The following morning, Michael strolled into the front hall of the Hendon town house at precisely thirty minutes past eight o’clock. Despite having fallen into bed at what was, for him, a ridiculously early hour, he’d tossed and turned, and what sleep he’d eventually found had been filled with dreams.

Disturbing dreams.

At his age, certainly, he found the contents unnerving. It had been a very long time since he’d dreamt of a woman in that fashion.

Admittedly, his mind had already been filled with thoughts of her; how to deal with her was the subject that had kept him tossing and turning. Yet he would have sworn he was too old and surely far too experienced to have such vividly erotic dreams. Aside from all else, the last thing he needed was for his wayward libido to fixate on a lady with such termagant-like qualities.

The sound of light footsteps drew his gaze to the head of the stairs. He watched Cleo descend, stepping lightly, a bright, breezy smile on her face, her enthusiasm for the day—for continuing to pursue the mission by his side—brimming over and washing in warm expectation over him…

None of which helped—either in getting a handle on what he should do with her or in corralling his restless libido.

“Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well?”

“Passably.”

She smiled and spread her hands. “As you perceive, I’m ready to proceed.” She shifted to allow the butler to drape a bright-blue mantle over her shoulders. The particular hue brought out the red glints in her hair and matched the color of the full skirt and fitted jacket she’d chosen to wear.

Michael stared at her. He’d met her only the previous day, yet there she stood, somehow effortlessly anchoring his world…

What the devil was this?

He managed to keep his frown from his face and let all her chatter about which carter they should try first slide past him.

Once she’d secured the ties of her mantle and set her reticule dangling from her wrist, he offered her his arm.

She paused, her gaze colliding with his, but then she smiled a touch shyly and set her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you,” she said.

“Indeed,” she continued, as he nodded at the butler, sending that worthy to open the door, “I meant to thank you for your protective escort last night.” She looked down as they walked through the doorway and into the cool of a gray morning. “I would never have been able to go into those taverns without your support, and we would never have learned all we did if you hadn’t been willing to protect me in that fashion.”

He halted on the porch and, frankly dumbfounded, stared at her. She was thanking him for acting as he had? Regardless of the circumstances, most of the females in his family would have labeled his behavior presumptuous and overly possessive.

But Cleo glanced up at him and smiled, her gaze open and direct. “If you hadn’t made me feel so safe, I would never have been able to manage those men and our questions so smoothly.” Her smile brightened. “So thank you.” She looked ahead. “Oh.”

Again, she glanced up at him, this time arching a brow. “No hackney today?”

The question broke through his distracted daze. He looked at the small, anonymous, black town carriage waiting at the curb. “I decided having Tom along wouldn’t hurt.” For extra protection, but he left the words unsaid. He was still grappling with the notion that she didn’t mind—indeed, even welcomed—the manifestation of his protective instincts.

He led her down the steps, across the pavement, and helped her into the carriage, then realized and asked, “The first address?”

She gave him the name of a lane, and Tom—a font of information on London’s byways, which was another reason to have him drive them—informed them it was a tiny lane just north of the old Ratcliffe Highway. Assured by Tom that he could find it, Michael climbed into the carriage and shut the door.

As he sat, Tom flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled smoothly off. Michael saw that Cleo had pulled out the list and was poring over it.

“With any luck,” she said, “we ought to be able to get through the entire list today—or at least to the point of speaking with the carters who fetched those barrels from Kent.”

He murmured a vague agreement and leant back against the squabs. Once they found the carters who had transported the barrels into London…what was he going to do then?

---

Tom pulled up at the entrance to the tiny lane. Michael helped Cleo down to the cobbles, then firmly took her arm and steadied her along the roughly surfaced ground.

Once again, he assumed the position of “my lady’s guard,” a role that, he had to admit, suited him to the ground, especially now he knew she didn’t resent his more high-handed and overt actions.

Her acceptance of his protection had calmed something inside him, as if her attitude had pleased and placated some disgruntled and grouchy beast.

Cleo found the relevant door, knocked, and this time found herself dealing directly with one Walter Feeney. With Michael at her back, and the Hendon name to recommend her, she quickly got the answers they required.

Feeney hadn’t been the carter who had ferried barrels from Kent into London on Wednesday morning. “I was off to the mill up by Wapping that day.” He also had no notion which carter might have taken the job, nor had he loaned his cart in recent weeks.

They thanked Feeney, then carefully—with her having to rely on Michael’s supporting grip on her arm—made their way back down the lane.

She remained exceedingly aware—hyperaware—of Michael’s nearness, but the fluster of the previous day, while still present to some degree, was steadily giving way to…a certain curiosity.

Certainly, the temptation to experience and savor thrills and reactions that, to her, were altogether novel had grown to the point of compulsion.

She felt certain that the reason she felt able to indulge—to dwell on the thrills and sensual frissons—was because she was convinced, to her bedrock convinced, that with him, she was safe. That she would always be safe, no matter the situation.

He might be dangerous in that particular way that men like him could be dangerous to ladies, but she knew to her bones that he would never, ever, be dangerous to her.

