“I should call off,” Dahlia said in agitation as her best friend picked up the curling tongs.

“You are not calling off.” Faith lifted a chunk of Dahlia’s hair and expertly applied the tongs. “I am going with you. With me as your companion, it’s not scandalous at all.”

“It’s a little scandalous,” Dahlia insisted. “It’s not some open-air carriage in Hyde Park. This is a private supper with Mr. Spaulding and another couple.”

“It’s…an unusually cozy dinner party,” Faith said firmly. “Besides, you aren’t invited to open-air carriages in Hyde Park anymore. Trust me, Mr. Spaulding is much better.”

Dahlia winced. Her outing with her mother had made it clear that her days of attracting aristocratic bachelors were over. Or even wealthy suitors at all.

Her new, lower status was still close enough to the fringes for begging donations from old friends, but there would be no prince sweeping in to save her and her school from financial ruin.

She would have to do that herself.

“Are you certain you wish to play chaperone?” Dahlia bit her lip. “As much as I appreciate the help, I would hate for you to suffer through what might be an incredibly awkward evening.”

“What else do I have on my calendar?” Faith replied lightly. “There’s no need to worry about my reputation. Your set doesn’t send me invitations anyway.”

Dahlia grimaced. After tonight, she would redouble her efforts to mind her place in society so that she too didn’t stop receiving invitations. Future donations depended on her maintaining those ties.

“My mother wanted me to marry for money,” she said after a moment. “Particularly if it involved a title. She’s quite disappointed it won’t happen.”

“Don’t all mothers want that?” Faith moved to the next section of hair. “What do you want?”

Dahlia closed her eyes. The fact that she had spent the past hour primping for a dinner with Simon answered that question on its own, and her best friend knew it.

“I want to keep the school open for as long as humanly possible,” she said instead. Both answers were true. One was simply more important than the other. “I want to bequeath the school to a new headmistress when I die. I want opportunities like this to always exist for girls who need them.”

“Are you saying you’re uninterested in Mr. Spaulding?”

“I’m saying I can’t have him. Not when I need to nurture what few connections I have left,” Dahlia replied with a sigh. “I almost wish I had married for money. Everyone thinks it’s more important than love, and in this case maybe it is. I cannot help but have more sympathy for—”

Faith stopped fixing hair.

“No sympathy,” Dahlia said quickly. “No sympathy at all. He’s a cretin. A selfish, boorish cad. He should never have cared about your position in society or your lack of dowry. A pox on his soul! I hope his valet ties his cravat so tight that he faints face-first into a bowl of cold porridge in front of the entire ton.”

The hurt expression didn’t leave Faith’s face, but she began curling her hair again.

Dahlia’s shoulders sagged. She hadn’t meant to allude to the sins in Hawkridge’s past, or the daily burden it had caused for Faith. Yet the parallels were uncomfortably clear.

The only recourse was to behave completely unlike the marquess. She would be friendly to Simon, but not romantical. The kisses had been a mistake. Delicious, toe-curling, intoxicating mistakes.

But she liked Simon too much to promise him a future they could not have. As much as she enjoyed their clandestine kisses, if the choices were formal courtship or simple friendship…then they would have to remain friends. She would have to avoid private interludes after this.

No matter how difficult that would be.

“The girls enjoyed mathematics class today,” Faith said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

“They love role-playing.” Dahlia grinned. “I had them take turns playing flower girl and serving wench to practice making change and doing sums in one’s head.”

“You love role-playing,” Faith corrected, her voice fond. “I watched you interrupt every transaction by pretending to be an irate customer. I can’t say I’ve ever seen someone cartwheel about a fruit stand before.”

Dahlia cleared her throat with an unrepentant smile. That had been her favorite part. “Life is an endless string of distractions. They must be able to add and subtract correctly no matter what might be going on about them. Besides, I could use the practice. If this headmistress bit doesn’t work out, I may need to join the circus.”

“Every one of those girls would join right along with you.” Faith set down the tongs and began arranging ringlets with pearl combs. “You ought to teach circus class to those who want more exercise.”

