Simon secured his horse outside the St. Giles School for Girls and strode confidently to the door. He was not some errant knight bringing flowers to his lady. He was a paid inspector doing his job. Nothing more.

After the attack in the alley, he had promised Miss Grenville to pass by the school every day for a week. He had done so. All was well. There was no reason to keep coming ’round. He was merely calling one final time to let her know.

He rapped sharply on the front door.

It swung open to reveal not the woman he had expected, but rather a familiar child with freckled cheeks and plaited hair. “Molly?”

“I can’t curtsey,” she whispered. “Today I ain’t a maid, but a butler.”

“A butler,” Simon repeated, thoroughly confused. “Here I thought you were a pupil.”

“Sometimes,” Molly agreed. “But is anyone ever only one thing? Don’t yet have ’nough experience to take my turn as head housekeeper, but I want to help Miss Grenville as much I can. Up ’til now, she’s the one who’s been headmistress and butler. See no reason why we can’t take shifts, d’you?”

“I…” Simon cleared his throat and began anew. “Is your previous butler at home? I’ve come to speak with her.”

“She’s in the back salon finishing up lessons. This way.”

Although he hadn’t intended to cross the threshold at all, Simon found himself following the pinafored underbutler past the entryway and the warped marble stairs to a large open chamber at the rear.

A score of panting, giggling schoolgirls lay in sweaty heaps on the scuffed wooden floor, as if they had just finished running the most amusing mile of their lives.

Miss Grenville stood up on a dais at the far end of the open salon.

Wearing trousers.

“I…” He meant to announce himself. Truly, he did. But his throat would not make sounds, and his eyes could not tear away from the sight

“Mr. Spaulding!” she said warmly, as if there was nothing at all unusual about a headmistress standing on a dais in trousers whilst surrounded by a sea of exhausted schoolgirls. “What a marvelous surprise. Just one moment, if you please.”

Simon could do nothing but watch helplessly as she unlooped a belt from a clump of fabric at her hips, sending the extra material clumped about her waist billowing down to her ankles. It was a day dress.

No sign of the trousers remained.

Nonetheless, Miss Grenville slipped behind a folding screen off to one side of the dais, leaving Simon to wonder—nay, agonize—over the enticing possibility that she was even now unbuttoning the fall of her shocking trousers, easing the fabric down over her bare hips, over the curve of her arse, over black lace garters circling her thighs, over her smooth, silk-stockinged calves to her shapely ankles… His breath quickened.

“There.” Miss Grenville stepped back into view, looking as fresh and normal as any pretty young woman who under absolutely no circumstances would even consider wearing trousers. “Girls, did you curtsey to Mr. Spaulding?”

A few straggled to their feet, whilst the others moaned variations of, “I’m tiiiired…”

“Up, up, up,” Miss Grenville said briskly. “Exercise is good for the soul. Especially since our Saturday dance lessons have been suspended until further notice.”

“What?” All the previously too-exhausted-to-curtsey schoolgirls sprang to their feet in protest. “But I love dance lessons! Why did you cancel them?”

“I haven’t canceled them. Your dancing-master has simply gone on holiday. Lessons will be resumed as soon as he returns, or we find a suitable replacement. Mr. Spaulding, I don’t suppose you can dance?”

“I…” Simon stammered, too intoxicated by his vision of Miss Grenville sensuously removing her trousers to process anything else that was happening. “Of course I can dance.”

“Prove it.” She strode through the sea of wide-eyed schoolgirls, stopping an arm’s reach away to consult an imaginary object on her wrist. “Let’s see, if I could just make out the next name on my dance card…”

She was in his arms before Simon even realized he was stepping forward. He swung her out in a dramatic arc, then back into his embrace, such that her back was flush to his chest with her arms crossed about her waist.

“It doesn’t matter whose name is on the card,” he murmured into her ear. “This is my dance.”

The pulse point jumped at the base of her throat and her beautiful lips parted. “I’m yours. Show me.”

He twirled her so that she faced him, and positioned himself at a far more respectable distance than he would have preferred. “Can you waltz?”

“Can you?” She arched a brow as she placed her hand in his.

He curved his hand about her waist and led her in sweeping, dramatic circles, keeping time to the orchestra thundering solely in his mind. The steps, he knew by heart. The dance, he’d performed a thousand times.

But never like this. Never with her. His pulse thudded.

“Are you still wearing your trousers?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“You’re an inspector.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “Inspect.”

He slid his hand ever so slightly lower down the small of her back. Beneath his fingers was the silk of her dress, the thin cotton of the shift beneath…and no sign of the thick waistband that would have been holding up her trousers.

She’d taken them off. His imagination was right. Now, underneath her gown…she wore nothing.

“Have you concluded your investigation?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“I prefer to keep it wide open,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “There are always secrets to unveil.”

A flash of pink, as her tongue peeked out to lick her lips.

Before he could do something so foolish as haul her to his chest and kiss her in front of an entire salon of tittering schoolgirls, Simon spun Miss Grenville out of his arms and took a dramatic bow.

“I believe that’s enough dancing,” he said firmly.

Thunderous applause from their delighted audience drowned out most of his words.

“Dance lessons are Saturday evenings at eight,” Miss Grenville said. “Will we see you then?”

“I’m very busy on Saturday evenings at eight,” he said with growing desperation. “I’m very busy…detecting.”

She waved this objection away. “It’s only for an hour.”

“We can’t. It’s improper.” Not dancing itself, but the unrestrained hunger he felt when he held her in his arms. If they had been anywhere but a school salon…

“We’ll be chaperoned by none other my sister, who provides the music for the lesson. The previous dancing-master was my brother. The girls are quite used to the routine.”

“What, precisely, is the routine?”

“You and I will demonstrate first. A country dance, a minuet, whatever Bryony feels like playing. After that, you and I both take the male parts in order to take turns partnering with each of the girls. You and I would only be dancing together once, at the very beginning.”

Simon wasn’t at all certain whether dancing with her only once made the offer better or worse.

“I really shouldn’t make promises,” he said. “I don’t fraternize as a rule, and important cases could require my attention at any moment.”

“That’s easy enough. If you can come, come. If you cannot, send a note.”

“Or crumpets!” shouted one of the girls. “We’ll forgive anything for crumpets!”

“We shouldn’t be alone,” he whispered. “It isn’t proper.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She fluttered her lashes up at him innocently. “Why, anything at all could happen.”

Simon would make sure it didn’t. For his own sake, as much as hers. “I’ll come Saturday, but I make no promises after that.”

She gave him a secretive smile. “Then I suppose it’s up to me to make sure you keep coming.”