Toby immediately forced himself to shake all thoughts of the devious and frankly delicious Mrs. Bowmont from his head, because who should come out of the service entrance to the Balfour mansion and into the mews but Grindle, looking as fat and happy as an alley cat with stolen cream.

But more interestingly, when Grindle headed out of the mews toward St. James’s the two young fellows who had been following Toby and Caledonia Bowmont fell into step with him. So Toby mounted and took himself off through Green Park, getting ahead of the fellow so he was already there when the merchant returned to the warehouse on the Strand.

“You seem to have had a busy morning, Grindle.” Toby had made himself at home in Grindle’s chair. “Didn’t know you were so comfortable in the rarefied air of Mayfair.”

“Oh? Ah, yes. What a busy man you are, McTavish. I thought I saw you near Berkley Street but I didn’t know your…friend.” Grindle gave the word a suggestive intonation. “Or what game you were playing—I did not want to give you away.”

“How thoughtful.” Toby filed away the information that Grindle had seen him before he had seen Grindle—and ignored the man’s question to ask one of his own. “What were you doing there?”

“I—we, the company—have been engaged to supply the wine and spirits for the grand masquerade ball they plan in two nights. I was just below stairs with the butler, bringing him some samples, making sure the wine was satisfactory, and more importantly, arranging to be paid.”

“Very good. And the two lads whom you set to keep an eye on me—what was their purpose?”

Grindle was as canny as a shyster, and answered Toby’s query with another question. “To what purpose? It’d be a waste of good money to try and follow you.”

“I haven’t forgotten that your boys have threatened to kill me if the Runners don’t get off their backs.”

“That’s just talk.” Grindle waved the threat off. “You know how they are—all hotheaded bluster.”

“Then let’s keep it all bluster and no blunderbuss.” Toby’s tone was mild, but his intent was deadly serious. “Keep them away from me, Grindle.”

Grindle was not so easily intimidated or influenced. “But what were you doing in Berkley Square so close to the Balfour mansion, McTavish? Were you casing the ken for your next job? Or trying to flatter the viscountess’s daughter into giving you a key? The Balfour diamonds are famous, to be sure, but if you try something that night, we’ll all be taken up and no doubt about it.”

Toby smiled as blandly and menacingly as possible—he would not let Grindle under his skin. Nor would he mention the fascinating Mrs. Bowmont. “You worry about your men, Grindle, and not about me. I know what I’m doing.”

“And what were you doing with that society girl?”

“What I was doing was being taken for a ride.” Damn his eyes—the gleam in Grindle’s eye made Toby acutely uncomfortable. Not only because he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. But because he didn’t want Caledonia Bowmont involved in this business in any way.

Because the ride was only going to get bumpier—Toby knew it the minute he saw her later that evening at the Meecham ball.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time she appeared in the doorway, a vision in supple, flowing lavender silk. And wearing a fortune in baroque pearls. Almost as if she were baiting the thief. Damn her pretty eyes, because in doing so, she was making it damn hard for Toby to stop whomever the hell it was.

Once again he was at Arthur Balfour’s side, acting the rough colonial, as if he didn’t know a seed pearl from a seed purse. He bowed low over the gloved hand she offered him.

“Mr. Smith.” She pronounced his name with relish. “How pleasant to see you again, so soon.”

“Soon?” Arthur looked from his step-sister to Toby and back. “What do you mean, soon?”

“Mrs. Bowmont means I met her out riding today—a very pleasant morning ride in the park.”

“I enjoyed our ride as well, Mr. Smith.” Caledonia tossed off a smile like a smoldering firecracker. “I was impressed by your seat.” She breezed on, patting Arthur consolingly on the back while he choked on his champagne. “He was very nearly able to keep up with me over the toll road walls. But I’ve always heard that Americans are good riders.”

Toby decided not to let her have all the fun. “We’re also good rides, Mrs. Bowmont.”

Her eyes lit with pleasure at their banter. “Marvelous, Mr. Smith, marvelous. So are our bets in on who is going to be the Scottish Wraith’s next victim? You’ll remember I put in a strong vote for Lady Meecham—she’s even got the tiara out of the vault tonight. I doubt the Cutty Purse will be able to resist the full Meecham parure.”

