Barton directed Bakeley to the shops Lady Sirena frequented. Yes, the shopkeepers had seen her that morning. No, they hadn’t seen where she’d gone. No amount of coins could pry that information from them. He wasn’t sure if they were suspicious of him or if they genuinely didn’t know.

He stepped outside the last shop and a boy ran after him. “Sir, I did see something.”

Bakeley’s heart quickened.

“The Irish lady, she talked to two men, both of them Irish also. I was cleaning the windows round the corner. They didn’t notice me, I think.”

“What did they say?”

“They was to meet someone in the East End, by the docks. A tavern, something about a bull. The men wanted her to hire a hackney, but she said no, they would walk.”

Bakeley handed the boy a coin. “Describe the men.”

“They had rough clothes and caps. Sailors, maybe. Not gentlemen like you.”

“Thank you.” He handed him another coin.

“It’s usually just the one she meets.”

He froze. She’d been meeting with an Irish sailor. Could it be her lost brother? Or a conspirator, like one of the Cato Street ilk?

“Do you know him?”

“Walter, she called him. And he called her my lady.”

“Why would you remember this?”

The boy blushed deeply, and he realized the lad was older than he seemed. “Only that the lady was so pretty and always so nice.”

“What is your name?”

“Henry.”

He pulled out a card. “If you think of anything else, find me here. Speak only to me. No one else, understand?”

“Yes, milord.”

The East End. The docks. With two Irish sailors? Was the woman mad? His heart raced and he hailed a hackney and climbed in.

He had no knife on him, no pistol, no weapon of any kind, not even a walking stick. He gave the driver an address and told him to make haste. Bink’s home was right around the corner.

Sirena’s hopes crashed when she saw Walter step out of the third tavern they’d visited, alone. The man they were supposed to meet was, once again, missing.

“We must get you out of here, milady.” Walter’s hand kept going to the side of his coat. He was armed, she’d guessed. So was she. Her heavy wool shawl draped her from the top of her head to her hips, hiding her bonnet and fair hair and covering the sheathed knife tucked into a very unfashionable sash.

The docks were busy with arriving ships offloading cargo. Josh’s mere presence had kept lookers at bay, though they’d kept up their leering, the sailors stumbling from drinking all night, other seamen making their way from the arriving ships, porters, cart drivers, merchants, pickpockets, and street whores, even at this hour.

She set off with her two protectors. A group of rough men blocked their way. “How much for your whore?” The big man who spoke had glittery dark eyes that made her shiver.

A taller man shoved him aside. “I’m to be first.” He lurched at her, and Josh blocked him.

She drew herself up. “Here now.” She used the King’s English her governess had tried to pound into her a decade ago, before the woman’s wages had to be put to buying whiskey. “I am not a prostitute. You will move out of my man’s way this instant and let us pass.”

That at least made them pause. She slid the knife from her sheath, hiding it under the edge of her shawl.

The taller man stepped back from Josh and scratched his head.

“There are lasses down on the next corner who will gladly take your coin,” Walter said in his most pleasant brogue.

The bigger man, the one who had spoken first stepped up. “Go on with you boys, if that’s what you want. I had my heart set on a real lady.”

He lurched again, knocking into Walter. Sirena stumbled out of the way and her head covering slipped bringing her bonnet down with it.

“A yellow-haired lass,” a man shouted in a heavy foreign accent.

Someone pawed at her, and Walter’s fist lashed out.

“Behind you,” she shouted, trying to move out of the way. She heard a whistle. The river police would come in time, she hoped.

Fists flew, and there were strange oaths and the sound of cracked jaws and oofs. Walter and Josh were taking a beating for her. She must stop this. A crowd had started to form, ringing them, shouting out odds and wagers.

In front of her, the tall man pushed Josh to the ground and bent over him, pounding. His cap had flown off, and a greasy black queue slid over his back.

Bam. Crack. Oof.

