Hey everyone!

I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for reading the first chapter of my story!

Fun fact: Did you know that the "real" Captain Hook, like our very own Killian in this story, attended Eton? I wanted this little detail to add a touch of authenticity to his character. Hope you found it as intriguing as I did!

Huge thank you to my beta ARandomDream for correcting my mistakes ❤️

Stay tuned for more adventures, and thanks again for your amazing support!


Chapter 2: Jewels, Jests, and a Jaunt in Paris

Paris - April, 1828

"No, it cannot be," murmured Sir David Nolan, his face a canvas of disbelief, his eyes widening in dread as he pressed his forehead against the cold pane framing Rue de Provence.

"I'm afraid it is, sir," Leroy replied, his voice tinged with deference.

Sir David ran his fingers through his tousled sandy locks, despite the late hour, having just shed his dressing gown. "Ingrid," he breathed, his voice hollow. "Oh, merciful heavens, this cannot be happening."

"It is indeed your grandmother, Lady Wintercrest, accompanied by your sister, Miss Emma," Leroy confirmed, though a hint of suppressed amusement danced in his eyes. In that moment, he wrestled with a surge of conflicting emotions, including an absurd urge to prance about the room, proclaiming victory.

They were saved, he surmised. With Miss Emma's arrival, the tides of fortune were bound to turn. It had been a daring move to summon her, but necessity demanded it, for the sake of the family's honor.

Sir David had found himself surrounded by a motley crew of disreputable ruffians—a band of debauched scallywags whose notoriety spanned the expanse of Europe and possibly beyond, if Leroy's scathing appraisal was to be believed. Under the despotic reign of the fourth Marquess of Hookstone, these prodigal villains threatened to cloak the esteemed Nolan lineage in darkness.

But Miss Emma would set things right, the aging manservant reassured himself as he swiftly tied his master's cravat.

Sir David's twenty-eight-year-old sister had inherited her widowed grandmother's captivating allure: silken, golden hair; almond-shaped emerald eyes; an alabaster complexion; and a graceful figure that defied the passage of time, much like Lady Wintercrest herself.

More importantly, in the pragmatic eyes of Leroy, Miss Emma possessed her late father's astuteness, physical prowess, and daring spirit. She could ride, fence, and shoot with unparalleled skill. When it came to pistols, she surpassed the entire family—not a small feat given her lineage's penchant for producing marksmen. Lady Wintercrest had birthed four sons by Sir Alastor Nolan and two by Viscount Wintercrest in her brief marriages, and all had sired numerous male offspring. Yet none could outshoot Miss Emma. Leroy had witnessed her precision firsthand, effortlessly uncorking a wine bottle from twenty paces away.

He wouldn't have minded seeing her deal with Lord Hook—shortened from the dreaded Marquess of Hookstone—herself. The man was an abomination, a disgrace to his nation, a shiftless libertine with a conscience no more developed than that of a dung beetle. He had ensnared Sir David, who was regrettably not the sharpest tool in the shed, into his nefarious circle, leading them both down a path to ruin. If Miss Emma's intervention can't prove to be helpful, a few more months under Lord Hook's influence would surely bankrupt Sir David, or worse, claim his life in the whirl of debauchery.

However, Leroy found solace in his unwavering belief that such a dire fate would not come to pass. With a satisfied grin, he gently guided his somewhat reluctant master toward the door, anticipating the transformative intervention of Miss Emma. Leroy held steadfast faith in her capacity to rectify even the most tangled predicaments. To him, she was the enchantress of redemption, weaving spells of resolution and triumph over chaos, and restoring order to the havoc Lord Hook had wrought upon Sir David's existence.


David managed a facade of surprised delight upon seeing his sister and grandmother. But as soon as the elderly Lady Wintercrest retired to her bedchamber to recover from the journey, he whisked Emma into what passed for the drawing room in their cramped—and exorbitantly priced, she thought with irritation— appartement.

"Good Lord, Ems, what's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Emma swept up the mound of sports papers scattered on an overstuffed chair by the hearth, tossed them into the grate, and sank wearily onto the plush cushions.

