By the time they reached Cable Street and were once again forced to leave the hackney to head into a warren of smaller lanes, Michael had realized that Miss Cleome Hendon was a female who possessed the power to get under his skin.

Despite the fact he could, if he wished, throw her into a sensual fluster and at least make her pause, when it came to the world around her, she was utterly fearless. As in, without fear. Fear—even caution—apparently did not feature within the lexicon of her otherwise impressive intelligence.

How or why that should be so was a mystery to Michael. But as—once again at her heels—he followed her down a tiny lane, he was supremely conscious of an increasingly primitive urge to haul her back and lock her up somewhere safe. She swept on, oblivious to anything beyond her goal, leaving him to scan every which way for any potential threats.

Which in this area were a distinct possibility. As he had all afternoon, he carried his grandfather’s swordstick in his left hand; Cleo had noted the cane, asked to see it, but hadn’t seemed all that impressed by the slender, very sharp blade concealed within the black case. Regardless, in their present surrounds, having the concealed rapier in his hand made him, at least, feel a touch more comfortable.

There was no pavement in the lane, just the ubiquitous cobbles. Cleo suddenly halted, then stepped back to look up at one of the narrow houses fronting directly onto the lane.

“This is it,” she stated.

Jaw setting, Michael stepped in front of her and, with the silver head of his cane, beat an imperious tattoo on the door.

From behind him, he heard mutterings and felt a small, ineffectual shove, both of which he ignored.

The door was opened cautiously, and a worn and tired woman looked out. When she saw him and took in his clothing, she blinked, then nearly stumbled as she tried to curtsy.

When, straightening, she stared at him and uttered not a word, Michael curbed his impatience and said, “We’d like to speak with Mr. Fields. Is he in?”

The woman’s expression soured, and her lips thinned. “No, he ain’t. And afore you ask, I don’t know when he’ll be back.” With that, the woman crossed her arms and braced herself as if to deny them entrance.

Understanding she thought they were creditors, Michael inwardly sighed. “My good woman, we have no argument with your husband. We simply want to ask him some questions about a cargo he may or may not have carried.”

The woman’s expression grew pugnaciously defensive. “He ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“We don’t think he has. We just want to know—”

“You have one of them fancy cards?” the woman challenged. “If’n you do, you leave one with me, and I’ll give it to him, and he can come and see you if he wants to have a chat.”

Michael drew in a long breath.

The shove, this time, was a great deal more forceful—enough to have him shift to the side.

The woman’s eyes went wide as she saw Cleo—who, Michael realized, had until then been entirely screened by his bulk.

The look on his equal-partner’s face was almost as belligerent as the woman’s had been; she all but glared at him.

Then she turned to the woman and, her expression reverting to one of sweetness and light, with commendable calmness said, “Ignore him. I am Miss Hendon of Hendon Shipping, and I—we”—she cast another black and warning glance at Michael—“merely want to ask your husband whether he moved a certain cargo we’re trying to trace, or if he knows which of the carters on the guild list”—she held up the list—“might have moved it.”

The woman’s eyes fixed on the list, then she briefly studied Cleo’s clothes and face. Eventually, she said, “You’re not here to cause any trouble for him?”

“Not in the slightest. In fact, as we rewarded the last carter we spoke with for his time…” Cleo shot a look at Michael.

He reached into his pocket and fished out another half crown.

Cleo filched it from his fingers and offered it to the woman. “For your time.”

The woman lifted the coin from Cleo’s palm. As she studied it, Cleo added, “And there’ll be another for your husband, although I suspect that will never make it home.”

The woman barked a laugh. “You’re right there.” She looked at Cleo, briefly glanced at Michael, then returned her gaze to Cleo’s face. “If you’re set on speaking with him, you’ll find him at the local.” She stepped forward and pointed down the street. “Just go ’round that corner, and it’s dead ahead. The Seven Keys—you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Cleo inclined her head and turned in the direction the woman had indicated—away from the street where they’d left the hackney.

Michael unclenched his jaw enough to add his thanks, then swung around and, in a few swift strides, caught up with his “partner.” Having to let her take over the questioning of the woman and stand by while she succeeded where he had failed was bad enough, but… “You can’t go marching into a workmen’s tavern.”

They turned the corner, and the tavern loomed ahead.

Cleo slanted him a glance. “Why not?”

“The fact you even ask…leaves me speechless.” Abruptly he halted, and with a touch on her arm, halted her, too, and drew her to face him. “Look,” he said, releasing her, “I’ll walk you back to the hackney—you’ll be safe enough there. I’ll come back to the tavern, find Fields, ask our questions, then come back and report.” He looked into her eyes. “All right?”

