On the pavement outside the office, he asked, “Do we need a hackney?”

“Yes.” As he turned away to summon one, she added, “Tell him to take us to Falcon Street, near where it runs into Aldersgate.”

He had no idea what lay in that location.

A hackney pulled up. He opened the door, but before he could help her up, she grabbed her skirts in both hands and climbed in, in the process affording him a glimpse of nicely turned ankles encased in fine white stockings. Only once she’d let her skirts fall did he manage to haul his gaze up to the jarvey and relay the directions. Then he joined her in the carriage, settling alongside her as the hackney rattled off.

He opened his mouth to inquire as to their actual destination, but she beat him to speech.

“If this is one of Winchelsea’s missions, and you’re chasing these barrels, what’s he doing?”

He glanced sidelong at her.

She turned her head, trapped his gaze, and arched one fine brow, pointedly if wordlessly reminding him of the agreement they’d so recently made. She hadn’t yet located the drivers, but…

He swallowed a grunt and looked ahead. “Drake had to go north. There are political ramifications…in short, he—we—believe that someone is trying to paint the Chartists as being responsible, even though they know nothing about the plot—or so we think. Drake left for Leeds this morning to speak to the Chartist high command, as it were, to get a definite answer.”

She frowned. “Why would someone want to implicate such a group? If someone, or some group, does something with gunpowder, isn’t it more normal for them—the group responsible—to want the authorities, and the public, too, to know the disaster was their doing? What’s the purpose of it, otherwise?”

“You have a point, but as Drake keeps saying, this plot isn’t following any of the customary rules.” After a moment of internal debate, he went on, “For instance, the first part of the plot—the procurement and transport of the gunpowder into London—was made to look like the actions of the Young Irelanders.”

“Good heavens!” She shifted to face him.

He met her eyes. “Those three people who were killed—the two gentlemen were Young Irelander sympathizers, and the lady was the wife of one of them. However, while Young Irelander supporters were involved in acquiring and transporting the barrels, apparently believing this to be an officially sanctioned Young Irelander plot, by all the evidence Drake’s gathered, it simply isn’t. No one at any higher level in the organization knows anything about ten barrels of gunpowder being spirited into London.”

Her frown had returned. She faced forward again. After a moment, she glanced at him. “Perhaps you’d better tell me about the earlier part of this plot—about how the ten barrels of gunpowder got to London.”

He gave her a condensed version of events as the hackney rocked and rolled through the city traffic. They passed the Bank of England, and his short tale came to an end. Silence fell between them as the carriage continued north, eventually skirting the Guildhall. At the sight of the building, he glanced at her, but the hackney rolled on several blocks farther before the driver drew his horse into the curb.

The jarvey raised the trap in the ceiling. “This where you wanted?”

Michael glanced at his companion to find her peering out of the carriage window.

She nodded. “Yes. This is the place.”

What place? he wanted to demand, but held his tongue.

Impulsively, she reached for the door handle, but he beat her to it. He swung open the door, descended first, looked around, then turned and offered her his hand.

Lips tight, she met his eyes briefly, then gave him her gloved fingers and allowed him to help her to the pavement.

He sensed her reaction, yet as he’d supposed it would be, the effect of his touch was muted by her gloves. It was still there, however, which was oddly comforting.

He released her, paid off the jarvey, then turned to find her waiting with transparent impatience before an arched doorway. He looked up at the words engraved in the stone lintel. “Plaisterers Hall?”

“Indeed. Come on.”

She led the way in, of course. He strolled at her heels as she traversed the tiled hallway. She paused briefly to glance at a board with various offices listed, then stated, “It’s on the first floor.”

He tried to determine which of the several offices listed as being on the first floor was their destination, but she was already sweeping toward the stairs, and he gave up the search in favor of keeping up with her.

At the top of the stairs, she released her skirts and smoothed them down, then she raised her head, settled her reticule on her wrist, and in a significantly more regal manner, swept down the corridor.

They passed various offices, their thick oak doors firmly closed. Halfway down the corridor lay an office with a divided door, the upper half of which stood open.

That was the office she made for. As she halted before the half door, Michael, halting behind her, read the words emblazoned in gold lettering on the wide timber sign mounted above the doorway. The Worshipful Company of Carmen.

