“You’ll be a dead man before morning.” Mr. Hapgood’s voice quivered with rage.

“Steady now, Lucius.” For all the heat vibrating through her husband’s words, Mrs. H’s voice was calm, soothing.

The fire in her eyes was not.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, and the anger vibrating through the room, Meena smiled. If anyone was going to rip Ramsay’s throat out, her money was on the plump woman a full head and shoulders shorter than her captor.

All attention was on Ramsay now, every one of them waiting for him to make the slightest of missteps. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Briar snatch up the cut glass butter dish and slip it behind her skirts. Edison’s hand was stuffed in his waistcoat, no doubt fingering some sort of useful device. Spencer’s palms were pressed flat to the table, his fingers white with strain. Mrs. H’s sharpest paring knife rested not an inch from his little finger.

No coincidence, that.

He met her gaze over the remains of their evening meal. The steady confidence she read in his expression, in the determined set of his jaw, told her he was ready to fly into action.

Did Ramsay, she wondered, have the least idea how vastly over-matched he was?

White blobs of pudding stuck to his head and shoulders, even the side of his beaky nose. Were he not armed, and clearly quite desperate, he would have looked a fool.

With the pistol still snugly in Mrs. Hapgood’s side, Ramsay surveyed the kitchen.“Well now, that’s not much of a welcome.” He shook his head, pretending dismay.

Mr. Hapgood lunged at the criminal. “Leave her be, you foul thing.”

Edison wrapped him in a bear hug and swung him to the side. “Steady on,” he murmured.

Ramsay jerked the housekeeper back, jabbing the gun into her ribs. “Keep him off me.”

Her face paled, but Mrs. Hapgood refused to cry out.

“Next time, I shoot her.” Wide with fright, Ramsay’s eyes seemed to roll around in their sockets, while his nostrils flared. With his thin face and wild eyes, he resembled a terrified horse. “Crane, you and Miss Sweet’ll be coming with me.” His chin jutted toward the front of the house. “Once were out the door free and clear, I’ll send the old woman back in.”

Meena’s attention switched to Mrs. Hapgood, just in time to catch the tiny nod she gave her husband. Meena was grateful to see she remained her usual levelheaded self. After his initial reaction, Mr. H’s training had taken over. No longer restrained, he stood tall and calm, his formidable attention focussed on the unlucky sot threatening his beloved.

If Meena knew anything about the man who’d tended to her scraped knees and taught her to defeat a three barrel lock before her adult teeth had come in, she knew his calm was the merest of façades. Given the chance, the older man would tear Ramsay’s pudding-speckled head from his shoulders.

Sweat trickled down the sides of Ramsay’s face, cutting through the traces of blancmange and blood still clinging to his cheeks and chin. Fear was not a good thing. It may people unpredictable. Especially stupid, weak-willed people like Jamison Ramsay.

“Let’s move it then.” Ramsay released his hold on Mrs. Hapgood’s neck and waved them toward the pantry. He shuffled to the side, making room for Meena and Spencer to pass them.

Meena locked eyes with Spencer. He gave her the smallest of nods. The stone cold look in his eyes made her believe Ramsay was but minutes from leaving this world.

She found she didn’t care overmuch.

She nodded silently at Ramsay, and threaded her way between the dining table and the sideboard, toward the door to the kitchen. Spencer followed on her heels. She could feel all of them thinking, watching, waiting for the right moment to attack.

Since she was first in line, the attack would begin behind her. As she stepped through the pantry and toward the back door, she willed her heartbeat to settle.

Spencer was immediately behind her, and then, she surmised, came Mrs. Hapgood, and finally Ramsay and his blasted pistol. Which left Mr. H, Edison, and Briar to begin the fight.

A crew she’d gladly stake her life on.

Her fingers curled around the doorknob when it started. From the whoosh of air at her back, she realized Spencer must have turned on Ramsay.

A pistol discharged. Pain stabbed her eardrums, bringing quick tears of pain. It was nothing compared to the way her heart slammed against her ribs.

Had he shot Spencer? Mrs. Hapgood? Fear seized her throat, making her breath come in short, hard gasps.

Legs trembling, Meena whirled around. But her legs were heavy, clumsy. She tripped over her skirts and toppled against the door. Even over the sound of her own rustling skirts, she heard a loud crack.