“Circus class,” Dahlia breathed with growing excitement. “Faith, you’re a genius! The girls could put on a small acrobatics performance to raise funds and build awareness about the school. Who doesn’t love the circus? And impish little girls? Society ladies will practically throw pound notes at the stage.”

“At a troupe of street children in trousers?” Faith asked doubtfully.

“We can sort out the details,” Dahlia assured her. Already the idea was taking root.

If the donations raised were anywhere near what she hoped, perhaps the girls could put on a small show every season—or every month! Heaven knew aristocrats considered themselves aficionados of all performing arts, from the grand opera to family musicales. Why not acrobatics?

With luck, the school could start to earn enough funds to keep Dahlia from ever being forced to play Robin Hood again. Excitement rushed through her blood. How much time would be required to choreograph a reasonably competent performance? Three months? Two? She only had to stretch pennies until then. Hope buoyed her spirits.

She could do this. They could do this.

“Once we start raising more than we spend, we can remodel the rest of the abbey.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “Not all at once. One room at a time.”

“Possibly even take in a few paying students to offset the cost,” Faith suggested.

Dahlia nodded. She wasn’t convinced that parents who could afford boarding school tuition would want their offspring rubbing shoulders with destitute children…but perhaps that was because she was still thinking like the daughter of a baroness.

As a mere trade mogul, Faith’s father had sent her to the finest institution that would accept her. Undoubtedly there would be families who couldn’t afford what the ton might consider a proper boarding school—or even the wages of an independent tutor. They might leap at the chance to give their children an education they could not otherwise afford.

“Thirty days has come and gone,” she said as Faith stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You’ve seen the school. You’ve met the girls. Please say you’ll stay on permanently. I can have a barrister transfer fifty percent ownership this very week.”

Faith bit her lip. “I have so many obligations at home—”

“I know you do,” Dahlia said quickly. “I would never come between them. Your schedule can be as flexible as you need.”

“Let me finish,” Faith chided with a fond shake of her head. “You always rush into everything you do without taking a moment to breathe. I was going to say that I see my situation at home as complementary to the potential here. You know how much I love children. I cannot imagine walking away from these girls or this cause. I shall be honored to consider this school my own.”

Dahlia leapt up from her chair to envelop Faith in a fierce embrace.

Not only would she start the official transfer first thing in the morning, she would have her brother Heath hold on to a second document bequeathing the entirety of her portion to Faith in the event Dahlia was run over by a carriage—or forced by circumstances to wed. Unlike their unmarried counterparts, wives could not own property. Dahlia couldn’t risk having a husband decide not to allow her to support the school. It would be unfair to Faith, and disastrous for the children.

“You are the very best,” she informed Faith with feeling.

Faith swung her hands in a dramatic Who, me? gesture, then grinned. “I know. Now, that’s enough saving the world for one day. Someone is waiting for you to join him. A certain handsome inspector whose gruff, straight-and-narrow exterior cannot begin to hide the heat in his smoldering eyes every time he looks in your direction.”

“Really, Faith. Smoldering eyes?” Dahlia said weakly, as her heart thumped in total agreement. Just thinking about Simon sent a frisson from her spine to her core. “Let’s go hire a hackney.”

When they arrived at the address, the front door flung open to reveal a short, jovial looking man with ruddy cheeks and kind eyes.

“You must be Inspector Spaulding’s friends,” he said merrily. “Do come in. I am Mr. Webb. Inspector Spaulding is already at the table, and Mrs. Webb will be joining us shortly.”

Inspector Spaulding was not at the table. Simon had materialized behind Mr. Webb’s shoulder within moments of their host opening the door.

“Good evening, Miss Grenville, Miss Digby.” Simon’s low voice had addressed both ladies, but his fathomless blue eyes focused wholly on Dahlia.

Any reply she might have made was trapped somewhere behind her rapidly beating heart. It was unpardonably rude to ignore her host in order to drink in the sight of a tall, dark, deliciously buttoned-up inspector, but her eyes could look nowhere else. It had been days since last she’d seen him. Days since his warm, firm lips had claimed her own.

