The Black Prince tied a long cord to the Golden Falcon’s leg and let her go. She flew up into the air, but when she reached the end of the tether he whistled shrilly and she perforce had to return to his gauntleted arm. He fed her scraps of meat then and whispered words of praise in her ear. Again and again he did this, telling her how wonderful she was, how beautiful, until at last the sun began to set.

Then he placed the bird back under his cloak and returned to the castle.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

Alf landed on her arse—again—in the hall outside Kyle’s bedroom. She shuddered, feeling tears spurt from her eyes. She couldn’t.

She couldn’t.

But Kyle had said he needed her.

He needed her to be a woman.

Something slammed against Kyle’s door.

She sat up, gasping, swiping at the tears on her face with the sleeves of her boy’s coat. She didn’t know how to be a woman. How to dress. How to move. How to be.

She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around her legs, remembering the jump of his big cock under her hand. Remembering his broad chest, naked and hairy, as he’d risen from his bed and stalked toward her. The angry gleam in those black, black eyes as he’d pinned her to the door and told her what he needed from her.

Oh, she wanted him, this aristocrat, this duke, this rich cove built like a prizefighter. She wanted him with every breath she drew, a painful longing inside her lungs, until it felt as if she’d break apart and shatter into tiny pieces of glass if she could not touch him.

Even for a little while.

She knew—she wasn’t stupid, no, far from it, so she knew well enough that when he said he needed her it wasn’t the same need she had for him. But it was a sort of need. And if that was all she could give him—a stunted, half-formed, ill-gotten shadow of the thing she carried within herself… well, she’d do it and be glad.

Alf drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Wiped her face one more time. And got up off the bloody floor.

She wasn’t a coward. She’d grown up in the dark woods of St Giles. Learned how to hide as a child. Learned how to fight and defend those weaker than she as an adult.

Now maybe it was time to let herself be vulnerable once more. If that wasn’t courage, she didn’t know what was.

She ran down the stairs, passing the stuck-up butler, who shouted something after her. She didn’t even bother giving him the finger, just kept going. No point in halting and thinking, because if she did, she might turn around and stop herself, and she couldn’t do that.

She mustn’t do that.

She ran out the front door and down the front steps. She hadn’t even bothered to use the servants’ entrance, that was how upset she was.

It was early morning and the day was clear, but it was cold outside and the wind was blowing. She hadn’t time to go back for a hat, though. She merely bundled her hands under her arms and broke into a jog along the sidewalk, dodging the other passersby. It was a good thing she knew her job so well—she’d found the address of the place she was headed days before, just as a matter of curiosity. She never knew when a bit of information would come in handy.

Ten minutes later she ran up the steps of an elegantly sedate town house and knocked.

A maid answered the door. “Yes?”

“’Ave a message for Lady Jordan,” Alf said. “From ’Is Grace, the Duke of Kyle.”

The housemaid raised an eyebrow. “At this hour? My lady isn’t risen.”

“Right important, ’e says ’tis. And I ’as to give it in person.”

The maid sighed and let her in, then showed her to a receiving room.

“Wait here while I fetch my lady,” the maid said, giving a suspicious glance at Alf’s outfit before closing the door behind her.

Alf bit her lip and paced to the window overlooking the street. Outside, carriages were rumbling past. It was a nice room. Pink and blue fabric lined the walls. No gold, though. This wasn’t a duke’s house, after all. The Radcliffes were from an old aristocratic family, even though they weren’t titled, not particularly rich, as far as Alf could tell. Henry Radcliffe, Lady Jordan’s older brother, had married an heiress, which had improved the family’s fortunes. He was a good businessman, though—or at least he’d managed not to lose his wife’s dowry on bad investments, as so many aristocratic husbands seemed to do.

A china clock chimed on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, and she drummed her fingers against the windowsill. Toffs took so bloody long to dress in the morning.

The door opened and Lady Jordan floated in. She was wearing white again today—maybe it was a favorite color. This dress was striped—the barest contrast, white on white, running up and down the sleeves and the bodice and the skirts—and edged in white lace. It was lovely and elegant and ladylike.

And reminded Alf why she was here.