“Fucking hell!” Ramsay screeched, his voice high with pain.

Something heavy smashed into an immovable object.

By the time she got her limbs sorted out, Mrs. Hapgood had backed up against the china cabinet and Ramsay was laid out at their feet, pudding-covered face flat against the worn tile floor.

“Oh goodness.” Mrs. Hapgood pressed a hand to her chest, as her husband charged forward, elbowing Edison and Briar out of the way.

Spencer moved aside, Ramsay’s pistol swinging from an index finger.

The only question was how Ramsay ended up on the floor, unconscious. Then Meena noticed the butter dish resting by his shoulder. The last of the butter was plastered to the side of his head, undoubtedly leaking into his ear.

Edison shoved past the others and bent over him, hauling the unconscious man up by the back of his collar until only the tips of Ramsay’s shoes remained on the floor. He locked eyes with Mr. Hapgood, who has had his long arms wrapped tightly around his wife’s shoulders.“What do I do with this piece of garbage?”

The older man squeezed his wife tight. “I’d say kill him, but he isn’t worth the bother.” The houseman teased a hank of hair off of his wife’s cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Might make a fine present for our inspector.”

“Consider it done.” Edison released Ramsay’s collar. The unconscious man dropped to the floor with a satisfying thud. “I’ll get some rope.”

Mr. Hapgood disengaged himself from his wife’s embrace. “I’ll hitch up the carriage.” Then he stopped and took her by the shoulders. “You’ll be all right?”

His wife slapped him on the arm. “It’s all over now but the tidying up now, isn’t it? Of course I’ll be all right, you daft man.”

The houseman grinned and danced out the back door.

Ever watchful, Edison stood guard over the body. For Ramsay’s sake, she hoped he didn’t regain consciousness too quickly. She recognized that mix of anger, intensity, and delight on her cousin’s face. He’d cheerfully beat the tar out of the man given the least provocation.

Briar rushed to the housekeeper’s side, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Young lady, what have I told you about tossing about the serving dishes?” Mrs. Hapgood’s stern tone was completely undone by her beaming smile.

Briar squeezed the older woman so tightly she almost lifted her off the ground. “Don’t miss?”

Mrs. H patted her cheek. “That’s my girl.”

“You’re all right?” Spencer’s deep voice caressed Meena’s ear. She hadn’t realized he was so close. Not that she could hear much over the ringing in her ears. “I am. You?”

Spencer stared down at the tips of his shoes. “I wish my heart would stop galloping about in my chest.” He ran a hand through his hair. “There was a moment there, when I was worried that—”

Meena stepped into his arms and rested her head on his chest. “I know. It worried me too. But as usual, when we all come together things get put to right.”

Spencer wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. She could have stayed like that forever, surrounded by his quiet strength, the sound of his heartbeat pulsing through her.

Silence worked well between them.

It was the talking part that got them all bungled up.

Edison rushed back into the room, an impressive coil of rope in his hand. He knelt down next to the unconscious man and began securing him.

Once he had Ramsay’s wrists and arms tied, he looked up at Spencer. “Care to join me in delivering a package?”

Spencer set Meena gently aside. “My pleasure.” He knelt to help her cousin finish trussing up their prisoner.

By the time they had him secured, Ramsay appeared to be waking. He gave a long, low groan, and his eyes fluttered open. The vacant look in his eyes was quickly replaced with a venomous anger. He tried to rise, but the ropes pinning his arms to his sides prevented it.

He cursed, and stared at each of them. His face grew red. “You’ll regret this. You’ll regret it till the day you die.”

“If you say so.” Edison grabbed a hank of rope over the man’s chest and pulled him up so quickly, the man’s head snapped back.

Spencer dug his fingers into the coil on the other side, and both men muscled the wriggling oaf toward the door.

“He smells quite good.” Laughter lightened Spencer’s voice. “Like strawberries.”

“He should.” Edison glared at their prisoner. “He’s wearing my pudding.”

Spencer sniffed. “And butter.” He grinned down into Ramsay’s red face. “You’ll be popular in the lockup come tea time.”

