The lane the drays had taken wasn’t that long. Cleo peered through the increasingly dense, sulphurous fog and watched the second dray lumber to the right around the next corner—turning toward Tooley Street, although that thoroughfare was quite some way away. The rider followed without glancing back.

Cleo turned her head, looked up Morgan’s Lane, and saw Michael striding toward her. Reassured he was following and accepting it was critical that they kept the barrels in sight, she turned and hurried around the corner and on along the short, narrow lane.

Somewhere ahead along the next lane, she could hear the low-pitched rumble of the drays’ muffled wheels. With so many alleys and lanes leading this way and that, they couldn’t afford to allow the little cavalcade out of their sight—or at least, out of their hearing.

There was no streetlamp in the narrow lane. What moonlight there had been had largely been obliterated by the thickening clouds and the fog.

She reached the next corner and paused. She could still hear the wheels rumbling, but the sound was fading. Were the drays turning again? She glanced back along the lane, but Michael hadn’t yet appeared.

Increasingly dense, the fog was funneling up from the river, finding its way through every space; the chill dampness brushed her cheeks with icy, clammy fingers, but it would give her some cover until Michael reached her.

She drew in a breath and quietly edged around the corner. Hugging the front of the buildings along that side of the slightly larger lane, she crept forward. Dimly through the fog, she could see the rear of the second dray fading into the murk.

She quickened her pace. Farther along, a single streetlamp glowed a faint, sickly yellow; all its light seemed to achieve was to turn the shadows a deeper shade of dark.

Where was the rider? The fog was dense enough to obscure shapes, but she didn’t think he was following the dray—perhaps he was now between the drays or even leading them.

She blinked. The drays seemed to be vanishing up ahead. She hurried on.

An arm snaked out of a gap between two buildings, circled her waist, and yanked her off her feet—clamping her against a rock-hard body. She opened her mouth, but before she could scream, a gloved palm slapped over her lips.

She flung her head back—connecting with a hard shoulder—and caught a glimpse of the brim of a hat. The rider! She struggled furiously, fighting to get free.

A deep, low chuckle sounded in her ear. “You can scream all you like, my lovely, but trust me, in this place, no one will come to your aid.”

That’s what you think.

But given help was near, and she knew it…

Slowly, she stilled—until she stood unmoving in his hold.

“Good to see you’re not without intelligence. So”—the hand covering her lips lifted away—“you may now tell me who you are and why you’re here. Who are you working for? My cousin, perchance?”

His cousin? Cleo frowned. “I have no idea who your cousin is.”

The rider sucked in a breath. Then his every muscle tensed.

The arm about her waist tightened, and in the next blink, his other hand returned, this time brandishing a knife. He laid the blade against her throat as he snarled, “Tell me—who sent you? Who knows about…our little enterprise?”

Her head pressed against his shoulder in an instinctive effort to get away from the knife, Cleo struggled to breathe. She could hear the panic reverberating in his voice. Her accent! He’d realized she wasn’t some doxy happening to wander by.

The blade of the knife felt cold and sharp. Carefully, she swallowed and, with her pulse thundering in her ears, managed to get out, “I’m not working for anyone. Women like me don’t work for others.”

The words had tumbled out without any real thought, a simple statement of fact.

The rider cursed. Abruptly, the arm at her waist vanished, and instead, he grabbed the top of her hood, his fingers sinking into her hair beneath. Shifting the knife from her throat, he used his grip on her hair to swing her around so he could look into her face.

Cleo forgot about the knife he still held. Her lips setting grimly, she stepped forward and kneed him hard between his legs.

Her aim was slightly off, but the blow was sufficient to make him freeze and suck in a tortured breath. His grip on her hood eased.

She jerked free and quickly took several steps back.

Teeth gritted, he raised his head. His gaze pinned her, and with a low growl, he came for her; the knife blade flashed in his right hand.

She didn’t have time to scream before she was shoved aside, and Michael was there.

He caught the man’s wrist and twisted it sharply. The man uttered a harsh sound, and the knife clattered to the cobbles.

The man swung a fist at Michael’s face—which he half dodged. Then Michael struck back with a punishing blow to the man’s stomach.

But the man wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He swung again, and Michael blocked the blow.