Alf almost hated her.

“Yes?” Lady Jordan asked, her slender brows drawing together. “The maid said you had a message from Hugh.”

“No, I don’t. I lied.” Alf lifted her chin, staring at the lady. Staring at the woman who was everything she wasn’t. “I needs your ’elp, see, ’cause I ain’t really a boy. I’m a woman. And I wants to know ’ow to become a lady.”

“AH,” IRIS MURMURED.

Alf was staring at her with the most belligerent expression Iris had ever seen on another woman’s face. As if the younger woman wanted to hit her. Or expected to be summarily thrown out.

She was suddenly rather glad that both Henry and Harriet had already left for the country. If there was to be some sort of contretemps, then at least Harriet wouldn’t be here to hear it.

Her sister-in-law was something of a stickler for the social niceties, even at the best of times, and a possible row with a female urchin posing as a boy in the sitting room?

No, Harriet would not approve.

Iris cleared her throat. “Would you like some tea?”

Alf blinked and then said, sounding cautious, “Yes?”

Iris smiled. “Lovely.”

She went to the door and called for a maid, ordered tea and something to eat as well, then turned back to her unexpected guest.

Alf was looking a bit cornered. It struck Iris how much courage it must have taken the girl to have come here, to a woman she hardly knew, and lay herself bare. She doubted that she had that sort of courage herself.

Once, as a girl, Iris had tried to make friends with one of the cats that lived in the stables on the country estate where she’d grown up. Weeks of trips to the stables with chicken livers provided by a sympathetic cook had resulted only in scratched arms and hisses in the end.

Now she thought she might do a little better.

“Come, won’t you sit down?” She gestured to one of the dainty ice-blue chairs.

The other woman eyed the chair distrustfully but sat down with a decided thump.

Iris suppressed a wince. At least the chair hadn’t cracked under the rough treatment. She sat as well, and then the maids returned with the tea—thank goodness. The next several minutes were taken up with laying out the tea things, which was a relief. When the maids finally curtsied and left, Iris was gladly occupied with the familiar task of pouring tea.

“Do you like milk?” she asked.

“And sugar,” Alf said gruffly.

“Of course,” Iris murmured. She handed the other woman the cup and sat back with her own tea, watching Alf from under her eyelashes.

Alf held the dish of tea between her hands. They were delicate, those hands, even with ragged nails. “Will you ’elp me, then?”

“Yes.” Iris took a sip of her own tea.

It occurred to her that in doing this she might be arming her competitor for Hugh’s affections—she hadn’t missed how he watched Alf. Perhaps he meant to take her as his lover. Perhaps he didn’t even know himself what he wanted from Alf. She glanced down into the lovely red-brown swirl of her tea. But then Iris had never really had Hugh’s affection to begin with, had she? And if she hadn’t, then this woman really wasn’t her competitor.

Perhaps it was past time to make that clear to herself… and to Hugh.

Iris looked up and straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I will. I think we’ll have to make a list, don’t you? Oh, and you really must call me Iris.”

She set down her dish of tea and rose to find a bit of paper and a pencil in Harriet’s writing table by the window.

“Now then,” she said as she sat down again. “I’ll need to contact my dressmaker today if we’re to have any hope at all of having a gown made in time for the ball. In the meantime you’ll need to practice walking in a dress, panniers, and heels. A day dress to wear so that you become used to stays—I think one of my lady’s maids will have a dress you can borrow. Dancing lessons, of course, but I think I can show you those myself. Elementary dining lessons. Comportment. Oh, how to curtsy and be introduced to someone above and below you in rank.” She narrowed her eyes at Alf speculatively. “How are you at accents?”

“Do you mean speaking like a gentlewoman, my lady?” Alf asked. “I confess I have been studying the accents of the upper crust since I was but a small wayward child. You would not credit how useful a nob accent can be in my line of business.”

Iris was startled into laughter. “Yes, exactly.” The accent was overpronounced, a little too enunciated, especially on the h’s, but they could certainly work on it.

Alf smiled, casting her eyes down demurely. “I think I can get by.”

