Toby’s first thought, as the Balfour carriage trundled out of sight, was that he had never met a more provoking woman. Or one who intrigued him more.

If he weren’t so bloody busy trying to keep his head out of a noose, he might be having fun. And it seemed such a devilish long time since he had had any real fun. Perhaps he ought to frequent aristocratic circles more often.

His second thought, was that Mrs. Bowmont had been right about one thing—her mother’s jewels were a tempting lure for the damned impostor thief. Between the two of them, the Balfour mother and daughter had been wearing something of a fortune in very old, very valuable jewels. Perhaps not as valuable as the Godolphin emeralds, but Lady Godolphin was rumored to wear her jewels all the way round the clock, never taking them off—a problem for even the most accomplished of jewel thieves.

It were best if he kept his eye upon the Balfour family—he owed it to his friend Captain Sir Hugh McAlden to stay one step ahead of the thief who might target his sister. It had nothing to do with the fact that the provoking woman had kissed like an angel.

An over-exuberant, bossy angel, but an angel nonetheless—he could still feel the soft press of her lips against his.

She was also quite extraordinarily beautiful, in an unconventional way—her coloring was full of contrast, dark and light. And her eyes, such a clear, crystalline blue he could fall into like the sea. Exactly like her brother, Captain McAlden’s. But they weren’t calm and restful, Caledonia McAlden Bowmont’s eyes—they were likely to be turbulent those seas, an uncomfortable passage for a man who wanted nothing more of drama or excitement in his life.

Caledonia Bowmont was the sort of lass who could lead a man far, far astray. And make him enjoy the journey. But it was not a journey Toby could afford to take at present.

He turned away from the colonnade, and walked way into the night.

In the morning he wished he had walked even further than the Inn of the Three Kings, because he awoke with Caledonia Bowmont on his mind—and upon his body, if the rude state of his arousal was any indication. But there was no denying either his attraction to her, or her intrigue for him.

And so he listened to his well-honed instincts, and then ignored them as he went to meet the stunningly attractive Mrs. Bowmont, who, equally stunningly, appeared to be attracted to him.

She began talking the moment he was within earshot of where she sat, dressed in a superbly fitted habit of lush purple velvet, atop her mare at Hyde Park Corner. “Have you heard,” Mrs. Bowmont—he would not allow himself the pleasure of even thinking about her as Caledonia—asked as soon as he reached her. “But of course you know—you picked her out especially.”

“I beg your pardon?” His mind was rather taken up by calculating the proportions revealed by the close-fitted riding habit—all long, lovely curves and uplifting—

“The Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury. Whose bosom—”

Toby’s mind was now entirely taken up with thoughts of another bosom—smaller, and perfectly proportioned to fit in a man’s hand.

“—you so artfully intruded upon.”

Toby shook his head to clear it, and recalled himself to his persona. “I did apologize to her. It was an honest, if gauche, mistake.”

“Dropping a guinea straight down her bosom last night, or relieving her of all her jewels this morning?”

“What?” He couldn’t keep the near bark of astonishment from flying out of his mouth, while his gut fisted up tighter than a turk’s head knot.

So much for his crass, colonial persona.

“Relieving her of all her jewels this morning,” Mrs. Bowmont repeated patiently, as if he were a particularly dim child. “They—meaning the broadsheets, whom one assumes have been informed by the magistrates or the Runners, or possibly both—cannot decide who might have done it, the one they call the Vauxhall Vixen, or the old Scottish Wraith. I suppose you are to be congratulated, though I must say I am astonished. I was only teasing you last night, since I was sure you were reformed.”

There were many things that Toby was supposing at that moment, with uneasiness crawling up his neck like a spider, but none of them were congratulatory. Several were blasphemous. All were alarming.

He had been outwitted—but so had they all.

“Mama will be next, I assume, though I must wish she wasn’t.” She was all blithe openness, as if she didn’t have an unexpressed thought in her head.

Provoking, dangerous woman.

And damn his eyes, but this thief seemed to have it in for him particularly—almost as if they were setting him up to take the eight-foot fall on purpose. “You should warn her to safeguard her jewels—have her husband take them to a vault.”

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“It is no more than I should tell anyone who had a fortune in jewels to lose.”

