Day after day the Black Prince brought the Golden Falcon out to train her, always handling her gently, always whispering words of encouragement and praise, until one day he untied the long tether and threw her into the air. The Golden Falcon flew high into the sky, until she was but a dot in the blue. The boy whistled. The bird wheeled and swooped from the sky, landing on his arm of her own accord.

And the Black Prince smiled at her.…

—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon

“Slow-ly,” Iris said several days later as Alf was trying—unsuccessfully—to rise gracefully from a curtsy. “You must perform it as slowly and as steadily as possible. Oh, and do keep your back straight. Pretend as if you had your back against a brick wall.”

They were in the red sitting room in Kyle House today for Alf’s Lady Practice—as she privately called it. Most mornings she’d been practicing at Iris’s house, but today Iris had wanted to see the boys, and as a result Alf had a bit of an audience for her lessons.

Spread on a low table were a steaming pot of tea, along with a pitcher of chocolate, and several plates of tempting refreshments. Peter giggled as he watched her, while Kit was more interested in his cup of chocolate.

Alf blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. She felt like a fool. She didn’t like feeling the fool. “A man must’ve invented the curtsy. It’s the most awkward thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know how anyone can do it gracefully.”

“With lots of practice,” Iris said pragmatically, and took another biscuit. She, of course, was sitting on one of the settees with the boys.

There was a plate of biscuits, one of muffins, and one of sliced cake, and Alf eyed them rather longingly.

“Once more,” Iris said, sounding far too cheerful.

Alf bent her knees, remembering to keep her back ramrod straight. Her stays did help in this, since she was laced so tightly it would have been a bit hard to bend at the waist in any case. The problem was sinking down without wobbling.

A snort from Peter as she began to rise alerted her to the fact that she’d failed yet again.

“Beg your pardon, my lady, but might we be of service?”

The voice was from the doorway, and Alf straightened gratefully to see that Riley, Bell, and Talbot were standing there.

She raised her eyebrows. Although she’d exchanged a few words with Kyle’s men, she wasn’t entirely sure what they thought of her.

Especially now that she’d suddenly transformed into a woman.

But neither Riley, Bell, nor Talbot looked as if he were laughing at her. In fact they seemed genuinely interested in helping with the proceedings.

Alf glanced at Iris.

Iris raised her brows back at her and, on receiving a shrug from Alf, nodded. “We’d be grateful for your help, gentlemen.”

Riley drifted in, followed by the boy and the larger man. Bell was blushing and having a hard time meeting Alf’s eyes. She wondered in amusement if it was because she was a woman now.

“What can we do, my lady?” Riley asked.

“Do you know how to make a bow?” Iris asked.

The Irishman grinned and made a sweeping formal bow.

Iris nodded in approval. “Very good. I’m teaching Alf about introductions. Why don’t you be the gentleman at a ball and Alf will be the lady?”

Riley nodded and turned to her. “Miss Alf?”

She curtsied as he bowed, and then they did it again with Iris making comments about where Alf’s hand should be and to keep her chin lowered just a little longer and smile, but never smile too widely, and certainly not with teeth.

Teeth were apparently not ladylike.

The whole thing was more exhausting than spending the night running over rooftops and dueling footpads.

At the end of half an hour Alf finally was allowed to sit down and have a biscuit and some fresh tea. She was laughing at one of Riley’s stories when she glanced up and saw Kyle standing in the doorway, watching them.

Well. Watching her, anyway.

She felt her face heat as she saw the glint in his black eyes.

He jerked his chin at her in a sort of command, and she said, “Excuse me,” as Iris had been teaching her, and calmly got up and went to the door.

He was waiting for her in the hall.

She walked toward him, aware of her skirts brushing against her legs and of her hair, pulled back and exposing her face. “It seems like we should trade jobs, guv.”

He frowned, those black eyes intent on her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Just that you’re spending more time watching these days than I am.”

He stepped toward her. “Oughtn’t I be? I asked a lot of you.”

“You asked me to put on a dress.”

“You yourself said it was much more than that.”

He glanced up irritably as boyish giggles came from the sitting room. It seemed to remind him that they were standing in the hall. He took her hand and pulled her without comment across the floor and into the dining room.

He closed the door behind them.

She looked up at him, this powerful man. “What do you want from me, guv?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, sounding angry—whether at her or himself, she couldn’t guess—and his hands pulled her against his hard body.

He bent and took her mouth, sliding his tongue against her lips until she parted them. Until she let him in with a relieved sigh. She’d missed this. Missed him. She’d wondered if he’d decided he was done with her.

Apparently not.

His fingers brushed over her bare neck, ticklish and sweet, even as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth again and again.

“Alf?” The call came from outside the room.

