The Devil’s balls, he was jumpy.

Spencer studied the small triangle of park from the safety of the greengrocer’s stall across the street. He hated waiting. He hated it almost as much as he hated knowing Meena was putting herself in danger on his account.

And now he was having second thoughts about their entire plan.

He swung the crate of onions up onto his shoulder, copying the casual way the delivery men around him moved. The sharp edge of the box cut into the side of his neck, making him wince.

The whole escapade was racing toward disaster. They’d gone from being fugitives to planning a kidnapping.

When had he become such a lunatic?

He dropped the box on the pile behind the greengrocer’s stall and propped an elbow on the edge. Soft with age, the simple smock he wore worked well in the heat, even if the fabric pulled at the shoulders every time he moved. Briar had dressed him in rough woolen trousers and a stained linen shirt rolled up to the elbows, the better to blend in with the workmen hauling boxes, carts, and wagons full of merchandise to the row of shops on the far side of the square from his lodgings.

Across the street, the inspector’s forces gathered. Two uniformed bobbies bracketed the entry to his building, while at the far end of the park, past the duck pond, two plain clothes detectives idled. Though they tried to appear like ordinary gents out to enjoy the early summer weather, their haircuts, the tension in their shoulders, the way they studied each person strolling by, told him otherwise.

The men he saw didn’t worry him. It was the ones he hadn’t identified that made the back of his neck prickle.

At the far end of the park, Sweet pushed a dented garbage cart toward his position. Spencer choked down the urge to retch. Piled high with refuse, and cooking in warm June sunlight, the cart had to reek. Just imagining the stench made his throat close up. Spencer didn’t wonder that the other occupants of the park took care to keep clear.

The inventor ambled his way across the grass, stopping every few steps to sweep up debris and add it to the pile in his pushcart. Unlike the officers behind him, Sweet was a far better actor. With his shambling gate and rounded shoulders, he appeared to be nothing but a humble working man.

“These for me?” The grizzled greengrocer pointed at the crate of onions.

Spencer straightened and touched the brim of his cloth cap. “Yes, sir.” He stepped away from the crate, taking the time to remove his cap and swipe at the sweat beading his brow.

“Here you go.” The greengrocer held out two ripe peaches. “They’ll only spoil.”

Spencer palmed the sun-warmed fruit and nodded his thanks. He ate the fruit slowly, hoping to drag out the time. The peaches were warm and sweet and juicy, full of the promise of summer. He savored the taste. Savored the sun’s caress on the back of his neck.

It was entirely possible it was the last he’d feel for a long time, if their idiotic plans soured.

Across the park, Edison flailed his arms, shooing pigeons away from his cart. Behind him, Meena and Briar stepped into position.

She was a vision.

With her wavy brown hair caught up beneath the prim starched housemaid’s cap, Meena looked every inch the proper maid. Even the severe black-and-white uniform suited her curvaceous form. And by suited, he meant it cried out to be stripped off at the earliest possible opportunity.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of lustful images. Audacious, hare-brained, unhinged as it might be, their plan was now in motion.

Meena and her cousin walked arm in arm on the sun-dappled walkway beneath the trees, giggling at whatever workaday maids would find amusing. Meena and her cousin had vanished. In their place, two ordinary housemaids, out for their half day off, took the sun, offering flirtatious smiles to the men they passed.

Spencer didn’t fail to notice how long those men’s gazes lingered on their trim forms after they passed.

Even from halfway across the park, Meena’s bright smile made his chest expand, as if he were filled with helium gas. An odd, protective urge swamped him. He wanted all her smiles. All for him alone.

He closed his eyes, letting a slow, deep breath fill his lungs, purging him of such unrealistic, unattainable ideas. Alone, he’d get. But not with Meena. They were having a good run, but it was a fragile thing.

She was prickly. Independent. Unyielding.

She might share her bed—for now—but she’d never forgive him.

Someday soon, she’d bring up the past. She’d make him pay.

Spencer tossed the last peach pit into the gutter. Any minute now, the inspector, Burke, would head to the bench where they’d offered to meet. He was moments from freedom, or moments from the end of his life as he knew it. Time to focus on—

“Ain’t you that captain?”