Cleo stepped back, giving them space. Through the wreathing fog, she watched as they traded punches. To her educated eyes—she had three brothers—Michael definitely had the upper hand, but the other man wasn’t a novice, either. He got in a succession of blows that forced Michael to regroup.

The man seized the moment to step back—but not to flee. Instead, he reached beneath his greatcoat and drew out a sword.

Cleo’s eyes grew round. Her father had a sword like that—a long, curved, cavalry saber.

The man grinned evilly and slashed.

Michael leapt back.

Cleo remembered that he always carried his cane-cum-swordstick. Always; he’d even had it in the lane the other night. Against a saber, it wouldn’t be much, but it would be better than nothing. He must have set the cane down. Frantically, she searched the cobbles where he must have paused before pushing her aside…there!

The cane lay on the ground on the other side of the two men.

The villain was grinning from ear to ear and making a great show of slashing his saber through the air. He advanced one step, still limbering up. “I’m going to enjoy slicing you to ribbons.”

Michael, his gaze locked not on the swinging blade but on the man’s face, retreated a step. His expression was set, graven. Without glancing at her, he grated, “For God’s sake, Cleo—run, damn it!”

There was no way she was leaving him. She’d never reach Tooley Street in time to summon his men to help him; he would be dead long before she got back.

She set her jaw and did as he’d ordered.

She grabbed up her skirts and ran straight toward the pair of them.

Her sudden rush shocked them both; both shifted back—and she pelted between them.

She skidded to a halt on the slimy cobbles and, her back to both men, scooped up Michael’s black cane. A quick twist of the head and she pulled the concealed rapier from its sheath—in the same instant, she smoothly turned and flung the hard sheath directly at the villain’s head.

Instinctively, he ducked.

She continued her pivot and tossed the rapier, hilt first, to Michael.

Michael could barely believe what she’d done, but he didn’t have time to roar at her. He seized the hilt, settled his hand about the stag’s head, and before his opponent could recover and launch an attack, lunged straight for his chest.

The man got the saber up just in time to parry the thrust.

Michael inwardly swore. That had been his best chance to do serious damage. Now…

He feinted and thrust, parried as best he could. Although he’d carried his grandfather’s swordstick for years, who the devil fought with a sword these days?

Cavalrymen. He would take an oath this man had been one—hence the sword and the ability to use it.

He was in deep trouble. A rapier against a saber was not a winning proposition. He had to find some opening or some way to tip the scales. The only reason he’d managed to hold the man at bay thus far was his years of no-holds-barred sparring with Sebastian.

He spared a fleeting thought for this unanticipated benefit of having an older brother who was a touch taller, had a longer reach, and happened to be an expert fencer. In order to hold his own, Michael had learned every underhanded trick in the book.

He used them shamelessly. Kicking, lashing out, and doing everything he could to keep his opponent off balance.

But he didn’t know for how long he could keep the dance going, not without sustaining major injury. He’d already taken several cuts, but as far as he could tell, none were yet bleeding badly.

He knew Cleo was somewhere near, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his opponent long enough to find her in the gloom. He knew she hadn’t run; he hadn’t heard her footsteps retreating.

He wished she would go; this wasn’t going to end well, and if he had to die, he didn’t want her dying, too—

A silver flash whizzed past him.

The man’s face registered shock, and he pulled back. His left hand rose toward his upper right arm—to the slash that had appeared there.

Damn—she’d thrown a knife! And she’d nearly pinked the bastard, even though he’d been moving at the time.

What other weapons did she have?

Michael launched a fresh strike, pressing whatever advantage he might now have even though he didn’t expect that to be much, but it was soon apparent that Cleo’s strike had done enough damage for the man to have lost telling strength in his sword arm—although he retained enough to keep Michael at bay.

Gritting his teeth, Michael searched for an opening, found it, and tossing caution to the winds, closed, and ran the rapier’s blade beneath the saber’s hilt until the rapier’s hilt hit the saber’s blade—then quick as a thought, he twisted the stag’s head and locked it over the edge of the other blade, stepped back, and with an almighty wrench, hauled the saber from the man’s grasp, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the saber flying into the darkness.

Michael sucked in air; he was close to winded, and so was his opponent.

