Mick was torn between being furious with Fancy for taking matters into her own hands and applauding her ingenuity. For gaining him the introduction he’d desired, she’d be insufferable for at least a sennight. But as he followed the couple leading the way toward the fireworks, he couldn’t seem to hold on to his irritation with his sister nor take his gaze away from the woman. She wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. Ladies of the nobility tended to be haughty, unapproachable. They looked at him as though he were muck to be scraped off the bottom of their shoe.

But Lady Aslyn didn’t seem to fit so easily into that mold. Her eyes, the blue of a summer sky, had reflected curiosity, perhaps something even more provocative: temptation. He intrigued her. From the moment she’d become aware of his existence, she’d not taken her gaze from him, but had studied him with her fine brow delicately furrowed as though he were a puzzle to be sorted out. He’d wager half his fortune she’d been striving to place him, to wonder from whence she knew him. She was unlikely to make the connection—­not until his plans were completed. Then she would know the truth of him, the truth of those she considered family, those whom she loved. Both truths were likely to bring her to tears, fill her with shame and mortification. And certainly kill any desire for him that might have been sparked within her breast.

If he were any other man, he might experience a measure of remorse, but he’d learned early on there was no capital found in regrets.

“I’ve never spoken to nobility before,” Fancy said quietly. “They seem rather pleasant.”

“Stay away from them after tonight.” He’d been reckless to bring her, to let her get even a glimpse of his quarry.

“Why?”

“Because he has designs on you.” That, too, had been obvious from the start. There had been greed, desire, lust in the earl’s eyes, and it had taken every bit of control he possessed not to introduce his fist to that little dent in his lordship’s chin.

“You implied he was interested in the lady.”

“She is the sort he marries. You are the sort he beds.”

Her eyes widened, her cheeks reddened. “And the lady on his arm? Is she the sort you wed?”

“Never in a million years.”

She stopped walking, causing him to do the same. “Yet you’re going to strive to take her away from him. What has he done to earn your wrath?”

He’d been born, protected, loved. Although in truth, he wasn’t the one with whom Mick found fault, but he was the means to achieving satisfaction. Not that he was willing to explain any of his reasons to his sister. She’d find fault with him. Generally he didn’t care what people thought about him, but from the moment she was born, she’d been the only pure thing to ever love him. He’d do whatever necessary to ensure nothing ever tainted that purity. “For tonight, simply enjoy the fireworks.”

“But I’m part of your scheme now.”

“Not after tonight.”

“I gained you an introduction. I can do more—­”

“You were correct earlier, Fancy. You were merely to serve as part of my disguise. What is going to transpire beyond tonight is not for a lady of your sensibilities.” Not for anyone with a shred of kindness or civility, but his education in the streets had ensured he grew up to possess neither of those irritating and limiting qualities. If they lingered about at all, he was unable to locate even a remnant of their existence within his character, his soul, his heart.

“I despise the way you discount me so easily with so little care.”

“I’m not discounting you, I’m protecting you.”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to protest more, reminding him of a dog he’d once owned that never released his hold on a bone once he had it clamped between his jaws. “We can leave now if you prefer,” he said curtly before she could give voice to more objections.

Her face fell, no doubt because she’d realized to argue with him was a losing battle. Men with far more worldly experience could not stand up to him, so how could a mere slip of a girl? “I want to see the fireworks.”

He was impressed she managed not to sound too churlish or petulant. “Then let this go.”

She quickly stuck her tongue out at him before marching forward. Her short legs were no deterrent for his longer ones, and he easily caught up with her. Odd that she didn’t realize her childish actions proved his point: she was not made for the world in which he survived.

Kipwick and Lady Aslyn were waiting in an open area that would give them a clear view of the sky. The lady moved to greet Fancy as though they were long lost friends, which left the earl and Mick standing behind them. He should have used the opportunity to study his foe, but he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze from Lady Aslyn’s profile as she smiled and spoke with his sister.

Her features were not perfect. The end of her nose tipped up ever so slightly as though she’d spent her youth with it pressed up against a shop window, longing for something she’d spied on a shelf. A distant light glinted off her eyelashes, which were unusually long, and he suspected when she slept, they fanned out over her cheeks. Her eyes tilted up slightly as though the corners near her temples were shoved into place by her overly high cheekbones. Yet each imperfection wove into the fabric of her face to give her the appearance of perfection.

