Spencer’s head felt like it was about to cleave in half.

Putting up with Meena’s stiff disapproval —Edison Sweet’s simmering anger— was a small price to pay for a comfortable ride and a warm, safe bed. He would’ve accepted a lift from the devil himself, if it meant he could sleep off his headache in peace.

Squeezed into the small space Sweet had left for him, he tried to ignore the way the pain in his head pulsed. Sharp pain, followed by dull ache. Pain. Ache.

The only respite came when the carriage rounded a corner, sending him sideways into Sweet’s sharp elbow.

Though his brain seemed mired in molasses, he had to construct a plan. Ramsay was clearly out for blood. That didn’t concern him over much. Man to man, he’d pound the skinny fop into the ground without running up a sweat.

But Ramsay knew that. He’d do anything to avoid a fair fight. Ramsay was far more likely to attack from behind. Or take everything he loved and leave him standing. A shaft of fear speared Crane’s heart, making his breath catch.

Ramsay would be dead before that came to pass.

Spencer screwed his eyes shut against a particularly sharp pulse of pain. Whatever had stoked Ramsay’s rage didn’t matter. Stopping him from taking revenge on Alicia, on Meena and her family, was the only thing that signified.

Spencer rested his elbow on the window ledge and cradled his chin in his palm. Eliminating Ramsay was the only option now. He’d make sure the man was back in prison —or dead— before he left London again. He didn’t much care which.

He needed to find Ramsay before the man found him. Spencer stared out the coach window at the darkness. The journal might be a place to start. Who wanted it stolen? Whoever it was had hired Ramsay, who’d found his own way to exact revenge on him.

The sharp clacking of the horse’s hooves changed to a softer thunk as the carriage turned off the main, cobbled street. In the interest of stealth, Spencer assumed, the houseman had pulled the coach around the back so they could slip from the coach straight through the backdoor to the kitchen.

A warm blast of cinnamon-scented air wafted out of the glowing kitchen, reminding Spencer that he and Meena had been occupied when the dinner buffet was served.

“How was it then?” Mr. Hapgood’s wife, the Sweets’ longtime housekeeper, hustled them all inside the warm kitchen. When she caught sight of him, her kind eyes opened wide in surprise. She leaned back, staring up into his face, taking his measure. “Mr. Crane. It’s been a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough.” Sweet shoved past Spencer and into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hapgood swatted the big man on the arm as he passed. “Mr. Edison, be nice.”

Sweet clamped his mouth shut on a response. He looked as if he’d been doused with German bitters, but he uncurled his fists, and pulled out a chair at the far side of the table.

Spencer might have a blinding headache, but that didn’t make him stupid enough to remain within arm’s reach of the powerful man. He made sure to keep the breadth of the thick oak table between them. And made sure he had a clear path to the back door, for added insurance. The back of his head throbbed mightily, reminding him he’d have trouble outrunning a jellied eel.

Still, best to be prudent.

Mrs. Hapgood set a plate of golden brown scones in the center of the table. “Now tell me everything. Was a crush? Oh, and the Duke and Duchess of Langsbury, did they attend after all? There was some question as to whether the duchess felt it was appropriate, the Blackboroughs being in the crime industry and all.”

Something besides simple hunger twisted in his gut as he caught the scent of cinnamon and blackberries. It smelled of home. Or rather a home where he’d almost belonged a very long time ago. Until he’d smashed that dream to pieces.

He chose a pastry and pushed the plate toward Sweet.

The man looked as if he wanted to refuse anything Spencer offered, but Mrs. H’s baking was no match for even Sweet’s anger. He took two.

Briar plopped down between Spencer and her brother. The skirts of her maid’s uniform swirled around the chair. “It was delightful, Mrs. H. You should have seen the jewelry. Crime must pay well.” Briar dropped the scone she’d been buttering and shoved a hand in the front pocket of her dress. “I almost forgot.” She pulled out two enormous sapphire rings and slapped them down on the table. “Another donation for the widow and orphans’ home.”

“Briar!” Meena called out from the doorway. “I thought we agreed there’d be no work on the side tonight.”

“I didn’t agree to anything.” Briar threw her a challenging look. “That woman in the garden was a witch. It’ll do her good to make a donation.”