The carriage journey from Calais had been interminable, dusty, and jolting. Thanks to the wretched state of French roads, she had no doubt her posterior was black and blue.

At that moment, she had half a mind to give her brother's backside a good thrashing, but he towered over her by half a head and outweighed her by several stone. The days of using a sturdy birch rod to bring him to his senses were long behind her.

"It's a birthday present," she declared.

His pallid complexion briefly brightened, and his familiar, pleasantly dim grin surfaced. "Well, I'll be damned, Ems, that's mighty thoughtful of-" His smile faltered, brow knitting. "But my birthday's not until August. You can't possibly intend to stick around until-"

"I meant Ingrid's birthday," she clarified.

One of Lady Wintercrest's many peculiarities was her insistence that her children and grandchildren address her by name. "I am a woman," she'd retort to any who objected, "I have a name. Mama, Grandmama..." here she'd often shudder delicately. "How dreadfully anonymous."

David's expression turned cautious. "And when might that be?"

"Her birthday, as you should well recall, is the day after tomorrow," Emma slipped off her grey kid boots, brought the footstool closer, and propped her feet up. "I wanted to treat her. It's been an age since she's been to Paris, and things at home have been far from pleasant. Some of the aunts have been murmuring about locking her up in a lunatic asylum. Not that I'm surprised. They've never quite understood her. Did you know she had three marriage proposals just last month? Number Three seems to have been the last straw. Lord Hans, thirty-four years young. The family finds it rather mortifying.

"Well, it's not exactly dignified at her age."

"She's not in her grave yet, David. I don't see why she should act as if she were. If she wants to marry a pot boy, that's her business," Emma gave her brother a searching glance. "Though it does mean he'd have control over her finances. That's what's got everyone fretting."

David's cheeks reddened. "No need to look at me that way."

"Isn't there? You seem rather worried yourself. Perhaps you were banking on her to rescue you from your predicaments."

He nervously adjusted his cravat. "I'm not in any predicaments."

"Oh, so it must be me then. According to your man of business, settling your current debts will leave me with precisely fifty-one pounds, three shillings, and twopence for the rest of the year. Which means I'll either have to move back in with our dear aunts and uncles or find employment. I've spent a decade as their unpaid nanny. I refuse to spend another ten seconds. That only leaves one option: work."

His pale blue eyes widened. "Work? You mean, earn a wage?"

Emma nodded firmly. "I see no other acceptable choice."

"Have you lost your marbles, Ems? You're a lady. You tie the knot. With a bloke who's fat in the purse. Just like Ingrid did. Twice. You've got her looks, you know. If you weren't so blasted choosy-"

"But I am," she interjected. "Luckily, I can afford to be."

Orphaned at a tender age, Emma and David found themselves under the guardianship of aunts, uncles, and cousins barely capable of managing their own burgeoning families. The clan might have been comfortably well-off if not for their prolific procreation. Ingrid hailed from a lineage of fruitful breeders, particularly of sons, and her progeny had inherited the knack.

That explained why Emma received a steady stream of marriage proposals - an average of seven per year, even now when she should be donning a spinster's cap. But she'd sooner marry over her dead body than become a broodmare to some wealthy, titled oaf - or don dowry hats, for that matter.

She possessed a knack for uncovering treasures at auctions and thrift stores, flipping them for a tidy profit. While not amassing a fortune, for the past five years she'd indulged in fashionable attire bought with her own earnings, eschewing the hand-me-downs from her kin. It marked a modest stride toward independence. Yet, she craved more. Over the last year, she meticulously plotted her ascent.

She had finally saved enough to lease and begin stocking a shop of her own. It would exude elegance and exclusivity, catering to a discerning clientele. Her time amidst Society's elite afforded her a sharp insight into their preferences and the art of luring them in.

Once she extricated her brother from the quagmire of his making, she'd set her sights on drawing in her target market. She vowed to ensure his blunders never again disrupted her meticulously ordered life. David was an unreliable, scatterbrained dolt. The mere thought of continuing to rely on him sent a shiver down her spine, contemplating the bleak future it could portend.