Carmen? Were they carters? Was this the carters’ guild? He should have thought…only he’d had no idea such an organization existed.

“Yes, miss?” A wizened man with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose came up to the counter-shelf protruding from the rear of the half door. “Can I help you?”

Stepping to the side, Michael saw his coconspirator smile rather distantly.

“I certainly hope so. I’m Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. As you might be aware, we employ a great number of your members throughout the year on a wide variety of jobs. We are currently negotiating with several carters and would like to ensure that anyone we hire is on your list as a bona fide carter. As I understand it, this office registers all the carts and carters plying for trade in London. Is that correct?”

“Indeed, miss. Been keeping the register for centuries, we have.”

“Excellent.” Cleo allowed her somewhat chilly façade to thaw and leant closer to speak over the door. “We’re particularly interested in carters who transport gunpowder. We need a reliable carter to fetch an order of several barrels once they’re ready and take them to one of our ships for transport to Jamaica. We don’t normally trade in gunpowder, you see—this is a favor for a very special client—so we don’t have a regular carter lined up for the job. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the names of those carters known to transport gunpowder?”

“Oh, aye—that’s a very specialized few, miss.” The man turned and lumbered off to a cabinet containing numerous drawers in the far corner of the room. “As it happens, we keep copies of such a list—along with others of similar specialties—just for employers like you.”

While the man opened a drawer and searched through various files, Cleo cast an eager—and quietly triumphant—look at her companion.

He met it with a steady gaze, but after a second, gave a tiny nod of encouragement. Perhaps even of admiration.

Smiling, she turned back to the counter as the old man returned, a single page in his hand.

“Here you go. Only fourteen on the list at present.” He handed her the sheet and pointed as she turned it to peruse it. “The addresses are there, too—that’s where you’ll find them. All these men work for themselves. Most are older, it being a difficult area to move into.”

“Why is that?” Cleo raised her gaze to the old man’s face.

“Well, stands to reason, don’t it?” The old man leant against the counter, crossing his arms, making himself comfortable—clearly very ready to chat. “They might get much higher fees, what with the danger money and all, but they have to have specially reinforced carts and much stronger horses, all of which costs money. They’re not allowed to carry anything else, either, so sometimes business is slack. Other times, of course, they’re rushing from one job to another, but they’re only allowed to go so fast if they’re loaded. Lots of regulations on transporting ’powder, and woe betide any of them who gets caught breaking our rules. Drummed out, they are, right smartly. All of which means that not so many carters want to go to the expense of buying a rig—cart, horses, and trappings—that can be registered for transporting ’powder.”

Cleo nodded. After carefully folding the list of fourteen names and addresses, as she slipped it into her reticule, she asked, “Do other carters…well, moonlight, sometimes? Take gunpowder when they shouldn’t?”

“Oh no.” The old man shook his head. “Worth their registration to do that—and possibly more than that. The fraternity is very strict, you see—you stick to what you’re registered for. We’ve nigh on a thousand members, but I guarantee only those fourteen would have any truck with moving ’powder. If anyone else tried it and was seen—and on the street, it’s not easy to hide carts from other carters, you ken—then they’d be stripped of their registration and out on their ear in two shakes of a pig’s tail.”

Michael leant against the edge of the doorframe beside Cleo and spoke to the old man. “I would have thought that with all the mills in action, and so many with orders from the army and navy, that there would be work enough to keep many more than fourteen carters in business.”

“Aye”—the old man nodded—“that there would be if the army didn’t have its own band of carters. They have their own carts and soldiers to shift the stuff from the Royal Mills at Waltham and all the others that supply them—Faversham, Oare, Chilworth, and the like. Our fourteen members transport barrels from the private mills to the munitions works, the explosives factories, or the firework manufactories—or to be more accurate, mostly they deliver from the mills to the warehouses that supply those industries, and then later get hired again to move the stuff on to the factories when they order from the warehouses.”

“I see.” Michael had to admit to being impressed with the rich vein of information his would-be partner had uncovered. He glanced at her to see if she had any more questions.

She met his eyes briefly, then, fiddling with the strings of her reticule, said, “I understand that all gunpowder is packed in specially made hundredweight barrels, and if I recall aright, each barrel must be stamped with the emblem of the mill that produced it, and every barrel must be registered with the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder, even the barrels produced by the private mills.” She fixed her gaze on the old man’s face and arched her brows. “Is that correct?”