One hand on their prisoner, Edison shoved the back door open. Then he stopped, one foot across the threshold. Ramsay fought his hold, but the larger man hardly noticed. He struggled to catch Mrs. Hapgood’s eye over Ramsay’s bobbing head.

“You still have the second pudding, don’t you?”

* * *

Meena expected it would be hours before the men returned from escorting Ramsay to police headquarters. Time she could use to savor Caldwell Nance’s newest release in peace.

But now, halfway through the story, her enthusiasm was souring.

Meena slapped her hand down on the page. “I can’t believe you’d even consider choosing Reymondo. Sephronia, don’t. He’s a cheating cad. And a murderer. For heaven’s sake, don’t forget that.”

She closed the book in disgust and tossed it down on the sofa. She’d so been looking forward to Mr. Nance’s latest. The first half of The Mermaid’s Curse delivered on every expectation. The plot was thick with intrigue, eery tension, and the sorts of hidden agendas she adored.

And then, suddenly, the heroine, Sephronia, became a lovesick twit.

Meena melted back against the sofa with a sigh.

Mr. Nance was spinning the exact type of yarn that captivated his readers. Captivated her, usually. Only now, with things so twisty, so tenuous with Spencer, a heroine losing all sense over a man didn’t entertain.

It cut too close to the bone, reminding her of the heartache, the anguish, the crippling self-doubt Spencer’s dalliance caused.

It reminded her of how very painful it was to be played for a fool.

With a growl, she snatched up the book again and cracked it open. Maybe if she skipped the parts where Sephronia chased shamelessly after Reymondo. In the end, she’d see what a splendid catch his rival, loyal steady Archibald, truly was.

Though not before that cad, Reymondo broke her heart, it seemed. Meena squeezed her eyes shut. Some men were not cut out to be loyal.

Some men, like Spencer Crane.

Meena pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, low sigh. She was playing with fire. The question now was, did she stop?

She could end things now, before her heart was completely taken, or she could enjoy a few more passion-filled nights, knowing each would only add to the coming tally.

Thankfully, the door swung open, diverting her from such pointless ruminations. She wasn’t sure who looked more weary. Between the threat to his wife, and the lateness of the hour, it was understandable Mr. Hapgood appeared done in. He gave her the briefest of smiles and shuffled off toward the back of the house. No doubt his lady wife had a warm bed and a liniment rub waiting.

Edison shuffled through the door behind him. Uncharacteristic circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes. The fact that she could hear his footsteps alerted her to his exhaustion. Edison normally moved with the stealth of a panther.

She tossed her book back down. “It went well then?”

Edison nodded wearily. Spencer stumbled into the room after him.

Her breath seized in her throat.

It was too late.

Too late to pretend she didn’t want it all, his attention, his regard, his loyalty. Too late to think she’d be unscathed when he tossed her over.

Too late to undo the chains he’d wrapped so expertly around her heart.

“Had to wait for the inspector.” Spencer yawned. “Burke locked him away himself. Says the attack on Mrs. H alone should keep him in custody for a good while. They’ll find more to pin on him, given time. Should extend his stay indefinitely.”

Meena forced herself to smile. “Well, that’s it then.”

Spencer looked puzzled. “White’s still out there. He’s far more dangerous.”

“Yes, of course.” Meena tried to ease the tightness seizing her throat, but she feared she was failing miserably. Her voice sounded high and unnatural, even to her own ear. “But we are halfway there, are we not?”

Spencer eyed her suspiciously. He seemed hesitant to reply, as if sensing a trap. “Most likely.”

Edison’s gaze flickered between the two of them. “Good night then.” He scuttled off to his bed.

“Your room is ready.” Meena ruffled the pages of her book. "If you wish to stay.” She studied the crisp pages. “With Ramsay handled… what I mean is, you’re most welcome to stay. No need to travel all the way back to the apartment. It’s late.”

Spencer sank down on the arm of the sofa. He nodded, his gaze on the floor between them. “I’d like that. Thank you.” He lifted his head, just enough to catch her gaze.

Dammit all, she wished she could tell what he was thinking.

She cleared her throat. “About this morning. I apologize for bringing up things we need not discuss.”

Surprise flickered across Spencer’s dark eyes. Surprise, and his own brand of wariness.