Cleo stared at him for several seconds. How to explain? “You saw what happened with that woman.” When he just blinked at her, she bit the bullet and said, “You frighten people. At least, people like this.”

He straightened and frowned down his nose at her. “I didn’t say or do anything intimidating.”

“You didn’t have to.” When his expression hardened, and he looked increasingly dismissive, she cast about for some way to make him see… “In part, it’s a function of class.” And it was. The aura men like him effortlessly projected was instantly perceived by all around them, and it was intimidating. Yet it wasn’t simply that they were scions of noble houses; some sons of the nobility were entirely unthreatening. But all the Cynsters she’d ever set eyes on, and men like Drake Varisey and others of their ilk, even her father and brothers, exuded intimidation without conscious thought. It wasn’t purely their physical characteristics—their height, the broadness of their chests, their long muscled frames, and the predatory grace with which they invariably moved—but also their utter certainty that in any contest, be it of strength or will, they would prevail.

Born to rule. They grew up with that, were imbued with the concept from birth, until, by the age of thirty or so, it had sunk to their very bones. Until it manifested as an outwardly detectable, dominant strength, the sort that would always triumph.

How to explain to him that he didn’t have to do anything other than be himself to convince others, male and female alike, that he was dangerous? Someone to be, if not feared outright, then given a wide berth?

Not that she felt the least bit threatened by him—which was a point she suspected she ought to ponder at some other time, but now…

She stared into his dark eyes and resisted the urge to clutch at the curls tumbling from her topknot. Instead, she drew in a careful breath and said, “People look at you, and even before you open your mouth, they recognize—at some level they can’t even explain—what you are. Even though they don’t know precisely who you are, they instinctively comprehend that you are the sort of man who wields power. And power frightens them. They don’t understand it—and they certainly don’t understand you. So they shut their mouths and try to make themselves as invisible to you as they can.”

His frown darkened. He stared at her for several seconds, then said, “I’m trying to comprehend how being the sort of man others respect on sight is bad.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I didn’t say it was. I do, however, contend that when it comes to eliciting information from people like carters and their wives, I stand a significantly better chance of succeeding than you.” An idea—a vision—blossomed in her mind, and she seized on the inspiration. “Consider this. You and I might move in similar social circles, but when people in this area look at me, they see someone they can relate to. That’s why I keep telling people I’m a Hendon from Hendon Shipping—every carter and his family will have heard of us. We’re a very large cartage customer, so my name and the company connection make me something of a known entity in their world. They’ll treat me with respect, but not wariness, especially because I’m a woman. I don’t threaten them.”

His jaw had set and resembled granite. “You still can’t go into that tavern.”

“Not alone. Even were I here by myself, I wouldn’t go in there without a male escort.”

He muttered something she thought was “Thank God for that.”

She ignored him and rolled on, “But in this case, you’re here. And that makes things not just easier but well-nigh perfect. In terms of questioning Mr. Fields, it will smooth our way.” She fixed her gaze on his eyes. “What I suggest we do is this. I will lead the way inside, but as long as you stay behind me, you may hover as close as you wish.” She wasn’t so sure of the wisdom of that, but if the concession won him over to her plan, she would grit her teeth and manage. “Mr. Fields, when we find him, will see me”—she put her palm to her chest—“entirely unthreatening, with you behind me as my guard.” She waved her hand at him. “Your…appearance, so to speak, will not seem out of place because it will fit the role. Fields will see you, but he’ll understand why you’re there, and he won’t feel threatened. He’ll focus on me, and me having a guard, especially one like you, will only underscore how unthreatening I am. Then I will ask the questions, the initial ones at least, until Fields relaxes.” She studied his expression, but it showed little of his thoughts.

Impulsively, she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. “Please—can we at least try it that way?”

His gaze shifted to her hand, barely brushing his sleeve; suddenly self-conscious, she withdrew it—but really? He could grip her arm, yet she couldn’t touch his sleeve?

But his gaze had returned to her face. Then he nodded. Once. “All right. Let’s see how your system works.”

She managed not to let her jaw drop. For all her persuasiveness, she hadn’t actually thought she’d get her idea through his thick skull… She whirled to face the tavern—before he changed his mind. She strode for the tavern door, noting the wooden sign swinging above it, showing seven golden keys on a dark-green background.

She wasn’t surprised when she felt hard fingers grip her elbow.

He drew her to a halt and reached around her to open the door. “Move slowly and stay in front of me—don’t dart anywhere.”

