What, oh what, was she doing?

The buzz of impending danger hummed in Mary’s head, but it couldn’t drown out the rush of her pulse, or the low, building heat in her womb. No matter how or why it was happening, this was her first real kiss not experienced between the pages of a book.

And she wasn’t yet ready for it to end.

Later, she would burn in humiliation to think her first kiss had been delivered at the hands of an utter scoundrel, a man who had not even told her his name. A man whose hand had gripped her bum and pulled her too tightly against him, letting her feel his hard, unforgiving body. A man whose tongue had done wild, wicked things in her mouth and tangled her already vivid imagination into a great, hopeless knot.

But at present, she wasn’t thinking of how she would feel later. She was thinking only of how she felt now. She had no experience with such things, but something told her he was a very good kisser. She opened her lips, wanting to feel the sweep of his tongue inside her mouth again, and he obliged as if he could read her mind.

It felt so deliciously depraved to kiss in such a manner. Had any of the books she’d read through the years gotten it right? She didn’t recall reading anything about kisses beyond lips fervently—and quickly—pressed together. But this was a different experience entirely, warm and wet and wicked, an invasion of her very soul.

Her fingers wrapped tightly about his neck, pulling him closer. He tasted of whisky and salt and utter sin, and in a startled burst of awareness, she realized she felt his hand, warm and sure against her breast. He paused there, his mouth still doing head-spinning things to hers, but his hand asking permission for something she didn’t even understand. She only knew that she liked the feel of his palm there, and so when his hand dipped into the top of her bodice and she felt the shocking warmth of his skin against hers, she didn’t—couldn’t—push him away.

His fingers dipped lower, questing, promising, but then his hand stilled, going no lower, a wish only half-fulfilled.

The voices outside the curtains remained muffled by the pounding of her pulse in her ears, but she caught a few distinct phrases.

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, I came in after everyone took their seats.”

Through the haze of pleasure, she understood that the man with his mouth currently fastened over hers was no longer focused on their kiss. Instead, he was listening intently to the conversation taking place outside the heavy drapery. She tried to listen as well.

“Constitution . . .”

An odd thing to hear whispered, certainly. Then again, what did she know of love words? Nothing beyond what was offered in books, unfortunately. She caught another word, this one whispered loud enough to set her heart pounding in a different direction.

“Assassinate.”

She tore her mouth away to suck in a silent, startled breath of air. Whatever else she’d imagined was happening outside their curtains, this was not it.

Her scoundrel had frozen, too, his body stiff beneath her palms. She wanted to ask if he’d heard that terrible, unmistakable word as well, but she gulped down the question as he set her away from him. He lifted a finger to his lips, warning her to stay silent, then turned and separated a sliver of drapes with one finger.

“ ’Ere, I think,” Mary heard one of the men say, his whispered dialect identifying him as a commoner. There was a rustling of paper. “That’s the location to do it, right enough. But when?”

“The date has not been set yet,” a second male voice answered, his crisper diction and more authoritative whisper suggesting a more aristocratic upbringing. “As soon as the end of June, perhaps.”

Mary craned her neck, trying in vain to see over her scoundrel’s shoulder into the darkness beyond the safety of their curtains.

“Given the uncertainty with dates, you must deliver the funds as soon as possible,” she heard the second man say. “These men are not so committed to their grand cause they will not abandon the plan for lack of payment.”

“Must it be me that delivers the money, Your Grace?” came one of the women’s voices, a faint fog of worry threading her words.

“We’ve been over this a dozen times, at least.” A second woman spoke up, her voice more impatient. “No one will question your association, but ours would raise too much concern. And never forget, you are being paid well for your trouble.”

“When it’s all over, we’ll have a handy scapegoat to pin it upon, and we shall all be free from scrutiny,” came the strong male voice again. “I shall see the money is delivered to St. Paul’s Cathedral, on Sunday, but then you must see it on.”

“I will,” said the first woman, though she sounded none too happy for it.

There was a rustling, as if papers were being rolled up, shoes shuffling toward the door. Mary bit her lip, praying for their departure, bursting with questions and no small degree of fear.

But then the first woman’s voice came, faint and suspicious. “Are you forgetting your topper?”

