Despite the early sun streaming through Michael’s study windows the following morning, the day didn’t seem as bright as it had the week before. Nothing did. Though he tried to focus on the documents his man of business had delivered, his mind kept returning to Lady X.

She hadn’t come. He’d stood alone on the iron bridge until even the waxing moon could no longer penetrate the sooty sky, and still she had not come.

Perhaps Lady X hadn’t seen his advertisement. It was possible. But she knew his name. She didn’t need an advertisement to know where to direct a letter or send a footman. If she wished to resume communication with him, she could.

But she did not.

Michael set his jaw. Somehow, he would have to go to her. He had been the one to botch the affair. He would have to be the one to fix things. But how?

He drummed his fingers atop the mahogany desk and stared at the bookshelves lining his office wall. Hawkridge! Didn’t the marquess have a cousin or some such who was a Bow Street Runner? Mr… Spaulding, if Michael wasn’t mistaken.

Perfect. He leapt to his feet. A chap like that would be well experienced in apprehension and investigation. Finding Lady X would be easy. Mr. Spaulding would have the matter sorted in no time at all.

Michael hurried to fetch a hat and coat. There would be plenty of time later for business, once he’d at least had the opportunity to address Lady X in person. It was the not knowing that had him so tied up in knots. The wondering, the wanting, the waiting. He just wished to speak with her. To explain he wanted her for her, and no other reason. To make her realize she possessed his heart.

If, after that, Lady X still wished nothing to do with him… well. As much as he would hurt, he respected her too much to force her to wed him if that was not what she wished. If he was not who she wished.

He loved her. He wanted to share a lifetime of happiness, not a loveless marriage rife with resentment.

All he could do was state his case. Try to convince her of his sincerity. Hope to win her affection, or at least an opportunity to court her properly. No masks, no subterfuge. Just a love-struck earl with his heart on his sleeve.

When Michael’s coach arrived at the Magistrates’ Court at 4 Bow Street, the sight of the wide, three-story structure filled him with hope—and a much-needed sense of confidence. With luck, he would be able to pay a formal call on Lady X this very afternoon.

He strode through the front door and presented himself to a ruddy-cheeked fellow at the main desk. “Good morning. My name is Lord Wainwright. I am here to see Mr. Spaulding.”

“I am Mr. Spaulding.” A swarthy, dark-haired man with wide shoulders and a casual posture leaned against the doorway to a rear office. He did not glance up from the papers in his hands. “I do not know a Lord Wainwright, nor have we an appointment.”

“True on both counts.” Michael doffed his beaver hat with a smile. “Allow me to put you at ease. I am good friends with Lord Hawkridge—”

“Ah,” Mr. Spaulding interrupted softly. “My half-brother. Now I am certainly at ease. Has your marquessate also misplaced its fortune?”

Taken aback, Michael narrowed his eyes at the Runner. Perhaps this was not the easiest path to success. “Earldom. And, no, I’m afraid my finances are fully in order.”

“Then why are you here? Let me guess.” Mr. Spaulding lifted his brows. “A woman?”

Michael gave a self-conscious cough behind his gloved fist. “Your powers of deduction are quite astute.”

“Nonsense,” the Runner said briskly. “Amongst my half-brother’s set, the primary problems are lost money or insubordinate ladies. Is yours being too amorous or not amorous enough?”

“I’ll thank you not to make light of my concerns,” Michael said stiffly.

Mr. Spaulding returned his gaze to his papers. “I’ll thank you not to waste my time.”

Michael refrained from curling his fingers into fists. “If you don’t wish to help people, why become a Runner?”

“I am not Cupid. I do not make love potions or settle wagers. I solve crimes.” Mr. Spaulding made a point of glancing at his pocket watch. “Unless you’ve a theft or a murder to report, our business is concluded.”

Michael felt the last vestiges of hope slipping away. “I’ll pay.”

“Still not interested.” The Runner returned his gaze to his papers. “Adieu.”

Of all the insolent, high-handed—Michael choked down his anger. Losing his temper would not solve any of his problems. “You…”

Mr. Spaulding gazed back at him blandly.

Michael forced his tight shoulders to relax. The Runner was right. Michael’s situation with Lady X did not fall under the city’s jurisdiction. There had, however, been a crime he had not previously thought to report. Since he was here, he supposed he ought to mention it.

“A few weeks ago, an item was stolen from my—” He shook his head. The harp necklace had been lost and found. What was the Runner meant to do about it now? “Never mind. I shan’t waste any more of your time. Good day.”

He turned toward the door.

“Wait.” Mr. Spaulding stepped forward. “I presume you live in Mayfair?”

Slowly, Michael turned back toward the Runner. “I do.”

“What was stolen?” Mr. Spaulding’s posture was now one of interest.

Michael feared his small theft was about to disappoint. “A solid gold harp, slightly larger than a locket. It had been meant as a necklace bauble.”

The Runner nodded. “Small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand?”

“Unquestionably.” Michael frowned. These were not the crown jewels. Why so much interest in a memento that only mattered to one man?

Mr. Spaulding’s focus did not waver. “Had it been kept under lock and key?”

“It had not.” Nor could Michael forgive himself for that oversight. For failing to lock the door, he had only himself to blame.

The Runner’s hard countenance eased. “Don’t brood so. I am not in the habit of blaming victims for crimes perpetrated by villains. Particularly not where the slippery Thief of Mayfair is concerned.”

Michael started in surprise. “I am not the first?”

“You are not the only case, but you might well be the first.” Mr. Spaulding’s gaze sharpened. “Three weeks ago, you said?”