He’d bent his head; his breath feathered over her nape as she stepped across the threshold.

She made no attempt to respond; she had too much to do quelling the riot of shivers tripping up and down her spine.

She halted two steps inside the large taproom. A bar ran along the far wall, and there were men of all trades sitting and standing at tables and leaning on the bar, all talking, each and every one with a mug or a tankard in his hand. Briefly, she scanned the heads, letting the cacophony—and the looks they were already attracting—wash over her.

“We should have asked Fields’s wife what he looks like,” her escort-cum-guard muttered.

She drew in a bracing breath. “No matter—we’ll ask at the bar. It’s his local, after all. The barkeep will know him.”

“I’ll speak with the barkeep.” The growl brooked no argument.

She lightly shrugged and walked toward the bar. “As you wish.”

She made for a gap that opened up at the long, polished bar as other patrons—as she’d anticipated—shuffled to either side to give them, mainly Michael, space.

The barkeep had seen them approaching. She smiled sweetly at the rugged man as he came to ask what they wanted.

Even as the unwisdom of allowing Michael to speak at all bloomed in her brain, she heard him say, “The lady has business with a Mr. Fields. His wife said we would find him here.”

She blinked, then nearly grinned in appreciation. The man wasn’t all brawn after all. He’d muted the autocratic command that resonated in his normal speech and had even managed to sound unaggressive; indeed, he sounded like some upper-level servant.

The barkeep studied him, then his gaze dropped to her. She brightened her smile and was rewarded when the barkeep started to smile in response. Then he raised his head, looked to their right, and nodded in that direction. “That’s Fields there—in the green cap.”

She couldn’t see because of the men between, but Michael looked, then nodded to the barkeep. “Thank you,” he said. Then his grip on her elbow tightened, and he steered her on.

She did her best to mute her awareness of the strength in his fingers, in his hand, but entirely unexpectedly—perhaps because of that inner wondering over why she, her senses, didn’t perceive him as any sort of threat—a sense of safety, of being protected to the point that no danger could touch her, not ever, washed over her.

The sensation, the feeling, was so intense she would have mentally halted and examined it, but Michael guided her around a group of large men, and there was Fields, sitting with his back to her. He was of similar age to Joe Carpenter, perhaps a few years older, a touch smaller in build if a bit more rotund.

Michael halted her a respectful distance away.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Fields?”

The man in the green cap swiveled on his stool. The instant he saw who it was, he came to his feet. “Yes, miss?” Fields’s gaze darted to Michael, but then returned to Cleo’s face.

She smiled reassuringly. “If I might have a word?”

Fields blinked, his gaze lifting again to Michael. “Are you sure it’s me you want, miss?”

“Oh, indeed.” She was still carrying the guild list in her other hand. She waved it. “Your name and address are on the list the guild gave me.”

“Oh.” The mention of the guild calmed Fields; he settled his gaze on her face. “Well, then—how can I help you?”

“I’m Miss Hendon of the Hendon Shipping Company…” She recited her tale of wanting to trace an order of gunpowder that had been brought into London by a carter on Wednesday. “We’re looking to make an offer for those particular barrels, as they’re especially suited for shipping to our client in Jamaica. As we don’t normally trade in gunpowder, we’re rather at a loss, and the guild suggested we ask around to see if we can trace the barrels through whichever carter handled the job.”

Fields nodded. Her tale clearly made perfect sense to him. “Would that I could help you, miss, but I didn’t do that job.”

“Do you have any idea which of the carters on this list might have taken it?”

Fields shook his head. “Sorry, no—but perhaps I can help in another way. Mick Landry and Jack Grimsby should be on that list of yours.”

She scanned the names, then nodded. “Yes, they are.”

“Well, they’re locals here, too,” Fields informed her. “They should be here somewhere. Let’s see if we can winkle them out for you. They might have heard something about that job.”

The patrons around them had been shamelessly eavesdropping. Although the tavern was now even more crowded than when she and Michael had entered it, and seemed full of nooks and alcoves tucked away around corners, the word quickly spread that Fields was after Landry and Grimsby, and within a few minutes, two men, both a few years younger than Fields, mugs in hand, pushed through the crowd and presented themselves.

Fields introduced her as Miss Hendon of Hendon Shipping, which immediately made Landry and Grimsby regard her with professional interest, although both kept a wary eye on the looming presence at her back. Fields went on to explain that she was searching for the carter who had transported a load of gunpowder from Kent to London on Wednesday, and both Landry’s and Grimsby’s faces fell. Both shook their heads.

“Wasn’t me,” Landry said.

