Charlie found Blade sitting on the rooftop of the diplomat's house, in the shadows of one of the enormous chimneys.

Lark had taken to bed, and he'd sent a message along to Gemma stating "they'd had no luck at cards last night", which left him to his own devices for the day.

"You do realize they have a sitting room," he called, balancing along the ridge of the roof. "There's even a library."

"Aye, but they ain't got these views." Blade waved his hand at the panorama in front of them.

Behind him, the river churned dull and gray with dozens of seagulls bobbing in the current, but every house in the street was painted a bright color, and everywhere Charlie looked gold decorated small cupolas and domes.

And in the distance, the ruins of Grigoriev Palace squatted like a widowed matron, all dour broken windows and rain-bleached walls giving the palace an air of mourning.

Both of them stared at it.

"Thinking about last night's bust?" Charlie sat beside his brother-in-law. Blade snapped something shut in his hand, and he caught a glimpse of a silver locket, and looked away swiftly. "Oh. You were thinking about Honor and Emmaline."

"Missin' 'em a little."

Baby Emma was the apple of her father's eye, and Charlie swallowed the lump in his throat as he thought of her. His niece looked just like her mother, but she had Blade's wicked sense of humor, and she'd stolen Charlie's heart the moment she first looked into his eyes.

"Hopefully we're home in a couple of weeks," he said. "I wish you hadn't come. Emma will never forgive me for stealing you away. I won't be her favorite uncle anymore."

"Barrons might dispute that fact."

"Aye, well we all know the truth. I'm her favorite."

"'Ow's Lark?"

Charlie tilted his face to the clouds, shutting his eyes. "She was upset this morning."

"I could see that. Why?"

He shrugged and told Blade what he knew.

Which, admittedly, wasn't very much.

"...I don't know if she lied to me, but there's definitely something she's hiding." It bothered him.

"Strange. You two seem thick as thieves again," Blade muttered.

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Even he heard the edge in his voice. "Maybe she hasn't truly forgiven me yet."

"She forgive you years ago."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Well, mebbe that's because you ain't forgiven yourself yet." Blade clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure you ain't seein' reproach just 'cos you're lookin' for it? Mebbe it ain't 'er. Mebbe it's in your 'ead?"

Charlie chewed the thought. Damn it. He dug both thumbs under the arch of his brows. "Perhaps a little. I told Gemma I could do this, but.... I hate being responsible for other people's lives. Especially Lark's. I keep hesitating when I should be acting. I keep thinking about that night."

"You should never have been there. You buggered up. You paid the price. But the cost o' Tin Man's life weren't ever on your tally. You think I don't regret what 'appened? I were the one who went up 'gainst the prince consort. I started the whole bloody revolution. And I knew we'd lose people along the way. Mebbe it's my fault? It's the price we paid for freedom. And if you 'esitate now, you might get someone killed."

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

"You're a regular bundle of cheer this morning."

"Speakin' of cheerful, anythin' else I ought to know about?" The way Blade said it unsettled him. Far too casual.

"Like what?"

"'Eard tell there's a bet runnin' 'bout the identity of the future Mrs. Todd."

Bloody. Fucking. Hell. "I swear I am going to kill Byrnes."

"Good luck." Blade laughed. "Apparently nobody'll take 'is bet."

"Oh, poor Byrnes."

"Poor you. Seems the odds aren't great. Everyone thinks it's a foregone conclusion, so now they're bettin' on whether you've kissed 'er yet."

This was a conversation he never wanted to have with Blade. "How about we pretend you didn't overhear that?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"If I surrender, will you leave me be?" he groaned. "Nothing is happening between us. We're in Russia. It's dangerous. We've both got to keep a clear head."

"Goin' that well, eh? You want some advice?" Blade rested both wrists on his knees.

Everybody wanted to give him advice these days. "Have you been conspiring with Leo? Is this some grand plan between the two of you to matchmake? You're as bad as Honor and Lena."

Amusement gleamed in Blade's eyes. But he didn't say a word.

"Well, lay it on me." No point holding off the inevitable.

"You said she lied to you. Well, women don't keep secrets for no reason."

Not what he'd expected.

Charlie stilled. So there was something she was hiding. "Before today, I would have said Lark and I had no secrets from each other."

"And now?"

Blade didn't look surprised, and Charlie's mind started racing. "I could have sworn when I burst into the room where she was fighting the leader of the Black Wolves, that she was speaking Russian. Not just mangling it the way I do, but speaking almost fluently."

"Was she."

Charlie sat up straight. "You know something. What the hell is going on here?"

Suspicions were starting to coalesce.