“Yes, they do say this thief is particularly ambitious. And avaricious—no one in Mayfair is safe.”

Toby couldn’t decide if Mrs. Bowmont was teasing again, or if she was simply giving him gum. And as much as he would normally have liked to trade clever witticisms with a beautiful woman, they were in a public park, where anyone might hear her chatter and make unfounded assumptions.

Anyone, including the particular urchin who was approaching them in the guise of selling flowers—Bolter’s daughter, Betty. “Violets for the lady, sar? Posey for ha’penny.”

“No, thank you,” he said automatically, not wanting to have anything to do with the troublesome girl. But then he immediately thought better of it—had Bolter, or more likely Grindle, sent her with a message? “On second thought, violets would suit you and that particular shade of royal purple you’re wearing this morning,” he told Mrs. Bowmont.

“How kind you are,” she said. But her sharp gaze was shifting cutty-eyed between him and Betty in a way that made him uneasy.

“If you’ll but give me a moment?” He did not wait for a reply, but dismounted, and turned his horse to stand between the girl and Mrs. Bowmont. “What is the message?”

“Message?” the gamine replied. “Here’s a message for ye—Ain’t ye the swell, lording it about the Hyde Park while we sweat and toil with Runners breathin’ down our necks.”

They had sent her to tax him. “You may tell them I’m not the one who set the Runners there.”

“Certainly y’are—everyone is talkin’ ’bout the robbery from last night—the Marchioness of Queensbury’s jewels snatched right outta her house on Green Park. An’ ye, hanging about the Three Kings yard, so close by.”

“News travels fast.” As did Grindle’s spies—the man had eyes and ears everywhere, it seemed. And why was that?

“Almost as fast as yer gonna have to travel to the continent. But I’m all packed and ready to go wit ye. Ye just say tha’ word.”

“I am not going to the continent.”

“No? Ye gonna waste yer last moments o’ freedom to go ridin’ with that upper crust tart?”

Mrs. Bowmont was not, technically speaking, upper crust—she was not a titled noblewoman—though she certainly looked the part seated so magnificently upon her tall black mare. But the distinction would undoubtedly be lost upon a creature like Betty who appeared bundled in rags to ward off the cold. And he didn’t have to justify himself either to Betty, her father, or Grindle. “I am.”

“What’s she got—besides enough jewels to choke a milk cow?”

He was in no mood to give consequence to meddling brats. “She’s a lady.”

“Why do ye want to buy an expensive cow when all the milk flows as sweet?”

And in even less of a mood, now. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Drat. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of your dignity hoofing it about the park.”

It was Caledonia Bowmont, who had slipped up behind him as quiet as the sneak thief he was pretending not to be—another young woman who bore careful watching, for a myriad of reasons. “Mrs. Bowmont.” He tipped his hat. “I didn’t see you dismount.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your chat with your little friend. But do introduce me—I so love making new acquaintance.” It was the same request, made in the same sunny tone, that she had made to Arthur Balfour to introduce him.

He was even more wary than young Balfour had been. “She’s not an acquaintance—she’s merely a flower seller.” Toby fished a ha’penny from his pocket, made a sharp toss of his head to send the blighty girl off, and passed the posey to Mrs. Bowmont. “Let me help you mount.”

“If you say so,” Mrs. Bowmont answered his first statement. But her eyes were all for young Betty, who stubbornly hadn’t removed herself. “Such an intriguing and memorable face you have, my dear,” Mrs. Bowmont said to the girl. “You’re quite beautiful—I hope you know that.”

“I knows my worth,” the little wretch answered.

“I’m glad.” Mrs. Bowmont smiled at her. “But you should have put the squeeze on him for at least a full penny, since you know he’s got to pay the price. And can afford it.”

That was enough of that. “Come, Mrs. Bowmont. The morning grows late. We’d best get you mounted if we’re to have our ride.”

“Oh, we’ll have a ride,” Cally assured him as she swung smoothly up into her saddle without waiting for any assistance. “Shall we try to lose them now?”

“Who?”

“Them—those two fellows in the red waistcoats—the Bow Street Runners trying to follow you.” She laughed as she threw a meaningful glance over her shoulder. “Shall we give them a run for their money, Tobias McTavish? Or should I call you the Cutty Purse—the Scottish Wraith?”