A flush of fear surged through him, making his lungs burn and his legs long to bolt. He looked down. Standing just in front of him, her work-worn hands wrapped around a fish, swaddled in newsprint, was the little maid from the day he’d been framed.

As quickly as it had come, the tension drained from him like helium from a balloon, leaving him just as limp. He wanted to swear. Instead, he put a finger to his lips.

The girl nodded solemnly. “You’re pulling a caper, ain’t you?” she whispered, her thin lips barely moving.

Spencer felt his eyebrows rise. “What makes you say that?”

“I ain’t stupid. Since you was here last, there’s been nothing but peelers everywhere.” She looked him up and down. “And I ain’t seen hide nor hair of you. It adds up, don’t it?”

Spencer tried hard not to smile. He wasn’t entirely successful. “You have me there, madam.”

Her cheeks pinked, and she dropped her gaze, as if consulting with the solemn cod in her arms.

Spencer reached in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a ha’penny. He held it out to her. “It’s a secret mission. I’d be grateful if you could forget you saw me.”

The girl wrinkled her nose and pushed his hand away. “I don’t need your coin.” She tightened her grip on the silvery fish until the newsprint crackled. “I’m not a snitch.”

“I can tell. Take it anyway.” He tucked the coin between the paper and the scales. “You look like a girl who works hard for her pay. You could do with an extra bit of lace. Maybe a bag of sweets?”

The barest smile curved her lips. She blinked up at him. “There’s a lady down the street what teaches girls how to write on those mechanical writing machines. I been wanting a lesson or two. I don’t aim to be a maid me whole life.”

Surprise rocked him back on his heels. He dipped into his pocket again and slipped another coin into the fish’s wrap. “Take as many classes as you need.”

The little maid smiled up at him, then her face grew serious. She cocked her head toward the park. “Looks like your bloke showed up.” The inspector was striding toward their meeting place.

“Good luck to you,” she offered, and scampered off.

Meena and Briar had taken their positions on a bench a short way down the path from where the inspector waited. Edison, too, was meandering toward the meeting area, his face hidden behind his growing mound of refuse.

Time for his own stage call. Spencer rolled his shoulders back, and shook out his arms, loosening the tension. He stepped off the curb.

The detective spotted him before he was halfway across the street. A tilt of the head and a general stiffening of his frame were the only tells. Spencer wouldn’t have noticed, had he not been watching for them.

A professional then. Good. Less likely the man would do something foolhardy.

By the time Spencer reached the walkway, the inspector was standing. He nodded in greeting. “Crane.”

His tone was friendly, but the look in his eyes was not.

Spencer returned the nod. “Inspector.” With only twenty feet to go, Spencer measured his steps. He looked around as if he was concerned about a trap. Mostly, he wanted to give his team enough time to execute their plan.

Burke spread his feet wide, and rested his hands on his hips, all the better to reach for a weapon, should the need arise.

Spencer squared off in front of him, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. “I’m not the man you want.”

The inspector grinned. “Too true, Crane.” He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “You’re far better than most. It brings me no pleasure to take you in, but I will.”

Spencer shoved his hands into his pockets. “You can try. Though I was hoping we could—“

Loud hissing, like the sound of a breached steam pipe, rang through the small square. The sounds popped up from all different directions, filling the park with high, ear-piercing squeals. Smoke from Edison’s bombs bloomed into the air, filling the area with thick, white fog.

Then came the yelling, the shouting of directions, and the screams.

Eyes now flat and hard, Burke watched him. “You’re making this worse than it needs to be, Crane.”

Spencer sighed. “Most likely.”

Both he and the inspector coughed as the smoke poured around them, blanketing them in a strange gray fog.

Spencer heard rather than saw Sweet pulling the refuse cart closer. Briar jostled his shoulder as she broke through the wall of mist, a length of rope in her hands.

“Peelers are closing in,” Meena said as she appeared. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Spencer took the rope from Briar and stepped toward the officer. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Though he was fit and strong enough to put up a fight, the inspector didn’t resist. For that, Spencer was thankful. He simply held out his arms and allowed Spencer to bind them. “This won’t go well,” he noted between coughs.