He shrugged. “Far as I know, but I’m no expert on gunpowder.” He grinned. “Only on carting it.”

She smiled warmly at the man. “Thank you for your assistance. You’ve been most helpful.” She patted her reticule. “This list will help enormously.”

The old man waved them off. “Happy to be of service—well, that’s partly why we’re here. To help companies like yours find the right carter.”

With another smile, Michael’s would-be partner turned away. Michael nodded to the old man and followed her.

They went back along the corridor, then down the stairs. On regaining the pavement, she patted her reticule and met Michael’s gaze, triumph in her eyes. “It sounds as if the name of the carter who fetched those ten barrels of gunpowder from Kent has to be on this list.”

His expression impassive, he inclined his head. He hadn’t missed the fact that the list now resided inside her tightly closed reticule.

He glanced around. She did the same.

“So.” She returned her gaze to his face. “Shall we start visiting carters?”

Not if he could avoid it.

He reached for her arm and sensed the leap of her senses, which she valiantly strove to ignore. “First,” he said, nodding down the street, “it’s lunchtime. We should eat.” He started her moving in that direction.

She gave a small humph, but fell in with his suggestion. He released her and matched his steps to hers.

---

“A very special customer in Jamaica?” Michael took a sip of ale and glanced across the scarred wooden table.

They were seated in a nook overlooking the small garden at the rear of the Bishop’s Arms public house in Falcon Square. The clientele was quiet, mostly workers from nearby offices if the style of their attire spoke true. A serving girl had taken Miss Hendon’s and Michael’s orders and, in just a few minutes, had returned bearing plates of steak and kidney pie, with Miss Hendon’s glass of cider and Michael’s pint of ale.

“If one is going to lie,” his would-be partner informed him, addressing her slice of pie with evident relish, “one should always include believable details. We do trade extensively with Jamaica.”

Michael watched her convey a neat bite of pie to her mouth, watched her delectable lips close about the tines of the fork—and forced himself to look at his own plate. The pie was excellent, but was failing to hold his attention. He could read most females easily and was adept at managing them to his own ends. Miss Hendon, however, was made of sterner stuff; she seemed determined to go her own road, to forge her own path no matter the distractions he placed before her.

He’d already tried to divert her—her senses if not directly her mind—on the short walk to Falcon Square. Shall we start visiting carters? We? He would very much rather she handed over the list of carters’ names and addresses and left him to investigate; he was even prepared, subsequently, to fill her in on whatever he discovered. But the notion of investigating with her beside him—or to judge from events thus far, leading the way—filled him with a sense of foreboding.

In his view, ladies should remain safely at home, at least when it came to investigations—especially those involving gunpowder and unknown villains given to killing off anyone who learned of them.

So he’d played on her senses over the short walk—subtly, surreptitiously, doing nothing she could take exception to. A touch on her arm, directing her. His hand at the back of her waist, steering her across the street, then over the pub’s threshold and to their table. All in an effort to divert her thoughts, to disconcert and even discompose her a trifle—even to discombobulate her if that was what it took to underline why insisting on continuing by his side was not a good idea.

She’d held her breath, held her nerve—and endeavored to let nothing of the susceptibility he was far too experienced not to know was affecting her show.

He could only reflect that she’d acknowledged from the first that she was diabolically stubborn.

So if he wasn’t going to be able to deflect her in that way…what then?

He glanced at her again. He’d already seen enough of her to guess she belonged to that rare breed of lady who paid little attention to fashion. Locks of hair were progressively escaping the confines of her topknot, and there were wrinkles in the sleeves of her jacket from where she’d pushed them up while working in her office. Yet…the slightly rumpled look held definite appeal. Her trailing tresses were lustrous and silky, tempting any red-blooded male to touch. Her complexion was flawless, but also warm—inviting. And that rumpled, tumbled look…

She glanced up and caught him studying her. Faint color rose in her cheeks—which she ignored, and instead, haughtily arching her brows, she sent a faintly frosty, definitely challenging look his way.

Subtle measures weren’t working. “Our agreement was that you would locate the drivers involved.” He nodded toward where she’d set her reticule on the bench seat beside her—out of his sight, out of his reach. “We both agree that the names of the men I’m seeking must be on that list, so I accept that you’ve satisfied your side of our bargain. If you give me the list, I’ll interview the men, find the pair I seek, then I’ll dutifully come and report all.”

