His pulse buzzed. It might be her. On the other hand, he might be following yet another blonde head through the streets of London. Since leaving Hackwell’s home last night, he’d noticed every wench, every streetwalker, every shop girl.

He kept pace with this one. A gentleman did not call out to women on the street, and this one walked with the poise of a lady, though her dress was a plain frock in one of those shades of brown that reminded him of horse dung. She moved quickly, the toes of her dark boots poking out with each stride. Her bonnet brim concealed much, at least from this angle. Blast it, afoot he could come abreast of her.

Abreast. Yes.

He spotted a boy sweeping, hailed him, and gave him a coin to hold his mount. He plucked a turnip from a stall and flipped the shop man another coin.

She was fast for a woman, but he caught up. “Miss,” he said, “I believe you dropped this.”

She increased her pace. “Miss. Miss.” He was alongside her now. He touched her elbow, and she froze.

Astonishment lit her face, kindling a burn in him.

“It is you.” He swallowed the schoolboy smile that threatened and said regally, “Here is your turnip.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a deep breath. “Good morning, Lord Bakeley. You may have that turnip. ’Tis not mine. And now I must be on my way.”

She took off walking again.

He kept pace. “You are out and about alone early, Lady Sirena.” Too early, and too alone. It wasn’t safe, not for a girl as lovely as her.

Her lips firmed. “I’m on an errand for my lady.” She stopped abruptly and glared, the basket held tightly in front of her. Or perhaps she was preparing to bash him with it.

He reached for the potential weapon, depositing the turnip. “Allow me to carry your burdens and escort you home.”

She colored deeply. “At this hour of the morning? You must not. Where is your carriage? Your horse?” She scanned the street behind them and her eyes narrowed, her lips turning down in a frown. “There. That fine gray trying to bite the unfortunate boy. You must return to him for he is thinking about bolting. And we must not be seen like this.”

“Yes, well. My sister and I will be calling on you later today. With the musicale invitation.”

“Your sister is all genuine kindness. You, however, are confirming my conviction that we shouldn’t attend.”

“You must.”

“We have no carriage.”

“We will send ours.”

She sighed. “Lady Jane may go. I shall have a megrim.”

He so wanted to chuck her under the chin. “You do not have megrims.”

“How would you know?”

“I know women, Lady Sirena. You are not the megrim sort.”

Good heavens. He was bantering like Charley.

It felt rather good.

“Now give me that basket.”

Astonishingly, she complied. He patted the cloth as they started walking. Something plump and warm nestled there.

“’Tis bread,” she said. “Do not be squeezing it so.”

“You fetch it?”

“Lord and Lady Cheswick are the generous sort with everyone. Consequently, Lady Jane has enough to support three retainers, of which I am one.”

She was letting him know that Lady Jane was poor, and Lady Sirena was poorer, the clever girl. “You keep saying that she is your employer. And you’ve not told me your family name. Are you not related to her in some way? That is the usual thing in these cases.”

“I am not. The Cheswicks are friends of the family that owns the estate next to my family home.”

“And where is that?”

“In Ireland.” She smiled sweetly.

He decided on a different tack. “So you became acquainted during a house party?”

“Nay.”

She turned the corner onto a residential street, lined with smallish dwellings, their elegance fading, and stopped in front of a door needing a fresh coat of paint. “These are our rooms.” She took the basket and heaved in a deep breath, fixing him with a gray glare.

He should let her go. Father would surely relent and share her story. Or he could ask around about her...but Father had been correct, it would only draw attention, unwanted if he were to pursue her.

And he wanted to pursue her. “I’m not a gossip,” he said. “My sister has her heart set on yours and Lady Jane’s friendship, and—”

“As you wish.” She shifted the basket. “If harm comes to my lady, I’ll know who to blame. And so here it is. Lady Jane all but fished me out of the woods where I was preparing to hide and took me back to the neighbor’s house. She shamed them quite unmercifully and insisted they give me refuge until she could find a way to help me.”

“You were hiding?” His mind had snagged on that point. The wars were long over. Even Ireland was more or less settled, wasn’t it? “From whom? Irish rebels? British soldiers?”

