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Brook Street: Thief

Brook Street: Thief

by Ava March
Brook Street: Thief

Brook Street: Thief

by Ava March

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London, 1822

It was only supposed to be one night. One night to determine once and for all if he truly preferred men. But the last thing Lord Benjamin Parker expected to find in a questionable gambling hall in Cheapside is a gorgeous young man who steals his heart.

It was only supposed to be a job. Cavin Fox has done it many times—select a prime mark, distract him with lust, and leave his pockets empty. Yet when Cavin slips away under the cover of darkness, the only part of Benjamin he leaves untouched is his pockets.

With a taste of his fantasies fulfilled, Benjamin wants more than one night with Cavin. But convincing the elusive young man to give them a chance proves difficult. Cavin lives with a band of thieves in the worst area of London, and he knows there's no place for him in a gentleman's life. Yet Benjamin isn't about to let Cavin—and love—continue to slip away from him.

40,000 words

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781426893421
Publisher: Harlequin
Publication date: 03/19/2012
Series: Brook Street , #1
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 125
Sales rank: 376,358
File size: 702 KB

About the Author

Ava March is an author of sexy, emotionally intense M/M historical romances. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors. With over fifteen works to her credit, her books have been finalists in the Rainbow Awards and More Than Magic contest, and deemed 'must-haves' for Historical M/M romance by RT Book Reviews readers. Visit her website at to find out more about her books or to sign-up for her newsletter.

Read an Excerpt

March 1822
London, England

Lord Benjamin Parker exited the hackney and reached up to hand a few coins to the driver. "That will be all."

With a tip of his head, the driver pocketed the coins. A flick of his wrists, and the long leather lines slapped against the horse's back.

The moment the carriage lurched forward, Benjamin opened his mouth, the words to call the driver back on his tongue, but then he snapped his jaw shut. It wasn't as if he were in the stews, where drivers with any common sense rarely ventured, especially this late in the evening. And while he had hailed the hackney a couple of blocks from his Mayfair town house, it had been only a couple of blocks.

Best to have let that one go. No need to ask the driver to wait when in all probability he wouldn't have need of it for many hours.

Or would he?

He glanced about. The handful of streetlamps lining Silver Street illuminated a series of nondescript buildings, none of which resembled a hotel or anyplace that would let rooms for the night. But the patrons had to go somewhere...unless the hell had rooms.

That thought didn't appeal. A shudder of revulsion gripped his spine. Too close of a resemblance to a molly house.

Uncertainty began to seep into his stomach, already knotted with nerves, but he pushed it aside. He would do this. Was determined to do this. After months upon months—nay, years—of debating and questioning himself, he had finally come to a decision. He was tired of the unknown, tired of fighting those feelings and even more tired of worrying about the ramifications if his suspicions proved correct. In a few weeks the Season would begin, and he refused to go through another one with that particular question hanging over his head. Before the not-so-subtle nudges from his brothers and sisters started anew to find a wife among the bevies of young ladies, he would know the truth about himself. And either way, he would accept it.

In any case, it wasn't as if he'd find the answer to the night's logistical options standing along the street.

With that, he gave his tan coat a tug to straighten it and set off toward the red brick building a bit farther up the street. One would not know by looking at it that it was a gambling hell, but that wasn't uncommon. What made this one unique, what made it his destination, was its clientele...if rumor proved true.

"Unless you're of an unnatural persuasion, best to avoid Clements."

Roger's drawling voice, backed with an unmistakable note of revulsion, echoed in his head. His eldest brother, the Marquis of Haverson, would never again invite Benjamin to another hunting excursion at the family seat if he discovered his comment made during a discussion about the merits of the various hells about London had not immediately put Benjamin off the place.

Rather it'd had the opposite effect.

Benjamin stopped before the plain black door. The number twelve painted on a square of wood beneath the lamp to the left of the door confirmed he had arrived at Clements. A single knock would summon the guard, gain him entrance and hopefully lead to an answer to the question that had plagued him for years.

If no one suits, I can simply leave, he reminded himself for what felt like the tenth time since he'd walked out of his town house less than an hour ago.

The nerves gripping his stomach eased a notch. Fist clenched, he raised his arm.

The sound of his knock echoed in his ears.

The door opened. The burly guard barely glanced at him before stepping aside, allowing Benjamin to enter.

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