Michael skulked in a recessed doorway not quite halfway down Morgan’s Lane and listened as night laid its smothering hand over the surrounding area. After eleven o’clock, the noise level had started to fall, and as the moon sailed high with the approach of midnight, the last stragglers found their way to their doors, and moment by moment, the silence deepened, at least in Morgan’s Lane. Further afield, he could hear voices, rumbling rather than raised. But even in Tooley Street, the main artery of the district, the carriage trade had faded to the occasional hackney clopping past.

The sky was relatively clear, with only a thin river mist trailing a translucent veil over the face of the almost-full moon and forming soft halos of light around the streetlamps—one near the river end of the lane and the other near Tooley Street. In this district, streetlamps were few and far between; rather than illuminating the pavements in any adequate fashion, the cones of weak light seemed to deepen the darkness beyond their reach.

From where Michael stood enveloped in shadows, he had an angled view of the locked gates of the second of the three warehouses—on the other side of the lane and a little to his left—while the doors of the first warehouse were only paces away to his right; if anyone came calling there, he would hear them.

The lack of suitable cover elsewhere along the lane had forced him to leave the watch on Wallington’s Warehouse to Tom and two of his men.

He’d had a busy evening calling in and deploying his private army of watchers.

Nearly a decade ago—when he’d been watching a certain ladybird with a view to learning who she was favoring with her charms—through Tom, he’d realized that, as Lord Michael Cynster, he had a small army at his command. Virtually all the footmen and grooms at the Cynster town residences were the sort of males always up for a lark, ready to volunteer their free time to act as eyes and ears for him, especially as he paid well. As the butlers and housekeepers from all the houses knew him, there was never any fuss about the male staff being allowed to use their off-duty hours in such a manner. When the numbers drawn from all the many Cynster residences were added together, they formed an army nearly forty strong.

And in this season, when most of the families were in the country, albeit expected shortly to return, as the staff had no major ton events, dinners, balls, or soirees to assist at, he could call on almost the entire complement.

Tonight, he had twenty men circling the area around Morgan’s Lane. As he’d seen that afternoon and had subsequently verified, the surrounding maze of tiny lanes—most just wide enough for a cart to pass through—made placing a tight cordon immediately around Morgan’s Lane well-nigh impossible; there were simply too many ways a cart could go, and covering all of them would risk being spotted. However, the warren in which Morgan’s Lane was situated was bound by three large streets and the river; the area was roughly an elongated triangle, with the long sides formed by the river and by Tooley Street, from where it led off the southern end of New London Bridge, then ran on into Fair Street and New Street, while the base of the triangle was formed by the western half of Dock Head and the eastern arm of Shad Thames, the street which ran parallel to St. Savior’s Dock one block from the water.

Cynster footmen and grooms were presently stationed along Tooley, Fair, and New Streets, and along the relevant sections of Dock Head and Shad Thames, each with a clear line of sight to the next watcher. Michael had also stationed men all along the riverbank, overlooking every set of water stairs, every pier, dock, and wharf. Not a single boat would leave that stretch of the bank without him knowing—without those who were his eyes and ears seeing and, if there were barrels involved, following.

All the men in his army understood their purpose; he hadn’t told them the whole story, but they knew they were watching for ten barrels of gunpowder as part of a mission with which Michael was assisting the Marquess of Winchelsea. Being Cynster staff, his army all knew who Winchelsea was and what he did; many were on good terms with the Wolverstone House staff. Michael felt confident that if the plotters attempted to move the barrels from Morgan’s Lane that night, he and his men would see and follow.

Wrapped in an old greatcoat, he settled against the cold bricks beside the recessed door and prepared to wait until three o’clock. At that time, the rest of his irregular army would arrive to spell the first watch, and he would leave with Tom to catch a few hours’ sleep. Groups of men in rotation would keep watch over the next day and through Sunday night, although if no one turned up to move the barrels tonight, he doubted they would be moved until Monday.

Assuming, of course, that the barrels were still somewhere in Morgan’s Lane.