But the man flashed a sickly smile, and as Michael straightened, the bastard stepped back, reached into his coat, and pulled out a pistol.

Cleo already had her fingers wrapped about the ivory grip of the American pistol concealed in her skirts. She whipped the gun out and pointed it at the villain.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Michael’s hand clearing his pocket, a pistol gripped tightly.

The man had his barrel leveled on Michael’s chest. The man’s trigger finger was already flexing.

“No! Here!” Cleo fought not to close her eyes as she pulled the trigger.

Three shots rang out, virtually simultaneously. The combined sound was deafening in the enclosed space, ricocheting off the walls all around them.

The fog swirled as if in reaction, suddenly thickening to the point that they were only shadowy figures to each other.

She peered through the murk and saw their adversary slowly crumple, then he collapsed in a heap on the cobbles.

Then Michael loomed beside her. His face a graven mask, he took one raking look at her, then he hauled her into his arms.

He clutched her to him. “Tell me you’re all right.” The harsh demand was muffled in her hood.

“I’m entirely unharmed.” She tried to pull back to examine him, not that she could see much in the foggy gloom, but he hugged her tight, tighter, then he eased his hold, raised his head, and put her from him.

She looked at his face, then followed his gaze to the figure on the cobbles.

They approached cautiously.

Michael bent and removed the man’s pistol from his now-lax grasp and slipped the weapon into his own pocket. Inside, he was still reeling, feeling hot one minute and chilled the next, with more emotions than he’d known he possessed buffeting him, desperately clamoring for release.

Straightening, he looked down at his erstwhile opponent. The man’s hat had tipped back, revealing features that declared their owner was probably English and, almost certainly, well born. His greatcoat had fallen open during the fight; two holes, both dark with blood, decorated the left side of his chest.

Cleo crouched by the man’s other side. Gingerly, she brushed the man’s spotted neckerchief aside and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. A second later, eyes widening, she glanced up at Michael. “He’s alive.”

He wouldn’t be for much longer. Michael crouched and gently patted the man’s cheek.

A frown formed between the man’s brows. He shifted his head slightly, then his lids fluttered.

Cleo leant closer.

Michael did, too. As the man’s eyes opened, Michael asked, “Who are you?”

Cleo spoke over him. “Who are you working for?”

Across the dying man, Michael met her eyes, then looked back at the man. “Where did you send the barrels?”

The carts were long gone, vanished into the fog with not even the faintest rumble in the distance remaining.

The man’s eyes had opened wide; even though they were both all but hanging over him, his gaze wasn’t focused on them but on something far distant, something only he could see. Then his lips moved.

Michael held his breath the better to hear.

“Damn,” the man whispered.

Then his lids fell, and his head lolled to the side.

A second ticked by, then slowly, Michael straightened.

Cleo rose, too. He looked at her. Her face was paper white, leached of every last vestige of color, her expression shocked, stunned.

Without conscious thought, driven by impulses too powerful to resist, he stepped around the body.

Cleo shifted to face him. He halted before her, raised both hands, and framed her face. He paused for only an instant to look into her eyes, then he bent his head and covered her lips with his.

He’d intended it as a reassuring kiss—a kiss to remind her that he was there, that she was, too, that they were both alive. A kiss to anchor her—and him.

But her lips moved under his, then she raised a hand and closed her fingers about one of his wrists—not to prise his hand away but to hold him. To grip and hold tightly as she parted her lips and boldly returned the kiss—as she stepped closer and kissed him with passion, with desire, with unrestrained ardor. With a challenge and a blatant demand that provoked and incited, and everything he was leapt to meet her and engage.

In a flash, the kiss transformed into a heated exchange of consuming, unrelenting, near-desperate hunger. The fires of mutual desire raged, fierce and undeniable, cindering every last rein, unleashing all their demons.

Want, fear, and need whirled and swirled, laced with shock, with the lingering panic of protective instincts abraded to rawness, all subsumed by the inevitable aftermath of a physical fight that had threatened their lives. And come far too close to taking them.

He felt as if he’d aged ten years in minutes. Driven by an impulse too powerful to gainsay, he lifted his lips but a whisker from hers and groaned, “I’ve only just found you—I can’t lose you now.”