Blade should never have been on this mission. He had a wife and a daughter at home, and an entire rookery to run. And he'd already admitted he hadn't come for Charlie's sake, though he didn't doubt Blade was keeping an eye on him too.

"Is she in trouble?"

Blade ignored him. "D'you know... the servants 'ere 'ave mostly 'ad their tongues removed or their vocal cords cut."

"I don't see what the...."

He slammed to a halt as a half dozen facts hit him at once.

Tin Man had lost his tongue at some point. He'd been the one who taught both he and Lark how to sign.

Lark spoke Russian.

She'd been two seconds away from walking out in that coffeehouse before he offhandedly spoke a Russian word, and then she'd changed her mind.

Nobody knew where she'd come from. It wasn't some big secret, but it was simply that everyone in the Warren assumed Lark didn't know.

What if she did?

What if there was a reason she'd been so upset this morning?

Blade tapped the side of his nose. "Ain't a lot I can tell you, Charlie, without breakin' certain confidences. But if you were to ask the right questions of the right person...."

"She'd clam up tighter than a miser's purse," he growled, knowing Lark too well.

"Mebbe. Just remember.... 'Ow do we stalk a cat?"

It was a game Blade had taught them in the rookeries as children, when he'd been testing whether they were ready to join the crew on jobs. If you couldn't take Puss unawares, then you weren't ready for housebreaking.

"Patiently," Charlie said, pushing to his feet. "And quietly. You don't ever let them know you're stalking them."

"Good luck."

A brief rap came at Lark's bedroom door.

She'd slept for most of the morning, then awoken to find Nadezhda quietly placing a tray on her vanity. Sleep had eluded her after that. She kept thinking of the stranger in Grigoriev Palace, and the family portrait featuring Dmitri.

No matter how many times she turned the memories over in her mind, she was no closer to an answer. She'd been a little girl when she left Russia, and while she remembered the color of Dima's hair, and the way he'd roll his eyes when she and Katya squabbled, she couldn't quite recall the precise details of his face. Everything seemed washed out and diluted.

There'd been no point remaining in bed, so she'd dressed and settled at the vanity to sip her bloodied tea and tidy her hair. Tin Man used to do it for her when she was upset, and nothing settled her nerves like a brush gliding through her hair.

"Are you awake?" Charlie called through the door.

"Yes."

"Are you decent?"

Lark slanted a glance toward him. "Perhaps you should open the door and find out?"

Nothing.

She could practically imagine the stunned look on his face and smiled to herself. Then the door cracked open—as she'd known it would—and Charlie slipped inside.

Wind dashed his blond hair across his brow rakishly, and his shirt was unbuttoned to his collarbone, as it always was when he was at home. The strong muscles of his throat dipped into a hollow at the base she suddenly wanted to taste. Every time she saw him she wanted to touch him.

Her girlish feelings for him had all been innocent—dreams of kissing him, at most. But now she felt a restless, furious itch of pure lust whenever she looked at him. Especially after the feel of his skin slick against hers in the baths, and the heated way he'd pushed her against the pool walls, his tongue tangling with hers. The hunger pushed against the insides of her skin, demanding she give in.

There was nothing innocent about those memories.

Nothing innocent about her desires now.

She wanted his hands on her skin in places she'd never been touched.

She wanted to explore every inch of him with her lips and mouth. To make him beg for mercy.

And she wanted to curl in his arms and lose herself forever.

"Would you like me to take my shirt off so you can get a closer look?" he mused, splaying his arms wide. "The way you're staring is a little indecent, my dear. Especially for just friends."

Lark looked swiftly away, toying with her brush. "I think that would be unwise."

"Oh, I know." He slipped up behind her, leaning over her shoulder and plucking her fan up for a closer look. "Who knows what would happen if I was to strip to my skin? Might be a repeat performance of the other night, sans the actual baths, but we wouldn't want that, would we?"

He flipped the fan open, the feathery fronds brushing against her throat. Their eyes met in the mirror, and she could see he meant mischief.

Lark swallowed. Hard.

She could feel him at her back. Not quite caging her in, but making her aware of him. All that hard muscle surrounding her. All she had to do was lean back and she'd be in his arms.

Lark ducked under his arm and escaped, sweeping toward the corner as she rubbed the goosebumps from her arms. "I think one of us wants that."

"Sorry," he said, sounding completely insincere as he snapped the fan shut and discarded it on the vanity. "Didn't mean to make you blush with all this talk of delicate matters."

"I'm hardly a complete innocent, Charlie." Lark sank into the stuffed armchair, letting her legs dangle over the edge. "I grew up in the rookeries, remember?"