He was mulling over that when the sound of light footsteps reached him. He eased deeper into the shadows, pressing his back against the wooden door, even as he registered that there was something odd about the footsteps. They were furtive—a few rapid steps, then a pause, then a scurrying patter before halting again. And the steps were too light to be those of a man.

Some lad was flitting along the street, moving from shadow to shadow…a lookout? A youth sent to check all was clear?

Michael straightened. His men had orders to remain hidden and not tangle with anyone; they were there to watch and follow. As long as the youth didn’t see him, he intended to do the same.

But was it possible the boy knew something about the plotters?

The footsteps pattered closer.

Michael told himself it was unlikely a lad would know anything about those pulling the strings, and if the lad disappeared, the plotters would be instantly alerted; they would grow suspicious and very likely abort any action tonight. They might even realize someone was hunting them—

His inner debate abruptly cut off as the lad appeared from Michael’s right and paused directly in front of the recessed doorway. His back to Michael, the lad stared across the street—at the warehouse Michael was watching.

With a wide-brimmed hat pulled low to screen his face, the youth wasn’t all that tall, his figure slight. More surprisingly, he was clad in clothes—a hacking jacket with breeches tucked into boots—that, even viewed through the gloom, seemed too good for the area; cut, fabric, and fit all suggested the other side of the river and farther west.

Michael tensed. If the lad was gentry or better, he was more likely to be connected to the true plotters rather than being a hired minion.

Should he seize the boy?

The decision was made for him. The youth suddenly tensed, then abruptly swung around and stared—

Michael surged out of the darkness, slapped his gloved hand over the lad’s lips—already parted—seized the boy in a bear hug, and ignoring his struggles, hauled him into the recess. Roughly, he pushed the lad against the brick wall by the door—

Even as his instincts and his senses screamed at him—and the lad froze.

Michael’s wits reeled. He stared through the dimness at the face before him.

As, wide-eyed, she stared back.

She.

He could barely credit what his senses were telling him, yet even as he grasped the undeniable truth, her eyes narrowed, and despite the shrouding shadows, he felt her glare.

Her glare?

Removing his hand from her lips, he leant close and, in a grating growl, demanded, “What the devil are you doing here?”

Every nerve he possessed was jangling, strung out and quivering.

Far from showing any signs of remorse, she tartly replied, “I suspect I’m doing exactly the same as you—keeping an eye on the warehouses in case our villains try to move the barrels tonight.”

Through his teeth, he ground out, “You didn’t need to come. You should have left it to me.”

“If you recall,” she replied in a frosty whisper, “you didn’t mention anything about keeping watch over the barrels tonight.”

Michael forced himself to straighten and ease back an inch; in the tight space before the door, an inch was the best he could manage.

As he did, she frowned, then moved to peer out of the dark alcove and down the lane; he caught her arm and held her back.

She trained her frown on his face. “What about the warehouse at the end of the lane?”

“I have men stationed all around.” He drew in a breath, reached for calm, and forced himself to release her. “Please tell me that, even dressed like that, you didn’t come here alone.”

“Of course not.” She raised her chin as if attempting to look down her nose at him. “My groom and coachman are with me.” She flicked a hand up the lane. “We left the carriage a few blocks away, and they’re waiting in Tooley Street just by the corner.”

Too far away—much too far away—to render assistance should anything happen to their mistress.

He hauled in another slow breath, but before he could launch any further protest, she leant across and angled her head to peer out at the warehouse opposite, pressing against him and thoroughly distracting him.

“And it’s just as I expected,” Cleo forged on, keeping her voice low and her senses in as tight a grip as she could manage. “You might not have stated the obvious, but it was clear we would need to keep a watch on the warehouses. So you’re here, and even better, you have men all around, so I am—as I expected—perfectly safe.”

Admittedly, a lot of her expectation had been hope, but clearly, she’d correctly gauged his commitment to the mission.