They reached the carriage, and he helped her in. She drank in the aura of effortless strength that she sensed through his grip on her hand and, as she sat, allowed her gaze to linger on the clean lines of his profile as he spoke to Tom. She greedily absorbed the way he moved—so fluid and graceful despite being a large man—as he entered the carriage and sat beside her.

Her senses flared. Facing forward, she looked inside and confirmed that her lungs had seized again, restricting her breathing and leaving her nerves sparking and her wits oddly giddy.

“Cleo—the next address?”

What? She looked at him. “Oh—yes.” Hurriedly, she consulted the list. “I don’t think it’s far.” When she found what she thought was the nearest address, Michael relayed it to Tom, who confirmed it was close.

As they set off, she leant back against the seat and bludgeoned her wits into order. Then she glanced at the list again. “Six down, eight to go—and I believe several of the other addresses lie in this area.”

---

When they alighted at their next stop, at Michael’s suggestion, Cleo showed Tom the list, and the groom-cum-driver confirmed that all the carters they’d yet to interview lived in the areas on either side of Cable Street, between Well Street and Cannon Street.

Tom assured them they should easily be able to find all their marks that day, provided said marks were at home. Still, it was Saturday, a day of rest for the gunpowder carters, and so it proved to be. They found three more of the men on their list over the next hour and a half, but none of the three had any more information than the previous six.

As, her arm looped with Michael’s, Cleo picked her way down the narrow lane that Tom had assured them would deliver them to their next port of call on Cains Place, she was less aware of Michael’s physical presence than of a nagging worry that her brilliant idea to work their way through the list of gunpowder carters would somehow prove a false trail.

She glanced at Michael’s face. “Could we have overlooked something? Some way in which barrels of gunpowder might have been moved without using any of the gunpowder carters?”

He looked down and met her eyes. In the rich brown of his, she could see that he, too, had started to question their assumptions.

After a moment, he grimaced, then looked ahead. “One has to wonder, but I keep coming back to the carts themselves. Anyone could, theoretically, drive a cart laden with gunpowder, but after hearing the descriptions and seeing Joe Carpenter’s cart, while I can imagine it might be possible to transport ten barrels a short distance in an ordinary cart or two, I seriously doubt ten barrels could have been transported from Kent to London other than in properly reinforced carts drawn by heavy teams of horses.”

“Which brings us back to our gunpowder carters, or at least, to their horses and carts—their rigs.”

“Indeed. And on top of that, there are so many carters working in and around London, carting this and that down every street and lane, let alone along the highways, and they’re all guild men and seem to know each other at least by sight, then if a non-guild man had been driving a gunpowder cart all the way from Kent into London, one of the guild carters would have noticed and reported him. That has to be the way the guild system works. By the sounds of it, they’re rigid about protecting their turf, and the gunpowder carters are one of the most highly paid branches of the fraternity. I imagine the guild would act quickly and decisively to protect their monopoly.”

She nodded. “True enough. And from all we’ve heard from the carters we’ve spoken to, none would even contemplate lending their carts to someone else—someone not of their number.”

“Which is to say”—he looked down and caught her eye—“that our suppositions are sound, and we need to persevere and work our way through the entire list if need be. At least one of the men on it must have been the man behind the reins of a gunpowder cart that traveled from the Kent coast to London. Even if he doesn’t immediately admit to taking the job, he’ll react, and with him being a guild member, I’m sure we’ll eventually persuade him to tell all.”

She let herself absorb the confidence in his eyes, in his tone, then nodded and looked ahead.

They found the next address, which proved to be a lodging house. Michael raised his cane and beat a crisp tattoo on the dingy, faded door.

After a moment, heavy footsteps approached, then the door swung open to reveal a large woman with frizzy, pale hair, several chins, and a multitude of layers—a bodice, spencer, shawl, petticoats, heavy skirt, and apron among them. She was drying her reddened hands on a cloth, but her gaze as she took in the sight of them was shrewd and alert. Her eyes widened fractionally, then she focused on Cleo. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Good morning. I’m looking for”—Cleo glanced at the list to confirm the name—“Mr. Terrance Doolan. I understand he lives here?”

The woman slowly nodded. “Aye, that he does. I’m his landlady.” The woman’s gaze grew sharper. “And you are?”

Cleo was rather surprised at the question and its tone, but she trotted out her name, the company’s name, and that she wished to speak with Doolan over a job he might recently have taken.

The landlady’s features eased. “Sorry, ma’am, but I did wonder, you see…” Her expression turned openly anxious; her fingers clenched on the cloth, twisting the material. “I’d like to speak with Terry, too—he went off on a job four days ago now, and he hasn’t returned, and that’s just not like him.”

Cleo’s pulse leapt. “Four days ago…that would be Tuesday?”

The landlady nodded. “Odd, it was—he’s usually off by first light to any job, but this one, he left in the afternoon. Tuesday afternoon.” Her lips turned down. “Chipper and chirpy as usual, he went off with that apprentice of his up beside him, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”

Cleo exchanged a look with Michael. Doolan had left for a job at the right time, and now, he was missing. Surely this had to be the connection they’d been searching for.