Iris returned her grin. “I do believe you’re correct, but we haven’t much time. Best we start right away.”

BY EVENING HUGH was in a foul mood. Alf had fled the house directly after their confrontation, and he’d had no word since that she’d returned. He should’ve put a damned guard on the woman. Locked her in her room until she’d calmed down. At the very least ensured she was safe.

Instead she was out God knew where, and it was entirely his own bloody fault.

He swore under his breath, hunching his shoulders against the chilly night wind. He was in a darkened doorway, keeping an eye on Exley’s town house. The damned man didn’t look as if he was going to move tonight, which meant Hugh was wasting his time.

A fact that hardly improved his mood.

Perhaps he ought to have his men out searching for Alf, as useless an endeavor as that would be. At least it would give him the feeling he was doing something.

Riley slipped into the doorway beside him, and only years of training kept Hugh from starting. The Irishman could move like a ghost when he wanted to.

“What do you have for me?” Hugh asked.

“Lord Chase is dead,” Riley said, and blew on his cupped hands. “Found late tonight with his brains blown out. Supposedly was cleaning his fowling piece, but…” The slight man shrugged to indicate what he thought of that conclusion.

“What in hell?” Hugh murmured under his breath. Chase was one of the members of the Lords of Chaos on the list Montgomery had given him. That left only Dowling and Exley alive. “Are they killing each other?”

“Talbot thinks they might be, sir,” Riley said. “He’s got Bell watching the Chase house, and he’s following Dyemore himself.”

That got Hugh’s attention. “Dyemore’s gone out?”

After learning that the old Duke of Dyemore had been the last known leader of the Lords of Chaos, Hugh had investigated the new Duke of Dyemore. He’d discovered that Dyemore had landed in London only weeks before. On disembarking the duke had apparently promptly holed himself up in his town house because few had actually seen him in London. Hugh had had a man watching Dyemore for the past several days, but the duke had barely left his house.

He shook himself now and glanced back at Exley’s front door, which was still quiet. “Stay here. I’ll send someone to relieve you for the night. I’m going back to Kyle House to receive word from Talbot. It can’t be coincidence that Dyemore has decided to finally show his face on the day Chase dies.”

“Yes, sir.”

He left poor Riley stamping his feet against the cold and headed into the wind. What was going on in the inner workings of the Lords? It almost seemed as if they were fighting among themselves.

The old Duke of Dyemore had died suddenly and apparently without anyone in line to succeed him in the leadership of the Lords. Perhaps there was no one at the top.

Perhaps they were battling like rats to take possession of the dung heap.

Hugh frowned and glanced across the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He wished he could talk the matter over with Alf. She might drive him half-mad with her cheek, but she was also sharp as a tack and able to make the kinds of logical connections that made discussing strategy like riding a galloping horse: exhilarating.

Except he’d driven her away.

On that morose thought he looked up and saw the lights of his town house. He leaped up the steps and knocked, nodding to his butler as the door was opened.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Cox said, taking his hat and cloak. “Would you like supper served in the dining room?”

“Later, thank you.” Hugh made for the stairs, mindful that it was close to the boys’ bedtime.

He hadn’t seen them since this morning right after breakfast, when he’d introduced the new nursemaid Cox had found. Peter had seemed to like the new nursemaid, a motherly older woman named Milly. He’d chattered to Hugh about Milly and his lessons for the day while Kit still kept to monosyllabic answers. Annie, their established nursemaid, had reported that Peter had slept through the previous night without any nightmares.

Hugh sighed as he made the nursery floor. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the boys were improving with Alf around. If she decided to stay away because of him, would Peter’s nightmares return?

His steps slowed as he neared the nursery and heard voices.

“But why are you not a boy?” Peter asked, sounding quite worried.

Hugh stopped dead, holding his breath.

“Because I’m a woman,” Alf said.

Her voice was matter-of-fact, and Hugh closed his eyes in relief. Oh, thank God, she’d returned. She was safe and sound.

“But you were a boy before—”

“Silly!” That was Kit, his voice both scornful and a bit uncertain. “She’s always been a girl. She was just disguised as a boy.”

