All of the color drained out of Scarlett’s face.

Owen couldn’t be here.

It was impossible.

Except it wasn’t. Ruth would never lie to her, especially about something so important.

“Where is he?” Her gaze flew to the door but it was partially closed, obscuring her view of the hallway. “How long has he been here? Did he request me specifically?”

“Mr. Givens admitted him into the front parlor ten minutes ago.” Ruth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “And yes, he made a point of requesting you specifically, my lady.”

“Of course he did,” Scarlett muttered under her breath before she drew back her shoulders. Part of her was tempted to simply send Owen away. He never should have come here in the first place. What if Rodger had been at home? It would have been nothing short of a disaster. Yet there was no denying that she desperately wanted to see him again. How many times had she practiced what she would say if they were to ever come face to face? A thousand? Ten thousand? She’d lost track years ago.

“Tell Captain Steel…” She hesitated as she struggled to control her conflicting emotions. “Tell Captain Steel I will be with him shortly.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is a good idea? Perhaps you should wait until Lord Sherwood returns home. It would not be seemly for you to visit with a man when your husband is away.”

The irony of Ruth’s statement coaxed the tiniest of smiles from Scarlett’s lips.  “It is not seemly that my husband is out carousing with his mistress when he should be here with me.” One pale brow lifted a notch. “I am entertaining an old friend, Ruth. And that is precisely what you will say should anyone ask. Do you understand?”

“Yes my lady,” the maid murmured as she stepped to the side, giving Scarlett room to pass. After pinching her cheeks to bring some color back into them, she lifted her chin, murmured a quick prayer, and glided into the parlor. 

Her gaze was immediately drawn to a broad set of shoulders encased in a dark jacket. Owen – could it really be him? – was standing in front of the mantle with his back to the room. As if he sensed her presence those broad shoulders suddenly stiffened, his entire body coiling like a panther ready to spring as he slowly turned to face her.

“Lady Scarlett.” His voice was deeper than she remembered. He was taller as well, his body lean and well-muscled, evidence of his physical prowess found in the width of his shoulders and the definition of his thighs. His hair was still just as dark, but it was a touch longer than the last time she’d seen him, curling low over his brow and brushing against the collar of his jacket. And his eyes… She caught her breath. His eyes were as cold as the sleeting rain lashing at the windows. “Or should I say Lady Sherwood now?”

“Scarlett is fine.” Not trusting herself to go any closer than absolutely necessary she remained by the door, one hand curled tightly around the brass knob. Her heart was beating so fast she feared Owen would hear it, but if he did he gave no indication. His countenance was completely devoid of expression, giving away none of what he was feeling.

If he was even feeling anything at all.   

Owen shrugged as if it did not matter to him one way or the other. Then his eyes narrowed as his gaze came to rest on the exposed curve of her collarbone where a blonde tendril brushed against ivory skin. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“Yes.” Self-consciously her hand drifted to where he was looking, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her bodice before she forced her arm to drop. “A few days ago. I found long hair no longer suited me.”

“You were always good at getting rid of things that no longer suited you.”

Scarlett drew a sharp breath. She had wondered how long it would be before he fired the first shot. The tiny barb hurt her more than she’d thought it would, drawing blood before it buried beneath her skin. “What – what are you doing here, Owen? What do you want?”

What was he doing in London, a place he had always despised? And why was he dressed so formally in a gray tailcoat, stark white neck cloth, and beige breeches that clung to his muscular legs like a second skin? The last time she’d seen him he had been wearing his father’s hand-me-downs that were two sizes too big and worn so thin as to nearly be see-through. Now every stich of his wardrobe looked as though it had been tailor-made. If she did not know any better she would have thought him at least a baron, mayhap even a viscount or an earl.

There were other things she’d wanted to say. Other words she’d wanted to use. But the mere sight of him had washed all of those words away, leaving her with nothing but a long list of questions she desperately wanted answered.

Where have you been all these years?

Are you married?