She sank the fingers of one hand in his hair and clutched. “You’re never going to lose me—I’ll never let you go.” Then she came up on her toes, pressed her lips to his, and whirled them back into the flames.

Her words—her belligerent, defiant, stubborn tone—rang through his mind, and the raging beast inside calmed, soothed.

Cleo clung to the solidity of him, to the strength, the warmth, that to her, to her senses, meant Michael, meant safety. She clung to the reassurance that he was still with her, that he’d survived and was still there—still her partner.

The partner of the heart she’d never thought to find.

That he wanted her—that he transparently needed her as much as she needed him, and in the same way that she needed him—was a beacon beckoning them to a bright future, but for now, in this foggy lane, she needed to hold on to him. To him and their kiss.

A sound—indiscernible in the fog, but possibly that of a bolt being drawn—jerked them both back to the here and now.

To the chill clamminess of the fog-drenched lane.

To the dead body at their feet.

Easing back from the kiss, both as yet unwilling to let the other go, they raised their heads and listened.

No further sound disturbed the smothering stillness.

She glanced at Michael’s face and whispered, “Those shots sounded like cannon fire. Lots of people live around here, yet no one’s come to investigate.”

He was scanning their surroundings, plainly once again on high alert. “Not yet.” Apparently satisfied they were, still, alone in the lane, he looked down at the body sprawled on the cobbles. “We need to get out of here, and we need to take him with us.”

Although reluctant—on so many counts—to leave his embrace, she forced herself to step away from him. “What about your wounds?” She’d seen the saber’s blade strike his arms several times; she peered at his sleeves, trying to locate the cuts. “They must be bleeding.”

He raised one arm and examined a ragged slash in his greatcoat sleeve, then humphed, lowered both arms, and wriggled both sleeves. “He mustn’t have sharpened his saber. None of his slashes cut through to my skin.”

She blew out a breath. “Thank heaven for small mercies.” She glanced around. “Should I pick up the weapons?” That seemed a wise move.

“Yes.” He bent and wrapped the fallen man’s greatcoat about the man’s body, then glanced up at her. “That pistol of yours. Is it a single shot?”

“No.” She spotted her knife and bent to pick it up. “It’s one of the new American guns. Jarred brought it over for me. It has six shots, and it was fully loaded.”

His lips tightened, but he nodded. “Keep it in your hand, just in case. See if you can find the saber and the sheath for my rapier.”

She hunted over the cobbles, looking this way and that, and felt lucky to locate both. She returned the black cane to Michael, and he resheathed his rapier. He handed the swordstick to her, then took the saber and slid it home in the scabbard the dead man had worn beneath his greatcoat and fastened the tie, holding the blade firmly in place.

“Right. Help me get him up.”

Michael hauled the man more or less upright. Cleo braced the body as Michael stooped and hoisted the man over his left shoulder. Michael clamped his arm around the man’s legs, straightened, and resettled the weight. His expression grim, he looked into the dark shadows and fog that obscured the rest of Black Lion Court. His features like granite, he shook his head. “Not that way—back the way we came. It might take a little longer, but it’ll be far less dangerous.”

He turned and waved her toward the narrow lane that would lead them back to the end of Morgan’s Lane. Her pistol in her hand, she led the way, constantly scanning the area ahead of them, then turning to make sure Michael, burdened with the body, was still close and that no one was sneaking up on him.

They reached Morgan’s Lane unaccosted. The trudge up the lane was slow, but Michael paused only once to resettle the body, then plodded on.

Three quarters of the way to Tooley Street, Tom came racing down with two more of Michael’s men. All three looked stunned when they realized it was Cleo who was with him, but wisely, they made no comment.

Michael relinquished his burden. Using the man’s greatcoat like a huge sling, Tom and the other two lugged the body on.

Falling in beside Cleo, Michael reclaimed his swordstick. Her quick thinking in grabbing it and tossing him the rapier had arguably saved them both, but the risk she’d taken in running between him and the man… He drew a deep breath and battened down his mental hatches. Forcing his voice to evenness, he asked, “Where’s your carriage?”

The question reminded him of her costume—her act. Her propositioning of the now-dead man. His control wavered.