"You know perfectly well my fortunes don't hinge on a marriage," she retorted sharply. "My plans for the shop are well underway. Location secured, funds saved—"

"That hare-brained rag-and-bone shop nonsense?" he interjected.

"Not a rag and bone shop," she corrected calmly. "As I've patiently explained numerous times—"

"I won't stand by while you tarnish our family name with trade," David declared, straightening himself indignantly. "No sister of mine will stoop to peddling wares."

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," she countered coolly.

He scowled fiercely, but she met his gaze with unyielding determination.

She reclined in her chair, casting a contemplative gaze at him. "David, you're resembling a sow, all scrunched up like that. Quite piggish since we last met, in fact. Easily gained two or perhaps three stone, mostly about the middle. A striking likeness to the king, I dare say."

"That whale?" he protested. "Untrue. Take it back, Emma!"

"Or what? You'll sit on me?" she laughed.

He stormed off and flopped onto the sofa.

"If I were you," she continued, "I'd fret less about my words and deeds, and more about your own prospects. I can fend for myself, David. But as for you...Well, it's high time you considered marrying someone with a hefty purse."

"Marriage is for cowards, fools, and women," he declared.

She smiled. "That sounds like the sort of proclamation a drunken jackass would bellow, just before tumbling into the punch bowl, regaling his brethren with crude tales of carnal conquests and bodily functions."

Not bothering to pause for David to decipher her verbose jabs, she pressed on. "I know exactly what men find uproarious," she asserted. "Living with you and raising ten rambunctious male cousins has made it abundantly clear. Whether under the influence or stone-cold sober, they revel in jests about their exploits with women, real or imagined, and they never tire of discussing gas, liquid, and-"

"Women, of course, lack any sense of humor," David interjected with a knowing nod. "They don't require one. The Almighty clearly designed them as an eternal jest upon men. It follows logically, then, that the Almighty must be of the fairer sex."

He uttered the words slowly and carefully, as though he'd taken considerable pains to memorize them.

"From where did you glean that philosophical profundity, David?" she inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Come again?"

"Who told you that?"

"It wasn't a drunken jackass, Miss Snarky and Sardonic," he retorted smugly. "I may not have the biggest brain in town, but I reckon I can spot a fool when I see one, and Hook ain't it."

"Indeed not. He sounds like quite the sage. Pray, what other pearls of wisdom does he impart, dear brother?"

There was a pregnant pause as David pondered whether she was being sarcastic. As usual, he misjudged.

"Well, he is sharp, Ems. I should have known you'd see that. The things he comes out with—why, that brain of his is always whirring like a loom. Not sure what fuels it. Can't be mutton, he doesn't fancy it much."

"I suspect it's fueled by rum," Emma muttered.

"Say again?"

"I said, 'His brain must run like a steam engine.'"

"Must be," David agreed. "And not just for talk, mind you. He's got the brains for money matters too. They say he plays the Exchange like a virtuoso plays the violin. Only instead of music, Hook's melody is the 'chink, chink, chink' of sovereigns. And that's a lot of chinks, Emma."

She harbored no doubt about it. By all reckonings, The Marquess of Hookstone stood as one of England's premier moneybags. He could fritter away fortunes with reckless abandon. And poor David, who couldn't afford even a small indulgence, was hell-bent on mimicking his hero.

For it was idolatry, clear as day, as Leroy had argued in his near-gibberish letter. That David had stretched his meager intellect enough to commit Hook's words to memory was undeniable proof that Leroy hadn't embellished.

Lord Hook had become the master of David's universe…and he was steering him straight to perdition.


Killian remained steadfastly fixed on his task, paying no heed to the tinkle of the shop bell announcing a new arrival. He cared little for the identity of the customer, and it was safe to assume that Gold, the esteemed purveyor of antiquities and objets d'art, shared his apathy, especially considering Killian was the paramount client in all of Paris. Gold's attention was wholly monopolized by the Marquess of Hookstone; his gaze never straying towards the door, nor did he betray any awareness of sounds beyond the immediate scope of his aristocratic patron.