Do you have a family?

Do you hate me for what I did?

She did not have to ask the last question. The answer was already written across every inch of his cold, formidable countenance. Yes, Owen hated her… and the worst part was she couldn’t even blame him for it. Not after what she had done. To him. To them. To the future they should have had.

“I have come to inform you of your husband’s passing.”

He spoke so bluntly that for a moment his words and the meaning behind them did not sink in. When they did Scarlett brought both of her hands to her mouth with a gasp and reeled back against the door, her skull striking the wood with a heavy thud.

“What?” she managed to croak between her fingers. “Rodger is d-dead? How…”

“He fell from his horse and broke his neck,” Owen stated matter-of-factly. “His body was recovered early this morning in the theatre district. Do you know why he would have been there?”

Scarlett stared at Owen with eyes awash in tears, unable to believe not only what he was saying but how he was saying it. For all the emotion in his voice he might as well have been talking about the dreary weather or the recent appointment of a new Speaker of the House in Parliament.

“You must be mistaken.” Her own voice was shrill and filled with incredulity. Rodger was dead? Impossible. She’d seen him just last night in the library! What were the last words she had spoken to him? Had they been cruel? Kind? Indifferent? Suddenly it was imperative that she remember. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching the vestiges of her memory. He had insinuated she join him in his bed and she… she had asked if he still had his mistress.

His mistress who lived in the theater district.

Scarlett’s eyes flew open.

“Where did you say the body was found?”

“The theater district.” Owen watched her closely, studying every wayward emotion that rippled across her expressive face as she flew through the stages of shock, denial, and finally grief.

Scarlett may not have loved Rodger, but that did not mean she ever wished for him to die. Well, perhaps in a moment of anger… but this was different. This was permanent. Her husband was dead. And the man she’d spurned so she could marry him had delivered the news.

“What did you do?” Without thinking she flew at Owen with her hands raised and managed to rake her nails across the shadow of scruff clinging to his jaw before he captured her wrists and pinned them against his chest.

“Nothing,” he snarled, restraining her easily as she continued to claw and kick and scratch. “I did not kill him. You are going to hurt yourself. Stop it. Scarlett, I said stop it.”

It was the sound of her name spilling from his lips that finally pierced the thick fog of furious grief. She froze, her chest rising and falling on a gasping breath as she dragged air into her lungs. When the hazy mist rolled away she realized Owen had both of his arms banded around her body. She felt the burn of his touch through the layers of fabric that separated them, the scorching heat of it as achingly familiar as it was painful.

It hurt to be this close to him again.

It hurt her body.

Her mind.

Her very soul.

Peeking up at him beneath a thick sweep of blonde lashes she saw his entire jaw was rigid, his icy blue gaze pinned to the far wall. And she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too. The burn. The heat. The need.

Rodger is dead, she reminded herself harshly. Before you throw yourself into the arms of another man perhaps you’d best mourn the one you just lost.

“You can release me now,” she said stiffly. “I – I apologize. I did not mean to insinuate you had anything to do with Rodger’s death.”

One dark eyebrow shot up. “And here I thought that was exactly what you were insinuating.” But he let her go nevertheless and she quickly stepped back, putting some much needed space between them even as she cursed her inability to control her emotions.

No matter how angry Rodger made her, she had always been able to command a façade of indifference. Whether she choose to do it or not had depended on how much she wanted to infuriate him, but at least she’d been able to pick whether she wanted to be angry or aloof. But with Owen she’d never been able to make that choice. No matter how hard she tried, she could not hide what she was feeling from him. It made her feel small and vulnerable; two things Scarlett was not accustomed to feeling.

Lifting her chin she met his gaze without flinching; no small feat given the erratic flutter of her pulse and the hard, rapid pounding of her heart. “If my husband really is dead–”

“He is.”

“–then how is that you are the one to inform me?” Her glare let him know she did not like being interrupted. The faint smirk lurking in the corners of his mouth told her he did not care.