There was a moment’s pause, where Mary was quite sure the room’s occupants must be able to hear her heartbeat. Oh, no. She could see in her mind, all too clearly, her scoundrel setting his top hat down on the table, as if coming to a decision to stay and torment her further. He seemed to remember it, too, his body strung tight as a bow beside her, quivering with barely suppressed energy.

“Just a ’at that belongs to one of the ’ospital’s physicians, surely,” came the first male voice, so low as to be nearly inaudible.

There was a pause, as if they were all considering what to do with it.

The second man spoke. “Although, I would imagine whoever owns it could come back at any moment to claim it.”

A muffled curse came next, an expletive that made Mary’s ears burn.

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” said the second woman. “There is too much at stake. We need to be more careful.” The rustling in the room intensified, footfalls heading toward the door. The door latch clicked again. Silence filled her ears.

And then her scoundrel—whoever he was—was pulling her out of the tangled velvet drapery and into the very room where she had just overheard the murky details of an assassination plot.

Though his erection was still one for the record books, West had never felt more impotent.

Stumbling out into the dark room, he bumped into a chair. Cursing beneath his breath, he pulled a match from the case in his jacket pocket and lit a lamp on a reading table. With more light to guide the path for his agitation, he began to pace, trying to sort out what to do next.

Assassinate. Constitution.

They were damning words, but what on earth was he supposed to do with this information? The second man’s voice had sounded vaguely familiar, no matter that it had been delivered in nothing more distinct than a hoarse whisper. But despite that niggling sense of familiarity, he had no idea who the traitors were.

Or who their intended target might be.

He couldn’t even say what they looked like: the room had been dark as pitch with the drapes closed. He had a sickening suspicion, though. One of the women had clearly said “Your Grace”. It was a terrible suspicion to hold of a duke, but if West’s interpretation of the conversation was anything close to accurate, someone very high within London society was plotting an assassination.

“What are we going to do?” came a trembling voice.

West jerked around and stared at the woman who had asked the question. She was still here. And unfortunately, she was the smaller of his two problems.

He felt jerked back in time, to that day on board ship when it had all gone to shite and the decisions he made—good or bad—became irrevocable stamps of fate.

He would not be responsible for more deaths.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

“We aren’t going to do anything.” He pointed to the door. “You are going to leave and return to the pleasantries of Mr. Dickens.” But even as he issued the order, his gaze insisted on lingering on her swollen lips. Damn it, he shouldn’t have kissed her, and he certainly shouldn’t have kissed her like that. She was a mature woman, old enough to know her own mind and take her own risks. Yet, in spite of the fact that she was a few years older than he was, he’d tasted the inexperience on her lips, felt the quickening beneath her skin.

This was why he didn’t dabble with innocents. He’d kissed her, and now she looked close to crying. But he couldn’t deal with affronted feelings right now, the trembling lips, the claims of bruised feelings. For God’s sake, there was treason afoot.

“We need to tell someone.” Her small voice made him want to snarl. She even sounded innocent. “Did you not hear what they said?”

“I heard them.” He needed to think, to form a plan. Who had they been? Who were they targeting? And what could he do about it, given that he had no proof in hand beyond what he had heard? All pertinent questions.

None of which could be properly answered with her looking up at him with other unanswered questions shimmering in her eyes.

“Out you go now.” He took her by one elbow, intending to escort her outside himself.

She jerked away, surprising him. “If you heard them, then you must realize the gravity of the situation,” she said, sounding decidedly less innocent of a sudden. “What are we going to do?”

It occurred to West that her voice might be small, but her spine held a bit of starch. He looked down at the image she presented, her hair mussed up by their adventure behind the drapes, a delectable slice of nipple peeking out above the rucked blue bodice.

Had he thought the shadows suited her?

It turned out Miss Mouse looked equally well in lamplight.

“I am not going to do anything,” he told her. At least, he wasn’t going to do anything more where this girl was concerned. The odd attraction he felt toward her was disconcerting. The sooner she left, the better. “Please, just go now, before you make it any worse.”