“Or me,” Grimsby added.

Michael finally spoke, still working to mute his accent. “You haven’t heard of any other carters taking that job?”

The men eyed him for a second, then transparently decided that if he was Miss Hendon’s guard, he was acceptable company.

“I bumped into Joe Carpenter the other day,” Landry said. “That was Wednesday morning, and we were both out to the mill at Islington, so it couldn’t’ve been him.”

Grimsby shook his head. “I haven’t seen any of the others recently—not for the past few weeks. We three here”—he nodded at Fields and Landry—“tend to pick up from the more northern mills. The others live more to the south, closer to the river, which is why we don’t run into them so often. But if the pickup was in Kent, then most likely one of them did the job.”

Cleo smiled. “Thank you for your help.”

Michael pointed to their mugs. “Your next round is on us—I’ll tell the barkeep.”

Three faces lit. All three chorused, “Thank ye, miss—sir.”

With nods and smiles—at least from Cleo and the three carters—they parted. Michael gripped her arm tighter, steered her back to the bar, caught the barkeep’s eye, flicked him a crown and told him to fill Fields’s, Landry’s, and Grimsby’s mugs, take one for himself, and keep the change, then, guiding Cleo before him, he made a beeline for the door.

At least he’d contributed to their successful retreat.

They exited the tavern on a wave of goodwill and bonhomie. Despite that, he didn’t draw a truly free breath until they reached the hackney and he helped her in.

He finally let go of her elbow; his fingers felt cramped. In retrospect, he was amazed she hadn’t protested his continuing to hold her close once they’d left the tavern.

Just as well, because in the mood he was in, he wasn’t sure he would have released her.

The shadows were deepening; it was late October, and night was not far away.

He looked up at the jarvey and was about to tell him to drive to Clarges Street when Cleo leant out through the open carriage door. She was frowning at the list, which she was holding between her hands. “Our next carter lives in Rosemary Lane.” She looked up at Michael.

He hesitated. “It’s getting late.”

She glanced up at the sky, currently painted in shades of purple, then looked back at him. “It’s not that late yet, and as I understand it, there’s a clock ticking somewhere—correct?”

He couldn’t deny that, but…

Before he could marshal further arguments, she stated, “Now we’ve worked out our strategy for asking questions, let’s try at least one more.”

He stared at her for several seconds, then set his jaw and looked up at the jarvey. “Rosemary Lane. Fast as you can.”

“Aye, sir.”

The encouraging smile his partner-in-adventure bestowed on him went some way—a very small way—to soothing the beast that seemed to be prowling just beneath his skin.

She drew back into the carriage, and he climbed up and joined her.

The instant the door shut, the jarvey cracked his whip, and they—partners-in-adventure—set off on the hunt once more.

---

He should have realized they would face the same situation in Rosemary Lane with Martin Carter as they had with Fields farther north.

More, he should also have realized that Rosemary Lane, being so much closer to the docks, would make the consequences, at least for him, infinitely worse.

They found Carter’s house easily enough. This time, Michael stood behind Cleo’s shoulder, and when the door was opened by Carter’s mousy wife, he retreated even further behind his partner so she could question the woman without the patently timid soul being distracted by him.

He hadn’t considered the effect he had on people—ordinary people not of his class—until she’d pointed it out, but he couldn’t deny it. He knew it happened; he’d just never thought much of it before—it hadn’t mattered.

The timid Mrs. Carter eventually volunteered that they would find her man in the Barrel and Spiggot in nearby White’s Yard. Michael had actually been to the Barrel and Spiggot—in the wild and reckless days when he’d first come on the town. It had been a rough tavern then…

“Perhaps,” he said, falling in beside Cleo as she strode briskly down the street, “we should defer speaking with Carter until the morning.”

She cast him a swift, sidelong glance. “Nonsense. We’re already here, and he’s only around the corner.”

They turned in to White’s Yard. This was an area much closer to the docks, a warren of tiny lanes, alleyways, ginnels, and passageways in which all manner of vermin lurked. He reached out and took hold of Cleo’s elbow while his eyes tracked movement in the shadows. The glow cast by the gaslights was dim and made murkier still by tendrils of mist rising off the river and seeping through the lanes.

“There’s the place.” As bold as brass, she made directly for the door.

He gritted his teeth and kept pace.

As they neared, the pub’s door swung open, and three men, weaving on their feet and clearly the worse for drink, stumbled out, clinging to each other in an effort to remain upright.

Instinct kicked. He hauled Cleo against him, within his protective reach. They slowed, circling the drunken trio, who didn’t even notice them in the pervasive gloom.