Michael frowned. “Perhaps closer to four or five. I had hosted a soirée…”

“When did you recover the missing piece?”

He blinked. “How did you—”

“The crimes are identical,” Mr. Spaulding explained. “A small but expensive item goes missing. Perhaps it was stolen. Perhaps it was misplaced. There had been a party, a new maid, a distraction. Within a week, the item is found at a pawnbroker. Never the same storefront twice. Never sold by the same person. Because the missing item has now been recovered, its owners rarely seek restitution. How close am I to your case?”

“Spot on,” Michael admitted with grudging respect. “How did you determine there was a pattern, if no one reported the losses?”

“Slowly.” The Runner rubbed his jaw. “But never fear. The Thief of Mayfair is a pest that will be squashed. Now that I have determined there is a case, I shall not rest until the perpetrator has been brought to justice.”

“Mr. Spaulding is the cleverest investigator in all of London,” the man at the front desk put in with pride. “’Tis only a matter of time before your thief meets the gallows.”

At that news, Michael simply felt empty. The harp was back home. He didn’t care about chasing a petty thief to the gallows. He cared about Lady X. He wished the cleverest investigator in London would spare a second to find her.

Despondency weighted his bones. Lady X’s presence was what was truly missing from Michael’s home. At this rate, he would never find her. There was nothing left to try.

This time, when he turned toward the door, no one stopped him.

Michael climbed back into his carriage and stared at its luxurious, empty interior. He yearned for Lady X. What use were all his riches without the woman he most wished to share them with?

“Where to, milord?” asked the driver.

Where to, indeed. Michael let his head fall back against the carriage wall. Perhaps Lady X was lost to him forever, perhaps she was not. The only thing he knew for certain was that his whirling mind was in no condition to be making important decisions about his estate. He would return to the duties of his title tomorrow. Today, he could use a long walk to clear his head.

“Hyde Park,” he commanded the driver.

The stately coach sprang into motion.

Once Michael was alone on a twisting path through the least-frequented acres, he allowed himself to forget his troubles for a moment and enjoy a solitary stroll amongst the calming beauty of nature.

With every rustle of leaves or trill of a robin, his step and heart grew lighter. The meeting with the Runner had not gone as Michael wished, but all was not lost. A single day had passed since last he saw Lady X. She knew his name. Perhaps she only needed time.

He frowned as he passed a break in the trail that led not to a pedestrian path, but rather to some shadowed section of untamed thicket. Strange. He had crossed through here once before. He remembered this curve in the road, and the fallen log wedged between the trees.

This was where the eldest Miss Grenville had burst upon him from out of nowhere, ruining a perfectly folded cravat by smashing her face into it, and then ruining a perfectly peaceful outing with false quotations about Michael’s direct road to hell.

He paused and tried to peer through the trees. What the devil had the maddening woman been about? Why had she been alone—and so far from the manicured pedestrian trail near the front of the park?

Curiosity got the better of him. With a sigh, he stepped over the fallen log into a narrow gap amongst the thicket. Nettles snagged the tails of his coat and clung to the kerseymere of his breeches.

And then, just as suddenly… he was free.

A sunny patch of brilliantly green grass lined the shoulder of a crystal blue river. Beautiful trees with thick brown trunks and a profusion of fluttering leaves stretched overhead.

There were no trodden flowers, no bits of forgotten rubbish, no sign at all that anyone else had ever set foot in this idyllic retreat. Just the sweet scent of clean air, the gentle murmur of the sparkling stream, and an enormous gray rock with a wide, smooth surface perfect for lying back and simply being at peace.

Not a rock. The rock. Michael’s heart thumped in shock. He had found Lady X’s secret river spot. Here. In Hyde Park.

Good Lord. His jaw dropped in disbelief. Miss Grenville was Lady X.

Dumbfounded, he climbed atop the waist-high rock and dangled his feet above the rippling river, as she must have done a hundred times before. His head swam with dizziness at what was now obvious.

Miss Grenville was Lady X.

Thunderstruck, he stared at all the beauty around him. Recalled the words they’d exchanged on the path. The evenings they’d shared at the masquerade. The moment he’d told her he would be hers forever if only she would have him. The night he’d called her sister a termagant.

Of course she hadn’t called. Miss Grenville had hated him long before the widow Epworth had stumbled upon the Lord of Pleasure relieving a masked woman of her maidenhead. Michael winced. Miss Grenville’s well-deserved shock at the interruption hadn’t been shame at being caught in the act of losing her virginity after all.

Her horror had come from discovering she’d done so with him.

Melancholy, he propped his elbows on his thighs and stared out over the water. No matter what she might believe, he had meant every word he’d spoken as Lord X. The moments they’d shared had been the most honest, most precious evenings of his life.

With her, he wasn’t an earl or a rakehell or a caricature. With her, he’d been able to be himself. To be Michael. To fall in love.

Knowing her true identity didn’t change any of that. If anything, his respect for her grew stronger. Their names may have been false, but their connection was real. Both as Miss Grenville and as Lady X, their interactions had been infused with a frankness rarely experienced.

When Miss Grenville was vexed with him, she did not hesitate to let him know. And when Lady X was pleased with him, when she wished him to stop talking and take her somewhere more private… But what could he do?

One word to her father and Miss Grenville would be forced to the altar. But that was the last thing Michael wished. One could not force one’s suit upon a woman as independent as her.

He wanted her to choose him. Wanted her to decide on her own that they were better together than apart. Wanted her not as Lady X or as Miss Grenville, but as his countess. His wife. His equal. Michael slid from the rock and picked his way back to the main path. Hope dared to once again slip inside his heart.

It would not be easy, but their love was worth any risk.