Her alabaster skin was flawless, not a freckle in sight, and he doubted she’d ever allowed the sun to touch her face. Nor a man for that matter. Beneath her frilly hat, a few blond tendrils, curling and loose, had broken free of their pins. He suspected they were the most rebellious part of her. Her posture, the way she held herself stiffly, the lack of animation in her movements spoke of a woman who understood she was continually on display and must constantly portray control and a proper bearing.

He was quite looking forward to the challenge of destroying that control.

“Have we met before?” Kipwick asked quietly.

Mick slid his gaze over to the man, who was perhaps an inch shorter than he and much more slender. But then his lordship had never had to haul rubbish out of the city in order to earn a few shillings so his family didn’t go hungry. “No.”

The earl’s thick dark eyebrows drew together, causing a deep crease to form between them. “You look familiar. I could swear our paths have crossed at some point.”

“I don’t move about in your circles, my lord. And I doubt very much you move about in mine.”

Kipwick blanched, averted his gaze. Mick wasn’t surprised. He’d learned enough about the earl during the past few months to have a relatively good idea of the circles he preferred. Before summer drew to a close, they would be his downfall.

“Although it’s quite possible you saw me in passing at the Cerberus Club. It seems to be a crossroads for the various stations in life, a place where the upper and lower classes don’t mind mingling because their common interests override all else.”

“Hardly likely I’ve seen you there, as I haven’t garnered a membership.”

Mick was well aware Kipwick had been making inquiries about the club, knew he’d never been. The establishment was merely a lure, the first step in guiding the earl toward his downfall. “Membership isn’t required. Merely a hefty purse.”

He was acutely aware of the earl coming to sharp attention. Disappointment washed through him. He’d anticipated a bit of a challenge, had hoped Kipwick would at least resist being led to slaughter. Nothing in Mick’s life had ever come easy. He didn’t want revenge handed to him on a silver platter without his having worked for it.

“To be honest,” Kipwick said hesitantly, “I wasn’t certain the place truly existed. No one of my acquaintance has ever admitted to spending time at the gaming hell.”

“I’m not surprised. Most of the aristocrats who frequent the place have been barred from the more respectable clubs. Admitting to frequenting Cerberus hardly improves one’s reputation.”

“You think I’ve been barred?”

The cutting edge to his voice indicated he’d been insulted. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so easy after all. “No, my lord. I was trying to offer a suggestion for where we might have possibly crossed paths. You strike me as a man with a keen intellect who would have success at the tables, and a bit of an adventurer who might be in search of various types of entertainment. I suspect you bore easily.”

“You deduced all that from a chance meeting?”

No, he’d deduced it all from months of research, but he needed to squelch the earl’s suspicions. “Quite right. Simply because I enjoy the more daring environs doesn’t mean all men do.” Especially ones who were spoiled and pampered, who’d lived in privilege, a privilege Mick should have enjoyed, at least partially. A proper school, proper house, proper food, proper clothing. He didn’t mind making his way as a man, but as a boy he shouldn’t have had to do the things he’d done to survive. However, he didn’t allow the seething fury to rise to the surface, to inhabit his stance or his voice. “My apologies for believing we had something in common.”

“I didn’t take offense. I’m merely curious about your knowledge.”

And apparently not very trusting. He wondered at that. “You come from a storied family. I’ve read accounts in the papers.”

“You pay attention to all families?”

“I pay attention and remember everything. I’m a businessman. I never know where an idea or opportunity for a new venture might appear. I’m also very skilled at quickly judging a fellow’s worth, so I don’t take on an investor I ought not.”

“Now, I must be the one to apologize. I have on occasion had men strive to take advantage of my position. It makes one wary.”

“It is always good to approach strangers with caution.”

Kipwick scoffed. “These were friends. Or so I thought. I must admit to being curious about the Cerberus Club. But as I understand it, its location is a closely guarded secret.”

Mick shrugged negligently. “Meet me at the entrance to these gardens tomorrow night at ten and I’ll take you there.”

The earl’s mouth shifted up into a smile. “I may just do that.”

He would do it. His debt had caused him to lose his membership in one gentlemen’s club, and he was on the cusp of losing it in another. The earl had a penchant for gambling when he ought not, for raising the stakes when the odds were not in his favor. Apparently he was an atrocious cardplayer, unable to divine when fortune had turned against him.

An explosion rent the stillness of the night and only then did Mick notice the red and green blossoms filling the sky. He heard Fancy’s startled gasp. She no doubt didn’t remember he’d shown her a fireworks display when she was four. Sitting on his shoulders, she’d cheered with glee then, her enthusiasm knocking aside his hat. Now she clapped with a bit more decorum but her elation wreathed her face.