“Please don’t tell me you are a coward as well as a scoundrel.” Her eyes looked huge, mooning up at him against her pale cheeks. “Because I don’t think I could bear to know I just kissed a man who was both.”

That gave him a start. He’d long been called a scoundrel, but she was calling him a coward now, too? West raised a brow. “Then perhaps you ought to be a bit more careful about who you kiss.”

She gasped, but the sound died on her lips as the latch on the library door rattled, jerking both of their attentions to the door.

“Miss Channing? Are you in here?” A woman’s worried voice called out from the hallway.

“Don’t—” he began, only to be summarily cut off.

“Yes, I am in here!” she cried out, shooting him an irritated glare.

West clenched his fists. After all he’d gone through to protect her, she had just instantly, injudiciously thrown her carcass to the wolves? Good Christ. He felt like throwing up his hands. He was reminded, again, that she was an innocent, apparently unaware of the danger this situation posed to her reputation. Unfortunately, he himself was all too aware.

After all, he flirted with the brink of propriety on a regular enough basis to recognize that razor’s edge, the need to protect oneself from the fall.

But no matter her idiocy, perhaps it wasn’t a fatal mistake. Because he recognized the voice on the other side of the door. It belonged to West’s oldest sister, Clare, though how she knew the woman he’d just kissed was anyone’s guess.

He had a name to identify his mystery woman now. No longer Miss Mouse.

Miss Channing. It suited her, he supposed.

Had a bland, mouse-like ring to it.

He stood fast as the door swung open, hoping for the best. Surely his sister would not make a fuss, would recognize the danger, the need to protect Miss Channing. At least, he hoped she wouldn’t make a fuss. In spite of having scandalously wed a mere doctor, Clare could be rigid about some aspects of propriety. But as the doorway opened, he realized the situation might not be in Clare’s control. His sister had not come alone.

“Geoffrey,” Clare hissed, her eyes wide with horror. Her gaze darted between Miss Channing and himself, while behind her, an eager group of authors crowded in, Mr. Dickens himself at the forefront of the gathering crowd. “What on earth is going on here?”

Beside him, Miss Channing gave a small, desperate squeak.

“I . . . that is, we . . .” His explanation trailed off. Because what was he supposed to say? Miss Channing was well and truly ruined.

And the truth was, he hadn’t even touched her properly.

“Miss Channing,” Clare said in a desperate tone. She motioned in the area of her own properly buttoned bodice. “You might want to . . . ah . . . cover yourself.”

Miss Channing looked down at the hint of a coral nipple peeking out above her bodice. Her squeak evolved into more of a squawk. She began to pant, tugging at her neckline to cover the offending bit of flesh. But then her attentions shifted elsewhere. Her face turned white and she clawed at her sides before going limp, sliding against West in a dead faint.

He caught her, one-armed, and then lowered her carefully to the floor, cradling her head in his hand. He crouched beside her and stared down at her pale face, smoothing strands of dark hair from her forehead. Miss Channing was the fainting type?

It figured. Went with her mouse-like demeanor.

Although . . . she certainly hadn’t fainted when he’d kissed her . . .

“Somebody call a doctor!” one of the authors cried out.

“No need.” West reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a vial of smelling salts. He uncorked it and waved it beneath Miss Channing’s nose. After a moment, she began to sputter, her head thrashing from side to side.

Clare pushed him aside, falling to her knees beside the girl. “For God’s sake, Geoffrey,” she snapped, putting a hand beneath Miss Channing’s head and helping her to a sitting position. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously in his direction. “Why are you carrying smelling salts around in your jacket, anyway?”

“Haven’t you heard? Women are always pitching over in dead faints around me.” He shrugged. “I find it better to be prepared.” He eyed the milling group of authors, the whispers behind cupped hands. He tried on an apologetic grin, hoping he looked charming instead of rakish. “Must be the Westmore charm.”

Clare helped Miss Channing gain her feet. The poor girl was swaying, almost as if she had too much drink, and Clare led her toward two uncomfortable-looking chairs that several of the authors had hastily pushed together to make a sort of bed. Seeing that she was being cared for, West let his thoughts pull to the dilemma even more concerning than what to do with her.

