Even as she struggled to wriggle out of her bonds, Meena couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.

It had been truly spectacular.

Unfortunately.

Her exquisitely plotted plan lay in ruins at her feet, smashed beyond all repair beneath Crane’s limp form, yet what set her heart racing was the memory of his mouth tempting, teasing, claiming.

That frightened her far more than any threat the crime lord in the other room could make.

Out in the hallway, feet stomped and voices rose in panic as guests, servants, and Blackborough’s toughs, hurried to and fro outside the study, many coughing on the thick sheets of raw gas still wafting down the hallway. None spared a glance for the woman bound to the chair.

To say nothing of the well-dressed body at her feet.

The excited chatter of guests, unsettled by the blackout, rang out from the ballroom. The noise rolled and swelled like a storm-tossed sea, drowning out the anemic orchestra.

She glared down at Crane’s unconscious form as she wiggled her shoulders wildly, forcing the coils of rope to inch their way up toward her neck.

What was she to do with him now?

She wished she could leave him crumpled on the Aubusson carpet like a soiled shirt. Blackborough would likely kill him. He deserved it of course, but Meena wasn’t entirely certain she could live with that.

She studied his still form, wishing she could ignore the way his broad shoulders tapered to a taut waist, the way his dark hair curled every so slightly back around the edge of his ear. Mostly, she wished to forget how the feel of his mouth, claiming hers, had made her burn.

She wasted a glare on him. “You always were far more trouble than you were worth.”

He’d joined forces with that smarmy pig, Jameson Ramsay. And then he’d let her do all the work, simply hiding there in the shadows of Blackborough’s study, ready to snatch the journal away.

For that alone he deserved a great whack on the head.

The twine sawed back and forth across the bare skin of her décolletage as she squirmed, chafing until her skin burned. The burning sensation stoked her anger like tinder building sparks into a fire. The list of things Crane needed to answer for was growing with astonishing speed.

A few precious seconds of twisting and sliding around in her seat, and she had her upper body free. As to why he and Ramsay wanted her client’s journal, that would require further investigation.

The kiss would require no further thought.

Seduction was simply Spencer Crane’s weapon of choice. She mustn’t forget that.

Again.

Biting and tugging, she used her teeth to untie the knot around one wrist. Blackborough’s men would find them any second. Ramsay had clearly thought so. After smashing Spencer on the head with the butt of his pistol, he’d run out of the room so fast, he might as well have been on fire. A pity he’d left the door wide open.

Free from the ropes, Meena jumped up.

“I was looking forward to helping you with that.” Crane was sitting up. A playful grin teased up the corners of his lips.

Meena stilled.

How utterly unfair for a cad like him to own a smile that could melt glass. And how she wished she were immune to that honey-sweet voice. She knew —knew to the depths of her being— how Crane doled out his charms to best effect. And still, that smile, that playful tone in his voice, made her shiver in the most delicious sort of way.

Ignoring his charms was going to be far more difficult than she’d expected.

Her gaze hovered over his left shoulder. Anywhere but on his handsome face. “I cannot for one moment imagine a day when I would require your assistance.”

Crane gathered his legs under him and rose. “Angry I see.”

“Of course I’m angry!” Meena scooped up the ropes. “You conspired with that pig Ramsay to steal my journal—”

“Your journal?”

“I was going to return it to its rightful owner, until you helped that horse’s ass take it.”

“Of course you were.”

Meena threw the rope behind Blackborough’s desk so it would be out of view from the hallway. “You may think you know me, Crane, but it’s been a long, long time. You would be sadly mistaken to believe you still do.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. There are plenty of other baubles here for the taking. I don’t care what kind of deal you made. You should have changed plans when you saw that I was after it. I was here first.”

Crane’s eyebrows rose up into his hairline. “This isn’t primary school. You—”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Edison skidded to a stop in the doorway.

