Cally followed him docilely enough along the shaded path adjacent to Park Lane until two rather hot-faced men ran into the avenue ahead of them.

McTavish instantly turned his mount. “Let’s head this way to Berkley Square.”

Cally set her mare to follow. “They are nothing if not persistent, aren’t they?”

McTavish muttered something under his breath, and changed his path again, turning down Stanhope Street toward Chesterfield House.

A glance over her shoulder told Cally that the new set of Runners were still determined to follow—darting across the traffic on Park Lane. But wait—these fellows didn’t have the red waistcoats of the Robin Red Breasts. So who were they?

McTavish gave her no time to pose her question—he abruptly dismounted and turned sharply into Derby Street and the crowded warren of narrow lanes surrounding the Shepherd’s Market. Cally did the same, immediately sliding to the ground and leading her mare directly in his wake as he threaded his way through the throng, cleverly steering toward larger obstacles like drays with teams of steaming, jangling horses, so they might blend into their surroundings.

In no time at all he had whisked them straight through the market, across Curzon Street and into the maze of Clarges Mews, where they were effectively concealed from their pursuers.

“Well done, McTavish.” Cally was all admiration at his skill. “You’ve lost them for good this time.”

He looked annoyed at being congratulated. “Did it never occur to you that it might be you I was trying to lose? You and your bloody royal purple riding habit, which is undoubtedly recognizable a cable’s length away. And stop calling me that—my name is Smith.”

“It won’t fadge”—Cally enjoyed her use of the vulgar street cant—“this pretension to being mere Mr. Smith when I know full well you’re Tobias McTavish, the famous thief.”

“Devil take you, woman. If you don’t stop saying that name out bloody loud, you’re going to put my head in a noose.” He glanced around them for anyone who might be listening to their conversation.

Cally belatedly checked their surroundings—thankfully, the alleyway leading out toward Charles Street was empty. “We’re entirely alone—alone enough for you to admit who you really are.”

“I’m Ansel Smith, from Boston, Massachusetts—”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I’ve read all about you in the broadsheets—”

“The broadsheets are full of lies made up to look like news in order to sell copies and make money, not to tell the truth.”

While that was undoubtedly true, it wasn’t the whole of the truth. “But I also have another source of information. My brother—your shipmate and friend, Hugh McAlden. I thought for sure you would have made the family connection before now.”

“I made the connection,” he protested, though he looked far too conscious to do it convincingly. “But I thought better of Captain Sir Hugh McAlden than to feed his impressionable baby sister Banbury tales.”

“There! You do know Hugh. You are Mr. Tobias McTavish, the hero from Fife. And the Scottish Wraith.”

He muttered an oath so blue, Cally was surprised his lips didn’t turn color. “Former wraith.”

“I knew it.” Her triumph was a physical thrill that echoed through her body like a shout across a glen.

“Don’t sound so smug,” he chided. “It’s unbecoming.”

She wouldn’t let him dim her sense of accomplishment. “I’ve never caught a jewel thief before—it’s exciting. I feel positively clever. I first noticed you as I said, at the wine merchant’s warehouse. You got into a boat rowed by that girl you were chatting with today. And then, of course, I followed you to Exchange Alley. That was two days before you showed up at the Marchioness of Queensbury’s ball.” She gave way to the irresistible urge to gloat. “Mr. Ansel Smith just fresh from America—I wanted to ask if you’d come all that way via row boat?”

“Naturally.”

“But more than all that, I thought I recognized you from an old broadsheet I remembered, so I went right out from the warehouse to find a fresh one. And it was full of the news of the Peverston diamonds. But something about it seemed too pat, too easy. And Hugh never mistakes a man. Never. But if you’ve really come to steal my mother’s jewels, because they’ve been written up in the tattle sheets, you’d best tell me now.”

His eyebrows lofted for a moment—as if he were surprised that she had made that connection.

“You see, you’re not the only clever one. Perhaps the Runners haven’t noticed that particular fact, as they might not read the tattle sheets, but I did.”

“You are remarkably observant for such a rattle.”

Cally felt her face bloom pink—she didn’t know when she’d felt more complimented. “But I knew you couldn’t let these accusations against you stand unanswered. And so I waited. Not very long, as it turns out—you came only two nights later, with Arthur in tow. Very clever of you. And of me. As the barristers would say, Q.E.D., quod erat demonstrandem—thus it is demonstrated.”

“I must assume your own ambitions to take the bar have been frustrated by your sex, else you’d be King’s Bench by now.”

“Nothing about my sex frustrates me, Mr. McTavish. As a matter of fact, the next thing I noticed about you was remarkable—you only looked at my mother, who is a very attractive woman, I’ll grant you, but she is married, quite happily so. She is also a woman of mature age who did not flirt with you in the least, like I did. But you didn’t look at me until I made you. And you did not look at my jewels, as any real self-respecting thief ought.”