She frowned at him. “I undertook to locate the drivers involved—that was the basis of our agreement. I haven’t yet done that, so your capitulation is premature.”

Capitulation? He felt his lips tighten and forced them to ease. “There’s no need for you to stick by my side as I hunt down and interview fourteen different carters.”

“On the contrary.” Cleo had cleaned her plate; she pushed it aside, patted her lips with her napkin and set it down, then reached for her reticule. “There’s every need. You forget—this is my adventure, not just yours. Not anymore.”

With three brothers, she was well acquainted with the male propensity to push females out of anything exciting. She tugged at the neck of her reticule and muttered, “You men always want to keep all the fun for yourselves.”

He grumbled something under his breath; she didn’t think she needed to hear it.

Her reticule finally opened, and she drew out the list. She unfolded the page and spread it on the table, careful to keep it firmly anchored under her hand; she wouldn’t put it past him to try to filch it from her. She ran her eyes down the list, scanning the addresses.

The tension emanating from the other side of the table was palpable, then she sensed rather than heard him sigh.

“All right. So who should we start with?”

That we was music to her ears. She curbed the impulse to smile brightly up at him; she didn’t want him to think she could be so easily appeased.

Apparently relaxing, he continued, “Should we simply start at the top of the list and work our way down?” He paused, then asked, “Do you have any pertinent insights?”

Further mollified by the question, she glanced at the clock mounted on the wall above the fireplace, then looked down at the list and tapped one entry. “Given the time, the most sensible thing would be to start with the carter who lives farthest away.”

She looked up and met a puzzled look. “It’s just after two o’clock. Carters start their day at dawn and normally head home about three in the afternoon. If we leave now, we should catch him”—she glanced down and tapped the list—“Mr. Joseph Carpenter, as he arrives home.”

When her reluctant partner didn’t reply, she looked at him in question; from his expression, he appeared to be deliberating.

Although his gaze remained on her face, Michael was, in fact, checking for other appointments. His parents were expected in Grosvenor Square that afternoon, but Sebastian and Antonia would be there to greet them, and, Michael judged, in the inevitable flap over their engagement, his parents were unlikely to notice his absence, at least not immediately. That said, he was perfectly content to stay away from Grosvenor Square until his mother got over her first transports, and pursuing the carters who ferried the gunpowder into London was a better than reasonable excuse to do so.

Refocusing on Miss Hendon’s face, he inwardly admitted that he wasn’t at all averse to spending more time in her company. And as he would be with her every step of the way, what danger could there be in simply talking to some carters? He nodded and straightened. “Very well.” He paused, then caught her eye. “Incidentally, what is your name?”

He’d given her his when they were first introduced, and given her the freedom to use it, but he hadn’t heard her addressed other than as Miss Hendon. “If we are to be equal partners…”

She studied him for a moment, as if debating whether to trust him even with that. But then she opened her luscious lips and said, “Cleome. But everyone calls me Cleo, and I suppose you may, too.”

He arched a cool brow and thought about calling her Cleome, then decided to take the high ground and simply inclined his head. “Thank you.”

She picked up her gloves and started to tug them on—taking her hand from the list. “One thing—when was the gunpowder collected in Kent?”

“It was taken from the cave either very late on Tuesday night or very early on Wednesday morning.”

She paused in her tugging. “So it would have arrived in London at some time on Wednesday morning.”

“Assuming the carters didn’t dally on the way, yes.” Eyes on the list, he considered, then said, “We should have asked at the carmen’s office about whether the carters involved might have kept the barrels on their carts for temporary or even longer storage.”

“I can answer that—they offload their cargoes immediately. All London carters start every day with an empty cart. I suspect that’s one of the guild’s regulations—certainly they all adhere to that practice.”

He nodded. “So if we work our way through the names on that list, we should—in theory, at least—find the carters we’re after.” Smoothly, he reached for the list.

Cleo snatched it up just before his fingers touched the paper. “Indeed.” Across the table, she met his eyes—so very dark brown it was difficult to read any emotion in them—with an outright, entirely obvious, almost belligerent challenge in her own. She wasn’t about to give up the list; she wasn’t going to turn aside from her adventure. And nothing he could say or do—not even his flustering of her nonsensical senses—would make her retreat.