She must do something.

She threw off her shawl, jerked him back by his queue, and dug the point of her dagger into his neck.

“Leave off,” she shouted. “Or I will slice this devil. Leave off.”

He squirmed and the point pricked him. The crowd quietened. The men hitting Walter looked up.

Josh crawled onto his knees. Whistles and pounding footsteps approached and the watchers started to slip away, including some of the men who had started the melee.

“Get him up.” She made eyes at Walter, jerking her head.

He gripped his assailant and one other by their necks, and let Josh help himself up.

Her heart twisted. The O’Brian boys might have a price on their heads from the new Lord of Glenmorrow. They had risked everything to help her. If they swung from the gallows it would be her fault.

Two respectably clad men ran up, the river policemen, she guessed, by their dress, and in the distance behind them she saw the blur of two other dark-clad men.

The policemen stopped short in front of her. “Put down the knife, lass, there’s a good girl.”

She summoned the English again. “I am not your lass or your good girl, sir. I am a lady, and these men beat up my servants and threatened to violate me.”

“She’s lying,” the man in her grip said. “She wanted more money.”

Josh was up by now, fist raised, but a look from Sirena stopped him.

The policemen exchanged glances. "Yes, yes, well, we’ll take all of you in and sort it out."

“Lady Sirena.” A deep voice boomed through the crowd, as if the man who owned it was taking charge of everyone from the East End to Mayfair and every street in between.

Her heart jangled and she sucked in deep breaths to quell the dark spots that appeared. She would not faint. She would not.

A dark handsome head bobbed high over all the others, a ginger one following, shoving the curious out of the way.

Relief flooded into her, followed by dismay. She had no right to warm feelings. Lord Bakeley was not her friend. His brother, she wasn’t sure about, but he was Shaldon’s spawn too, and that made him also suspect.

“Lord B-Bakeley.” Drat, her voice shook. Moisture flooded her eyes and she blinked hard.

He nudged a policeman aside and covered her knife hand with his. “My dear.” He spoke with such tenderness, she blinked hard. He eased the knife from her hand, while Mr. Gibson fell upon the villain.

Lord Bakeley drew out a handkerchief, wiped off the blade, and let the cloth fall to the ground like the tainted object it was. “There. I’ve cleaned off that scurvy rat’s blood. Sheath this, will you, my lady?”

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t see. He found the sheath at her waist, his hands touching only the leather, not her. Not like last night.

“I don’t have another handkerchief,” he murmured. “Hold those tears, love.”

That swelled her eyes more. She wiped at them with her sleeve and then she squeezed her eyes tight for a moment.

When she opened them, she saw Walter and Josh, rounded up with the villains. “What are you doing?” She summoned her English yet one more time again, imitating a duchess she’d heard speaking to Lady Hackwell. “These two are my men. They were protecting me. Unhand them right now.”

Mr. Gibson eyed his brother. “And it looks like they took the worst of it.”

“At least five against two. Such valor will not go unrewarded. Gentlemen, I’m Lord Bakeley. Her ladyship and her men will come with me. I’ll see that they get medical attention.”

One of the two policemen looked speculatively at her.

“I am the daughter of the Earl of Glenmorrow. I am not a...a woman of the streets.”

“Odd that an Earl’s daughter would be here.”

She opened her mouth and clamped it shut. Peeresses did not explain themselves to lesser beings.

“Milord, they must give statements. All of them, including the lady.”

“I’ll see to the statements,” Lord Bakeley said. “Brother, explain please.”

Mr. Gibson drew the more suspicious officer aside.

Lord Bakeley fixed his gaze on Walter. “Who are you?”

Walter had propped Josh against the wall and was busily mopping blood from his brother’s poor battered face.

“These are the...the Smith brothers,” she said. Oh, she was a poor liar, yet she must protect them. “This is…Michael, and this is…John who was beaten so fiercely. You boys saved me.” The dratted tears came and she swiped at them, angry with herself for being such a crying ninny.