Michael dragged his gaze from Cleo’s face and looked at the landlady. “The apprentice—do you have a name and address? Have you seen him since Doolan left?”

“No—I ain’t seen Johnny, neither.” The landlady shifted in the doorway. “Johnny Dibney, he is. Lives in Mrs. Hendrick’s lodging house over on Cock Lane.” The woman pointed west. “It’s off Chamber Street over that way, just up from Rosemary Lane. It’s not far.” She twisted the cloth tighter and added, “If you do find Johnny and he knows what’s happened to Terry, I’d take it kindly were you to get Johnny to come tell me straightaway.” She paused, then her face fell, and she heaved a huge sigh. “I need to know what to do with Terry’s things if he ain’t coming back.”

Michael nodded. “If we hear anything of Doolan, we’ll let you know. One more question. Doolan—was he Irish?”

“Aye, that he was. Even though he’d been here in London since he was a mite, he still had all of the charm of those Irish beggars. Always had a twinkle in his eye, did Terry.”

“Thank you.” Michael shot a glance at Cleo.

She met it, then turned to the landlady and thanked her for her help. They left the woman standing in the doorway, slowly wringing the cloth between her hands.

“She doesn’t think Doolan is coming back,” Cleo whispered as they walked back down the lane.

“No, she doesn’t.” Michael scanned the streets, then nodded to their right. “This way.” He tightened his grip on Cleo’s elbow, and they set off in search of Doolan’s apprentice.

---

They paused to consult Tom where he waited with the carriage drawn up by the curb in Church Lane. He directed them south to Rosemary Lane and recommended they follow that until they reached the southern end of Cock Lane. “Just past Leman Street. It’s a tiny little lane runs between Rosemary and Chamber Street—you can’t miss it.”

Once they reached the tiny lane—and tiny was the appropriate adjective—by dint of asking passersby, they found their way to Mrs. Hendrick’s door, midway up the street.

After rapping on the door, Michael murmured, “Let me lead this time.”

He raised his head as the door swung wide and nodded politely to the short, buxom woman who stared at them in surprise. “Good morning. Mrs. Hendrick, I presume?” When the woman nodded, he continued, “We’re making inquiries about the conditions of apprentices working under the carters’ guild, and we were wondering if we might have a word with”—he pretended to glance at the list Cleo still held in her hand—“Johnny Dibney.”

On their way to Cock Lane, Cleo had realized Dibney’s name was on the list, indented beneath Doolan’s.

“We understand,” Michael smoothly rolled on, “that Johnny is apprenticed to Mr. Terrance Doolan.”

Mrs. Hendrick nodded. “That he is, and a good lad, make no mistake.” Her brow furrowed. “See here—Johnny’s not in any trouble, is he?”

Michael widened his eyes. “Not that we’re aware of.”

“It’s just that he hasn’t been home the last nights—not since he went off to join Terry Doolan on Tuesday. Off on some job, Johnny said, but I did wonder, what with the timing.”

“What she means”—a large man loomed behind Mrs. Hendrick; he put a huge hand on her shoulder and nodded politely to Michael and Cleo—“is that this job was starting in the afternoon, and Johnny said as he didn’t expect to be back until the next day.” The man glanced at Mrs. Hendrick. “We didn’t rightly know what to make of that.”

“And then Johnny never did come back.” Mrs. Hendrick’s face wrinkled in distress. She glanced up at the man. “I was thinking as perhaps I should go and ask at Terry Doolan’s place, and see if his landlady has had any word.”

“Sadly, she hasn’t,” Michael said. “We’ve just come from there.” He paused, then said, “It’s certainly rather troubling. I wonder—can you give us any indication of what, exactly, Johnny did in his work? Did he assist Doolan with loading, taking care of the horses, holding them, stabling them?”

“All that and more.” The man leant against the doorframe. “Johnny was almost finished his training. He was cleared to drive carts, even those gunpowder rigs. Good bit of money in it once he’d got to journeyman, and Terry—he done well by the lad. He’d got him registered to drive, but of course, Johnny hadn’t yet moved on to taking his own jobs.”

“So Johnny and Doolan got along?” Michael asked.

“That they did,” Mrs. Hendrick replied. “Terry was the master, of course, but Johnny was a hard worker, and Terry appreciated that.”

The man nodded. “Aye—that were the way of it.”

Michael exchanged an impassive glance with Cleo. Her eyes were just a touch wide. He turned back to the pair in the doorway. “Thank you. We’d best get on. We’ve other apprentices we must check on.”

With a nod, he drew Cleo away—before Mrs. Hendrick or the man started asking awkward questions.

As they headed back to Rosemary Lane, Cleo murmured, “So Doolan’s apprentice is missing, too.” She looked up at Michael. “What now?”

“Now,” he said, once more winding her arm with his, “I suggest we find a suitable place to discuss what this means, where it leaves us, and our next moves.”