Spencer took him by the shoulders, guiding him toward Sweet’s garbage wagon. “I have considered that.”

Before Burke could respond, Meena tied a soft silk handkerchief around his mouth. They had only seconds before his men would converge on the spot.

They hustled the inspector across the park to Sweet’s waiting wagon. The loud hiss of escaping smoke cut through the thick air. Sweet had planted another bomb between the wheels. As he swung open the gate at the back of the wagon and rolled the inspector into the hidden compartment, it enveloped them in a fresh cloud of smoke.

From the outside, the wagon looked as if it were full to overflowing with rubbish. Spencer hoped the cries from the frightened crowd would obscure any noise the inspector might make until Sweet got him away from the park.

The gate latched, Sweet swung up onto the bench, took the reins, and started the horses clomping sedately down the fog-choked street.

Spencer shared a grin with Meena as they turned back toward the park. He wondered if his own smile looked as shaky as hers.

Now that they had the inspector bundled off, he felt the adrenaline flooding his system, making his heart pound and his limbs shake.

“Good luck.” Meena reached up on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek.

He nodded, not even feeling her kiss. Now came the tricky part.

It was his job to act as bait, to draw the inspector’s men away from the park. He and Meena had mapped an escape route through the neighborhood. Once he caught the attention of a few officers, any men left in the area should give chase.

He took off running, hoping that his urgency would draw attention.

Two uniformed officers stood at the corner, conferring. Both were stout, with thick mustaches and round bellies. If he couldn’t outrun them, he deserved to be locked up. He veered in their direction. The instant they saw him, they gave chase, yelling to attract their fellow men.

Once they were a few feet closer, he’d head down the lane in front of his lodging. The change of direction should give him time to—

A blast to the side sent him clean off his feet.

He slammed down on his side. The air flew from his lungs, making him grunt. His hip and shoulder were numb from the impact. Spencer fought to gather his legs back under him. He rolled on his back and looked up, trying to see his assailant.

His thin form wreathed in the last bits of while smoke, Ramsay’s grinning face loomed over him. “Hello there.”

* * *

As Spencer lay at his feet, trying frantically to clear his head, Ramsay’s smile morphed into a sick, evil sneer.

“I’d say I’m sorry about this, but—” He spat near Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m not.”

Spencer rolled to his side. He fought to gain purchase on the slick grass until the cold snick of a pistol being cocked stopped him short.

Ramsay pointed the barrel straight at his heart. “Officers,” he yelled. “I’ve got him. Over here.”

Spencer swore. He looked past Ramsay and his damned gun, desperate for a way out.

Panic flooded him, making his breath come in short, hard gasps that tore at his lungs.

The rage in Ramsay’s eyes, in the jaw, clenched so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t snap, pinned Spencer to the ground. If he moved, the man would shoot.

He shook his head as if he could wake himself from this ugly nightmare. It couldn’t end this way. Ramsay couldn’t win.

He tried to shove the anger—the recriminations—from his mind so he could think, but they battered him with their inescapable logic.

Retirement had dulled his edge. He should have taken the initiative, should have killed Ramsay at the start. Instead, he’d done what he’d always done, turned his back on the problem, hoping it would fade away.

Not the best of battle strategies to be sure.

Certainly not one Meena would approve. Although she might yet approve of the outcome. There was a time she would have welcomed him taking a bullet to the chest.

He laughed.

The unexpected sound caught Ramsay’s attention. He squinted down at him, senses clearly on alert. “What’s so bleeding funny then? You won’t be laughing once the peelers get you. Over here!” He yelled again. “Be quick about it now.”

He took a step closer.

Maybe just close enough.

Spencer pressed down hard on the matted grass, preparing himself. Whatever he’d failed to do, no longer mattered. Only one option remained. He tensed, preparing to launch himself at Ramsay.

There was no chance he’d survive.

But getting Ramsay to fire might save Meena.

A heartbeat later, he was preparing to push off when a loud rumbling came from his right. He couldn’t quite place it. A thick miasma of rotting garbage assaulted him. The urge to grin almost overwhelmed him, but he beat it back. He didn’t smile, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He couldn’t alert Ramsay to the coming danger.