“It’s just along that side street.” They stepped into Tooley Street, and she pointed to the opening of a street on the opposite side and a little to the left.

Outside the cordon of his watchers—a cordon he’d described in detail to her so she wouldn’t feel the need to join him in Morgan’s Lane. He grunted, faintly disgusted at his susceptibility regarding her, and directed Tom and his helpers to take the body that way.

They found her carriage and, after some deliberation, stowed the body in the well between the bench seats. Michael noted that her coachman and groom did not seem overly perturbed over being asked to ferry a dead body around town. But before they could leave, there was one last matter to clarify.

He closed the carriage door on the body and turned to Tom. “Have we had any sightings of the carts with the barrels yet?”

Tom shook his head. “Before they got the barrels, we saw the rider and the carts come out of Black Lion Court. The odd thing is, as far as I’ve heard, none of us saw those carts come into the area. But they trundled out of the court and then around into Morgan’s Lane.” He grimaced. “We couldn’t see well, what with the fog, but you must’ve seen them at the warehouse.”

Michael nodded. “I”—he glanced at Cleo and amended—“we did. They loaded all ten barrels, five in each cart, and then they headed off.”

Tom bobbed his head. “We heard them go, but we couldn’t see well enough to be sure of which way they went. We just know they didn’t come back this way.”

“We followed them down the lane and around into Black Lion Court.” Michael stifled a sigh and looked at Cleo. “I lost sight of the carts when they left Morgan’s Lane. Did you see which way they went?”

She shook her head. “I was trying to keep them in sight when he”—she tipped her head toward the carriage—“caught me. The carts were quite a way ahead—I don’t think they knew anything of our fight.” She grimaced. “All I know is that the carts rumbled on into the fog, and then they were gone. Whether they turned into a side street or went on to Tooley Street, I can’t say.”

Tom shook his head. “They definitely didn’t come back into Tooley Street.”

“No matter.” Michael resettled his greatcoat across his shoulders. “That’s why we have men stationed all around. Someone will have seen the carts, left word, and followed.” Except no such word had yet reached Tom, Michael’s designated center of command. Michael exchanged a glance with Tom, whose increasingly grim expression confirmed that.

Inwardly frowning but keeping the expression from his face, Michael glanced at Cleo. “You should stay with your carriage. I’ll do a quick circuit and check with my men, then join you.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, then simply said, “I’ll come with you.”

No argument; no suggestion she would entertain any discussion.

She pulled her cloak around her and looped her arm in his. “Come on. The sooner we find where those wretched carts have gone, the happier we’ll both be.”

He fell back on his father’s wisdom, and in truth, as long as she was by his side, she would be adequately protected and safe.

Indeed, as they returned to Tooley Street and started walking east to where the next of his watchers was stationed, it occurred to him that, while she was with him, he didn’t have to worry over what she might be doing—what she might involve herself in. If the carts suddenly trundled out of Black Lion Court, would she meekly leave Tom and his men to follow the carts, or would she take the lead?

Silly question. As he paced along the foggy street, he concluded that his own peace of mind would be best served by allowing her to remain with him.

The first of his watchers had seen and heard nothing, not since the carts had turned down Morgan’s Lane.

They heard a similar tale from every man, including those watching the riverbanks. Over the last hour—since the bells had tolled midnight—there’d been no carts transporting barrels sighted anywhere.

Finally, now hand in hand, they walked back along Tooley Street. They joined Tom at his post at the top of Morgan’s Lane.

Michael halted. They were all tired; they were all worried. They might have killed the villain—one of them, at least—but the gunpowder was still out there. Presumably in the hands of someone who knew the plotters’ plans and had agreed to carry them out.

He scanned what they could see of the buildings across the street. “All ten barrels have been moved, but they’re still somewhere in this warren.” He looked at Cleo, then transferred his gaze to Tom. “I’m going to take a small group and comb the area.” It was the last thing he wanted to do, not at this hour with fog all around and Cleo intent on sticking by his side, but if he didn’t, he would always wonder if a vital chance had been missed.

Given Tom and the two others had returned to their posts and maintained the watch down Morgan’s Lane, and two burly footmen stationed in the open area by the riverbank at the very end of Morgan’s Lane had also reported no sign of any carts, both carts and, more importantly, the barrels must still be somewhere in the maze of lanes filling the area between Morgan’s Lane and St. Saviour’s Dock to the east, and between Tooley Street on the south and the river to the north.