For a second more he continued to ravage her mouth as if he couldn’t tear himself away from her, and then Kyle lifted his head. His lips were reddened, his eyes dark.

Carefully he tucked a lock of her hair back inside her cap. “I don’t know what the hell I want from you.”

“BUT WHERE DID she go?” Peter asked several days later with that whine particular to five-year-old boys.

The headache Hugh had woken with seemed to tighten into a knot behind his right eye. He’d thought that spending a morning with his sons in the library might help them understand each other, but he was beginning to doubt his wisdom. Thus far Peter had been petulant and Kit still hostile. Perhaps he should double the pay to their nursemaids.

“Alf has her own life,” Hugh said wearily.

The truth was that he hadn’t seen or heard from her in almost a week now. Part of that time he knew had been spent with Iris, learning everything she would need to know for the ball, but the rest he had no idea about. For all he knew, she was still risking her life at night as the Ghost of St Giles. He had no hold on her, did he? She could do whatever she pleased. She’d made very sure to flaunt that fact to him by slipping out of her room and past his guards whenever she wanted.

And that was all his own choice. Because after his loss of control, after he’d kissed her in the dining room despite telling himself he wasn’t going to touch her again, he’d decided to avoid Alf.

Which he had.

Hugh sat in his wing chair and rubbed at his aching eye as he watched the boys on the floor before the fire. He’d been attempting to interest them in a large book of maps, but that, like all his other plans of late, seemed to have failed.

“But—” Peter had begun when his elder brother interrupted.

“Quit asking, Petey.” Kit sighed, sounding far too cynical for a seven-year-old. “She’s just gone and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Alf’s not coming back?” Peter asked, wide eyed. He looked from his brother to his father, his blue eyes filling with tears.

“I’m sure—” Hugh said helplessly.

“But I want Alf to come back,” the little boy whimpered.

So did he. “Come here.” He bent and lifted his son to his lap, the warm weight a comfort. Hugh looked at Kit, still scowling on the floor. “You, too.”

The older boy slowly got up and dragged himself over, and Hugh pulled him close as well.

He closed his eyes, laying his cheek against his angry son’s dark head. At least the boy let him do that.

He sighed, remembering when Kit was born. The red, wet bundle thrust into his arms, traces of birthing blood still caught in the whorls of his tiny ears. Hugh had unwrapped the baby’s swaddling against the protests of the midwives. Had traced the wrinkled armpits, touched the curling toes, wondered at the perfect penis. Placed his palm over the delicate, round belly, his fingertips curling over the baby’s shoulder, and known: he loved this tiny thing. Loved him mindlessly and forever.

Paternal love didn’t die simply because a boy glared at his father. It merely watched and grieved.

Hugh swallowed. His damned eye felt as if it would burst from the socket. He wondered idly if it was possible for a man to die from a headache.

Peter gave a wiggle. “Alf.”

“I know.” He kissed the small forehead.

“No, Alf is here, Father!” Kit exclaimed.

Hugh’s head jerked up as he opened his eyes. She stood there in her boys’ clothes, grinning at him, cocky as ever, a covered basket at her feet. She must’ve come in by the French doors again, and it occurred to him that he really ought to put a better lock on the door.

The boys scrambled from his lap and ran to her, and the sight made him breathless. He stood watching as she knelt, laughing, and they hugged her. Peter’s tears had dried and Kit’s anger seemed to have evaporated.

How had she worked such magic?

She glanced up over their heads, her brown eyes glowing at him. “Miss me, guv?”

He had, oh, he had. “Where have you been, Alf?”

His tone was rougher than he’d intended.

“Oh, here and there.” Her smile didn’t dim. “I’ve things to see to. Doesn’t interfere with learning to be a lady.”

“I know that.” He cleared his throat. “What things have you seen to?”

She looked down at the boys. “I have a friend I visit sometimes. A little girl named Hannah. She lives in the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in St Giles.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “How old is she?”

“About your age.” Alf brushed back his hair. “She’s got red hair and a friend called Mary who’s only four.”

Peter’s nose wrinkled. “That’s a baby.”

Alf laughed. “That’s what Hannah says, too.”

She had her own life, out there in St Giles. Hugh stared. Someone had taught her to use those swords. He’d never asked who.

“And did you see anyone else?” he asked abruptly. A friend? A lover?

“Oh, a fair number of people, guv,” she said, gently mocking. “There’s many who live in St Giles. But mostly I went to see Hannah and to check on my rooms.”

“Ah.” He realized his headache had eased. Jenkins had commented just yesterday while giving him his draught that he hadn’t had to make the concoction as often when Alf was about. Hugh had near bitten the poor man’s head off. “How are your lessons progressing?”

She winced. “Fairly well except for dancing. I—”

Something squeaked from inside the covered basket.

Both boys were immediately on the alert.