He tensed, watching for the exact instant when Ramsay’s attention would waver. The moment the other man’s gaze flickered, Spencer threw himself in the opposite direction.

White smoke swirled above him as Sweet’s rubbish cart barreled into Ramsay’s side, shoving him down the grassy slope into the water. The man and the cart tumbled into the pond with an impressive splash.

“Oh Lord! Someone help that man.” Screeching like an empty-headed school girl, Meena appeared above him, her starched maid’s cap dangling off the side of her head. “Somebody do something.”

Spencer jumped to his feet. Ramsay was thrashing about in the knee-deep water, trying to wrestle the refuse cart off him. The two bobbies chasing Spencer dove into the water after him.

Unfortunately, the plain clothes officers converging from the other side of the park did not. Stony-faced, they advanced, their focus unaffected by the shenanigans playing out in the pond.

Spencer swiped at the water dripping from his chin. That presented a problem.

Before he could fashion a plan, Briar materialized through the smoke and maneuvered herself next to them. “How distressing. Oh, my.” She raised a hand to her head and fainted, draping herself over both of the officers like a discarded coat.

Spencer grabbed Meena’s arm and took off running. “Well done,” he observed as they sprinted toward the far corner of the park.

He had a nice little escape route planned out. Still, it wouldn’t do to dawdle. He glanced behind him. It didn’t appear that there were any other men following them, but if the police had led Ramsay to the meeting, his boss could have more men in the area.

He pulled Meena around the corner and forced himself to slow. Ever bit of him yearned to dash onward, but running now, through a quiet neighborhood, would only attract attention. His back prickled as he and Meena strolled down the path between the sedate homes and the quiet street.

Any moment, he expected to feel the barrel of a gun pressed to his spine. Spencer shrugged off the anxiety. Nothing he could do about it now. The way forward required razor focus.

Meena disengaged herself from his grip to fix her cap. Once she’d straightened it, she gave him a questioning look. “Better?”

He trailed a finger down the side of her cheek. “Perfect.”

He expected her to shrug off his compliment, but instead she took his arm, and pressed herself close, until the edge of her breast rubbed against him.

The saucy grin on her face made his breath hitch in his throat.

He wanted to believe it was the fear, or the adrenaline coursing through him, that gave her such power over his emotions. Almost being shot could be expected to put a man off course.

But that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t worry. It wasn’t adrenaline or anxiety or any other such fool construction that made his heart jump.

He very much feared it might be something closer to love. And that seemed about as brilliant as training dragons for house pets.

Only far more dangerous.

* * *

“Keep moving,” Spencer ordered.

Meena gave him a sharp look, but she didn’t waste an instant—or a precious bit of breath—protesting. Whatever had gotten into the man, now wasn’t the time to discuss it.

A good thing as it turned out.

They hadn’t made it three houses further down before their pursuers sighted them. “That’s him! That’s the one the inspector wants.”

Spencer took her hand. She grabbed a handful of skirt in the other, and they tore off at an even faster pace. “You did plan out an escape route, I hope?” she asked between breaths.

“I did. You must be rubbing off on me.”

Meena huffed, breathing hard. “I trust that’s a good thing?”

“…like to think.” At the speed they were running, it wasn’t a wonder Spencer couldn’t spare the breath to respond.

Two story homes, each one a mirror image of its neighbor, rose up straight ahead, no street between them. A dead end.

Meena put a hand to her heaving chest. Damn Crane and his lack of preparation. Panic seeped into her bloodstream, making her breath come in choppy gasps.

She slowed, studying the row houses lining each side of the street. Could she climb to safety? Sneak through a bedroom window before the police caught sight? If only she had her picks. Surely at least one of the houses would be unoccupied. But without her picks, she’d never—</p>

“This way.” Spencer dove down a narrow alleyway.

At the far end of the first house, the alley branched off in several directions. He turned again. As they rounded the corner, he tore off her cap.

“Ouch.” Eyes watering, Meena clapped her hands to her head. No reason he had to take her hair with it. She wanted to kick him, but there wasn’t time.

“Apologies.” He tossed the scrap of starched linen toward the alleyway at the far left, then urged her down the center path.