Silence reigned. He was standing like an immovable pillar, and courtesy of the confines of the narrow space, she could feel the tension thrumming through him, emanating from him; a palpable aura, it abraded her nerves. She wasn’t sure meeting his eyes, even through the shadows, would be a good idea.

She drew in a breath, one that felt too tight. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “I should—”

He caught her arm in a viselike grip, his fingers biting into her flesh.

Startled, she glanced at his face, then she heard what he had—the shush-scrape of slouching footsteps.

Two pairs, and neither man was making any effort to conceal their approach.

“Could’ve sworn I heard some doxy sayin’ summat,” one rumbling voice said. “Did you hear her? Somewhere along ’ere.”

“P’rhaps she’s looking fer company, like,” a second growly voice replied.

Aghast, Cleo focused on Michael’s face. She saw his lips move in a barely breathed curse, then, faint as a breath, she heard him say, “Those aren’t my men.”

But the pair were coming closer.

“We’d be good company,” the first man stated. Both men halted a yard or so away; from the sound of their feet shifting on the cobbles, they were turning this way and that, searching the shadows. “I’m sure I heard her—might be Jenny Quigley. But whoever she is, she has to be ’ere somewhere.”

Then, “P’rhaps she’s hidin’ in the shadows before that door.”

Cleo felt her eyes open impossibly wide. Through the dimness, she saw Michael’s features turn stony.

She sensed more than heard his “Damn!”

Without warning, without a sound, he swung her so her back pressed against the door, then he bent his head, and his lips covered hers.

Then he kissed her—and her senses swam, and her wits deserted her.

Michael felt as if his mind had fractured. Literally split in half, with his wits, his senses, his very will ripped asunder by two equally potent forces.

One half of him was unwaveringly focused on the need to keep the woman he held safe. To protect her against all and every threat—especially that posed by the two thugs looming ever nearer.

The other half wanted to devour her, to seize and hold and know in the most blatant biblical sense, ultimately to make her his.

He was blindsided by the power behind both imperatives; both demanded his undivided attention.

Even as his lips captured hers, and with pressure and guile, he sought entrance to her mouth, half his senses were tracking the men as they lumbered up and peered into the shadows.

As his hands firmed about her shoulders and he held her steady as he angled his head and pressed the kiss into more heated territory, half of his mind was detached enough to be monitoring what the two thugs would see.

His back, with his old greatcoat hanging from his shoulders to his calves—a shield effectively screening her. But the angle of his head was a sign such men would not miss, and he took care to ensure he appeared fully engrossed.

Not that that required any acting.

Especially not when she parted her lips, and at the first touch of his marauding tongue to hers, all but melted against him.

The sensual half of him rejoiced and pressed on.

The still-rational and determinedly protective half considered the pair now making disappointed huffing sounds and decided it would be wise to make the situation even clearer.

He shifted one hand from her shoulder, pushed that hand under the side of her open jacket, and closed his palm and fingers firmly about one linen-shrouded breast.

Her senses leapt; so did his.

Yes, his sensual side demanded. More of this.

But his protective side was more interested in the soft moan she gave—a moan he drew back from the kiss enough to allow to escape.

One of the men watching muttered, “No use—she’s taken.”

The other returned a ribald comment along the lines of not having time enough to wait. “I might as well tup the missus.”

His protective side remained on alert as the men turned and shuffled off down the lane.

Then, with the fading of the threat, his protective side calmed…and subsided.

Leaving the sensual side fully in command.

Finally able to register, to evaluate—to understand…

That she was kissing him back every bit as passionately, as unreservedly, as he was kissing her.

That wasn’t what he’d expected.

He wasn’t sure what he’d assumed—how he’d imagined she might react—but he hadn’t expected such unalloyed heat, such unrestrained passion.

He was an expert in both, a past master on the subject of ladies’ responses to kisses such as his—demanding, commanding, and openly possessive.

She’d frozen at the first touch of his lips to hers—a shock that had lasted all of two heartbeats. Then she’d breathed in, and her lips had all but attacked his—hungry, greedy, yearning.