“What’s that?” Peter crawled over to the basket and peered at it without touching. Kit came to stand watching over his brother’s shoulder.

“Something I found in St Giles.” Alf glanced at Hugh, her eyes mischievous, and he was immediately suspicious. “You can open it if you’d like.”

Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “What—?”

But he was too late. Peter had already unlatched the basket and flipped back the lid.

“Oh!” Kit said, sounding so young, so sweet—sweeter than he’d sounded since Hugh had returned from the Continent.

Both boys were crowded close to the basket, so Hugh couldn’t see what was within, and Peter was making high cooing noises.

This did not sound good.

Then Kit abruptly sat down on his bottom with a struggling puppy in his arms. The animal was wriggling and licking the boy’s face, and Kit…

Kit, his always-angry son, was giggling.

“Let me hold him, Kit, please, please, please!” Peter said impatiently, and Hugh waited for the explosion and the argument.

Instead the older boy smiled at his brother. “Sit down, then, Petey, so you don’t drop her.”

“Her?” Peter asked, sounding confused.

“She’s a girl dog, silly,” Kit replied with elder-brother wisdom, but not unkindly.

He waited until Peter was sitting next to him and then placed the puppy in his brother’s lap. “Hold her around her tummy, but not too tight. Don’t want to squish her.”

“I won’t,” Peter promised fervently.

He grinned down at the puppy now gnawing on his thumb. It was a small thing, most likely some sort of terrier, with soft-looking, medium-length, caramel-colored fur, darker around the muzzle and on the back.

“What’s her name?” Kit asked Alf.

“I don’t know.” Alf shrugged. “I thought you could figure that out for yourselves.” She glanced at Hugh, a wicked gleam in her eye. “That is, if your father lets you keep her.”

Oh, the little imp. What he wouldn’t give for two minutes alone with her right now to show her what he thought of this subversion.

He cleared his throat and watched as both boys turned pleading gazes toward him. Kit’s face, he noticed, had lost its previous gaiety. Why was he always the presumed wrongdoer? “You may keep the dog.”

His announcement brought forth exclamations of great joy from both boys, making the dog yip.

Hugh eyed the excitable trio. “Perhaps we should take her out into the garden.”

The boys were out the French doors with the puppy before he’d finished the sentence.

He sighed and levered himself out of the chair, eyeing Alf as he rose. “So you’ve been in St Giles all this time?”

Her cocky smile had died. “No. Part of the time I was at Iris’s house at lessons. As I told you.”

“I’ve hardly seen you,” he said moodily.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” she replied, her small expressive face closed. “You kissed me and then said you didn’t know what to do with me. You avoided me.”

“That hardly matters.” He flung up a hand irritably. “I didn’t know where you were.”

She lifted her chin. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be telling you everywhere I go, guv. You never mentioned.”

“Didn’t I?” he growled, taking that chin in hand.

He glanced at the windows. The boys were chasing the puppy down the graveled path. He bent and took her mouth, hard and fast and not nearly enough.

Not nearly enough.

When he raised his head again it was to breathe words across her parted lips. Words he didn’t stop to think about. Words that came straight from that part of himself he’d thought he’d locked away deep inside: “I’ll say it now, then. You tell me where you are and what you’re doing until such time as I’m done with you, do you understand?”

“Oh, I think I understand, guv,” she whispered, and though her words were a concession, her tone was not.

She turned and walked out the French doors.

Damn it.

He wished for a wild moment that she’d hit him instead. That she’d yelled and raged so he could yell and rage in return. So he could unloose everything that he held so tightly inside. Everything animal and uncivilized that wanted to simply take her and damn the consequences and all that he knew would be the result.

Except he wasn’t an animal. He wasn’t uncivilized. He was a man in control of his emotions. A man led by his mind not his cock.

But as he followed Alf out into the garden, watching the sway of her hips as she descended the steps, he wondered if he was simply fooling himself.

For he wasn’t sure he’d ever be done with Alf.

A WEEK LATER Alf lifted her arms as two of Iris’s lady’s maids helped her into the outer robe of her gown.

They were in a guest room of Kyle House. Iris sat on a gilded chair, her own cream-and-pink skirts pooled around her, having dressed hours before. She was directing Alf’s toilet, and Alf was ever so glad to have her there.

Tonight she’d either turn a bare fortnight’s lessons in being a lady into success, or make a right ass out of herself.

Alf stood in the middle of the room, already dressed in silk stockings, garters, heeled shoes, linen chemise, stays, small panniers tied at her waist, and embroidered petticoats. The outer robe was a bloody gorgeous deep violety-purple silk that seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. A flat ruffle of the same material was sewn all down the edges of the front and the hem of the skirt of the outer gown.

The maids placed the V of the embroidered stomacher between the edges of the outer gown and began pinning the two together.