In spite of the drama unfolding in front of him, he could not forget the conversation he’d just overheard in this room. Assassinate. Constitution. Those were not words used in jest.

He ought to know.

He’d done enough jesting in his life.

As soon as he could, he pulled Clare to one side, leaving the others to tend to the situation. “Listen, Clare, I think you ought to know . . . this business with Miss Channing . . . put it aside for a minute. We have just overheard an assassination plot.”

There was a moment of silence, clearly laced with disbelief. “An assassination plot?” Clare raised a dubious brow. “Involving whom?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Clare smacked him, hard against the ear. “Stop trying to distract me with your incessant games,” she fumed, letting her anger wind up the way she used to, when they were children and he’d done something terrible to vex her. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous thing—an assassination plot. Anyone with eyes in their head can see what you’ve been doing with Miss Channing behind closed doors!” She lowered her voice. “Her breast was exposed. What were you thinking, Geoffrey?”

“This isn’t a game.” West rubbed his ear. “And don’t call me Geoffrey, as if I’m still a child.”

“It is always a game with you. And if you don’t want to be called a child’s name, stop acting like a child.”

Guilt swirled, hot and thick, but so did resentment. But just as quickly as the anger rose up, his shoulders wanted to slump. Clare was right. Miss Channing wasn’t exactly a problem he could ignore. But perchance she was a problem he could pass off, at least until he could collect his thoughts. “Look.” He flashed his sister a hopeful smile. “This is all just a misunderstanding, and things will look better tomorrow. But . . . could you . . . ah . . . help her home?”

“Can’t you see?” Clare hissed, eyeing the group of authors who were all clucking over Miss Channing like a brood of agitated chickens. “I have to see her home. I am her chaperone!”

West blinked. “You are Miss Channing’s chaperone?” At his sister’s terse nod, he groaned. Miss Mouse was a woman whose pristine reputation required a chaperone?

Christ above. There was definitely going to be a fuss.

Clare’s eyes narrowed back at him. “You’ve been side-stepping your responsibilities ever since you returned from Crimea, acting more like the thirteen year old you once were than the grown man you ought to have become.” She crossed her arms. “I am sick of it all. And if I find out you forced yourself on her, so help me God . . . ”

Shame coursed through West. He wasn’t a man who coerced unwilling women.

But she hadn’t been unwilling, precisely.

She had kissed him back.

In the wake of his silence, Clare glanced toward the gaggle of authors, who were bent over Miss Channing’s form, murmuring false sympathies. She frowned in that big-sisterly way that had always set him on edge when they were children. “It’s not only about Miss Channing, though that ought to be enough to bring you around to the right decision,” she warned. “If you do not fix this, you will harm my and Daniel’s reputation as well.”

West flinched. His brother-in-law, Dr. Daniel Merial, was a good man, someone who had always believed in West’s potential and encouraged him against poor behavior. If there had ever been anything good in West, it was only there because it had been noticed and encouraged by Daniel. The thought of disappointing his brother-in-law was definitely enough to make him cringe. “I would not purposefully do anything to harm either of you—” he began.

“Purposeful or not, you know we depend on the good will of those influential in society to keep St. Bartholomew’s in enough funds to operate the charity ward here. It’s been a lean year, which is why we held tonight’s salon to raise more funds. If we are forced to close the charity ward because of this, you’ll be directly responsible for people’s deaths, Geoffrey.”

West remained silent.

Better that, than to confess to his sister they wouldn’t be the first.

She drew a deep breath. “You’ve really stepped in it this time, and you can’t brush this away the way you do your other indiscretions. This isn’t some willing widow, or a doxy who understands the rules of the game. This is the sister of the Earl of Haversham, one of Daniel’s dearest friends.”

“What?”

“And she is the sister of Lord Ashington’s new wife, as well.”

West reared back, feeling nearly as if his sister had struck him again. Ten feet away, a group of very famous authors were hovering over one very fragile girl, no doubt spinning stories in their mind, even as they pretended to care. A girl with apparently excellent connections, one who ostensibly moved in circles more lofty than his own.

“Bugger me blue,” he groaned.

Clare rolled her eyes. “That particular sin might not have gotten you in as much trouble.”