It took them more than an hour to search through the streets from Morgan’s Lane all the way east to Shad Thames and St. Saviour’s Dock. With seven of his army drawn from the now-likely-to-be-irrelevant watching posts to the west, and with Cleo stubbornly maintaining her position by his side, Michael walked every lane and went down every alley along which a cart might have passed. His men poked into any yard or space to which they could gain access. At that time of night, with the cold intensifying, not even cats were creeping about.

He’d resigned himself to finding nothing, and he wasn’t disappointed. The carts with their ten barrels were no doubt still there, but must have been locked away in some building or inner yard.

Returning with the men and Cleo to the top of Morgan’s Lane, at Tom’s questioning look, Michael shook his head. “Winchelsea’s right. This plot isn’t following any rational course.” He turned and thanked his men, adding, “We’ll need to keep a tight watch on the area until further notice. I expect to be able to reassign posts and schedules later today.”

Tom shifted. “I’ve already sent Fred back to Mayfair to tell the next shift they’ll be needed.”

“Good.” Michael thought, then continued, “Once your relief arrives, turn in for the night. Keep to our earlier rotation, and I’ll send word later today about what changes we’ll need to make.”

The men drifted off to join others about their redefined area of interest.

Michael clapped Tom on the shoulder, then retaking Cleo’s icy hand—few ladies of the night wore gloves, and she hadn’t missed that point—he walked with her around the corner to where her coachman and groom still waited with her carriage and the dead body of their foe.

He handed her into the carriage; it was awkward, sidling around the dead man. Once she’d maneuvered around and sat in the far corner, he looked up and told the coachman, “Head back to Mayfair. I’ll give you an address when we’re closer.”

The coachman saluted. “Aye, my lord.”

Michael climbed into the carriage, closed the door, and dropped to the seat beside Cleo.

She was still fussing with her full skirts and the voluminous folds of her cloak. Eventually, she made a sound suspiciously like a snort, raised her legs, and propped her half-boots on the seat opposite. That left her slightly slouched in the seat.

Michael considered, then followed suit, stretching his legs over the body. Then he raised his arm, set it about her shoulders, and tugged her against him. He was grateful when she not only permitted it but also wriggled and settled against his side.

She’d pushed back her hood. He leant his cheek against the softness of her hair as the carriage rolled evenly and unobtrusively on.

I’ve only just found you—I can’t lose you now.

You’re never going to lose me—I’ll never let you go.

Words uttered under pressure, their true feelings without doubt. Now they’d been said, regardless of what issues rose between them, they both now knew—had both acknowledged—the essential, underlying, fundamental truth.

Little more need be said.

Unfortunately, because, thanks to all the feelings still roiling inside him and the crushing vise about his heart that had yet to ease its grip, it seemed he couldn’t not ask, he straightened his head and, as nonjudgmentally as he could, said, “What possessed you to come there tonight dressed like that?”

Under his arm, she stiffened, but before she could reply, he barreled on, “When I realized that the whore propositioning that villain was you, I…” The feeling of utter shock, the inability to move, to function at any level rolled over him again; his voice was harsh as he grated, “You might as well have taken a rock to my head. I was frozen. I couldn’t move—I couldn’t even think!” His tone hardened. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to be forced to watch and know that if anything happened, I couldn’t reach you in time? That I wouldn’t be able to protect you?”

That last question, and the emotion close to anguish reverberating in his voice, saved him from verbal annihilation; Cleo tightened her lips and swallowed her initial blistering response. After several seconds, in what she felt was a commendably even, if distinctly chilly, tone, she stated, “I didn’t go there dressed as a lady of the night intending to proposition anyone.” Not even you. Her tone added “obviously,” but she held the word back—then changed her mind and stated, “Obviously.” With men in the throes of protective rage, there was, her mother had often informed her, no point in being subtle.