Arthur visibly paled. “Caledonia!”

Toby took pity on him. “Come, Mrs. Bowmont, we’d better have you dance before you frighten poor Arthur to death.”

She rewarded him with one of her dazzling smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“I didn’t, but this will work well enough,” he answered as he swung her into place in the set. “I must tell you that you look conspicuously divine this evening, Mrs. Bowmont. The sweet lavender of the gown and white purity of the pearls contrast so strongly with the reckless black of your heart.”

She tipped her head back and laughed up to the high ceiling, and he could feel the strong defensive walls around his heart start to crumble just a little bit, as if the mortar had been surreptitiously weakened, and was suddenly beginning to give way.

“My heart is not in the least bit black—perhaps just a lovely deep, dark purple, like the sunset over the heather-covered Scottish moors.”

“Aye, not quite black as night, but drawing well on toward evening.”

“Just so,” she agreed. “And speaking of night drawing nigh—”

“Which we were not.”

“Which I am—can you tell me how you’re planning to do it? The broadsheets say you go up the drainpipes and down through the attics, but they haven’t said how this impostor does it. I think they would be better off pretending to be drunk and toddling off up the stairs as if they’re in search of the necessary.”

He had to admire her imagination—it was blessedly fruitful. Perhaps this thief was not of the criminal class—as the magistrates liked to call anyone who wasn't wealthy—but one of the Ton’s own. That would certainly explain the invisibility of the thief. “Is that what you’d do?”

“Certainly.” She nodded, sure of herself. “I should slip away and take whatever jewels the marchionesses and Lady Meecham, and the other matrons had decided they wouldn’t wear. I know my mother wouldn’t insist that her unworn pieces be put back into the safe until the end of the night, when she was taking the jewels she had worn off.”

It was a devastatingly clear assessment, delivered with frank insight into her world. Or was it her world—what had she said about only being a visitor to it? “Careful, Caledonia, you sound almost eager to steal something yourself.”

“Do I? I suppose I might be—in theory. And if I were a proper widowed lady I would want nothing to do with any of this.” She waved her hand to indicate the world and thievery in general, he supposed. “But I’m not a proper lady. I never have been. And I think this is the most exciting thing I’ve ever been a part of—I get a little vicarious thrill thinking about it all, and I like the feeling too much to regret any part of this.”

There was a wealth of interesting information about the equally interesting Mrs. Bowmont in that statement. “You do seem a trifle over-eager to witness a robbery.”

Her eyes brightened. “May I?”

“No. Because I’m not going up any stairs—or drainpipes—and neither are you. I’m going to get a drink. A stiff drink.” Stiff enough to keep him from doing what he had really come to the Meecham mansion to do—kiss Caledonia Bowmont silly.

On second thought—

“Come along, Mrs. Bowmont.” He tucked her arm in his,

“Do I get a drink, too? That would be wonderfully novel—no one ever offers me anything stronger than watered sherry. So many new experiences. Where are we going?” she asked, though she had already fallen in with him.

“Someplace private, where you can get what you came here in search of.”

There was that absolutely delighted smile spreading across her lips like fresh jam. “You?”

He shouldn’t be so flattered. “No—a thrill.” He backed her into a conveniently empty alcove and lowered his lips to hers.

There was nothing coy or unknowing about her response—she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew him closer still. Her pearls pressed hard into his chest, the baroque baubles coming between them more effectively than a sentry. His hand slid to her nape, unclasping the necklace.

He could almost hear her smile. “You can’t resist them, can you?”

“On the contrary.” He snaked the odd-shaped beads right down the front of her exceptionally well-fitted, exceptionally uplifting stays. “You know as well as I do that those pearls are fake.”

Caledonia McAlden didn’t even blush—if anything she smiled more widely. “Oh, bravo, Tobias.” She nuzzled along the line of his chin. “They are indeed fakes—but I’m not.”

“You are, too,” he growled into her ear. “You’re pretending to be far more worldly that you could possibly be.”

“Why don’t you try me, and find out?”