Now here he was.

If the mere thought of seeing him sent butterflies to her stomach, finally having him within reach—and still being unable to touch him—had every nerve ending electric with awareness. She would not be able to eat. Not when the only thing she hungered for were the return of Simon’s kisses.

Faith looped her arm through Dahlia’s and all but dragged her to the dinner table.

“Stop it,” she whispered as she forced Dahlia’s weak knees into the closest chair. “I’ve lost every scrap of my innocence just from watching the two of you devour each other with your eyes.”

“You’re not innocent,” Dahlia muttered as her trembling hands fumbled for a serviette.

“Which means I know precisely what you’re thinking,” Faith reminded her as she smoothed out her own serviette. “Devouring happens in private. You will owe me an obscenely large favor, but I promise to aid you in procuring a few moments’ privacy the next time your inspector pays a call… provided that the two of you refrain from melting his colleague’s supper chairs from all of your heated glances.”

Colleague.

Dahlia snapped up straight. Stealing an hour or two of Simon’s company was not the only reason she was here tonight. She was also meant to make a positive impression on Simon’s friends.

Although she and Simon were not destined for a future together, he was on course for a long and decorated career. The last thing she desired was to make his work environment awkward in any way.

Or to let on how nervous being in a room with not one but two Bow Street employees made her.

She smiled at Mr. Webb. “Thank you for opening your home to us. Your dinner invitation is most kind.”

“And overdue,” came a merry voice as a rosy-cheeked woman bearing a platter of roasted meat emerged from the kitchen. “I have been after Mr. Webb for years to invite Inspector Spaulding to supper. We are delighted that he has brought guests.”

Dahlia’s gaze snapped down the table to Simon’s. He’d requested her presence at the first invitation he’d ever received?

He shook his head. “I am afraid the fault is mine. Your husband has been tempting me with tales of your fine cooking since the day we met. It is rare that I find myself with neither a dossier nor a prisoner in hand.”

“Wholly understandable,” Mr. Webb said firmly. “One becomes on the verge of being the highest-ranking inspector in Bow Street history through dedicated and impeccable police-work, not from accepting idle social engagements.”

“I, for one, am rather fond of idle social engagements,” Mrs. Webb said with a wink in Faith and Dahlia’s direction. “If you lads would rather return to your dark, dusty offices, I am certain we ladies can find some use for the new bottle of port in your study.”

“Never. Again,” Mr. Webb bit out with such horror that Dahlia couldn’t help but grin.

Mrs. Webb already sounded like the sort of smart, mischievous woman Dahlia absolutely loved to befriend.

The first course blurred into the second amid a constant stream of laughter and jovial conversation. Dahlia’s cheeks ached so much from nonstop smiling and verbal parries that she marveled any of them had been able to consume any of the meal at all.

“We must do this again.” Mrs. Webb placed a bowl of pudding with red currants in the center of the table. “Please don’t say I must wait another ten years before my husband can sweet talk you three into returning.”

“Surely it hasn’t been ten years,” Simon protested.

“Eleven,” Mr. Webb murmured innocently. “But who’s counting?”

Dahlia grinned. If there weren’t accounts to pay, mouths to feed, and a school to run, Dahlia would have happily agreed to dine with this witty, irreverent crowd every day, if they so desired. She could not recall the last time she’d had such fun at a supper engagement.

Her spoon paused halfway to her serving of pudding. It was true. She could not recall the last time she’d had so much fun at a dinner party, outside of her own family.

Dahlia’s list of past supper invitations read like a guide to Debrett’s Peerage, and yet the most enjoyable evening she’d spent around a dining table was not the sampling of delicate sauces created by a chef poached from French aristocrats or the stilted conversation of competing debutantes with little more in common than having been seated together by rank.

It was here. It was now. The best social engagement of her life was a handful of sharp-witted, title-less, ordinary people sharing a night of friendship and laughter around a bowl of currant pudding.

Her mother would be horrified.

Dahlia was glad she had kept her rank a secret. Society believed daughters of baronesses to have been born unsurpassably superior to the invisible ants of the working class.