Just what was he up to?

He settled at her feet, one arm slung carelessly over his knee. He trailed his fingertips along her shin, so lightly she could barely feel it. "How could I forget? Remember the time you dared me to steal Miss Jasmine's garters?"

Lark winced. "How was I to know she was currently entertaining?"

"That was an education," he mused. "I spent over an hour trapped in her wardrobe while she explained the fine art of fellatio to her latest client. With a practical demonstration. I used to fantasize about her garters for hours after that."

"I know." Lark rolled her eyes, trying to ignore her hot cheeks. "You practically tripped over your own feet whenever she crossed the street. And is that why you used to lock yourself in your bedroom with one of her silk stockings every night?"

"I was fifteen," he protested. "I'd suddenly become rather... intensely focused on a certain aspect of life. I was curious how it all worked."

"Quite the slow learner then. You locked yourself away every night for months."

He shot her a roguish smile. "Oh no, it only took me an afternoon before I'd worked out the basic mechanics. But you know me." His voice lowered. "I like to be thorough in my practical application."

Lark flushed. True. When Charlie focused on something, it was almost to exclusion of all else.

Like Miss Jasmine.

And then Annie Chambers, the baker's apprentice, the summer he turned sixteen.

And then Dot Milkens, who'd lured him behind the clock tower a month later.

The heat in her cheeks changed from embarrassment to something else. She'd stopped following him through the rookeries by that stage, rather certain she didn't want to know where he was going.

Because Charlie had been handsome and brash and confident. And he wasn't the only one discovering what had changed during that one hateful summer.

"What about you?" he asked, tapping his fingers idly on her boot.

Lark swung her legs over the chair and sat up. "Most people thought I was a boy until I turned sixteen."

You included.

"In their defense," he replied, "you did spend most of your time wearing that god-awful cap and baggy shirt and trousers. You beat up boys twice your size, and never backed down from any challenge. And your hair was shorter than mine when we first met." His gaze narrowed. "It wasn't until your sixteenth birthday that I first saw you in a dress."

"Honoria made me wear it."

"It was horrible," he said.

"You were horrible. You said I looked like a skinny matchstick in a crocheted doily."

Charlie held his hands up helplessly. "I was seventeen. I was an idiot. And my brain kind of melted when you walked out in a dress. It just came out of my mouth."

"I cried for hours that night."

"And then you put a dead rat in my bed," he protested.

"You deserved it."

"Every day for a week."

"You'd hurt my feelings."

Lark pushed away from the armchair, feeling a little restless. It was one thing to reminisce on old times, quite another to relive the horrible feelings they brought with them.

Take that, lust. Embarrassment quenched any sense of desire.

"You also didn't answer my question," Charlie called.

Lark froze. "What question?"

He leaned back against the armchair, thoroughly at ease, smiling mischievously. "I said, what about you? Don't tell me you've never been curious?" He gestured from her head to her toes. "You very clearly turned into a woman. Finally."

Bloody hell. "It's a shame you haven't quite managed the transition to gentleman yet."

"You're stalling...."

Lark crossed her arms over her chest. "A lady never tells."

Charlie's gaze cut to her rather abruptly, and he sat up. "Oh?" His voice lowered. "That's not fair, Lark. You were privy to nearly all my youthful transgressions."

"Not by choice."

Their eyes met, and she realized her tone had been a little hard.

Lark forced it to soften. "You do realize—once I finally outgrew my grotty little boy stage—I was surrounded by several well-meaning uncles who would probably slit the throats of any boy who even looked at me?"

Charlie's gaze flattened as he hauled himself to his feet. "Not such a terrible idea."

She punched him in the arm. "That is so typical. Why should you get to have all the fun just because you're a man? I told Blade that once, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head."

"I can imagine. So... never?" he asked, with a strange light in his eyes.

Maybe I was waiting for you? Lark breathed out slowly. "Never."

"Huh."

Her eyes narrowed. What did that mean?

"You know I'm not experienced. My first kiss only happened a couple of days ago. You were there."

"Thank you for reminding me," he growled, looming over her.

She set her hands on her hips. "And why are you so curious?"

"Maybe I'm trying to work out why you're so resistant to the idea of the two of us." His eyes turned serious. "I wouldn't expect anything you weren't willing to give. I would wait, Lark, if you were nervous or uncertain or...." He shrugged helplessly. "I would wait until you were ready."

Suddenly she couldn't breathe.