Spencer chewed thoughtfully, allowing the conversation to flow over him like a soothing balm. After the noise and crowds, the Sweets’ kitchen was a welcome oasis.

Mrs. H smiled at Edison. “Did you get to use your smell eliminator, dear?”

Sweet looked pained. “It’s a room dis-odorizing device.”

Briar held up her fork “I think you should call it an air freshening apparatus. It sounds much more sophisticated. Still,” she continued, “until it stops smoking, it won’t matter what you call it.”

“Why cherries?” Spencer couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Mrs. Hapgood beamed at Edison as she set another plate of scones on the table. “He’s always been partial to my cherry tarts.” The smile slid off of her round face as she spotted Meena, hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the main rooms. “You’re not having any cakes? You must be hungry.”

“No thank you, Mrs. H.” Meena seemed entirely absorbed in pulling off her long white gloves. “I’m really quite tired after all the excitement tonight. I think I’ll retire now.” She waved to the group, her eyes focussed on the air above their heads. “Good night all. And good work.”

Sweet raised his mug of tea.”To another successful mission.”

Eyes sparkling, Briar raised hers as well. “To another success.”

Spencer’s head might be aching like the devil, but it hadn’t escaped him that the Sweets seemed far too jovial for a group whose mission had failed.

He threw Meena a puzzled glance.

She smiled back. It was a more of cat who caught the mouse grin than a friendly expression. “You took the wrong book, Crane. Ramsay only thinks he got the journal.”

She turned on her heel and headed up the stairs.

The housekeeper exchanged a worried look with Briar and Sweet. “You lot finish up those scones. They won’t be any good in the morning. I’ll just check on the guest room, and set you up with some linens, shall I, Mr. Crane?” She conjured up a sliver of a smile and followed after Meena.

The scone in Spencer’s hand was reduced to a pile of butter-smeared crumbs. Ramsay had the wrong journal.

Once Ramsay —or whoever hired him— discovered that little fact, they’d come after all of them.

Spencer dropped his head down on his fist. Exhaustion blunted the shot of fear that pierced his chest. Meena, her cousins, the Hapgoods. They were all at risk.

* * *

A bluebird chirped merrily in the ash tree outside Meena’s window, signaling a happy start to a fine summer day.

She pulled the drapes closed with a vicious yank. “Oh, do shut up.”

Her mood would never have been so foul had Crane gone his own way back at Blackborough’s ball. At least then she could have begun the process of removing him —one last time— from her memory.

Instead, she was going to have to be civil over kippers and toast.

Shoulders hunched, arms folded over her waist, she paced the floor between the window and her bed. It was that kiss. That damned stupid kiss. With no effort at all, she recalled the way his mouth had moved over hers, claiming, enticing, exciting.

It should have repulsed her.

The man was a veritable satyr. There was no telling where those lips had been. He could have kissed a whole roomful of women between breakfast and Blackborough’s ball. She glared at the curtains shielding the absurdly cheerful songbird from her burning gaze.

What if he’d already gone? What if she was winding herself into a mood for nothing?

She tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. Voices filtered up from the dining room. The dining room? She sagged against the doorjamb. Being such a small group —a family really— they rarely ate anywhere except the worn, cozy kitchen. It seemed even Mrs. H wasn’t immune to Crane’s charms.

Edison’s deep voice wound its way up the stairs. “So you’re suggesting soda ash instead of salt peter in the dis-odorizers?”

“Would be worth a try.”

Meena banged her forehead on the doorframe. There was no mistaking Crane’s distinctive baritone.

She shut the door and sagged back against it, screwing her eyes shut. She could skip breakfast. The history of locksmithing she’d been reading was ever so fascinating. If she read straight through, it would take her at least till nuncheon to cover the invention of the dead bolt.

Coward.

He was only a man. A man who’d grown more handsome, and infinitely more charming in the years since she’d known him.

“Bah!” She stomped back across the room, thrusting open the drapes with so much force she startled the bluebird from his perch. He favored her with a blistering glare before flitting off for better parts.

She would not cower in her room like a silly chit. She would march right down there to her own breakfast table and ignore Spencer Crane.

Meena quashed the urge to check her appearance one more time in the mirror above her vanity. The deep blue walking dress with its cream-colored frogs sent exactly the right message.