“Annoying the life out of me.” Meena stalked toward her cousin. “Is Briar in place?”

“Should be.” Edison glanced over his shoulder at the crowded hallway and pulled the heavy tool belt circling his hips up a few inches higher. Rather than evening wear, he wore a simple shirt, the fabric thinned with age and wear, and sturdy pants with scuffed boots. Strategic smears of dirt and grease completed his disguise.

Crane was eyeing her cousin’s dusty boots and rumpled, sweat-stained shirt. “The gas?”

Edison spared him a glare. “Closed the valve to the house,” he explained as he waved Meena out into the hallway.

Meena gave her skirts a quick shake, rolled her shoulders back and sailed out of the study.

Edison threw a burly arm across the doorway, stopping Crane. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Might be best if we stuck together until we’re clear of here. It’d be an easy thing for Blackborough to force any of us to talk, if he had a mind.”

Meena clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “We don’t need your help.”

Edison scowled. “No. He’s right.” He eyed Crane as if he were a spoiled piece of roast. “Unfortunately.”

Crane acknowledged his logic with a tiny bow and moved to follow them out into the hallway. He swayed like a drunkard. It was then she noticed the small trickle of blood running down the back of his neck.

“Stop.” She put a hand to his chest. “You’re bleeding.”

“Worried?”

“Only about you attracting undue attention.” She whipped a lacy handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at the blood trickling slowly down his neck.

He jerked away. “Damn it, woman. That hurts.”

“Good.” Meena wadded up the red-stained handkerchief and stuffed it back into her handbag. “We’ll keep to the plan. Find our way out through the gardens.”

It was slow going through the hallway and back toward the overflowing ballroom. Even with the gaslights burning again, the guests continued to mill about like a hive of angry bees. Great knots of bustled silks, tailored evening jackets, and confused serving staff collided, then dispersed, re-forming into new globs of humanity that required constant changes in navigation.

While the human landscape shifted, the noise level remained constant: a loud, high-pitched din powered by confusion and concern.

Once they finally burst through the wide doorway into the ballroom itself, Meena realized reaching the garden was going to be near impossible. Had the guests been dancing, it would have been no trouble to skirt the edges of the room and wander out the door.

Edison’s blackout had created far more upheaval than she had anticipated.

A handful of couples were attempting to spin about the dance floor, but theirs was a lost cause. Most of the guests simply stood about, eyes wide, senses on alert for further shenanigans.

Sometimes, it seemed, an idea could be a bit too inspired.

Over Crane’s shoulder, the glint of an exquisite sapphire necklace caught her eye. The owner, and her equally elderly dance partner, were watching them, their eyes bright with interest.

She stole a glance at Crane.

Lord, he looked awful. Exactly like a man who’d been pummeled in a street fight. She clenched her fists. They were so close to making it out, but until they were away, the smallest detail could sink them. Other than seeing to his wound, she hadn’t bothered to check him before they’d left the study. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

Eyes still on the crowd, Crane caught her hands. “Stop it,” he murmured, his tone laced with caution.

Meena glared up at him, ready to give him a good set down, but the way he stared back at the hallway stopped her.

“Boss!” An angry yell cut straight through the din. “Found these in your study, sir.” A man held up Ramsay’s ropes. “Need you directly.”

The orchestra screeched to a halt in mid-note. While their last, discordant chord dissolved in the thick air, Blackborough shoved his way through the crowd. Beautifully coiffed women and elegant gents toppled sideways like sheaves of wheat in a great wind as the portly crime boss elbowed them out of his path. The dark-haired inspector followed quietly on his heels.

Crane winced. “That won’t be helpful.”

Edison rested a hand on the pouch on his belt. “I was hoping I’d get to try these.”

Meena glanced across the room to where the artifact waited quietly in her glass case. Briar was in position between the statue and the orchestra, a full tray of champagne flutes in one hand and a fat old earl on the other.