He'd hinted that he intended to pursue this, but some small part of her had thought it a mere game to him. Another man had kissed her, arousing his competitive streak and jealousy. It was undeniable that there was an attraction between them, and he'd missed her, of course he had, but where did this end?

Because she couldn't accept anything less than forever.

And she would demand everything, if he ever accepted her terms.

If she could just say those words....

If she could only bring herself to splay her heart so bare.

She tried to explain, truly she did. "I'm not nervous about.... I trust you. I've always trusted you. I know you wouldn't hurt me. Not like that."

"But you think I'll hurt you in some other way?" he asked quietly.

Lark bowed her head.

It was her own fault. Her grief had torn them apart and then he'd left her behind in the rookery without a backwards glance, and it had hurt so much, she didn't know if she had it in her to make herself so vulnerable anymore.

Because she'd loved him more than he'd ever loved her.

"I don't want to lose you," she whispered. "Not again. And if we stay only friends...."

"It wouldn't work. We both know it's more than that."

"For me.... Yes." The words blurted out of her before she could stop them. She clapped both hands over her mouth in horror.

Stillness. Silence.

All she could see was his chest, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.

Oh, God, what had she done?

"For me too," he whispered, tugging her hands from her lips and holding them. "Lark, you're the most important person in my life. I promise that if we took this step, you would never lose me. I would never let you go, to start with. But.... I have concerns too, you know?"

He did?

Charlie reached out and slipped two fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes." Her heart started to pound.

"You know everything about me," he murmured, his thumb stroking over the dimple in her chin. "Every secret I've ever kept from others. Every embarrassing moment I've ever had. But sometimes I wonder if I know everything about you."

She went utterly still.

It wasn't a question, but she sensed the sudden shift of intent and it left her wits scrambling.

"You doubt my intentions," he said. "But you're the one who guards your heart. You're the one who won't let me in. I know you're hiding something." He pressed his fingers to her lips when she started to protest. "Let me finish, please."

Lark swallowed, her lips tingling with his touch.

"You were right," he said simply. "We can't take this step. Not yet. You don't trust me—"

"No! I...." She reached for him, snagging only his sleeve as he stepped back. "It's not.... It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" There was an honest purity to his expression. Charlie never lied. He never hid a damned thing from her, even when she sometimes wanted him to.

"I...." The words choked in her throat.

I can't.

Lifting her hands to her lips, he brushed his mouth over the back of her fingers as she watched helplessly.

"I know. I will wait for you," he promised. "Forever if need be. But if you want this to happen, then you have to let me in. Because I can't have half of you. I can't pretend I'm not aware you're keeping secrets. I would be yours if you would let me, but this decision rests in your hands." He gave a rueful smile. "I suppose you could say you finally won, Lark. You have me on my knees before you. I would never have said this five years ago, but you own my soul. And you always have."

He let her hand go slowly, their fingers straining to stay connected before gravity finally tore them apart.

And then he turned for the door. "We need to meet with the others and work out what to do next. I'll have the carriage prepared. Will you be ready in an hour?"

As if he hadn't just shattered her heart into a million pieces.

"Yes," she whispered.

A sharp rap came at the door.

"What is it?" Obsidian called.

The door opened and one of the footmen slipped inside. "An invitation, sir."

The sealed letter on the tray looked innocuous enough, but the seal embossed into thickened red wax made Obsidian's blood freeze.

He ran his fingernail beneath the seal and glanced at the letter’s contents as the footman departed.

"What is it?" Gemma's eyes narrowed as she clearly read the expression on his face.

Obsidian tapped the letter against his thigh. "It appears I shall not have to bother tracking Balfour down and beating some answers out of him. It's an invitation for me to play chess with him this afternoon, when the other men are hunting."

"Chess?"

His lips drew into a thin line. "Though I suspect the pieces we play with will be the lives of the Company of Rogues, and those of Balfour's allies."

She tugged the letter from his fingers and scanned it. "He wants to meet with you alone. I don't like it."

Obsidian drew her into his arms. "There's no control chip in my head anymore, my love. He's not going to brainwash me again."

"I know," she growled, leaning back into his embrace. "But it's Balfour. It has to be some sort of trap."

Obsidian gave her a thin, unamused smile. "He's not going to kill me. Not in his study, after inviting me to play chess with him. He cannot afford to, not with the eyes of the Crimson Court watching, waiting for a chance to tear him down. No. I'll play his game, Gem. I think... Balfour might reveal something if he thinks I'm alone.

"Besides," he told her. "Charlie and Lark have a listening device planted in the study. You can listen in to every word, and if you hear anything out of the ordinary, I fully expect you to burst in, pistols blazing."

"Don't doubt that I will."