Alley was a generous description. It was more like a footpath behind two rows of large homes. Some homes pushed all the way out into the alley while others retained their original footprint. It made for a crooked and uneven path.

While the facades of the homes they rushed past were brightened by wide, white trim and tall, sparkling windows, the rear entrances were uniformly brown. Reddish brown brick the color of kidney beans pressed in from both sides of the narrow street. Stolid. Weighty. Sinister. Mops, slop pails, and rugs hung to air, cluttered many of the porches. Not even those small signs of life relieved the gloom.

The entire alley brought to mind dried blood.

Meena shook her head and almost stumbled. Spencer threw her a concerned look, but kept up the pace. The chase had drained any humor, any passion or playfulness from his countenance. A second’s look showed only determination, determination and an intensity of focus she’d never seen before.

She rather liked the change.

Spencer pulled up short. He put a finger to his lips and waited.

The steep walls magnified the slightest sounds. Their breaths sounded harsh as the exhales of a great steam engine as they ricocheted off the unrelieved brick. Meena endeavored to breathe through her nose, but her lungs demanded too much air. She settled for gasping as quietly as she was able.

In the dim light, Spencer’s cheeks glowed red. His chest heaved. Even without a corset to hamper him, he was having the same struggle.

It didn’t take but a moment for their pursuers’ voices to float down the pathway. “Robinson, Jenkins, take the left,” a male voice commanded. “Edwards and Palmer, right.”

Meena itched to flee. Surely they could make it to the next set of alleyways, surely they could—?

Spencer pulled her into a deep doorway, and wrapped his arms around her so they stood chest to chest, hip to hip, knee to knee. He was still breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting with each sharp inhale. Meena felt the contractions even through all the layers of dress, corset, and chemise. Her own heart thumped so loudly, she was sure it could be heard at the far end of the street.

And even wrung out from their flight, she ached to run. They still had the advantage. If any of the officers chose their particular alley, their only hope would be to beat them with sheer speed. Not, she admitted, her strong suit.

Meena wriggled her hands between them and pushed against his chest, trying to get free. “We can’t stop now.”

Spencer tightened his embrace, making her squeak as he squeezed the breath from her. “Be still. They’re not heading this way.”

“Yet.”

“Can’t outrun them forever.”

“We could try.”

With her face buried in his shirtfront, she could only guess that the upward movement she felt was a shrug. Meena pulled back far enough to see up into his face. “This is your plan? Hiding?”

He stared out over the top of her head. “Part of it.”

“Unbelievable.” She butted his breastbone with her forehead. His devil-may-care attitude was sailing ever closer to idiotic territory. She thumped him again.

Spencer set her further back toward the rear door of the residence and poked his head out of the doorway as far as he dared. “See? All clear.”

Meena shoved him to the side and started back out into the lane. Am arm shot out, barring her way. “We should wait. Give them time to move on.”

Or give him time to think about the plan he should have considered days ago. Meena set her hands on her hips. “Oh, by all means, let’s do… nothing. How long did it take you to mastermind that strategy?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “Are you trying to start an argument?”

“I’m merely pointing out that your so-called plan seems to be somewhat lacking.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

Meena blinked up at him. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Point things out. It’s less than helpful.”

She peered cautiously past the doorway. The shouting and the footsteps were definitely fading. “Well if you’d do some proper planning.”

“Perhaps less talking.”

It took all her will not to flinch, not to let on how deeply his rebuke stung. “Fine.” She clamped her mouth shut.

Her shoulders hunched. It shouldn’t have stung, shouldn’t have bothered her any more than the bite of the smallest mosquito.

It most definitely shouldn’t have brought her so close to tears.

Slowly, as if she hadn’t even heard, she turned her head away. She wrapped her arms around her waist as if she’d taken a sudden chill. She wasn’t about to cry, but what if he mistook a sudden moistness of the eyes for tears?

That would not stand.

“I’m sorry.” His sigh gusted across the space between them, blowing loose strands of hair against her neck. “I didn’t mean that.”

The words bloomed inside her, melting the icy pain. An apology? From Spencer Crane? Now she knew the world had gone topsy turvy. Because suddenly she wasn’t so certain she was in the right.

