Cally all but stuck her head out the window of the Balfour town coach as it maneuvered its elegant way through the carriages, carts and drays coming and going, jostling for position in the yard of Grindle Brothers Wine & Coffee Merchants like bees busy at the entrance to a hive.

She was more thankful than ever that her kind mama understood her need to be up and about and doing—being useful while also exploring all of London, not just the hundred acres of Mayfair frequented by the Ton.

But being frequented by the Ton was also what had led her to Grindle Brothers—the wine merchant was fast becoming the purveyor of choice to the Beau Monde. Grindle's would not only supply and deliver the vast quantities of wine and spirits needed for her mama’s Christmas masquerade, they would also provide the raft of trained extra footmen that such an evening required. The strain on the Balfour House staff would therefore be minimal.

Cally alit from the coach with the assured assistance of Balfour House’s most imposing footman, Tom Dancy, who attempted to shield her from the fray. “If you’ll come this way, ma’am.”

But Cally delighted in the fray. She loved the hurly-burly atmosphere—especially when the cacophony of sights and sounds was made more dramatic by the arrival of a coach of foaming, tossing horses that disgorged a bevy of rough looking fellows all attired in red waistcoats.

Bow Street Runners!

“You’ll want to steer clear of those Robin Red Breasts, ma’am,” the poor footman advised, trying in vain to herd her back toward the coach.

“Nothing of the kind,” Cally insisted as she deftly sidestepped him to plunge after the Runners, who had spilled into the open building like rats seeking grain, and were greeted and treated as such by the even rougher-looking denizens of the warehouse, if the shouts and curses assaulting her ears were any indication—she was surprised to see no one swinging a shovel.

Cally made for a nearby stair in hopes of gaining a vantage point from which to view the warehouse floor, when a peg-legged fellow clambered hastily past, gripping the wooden railings hard enough to make them shake as he hoisted himself upward, toward a glass-fronted office that overlooked the floor.

“Mr. Grindle!” The man called out while he was only half-way through the office door. “They’s Runners ‘ere now.” He shot a vicious glare at a dashing-looking bearded gentleman seated at his leisure in a chair before the desk. “Poking around, lookin’ fer ’im”—a thick finger jabbed at the gentleman, who eased to his feet, unperturbed by such bristling hostility—“an’ no doubt. Makin’ trouble for uz, he is.”

The greasy, nip-cheese looking fellow who must be Grindle was up and out of his chair, and at the window in a shot. “Where are they?”

Cally pressed herself into the wall at her back to make herself as invisible as possible as a lady could while eavesdropping in a fur-trimmed pelisse and a feather-capped hat.

“Swank carriage out the front.” The peg-legged fellow hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

Grindle was all efficient alarm. “Best leave by water.” He turned and pointed the still self-possessed gentleman the way down a back stair. “Bolter will ensure you aren’t seen.”

They were gone from Cally’s view within moments, but so determined was she not to miss a moment of the drama playing itself out across Grindle’s warehouse that she snatched up her skirts and ran around the outside of the building, past the astonished footman—“Come on, Tom!”—and through the maze of stacked sacks of aromatic coffee beans, to reach the quayside at the river.

She was just in time to see the intriguing gentleman—such a look of keenness in his bright blue eyes—descend into a serviceable wherry minded by a cherub-faced imp of indeterminate age.

“Take ’im up river, quick-like, Betty,” the man Bolter ordered her.

“Wot? All the way to Islewerf?” the girl protested. “Tide’s turning, and besides, I’m meant to take Grindle’s scribbles downriver, to Vinner’s Hall.”

“No, not to Isleworth.” The rather dashing bearded gentleman took command as he jumped nimbly into the boat. “Three Crane Stairs will do nicely. Just give Grindle’s orders to me.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take them and save you the trip, Betty. Smartly now.”

But the contrary child scampered to the oars. “Ain’t givin’ you nofink. And whatchu want ’ere? And why should we help ye, when yer giving everyone such trouble with yer thievery?”

The keen-eyed gentleman looked none too pleased with that declaration. “I’m not about to argue with a gamin barely out of pig-tails.” He took his place at the front set of oars. “If you’re coming, just put your back into it without any lip.”

The girl Betty did so with a flurry of batted lashes. “Ye outta like my lip—I like yers. Yer ’andsome enough. For a toff. And a thief and a rogue.”

And so he was handsome enough, with his bright, mischievous eyes, and well-formed lips nearly hidden by a rough beard. Especially if he were a thief and a rogue.

Most especially if he were the thief and rogue she sought. Along with all of London, it seemed.

“Tom?” Cally asked without ever taking her eyes from the departed wherry. “Where is Three Crane Stairs?”

“The City, ma’am.” He pointed eastward. “The stairs give out to the gates of Vintner’s Hall.”

“Excellent. Fetch me a wherry, if you please.”

“But what about the wine, ma’am?”

“Bolter!” she called to the astonished giant who nonetheless turned obediently to her service. “Here is my order for the Viscountess Balfour.” She thrust the folded foolscap with the listing she had made of bottles of claret and Madeira to be purchased. “Pray give it to Grindle and have him wait upon Mr. Withers, the butler at Balfour House, tomorrow morning.”

“Very good, madame,” the giant stammered.

“Thank you.” She turned back to the footman, poor lad, who gaped at her like a dumbfounded Cheviot sheep. “Well then, Tom, let us get off to Three Crane Stairs with all due speed.”

He handed her into the wherry even as he muttered. “Sure to cost me my job, this is.”

“Don’t be silly or lily-livered, Tom,” Cally assured him. “I take full responsibility.”

She always took all responsibility for her adventures. Because if there was one thing she had learned in the long, lonely course of her widowhood, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than it was for permission.