What surprised him was how delighted Lady Aslyn appeared. He’d had to shift his stance slightly and inconspicuously in order to still view her profile. With the colored flares dancing over her features and the brightness of her smile, she was beautiful in a way he’d overlooked before. Childlike in her joy. He was suddenly struck by how young she appeared, not much older than Fancy. Innocent. He suspected she’d never sinned in her life.

If he were a decent man, he’d cast aside his plans. But having clawed his way out of the sewer into which he’d been tossed, Mick Trewlove was neither decent nor one to give up simply because he’d misjudged certain elements of his scheme. He was known for being a stubborn bastard. That stubborn streak had gained him wealth and a reputation for being ruthless when it came to acquiring whatever he desired.

Presently he desired an acknowledgment of his place in the world. Without it, he was merely a thug. With it, he would become one of the most powerful men in Great Britain. Doors once slammed in his face would open wide. Those who had previously shunned him would embrace him.

He’d been scheming for far too long to cast it all aside now. He’d climbed as far as he could up the social ladder. To reach the higher rungs, others had to fall—­far and spectacularly, like fireworks burning out on their way down. He would be paid what he was owed. And God’s mercy on anyone who stood in his way.

Aslyn could sense Mick Trewlove’s gaze on her. Odd thing about that: it made her tingle all over as though he were touching her with his hands rather than his eyes. She couldn’t recall ever being so aware of a man. It was thrilling, frightening, confusing. It made her long to snuggle against him and jump out of her skin at the same time. It made it almost impossible to concentrate on the beauty of the magnificent fireworks bursting overhead.

And it made her feel guilty. Guilty because her reaction to Kip whenever he was near paled in comparison. She told herself it was because she was familiar with her childhood friend, had known him for most of her life, lived within his parents’ residence, frequently enjoyed meals with him, danced with him at balls, and had such a familiar relationship with him that her guardians didn’t require she travel about with a chaperone when in his company, because they knew he would not take advantage.

She suspected the sternest of chaperones would be no deterrent to Mick Trewlove if he wanted to take advantage of her in order to engage in some sort of mischievous behavior. He was no doubt quite skilled at slipping an untoward touch by the matronly as well as stealing kisses from willing lasses. She was unnerved by her horrifying realization she wouldn’t mind being one of those lasses. Only for a moment or two.

Blast it all! When had she become obsessed with kissing, with the yearning to experience the press of a man’s lips upon her own, to know the secrets of passion that had thus far eluded her?

She was a lady, and ladies behaved in proper ways. They did not allow themselves to be caught in compromising positions—­indeed, they did not get themselves into compromising positions. They did not create scandals nor were they to be the object of a scandal created by someone else. They most certainly did not contemplate removing a glove and running bared fingers through a gentleman’s beard. The duchess would be appalled to learn all her dire warnings about how easily a gentleman could slip off the leash of propriety were being nudged into the corner of her ward’s mind where they could merely prick ineffectually at her conscience.

Or not so ineffectually. She should not be having these thoughts about Mick Trewlove. If she were to have them at all, they should revolve around Kip. She should yearn for him to break free of Society’s tether and kiss her. It was unconscionable to be so aware of the stranger standing behind her. Since her coming out, she’d been introduced to many young, eligible men but none had sparked her interest. Only Kip had ever held her attention—­until now. And that was rather disconcerting.

“The fireworks are spectacular,” Miss Trewlove whispered on a sigh as though she feared if she spoke too loudly she would disturb others’ enjoyment of the fantastical display. “Do you watch them often?”

“This is my first time to visit the gardens.”

“Your brother seems as difficult to manage as mine.”

Aslyn furrowed her brow. “My brother?”

Miss Trewlove glanced back over her shoulder, gave her head a small jerk.

“Kipwick?” Surprised by the girl’s assumption, Aslyn laughed softly. “He’s not my brother.”

Miss Trewlove blinked repeatedly. “But you have no chaperone.”

Her tone was one of disbelief, echoing the possibility of scandal.

“I’m a ward of his parents. He’s practically a brother.” Even as she said it, it seemed wrong to refer to her future husband in those terms, to even consider him in a neutral sort of way. “I mean, he’s more than that, of course. But he wouldn’t take advantage.”

“Mick tells me all men will take advantage.”

“Kip wouldn’t.”

“How fortunate you are. My brothers would never let me step out with a man to whom I wasn’t related. Although if Mick has his way, I’ll never be allowed to step out with a man at all.”

