The same lady’s maid he’d met that morning ushered Bakeley into Lady Jane’s sparsely decorated drawing room. Lady Jane rose to greet him.

He handed off his hat to the maid. “She’s safe.”

“Thank heavens. Lord Hackwell couldn’t be reached.” Her face flashed a momentary relief and then clouded again. “Where is she?”

The maid still hovered near the door, her face stricken also with suspicion, and he fought the anger that rose in response.

“Barton, bring us some tea. Lord Bakeley, come and be seated. I will hear this story.”

While the maid slipped out, he took a seat. He’d spent the journey here wondering how much to tell the lady about the young woman she’d taken in.

“We found her near the docks.”

“We?”

“My brother, Mr. Gibson, and I. He lives very near, and I sought his assistance.”

Lady Jane’s finger tapped the arm of her chair, but her gaze remained steady, pinning him.

He sighed. “She was with two Irishmen, two men she knew from home.”

The lady pressed her lips together and studied her hands, now clasped in her lap, before raising her eyes again. “She’s not a traitor, Bakeley. She merely has a notion her brother’s alive. Where has he put her?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“No.” He stood. “He knows nothing about it. She’s…” He cleared his throat. “That is, I’ve come to—”

“No.” The lady shot out of her chair also. “Not Sirena. Far away from Shaldon and every Everly is where she should be. I’ll take her—”

The door creaked open, the servant Barton carrying a tray. “Molly had the kettle boiling already,” she said, laying out cups and sending her mistress a questioning look.

“Thank you, Barton. That will be all for now.”

The lady’s hand shook as she poured from the chipped teapot into faded cups.

“My lady,” he said, taking the cup and setting it aside. “I have a note from her, but first we must talk. Please hear me out.”

She shook her head and sighed. “Very well.”

Hours later, Sirena jerked herself up from a chair set before another fire, the one in Lord Bakeley's small study.

She’d fallen asleep. Asleep. How could she when they were still in so much danger?

She fingered her gram’s necklace in her pocket, tracing the loops of the knot, and pulled it out to look at.

She should leave it here, in this English lord’s home. All the good luck of it had turned to bad. She sighed and set it aside on the round study table and went back to the fire.

After the surgeon had departed, both Walter and Josh had signed the vague, brief statements Lord Bakeley had prepared for them. She’d left the boys in the housekeeper’s care to write out her own statement, and a note to Lady Jane, telling her she was safe and in the care of Lord Bakeley and a chaperone.

She couldn’t leave while Walter and Josh were in danger. It was the least she could do for them, though her heart broke from knowing Lady Jane might not take her back.

Lord Bakeley’s brother would not count as a chaperone, but she had to claim one. And it was only a small lie, one she prayed would save her from being dismissed.

Trying to pretty this up was like putting a bonnet on Mrs. O’Brian’s goat. She’d done a foolish thing, and she didn’t care, except that if she was booted out by Lady Jane, she wasn’t sure where to go.

She squeezed her watering eyes shut. She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t lose heart. There were honest things a young woman could do. Lady Hackwell’s orphan home might need a helper—in the kitchen, in the garden, in the stable yard even. Or she could teach—arithmetic, needlework, how to care for livestock. There were many things she could do.

But surely Lady Jane would understand. Sirena would tell her the truth. Or something of the truth.

The door opened and Lord Bakeley entered, his housekeeper and her husband behind him carrying a covered tray as big as a carriage wheel.

Lord Bakeley’s cheeks glowed pink and the ends of his hair glistened.

“You went out,” she said. He hadn’t told her he was going. She’d thought he was merely sending a servant with messages.

Fear jolted through her. He’d been to see his father. Or even if he hadn’t, if his father were having him followed—and who wouldn’t put such a thing past his evil lordship—he surely had led the man’s minions back to his house and placed Walter and Josh in danger.

Perhaps she would be locked up too, in some Secret Service dungeon, and flayed until she’d admitted to seeking out Irish rebels.

“Yes, I went out.” His servants departed, and he poured two glasses of claret, handing her one.

She set it aside. “I should leave now, except that I fear for the, er, Smith brothers’ safety when your father shows up here.”

“Have a sip of the wine, Sirena. It will help settle your nerves.” He lifted a cover off a dish. “I’m afraid it’s plain fare for us tonight. Mrs. Windle has done her best with a mutton stew.”

Indeed she had. The food smelled divine. “Have the Smith brothers been fed?”

“Yes, we had a few crusts of bread and drams of water for them.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Of course they’ve been fed, before us even, and the same meal. What must you think of me?”

She’d not had a bit to eat yet this day, and the tasty aroma took some of the edge off her suspicion. That, no doubt, was his crafty intent.

“I think you’re an English lord, and the son of Lord Shaldon. Where did you go?”

He glanced at her and went back to dipping out stew into two dishes.

“Your father—” Her stomach growled loudly and she gritted her teeth.