She caught her cousin’s eye. Briar acknowledged her with a tilt of the head and set the tray down. The infinitesimal stiffening of her shoulders, the alertness in her gaze, the unsprung energy in her posture, told Meena her cousin was ready to fly into action at the slightest provocation. Meena hoped when she did, she’d leave the old lecher with all his fingers intact.

Edison moved off toward his sister.

Meena smiled. They would still get out of this easily enough. It would simply require far more noise. And smoke.

Edison would be most pleased about that.

Blackborough had reached the hallway. Even from across the room, Meena noted the bright red blotches of anger mottling his cheeks. He spoke to the group of hard-looking men gathering around him. They fanned out around the edges of the ballroom, taking their time, raking each guest they encountered with angry, suspicious stares.

Crane’s face tightened in concern. “He’s got quite an army at the ready.”

That he did. Blackborough had at least six men circling the room. Every one radiated deadly intent.

Meena took a step back, hoping the tall gentleman in front of her might shield her from view.

“Blasted hell. That was my foot.” Crane grabbed her upper arm and moved her a few inches away.

She jerked out of his grasp with more force than was strictly necessary. “Good thing you have two.”

It was his fault. The feel of his strong fingers wrapped around her arm sent delicious, illicit, entirely unwelcome feelings flooding through her.

And she wanted nothing to do with them.

One of Blackborough’s men stepped up onto the small stage and spoke to the conductor. After a moment’s hesitation, the musicians dove into a lively waltz. Conversation swelled as the guests savored yet another oddity to recount over breakfast.

One by one couples returned to dancing. Edison needed more time to ready his device. The closer she got to the exit, the better. But Blackborough’s men were converging on the doors to the garden.

Meena turned to Crane. She’d rather drink a bottle of castor oil than have to touch him, but really, there was no alternative. “We should dance.”

“I agree.” He held out his arms, but he remained focussed on Blackborough’s men.

She moved into the circle of his arms and he navigated them through the crowd of dancers, inching them closer to the garden with each turn.

He danced beautifully.

Of course. It was fortunate that she had to use all of her senses to focus on their escape, because a woman could find herself quite swept away wrapped in his strong arms.

Crane sighed. “You might relax.”

Somehow, his command had exactly the opposite effect. Her tense shoulders tightened even more until they hardened into stone. “I might be squeezed to death by a giant octopus, but I rather doubt that will happen either.”

Meena kept her eyes locked on the rumpled cravat in front of her nose. Too bad he was so damnably tall. It was impossible to see over him and he was too broad in the chest for her to see around. No matter where she looked, some part of him filled her view. She was not going to glance at those intriguing hazel eyes. Or his beautiful, kissable lips. Which left his distinctly wrinkled shirtfront. Even that —a dust-smeared swatch of linen— seemed entirely too sensual to bear.

A group of dancers surged into them, making Meena stumble. Strong hands encircled her waist.

Meena went rigid. “You may unhand me.”

“My apologies.”

He pulled back as if she’d scalded him. When he took her hands again to return to dancing, it was as if he were trying to have as little contact with her as possible.

They twirled around the room in silence, the out-of-tune orchestra covering the sound of their feet shuffling across Blackborough’s obscenely expensive marble floor.

“Look, I’m sorry we were both after the journal,” Crane said finally. “That was—unfortunate. I would have rather we met again under better circumstances.”

Meena snorted. “I was hoping we’d never meet again under any circumstances.”

Crane’s head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. “You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”

Meena bit back the scathing retort on the tip of her tongue. After what he’d done to her, she was entitled to hate him until the End of Days.

Suddenly, she’d had more than enough of Spencer Crane. How long was it going to take for Edison to set off his device?

Not long, it appeared. The first wisp of light pink smoke was only just wafting its way up from the base of a potted plant behind the fourth violinist.