In some distant corner of his mind, he knew he could stop kissing her—that he should stop kissing her now the need for their camouflaging performance had passed—but all of his senses and most of his will were swept along on an inexorable tide of wanting to know.

To know more of this, of her. To explore and seek out and learn.

To test, to experiment, to define what most pleasured her—and him.

Ultimately, to see where this would lead…

He could now admit—could hardly deny given the evidence of what was raging inside him—that he’d been slavering to kiss her in just such a comprehensive way for the past two days. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on her.

Lust at first sight.

Lust and more—there was curiosity and a different level of interest twining through what he felt for her.

Regardless, he was greedy for more, and given her encouragement—and her blatant enthusiasm—he felt not the slightest qualm in deepening the kiss and allowing his hunger full sway.

Cleo had lost touch with the world. All she knew was the solidity of the man before her, the rock-steady body behind the coat she clutched with both hands. All her senses truly registered was the heated fire of his lips and the molten hunger behind his kiss.

Passion wasn’t something she’d ever encountered, not within herself. The surge of desire, of hunger and need that had poured through the inner door his kiss had opened was stunning, fascinating, and enthralling.

She knew who he was; she knew she was safe—knew that with a certainty that could not be gainsaid—and that left her free, free to seize a freedom she’d never known before and explore…this.

This landscape, this power, this hunger, this wanting.

Nothing seemed more important.

His lips were firm, forceful, so male; her lips molded to them, cushioning and enticing.

Their tongues tangled, stroked, and provoked. His hand on her breast lay hot and heavy, no longer squeezing or kneading but, purely with that touch, awakening a desire to feel…more.

She knew what she wanted; deliberately, she moved into him, pressing the fullness of her breast into his palm.

Michael felt his world rock. Abruptly, he realized control was sliding from his grasp and, in instinctive reaction, seized his reins and clung…even as his mind woke to the reality that the desire she’d evoked, the need she’d provoked in him, was far more powerful, more primitive, than anything he’d felt before.

Before her.

The realization shocked him—and opened his mind to where they were. To the night, to the shadow-filled recess, to the cold bricks surrounding them.

It took effort, but he willed himself to end the kiss—gently; he didn’t have it in him to cut the engagement off too sharply. Yes, he was shocked, but…he wanted to continue this. Just not here, not now.

At last, their lips, clinging until the very last second, parted. Their breaths mingled for a moment, then slowly, he raised his head.

He stared into her face.

Her lashes fluttered, then rose, and she stared back.

The darkness was too dense for him to read her eyes; he could barely make out her features. Yet he knew to his soul that she was as shaken and as stunned as he—as shocked at what had transpired.

At what they’d discovered.

Exactly what that was, he didn’t yet know—and he was fairly certain she wouldn’t be any the wiser.

In this sphere, he had far more experience; of that, he was sure.

He saw her blink. Saw her chest rise as she drew in a deep—and still deeper—breath.

It would be wise to take charge before she regained full command of her wits. He lowered his hand from the soft warmth of her breast, locked his fingers about one of her hands, and forced himself to take a large step back, then to turn and look up and down the lane. It was deserted. He glanced back at her. “We should go.”

He tugged her forward and fervently hoped she was still too dazed to argue.

When she fell in beside him, he released her hand, and they walked side by side up the lane.

Cleo found herself striding toward Tooley Street without having made any conscious decision to do so. Despite that, she couldn’t seem to care; far more dominant in her mind was the way her lips were tingling, how the curves felt hot and swollen. Almost throbbing. She fought down an urge to raise her fingers to her mouth.

She’d been kissed before, but she’d never known—hadn’t even dreamed—that a man could kiss like that.

His kiss—Michael Cynster’s amazing, eye-opening kiss—consumed her. Still all but overwhelmed her, even though, with Tooley Street fast approaching, she knew she would soon have to make rational decisions and string together coherent sentences.

Focusing on the here and now—pushing that remarkable kiss to the edge of her mind—took every ounce of willpower she possessed.