Elegantly unapproachable would be her motto.

With only the briefest of pauses at the top of the stairs, she headed down.

Crane was grinning when she entered the room. Meena set her jaw against the electrical jolt of lust that squeezed her heart. Hair tousled, perhaps a touch of sleep still on his face, the sight of him slammed into her midsection like one of Briar’s roundhouse kicks.

He fit perfectly at their table. It was the tableau she’d imagined so many times when she was so very much younger, and so achingly naïve.

Meena caught the surprised look on Edison’s face when he saw her in the doorway, a forkful of potatoes halfway to his mouth. But being a Sweet, the hint of emotion dissolved as quickly as it had appeared, leaving the smooth, serene expression of an expert card sharp.

When he noticed her, Crane set down his fork and rose from his chair. “Good morning.”

“Oh do sit down.” Meena turned to the sideboard to fill a plate. As she spooned eggs onto her plate, her determination to remain calm, quiet, and graceful flew away as quickly as that damned bird.

A largish scoop of hashed potatoes landed on her plate. She didn’t want him here. Didn’t want him conversing with her family as if they were the fastest of friends. She speared more kippers than she’d planned. Didn’t want him reminding her of how life could have been. How it would have been, were he not such a gigantic ass. Three slices of toast found themselves balanced precariously atop the mound of food.

She most assuredly didn’t want him opening wounds that had long since scarred over.

She chose a seat as far from Crane as was practicable. His eyebrows rose as he noted her overflowing plate. She glared back, daring him to comment.

With a frown, and a small shake of the head, Edison warned him away. Crane wisely returned his gaze to his own breakfast. His expression turned thoughtful as he forked up a thick slice of ham. “What could Ramsay want with your client’s journal?”

Briar leaned forward in her seat, an eager expression lighting her dark blue eyes. “He’s going to sell it, obviously.”

In her black, long-sleeved martial arts attire, she resembled a delicate blonde assassin. Meena couldn’t help smiling. Her cousin would no doubt be exceedingly pleased with the comparison. She adored all things lethal.

Edison nodded. “Agreed. Montague’s cooperation is worth far more than his money, to the right person.”

“Ramsay must’ve offered you a whopping fortune before he changed his mind and left you for Blackborough.” Briar sipped the last of her tea. “The Jonquil has an excellent reputation. I don’t imagine he’d agree to snatch a purse for less than a fortune.”

“Briar!” Meena shot her a look.

Ignoring Meena’s admonition, Briar set down her cup and studied Crane, as if she’d never seen him before. “What would a cheap fingersmith like Ramsay have to offer the Jonquil?”

The question was an apt one. Meena marveled that she hadn’t thought of it herself. She pushed aside her mountainous plate. “Excellent point. How did he talk you into the job?”

Had she not known him so well, the signs of tension would have been invisible. The slight tightening of his fingers on his knife and fork, the smallest hitch in his breath, told her better than any words that she wouldn’t like his answer.

Crane shook his head. “I didn’t do it for him.”

To Meena’s surprise, she believed him.

That was true —she guessed— as far as it went. Which was about an inch and a half. “So you have another buyer?” Meena paused to pat her lips with her napkin. “Half of London seems to know Blackborough has this journal. He must be the worst crime lord in history.”

“I doubt Blackborough cares who knows.” Crane shrugged. “He owns most of the head-breakers in London and at least half the police force.”

“Which makes this all the more intriguing.”

“If you say so.” Crane tossed his napkin down next to his plate and sat back.

The more he attempted to draw her off, the more she wanted to pick at the question.

Meena gifted him with her most prim, most proper smile. She planted her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, leaning forward as if eager to hear a new morsel of gossip. “Someone wanted our client’s journal badly enough to hire the best thief in London.” She tapped her fingers lightly along her jaw, thinking. “I’m dying to know who that could be.”

“You have the journal. Leave it alone.”

Meena’s chin jerked up at his imperious tone. She wanted to reach across the table and stab him with her fork. Being a lady of grace and poise, and occasional restraint, she refrained.

A frown and a fulsome glower would have to suffice.