In an instant, the little plume grew into a thick column that spiraled upward toward the enormous chandeliers sparkling above the crowd. A few seconds later, choking pink, cherry-scented smoke began boiling out in all directions, wrapping the sparkling lights in a pink fog that quickly blanketed the entire room.

Women screamed.

Men barked orders.

Dancers ran off the floor, racing for the exits.

“My necklace!” A woman’s voice cut through the smoke. “My necklace! It’s gone.”

Meena grinned. Of course. While the legitimate guests were distracted, the thieves in the crowd would take full advantage. Excellent. It would only add to the confusion.

A loud crash, followed by the twang of breaking strings, and the splintering of wood added to the chaos. It appeared one of the violins had been poorly done. The instrument’s demise almost drowned out the high-pitched tinkle of glass breaking.

“The statue!” Blackborough bellowed. “No one leaves.”

Every figure in the room froze. Then, as if by some unseen signal, guests rushed for the exits. Shoved and jostled from all sides, Meena was almost swept off of her feet. Only the press of the crowd itself kept her upright. Crane grabbed her hand and pulled her along behind him.

Meena rose up on her tiptoes, trying to estimate how close they were to the doors. Not close enough to reach them before Blackborough’s toughs blocked their exit. Her heart sped up, pounding so hard knocked against her ribs.

She glanced over her shoulder. Wreathed in pink smoke, Blackborough and the detective stood atop the stage, overlooking the sea of guests below.

Which would not have concerned her in the least had she not noted the thin man with the lank black hair tucked up against the crime boss’s beefy side. There, sandwiched between Blackborough and the inspector, stood Jameson Ramsay.

He caught her eye. The pink smoke, dissipating as it rose toward the high ceiling, couldn’t mask the cruel pleasure in his expression.

Before Meena had time to react, he jabbed a long finger in their direction. “That’s them, the ones you’re looking for.”

* * *

“Blasted bloody hell.” Crane grabbed her arm. “Get down.”

He dragged Meena down to the floor where they crouched behind two lace-edged ball gowns and two sets of wool-covered legs.

The pink smoke was thicker at floor level. Meena coughed, covering her mouth to mask the sound.

“Follow me.” He began crawling through the tangle of skirts and legs in the general direction of the garden.

On her hands and knees, she scooted across the slick marble floor as quickly as the yards of fabric in her dress would allow. It wasn’t nearly as fast as Crane could travel. Between her silk stockings and satin skirts, gaining traction on the polished surface was difficult enough. When she did manage a few precious feet of progress, feet stomped atop her skirts, yanking her to a stop with a jarring frequency.

Keeping Crane’s black-clad hips in view became more and more difficult. At one point, she lost him entirely when a large knot of guests cut between them. Voices swirled above her, indistinct, muffled by yards of fabric, the scrape of shoes, and the faint strains of the orchestra.

She felt like she was underwater.

Though she’d never been bothered by tight spaces, tension hardened her shoulders and neck. If she’d been so inclined, she might have called it fear. Fear that she would fail their client. Fear that one of Blackborough’s roughs would pluck her to her feet. Fear that Crane would vanish into the crowd.

Fear that he wouldn’t.

While she was contemplating all the ways this latest escapade might end badly, Crane stopped, sending her crashing into his backside.

Their collision dislodged several hair pins, sending a great pile of hair cascading into her eyes. Once she cleared her vision, she noted that Crane was staring at a black-stockinged pair of legs above a pair of maid’s plain black shoes.

A brand new pair of black shoes.

The next instant, he was on his feet, hauling her up by her arms.

“Well hello,” Briar grinned at her. “That was good timing.” She grabbed Meena’s hand and the three of them surged out into the terrace, along with a goodly number of panicked guests.

To Meena’s right, a tall, stiff-backed gentleman straightened the many medals on his military dress and polished his monocle with a gloved hand. “Got to be the worst affair I’ve ever seen. Complete chaos.”

“It is at that,” his overstuffed wife agreed, eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it grand?”