“It is my duty.”

“Your duty?” Her brow creased with confusion. “What do you mean your duty?”

“I am a Runner.”

He did not need to say anymore. Everyone – even Scarlett, who’d never had cause to use their services – knew of the Bow Street Runners. Founded by Henry Fielding, they were Britain’s first organized police force. Comprised of a handful of highly skilled men, most of which had military backgrounds, the Runners were responsible for upholding law and order on London’s busy streets and the outlying towns and villages.

Scarlett had met a Runner only once before. He’d been called to a dinner party she was attending after a guest’s emerald necklace went missing. Eventually it was discovered the necklace had slipped off in the carriage and the Runner had left, leaving a swirl of excited gossip in his wake as he’d been quite handsome, but not nearly so pleasing to look at as Owen.

It was a job that suited him, Scarlett decided. He certainly had the look of a Runner: tall and long-limbed with broad shoulders and dark features. He had the mind as well. Always determined to do the right thing no matter the cost. At least now she knew what he was doing in London.

“How did it happen? How did… how did Rodger pass away?” She knew he’d already told her, but in her shock she had forgotten.

“It appears he fell from his horse and his head struck the cobblestones. I am sure you can imagine the rest.”

Scarlett flinched. Yes, she could, even though she did not want to. She shook her head to clear the image of her husband sprawled lifeless on the street with his head cracked open like an egg, then knit her eyebrows together in confusion. “But that does not many any sense. Rodger is” – was – “an excellent equestrian.” If there was one thing Rodger had always been good at, it was riding horses. To her knowledge he’d never even had a fall, let alone one serious enough to do him any harm.

“Indeed.” His eyes narrowing on her face, Owen studied her with an intensity that caused blood to rush to her cheeks. “I find it rather curious myself. Did you say you knew why he would be in the Theatre District?”

“I – I have no idea.” Lying about Rodger’s affairs had become as second nature to Scarlett as breathing. Shifting uncomfortably beneath Owen’s harsh scrutiny she walked around the back of an elegant sofa, her fingers trailing along the wooden framework. “He must have had business.”

“Before dawn?” Owen watched her as a hawk watched a mouse, his penetrative gaze never leaving her slender body. Not liking his tone or his unwavering stare, Scarlett stopped in front of a large window that looked out over the side lawn.

“I am not always privy to my husband’s schedule.” It was still raining, the sky a gloomy, depressing gray. She watched as droplets of water trickled down the outside of the window. They pooled along the sill before spilling over and cascading across the glass in tiny streams that randomly intersected before splitting off again. Not unlike Owen and I, she thought with a bitter twist of her mouth. Fate – or more accurately Rodger’s death – may have brought them into the same room again, but they were still very much apart.

The way Owen was speaking to her… she almost would have preferred he yelled. Anything would have been better than cold indifference, especially when it was tainted with a hint of accusation.

“Why are you asking me so many questions?” She peered at him over her right shoulder, arched brows pulled in close together. “Are you implying that my husband’s death was not an accident?”

“I don’t know, Lady Sherwood.” His head canted to one side as he stretched his arm out and rested his hand on the edge of the mantle, fingers tapping absently against the stone. “Was it?”

“Of course it was.” She did not like the way he was looking at her. Almost as if he were a predator… and she was his prey. “If Rodger fell from his horse as you claim, how could it be anything but an accident?”

“I am not certain.” And yet he still continued to watch her, his glacial stare causing the downy hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

“Surely you do not think I had anything to do with it?”

“Until the investigation has been completed I cannot rule anything – or anyone – out.”

Scarlett whirled to face Owen in a swirl of green muslin. “That is preposterous!”

“Is it?” he countered softly.

“Yes. It is no secret that Rodger likes…” She paused, her tongue twisting as she forced herself to speak in the past tense. “Liked to drink too much. He was probably foxed and his horse stumbled and he fell. A horrible accident, but an accident nevertheless.”