“What do you know about what self-respecting thieves ought? And perhaps I was only trying to be a gentleman. I kissed you.”

“I kissed you,” she countered.

“So you did,” he admitted with a hint of a begrudging smile. “Expertly and efficiently.”

“Thank you. But your mind was elsewhere, else you’d never have let me go so easily.”

He stopped and looked at her—really looked, just like he had the first time, in the fields. “And do you often kiss men with the expectation that they won’t let you go?”

“No,” she admitted. “You were the first. Not to kiss me, of course—I’m four and twenty and a widow. But you were the first man I’ve ever kissed first—the first, besides my sweet husband, that I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. If there’s anything all those other kisses have taught me, it’s to be selective.”

“All those other kisses?”

She would have none of his attempt at shaming her—she had earned her right to kiss as she wanted through the grief and loneliness of widowhood. “Don’t try to get me off the real topic at hand here, and that’s my cleverness—which doesn’t get the least bit of exercise at home.” But that was a topic for another day. “You’re simply not convincing as this rough colonial character you’re supposed to be playing—I’m from Scotland and I know a true country man when I see him. You’re far too dashing. No man who moves in society with such sophistication could be this rube you’re trying to play.”

“I’m not a character, Mrs. Bowmont. I assure you, I’m a real person—a real man with real wants and real desires.”

She wasn’t about to let him be off-putting—she gifted him with another encouraging smile. “Which is exactly what I’d hoped.”

“No.” He shook his head, warding her off—refusing to be charmed. “I’m sure you’re a very nice woman, despite this propensity to let men kiss you, but you’ve got too great an imagination, and—” He gave up whatever he had been about to say and crossed Charles Street into the mews behind Berkeley Square instead.

She quickened her pace to fall in beside him. “Do you think my mama might be robbed next?”

That knocked McTavish back a peg—he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Are you asking if I plan to rob her? Of course I am not going to rob your mother. I should like to live long enough to regret this conversation.”

“That’s nice—Mama likes you.” Relief made Cally optimistic. “She loves a rogue.”

“And so, I can only assume, do you.”

“I suppose I do—I know I like you. Very much.” She had for years, ever since Hugh had shared his admiration for his shipmate, Toby.

“You like the idea of me,” he countered. “The idea of excitement. But let me tell you there’s no excitement—only cold, hard fear and intense preparation.”

“That sounds even better—I like a man who is prepared. So how are we going to stop this thief from using your name? I think Lady Meecham will be next—she was just written up last night—”

“Now, stop this.” He held up his hands again, as if he might physically try to stop her.

Which was impossible—she was having an adventure and she meant to stick to it as long as possible. “Don’t you think she’s the one? Why the Meecham diamond and pearl parure alone—”

He kissed her—he looped his arm around the small of her back, pulled her close and covered her mouth with his.

Every bit of the winter cold melted away—oh, now that was more like it.

His lips were firm and smooth all at the same time, and she was nearly overwhelmed by the him-ness of him—the smell of the starch on his collar, the barely-rough texture of the beard beneath his smooth-shaven skin, and the heat of his chest pressed tight against the layers of velvet and wool cloth between them.

Nearly overwhelmed—he was deliciously frightening and absolutely heavenly all at the same time. Because she was normally everything sane and logical and knew that kissing a rogue in an alley was not the done thing. But for the first time in her dull, deadly boring widowhood, she wanted a man—she wanted him, Tobias McTavish.

And he, rogue that he was, could tell—he eased back from the kiss. “Is that what you came here today to get, Caledonia?”

His voice was low and quiet—intimate, even—insinuating itself into her bones. Melting the few inhibitions she had left. “Perhaps.” Much as she might want to, she couldn’t throw herself into his arms in an alleyway. Or could she?

She gave into the reckless rush of blood in her veins and did exactly that—threw herself at him, relishing the way he caught her as his back slammed into the mews wall. She wrapped her arms tight about his neck and kissed him with all the frustration and desire and thwarted ambition careering around inside her. She kissed him with heat and hunger. With years of longing, and years of wanting and waiting for the second best man.

Because second best was better than none. And because he kissed her back.

His lips and tongue met and tangled with hers, meeting her need with strength and finesse. His hand was at the back of her neck, cradling her head, holding her close and closer still. Teaching her of tongue and taste, danger and desire.

And then it was over—he pushed her away.

She was disoriented and dismayed at so sudden a loss of him, until a jangle of harness and the clop of hooves penetrated her brain. She stepped aside and took up her abandoned reins to draw her mare out of the way, but she was not yet done with him. “Meet me at the Meecham’s ball later tonight. I’ll be looking for you.”

He shook his head as if to clear it—as if he felt as disoriented as she. “I don’t have an invitation.”

She gave him her best, most conspiratorial smile. “Steal one.”