What if the Webbs believed her an uppity toff who considered herself too good for the likes of them? What if Simon chose to honor their class differences by never speaking to her again, outside of his professional capacity?

She knew how he felt about his brother. How Simon’s father had treated him and his mother. The last thing she wanted was for him to lump her in that same group.

Yet she had been raised to understand that was precisely what ought to happen. Countesses and harried footmen might both be inside Almack’s at the same time, but they weren’t there to be friends. One was meant to serve. The other was meant to enjoy.

The rules were no more the patronesses of Almack’s fault than they were her mother’s. From slaves to kings, the world had been divided into class-based strata since time immemorial. Society honoring those distinctions was far from shocking. Dahlia hiding her identity, on the other hand, would scandalize far more than the fashionable set if the truth were to come to light. She might not see Simon again.

It was not a complete lie, she assured herself. After all, she was not currently a practicing baroness’s daughter. She was…a simple headmistress.

And part-time thief. She swallowed uncomfortably.

“What do you say?” Simon’s smile bathed her in warmth. “Might your schedule allow for another such gathering at some point in the future?”

She wanted to say yes. Of course she wished to say yes. Instead, she stared back at him wordlessly.

Up until now, Dahlia had been so concerned about improving her girls’ lives, that she hadn’t had time to have a life of her own. She could not dare risk her thin ties to society by allowing a courtship—or even public knowledge of association with friends like these—but it was nice to have a private moment to do with as she pleased.

She could not make a habit of dinner parties at the home of a Bow Street secretary, but it was harder and harder to resist the allure of clandestine kisses in the arms of a certain inspector.

The more she fought her attraction to Simon, the more she dreaded the inevitability of giving him up.

He deserved to find a nice young lady who would wed him and dedicate her life to him, not a charity. And Dahlia couldn’t risk allowing him—or the law—to come between her and her school. Twenty-four wards were counting on her.

“I don’t know why you’re asking poor Miss Grenville if there’s room in her agenda, when it’s you who never has a moment to spare on frivolity,” Mr. Webb said, eyes twinkling. “How will you ever get your promotion if you halt your breakneck schedule for something so mundane as eating?”

“Promotion?” Faith raised a saucy brow. “I assumed he was the highest-ranking inspector on Bow Street. I feel so betrayed.”

“Almost,” Simon demurred. “Once I close one of my more insidious open cases, I am promised a new title. It’s nothing, really.”

Dahlia’s lips curved. Perhaps the classes weren’t so different after all. Nothing was worth more than a title.

“And a spot of reward money,” Mr. Webb said as if it were only just occurring to him. “And a pay increase. Oh, and a public commendation. Nothing, really. It’s not as if your career depends on it.”

“I would catch this criminal even if it did not.” Simon’s eyes were cold enough to chill the air. “He shall never leave Newgate.”

Dahlia shivered. “Is London home to a murderer?”

“Often, unfortunately,” said Mr. Webb. “But don’t you fear. Inspector Spaulding catches all criminals, no matter the crime. The current focus is merely a thief.”

“Not ‘merely,’” Simon growled. “The carelessness of thieves can cause just as grievous harm as a murderer. Most of the violence I see every night is due to altercations with footpads.”

“I do apologize,” Mr. Webb said with a glance at his wife. “I should not have mentioned work matters in front of ladies.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Webb said briskly. “I’m certain all the ladies at this table are aware of the dangers of footpads. You’ve only to open a newspaper to see the latest tale of highwaymen and other unsavories. We are lucky to have men like you rid the city of the bad element.”

Dahlia smiled at Simon, despite the uneasy flutter in her belly. “You risk your life for others every single night. The least they can give you is an improved title and a bit of a reward. You’re a hero. I’ve known it since the day we met.”

He shrugged away the compliment. “It’s my job. Once the Thief of Mayfair is off to the gallows, I can return to protecting all citizens of London, rather than chasing down pocket globes and miniature harps.”

Pocket globes. Miniature harps. Dahlia froze in horror as she realized the awful truth. God save her.

Simon wasn’t hunting “a” thief.

He was hunting her.