Owen’s hand dropped from the mantle and slid into the pocket of his breeches. “Where were you last night?”

“Here. I was here all night.”

“Alone?”

“Not that it is any of your business but yes, I was.”

He rubbed his chin. “Now I find that rather curious.”

“Do you?” she said coolly.

“Yes. You see, I asked around a bit before I came here. If I am not mistaken, there was a ball last night. A ball you were expected to attend.”

Scarlett bristled. She did not like what Owen was saying. More than that, she didn’t like what he was not saying. “If I attended every dinner party and ball I was invited to I would never have time for anything else. Unless enjoying a quiet evening at home is a crime, I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Just asking a few routine questions, Lady Sherwood,” he drawled. “There’s no need to get upset.”

“I am not upset. And you do not need to call me that.” Once Owen had known her better than anyone else. Even better than she knew herself. And it hurt more than she could possibly put into words to have him treat her as if she were a stranger.   

“What should I call you?”

“My name.”

A humorless smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I thought I was.”

Very well, she thought silently. If that is how you want it…

“If there is nothing else, Captain Steel, I shall have Graves escort you out.”

Owen began to slowly button his coat. “Your husband’s body will be delivered by the end of the day so you can begin funeral arrangements. Oh, and one more thing. You don’t happen to have any green velvet hair ribbons by chance, do you?”

Scarlett blinked. “Green velvet hair ribbons? I suppose I might. I’m not entirely certain. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Simple curiosity, Lady Sherwood.” He walked past her to the door. “By the way, I am sorry for your loss.” 

“Yes.” Scarlett’s smile was so brittle it was a wonder her mouth did not crack into a thousand pieces. “I am sure you are.”

 

Owen walked briskly down the street, forgoing a carriage in favor of feeling the cold rain against his skin. He felt so hot he wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam rising off his clothes. Inside the deep pockets of his great coat his hands were curled into massive fists and his expression was such that innocent passersby’s stumbled over themselves to get out of his way. Suffice it to say he was not in a pleasant mood, nor even a tolerable one, and he carried his black cloud with him all the way to his office on Bow Street.

Originally the private residence of Henry Fielding, the Runner’s infamous headquarters was a traditional three story brick townhouse with white shutters. It sat back from the street behind a wrought iron gate that surpassed Owen’s head by a good three inches. Neatly trimmed boxwoods, their leaves still dull from winter, lined a narrow brick walkway that led directly to the front door.

The first floor was reserved strictly for business with three generously sized rooms all boasting long tables which were covered with notes and files and random pieces of evidence brought in from ongoing cases. A small kitchen kept the runners from starving to death, although none of them were very good cooks. They relied on food baskets brought to them by patrons – the majority of which were women – and never lacked for a midnight nibble when a case carried over into the wee hours of the morning. 

Owen’s office was on the second floor. It held nothing of a personal nature, not even a photograph, and was fastidiously organized with nary a pencil out of place.

The entire third floor was comprised of his living quarters. He was the first magistrate to use the one-bedroom flat in over two decades. The captains before him had all had homes and families of their own to go to at the end of the day. But for Owen the Bow Street Headquarters was his home and the Runners his family.

He’d lost both his parents within six months of each other to a wasting sickness. News of their death had reached him in France via a letter written by Lydia. He still carried the letter on his person; such was his regret that he’d been away fighting for King and Country on foreign soil while his mother and father were at home fighting for their lives. He felt their loss all the more keenly because they’d both begged him not to enlist. But he’d been headstrong, and hurting, and he’d plunged recklessly into war without knowing the cost.

After a long, exhausting service that saw him rise through the ranks from infantry to officer, Owen returned to Britain a man changed. He found himself no longer suited for an idyllic life in the country selling bread and so he journeyed to London, answering the summons of Lord Grant Hargrave, an old friend from his battalion. It had been Grant who told him about the Bow Street Runners, and Grant who had convinced him to join their ranks.