“Well, you saved me, milady,” Josh said.

“I am so sorry, boys.” She glanced at Lord Bakeley. He should not be here. Why was he here?

The memory rushed back. He’d said he would call on her and he’d done it. But how had he tracked her down?

Fear rippled down her spine. His father was having her followed. If that were so, then the O’Brians were in danger. She must take them somewhere. The money she’d planned to use for a bribe—that would pay for a room for a time. They’d know where to go, and she’d throw her own self upon Lady Jane’s mercy.

“Bakeley,” Mr. Gibson said, “I’m taking these men with me. Come along, then, John, Michael. I’ll find us a hackney.”

“No,” Lady Sirena said fiercely, “they’ll go with me.”

Neither Michael nor John budged at Gibson’s order. One of the officers took a threatening step toward her.

Bakeley drew her a few steps away from the men. “You’ll all come with me. They need medical attention, and you and I need to talk.”

She shook her head, her face going pink even while she blinked away tears.

Blast it. His only concern was getting her to safety. To hell with her men.

Her men. Who were they? Bakeley looked from her to the two boys, who were both well into their thirties. The names were no doubt fraudulent—the shop boy had mentioned a Walter—and why they were here, he knew not. He could kick their arses for letting her come down here.

Though, knowing her, she would have come by herself without protection, so he must thank them for not abandoning her.

Two Irishmen using aliases. They were wanted by someone, probably his father.

“I won’t turn them over to Shaldon, I promise you. Now, is that yours?” He pointed at a large heap of black wool. She wore no pelisse or mantle and was shivering.

“Yes.”

He held on to her arm and retrieved the shawl, draping her with it. “What you’re feeling is shock.”

He was feeling it himself. That first horrific vision of her with a knife to a ruffian’s throat, the man at her feet beaten, had sent a panic through him.

He should have been quicker. She should have not come here. Foolish, foolish girl.

He scooped her up in his arms.

“I can walk,” she cried. But her face was wet, and her tears were shredding his composure.

His sister, Perry, never cried. But she might if someone had beaten up her footmen and tried to assault her. The mere thought made his blood boil.

“Shush.” He hurried back to the hackney that had brought him and, flipping a large coin, sent a boy for another.

Her servants, the Smith brothers, staggered up behind with Bink at their heels. Both men looked wild-eyed, tired, afraid, like the fox after a long chase. He set Lady Sirena on her feet while they waited and kept her locked at his side.

“None of this was their fault,” she said.

“I told you I’m not turning them in.”

The man called John sagged in his brother’s arms.

“Listen,” Bakeley said. “Both of you need a surgeon. I’ll see you patched up. Then you may leave.”

“Get in.” Bink hauled John up as gently as possible. “And don’t think to stab me with that blade you have hidden. Bakeley, take the lady in the other transport.”

She tried to push away. “You will take them to—”

“We will all go to the same place, lass,” Bink said. “Bakeley, where is that to be? My home?”

“No.” Bink’s home included Kincaid, who was deeply loyal to both of the Gibsons, but he had served as one of Shaldon’s operatives for more years than anyone could count. He would see this situation the same way Shaldon would. “There is another place. Get in.”

He gave each driver the same direction and helped Lady Sirena into the hackney.

This second carriage was a small affair, only big enough for two. She slid into the corner and huddled there.

He planted himself in the center of the seat and hauled her onto his lap.

“What are you doing?”

Lord, how she trembled.

He tucked the knitted shawl around her, a shawl for a fisherman’s wife, not the wrap of an earl’s daughter. The coarse texture of it angered him. She should have something finer against her tender skin.

“Stop fighting me, woman. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m sharing my warmth.”

Her fidgeting settled and she allowed him to finish arranging the shawl around her.