She laughed ruefully. “Well, he was once a British soldier, I know, but he was, like me, another bad mix of the Irish and English. My cousin, the new earl, arrived to inspect his property. Angry, he was, that the house was in disrepair, but he was keen on the horses.” She looked hard at him, her eyes taking a blue cast, the irises lined with an edging of gray. “Every bit as fine as your mount here were our horses once upon a time.” She pressed her lips together and took in an angry breath. “He said he did love a fine mount.”

His heart thudded to a stop and then picked up and raced. Fine cattle and a house in disrepair. Perhaps there was more than one such estate in Ireland. Could it be?

And the rest... If that cousin had harmed her in that way...

She nodded. “In truth, I was not living any richer there than I am now, except that I was home and I could ride through those woods and shoot game when we were hungry. I could have stayed, but…the cost was too dear. You should know that my family name was ruined long ago.” Her chin jutted forward. “Honor I may not have, but I have my pride.” She gave him another forced laugh. “And my daily bread. Good day, my lord.”

Her foot hit the first step.

“Wait.”

She looked back at him, the curve of her cheek burnished pink in the morning chill, a chill that seeped into him and raced through his veins.

Brave. Saucy. Proud. This woman stirred him. And terrified him.

“What?” she asked.

“We’ve brought some very fine cattle to town. Perhaps you and I and my sister Perry could go riding one day.”

She turned fully around on the step, her eyes level with his, her face serious. “Plain-spoken, I will be, sir. Lady Jane has a wild idea of me marrying this Season, yet she told me that you in particular are out of my respectable reach. You will be marrying a girl of good family and great wealth, which I am not. And thus I must decline your kind invitation. I wish you all felicitations on your marriage when—”

Bellowing erupted around the corner, and the pounding of hooves. His mount came dragging the boy.

“Blast you,” the boy screamed, adding a stream of epithets no lady should hear.

“There, boy. Easy, boy.” Bakeley rushed over and grabbed for the reins as the horse shook the boy loose.

And suddenly stilled. Peace swept through the startled beast. Bakeley could almost hear the quiet rush.

A small hand had settled on the horse’s dappled gray head, the lady’s gaze locked on the beast’s dark eyes, a soft, soothing croon sounding deep in her throat. Before he could speak, her hand dropped and she was up the steps and in the door, the basket clutched under her arm.

The gelding looked after her with longing in his eyes.

Bakeley blinked and caught his breath.

Damn this world. Damn the ton and propriety and earldoms and... Shaldon. What the devil was father up to? And did he himself give a damn about it?

This beast’s granddam won first at Thurles. She’s good Irish Connemara and the best hotblood lines, as fast as any of your English hacks, I’d b-bet you.

The gelding snorted, drawing his attention. He was one of a number of dappled grays in their stock, and he had a bit of his dam’s cantankerous spirit. They’d not been able to breed out the worst parts of Pooka and her hobgoblin curse.

He’d brought her and the other Glenmorrow horses home to Cransdall all those years ago, and then, upon Mother’s horrifying death, promptly forgot the girl in the stall.

Surely this was the Earl of Glenmorrow’s wild daughter, the one who whispered to horses. The one whose brother, heir to an earldom, had betrayed England.

He’d paid a high bounty for Glenmorrow’s fine horses, but Mother wouldn’t tell him why. What had his father done to Glenmorrow? Lady Sirena’s plight was all tied up in it, as well as her unsuitability.

Someone would know, someone who would not run to his father with tales of his snooping.

His father’s man, Kincaid, who now lodged with his brother Bink knew all the stories, but he was also the surest one to tattle. He could ask Bink, but Bink’s investigating might stir up the kind of troubles his father had warned about.

There was Lady Hackwell. She seemed to have a finger on the pulse of every distressed damsel in London, and she had seen fit to bring both ladies to her ball. But paying a call on her was sure to pique Hackwell’s curiosity.

And Father would get wind and cause one sort of trouble or another.

He turned his horse toward Berkeley Square. Bink, it would be. His brother was close to both of the Hackwells. He’d been the Hackwells’ steward two years earlier. He could get to her ladyship unobtrusively, and Bink had his own past grievances with Father. He was the lowest risk.