“But why?” Peter’s voice was stubborn and held a hint of tears. “I don’t want you to be a girl. I want you to be Alf.”

“I am Alf,” she said, her words careful and precise. “I’m always Alf. I always have been. I always will be. I’m just telling you that I’ve been wearing boys’ clothes but that I’m really a woman. I didn’t want you to be upset when you saw me in a dress.”

“But you talk different, too,” Peter objected.

“Are you a princess?” Kit asked cautiously, but with an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. “Like in a fairy tale? Were you stolen when you were a baby and forced to wear boys’ clothes?”

“Oh!” Peter exclaimed. “A princess!”

Alf laughed. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not a princess. I’m just Alf.”

“Aw,” said Peter, probably voicing the disappointment of both boys.

“Then why are you telling us now?” Kit asked, still sounding suspicious.

Hugh cleared his voice and stepped into the nursery. “Because I asked Alf to do so.”

They were sitting on the floor, Alf, Kit, and Peter. Alf wore her boys’ clothes as usual, but something was different about her, perhaps in the way she held herself. Perhaps in the way her hair was neatly clubbed back instead of half-falling in her face. Already she looked more feminine. Peter sat in her lap and Kit was perched beside her, leaning against her side.

He caught his breath. They looked… very like a young mother with her children.

Like a family.

He had to glance away for a moment and compose himself.

“You made Alf into a girl?” Kit sounded accusing.

He stared at his eldest son. “I didn’t make her into anything. I merely asked her to learn to dress as the sex she already was.”

“Didn’t you like her as she was?” Kit asked rather belligerently.

“Yes,” he replied, looking at her. “But I like her better when she doesn’t have to hide who she truly is.”

“I like Alf all the time,” Peter declared, and turned to hug her.

The woman wrapped her arms around his son and hugged him back. She watched Hugh over the blond head, though, and he couldn’t help but see a challenge in those big brown eyes.

He’d asked for this. He’d pushed her to do this.

And she had.

Something inside him rose at the knowledge, at the challenge in those brown eyes. He wanted to take her, pull her from this room, prove to her that he was the male to her female.

Instead he held himself carefully rigid.

“I’m so glad,” Alf was saying to Peter, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I like you, too.” She placed a kiss on his forehead and then one on Kit’s forehead as well. “And I like Kit.”

“Do you like Papa?” Peter asked.

“Petey!” Kit hissed.

“What?” the younger boy asked, bewildered.

Alf smirked—the same cocky smile she’d given Hugh as a lad. It had an entirely different effect now that he knew she was a woman. “Sometimes I do.”

“Really?” Kit didn’t sound particularly convinced, and Hugh blinked, feeling hurt. There’d been a time when his older son used to run to him, grinning, on fat little legs, and hold his arms up, begging to be held.

But that had been before he’d abandoned the boy.

Perhaps such hurts could never truly be healed.

“Yes, really,” Alf replied firmly, interrupting his dark thoughts. “Sometimes, of course, your papa is quite stern and abrupt and won’t listen to me and I want to throw potatoes at him”—Peter giggled at this—“but most of the time…” She looked up at him, meeting his gaze again, her brown eyes wide and soft. “Most of the time, I find I quite like him.”

His heart seemed to stop for a moment as he looked at her. He’d understood the huntress, the cocky boy, the wily informant, and, since the night before last, the sensual woman. All of that he’d been braced to defend himself against.

He hadn’t expected simple acceptance, though.

She’d laid him bare.

Peter squirmed in her lap, breaking the spell. “I’m hungry.”

She glanced down at him. “I came up to have supper with Peter and Kit.” She looked back up at him, her gaze cautious. “Would you like to join us?”

He blinked. The boys were watching him, Peter expectantly, Kit with his face shuttered. He didn’t usually eat with the boys—it wasn’t something adults did in aristocratic households.

He inhaled. “Yes, but why not come downstairs? I’m expecting news from Talbot.”

She smiled at him as Peter gave a whoop, and even Kit looked pleased.

The boys ran ahead down the hall as he held out his elbow to Alf.

She took it with a shy look, and as they followed his sons he wondered if he’d made a mistake in asking her to arm herself with skirts.