He halted on the corner and looked both ways along Tooley Street. Then he lowered his gaze to her face. “My men can handle anything that might happen here—assuming anything happens at all. I’ll escort you home.” He raised his head and scanned the shadows. “Where are your groom and coachman? I thought you said they were here.”

“They are.” She gestured to the opening of an alley across the road. “They’re over there, where they could see down the lane. The carriage is farther along that side.”

There were a few people on the larger road, but at that hour, everyone had their heads down, hurrying home. She stepped off the narrow pavement and started across the street. If he was going to return to Mayfair with her, then presumably he’d concluded that, as nothing had thus far occurred, the barrels, assuming they were still in Morgan’s Lane, would most likely remain there for the night.

In two strides, he loomed by her side. She felt his fingers brush her elbow as if he intended taking her arm, but then he must have remembered her disguise, and his hand fell away.

Michael gritted his teeth and strode beside her. In the aftermath of that kiss, with the added complication of her unexpected attire, he felt as if, inside, he was being buffeted by an emotional storm. Sebastian’s warning echoed in his head; if Cleo’s mother had once led a smuggling gang, then presumably she’d worn male clothing. Evidently, Cleo had felt no more reluctance over doing so than her mother—not when adventure beckoned.

Given what was roiling inside him, that did not bode well.

They reached the opposite pavement, and in response to a hand signal from her, two men materialized from the alley’s shadows. Michael sized them up—a grizzled older man, presumably the coachman, and a groom Michael judged to be in his late twenties. Neither man looked the sort to be swept away by a giddy lady’s plans; both looked sound and reliable. Michael compressed his lips and said nothing. Yet.

“We’re calling it a night,” she whispered to the pair.

They nodded in acknowledgment. The coachman took the lead, and the groom waved his mistress and Michael to precede him. They walked quickly and quietly along the street to where a small black carriage stood by the curb.

Two ragged urchins had been holding the horse. While the coachman paid them off, Michael opened the carriage door. Before he could give her his hand, his partner scrambled in. Her jacket rode up as she did, and the sight of her shapely rear encased in breeches reminded him—forcefully—that she was dressed as a lad. He drew in a fortifying breath—then he paused, let the door swing almost shut, and walked to where the coachman was about to climb up.

Michael lowered his voice and decidedly sharply asked, “What the devil did you think you were about, assisting your mistress in a start like this?”

The coachman regarded him stoically, then replied, “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but have you succeeded in saying no to the young lady?”

His lips setting, Michael cast his mind back over their interactions. He couldn’t claim to have done so.

The coachman nodded. “When you manage it, let us know how it’s done, because we haven’t figured it out yet, and we’ve known her since she was a nipper.”

Michael thought he heard an amused snort from inside the carriage.

“Howsoever,” the coachman went on, “as to why we let her go off down the lane, we ran into some of your men. They told us you were along down there, and more of your men were at the end. When she vanished into that alcove, we realized that’s where you must be. Figured you’d have it covered.” The man nodded toward the body of the carriage. “Looks like you did.”

Michael followed the man’s gaze. He’d had her lips covered, certainly. If his inner demons had had their way, he’d have—no. He wasn’t going to think of that. “Back to Clarges Street,” he ordered, and the coachman nodded and gathered the reins.

Michael returned to the carriage door, opened it, and climbed inside. The carriage tipped as the coachman climbed up. After shutting the door, Michael dropped to the seat beside his partner and wondered—in the wake of that revealing kiss—what she was thinking now.

As the carriage rattled off, he glanced sidelong at her face. The dim light from a streetlamp briefly illuminated her profile, the curve of her chin, the corner of her lips…

Looking forward, he dragged his mind from wallowing in memories of that kiss. He didn’t regret it in the slightest—how could he? The simple act had opened up a prospect he’d had no inkling existed…and he wasn’t, when all was said and done, averse to further exploration. But not now. Any venturing into unknown territory required careful consideration, and while in the throes of a mission, he didn’t have time to plot appropriate strategies.

Later. All that should be left until later.

