Simon stopped his horse.

His life had taken on an unreal quality. It was well past midnight on a starless night. He was leading his horse in a slow, mile-and-a-half trek down dark, empty alleyways from Mayfair to Bow Street. Whilst dragging along in iron cuffs the woman he’d hoped would be his bride.

“I’m going to unshackle you,” he said. “But only because it’s faster for you to ride up here with me.”

She nodded quickly. “May I send a message to my brother when we reach the court?”

Probably. Allowing her to pen a letter would break protocols, not laws. Although he had no choice but to arrest Dahlia, Simon would do everything in his power to minimize the damage her arrest could inflict on her wards.

He slid from his horse and fished the keys from the saddle pocket.

Part of him still couldn’t quite believe the events that were unfolding. This was Dahlia. And he’d shackled her like a common thief.

She was a common thief, he reminded himself firmly as he slipped the key into the iron lock. An uncommon thief, perhaps, but still a thief. Nothing was happening tonight that she couldn’t have prevented herself. He was not the villain. This was not his fault.

When the iron cuffs fell away, white skin rubbed raw from constant contact with the heavy metal was visible even in the half-light of a crescent moon.

He was not the villain, Simon reminded himself. He was not.

“Why did you do this?” he asked her softly. “What made you think you could talk your way out of a conviction?”

She hesitated before answering. “I’m a baron and baroness’s daughter. I thought—”

He dropped her hands.

“You thought what?” he demanded, his laugh harsh and unmusical. “Having titled blood makes you exempt from the law? I’m the son of a marquess and roses have never flown out my arse. If I commit a crime, I fully expect to go to prison like I’d deserve.”

Even as he said the words, he realized the comparison was invalid. For all that a marquess outranked a mere baron, Simon was a bastard and Dahlia was legitimate.

Of course she was spoilt and self-indulgent. She’d been raised to be from birth.

“It doesn’t matter who your father is,” he bit out. “You are no lady. You’re nothing but a thief.”

She made no objection to this pronouncement.

He wished that made him feel better.

The truth was, she was far more than a thief. Far more than a baroness’s daughter, even if her peers didn’t notice. Simon did. He had witnessed the fierceness with which she protected her flock the very moment he’d met her. She’d brained a footpad with a broom, just to keep him away from a total stranger.

A total stranger who now looked up to Dahlia as if she’d hung the sun and moon.

The students worshiped her because she was their hero, their mentor, and their mother, all wrapped into one. They didn’t love her because her parents were titled. They didn’t even know.

Simon hadn’t known either.

She might have mentioned that tiny fact at any point during their short-lived courtship. If not over the dinner table, then at least in Lady Pettibone’s library. I should get away with it because of my noble birth had proven for centuries to be far more persuasive than I should get away with it due to my noble intentions.

The only logical reason she might have had for failing to mention her highborn connections at every turn…was that she hadn’t wished to use them. It seemed she had wished to make her own way. Just like Simon or anyone else. Dahlia wanted to be judged not by her father’s title, but rather by her own actions.

And now, unfortunately, she would.

Her parents might be titled, but Dahlia was not. And between the two of them, Simon was the one with the power. From the moment he filed his report, her life would be over.

He lifted her onto his horse. Her shoulders caved inward, and she remained as motionless and lifeless as a rag doll.

She didn’t look like the daughter of a baron. She looked like a defeated, heartbroken young woman being sent away from everything and everyone she ever loved.

He rubbed the back of his neck. There was one more possible reason why Dahlia might have neglected to mention her position in society.

Which was that Dahlia didn’t give two figs about her elevated position in society.

Why else would she be running a boarding school for indigent girls instead of a finishing school for debutantes? Come to think of it, why would she be performing philanthropic acts for those of a lower station at all?

Simon was the one who cared about class differences. He was the one obsessed with his younger brother, the marquess, and how Simon could never truly be a gentleman, thanks to his illegitimacy.

By reducing her to nothing more than the rank of her parents, he was discounting her over the details of her birth the same way people had always discounted by-blows like him for the circumstances of theirs. Who was this woman, really?

He forced himself to meet her eyes.

“Will it help if I promise never to do it again?” she asked, when he didn’t climb up behind her.

“No,” he said with tired honesty. “The past cannot be changed.”

But could it be forgiven?

Had she done anything that truly required his forgiveness? Would she want it anyway?

He swung himself up behind her and reached for the reins.

This was likely to be the last time he ever held her in his arms. Trapping her atop a horse bound for the Magistrates’ Court was perhaps not the most romantic act one might perform when caught alone beneath the moonlight but, well, here they were.

The fancy raiment she currently wore looked nothing like the simple garments he was used to seeing her in, but the scent of her hair beneath his nose was the same as he remembered.

She smelled like waltzing lessons and stolen kisses. Circus balconies and dinners with friends. Laughter and lovemaking.

And now the scent would remind him of betrayal.

Hers, and his.

Dahlia was willing to sacrifice herself to help those she loved at any cost. It was her greatest weakness and noblest strength. Those she loved, she loved completely and unconditionally. She would die to protect them. Love to her was worth far more than any personal gain.

As for Simon, what would he do? What did love mean to him?

He did have a choice, he realized. He would have to decide between the woman he loved and his very sense of self.

He’d become a Bow Street investigator to defend the weak. Avenge the forgotten. Protect the helpless.

Those were the same reasons why Dahlia had opened the St. Giles School for Girls. She had invested every penny she possessed, every hour in the day, every shred of her reputation into creating a better, safer world for those who could not.

She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t repent her crimes. If she discovered some way to smuggle crusts of stale bread from Newgate to St. Giles, he had no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

He covered the raw skin of her delicate wrists with his hand. Sometimes, doing the right thing caused a lot of wrong.

And somethings, doing the wrong thing caused a lot of right.

The students at Dahlia’s school were desperate, poverty-stricken little girls just like his mother had been. When she’d made the leap from prostitute to courtesan, she’d believed fate was finally on her side. Instead, it had killed her.

How many times had he wondered what her life might have been like if she’d had the chance to follow a different path? Simon’s mother had never been given the opportunity to find out. It might be too late for women like Simon’s mother, but the twenty-four children at Dahlia’s school could still be saved.

He stopped the horse. “Never again?”

Dahlia stiffened. “What?”

He gripped her arms. “You would promise? Even if it meant putting your school and your girls in jeopardy?”

“I would put them more in jeopardy by refusing to promise,” she stammered. “I’ll swear anything you want.”

He slid off his horse so he could meet her eyes.

Her gaze was more wary than hopeful.

“It’s not just a promise,” he said softly. “It has to be true. If anyone finds out I’ve let a thief walk free, my career isn’t just over. I’ll be sent to Newgate, too.”

“Nothing on this earth would make me risk your life for mine,” she said without hesitation. “Losing you because of something I did… If you need to send me to the gallows, send me.”

He lifted her hands. “Your girls need you more than I need a police commendation.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying no more risks,” he said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”

She nodded. “I promise you, Simon. No more risks. I swear on my life.”

Well…perhaps one more risk, he realized with a sigh. He did trust her. And knew she loved him as much as he loved her.

He was going to have to let a thief walk.