However, indifference does not equate to deafness. Barely had the bell ceased its delicate song when Killian caught the strains of a familiar male voice murmuring in English, accompanied by an unfamiliar feminine response in hushed tones. Though the words eluded him, David Nolan managed for once to keep his volume below his customary bellow, earning a dubious achievement akin to a whisper audible across a football field.

Yet, David Nolan, renowned as the preeminent nitwit of the Northern Hemisphere, presented a formidable distraction. Killian reluctantly shelved his own business dealings; he harbored no intention of engaging in a negotiation while Nolan, with his gestures, remarks, and demeanor calculated to inflate prices under the deluded belief he was astutely bargaining them down, remained in proximity.

"I say," boomed the rugby-field voice. "Isn't that - Well, by Jupiter's whiskers, it is."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Heavy footsteps drew nearer. Killian suppressed a sigh, and turned, fixing a steely gaze on his accoster.

Nolan halted abruptly. "That is to say, I don't mean to interrupt. I'm sure, especially when a chap's haggling with Gold," he said, nodding toward the proprietor. "As I was explaining to Emma just now, a fellow must keep his wits about him and ensure he doesn't bid more than half of what he's prepared to pay. Not to mention keeping track of what's 'half' and what's 'twice' in all these blasted francs, sous, and other gibberish coins, then multiplying and dividing again to tally up in proper pounds, shillings, and pence - why they can't do it right from the start, I'll never understand, unless it's to vex a fellow."

"I've mentioned before, Nolan, that you'd suffer less distress if you refrained from testing your frail constitution with arithmetic," Killian quipped.

He detected a faint rustle and muffled sounds ahead and to his left. His gaze shifted in that direction. The woman whose murmurs he had overheard was engrossed in examining a display case of jewelry. The shop was dimly lit — deliberately so, to enhance the challenge for customers in accurately assessing the items. All Killian could discern was that she wore a blue outer garment of some kind and one of those excessively ornate bonnets currently in vogue.

"I would especially caution," he continued, his eyes fixed on the woman, "against attempting calculations if you're considering a gift for your chère amie. Women operate in a higher realm of mathematics than men, particularly in matters of gift-giving."

"That, David, stems from the fact that the female brain has evolved to a more sophisticated level," the woman remarked without looking up. "She understands that selecting a gift requires balancing a profoundly intricate moral, psychological, aesthetic, and sentimental equation. I wouldn't advise a mere male to meddle in this delicate balancing act, especially not through the primitive method of counting."

For one disconcerting moment, it felt to Killian as though someone had dunked his head in a cesspool. His heart quickened its pace, and his skin prickled with clammy gooseflesh, reminiscent of an unforgettable day at Eton five and twenty years past.

He reassured himself that his breakfast disagreed with him. Surely, the butter had gone rancid.

It was inconceivable that the disdainful riposte of a woman could unsettle him so. He couldn't possibly be perturbed by the realization that this sharp-tongued lady was not, as he initially assumed, some strumpet David had entertained the night prior.

Her refined speech marked her as a lady. Worse—though it seemed unimaginable—she appeared to be a bluestocking. Killian had never before encountered a woman who had even heard of equations, let alone understood their balance.

David sidled over, his playing-field hush-hush inquiry landing squarely on Killian's ear: "Any inkling what she muttered, Hook?"

"Oh, yes."

"And what was it?"

"Men are ignorant brutes."

"You sure?"

"Quite."

David exhaled heavily and shifted towards the woman, who remained engrossed with the contents of the display case. "You swore not to insult my friends, Ems."

"I don't see how I could, when I haven't met any."

She appeared transfixed, the beribboned and beflowered bonnet tilting this way and that as she scrutinized the object of her fascination from various angles.

"Well, do you fancy meeting one?" David inquired impatiently. "Or do you intend to stand there staring at that trinket all day?"