Meena flapped her hands. “I know this isn’t… I mean, I understand that what we have is…” Words failed her.

“I’m not at all sure what we have.” His world-weary smile made her ache. “Whatever it is, I’m enjoying it. Tremendously.”

Meena’s heart stuttered, reacting to the small sliver of hope she had no right to feel. Ramsay was no longer a threat. White would be in jail within the week.

Spencer would disappear.

Meena jumped up and grabbed her book. “Excellent. That’s it then.”

They were close to the end now. She had no idea how that was done. Meena knew she had no experience in this sort of thing, but she rather hoped Spencer would know what he was about.

When it seemed he had no better plan than she did, she swallowed the large lump growing at the back of her throat, and nodded. She started toward the door. “Well then, good night.” She stiffened her shoulders and crossed the room.

“Meena, wait.”

The softness of his voice almost brought her to her knees. She stopped, a hand on the doorjamb, her gaze fixed on the dark hallway.

His sigh blanketed her like a warm wind. She turned. He was still seated, his hands cradling his head, gaze on the floor. Finally he looked up. He patted the seat next to him.

Like an obedient pet, she sank down next to him before she had a chance to talk herself out of it. He took her hands and stared into her eyes. A tight grin pulled at the edges of his lips. “We’re making a hash of this, aren’t we?”

Meena couldn’t help but smile back. “A most accurate assessment.”

Spencer shook his head. “I didn’t intend for this—”

“Nor did I.” Now that it came to it, she found she had no wish for pity.

The hungry look Spencer threw her had nothing to do with pity. He disengaged his hand from hers and traced the side of her face with his finger.

The soft caress melted her far too quickly.

Regret shadowed his features. “I can’t make any promises.”

Meena stiffened. Now came the part where she was supposed to grovel, to chase his affections. “I don’t recall asking for any.” Although she wished to. She wished to in the worst way.

“That’s true. Wishful thinking on my part, I suppose.”

“Why wishful?”

Spencer toyed with the lace edging the neck of her dressing gown. A tiny tease of a touch that set her on fire, made her breasts swell, made her wet, and ready for him. “Because right now, I wish I could rip this wrapper right off you.”

He inched closer.

Their knees touched, then their thighs. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Meena nestled into him, enjoying the quiet strength of his embrace.

Enjoying the thought of him naked, moving between her thighs.

She traced a finger down the pinstripe along his thigh. “A pity we’re not as brave with our hearts as we were with our thieving.”

He squeezed her tighter and gave a soft laugh that resonated straight through her. “You have the right of that, Miss Sweet.”

They sat in quiet, the soft sounds of the house around them filling the night. Beat by beat, Meena’s passion cooled, replaced by a deep contentment. Even if it was a temporary reprieve, she intended to enjoy the feel of his strong arms around her.

Meena stared across the room at the small, faded miniature of the woman with the golden curls. The woman she should feel a part of, but who represented only a stranger now. “We lost my mother long before my father found you,” she said. “I’m not sure they had ever been happy. I don’t know that my father could have made anyone happy.”

She was being generous in her description. The only person Perrin Sweet ever cared to made happy was himself.

“He loved you.” Spencer traced a finger around the delicate edge of her ear, distracting her greatly.

Meena stiffened at the platitude. “He loved what I could do for him.”

Spencer shrugged. “Is that not the same thing?”

Meena pulled away. “No.”

“At least he cared, after his fashion.” Spencer stared at her mother’s smiling face. “My mother never gave a thought to anyone but herself. She paid the ultimate price for it. So did I.” His sigh carried the weight of the world. “Alicia most of all.”

Meena sensed the exact moment when he disappeared into himself. The protective wall he’d been constructing for so many years slammed down around him, and she was left on the outside.

So there they were.

She, with her scars from her greedy, grasping father, and Spencer, put right off love by his mother’s selfish maneuverings.

Spencer tipped her chin up, moving her head so their mouths could meet. When his lips touched hers, Meena felt all the tenderness, all the confusion, all the regret he couldn’t voice.

Regret.

The thing that would sink them.

Meena shoved the thought away, desperate to enjoy whatever time they had left. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, opening her mouth to him.

They’d shared passionate kisses. Sweet kisses. Even a number of angry kisses.

But they’d never shared a sad kiss.