He halted to the side of the pub’s door. She’d stiffened when her shoulder had connected with his chest. But she hadn’t tried to pull away, nor had she made any protest. Just as well.

He hesitated, then lowered his head and murmured, “Are you sure you want to go in there?”

A second ticked past, then she turned her head and looked him in the eye. “You’ll be with me. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Something in him stilled. He blinked.

She faced forward and started for the door. “Come on. Let’s find Carter before he drinks any more.”

He couldn’t argue with that, yet he kept her close—closer than before. As far as he was concerned, her earlier words gave him license to do whatever he felt necessary to ensure her safety.

Reaching past her, he pushed open the door and ushered her into the crowded public room.

Cleo halted just beyond the threshold and looked around. All of the carters they’d spoken with thus far had sported flat caps; she wondered if Martin Carter wore one, too.

But she couldn’t see far; a wall of large male bodies blocked her view. More, her presence—and possibly that of the man at her back—was already drawing wary looks. She glanced at Michael. “Let’s go to the bar and ask, as we did before.”

All she received in response was a sharp nod. Rather than looking at her, his eyes were on their surroundings, tracking, assessing, evaluating—searching for threats. And if she was any judge, issuing blatant warnings. He eased them forward, guiding her through the throng. Despite the distraction of being held so close to him—so close that her senses felt overloaded—she had to admit that regardless of the horde of rough males surrounding her, she’d never felt so utterly confident of her own safety in her life.

That wasn’t the way she usually felt when surrounded by rough men. Certainly not the way she was accustomed to feeling in the presence of a man like Michael Cynster. All the Cynster males were rakishly handsome, and it was commonly held that all were…rakishly inclined. Their reputations certainly painted them in that light. In the presence of such men, she was invariably stiff, very much on guard. Yet with Michael…she might have been guarded for the first few minutes of their acquaintance, but by the time she’d successfully pushed her way into his mission, she’d lost all wariness of him.

As they reached the bar, she realized that, although she’d known him for only a few hours, he’d somehow stepped inside her guard and now stood in a position similar to that of her brothers, although she definitely didn’t view him in any sisterly light.

The barkeep was a dour-faced man; she smiled brightly at him while Michael asked for Martin Carter. After a measuring look for her and a wary glance at the presence at her back, the barkeep directed them to a table across the room.

They stuck to their previous strategy of her leading the questioning, waving the guild list and smiling sweetly; if anything, Carter proved to be even more easygoing than Fields, Landry, and Grimsby, but like them, he knew nothing of any barrels of gunpowder being ferried up from Kent. He confirmed that their group never loaned their carts to other drivers and said he hadn’t loaned his even to one of his peers in an age.

Information secured, Michael again proposed a round of drinks for the table, which was well received, and they retreated in good order.

Cleo had expected to pause outside the door, if nothing else to tuck the list safely away, but Michael kept her marching rapidly across the cobbles.

Alerted by the grim tension still infusing him, she glanced right and left, then frowned. “It can’t be much past six o’clock, yet it’s as dark as night already.”

“River mist. Overly spaced streetlights. Lots of shadows.”

The shadows seemed especially dense, almost as if they were alive and reaching out from the alleys…

He was still holding her close; she decided she approved.

They reached the hackney, still waiting in Rosemary Lane; he helped her climb in, released her, and called up to the jarvey to drive to Clarges Street. As she sat and settled her skirts, she realized she actually missed the sensation of his hard fingers wrapped about her elbow.

The carriage rocked as he climbed up, then he sat beside her, swung the door closed, and the hackney lurched into motion.

Michael didn’t say anything for several moments, too distracted by calming…whatever it was that had his guts in its grip. He couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so exercised over any lady’s safety before. Then again, he’d never escorted a lady to the Barrel and Spiggot before.

He glanced sidelong at her—at the list she was busily folding and tucking back into her tight-necked reticule. Given the tension he’d suffered—indeed, still felt—all of which she’d evoked…

After several moments, he raised his gaze to her face—and found her regarding him with a steady look that even in the dimness of the carriage felt far too knowing.

He watched as her eyes, locked on his face, narrowed.

“I believe you’ll agree that in gaining the carters’ trust, it’s been my name—and the mention of my family’s company—that was the critical factor.” She raised her chin; her tone was decidedly tart. “And my tale of wanting to make an offer on those barrels for our fictitious client in Jamaica further paved our way—without that, it would have been difficult to ask the questions we needed to without raising suspicions, which in turn would have led to a lack of cooperation. As it is, we can cross five names off our list of fourteen. In addition, we’ve learned more about how the gunpowder carters run their business—we didn’t know about the restrictions on loaning and borrowing carts before.”