“It’s colder now. There’s a storm coming in, I fear, and there’s a storm inside you. You’ve had a great shock and that’s why you’re shaking. Now,” he pulled her close and settled her head on his shoulder, “you must think about your story.”

He heard a tight breath.

"My story?"

He let his hand drift over her back and began to stroke there. “Yes. Let me see. Why would a lady be walking the London docks with two working men?” He let the words hang there a minute and when she didn’t speak, went on. “Oh, yes. You ran into the Smith boys at a shop where they were making a delivery of, of—”

“Grain.”

“Grain. Yes. You knew them from your home to be good, honorable men. Perhaps you knew their mother or some such.”

She had gone very still.

“Are they Catholic?”

“No.”

“Presbyterian?”

“No. They are Church of Ireland, like me.”

“Excellent. They’ll be more practical about oath taking. The others can be unnecessarily scrupulous about what they say with their hand on a bible. Now, the Smith brothers could see that your circumstances had been reduced, and they heard of a ship docking with a great store of cloth that would make you a few fine dresses.”

She had stilled and her breath warmed his neck. That and the swell of her bottom were heating him. When he pulled her a little tighter, her lack of resistance sent a surge of arousal through him.

“The cloth would have to be for Lady Jane. She has a birthday upcoming and I have naught to give her.”

“Then so it shall be.”

He held her, and felt her stiffness relax a bit more, and heard her breathing slow, while his own accelerated and his insides burned.

They were lies and he didn’t care. He didn’t care why she’d gone to the dock alone except for the two Irishmen with prices on their heads. He wanted her, and whether it was simple lust or to spite his father, he didn’t care. For once in his carefully managed life, he was acting a fool, and so it must be.

He let her rest against him, both of them keeping their peace until he thought she must be sleeping, poor girl, after that long walk and such excitement.

The carriage came to a stop and the driver descended, and she quickly slid onto the seat and straightened her garments.

She hadn’t been sleeping at all. She’d been, most likely, plotting.

He helped her out to where Bink and the Smith brothers stood waiting. Well, one stood. The one called John still sagged against his brother.

“What is this place?” Bink asked, staring up at the brick-faced townhouse.

“This, brother, is my very own refuge from the world, my bachelor lodgings.”

Sirena pulled her shawl close around her, contemplating escape while Lord Bakeley himself stoked the fire. That, she supposed, was better than the task his brother, Mr. Gibson, had taken on, that of stripping and washing Josh.

It was unaccountably colder inside than out, like the house had stored every bit of the winter’s chill in its brick walls and heavy draperies. It had been all but closed up, clearly not much lived in, and not even yet fully decorated. He must keep it for bringing his mistress, Lady Arbrough, though such a fashionable lady surely found this place laughable.

Or perhaps Lady Arbrough was looking forward to decorating it, though it didn’t seem grand enough for a viscount with a wife.

This bedchamber sported a full sized bed, plenty big for the man stretched out groaning there. The housekeeper, a competent, congenial sort, had brought out sheets, and Sirena had helped her make up the bed before Josh had been laid there. While Mr. Gibson sponged Josh, a male servant—the housekeeper’s husband, she guessed—worked on Walter’s face.

Michael’s, she reminded herself. Slipping from John to Josh was not so noticeable, but if she called Michael Walter, Bakeley would have at least a first name to give to his father, and Shaldon would easily rifle through the Home Office’s Irish files and make the connection to Walter O’Brian.

Josh groaned out an oath.

“Sorry, lad,” Mr. Gibson said.

Bakeley stood and dusted off his hands. “How bad is he?”

“Warm the blanket,” Mr. Gibson told the housekeeper. “I’m guessing a bruised rib or two, or maybe broken. I’ll send for a surgeon.”

“I’ll be fine, sir.” Josh tried to sit up and gasped, falling back. “We’d best be off.”

“The surgeon is my man, not Shaldon’s,” Mr. Gibson said. “And you’ll rest there and let yourself be treated.”