The taste of him still aroused her, made her mad for him, truth be told, but even as his tongue swept inside her mouth, wanting, claiming, Meena couldn’t ignore the melancholy. Even as she responded, she felt it.

As his lips claimed hers, his hands roamed over her wrap, kneading her shoulders, then inching downward, until his warm palms cupped her breasts through the thick chenille.

She shuddered and moaned into his mouth.

As the passion built inside her, so too rose the inevitable. Sooner rather than later would come their last kiss.

Now that they were moments away from falling back into bed, her question had been answered.

She wasn’t sure she could add to the bill she already owed.

Meena covered his hands with her own, stilling the fingers that toyed with her taut nipples.

Spencer lifted his mouth from hers. Slowly, gently, he pulled away. “It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

Meena blinked, surprised by the prick of tears behind her eyes. Unlike the pin-brained heroine of The Mermaid’s Curse, she wouldn’t grovel. She wouldn’t chase, wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t beg him to grace her bed.

“Of course.” She bent to retrieve her novel. “Tomorrow looks to be another long day.”

When she stood, Spencer had already left. She crushed the book to her chest. The hard spine cut into her palm.

Wouldn’t it be grand if life were a sensation novel?

The scarred hero always healed.

True love always won.

Meena threw the book down on the sofa. It seemed the only way she’d win a happy ending would be to write one herself.

A pity she’d never shown the slightest talent in that direction.

* * *

After tossing and turning all night, Meena awoke feeling bruised and battered as if she’d spent the night wrestling with some unseen demon.

Across the breakfast table, Spencer drooped over his food. From the looks of things, he’d gone rounds with his pillow as well. She didn’t quite know how she should feel about that, so she chose to ignore the entire situation and focus on her coddled eggs.

Directly after breakfast, she followed Briar and Spencer into the parlor so they could begin planning White’s capture. The Hapgoods trailed behind.

Only Edison was missing.

He soon trundled down the hall, his arms around an intricate contraption so wide it took up the entire width of the doorway.

He set the machine on the table in front of them. “It’s called a gramophone.”

Whatever it was called, the thing was less than impressive. It looked to Meena like he’d nailed down every sort of switch, screw and piece of extra tubing he had available on his workbench. But she had no wish to inflict her sour mood on her hardworking cousin. “It’s lovely,” she lied. “Are we going to trick White into buying it?”

Briar bent over the machine, poking at the rubber tubing that snaked from a brass cylinder to switches nailed to the base. “It’s some sort of espionage machine. White will be found with it, won’t he?” She clapped her hands. “Just having it in his possession will mean the Tower for certain.”

“Don’t tell us.” Mrs. Hapgood rose up on her toes, looking the thing over. “It’s that locomotor thingamabob you tried to build. He’ll spend a fortune investing in it, and you’ll ruin him.” She turned to the others. “It’s been his one true disappointment. Hasn’t worked even once.”

“Wrong, wrong, and wrong.” Edison’s deep sigh signaled his despair at their lack of imagination. “It records sound.”

Meena glanced up from the maze of gleaming brass parts. Their blank looks suggested none of the others had the least idea what that signified, either.

Edison rolled his eyes. “Sound? As in conversation? Private, clandestine conversation?” He pointed to a brass cylinder, about a foot long and several inches in diameter that lay in the center of the machine. “See how the cylinder is covered with paraffin? When I turn the crank, the stylus makes an impression in the wax, capturing sound waves.”

Meena frowned down at the contraption. “Yes, but—”

Edison stopped her with a wave of his hand. “More expedient to show you.” He turned the handle. “Say something.”

Briar leaned in close to the cylinder. “Uh… Hello?”

The needle jumped and dug into the wax. Edison winced. “No need to yell. It’s quite sensitive.”

His sister snorted. “I was not yelling.” She put her hands on her hips. “That was my stage voice. It’s authoritative.”

Edison stopped cranking. He hovered over the machine, his back blocking his actions. A few seconds later, he stood aside, a wide grin splitting his face.

Again, he turned the crank. This time, Briar’s voice poured forth from the machine. “…stage voice. It’s authoritative.”

Meena studied the device with renewed respect. While the replication sounded rather tinny, and perhaps slightly thin, the voice was unmistakably Briar’s.