“How many brothers have you?” she asked.

“Four. And a sister, who is older and granted far more freedom than I. It’s quite exasperating.”

Discreetly, Aslyn pointed over her shoulder. “Is he the eldest?”

Miss Trewlove nodded, rolled her eyes. “And the bossiest.”

Yes, she could well imagine that. She was accustomed to being around confident men, but none of them exuded self-­assurance to such a degree that it seemed to overwhelm every other aspect of a person. Mick Trewlove did. She could practically see it coming from him in waves that had the power to encompass everything around him—­including herself. She wanted to experience that power, be drawn into it, captured by it, seduced within it. All these untamed thoughts were remarkable, brought a self-­awareness she’d never before experienced. For the first time in her life, she recognized a woman had needs—­she had needs—­that went beyond polite dances and courteous strolls through a garden. She wanted hands touching where they shouldn’t, lips gliding where they ought not. She wanted her self-­control shattered, her morals in danger—­

Suddenly she became aware of people around her cheering, clapping, wandering off, and she realized the fireworks had come to an end. There was an odd fragrance of smoke and something more drifting on the air. Whatever powered the explosions, she supposed. She inhaled deeply, wondering if exploding passion possessed a unique scent.

“Well, we’d best be off,” Kip said. “I promised Mother to have you home before ten.”

“Surely not all the entertainments are drawing to a close now.”

“The ones you’re allowed to enjoy are.”

She might have argued if the Trewloves weren’t still standing nearby, but a proper lady did not create a scene in public. Besides, remaining in Mick Trewlove’s company was causing riots within her imagination and body. She was likely to embarrass herself if she weren’t careful. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Trewlove.”

The girl smiled. “It was an honor to share the fireworks with you.” She bowed her head slightly, gave a quick curtsy. “My lord.”

“Miss Trewlove.”

Aslyn turned to Miss Trewlove’s brother and fought not to imagine all the various explosions, from small to large, that he might create within a woman. “Mr. Trewlove.”

Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. Through her glove, she could feel the warmth and strength of his fingers, the heat of his mouth seeping through the kidskin. “Lady Aslyn, thank you for your kindness to my sister.”

She could do little more than nod and withdraw her hand. Whatever was wrong with her? During her Seasons, numerous men had taken her gloved hand, even kissed it, but none had caused her throat to knot up. She was vaguely aware of Kip taking her arm and leading her away.

Not looking back over her shoulder for one final glance at Mick Trewlove was a challenge. She didn’t know why the knowledge she would never again see him left her with a sense of loss.

As his carriage rattled through the street, Mick stared out the window and tried to concentrate on his encounter with Kipwick and how best to take advantage of their upcoming meeting, but his mind kept drifting to Lady Aslyn—­and his plans for her. They required a bit more finesse. She wasn’t likely to arrange a rendezvous with a scoundrel. Ensuring their paths crossed so he could lure her into his arms was going to be a bit tricky. The affairs she attended were not ones to which he was invited. At least not presently, but in the near future—­

“I suspect you don’t want Mum to know about your true purpose in escorting me to the gardens tonight,” Fancy said, and the tone in her voice alerted him that he was going to pay dearly for her silence. He might view her as an innocent child, but she’d always been too cunning by half. When he’d come home, battered and bruised, it might have been his sister Gillie who patched him up, but it had been Fancy who’d squatted on her haunches before him and watched with keen interest, declaring when all was said and done that she was in need of sweets to keep her mouth busy so it didn’t tell their mum what she’d seen.

She was most fortunate that he loved her as much as he did. “What’s the price?” he grumbled. Most men took a step back when he used that tone. She merely smiled.

“A bookshop.”

He furrowed his brow. “You want to go shopping for a book?”

“No. I want to own a bookshop.”

His laughter echoed through the conveyance. “Don’t be daft. You’ll be married within the year.”

“Earlier you claimed I’d never marry.”

“Yes, well, I misspoke. The truth is, Fancy, that seeing you well married is my goal—­everyone’s goal, to be honest.”

“Tonight’s efforts were a part of that goal?”

Crucial to it. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Until my marriage comes to pass, I could have a shop.”

“Fancy—­”

“You’re putting up all those buildings. Why not give me a shop? You helped Gillie acquire her tavern.”

“It’s different with Gillie.”

“Why? Because you don’t think any man will have her?”

“Because I don’t think she’d have any man. She’s too independent by half, always has been.”

“I’d like to be independent, as well.”