In war Owen had done what was asked of him without question. He had been a good soldier. Intelligent, brave, quick on his feet. And he had done what needed to be done, but he took no pride in any of it.

There was no honor in killing. No glory. No redemption.

But being a Runner… that was something he could be proud of.

This spring would be his second on Bow Street. With every person he helped, with every crime he solved, he mended a piece of his soul that had been stripped away on the bloody battlefields of France. Yet even as his soul was slowly restored his heart remained as cold as ever, frozen solid by the careless actions of a young woman he had once loved beyond reason.

Scarlett.

Even the mere thought of her name caused his jaw to clench as he stormed through the front door and up the stairs to his office with only the most cursory of greetings to the three men standing outside the kitchen. Closing the door with a resounding thud (his way of saying that anyone who sought an audience with him did so at their own peril) he opened up the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of brandy. He did not usually drink, but if he ever needed to dull his senses he could think of no better time than now.

Pouring himself a generous glass he sat down behind his desk, kicked up his legs, and stared broodingly out the window. Chimneys unfurled gray smoke into the overcast sky, obscuring his view of the Thames. On a clear day he could see the tall masts from the trade ships that sailed the river, their white sails billowing out like clouds. But today the rain covered everything in a dull cloak of watery ash.

Looking away from the window Owen raised his snifter to his mouth and took a small, leisurely sip as his thoughts turned inward.

He had convinced himself Scarlett wouldn’t look the same. That she wouldn’t smell the same. That one glance in her direction wouldn’t elicit a quicksilver response deep down inside of his loins. And in some respects, he’d been right. She hadn’t looked the same.

She’d been more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. And he’d never had such a hard cock-stand in his entire bloody life.

Just seeing her again… it had brought back everything he thought he’d suppressed. The pulsing need. The scorching arousal. The knowing he felt all the way down in his bones that she was meant for him and he was meant for her. That they were meant for each other.

Except they weren’t. Scarlett had made that perfectly clear seven years ago when she had chosen Sherwood over him. And the way she’d done it! So coldly. So callously. As if the weeks they’d spent together and the words they’d whispered and the promises they’d made meant nothing. As if he meant nothing. With a muttered curse Owen tipped the glass of brandy all the way back and drained the contents in one burning swallow.

To hell with her, he thought as he slammed the glass down on his desk with enough force to send a stack of letters spinning into the air. They fluttered gracefully to the ground in a shower of white. After staring at them for a moment Owen swore again and began to gather them up. He was reaching beneath a chair for the last one when a loud knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” he said brusquely once he’d stood up. Leaning against his desk he began to shuffle the letters back into order, using the handwritten dates on the top right hand corners.

“Felix said you were back,” Grant Hargrave drawled by way of greeting as he stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. “He also mentioned you were in a pisser of a mood.”

Grant was Owen’s second-in-command. He should have been the captain, but when Owen said as much he’d flat out refused and threatened to leave the runners all together if the position was thrust upon his shoulders.

As the third son of a duke Grant could have easily led a life of leisure, but he’d never been the leisurely sort. Tall and lean with a poet’s face and piercing green eyes, he looked far more suited for a ballroom than Bow Street. Given Owen’s innate loathing of the nobility they hadn’t exactly gotten along when they found themselves in the same infantry unit, but after Grant saved Owen’s life – and Owen promptly returned the favor – the two became fast friends.

“Felix needs to learn to mind his tongue.” Setting the stack of letters down on the edge of his desk Owen lifted his head and met Grant’s steady gaze. “What do you want?”

“Just checking in on the stiff from this morning. He was a peer?”

“A viscount.” Owen crossed his arms. “Lord Rodger Sherwood.” Just saying the name set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t glad Sherwood was dead – after seeing enough death to last ten lifetimes he took no pleasure in the loss of life – but the irony of his death did not escape him.

Sherwood was the one who had walked away with everything, including Scarlett. Yet his body was the one being prepared to be put into the ground while Owen stood here very much alive.