Mrs. Hapgood’s face was the picture of surprise. She beamed up at Edison. “If that isn’t bang up to the elephant.”

“Brilliant.” Briar was scrutinizing every metal band and tube on the machine. “Just brilliant.”

“What you think?” Edison asked the men.

Mr. Hapgood stared down at the voice replicator as if the mysterious jumble of parts might levitate straight off the table. “Well done, lad. Should be able to trap that bastard but good now.”

Hands thrust into his trouser pockets, Spencer look thoughtful. He walked around the table, studying the thing from every angle. Then he thrust a hand toward Edison. “That’ll do.” He gave Edison’s hand a hearty shake. “That’ll do just fine.”

Meena frowned down at the contraption. “So we’re to catch White incriminating himself.”

Edison beamed, watching over his gramophone like a proud papa.

Spencer was still staring at the machine. He brushed a finger across the edge of the table. “What sort of conditions does it require?”

“Quiet.” Edison scratched his head. “I’ve tested it out on the street. Useless when the noise level’s high. If we want to capture his voice clearly, we need a place with little outside noise.”

Spencer was nodding to himself.

She should have been more focused on her cousin’s marvelous machine and the unexpected opportunity it was going to give them to take down Leyland White.

Instead, she was ashamed to admit Spencer Crane filled her thoughts. Instead of planning, she was dwelling on his kisses, on the feel of his hard, male body holding her, teasing her, filling her.

Meena knotted her fingers together. They were so near the end. Might already be at the end. Best for her to face it now. Allowing him to seduce her, allowing him to sneak his way into her heart had been a terrible miscalculation.

She thought she’d be able to sample the passion, the excitement of an illicit affair without risking her heart.

How wrong she’d been. She was already showing signs of becoming the sort of ninny-headed fool she abhorred.

Briar stepped around her, attention still on Edison’s device. A wide grin lit her face. “This could work. This could really work.”

“I’ll need somewhere to hide, somewhere close to White.” Edison slid the gramophone to the far end of the table. “The same room would be best.”

Briar frowned. “They’re meeting in White’s tavern, yes? Between the gaming tables and the whores, nothing’ll be quiet there.”

Spencer frowned down at the tabletop. “Nothing except the women’s rooms.”

Meena closed her eyes, picturing various scenarios in her mind. Not that she’d been in the Black Rose, per se. But she had been in more gaming hells than she’d care to admit over the years. Never, of course, as Miss Philomena Sweet.

Meena caught Briar’s eye. “Harriette Wilson.”

Briar’s nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent idea. Harriette has languished in the costume closet for far too long. Perhaps she should bring a new… associate with her?”

“Just so.” Meena grinned. A new adventure was exactly what she needed at the moment.

Spencer looked lost.

Meena took pity on him. “What better place for White’s meeting than in a prostitute’s… place of work? Small, relatively quiet, and I’m sure we can find somewhere to stash Edison and his gramophone.”

“Unacceptable.” Spencer thrust his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Too dangerous.” He looked to the men for support.

Edison cradled the machine in his arms. “You’d best leave the planning to Meena. She’s quite good at it.”

Spencer glared at her, one eyebrow inching toward his hairline.

“It is true.” Meena shrugged daintily. “I am an excellent planner.” No point in pretending false modesty. After safe cracking, heist planning was her best skill.

She glanced at the cherub clock in the corner. “We should hurry if we’re to scout the tavern. It’ll be a crush once the working women wake.“

Spencer raised his arms and let them slap down against his sides. “You’re going to walk straight into a gaming hell? How do you plan to do that?”

Briar rolled her eyes. “We won’t be waltzing in. Harriette Wilson, fallen woman, and her new friend—Lisbet Baines, I should think—will be entertaining customers at the Black Rose this evening.” She picked up her skirts and scampered out of the room. “Off to the costume closet.”

“Shall we?” Meena gestured for Spencer to follow Briar.

He looked dazed, as if he’d had a good whack to the head.

“They’ll need an escort, dear,” Mrs. Hapgood explained delicately.

Meena tugged on his sleeve, trying to urge him out of the room. “A pimp, Spencer. We can’t stroll into a new place of work without a procurer, can we?”