“No.” She shook her head. “I am too critical.”

“That is true.” His hands gentle, Spencer gripped her upper arms and turned her toward him. “But it’s not the point.” His teeth flashed in a warm smile. “I made a plan, but I should have made three.”

His grin was like a heated balm, soothing away the hurt. The stiffness in her shoulders melted. “Four. A situation like this clearly requires four plans.”

He gathered her to him. His large hands moved over her back, massaging away the last of the tension there. “Of course. Next time, I’ll design five.”

She leaned into him. “No need to go to excessive lengths.”

“I insist.” Spencer brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the center of her palm. “Excessive lengths are my speciality.”

She giggled.

He stared down into her eyes for a long moment while their hearts beat together. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it so badly, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t have come up with a plan for the life of her.

He took her face in his hands and lowered his lips to meet hers.

As it seemed to do with a disconcerting frequency, the heat between them burst into full flames. Meena responded eagerly to his kiss, reaching her hands up behind his neck to draw him closer.

It didn’t take much experience to realize the man was a masterful kisser. A masterful kisser. A masterful lover. A dangerous, delicious, delightful man, with a supernatural ability to sweep her off her feet at the strangest possible times.

“I do quite favor this sort of plan,” she said when they came up for air.

Spencer caressed her cheek. “I was hoping you might.”

She leaned into his touch, turning to plant a soft kiss in the center of his palm.

He gasped.

Laughter bubbled up inside her, bright and light as summer sun. It appeared she may have mastered some techniques of her own. Never would she have suspected that plain, serious, Philomena Sweet could affect a man so. A tiny, troublesome part of her did worry that it wasn’t really her after all. “It must be the strain.”

Spencer lifted his head from the ear he was nibbling. “The what?”

“The strain,” she repeated. “All this… this passion we seem to generate. It must be because of the…”

Teeth grazed the lobe of her ear, making her shudder.

“You were saying?” he prompted.

“I…” She swallowed. Whatever had been on her mind couldn’t have been in the least important.

“Exactly.” Spencer’s smile was so wicked, it set her toes alight.

He laughed and bent his head to claim her lips. This time, he wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t soft, slow, or seeking.

Nor was she.

With a moan, Meena leaned into him, wanting every inch of her touching every inch of his long, hard form. He stumbled back, pulling her with him as they continued the kiss. He turned her about as if they were waltzing. Her back collided with solid wood. A door, she surmised, once she realized the hard object poking into her back must be a doorknob.

Then it opened, confirming her suspicions, and sending her reeling backward.

Spencer grabbed at the doorjamb, stopping both of them from falling through the doorway. “What the—”

Two large, solemn eyes staring up at them from inside the hallway.

“Hello again, Cap’n. There’s a wicked lot of peelers swarming about. Not saying they’re looking for you or anything, but you and the lady might want to get inside for a tic.”

Meena felt as if she’d been dumped into some absurdist play. All the other actors had scripts, but she’d been left to improvise. She looked from Spencer to the little maid and back again, willing one of them to explain.

Crane seemed torn between shock and laughter. Quite an odd combination.

Head cocked like a small bird, the maid eyed her back. “Forgive me for sayin’ so, but you look about as much like a maid as this one here looks like a sea captain.”

Spencer laughed. He gestured to the small girl. “Miss Sweet, I’d like to present my friend…” He winced. However their paths had crossed, he hadn’t gotten around to introductions.

The girl dropped a curtsy. “Nelly Tremaine. Pleased to meet you.”

Meena smiled at the girl and hurried through the doorway after her. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Tremaine.”

The girl giggled behind a work worn hand. “It’s plain Nelly, miss. I’m just a scullery maid.”

“And how do you know the captain?”

“Met at the greengrocer’s stall. We like to talk about rutabagas and cabbages and such on occasion.”

“Do you?” She shot Spencer a look. “I had no idea the captain had such an interest in produce.”

He shrugged most unhelpfully.

“Cook’s down at the market, and the family’s off visiting. It’s only me and the upstairs maid home. I can put on some tea if you like?”

“We wouldn’t refuse.” Spencer grinned at Meena. “I told you I had a plan.”