He studied her eyes, and she hoped he read all that and more in her gaze.

Finally satisfied that he had, she let her lips curve coolly, glanced at the list in her hand, then at him. “Now that we understand each other, shall we get started?”

The look he cast her could have ground rocks to dust, but then he reached into a pocket, tossed several coins on the table, and slid along the bench seat.

She rose and led the way to the door. She didn’t need to glance behind to know he followed, but his expression—that of a feudal lord denied—was one she wished she could have savored for longer.

---

On the pavement in Falcon Square, he hailed a hackney, and Cleo read off the address she’d selected as lying farthest afield. She then made a point of stuffing the list back inside her reticule and tying the drawstrings tightly before steeling herself and allowing him to hand her into the carriage.

Somewhat to her relief, while her sensitivity to the contact lingered and her nerves still leapt, she didn’t feel quite as discombobulated by the contact as she first had. The effect wasn’t fading, but it seemed she was growing used to it.

She then had to endure a silent half hour of being jolted over the cobbles. Seated beside her, her reluctant partner didn’t exactly pout, but a miasma of sulking male permeated the enclosed space. He wasn’t getting what he wanted, and he didn’t like it. He sat back, not exactly in a sprawl, but with his arms crossed over his chest.

Quite an impressive chest—not that she needed to notice that, much less dwell on it. They were partners in adventure, that was all. She knew far too much about the propensities of gentlemen like him; not only did she have three brothers who were very much cast from the same mold, she’d also had her two seasons of being paraded around the ton to observe and catalog the species. Gentlemen like Michael Cynster weren’t, in her eyes, dangerous in the sense that she needed to fear he would seek to seduce her or damage her or her reputation in any way. Far from it. The very real threat he and those of his ilk posed was a predisposition to get in her way. To high-handedly interfere in her life, in the way she chose to live it.

Men like him had an ingrained but severely misguided notion that they had a right to interfere in ladies’ lives.

Luckily, being aware of the danger meant she could block or deflect said interference.

The carriage slowed, then finally rocked to a halt. The jarvey opened the trap and called down, “This is Chicksand Street. Can’t rightly take you farther, sir—lane’s too narrow.”

Michael sat up. He looked out at the houses, then glanced at his partner—at Cleo. She was peering out of the window on her side of the carriage.

She pointed along the street. “I think that’s the lane we want.”

Michael called upward, “This will do.”

He opened the carriage door, stepped down, and handed Cleo out, then releasing her, called up to the jarvey, “Wait for us here. We won’t be long.”

The jarvey raised a finger in salute. “I’ll wait right here, guv.”

Michael turned—and realized Cleo hadn’t waited. She’d already reached the intersection of a narrow lane and the slightly larger Chicksand Street. She stood peering up at the wall to one side, then her face cleared, and without so much as a glance in his direction, she set off down the lane.

He swore beneath his breath and strode after her.

The area wasn’t the most salubrious part of town, and he really wasn’t happy bringing her into such surroundings, but at least it wasn’t the slums to the east or the teeming alleys closer to the docks. As she was determined to assist in speaking with the carters, this area was at least acceptable.

The lane was cobbled, and the pavements were narrow; the hackney might have been able to squeeze down had it not been for the handcarts, costermongers’ carts, and drays drawn up on either side, many blocking the pavement in order to leave space enough for others to pass down the lane’s center.

Cleo was just ahead of him, head bent as she consulted the list, then still sweeping along, she raised her head and scanned the numbers scrawled here and there on the doors.

The lower half of the lane was wider. As they reached that section, a little way ahead, Michael saw a carter on the box of a heavy cart pulled by two large shire horses draw the vehicle into the curb on the opposite side of the lane.

Cleo had seen the cart, too. She picked up her skirts and hurried forward. When the man heard her footsteps and glanced in her direction, she raised a hand and waved. “Hello—are you Mr. Joseph Carpenter?”

Michael lengthened his stride.

The carter saw him, but then looked across the street to where Cleo had come to a teetering halt. Her question hung in the air for a second, then the man—middle-aged and heavyset—nodded. “Aye. I’m Joe Carpenter. What can I do for you, miss?”