She straightened up but remained facing away.

David coughed. "Emma," he said insistently. "Hook, this is Hook - Blast it, Emma, can't you tear your eyes away from that rubbish for a single minute?"

She finally turned.

"Hook - my sister."

She glanced up.

A swift, fierce heat surged through Killian, from the crown of his head down to the toes in his champagne-polished boots. It was quickly followed by a clammy cold sweat.

"My Lord," she acknowledged with a brisk nod.

"Miss Nolan," he replied, struggling to conjure up more words.

Beneath the oversized bonnet rested a flawless porcelain-white face, framed by thick, sooty lashes and emerald eyes that slanted gently upward to match the curve of her high cheekbones. Her nose was straight and delicately slender, her lips soft and pink, slightly fuller than the norm.

She wasn't the epitome of classic English beauty, but she exuded a distinct allure. Being neither blind nor ignorant, Killian was adept at recognizing quality when he encountered it.

If she had been a piece of Sevres china or an oil painting or a tapestry, he would have snatched her up without haggling over the price.

For one mad moment, as he imagined tracing his tongue from her alabaster brow to her dainty toes, he found himself wondering what it would cost to possess her.

But catching sight of his reflection in the glass, he saw his own stern visage staring back—a countenance akin to the Devil's own. In Killian's case, judging the book by its cover was spot-on, for he harbored a darkness deep within. His soul was an Ashcourt landscape, where winds howled fiercely and rain pelted down on bleak, grey rocks, and where deceptively pretty patches of green turned out to be treacherous bogs capable of swallowing even an ox.

Anyone with an ounce of sagacity could discern the warnings posted: "ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE" or, more aptly, "DANGER, QUICKSAND."

Equally telling, the figure before him was undoubtedly a lady, and no placards were needed to signal caution. Ladies, in his lexicon, were categorized under Plague, Pestilence, and Famine.

Returning to his senses, Killian realized he must have been glaring icily at her for quite some time, as David—seemingly bored—had turned away to inspect a set of wooden soldiers.

Swiftly regaining composure, Killian remarked, "Was it not your turn to speak, Miss Nolan? Weren't you on the verge of commenting on the weather? I understand that's the customary—er, safe—way to initiate conversation."

"Your eyes," she remarked, her gaze unwavering. "possess an intensity akin to the deepest navy or azure. Yet, the illusion they create... it's rather captivating."

A swift, piercing sensation pricked around his diaphragm or perhaps his gut; it was hard to pinpoint.

His demeanor remained unflappable. He had mastered composure through rigorous schooling.

"The conversation has progressed with astonishing rapidity to the personal," he drawled. "You are fascinated by my eyes."

"I can't deny it," she replied. "They are extraordinary. So strikingly blue. But I don't mean to make you uncomfortable."

With a barely perceptible smirk, she turned her attention back to the jewelry case.

Killian couldn't quite put his finger on what was amiss with her, but he sensed something askew. Wasn't he the Devil incarnate? Shouldn't she have recoiled in horror or swooned dramatically? Yet she had met his gaze unflinchingly, even flirtatiously, for a fleeting moment.

Deciding it was time to depart, he aimed for the door. Just as he did, David hurried to catch up with him.

"You got off lightly," David whispered, loud enough to echo through Notre Dame. "I was certain she'd tear into you - and she's got a tongue that could flay a man, no matter who he is. Not that you couldn't handle it, but she'd give anyone a headache. If you were thinking of a drink-"

"Gold has just acquired an automaton that will pique your interest," Killian interrupted. "Why not ask him to wind it up so you can witness its performance?"

David's countenance brightened with glee. "One of those what-you-call-'ems? Really? What does it do?"

"Why don't you go investigate?" Killian proposed.

David scurried over to the shopkeeper, launching into a tirade of chatter that any self-respecting Parisian would deem a punishable offense. With the door within reach, Killian contemplated his escape. Yet, his attention lingered on Miss Nolan, engrossed once more by an item in the jewelry case. Driven by curiosity, he found himself delaying his departure.