She spotted Briar in her maid’s uniform and raised an imperious hand. Two overly large rings winked in the light of the torches lining the terrace. “Bring me champagne. Quickly. My throat is dry as the dessert.”

Briar dropped a stiff curtsey. “Of course.” Her fingers twitched at her side.

Meena was thankful she didn’t have her throwing stars handy.

She glanced back at the doorway. Two of Blackborough’s men blocked the way, their arms spread wide, barring the last of the guests from leaving.

Crane gestured to her. “Over here.” He inched toward the side of the building, out of view of the doorway.

Meena and Briar hurried after him. The three of them edged their way along the wall toward the unlit garden. A few steps further, and they were in the cool darkness of the formal gardens. Arms up to protect his face, Crane shoved his way between two holly bushes, thick with glossy, needle-sharp leaves. He held back the branches so Meena and Briar could squeeze through after him.

The bushes flanked a plastered wall. Meena knew it ran along the alley that separated the homes on the lane from their stables.

She stared up at the top of the wall, a good six inches above her. “Now it’s up and over.”

“After you, ladies.” Crane laced his fingers together, palms up, and bent down until his hands were low enough for Meena to step up into them. In a trice, he hoisted them both up and over the wall.

The alley was dark and delightfully deserted. Nothing left but to make it down the street, to the coach Mr. Hapgood had waiting.

Briar was yanking off her white apron and cap when Crane tumbled over the wall.

He brushed dirt and crumbling leaves from the fronts of his thighs. “I assume that was the hard part. Where to now?”

Meena scowled at him, but she feared the shadows blunted the full effect. “We are going home. You may go to the—” She bit down on the end of that sentence. “…wherever suits you.”

Briar tugged at her arm. “Perhaps you two could argue another time.”

His suit restored to a semblance of cleanliness, Crane straightened to his full height. “That’s it? No thanks?”

“Why, by anything that’s holy, would I thank you?”

“I did just lead you out of danger.”

Meena sniffed. “Danger of your making.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“One way!” Anger heated her face, spreading down her neck, racing through her body like a fever. “You and Ramsay conspired to steal my journal. Don’t deny it.”

Crane opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. His expression shifted from insult, to argument, to agreement. He grinned.

It wasn’t so much the smile that did her in. She had long ago steeled herself against the surge of lust that hit her every blasted time he grinned. It was the entire, playful package. The smile. The twinkle in his eyes. The low, sensuous tone in his voice that promised slow, wicked kisses.

He simply didn’t know any other way to behave with women.

Spencer Crane treated every woman he met as if he wanted to be her lover. If they took him up on his offer, so much the better.

She, however, would resist. Resist, desist, and decamp.

Briar tugged at her arm. “Meena!”

This time, she allowed herself to be pulled away. “Goodbye, Crane.”

The dash of ice in her tone pleased her immensely. Until she glanced back at his face. Since she’d last known him, he’d added a sad, lonely expression to his repertoire. It brought to mind lonely puppies and motherless kittens.

It was good. Very, very good.

But she was entirely immune. Meena made sure nothing —not her face, not her posture, not her breathing— betrayed the slightest hint of sympathy.

“I understand.” Crane sighed. “I’m off then.”

She would have given anything to believe the regret that flashed in his eyes was real. But she new better. There wasn’t enough money in the entire Exchequer to make it so.

“Goodbye, Meena.” Crane turned on his heel and swayed so alarmingly he had to put a hand to the wall to remain upright.

“You’re hurt—” She pulled away from Briar to take his arm.

“Dizzy is all.” He took a long, slow breath. “Nothing to concern yourself about.”

“Of course I must be concerned.” Meena wanted to stamp her feet, but she had no intention of letting Crane know his presence affected her so. “We can’t leave you out here. Whatever you’ve done to attract Ramsay’s attention, he’s out there, waiting." She thought for a moment. “He obviously wants you dead.”