With rather awful patience, she went on, “I chose the disguise as the one most likely to allow me to get close enough to whoever came for the barrels. Men have a tendency to dismiss women—they don’t see us as threats. And so it proved—I did get close enough to see his face, well enough to note that he had a scar that ran from the corner of his lips to below his ear. If he’d later escaped us—and we were, after all, supposed to let him go and just follow—I would have been able to recognize him.” She glanced down at the body below their legs. “Now he’s dead, of course, that’s no longer of much use, but it would have been had things gone as they were supposed to.”

The breath he drew was beyond tense. “I never before understood what the phrase ‘being beside oneself’ meant, not until I saw you with his knife at your throat.”

Crisply, she shot back, “I wasn’t thinking too clearly at that point myself.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the hand he’d rested on his thigh tighten into a fist.

After several fraught seconds, he said, still speaking very precisely as if measuring each word, “I thought, when we parted earlier in the evening, that I had convinced you—that we agreed—that there was little likelihood the barrels would be moved tonight.”

She snorted and folded her arms across her chest. “Clearly, we were both wrong—and both of us realized that.”

He nodded tersely. “But what changed your mind?”

She hesitated, then asked, “What changed yours?” He’d said he would “drop by,” yet he’d been secreted in the alcove, ready and waiting for the barrels to be moved.

It was his turn to hesitate, but eventually, plainly reluctantly, he replied, “Your suggestion of replacing the gunpowder meant that, very likely, we would have nullified the threat the gunpowder posed by…later today. If the gunpowder remained in the warehouse until today, there would be no more immediate danger from the plot.” He paused, then said, “Call it superstition if you like, but I’m too old to trust in Fate’s benevolence. Especially given the way this investigation has run thus far, with us always arriving just too late, I decided that, come today, the barrels would be gone from the warehouse, leaving us with no further lead to pursue.”

She inclined her head. “My reasoning was…not quite the same. I suspected you would be there, in the alcove, waiting. And it occurred to me that, if our villains came calling, Morgan’s Lane was too deserted to be safe, even for you. But there was nowhere else any others could hide, not close enough. But a lady of the night could be openly about, and I would have my knives and my gun, and as you saw, I’m tolerably good with both.” She paused, then said, “He must have glimpsed me while I was tucked away in that ginnel and wondered why I was there. That was what he asked when he caught me. But if he and the carts had gone the other way, to Tooley Street, as we all assumed they would”—she glanced down at the body—“there would have been no danger to me, and he would still be alive.”

Michael dragged in a breath. It was as he’d feared. “So…you came to protect me.”

She hesitated as if thinking, then nodded. “Yes.”

He took time to consider his next words, but again, they had to be said. “Don’t think that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I really, really would rather you didn’t try to help or protect me—not if doing so puts you in harm’s way.”

She took her own time in thinking over her response. Finally, she said, “If you meant what you said earlier, in the lane—and for the record, I certainly meant each and every word I said in reply—then I regret to inform you that I will never, ever, be the sort of lady who sits quietly at home, embroidering by the fire, while you go off to face God knows what threats. If you go into danger, you may be very sure that I will be by your side. Or at least lurking about, armed and in disguise.”

The qualification drew a bark of a laugh from him.

At the edge of her vision, Cleo saw the hand he’d fisted fraction by fraction relax. Then with that hand, he reached across, tugged one of her hands free, and to her surprise, raised her fingers to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to them. “Yes,” he said. He turned his head, and his eyes met hers as she lifted her gaze to his face. His expression turned wry, and he admitted, “I know. But I had to say it.”

That was all right, then. She felt her lips curve. As long as they understood each other…

She shifted her gaze across the carriage, considered, then added, “Just to be clear, although I’ve developed a definite liking for adventure, I find I’m not so enamored of danger. You may rest assured I won’t go seeking it out.” Turning her fingers, she gripped his hand. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t go out of your way to engage in dangerous exploits, either.”

She looked up and saw him grimace, but then he met her gaze, and his lips curved wryly. “It seems my hedonistic career is at an end. No more phaeton races.”

She laughed.

The painfully tight tension had fallen from them both. They’d survived the night, and at least between them, they recognized in which direction they wished to go.

Onward, hand in hand, into a future they had yet to define.

More immediately, however…

She looked at the body beneath their legs. “Where are we taking him?”

Michael relaxed against the squabs. “Wolverstone House. The staff there will know what to do.”