Meanwhile, however, between then and now…

He waited until the carriage reached the next streetlamp and, in the pale glow, studied her face. From what he could see, her expression remained haughtily self-assured, but the curve of her lips had softened; he got the distinct impression her gaze was distant, her mind far away…as if she was still thinking about their kiss.

He definitely didn’t want to discuss that, to raise that issue between them—not yet. But that kiss made it even more imperative that he steer her away from any further active involvement of the more dangerous sort—the sort that required her to traipse around in breeches.

Facing forward, he said, “This afternoon, after seeing you home, I called at Scotland Yard.” He hadn’t intended to inform her of his late afternoon’s discoveries, deeming them too gruesome for her ears, but that was before she’d appeared in Morgan’s Lane—in breeches; if his findings served to frighten her into leaving the dangerous skulking to him, he’d be a fool not to share them. “I used family connections to ask if they’d discovered any unidentified bodies recently—since last Wednesday morning.”

She’d turned her head; he could feel her gaze on his face. He had her full attention.

“They have a register, including whatever details they’ve been able to glean.” His tone detached, he continued, “Early on Thursday morning, the bodies of two men were pulled from the river down toward Rotherhithe. One was middle-aged, the other about twenty years old. Both had been struck down, then garroted, and their bodies tipped into the river—the surgeon says they went into the water most likely the day before.” He paused, then went on, “The use of a garrote marks the murders as unusual, but other than that, the details give us no further clue.”

Silence reigned for several seconds, then in a quiet voice, she asked, “Did you identify them—Terrance Doolan and Johnny Dibney?”

“No. Not as such. Aside from all else, I’ve never actually seen them, and the bodies are at the River Police’s morgue farther down the river. But I gave the Yard the names and addresses, and they’ll pass them on and get the formal identification done.”

Cleo nodded. She fitted the details of the deaths into the picture she was building in her head of what had happened with the ten barrels. Eventually, she sighed. “We already suspected Doolan and Johnny were dead.”

His gaze had drifted to the street beyond the window. “I suspect that Doolan accepting the job of transporting the ten barrels was the action that, ultimately, ended their lives. Once he’d agreed, there was nothing anyone could have done to save them.”

If her resolution to expose the villains behind the plot had needed any bolstering…

Her jaw firming, she looked at Michael; she waited until he glanced her way and trapped his gaze. “All we can do for them and the others killed as a result of this plot is to do everything we possibly can to bring the blackguards behind it to justice.”

He searched her eyes, her face; she waited while he read her commitment, her resolution, in her expression and in the unwavering steadiness of her gaze.

His lips tightened, as did his jaw. With a brief, rather stiff dip of his head, he turned to look out at the streetscape.

Michael resisted the urge to thunk his head against the carriage window. If all he’d seen in her face was any guide—and he felt certain it was—then his telling her of Doolan’s and Dibney’s murders had only strengthened her determination to forge ahead with the mission. And he didn’t doubt that, in her mind, that meant active involvement—active participation whenever possible.

He stared out unseeing at the familiar streets. And inwardly admitted that the confirmation of the carter’s and apprentice’s deaths—of their ruthless removal by the plotters once their part had been played—had only heightened his own determination to see the villains in the dock to answer for those and all their other crimes.

Given her background, given all he’d learned of her, he shouldn’t have expected her—couldn’t expect her—to react in any other way.

Retreat wasn’t an action a Hendon would be easily driven to, any more than a Cynster would. That she was a lady and not a gentleman…given his own female relatives, he really should have known better.

Still, their agreement had been that he would share all information; at least he’d kept faith with that—one thing over which she couldn’t take umbrage.

Mentally, he looked ahead, evaluating the possibilities that lay between then and Monday morning. He wondered what she planned to do tomorrow—how she intended to fill her Sunday. But he wasn’t going to ask. Wasn’t going to start any discussion of watching the warehouses in Morgan’s Lane.

When the silence stretched unbroken and the streetscapes of Mayfair started to roll past, he decided that, if she didn’t say anything about the next day, it would behoove him to leave well alone.