“Begging your pardons.” Mr. Hapgood’s tall form filled the doorway, blocking the morning light from the hallway. “Miss Briar, it’s time we leave for your Jiu-Jitsu.”

Briar jumped up from the table and dropped her napkin next to her plate. “Of course. Master Tadeoka promised we could work with umbrella swords today. I’ll collect my throwing stars and meet you at the stables.”

Briar stopped in the doorway. The wide sleeves of her severe black uniform flapped like bird wings as she whirled back toward them. “As it’s unlikely you’ll be here when I return, farewell, Mr. Crane.”

Briar’s exit seemed to empty the room of the last of its civility.

Silverware clinked on china plates. Even the sound of Edison refilling his tea cup seemed inordinately loud. Not that Meena minded. If Crane wished to be so close-mouthed about this business, she could freeze him out as well.

Edison bent over his plate, wolfing down the remainder of his repast as quickly as possible. Plate empty, he rushed toward the doorway before she’d even finished chewing. “Running a new experiment. Must check on it. Timing’s critical.”

Which was completely untrue, Meena happened to know. She looked up at him.

Edison froze. “Unless you’d prefer I stay.” Clearly, the thought pained him deeply.

“Not at all.” Meena stared at Crane. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

Edison lit out for his workshop. “Not sure I can say the same for Crane.” His comment wafted back down the hallway.

Meena stacked her excess toast into a precise little pile, all the while studying Crane as he ate. For all the chirping of birds, and streaming of sunlight outside, one would have thought it was nothing but the loveliest of summer mornings.

Meena set her fork at a precise right angle to her butter plate. “My cousin made an excellent point. How could Ramsay possibly afford you?”

A muscle jumped in the corner of his jaw. “Leave. It. Alone.”

Somehow it pleased her that he was angry too. “I was simply curious about what the Jonquil’s services run these days.”

The redness that crept into his cheeks surprised her. When had he become so sensitive?

Crane’s fingers tightened around his knife and fork. “We’re both just thieves for hire.”

“My cousins and I are not for hire.”

A puzzled frown creased his face.

“I didn’t steal the journal. I retrieved it for the rightful owner.”

Crane looked at her as if she were the oddest creature in the zoo. “You risked Blackborough… you risked hanging… for nothing?”

“Hardly nothing. It’s worth the risk to make up for all that we’ve done.” All the devastation her father had raised them so carefully to create.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“The consequences are my responsibility.”

“They don’t need to be.” His gaze turned soft, gentle.

Tears —damned, blasted tears— came out of nowhere, pricking hotly at the backs of her eyes. Crane was nothing to her. Why would it matter that he see how important redemption was to her?

How important it should be to him.

“We needed to know we could change.”

Crane stiffened. “Are you implying some of us can’t?”

“I’m simply making an observation.” Meena shrugged and stared past him, out the window. “You’re the one still thieving.”

Crane stood so quickly his chair almost upended. “You always were quick to think the worst of me.”

“You make it far too easy.”

For the space of a breath it seemed he might respond to her taunt, instead he closed his mouth and stomped past her, halting in the doorway. “Please thank Mrs. Hapgood for breakfast. Her hospitality has been most welcome.”

Instead of stalking off, he waited there, filling the doorway, as the seconds ticked past. Each beat of the clock ratcheted her nerves tighter. She wanted him to go. She wanted to forget she’d ever seen him.

He traced a finger along the enameled paint of the door trim. “People can’t change, if you don’t allow it.”

He had no bloody idea. Change she could allow. Redemption as well. What she couldn’t allow —wouldn’t allow— was letting him toy with her feelings.

Never again.

He nodded, more to himself than to her. “You have a lovely home, an interesting family. I hope you meet the man you’re looking for some day, Meena. Have a care not to overlook him when he arrives, won’t you?”

Before she could puzzle out exactly what he meant, the front door had closed softly behind him. In a fog, she walked her untouched plate into the kitchen and scraped the uneaten food into the scrap bucket.

That had not gone at all the way she had intended.

She pulled the bucket out from its place under the sink and headed outside to empty the leavings into the compost bin. Grief was fast melting the rime of anger that had iced over the hurt for so very long. Being angry at him was easier. Easier to feel. Easier to live with.

A likable Spencer Crane was going to leave a far bigger hole in her heart.