Evidently, she could read his thoughts loud and clear. She stared at him for a second more, then with a sound close to a sniff, her chin still high, she turned her head and looked out of the window.

He sighed and faced forward. “I take it there’s no chance that, now I’ve learned”—he tipped his head her way—“from you what questions we need to ask, you’ll agree to hand over the list and allow me to interview the rest of the men on it alone?”

“Not a chance in hell.” The words were crisp and held a wealth of determination.

After a moment, she added, “I might also point out that without my knowledge and assistance, you wouldn’t have any list at all. You had no idea a guild of carters existed, much less that they would have lists of members.”

“Not even you knew they had a separate group of gunpowder carters.”

She inclined her head. “That was a stroke of luck, but one we wouldn’t have stumbled on if I hadn’t known who to ask about carters.”

There were too many things he couldn’t deny. The hackney rattled on through the dark and darkening streets, the gloom of an October twilight fading rapidly to full night.

Finally, he stirred. “So we’ll need to wait until tomorrow afternoon to speak with more carters.”

“No.” She turned to look at him. “Today is Friday, so tomorrow is Saturday, and one thing I do know about gunpowder is that the mills—the private ones, at least—don’t send out barrels on Saturday or Sunday.”

He studied her face through the gloom. “I thought Hendon Shipping didn’t trade in gunpowder?”

“We don’t, but our ships certainly carry cannons. I’ve been caught out before—long ago—trying to reprovision ships for a rapid turnaround over the week’s end. We now hold several ships’ worth of barrels in our own warehouse near the docks, but the mills deliver to us, so I’ve never had to engage a gunpowder carter.”

He straightened on the seat. “So when—what time—can we start tomorrow?”

She shrugged lightly. “Nine o’clock, I imagine.” Then she slanted a glance his way. “If you’re up for it?”

He knew exactly what she was asking; it was generally assumed that gentlemen like him never saw the morning, never stumbled from their beds before noon. He couldn’t justifiably be offended, but in accents every bit as acerbic as hers, he returned, “I’ll call for you at half past eight.”

She studied him for a moment, then inclined her head and looked forward. “All right. Eight-thirty.”

In the deepening gloom, he wasn’t sure, but he thought her lips had curved.

They reached Clarges Street. He helped her to the pavement, paid the jarvey, then escorted her to her parents’ front door. The aged butler opened it and beamed upon them both.

She turned and gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow, then.”

He grasped her gloved fingers, half bowed, then released her. Raising his cane in a salute, he turned away—saying at the last, “Eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”

He heard an unladylike snort, but at least, as he stepped onto the pavement and headed for Grosvenor Square, it was he who was smiling.

That, of course, didn’t last long. Despite the hour, he’d elected to walk in order to give himself time to think. Unfortunately, his mind didn’t want to cooperate. He’d assumed that once he was free of her distracting presence, his wits would resume their customary incisive function and lay everything—everything to do with him, her, and the mission—out clearly. Instead, much to his disgust, his faculties continued to be distracted by the tension still simmering beneath his skin. It wasn’t precisely aggravating or irritating—it was more a sense of pressure building, of impulse edging into a compulsion to act.

To act in what way, to what end, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the pressure was there—had been from the moment Miss Cleome Hendon had bullied her way into his mission—and it was steadily escalating.

Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d allowed her to seize the baton as she had, but part of his reasoning had been an assumption that, by now, after a few relatively unproductive interviews, her interest would have waned. That she would have had enough adventure and be willing to hand over the list and let him get on with it.

Clearly, he’d misjudged her mettle. Indeed, however reluctantly, he had to admire the way she’d handled the interviews, and no matter his hopes, she was manifestly looking forward to continuing the hunt by his side on the morrow.

With the quiet, genteel clop of hooves on evenly paved streets in his ears, he paced along the spacious pavements of Mayfair and weighed the pros and cons of putting his foot down and—somehow—curtailing her involvement and wresting the list from her…yet the truth remained that she knew far more about the world of commerce, of carters and warehouses and factories, than he did.

And despite Drake’s assurance that they had several days up their sleeve, Michael himself felt a very real sense of the mission slowly building in urgency—that they needed to locate the gunpowder as soon as possible.

That meant allowing Cleo Hendon to continue to investigate by his side.

He considered that conclusion as he turned up South Audley Street, walking steadily north toward Grosvenor Square.