Alf stared at the painted molding on the ceiling. This was the hardest part—standing still while the maids worked on dressing her as if she were a prize mare at a fair. The first time she’d done it, she’d spent the entire time torn between apologizing to the poor maids for having to work on her and wanting to make a run for it.

Standing still like this while others plucked and poked at her was like having bedbugs crawling all over her skin, never knowing where they might bite.

She shivered at the thought and met Iris’s eyes.

The older woman gave her an encouraging smile. “Not much longer now.”

Alf nodded and firmed her lips. The stomacher was almost pinned in place. She held her arms out to the sides so a third lady’s maid could start sewing the lace falls onto her sleeves. The sleeves came just to her elbows, and there were three layers of lace. They were so pretty, they made her feel like a swan. She wished Ned could see her in this grand dress.

Ned would’ve loved this dress. They used to dream of pretty clothes, huddled together in a shared bed at night in St Giles. They’d dreamed of fine food and heated rooms, too.

She blinked hard, for her face was already painted and she mustn’t ruin the white rice powder.

The maid finished the lace falls and stepped back to pinch and fuss with her skirts.

Iris stood examining her carefully. “I think you’ll—”

The door to the room burst open, and Peter came running in, followed by the puppy and his older brother. “Alf! Alf!”

The boy caught sight of her and stopped so suddenly he nearly toppled over.

Kit stumbled to a halt and frowned, staring at her.

The puppy was the only one who kept going, sniffing around the floor in interest.

“Alf?” Peter asked, sounding very unsure. His blue eyes were wide and wondering.

She smiled down at him. “How are you, my lord?”

He burst into tears. “You’re not Alf!”

For a second she could only stare between the boys, Peter sobbing as if his little heart was broken and Kit looking suspicious and almost betrayed.

She swallowed, feeling shattered. Maybe he was right, something inside her whispered, maybe she wasn’t Alf anymore all painted and primped. Maybe she’d given up everything that was really her.

Iris stepped forward but Alf said, “No.” She looked at the other woman. “Just… let me talk to them, please?”

Iris’s blue-gray eyes were gentle and understanding. “Of course.” She turned and motioned for the maids to come with her to the far side of the room.

That left Alf and the boys a bit of privacy.

Alf bent—very carefully, because she was all dressed now, ready for the ball tonight. Ready for the important job that Kyle wanted her to do.

“Peter,” she said. “What’s the matter, love?”

“You’re all wrong,” the little boy sobbed. “Your face is funny and you’re a lady. Alf isn’t a lady.”

“I can be,” she said. “It’s just a dress and rice powder. Underneath I’m still Alf.”

“But you look different,” Kit said. He was still frowning—hard like his father.

She glanced at him and smiled. “Isn’t that a good thing? Don’t you like my ball gown?”

“I liked you as you were.” Kit thought about this, his small brows drawn together. “It’s a pretty gown,” he added grudgingly.

Peter wiped his eyes, snuffling loudly. “Why’re you in a big dress now?”

“I’m going to a ball,” she said. “With Lady Jordan and your papa.”

“A ball?” The younger boy scrunched up his face in apparent disgust. “But me and Kit were coming to tell you that we thought of a name for her.”

Alf immediately knew who her was. She glanced at the little terrier. It had sat down, back legs splayed to the side, and was looking at her with sad eyes. That was what had made her pay a shilling for the puppy in the first place: its funny sad eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, smiling.

He leaned close and whispered as if it was a secret, “Pudding.” He straightened. “I thought of it all by myself.”

Behind him Kit snorted. “Pudding’s a lot better than what your other ideas were.” He rolled his eyes in elder-brother exasperation. “And you cried until I said it was acceptable.”

Fortunately, Peter didn’t take offense at Kit’s statement.

“I think it’s a lovely name,” Alf said, stroking the puppy with a forefinger.

Behind them Iris cleared her throat.

Alf swallowed. It must be nearly time to go. Time to face Kyle. Time to see if she could fool a room full of London aristocracy into believing she was a lady.

“I have to leave now,” she told the boys. “But I’ll come see you and Pudding tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Kit said, sounding like a small gentleman, which she supposed he was. “Good night, Alf.”

He took his brother’s hand and led him from the room, the puppy following.

“Are you ready?” Iris asked her.

Alf glanced at her. “Almost.”

She walked to a table by the door where three of her daggers lay. She might be dressed like a lady, but she was still on a mission tonight—and that meant going in armed. She shoved a very thin, sheathed dagger down between her breasts, under her corset. The next she placed in her right garter against her outer thigh. And the third, the smallest, she carefully shoved up her left sleeve.

She made sure her skirt was straight and that the knife up her sleeve wouldn’t fall out by accident, and then she nodded at Iris, who was watching her, wide eyed.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”