The London street dulled to a more serene quiet as Blythe and her new companion left the stews behind them. They were in the neighborhood owned by the tradesmen now, and they stood out in a different kind of way. She was a woman alone with a man not her husband, long after it was past a time for decent women to be in bed. Blythe reminded herself that she had gotten away with far worse in the past.

"Have you a name?" she asked her companion suddenly.

"One I'm willing to share with you? Of course. You may call me Thomas."

"Those men who set upon you, they called you something else."

"Demon Tom, yes. I don't mind it as much as I probably should. It carries some weight in the parts of town where I go."

Still arm in arm with him, Blythe gave Thomas a shrewd look. "Hm. But not where you're from or where you live, does it?"

"And what would you know about that, Blythe?"

She should stop him from calling her Blythe. She was related to the Carrows, after all, and if she had learned one thing from being raised by that clan, it was that no one was allowed to take liberties. The Quakers called her Blythe because they had no other name for her. Before her parents died, of course, they had as well. So did Ned and Tristan, but Ned was away being heroic somewhere in Spain, and Tristan...

Well, Tristan had changed since his father died and he had been invested with the title of Duke of Parrington, no longer the heir but the possessor of the vast wealth and privilege of the title.

At the bottom of it, she simply liked the way he said her name.

"Well, it's not so very hard to figure out, is it? I mean, your clothes are well-cut, and you are well-groomed. You take shocking liberties with people of all kinds, and you know no fear at all. I would not be surprised if you told me you were the son of a peer."

"Well, that is a very good eye you have on you, Blythe. May I return the favor?"

Blythe stiffened a little. If she still had possession of her arm, she would have walked faster. She called it her missionary's stride: her back utterly straight, her shoulders back, and her mouth pinched shut. In most circumstances, it was more than enough to get her through some of the worst situations. She did even better if she brought her prayer book along, clutching it tightly against her chest like some kind of shield.

She had none of that right now, and the entire night had left her feeling a little raw, more than a little exposed. "I hardly think it is appropriate for you to... to look at me and to inspect me as if I were some prize mare at Tattersall's."

"Is it not? Wasn't that what you were doing with me?" Thomas sounded supremely amused by the entire situation, and he showed no interest in dropping either the conversation or her arm.

"No! I was merely observing. I was certainly not inspecting you in any way, shape, or form."

"Yes, you were."

She glared at him. "Do you really make a habit out of contradicting ladies when they speak? Is this why you get set upon in the streets by thugs?"

Thomas laughed softly, and Blythe firmly pushed down the warm feeling that rose in her over it. She did not like the way he laughed or his smile. That was ridiculous.

"Well, there's one thing. You're a lady. Or perhaps a lady's companion. I haven't quite decided."

"You haven't? And what's led you to these conclusions?"

"Well, I've found that the only people who really refer to ladies and their dignity are, well, ladies themselves or the people who are charged with defending their honor. You are not a self-righteous and protective older brother, so you are either a lady yourself, or a lady's companion."

Blythe shut her mouth and did her best not to look at Thomas. If she could just pretend that he was not next to her, she might be able to get home without revealing herself further.

"I still can't decide between lady or lady's companion. You certainly have the cool pride down pat, but then there is the way you are dressed."

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with the way I am dressed."

"Not a single thing! With your hat secured to your head like a ship at dock, every single hair scraped back from your face, and your dress the same color as a month of rainy Sundays, you look the perfect little missionary, the good woman come to minister to the poor and tell them they ought not be so poor."

She had to bite back a laugh. It was convenient to dress in her drabs for a number of reasons, both at home and on the streets of London, but in most cases, she had nothing to say to the actual missionaries and ladies doing good works in London. Thomas was right; too often their help was listening to their own voices and earnestly scolding people for things they could not change.

"And there's the rub," Thomas continued. "You look the part, but no good missionary, especially one who is well-born as I suspect you are, would be in the stews at four in the morning doing anything, let alone soiling her hands with a ruined girl."

Oh, that is enough! Blythe jerked her arm from Thomas, spinning to glare at him. "Don't you dare say a single word about Honey! She's a poor country girl who got tricked a bare eight hours after she set foot in London, and life has been quite hard enough for her without you deciding you get to call her things like..." Blythe trailed off as Thomas gazed at her, a satisfied expression on his face. "I walked right into that, didn't I?"

"If it makes you feel any better, all sorts of people from all walks of life do. No one really anticipates being baited."

Blythe sighed. When he offered her his arm again, she took it, and they started walking. The sky was beginning to lighten.

"And I suppose that tells you where I went to school and who my teacher was or some nonsense like that."

"No, but it does tell me that you're a good person with a good heart and a quick mind. Honey looked terrified, and you got her to people who could help her. That's not nothing."

"It's little enough."

"No one else was doing it. So, you're well-born, you do what good you can, and here we get to the strange conundrum. You have no problem wading into fights. Where in the world did you pick up that propensity? You could have been seriously hurt."

She gave him a level look. "Are you saying that I shouldn't have done that? Because if I hadn't, you'd probably still be out cold, or worse, back in the stews."

"I'm not saying that at all. Did I say thank you for that?"

"As a matter of fact, you did not."