Crane was holding a hand to the back of his head. “He does appear to have a score to settle.”

Frustration, and left over tension from their narrow escape pulsed in her veins, making her feels as if her arms, indeed her entire body, were lighter than air. If Ramsay found him, handed him over to Blackborough, the journal switch could come to light.

Much as she wanted to abandon Crane to whatever unholy mess he’d made, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t endanger poor Mr. Montague. She would simply have to endure his company for a while longer.

“Come on.” She took him by the arm. “I can’t have your body turning up. That would create undue attention. You’ll have to stay with us.”

Crane made no protest. That alone told her he was in no condition to be on his own.

Briar’s eyes widened, but she refrained from comment. She knew better than anyone that Meena would rather eat her gloves than invite Spencer Crane into their home.

With Meena on one side, and Briar on the other, they made their way down the dark alley.

“Thank you,” Crane said when they reached the coach.

“Don’t be too effusive.” Meena smiled meanly. “You’ll be sitting next to Edison.”

* * *

“Shouldn’t we go after ‘em?”

The one-eyed man at Jameson Ramsay’s side jerked forward, knife at the ready. “Looks to be nothing but those two toffs and a couple women. Jenks and I can handle ‘em, easy.”

“No.” Ramsay put a hand on the man’s thick arm. “Let them run. We’ve got what we need. For now.”

The man grunted. “I’ll be off then. There’s a pint and a willing woman as won’t be waiting too long.” He disappeared back into the shadows.

Even in a wealthy neighborhood like Blackborough’s, the smaller streets behind the rows of mansions were deadly dark. Ramsay laughed. Stupid toffs. They’d spend any amount of coin to make sure the fronts of their palaces gleamed in the gaslight, but they had no interest in lighting the back alleys where his sort lurked.

A small sliver of moon hung low above the trees, giving off just enough light for him to watch the four figures slip into the coach at the far end of the street. Meena Sweet’s ballgown looked more black than green in the dark, but there was no mistaking the sheen of satin, or the gleam of pale skin above the low neckline of her dress.

That was a morsel he wouldn’t mind sampling. Would do, too, if the rest of this business went to plan. He clenched his fists and grinned in the darkness. Finally, luck was running his way. He could taste it. After all the bitter defeats, he’d have the final victory.

He’d soon have everything Crane had cost him.

And Spencer Damned Crane would have all the pain he could handle. More, he hoped.

Ramsay squinted, trying to focus on the figures at the far end of the street. Crane was holding the coach door while Meena and her cousins piled inside. Clever, how they’d set her cousins up as workers so they’d be inside before the ball started.

Clever enough to save Crane from a thorough thrashing.

Ramsay’s breath came faster. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of Crane bound and helpless while Blackborough’s men had at him. Blackborough would've killed him, maybe the girl as well.

Not that he could allow that.

He’d only intended to let Blackborough play with them. He couldn’t let him kill the man. Not yet. He had further need of both Crane and Miss Philomena Sweet.

At least he’d had the pleasure of cracking Crane’s skull. And he had the journal. His new employer would pay handsomely for it, both in gold and in respect. He straightened his shoulders beneath the borrowed evening jacket. Jameson Ramsay was a man who got things done.

He laughed out loud. A great touch, forcing Crane into taking all the risks for him. So what if Crane had escaped a thrashing. There was far worse to come.

Almost invisible in his black evening wear, Crane disappeared into the coach. Ramsay sneered. Always playing the toff. As if he’d ever be anything but a gutter-bred thief.

The steady clip of hooves on cobbles was the only hint that Crane and his friends were moving away. An instant later, the narrow side street was empty, save for a cat streaking silently across the road.

Ramsay shoved a hand into the pocket of his evening coat and pulled out the necklace he’d nicked in the confusion. The sharp edges of the diamonds bit into his fingers as he wound the rope of jewels around his hand.

He was most certainly not finished with Spencer Crane.