Simon tried to focus on the case files cluttering his home study.

It was useless.

His once-legendary concentration and focus was now constantly fractured by the one criminal he’d decided not to chase.

Miss Dahlia Grenville.

His angst didn’t solely stem from the dissonance of having committed the one act he’d sworn to never do. The world was gray, not black and white. She’d been right about that. Just like she was right that saving the lives of twenty-four children was more important than incarcerating for life the thief who had tried to rescue them.

Simon wasn’t sorry he’d let Dahlia go. He was sorry the culprit was Dahlia.

In his mind, she and her school had been a much-needed safe zone. The one place he didn’t have to worry about hunting felons. The one person he would never have to investigate. She was a soft-hearted headmistress with a penchant for exercising in men’s trousers. Quirky, not criminal. With her, he could breathe in peace.

Except none of it was real.

She was all those things, but she wasn’t only those things. Her Beau Monde parentage was the perfect disguise for her high society peers. Her benevolent employment in London’s worst rookery had done the same for everyone else. Including him.

A low-class St. Giles headmistress would never have been allowed inside the fancy townhouses he’d been sent to investigate. She’d seemed exactly like the persona she’d presented herself as being. It was even true, as long as she was within the boarding school walls. When she stepped outside, however…

The brass knocker sounded from the front of his flat.

Simon tossed his files across his desk. He wasn’t reading them anyway. He might as well torture himself with a long overdue conversation with the Thief of Mayfair.

Dahlia had sent a letter requesting an audience the very morning after the Pettibone debacle. For three days, Simon had ignored both her overture and her question. There was plenty to talk about, but first he’d needed to take the time to adjust.

He was unconvinced he’d succeeded.

With tight muscles, he opened his front door. “Dahlia.”

“Simon.” She hesitated at the threshold as if unsure he’d truly allow her in.

He still wasn’t certain of its wisdom.

This morning, he had finally sent a reply. His home address. One o’clock in the afternoon.

Given the subject matter, meeting her at his Bow Street office was out of the question. Meeting at the school brought up too many memories. Too many pairs of curious eyes. Too many schoolgirls he’d already begun to miss. Lamentably, Simon’s home was the most impersonal venue he could think of.

His flat would give them the privacy to finally be honest.

“Come in,” he said at last.

She took a cautious step forward.

He was not of a humor to brew her a pot of tea, so he led her to the small parlor he was never home to use, rather than the dining area next to the kitchen.

“Your flat is quite airy and spacious,” Dahlia commented in obvious surprise as she entered the sitting room. “Lots of windows. It’s rather pretty.”

Before, he might have wondered whether a having “rather pretty” home meant his townhouse was too fancy for someone of his class or not fine enough for someone of hers. Now he knew her better. Class disparity no longer mattered.

They had far more important differences to resolve.

“I didn’t invite you here to show off my flat,” he said without emotion.

Ironic, given that for weeks, it had been all he’d thought about. Dahlia sitting exactly where she was now. Belonging there. The two of them sharing meals, the marriage bed, their lives. He had imagined that with her present inside these walls, the house would finally feel like a home.

Instead, it felt like failure.

He took a seat a good distance across from her. “When did you start?”

“When I was in too deep not to,” she responded. She hadn’t asked for context or clarification for his question. They both knew why she was here. “I had less than forty-eight hours left to settle accounts, before the creditors removed us forcibly from the abbey. There wasn’t enough money for both rent and food. Yet I had sixteen hungry children counting on me for their next crust of bread.”

His voice was ice. “So you stole.”

“So I stole,” she agreed defiantly. “Someone had just ruined hundreds of pounds in donations that would have covered months of food and clothing. The charm I slipped into my reticule meant little to its owner. But it’s worth would mean everything to my wards. That was the first object I stole. And the owner had it back within a fortnight.”

“Because you pawned it.”

“Because I sent a note telling him where to find it.” She lifted her chin. “Feel how you like about my methods, but my intentions have never been to cause lasting harm to anyone. The opposite. He could more than afford the trifle it cost to repurchase his bauble, and I was able to buy cheese and fresh linen to sew replacement dresses for girls who had outgrown their only gown.”

“Who did you get to make the transactions at the pawnbrokers?”

“Whoever I could find.” She shrugged. “I never frequented the same one twice. And I made certain whoever I sent to make the exchange was as nameless and faceless as any other nobody off the streets. Someone who would be forgotten before he was even out the door.”

Simon raised a brow. “How could you be sure he wouldn’t run off with your money?”

“I couldn’t. But, as you’ve duly noted, it was never my money. I felt that if I were ever robbed of something I myself had robbed, then it would be no more than I deserved.” She met his eyes without blinking.

“And now?” he asked.

“Obviously I cannot continue to pilfer from the ton.”

“You could try,” he said in a tone that indicated what would happen if he caught her again.

“I promised you I wouldn’t.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’ll find another way.”

He frowned. “Is there another way?”

“I don’t know,” she answered miserably. “If I did, I would have tried it long ago. I have a partner now, which helps. I’m working on an event I hope will be far more successful than my past donation-raising attempts. But I still have creditors. Still have children who are often dressed as patchwork dolls because we haven’t funds for proper wardrobes. Still have a larder whose empty shelves somehow have to fill twenty-four bellies.”

“What will you do the next time you cannot afford your rent and the next meal?”

“I suppose I’ll have to decide,” she replied, her voice empty. “If I cannot provide for my wards, I will have to set them free.”

Free. Like releasing a dove into a den of foxes. Simon’s stomach churned.

He did not wish to think about what would happen if the boarding school closed doors. He already knew. They both knew.

The moment Dahlia failed to pay her creditors and the children were forced from the abbey, every one of those girls would be right back where she was before. Workhouses. Brothels. Surviving on the streets.

He could not accept such a horrid outcome for any of the girls. Molly, Beatrice, Louisa—every one of them had burrowed into his heart. They weren’t faceless charity cases. They were like family.

Much like he’d imagined Dahlia would one day be.

He pushed to his feet.

She leapt to hers, her gaze hollow. “Is this interview over?”

“For now.” He crossed to the sideboard and found a pencil to scribble an address onto the back of one of his calling cards. “Meet me at this address next week. I’ll send you a time.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, alarm in her eyes.

He straightened his shoulders. “Change the future.”