"I will. So, you look like a missionary, you talk like a lady, you have a Robin Hood's heart, and you fight like a soldier."

"Have you satisfied yourself yet?"

That startled another laugh out of Thomas. Something warm and oddly sensual about it made the color rise to her pale cheeks. She wondered a little uneasily what that meant, that she felt this warmth around this particular man.

"Not by a long shot. You are a mystery, love," he said with a laugh.

"Don't call me that!"

"What should I call you instead? Do you have a title? Are you a lady or something far above my station?"

"No... just Blythe will do."

"Such a bright name for such a dour thing," he teased.

She shot him a look. "You can hardly think that line was original. Shall I call you my lord, then?"

"God, no, don't do that. Most people who call me 'my lord' are servants, or they want something from me. Unless... you want something from me?" He sounded oddly hopeful.

She shook her head. "Once you get me home, we are quits, and I have to ask that we be strangers after that. The chances are very low, but if we happen to meet again in proper company, I need you not to know me."

"A lady with secrets, more and more intriguing. Well, I suppose I can hardly complain. I've had my own secrets and helped ladies hide some delicious ones. It will be hard to look at you and not know you, though, Blythe."

"You've spent your whole life not knowing me," Blythe said matter-of-factly. "I hardly think it will be such a chore to return to that."

"You've never met yourself, so you could hardly say. I don't quite know why, but I can tell you honestly that the thought of not knowing you after tonight troubles me."

They were drawing closer to the house off of Grosvenor Square. There was a bare breath of light in the air, and in less than half an hour, she guessed that the servants would be up and about, doing their day's work. That meant she needed to get back inside, and quickly.

"Stop being such a romantic sponge," she said sharply. "We have known each other for only a few hours."

"Very eventful hours, you have to say."

"Eventful for you, perhaps. For me, this was just a night that ran long."

"Sharp-tongued, Blythe. You'll never catch a husband like that. Or is that the problem? You have a husband, and all of this must be kept from him?"

"Do they call you a demon for your brawling or your damned tongue?" she hissed, walking a little faster. "No, I am not married, and not likely to be, so for God's sake, let it drop!"

Without thinking, she led him down the narrow alley toward the house. The front was all white stone and gleaming windows, but around the back, where the servants went, it was significantly darker with more cover. In a moment of panic, she realized that she should have told him to leave off blocks ago.

"You need to go," she hissed, turning to him. "Go back to whatever... whatever place you come from. I need to get back inside."

"And in bed before anyone notices you were out of it. All right. But tell me I can see you again."

Blythe's heart leaped up in her chest. She should have been irritated by the impossible request. She should have been furious that he was keeping her. Instead, there was something very powerful in her that did not want to leave this where it lay. "Don't be so ridiculous. When in the world would I ever see you again?"

"It doesn't matter. We could go rescue children who have fallen in the Thames, or perhaps you'd like to come to the tables with me. I could teach you to gamble, and you could teach me how to best handle a lady's bag in a confrontation with a stranger."

Somehow, despite how ludicrous and impossible Thomas’ proposal was, a part of Blythe was tempted, sorely tempted. She was always alone when she did what she did. She had never had someone to watch her back, to help her, before. It was impossible. No one knew her, really. Thomas didn't know her either, but something in his eyes told her he wanted to.

"You know that's impossible."

"I really don't. Tell me what you are, Blythe, and I'll make it possible. Do you need a position? Do you need references or to give some disapproving relative the slip? I can arrange it all; we could have some good times."

He stepped a little closer to her, crowding her slightly against the brick wall. Blythe usually hated being crowded, but something about the way Thomas did it was oddly delicious. He was in her space, and she could smell a hint of his sandalwood cologne, along with the sharp scent of the gin he had been drinking.

"Step back, please," she made herself say. "We have nothing to do with one another."

He did as she asked, a crooked grin on his face. "You didn't say that you don't want to. You said I was ridiculous, which is true; you said that it was impossible, which I don't believe; and you say we have nothing to do with each other, which is only true if we both agree it is. Say you don't want to Blythe, and I'll be on my way."

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to send him on his way. Thomas had a strange sort of honor in him. She understood that instinctively. He might push and pry and continue long past when a sane man had quit, but the moment she said she didn't want him, he'd be gone.

So, why couldn't she say it?

Thomas watched her with a steady gaze. Absently, she thought that his eyes were the purest gray she had ever seen.

"Tell me what you want, Blythe."

The words sent a shiver through her that she could not altogether hide. When was the last time anyone had asked her what she wanted, truly asked her, and not simply assumed she would go where they said?

Thomas’ hand came up to cup her cheek, curving against her face. The skin-to-skin touch made her tremble, and she jerked away.

"What are you thinking?" she demanded sharply.

"Lots of things. If you ask nicely, I might even tell you about some of them..."

"Oh, you are utterly impossible!"

"Not an answer to my question."

She shook her head. She couldn't agree to what he wanted. But she couldn't bring herself to disagree, either. Instead, Blythe pushed past him, shaking her head. She would go inside, go to bed, and then her life would resume, taking the path it always had.

Thomas caught her wrist as she went past, turning her around and kissing her palm. "Think about it," he said with a wink that sent a shiver down her spine.

Neither of them was expecting him to turn around right into a fist.

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