“Is not coming after you or your Irish rebels. Come.” He took her hand and seated her in a chair by the table. “Eat. I command it.”

“You do not command me, sir.”

“Oh, no?”

“No.” Another growl escaped. “I’ll eat because I wish to keep up my strength, and because I’m fair famished.”

She let a spoonful of broth slide down her throat, enjoying the warmth and the savory flavor. The hearty broth would do both brothers good. She hoped they were resting now, sleeping, after their ordeal. What she would do with them next, she wasn’t sure, but her money, such as it was, was theirs. Perhaps they could take a packet to Ireland, just to be on the go. Or even to the Continent, except the poor souls had no French.

When she looked up, he was watching her intently. “I delivered your note personally to Lady Jane.”

She paused in her chewing and quickly swallowed. “What did she say?”

“She did ask who the proper chaperone you mentioned was.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I told her that the Irish must have a different idea of what constitutes a proper chaperone, but that we most certainly are not alone. Mrs. Windle has been here all along.”

“And her husband.”

“He has been in and out running errands.”

“Oh. But Mr. Gibson is here, and he is very respectable.”

He laughed out loud at that. “That must be another Irish notion. The respectable by-blow chaperoning.”

She ought to be irritated but she knew he was right.

“Besides, Bink—Mr. Gibson—left as soon as he felt assured the Smith brothers wouldn’t stab Mrs. Windle on their way out the door.”

Her heart beat faster. They couldn’t yet be gone. She hadn’t given them her money. She pushed up from her chair. “They’ve left?”

“No, no, I looked in on them. They’re snoring away, and Windle is back sitting with them. Bink will return shortly also. He’s arranging a shipment of new nursery furniture to his country estate. The wagon will leave in the middle of the night, and they’ll be on it.”

Her heart eased and then picked up its pounding again.

“But if Shaldon finds them—”

“Don’t worry. Bink will accompany the wagon and be back in a few days’ time. For now, he’s bringing a maid and some clothing for you.”

The loud thumping about her temples must be coming from her heart. He expected her to leave with them. “You’re thinking to send me off to the country also?”

That would mean leaving Lady Jane. It wasn’t right. She’d rather stay and risk the dear lady’s rejection, or even weather Shaldon’s beatings, anything rather than abandon the lady who’d been her only friend.

“No. You’re staying.”

“Then I’ll go home as soon as the wagon leaves.” If Lady Jane was willing to take her back.

She set down her spoon and took a sip of the wine, a hollow sensation making her heart feel small.

“When you spoke to her, was she angry?”

“She should be, should she not?”

Indeed. Hot guilt made her cheeks warm.

He shook his head. “She wasn’t though. She expressed great relief. She’d been terribly worried.”

“Oh.” Tears rushed her again. Damnation. It had seemed such a wise thing to seek out the man who might have information about her brother. Yet, she could have been carved up and thrown into the Thames, and Lady Jane would never have known, all of her kindness to Sirena going for naught.

“What is this?”

She opened her eyes and Lord Bakeley was there, on his knees, by her side.

“I can’t abide tears,” he said sternly, handing her a napkin.

His scent, far too familiar than was proper, rose dangerously around her, threatening to addle her brains more. His hands, broad and strong like a working man’s, gripped the back of her chair and the edge of the table, boxing her in.

She swallowed hard. “Nor can I. I’m not generally a weeper.” She dabbed at her cheek. “There.”

He didn’t budge.

“Lord Bakeley, go back to your dinner.”

“I’ve finished. You didn’t notice me cleaning my dish because you were eating with such relish I thought you’d lick out your bowl.”

She gasped. “I would never—”

“I’m teasing you.” He cradled her chin in two fingers and his eyes gleamed with humor.

Oh, he was muddling her mind. She must concentrate. She must return to Lady Jane and assure her of her safety and sanity.

“Perhaps the wagon could drop me off at my lodgings.”

“Would that be wise? If my father has watchers there, all they need do is follow that wagon.”

He was right.

“Would you call a hackney for me?”

“Would I put you in a hackney in the middle of the night—for that is when they’re leaving—and send you out by yourself?”

“Would you escort me then?”

“And blithely bring you home after you’ve spent a day and a night in my company?”

Those strong fingers had found hers and were rubbing circles over the back of her hand, sending warm bursts of sensation up her arms, down her back, and into her loins.

An uneasy certainty crept over her.

Perhaps the claret had been drugged. She must be firm. She lifted his hand off hers.

“Lady Jane will understand, I think, when I explain to her.”

“Will she? Perhaps the Cheswicks won’t, when they find out, and she’s dependent upon them, isn’t she?”

“Oh, surely they won’t learn of this.”

“You were to attend a rout tonight, were you not? She told me she sent excuses and stayed at home, but you know how the ton will talk. Perhaps someone will learn that the river police almost arrested a pretty earl’s daughter named Sirena.”

