.

When she was a child, sent to the market to pick pockets, Arista had spent hours watching people. The way they held their heads; what their hands were doing; the way they walked or stood. All
were useful clues. This skill showed her the best people to steal from: the ones who were thinking about something else, who were distracted or daydreaming. It also made Arista one of the best
thieves Bones had.

Her abilities had saved her life on more than one occasion. Just last week, the Duke of Conley—a thin, vapid man who sniffed into a perfumed handkerchief the entire time Arista waited for
payment—had thought to use several hired men to attack her to get out of his obligation. Unfortunately for him, Arista had seen the flicker of the duke’s gaze, the merest nod of his
head, and the shine of victory in his eyes—all of which gave away his lackeys’ location.

“Behind me. Left,” she’d said, without breaking eye contact with the duke. Nic had sprung into action. The hired men were disarmed and unconscious before the duke could even
blink.

Nic was powerful, fast, and deadly accurate.

The look of disbelief on the duke’s face had almost been payment enough. Arista had smiled during the rest of the transaction, even when the duke hissed out a new threat before
disappearing into his carriage. “I love it when they think they’re gonna outsmart you,” Nic had said with a wide grin. He lived for the fight. The scars on his knuckles proved
it.

But Arista already knew Lord Huntington would not fight. He was entirely too soft to have ever gotten physical with anything more than an oversized roast duck.

A couple swept by, and Arista could not help but notice the way the woman tilted her head back, just enough to let the gentleman sneak a kiss where her neck and bared shoulder met. For one
fleeting moment, Arista wondered what it would be like to be that woman. To lean in close, her hands on a man’s chest, and smile coyly up at him. To see the flare of desire make his eyes
dilate in the candlelight.

Arista met Nic’s dark stare between the dancers. Did he wonder the same thing?

He had dressed as a pirate for the masquerade, and looked as dark and dangerous as the real thing. His clothes were not of the finest materials, but they hugged his lean body like a glove. The
mask he wore was a simple eye patch that covered his left eye.

Arista’s chest tightened, and for a moment, she could picture them as guests, dancing to the soft strains of the orchestra. Nic would brush his lips over hers, whispering in her ear, like
he did with the girls at the docks. Those unknown words that made the girls smile flirtatiously as they slipped their hands into his, leading him up the scarred wooden steps to the floor above.

Heat pooled in her stomach and she pressed her fists against it to try and physically force the feeling back down. When had she started to see Nic as more than just her bodyguard? He was the
only person in the world that she trusted with her life on a nightly basis. She wouldn’t be alive if not for him. He was her friend. That was all.

And still…

The restlessness had been growing stronger lately. The urge to get away from everything; to have a different life without fear hanging over their heads. More often than not, when they left a
party, she had to fight the urge to keep going. To simply disappear. But they had nowhere to go. No means to afford even a cheap hackney to the outskirts of London. Bones owned them both.