There was no sense lying to himself; despite the tension she provoked, he was perfectly willing to have Cleo brighten a day spent rocking around in hackneys and talking to carters. They had nine more carters to speak with; he had no idea how many they might manage to interview in one day.

He might as well accept that he wasn’t going to try to deny her patent wish to continue by his side because he had—entirely unexpectedly—enjoyed her company and wanted to see more of her rather than have her angry enough to shut all doors in his face. She was, on many levels, unique—an original, as the ton would no doubt label her.

Yet beneath the reason of needing her help, beneath even his liking for her company, ran yet another reason. An uncharacteristic reason; he wasn’t a whimsical man.

Walking along the west side of Grosvenor Square, he noted that lights were blazing in the front hall of St. Ives House, suggesting his parents were in residence.

As he crossed the street on the last leg of his journey home, he recalled the eagerness that had lit Cleo’s eyes, the triumph and real pleasure he’d sensed she’d felt over each of their small successes through the day.

Foolhardy, surely, to allow her to continue to assist him with the mission because of some idiotic impulse to keep that light in her eyes—to keep her happy.

That wasn’t like him at all.

---

Michael was in the front hall, shrugging off his greatcoat, when Sebastian descended the stairs and strolled to join him. Eyeing his brother’s attire, Michael arched his brows. “Dinner with the prospective in-laws?”

Sebastian smiled. “Yes and no.” He paused before the large mirror on the wall and tweaked a fold in his cravat. “Great-aunt Horatia. She got wind of our betrothal—how, I don’t know—and comprehending that Mama will want to commence discussing details of the engagement ball and wedding immediately, Horatia has invited half the family to dine—the older half, of course.”

Turning, Sebastian regarded Michael. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” His smile broadened into a grin. “I’m sure our esteemed great-aunt would be delighted to see you.”

Michael shuddered. Horatia was one who could be counted on to feel that, as Sebastian had finally taken the plunge, being the next in line, it was now Michael’s turn. “Thank you, but I believe a tray in my room will suffice.”

Sebastian chuckled.

Michael glanced up the grand staircase. “I take it the parents are in residence?”

Sebastian nodded. “They’ll be leaving shortly. I’m off to Green Street first.”

“Grandmama?”

“Had apparently gone to visit Lady Osbaldestone in Hampshire. Papa sent the traveling coach with the news, so I expect we’ll see both of them here shortly.”

Michael shook his head. “And once Louisa gets back, the triumvirate will be in residence.”

“Heaven help us all,” Sebastian murmured.

“The triumvirate” was the label their cousin Christopher had coined for the trio composed of their grandmother Helena, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, her bosom-bow and grandest of the older grandes dames, Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, and Louisa. It was undeniable that Louisa looked set to take up the social mantle the older ladies had carried for decades; she possessed the same remarkable—and rather scarifying—propensity for knowing everyone and everything that occurred within the upper echelons of the ton.

Sebastian stirred. He glanced at the stairs, then, his expression sobering, searched Michael’s face. “Did you get anywhere regarding the gunpowder?”

“To borrow your words, yes and no.” Briefly, Michael outlined his meeting with Cleo Hendon, how she’d inveigled her way into playing an active role in the mission—“she more or less blackmailed me into including her”—but that, through her, they’d obtained a list of the carters who ferried gunpowder around the capital.

“So,” Sebastian said, “the names of the men who fetched the gunpowder from Kent have to be on your list.”

Michael nodded. “From all we learned from the guild and also from the carters themselves, there’s very little likelihood any other carter would have been able to do the job. The carts themselves and the horses—the rigs—are critical, and there are only so many of those. Fourteen, as it happens. We’ve already eliminated five, and we plan to continue the search tomorrow.”

Sebastian nodded. After a second, he murmured, “It sounds as if Cleome Hendon takes after her mother.”

Michael frowned. “How so?”

Sebastian regarded him in surprise. “Haven’t you heard the tales?” When Michael looked his incomprehension, Sebastian went on, “Apparently, Lady Hendon—Kit—once led a smuggling gang operating on the north coast of Norfolk. I gather that was how she and Jack Hendon met. He was working covertly for the army, back in ’12, I think it was, and he was leading a rival gang. I heard she—Kit—eventually got shot, but obviously, she lived.”

Michael couldn’t suppress a weak groan. “Shot?” Then he straightened; his features hardening, he shook his head. “That settles it. No matter how determined she is to see action, once we find the carters who collected the gunpowder, I’ll return Cleo to her office and chain her to her desk if need be.” The notion of her being shot…

Sebastian laughed. “Good luck with that. If she’s anything like her mother…”

Michael set his jaw. “Regardless, one way or another, I’ll manage it.”