She snorted. Luck. Luck was his plan. How fortunate he seemed to have an over abundance of that particular commodity.

They followed the girl into the kitchen. By the time they’d entered the cozy room, Meena had straightened her own uniform, erasing most of the evidence of their kiss.

She hoped. One look at Spencer’s reddened lips and the unholy twinkle in his eye made her reassess that conclusion.

The heat coming off him could have set her alight right where she stood.

Someday, she vowed, as she basked in the heat of his desire, she really should find a way to shield herself from all that power.

* * *

Jamison Ramsay knocked back the last of his watery beer and slammed the mug down on the tabletop. A whiff of stale perfume was the first signal that he was no longer alone.

Flabby arms reached around from behind and pulled him back against equally flabby breasts. “Don’t it look like someone needs cheering up then?” The old whore’s foul breath caressed his ear.

Ramsay jumped to his feet. Christ in a bucket, but he couldn’t catch a break.

The woman scrambled backwards. “Oi, Love, you’re soaking wet.”

He shoved his damp hair out of his eyes and aimed his glare like a weapon. “I’m not looking for company.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she backed away more quickly than she had approached.

Ramsay wiggled his legs, trying to keep the wet wool from sticking to his skin. God’s balls, he would enjoy watching Crane suffer.

He hobbled painfully toward the door. That cart had come out of nowhere, smashing into his hip and tearing a chunk of skin from his ankle.

He couldn’t prove it, but he knew Crane and that interfering Philomena Sweet had something to do with the accident. He would’ve bet his last farthing on it.

Which reminded him. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers, only to pull them out in disgust. Still dripping wet, even after he’d had to walk miles from that damned park.

Nothing for it but to head back to his lodgings and change his clothes. Then he could head to his own tavern for a proper pint that wasn’t watered halfway to nothing.

The sun blinded him as he moved from the dark of the pub out into the sunlit street. Which was why he failed to notice the large enforcer standing straight in front of him.

Before he could protest, the big man forced him into the blacked-out carriage blocking the doorway.

“Afternoon, Mr. Ramsay.” The mellifluous voice carried from the far corner of the dark space.

Ramsay’s breath froze in his lungs. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to sense the danger in that greeting.

His employer lounged against the leather cushions at his back. His black eyes carried all the threat of a loaded pistol. “I understand the meeting did not go as planned.”

Ramsay swallowed hard. “It was the woman’s damned cousin. He’s an inventor. Had devices going off everywhere. No idea how he did it. They were everywhere. We didn’t plan for that.”

The man studied the tips of his fingers. It was a long while before he spoke. “Isn’t that what I pay you for, to anticipate things?”

“They must’ve brought an army with them.” Ramsay shook his head. “It’s the only way they could have set off all of those devices.”

Silence told him he wasn’t making any headway.

His right leg jiggled. “They won’t get the drop on me again. I’ll have them for you tomorrow. Crane and the woman. Don’t worry about that.”

The man rubbed his temples as if Ramsay’s very presence pained him. “No need to bother.” He wrapped sharply on the roof of the carriage. It jolted forward.

He recognized that look. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his stomach from heaving. The last time he’d seen it, a man died. He shoved his shaking hands under his thighs.

Thick black curtains were drawn over the coach windows. Damnation. The last view he’d have before he cocked up his toes would be the black interior of a coach.

“You’re fortunate that I’ve grown fond of you, because my patience is at an end.”

Ramsay nodded. And nodded. And nodded. “I understand, sir.”

“Yes, I see that you do.” The man leaned close. “You know exactly how much pain you’ll face should you fail me again.”

Ramsay shivered.

“I have one final task for you to complete.” One long, pale finger caressed a black curtain. “This plan has become far too troublesome. I want you to kill them, Mr. Ramsay.”

Relief stole any strength he had left. “Done. Today. Crane and the woman will be dead by nightfall. I can—”

A short shake of his employer’s head stopped him. “I said kill them all. Crane, the woman, and a certain inspector with the Metropolitan police.”

Ramsay’s stomach lurched. He clamped his mouth shut, trying his best not to vomit at the man’s feet.

Kill a peeler? What the hell had he gotten himself into?