A sickening feeling flushed all the warmth out of her and brought with it a chill. Her hand went to her roiling stomach. “You mean to seduce me. You mean to pressure me into being your mistress, to replace Lady Arbrough.”

He frowned. “Is that what you think of me, Lady Sirena? That I would save you from street thugs, only to abuse you myself?”

Her heart quaked and her body stirred with conflicting desires. She wanted to leave, she wanted to feel his touch again, she wanted him to kiss her, and she wanted to be back safe with Lady Jane and Barton.

And she wanted very much to smack him.

“Whatever am I to think after the kissing the other night?”

“Last night.”

Oh. Her heart thundered. It had been that recent.

His tension altered, his eyes going darker. “Perhaps you might think that I’m an honorable man.”

“You’re Shaldon’s son.”

“Yes, yes, you have said that before, but I’m not Shaldon, running about Ireland and the Continent spying. I’m the heir. I was trained to run a vast agricultural empire and manage a fortune in investments. I’m quite boring really.”

His hand rested on her knee and the very air around him vibrated, sending a thrill through her that was anything but boring.

“We also breed horses. Very fine ones. Some of the best in all England.”

He paused and the air crackled.

“As you know,” he said.

His gaze held hers, as dark as the night when she’d caught him peering through the slats of Pooka’s stall.

“Horses,” she said stupidly.

He nodded. “Very fine horses. Even some with Connemara blood. And I try to be very good at managing our other investments, since horses are a costly indulgence.”

And didn’t she know that?

His thumb stroked the side of her knee. She clamped her hand over his.

“Where…where is our best Connemara mare? Is she…is she…”

He frowned. “She’s in Kent.”

“Pooka?”

His face went blank, as if he was hiding something. “Yes.”

His family home was in the north, Lady Jane had said.

“You sold her?” she gasped.

He shook his head. “I have a small estate in Kent. We moved her because—well, we simply moved her.”

Because Pooka was trouble, and didn’t she know it?

A wave of sadness washed over her. She could have worked with the mare. She could have helped her. Pooka had not had a chance to get better. “Did you…did you get any foals from her?”

“Yes. A few.”

She thought of the sprightly horse trying to shake off the boy in the street. “Your gelding?”

“Yes. He’s one of them. None of them are as ill-natured as their dam.”

Anger flared in her. “And so why buy her? Why were you so keen on her?”

His eyes sparkled and he leaned in close enough for her to see a small scar on his jaw. “It was my mother’s wish that I buy the mare whose granddam had won a first at Thurles.”

Oh, that sly word-for-word remembrance spiked her temper higher. All of the grief of that day roared in her.

She gritted her teeth and forced down the feelings. “Was she happy, your mother, with her ill-natured purchase?”

A shadow passed over him as he backed away. “She died before she got to see your hobgoblin horse.”

She shivered. There’d been nothing but trouble since Pooka had appeared in her mam’s belly. Jamie’s disappearance, her mother’s death from striking her head, her father’s death from the whiskey.

“How did your mother die?” she asked.

“A coaching accident.”

She’d seen one or two mishaps on the rutted roads at home, though none bad enough to take a life. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand.

She daren’t ask more, not now. Lady Shaldon was long dead, but the pain of her passing still worked in this man. And though Pooka had taken to him that long ago time at Glenmorrow, his distaste for the mare was clear. He blamed her for his mother’s ill luck, dying too young.

A curse on that name Pooka—why had she picked it?

His gaze met hers and she could see he’d steadied himself, while she was still all jumbled up inside. A bloodless Englishman, he was—horses were a business for him, not a passion. Not his life. He was boring, he’d said, a boring man with his hand on her knee and eyes beginning to glow like dark coals.

Her face picked up the warmth. She was still gripping that firm, strong hand. “I am sorry for your loss, my lord. And now it’s best you get to your point today, sir.”

His mood shifted again, and he grinned, knocking her off balance. “You’re so lovely when you’re heated, whether from a brisk walk or an angry dispute, or a passionate touch.”

She leaned away from his lips and encountered the back of the chair. With no further escape, she was trapped.

His kiss was a chaste peck.

He wanted more though, that she could see. His eyes fixed on her lips, his breathing quickening, and fear raced through her.

Or—was it excitement? Oh, aye, hadn’t she been here before with her cousin? It had felt nothing like this, which made it twice the danger.

She glanced over her shoulder. She could clout him with a bowl, but the lovely bone china would just shatter on his thick skull. The only knife was on his side of the table. He’d left her armed with naught but a spoon.

“Lady Sirena.” His sharp tone brought her round. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box too small for anything but...

Oh. Her heart quaked and her body tingled as if all of her insides were dancing. A shimmering sapphire stone twinkled up from its place on a band of gold.

“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The room filled with a bleating of noise, like the swarming of bagpipes when all the pipers had drunk too much.