“Oh, wonderful!” Her face lighting with a transparently innocent smile, Cleo hurried across to stand beside the cart. “I’m Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company. I”—apparently remembering Michael, closing fast, she waved in his direction—“we are searching for an order of gunpowder that was picked up from Kent and brought into London on Wednesday.”

As Michael reached her, she looked earnestly up at Joe Carpenter and stated, “Our company would like to make an offer for those barrels on behalf of a special client in Jamaica. You wouldn’t happen to have ferried those barrels by any chance?”

Carpenter looked as though he wished he could say he had, but reluctantly, he shook his head. “No, miss. That weren’t me.”

Cleo fought to suppress her awareness of the large, hard body that was now far too close for her comfort, hovering protectively mere inches away and seriously impinging on her idiot senses. For Joe’s benefit as well as her own, she grimaced, then thought to ask, “You don’t happen to know which carter took the job?” She brandished the list. “The guild gave us the names and addresses of carters who transport gunpowder, but you’re the first we’ve asked.”

But again, Joe shook his head. “Sorry, miss. I haven’t heard anything about any job in Kent. Could be any of the others, far as I know.”

Cleo gave him another smile. “Thank you, anyway. At least we can strike your name off our list.”

Joe tipped his cap to her. “Always happy to assist Hendon Shipping. Good luck to you, miss.”

She started to turn away, but Michael gripped her arm and halted her.

Froze her, in fact, but he’d looked up at Joe, and she prayed he hadn’t noticed the violence of her response, even as she battled to drag in a breath and overcome it.

His gaze on the carter, Michael ruthlessly blocked all awareness of Cleo’s reaction from his mind and asked, “Has anyone borrowed your cart and team recently?”

“Nah.” Carpenter looked fondly at his horses. “Some do ask, thinking to fetch something from here or there on the cheap, but our carts are registered for gunpowder only, see? Can’t legally be used for aught else.”

Michael thought rapidly. “But what if someone wanted to move gunpowder? Would any of the gunpowder carters—those on the guild list—loan their carts for that?”

Carpenter shook his head vehemently. “Oh no. We’d never do that. Has to be a registered driver, too. Anyone driving a registered cart has to be registered with the guild, and trust me, the guild would have conniptions if they got wind of a non-registered man driving a registered cart, and they always seem to find out anytime anyone bends the rules. It’s worth our license—which means our business—to flout guild rules.”

Michael glanced at Cleo; she seemed to have recovered from the jolt to her senses and was taking in Carpenter’s words. He should, he supposed, release her, but his grip on her arm wasn’t tight, and at least this way, she couldn’t take off. He looked up at the carter again. “We’re trying to figure out how the system works. If we understand correctly, then the carters who brought the gunpowder we’re searching for into London have to be men on the list the guild gave us. In addition to that, the carts used to ferry the gunpowder must have belonged to men on the guild list—carts properly registered to carry gunpowder. Is that right?”

Carpenter’s brows lowered as he worked through the statements, then his face cleared. He looked at Michael. “Aye. That’s it. Both driver and cart have to be guild-registered, so all the possible men will be on your list.”

“Thank you.” Michael fished in his pocket and handed up half a crown. “First drink tonight is on us.”

“Why, thank ye.” Carpenter accepted the coin and doffed his cap to them both. “Hope you find what you’re looking for, sir. Miss.”

With a smiling nod, Michael turned away, easing his hold on Cleo’s arm as he did. “Let’s get back to the hackney.”

Somewhat carefully, she lifted her arm free of his fingers and immediately became—or at least pretended to become— engrossed in the damned list. As they walked briskly up the lane, she seemed oblivious to all about her; Michael found himself steering her by dint of his size and physical presence around obstacles in their path.

When they reached the top of the lane and stepped into Chicksand Street, she finally consented to raise her head. The hackney was where they had left it; they picked up their pace and headed for it. When she still said nothing, he observed, “It seems that working our way through the guild list will, sooner or later, lead us to the carters who transported our ten barrels of gunpowder.”

“Hmm.” She glanced at the list again. “As that seems to be the case, I believe our next port of call should be Allen Street. It’s just north of Cable Street.”

He paused to relay the direction to the jarvey. When he turned to the carriage, it was to find the door open and Cleo already inside.

Grinning would not be wise. He took a moment to wipe any telltale expression from his face before climbing up, shutting the door, and settling beside her.