Sounds from above drifted down the stairs.

Michael murmured, “I believe I’d best play least in sight.” He glanced at Sebastian and nodded. “Good luck.”

“And you,” Sebastian returned. “Both with the mission and the feisty Miss Hendon.”

Michael snorted and strode to the stairs. He went up them quickly and silently. He managed to swing into the corridor to his room before his parents opened their door. He heard his mother laugh at something his father said, then she called down to Sebastian. Smiling, Michael opened the door to his room and walked into the quiet.

---

His quip about having dinner on a tray in his room had been intended as a joke, but as it transpired, that was exactly what he eventually did.

First, he spent over an hour sitting before the fire in his room, considering ways in which he might ease Cleo Hendon out of the mission—whether he could hold her to the wording of their agreement, which hadn’t specified her actually participating in any action.

From what he’d already learned of her, combined with the information Sebastian had imparted, he didn’t like his chances.

Eventually, he realized he was hungry, rang for Tom, and asked for a tray.

Later, he debated going out and hunting up his friends, but…the endless round of the clubs, the parties, visits to gambling hells, theatres and their green rooms, and all the other usual pursuits of a gentleman about town had paled. If he was truthful, they’d been losing their luster for some time.

In the end, a balloon of fine whisky cradled in one hand, he sat and stared at the flames in the hearth and found himself imagining what Cleo Hendon was doing at that time.

---

The Dog and Duck tavern at the northern end of Red Lion Street, just off the Whitechapel Road, was the haunt of honest laborers, hardworking navvies, and off-duty jarveys. Even clad in his oldest clothes, the man felt out of place, but he hadn’t chosen the spot for his own comfort but that of the men he sought to suborn.

With his wide-brimmed hat once again pulled low to shade his face, he sat with his back to the wall, close by a corner of the taproom, a mug of ale on the table before him, and waited.

The four men pushed through the doors just before the stipulated hour of ten o’clock. They blended in with the local crowd far better than he, but in case they missed him, he raised his mug and, when they looked his way, saluted them.

They nodded and made their way to his table. With a wave, he invited them to sit. Dragging up stools, they did.

“Ale, gentlemen?”

The one who seemed to be the leader of the four glanced at the others, then nodded. “A pint wouldn’t go amiss, sir.”

The man smiled an ingenuously charming smile and signaled to the serving girl.

Once she’d taken their orders, then ferried four pints and an extra for him to the table and left, he leant forward and, one after the other, met the four men’s gazes. “I know you’ve been ordered to assist me by your superiors, but I wanted to say that I—and O’Connor and the others—appreciate your willingness to be a part of an action that we hope will put the cause front and center in the government’s mind again. I will definitely make sure that your names are made known further up the chain.”

Unsurprisingly, the four Chartist militiamen looked pleased. “Happy to help,” one assured him.

He smiled genially—conspiratorially. “Well, then. Let’s get down to what we need you to do.” He took them through the next steps of the plan as dictated by the old man. He felt reassured when the leader as well as two of the others asked questions about exactly how the barrels needed to be handled. Given they were talking about gunpowder, caution, to him—as apparently, to them—seemed wise.

To his relief, they appeared to grasp the intention of the ploy without him having to reveal any more details, and they were quick to suggest ways to accomplish the required tasks in complete and absolute secrecy.

Finally satisfied that, between them, they had a foolproof plan—one that would deliver to the old man’s specifications without a single hitch—he nominated the date for the proposed action. “Do you think you can be ready to move on that night?”

Again, he was relieved that they didn’t rush to agree but, instead, thought it through, discussing whether it was certain they would have this or that in place by then.

But at last, the leader met his eyes squarely and nodded. “Yes—we can manage that. We’ll need to do a bit of finagling to get the transport arranged and get copies of the keys, as well as get all the barrels sorted, but you’ve given us enough time—we’ll be ready.”

“Excellent.” The man allowed his approbation to show. “Another round?”

The four exchanged glances, then the leader grinned. “We could handle that.”

The man signaled the serving girl, saw the four resupplied, then eased back from the table. “I need to leave, gentlemen, but before I do…” He picked up his almost-empty mug and raised it. “To our mutual enterprise! May all go well.”

The four grinned, raised their mugs, and drank heartily.

The man drained his mug, set it down, and stood. He nodded to the four. “I’ll meet you at the rendezvous at eleven o’clock that night—and don’t forget to muffle the wheels.”

“We won’t,” the leader promised. The other three nodded, eager and enthused.

Still smiling, with a last salute, the man left them.