“You will be. You’ll just be married and independent.” He glanced out the window. “We’re home. Let’s leave it there.”

As the vehicle came to a smooth halt outside the rundown residence in one of London’s most notorious rookeries, Mick deeply regretted that his mum refused to accept his offer to be moved to a more luxurious dwelling. He suspected her refusal was twofold: she didn’t think she was deserving of anything nicer than the squalor that surrounded her and her irrational fear that whoever moved in after her would do a bit of gardening and discover the dark secrets buried behind the residence.

Mick had been eight when he’d uncovered them. He hadn’t been trying to plant a new bush or shrub but had been searching for buried treasure. What he’d found was the truth about his past.

Before his footman could reach the door, he shoved it open and leaped out. Turning back, he handed his sister down. She’d only recently returned from boarding school to live here. He’d offered to provide her with an apartment or a town house in a fancier area, but she didn’t like the notion of their mum living alone. It was his hope that in time, Fancy would convince Ettie Trewlove that it was in everyone’s best interest to leave all her sins behind.

He didn’t bother knocking, but simply opened the door, allowing Fancy to precede him into the warmth of the dwelling. Although it was impossible to tell from the outside, the inside was quite welcoming. Mick and his brothers had seen to it, gutting most of the residence and rebuilding it to ensure their mum had the comforts to which they thought she was entitled. The landlord hadn’t objected. Indeed, when Mick had confronted him, he’d been only too glad to hand over all his properties in the area for a very modest sum. Eventually Mick would raze everything and build anew. But doing that would uncover all the skeletal remains, so he bided his time.

Smiling at them, his mum shoved herself up from the plush orange and yellow brocade chair by the low fire. She never complained of being cold now that Mick had coal delivered every day. He wanted to hire a maid of all work to see to her needs, but again, her fears wouldn’t allow that. He couldn’t stand watching the tears well in her eyes—­which they did anytime he suggested some change to how she lived.

She shuffled toward the small kitchen area. “I’ll put the kettle on.” Always she was offering tea.

“None for me,” he said gently. “I won’t be staying.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why must you rush off? You’ve not been around much lately.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Surely you can spare a few minutes.”

“He can,” Fancy said, hanging up her shawl before taking over the task of preparing the tea. “While I see to this, convince him that I should have a bookshop.”

Whenever the females of this family ganged up on him, he knew his only defeats.

His mum returned to her chair and sat, placing her feet on the small, embroidered stool. “She’s always loved books. I might have done better by all of you had I known how to read better, but it was always a struggle to make sense of the letters.”

Taking the wing-­backed chair opposite her, he stretched out his legs. “You did well enough by us.”

“You’ve had to work so hard.”

“I take pleasure in the work.”

“I’d like to know that sort of pleasure,” Fancy called out. “The satisfaction of accomplishment.”

“I paid for you to attend a posh school for a reason—­­to give you the refinement you needed to marry well.”

“Why can’t I marry and have a shop?”

“She has a point,” his mum said.

“She’ll be a lady of quality, too busy to muck about in a shop.”

“How is she going to meet a gent of quality?”

“I’m working on that.”

The woman who had raised Mick studied him intently. Most of her black hair had turned gray, and she swore to knowing which strands each son was responsible for turning. Mick feared most were a result of his actions.

“I’m worried about Gillie,” she said softly, changing the topic to one that periodically concerned her.

“She can take care of herself.” His other sister was nothing if she wasn’t self-­reliant. As a child, she’d always hung on to his shirttail. Perhaps he should have been more protective, but at the time, they’d all been striving to survive.

“But managing a tavern . . .” Her voice trailed off as though she couldn’t quite decide what to make of that.

Gillie more than managed it; she owned it. Mick had seen to that. Neither of his sisters was going to be under any man’s thumb as their mum had been. He was going to make damned sure of that, no matter the cost. “I’ll stop by and see her tonight.”

Relief washed over her wrinkled features. “Thank you.”

“With that, I should be off.” He rose.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Fancy approached, holding a tray. “I’ve only just finished preparing your tea.”

Slipping a finger beneath her chin, he tilted up her face and winked at her. “Why settle for tea when Gil will give me whiskey?”

Walking over to his mum, he bent low and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry overly much. I have everything well in hand. Ask Fancy to describe the fireworks to you.”

She patted his cheek. “You’ve been a blessing from the beginning.”

“As have you.” Heading for the door, he slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and rubbed his fingers over the faded and fraying threads that formed the Hedley crest, all that remained of the blanket in which he’d been swaddled when the duke had handed him over to her.