At least fate had little regard for wealth and titles.

“And you think he was murdered?”

“I know he was. He fell because his girth snapped.”

“That sounds more like bad luck to me.”

“Not when the girth was cut.” Felix had been unable to track down Sherwood’s horse, but he had found his saddle. The long leather girth that should have held it strapped to the horse’s body had been neatly severed on one end. What’s more, it had only been cut halfway through – ensuring the saddle wouldn’t have slipped until Sherwood was traveling at a quick enough pace to do himself serious harm when he fell. Which he had.

Owen had kept that information from Scarlett on purpose. He had no concrete evidence linking her to Sherwood’s death – at least not yet – but his gut was telling him she knew more than what she was saying. If she had committed murder he wanted her to think she’d gotten away with it… for now.

Grant whistled under his breath. “That’s one way to make a murder look like an accident. Bloody clever if you ask me. Sherwood… Sherwood…” Eyes narrowing to thoughtful slits of emerald green, he rubbed his chin. “The name sounds familiar. I am sure I’ve met him before.”

Owen didn’t doubt that he had. All of the nabobs seemed to run in the same exclusive circles and even though Grant had managed to plant one foot on Bow Street, the other one was still very much trapped in Grosvenor Square. He couldn’t escape his past or his heritage any more than Owen could escape his. It did not matter that Owen was seven years and one hundred miles removed from the boy he’d been. A single glance at Scarlett was all it had taken to remind him of his meager beginnings.

His teeth clenched as he gave a frustrated shake of his head. He shouldn’t have gone to see her. Shouldn’t have opened himself up to feelings and desires he’d thought buried long ago. It was his mistake, and one he was not intent on repeating.

“Did you ever catch that burglar who’s been breaking into the townhouses on Thistle Street?” he asked, wanting – needing – to change the subject.

“Not yet.” Frustration tightened the corners of Grant’s mouth. “I always seem to be one step behind the bugger, but he’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later.”

“Better make it sooner. I’ve got Lord Munthorpe breathing down my neck. He wants his wife’s diamond necklace returned.”

“Cheap bastard,” Grant said with a snort. “As if he couldn’t afford to buy her a dozen more.”

“Some nonsense about the necklace being a family heirloom. Either way, see to it. This has gone on long enough.

“I agree.”

Both men were quiet for a moment.

“Is there anything else?” Owen asked abruptly. Under normal circumstances he would have appreciated Grant’s company, but these were hardly normal circumstances. The only thing he wanted to do was pour himself another snifter of brandy and be alone with his thoughts. Something that was rather difficult to do when his second-in-command was looming over him.

“No.” Grant’s shoulders lifted and fell in an absent shrug beneath his elegant waistcoat.

Unlike the other runners who wore plain trousers and dark gray overcoats like the one thrown on the back of Owen’s chair, Grant was always impeccably dressed, a residual effect of being born and raised into one of England’s wealthiest families. “The boys and I are going for a pint at The Pony. Care to join us?”

Owen’s gaze slid to the window. The rain had finally stopped, leaving a rolling blanket of mist over the entire city. A sliver of golden sunlight was struggling to squeeze between the clouds but it wasn’t having much luck. Such was London in early spring.

“Maybe later,” he said brusquely. “I’ve a few correspondences to finish.”

“Well if you change your mind we’ll keep a stool warm for you.” With a tip of his head Grant finally left. Owen waited until the echo of his footsteps had retreated down the stairs before he poured himself one more glass of brandy and sat back down behind his desk.

Stretching an arm behind his head he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, ordering his mind to focus on anything other than the way Scarlett had looked in her pale green dress with her silky hair pulled back from her face and her smoky gray eyes – eyes that could lure a man to sin or slice his heart wide open depending on her mood – gazing up at him.

But memories fed on silence and before he could steer his thoughts in a different direction they veered down a path he’d closed long ago. A path that led to a water fountain and goldfish and the kiss that started it all…