Elliott couldn't believe it. He'd been loitering outside this pawnbroker's storefront for several hours, which wasn't easy to do without raising suspicion. He'd pretended at different times to shop for cigars across the street, or to wait upon a companion, impatiently checking his watch. He'd worn out shoe leather strolling nonchalantly on his way somewhere but in no great hurry. But there were a limited number of times one could casually stroll past the same shops in a day. Soon he would have to switch streets with one of his fellow Liars, Feebles or Rigg, who were staked out in front of other pawnbrokers.

It didn't always follow that a thief who targeted the highest in Society would try to sell their loot to a pawnbroker. A truly accomplished rooftop man—er, woman—would surely have a regular receiver. Furthermore, a practitioner of that caliber would have dressed to fit in better with last night's decadent but undeniably elegant crowd.

However, Elliot had recalled that his dance partner's gown had been a little tight in the bosom and, while it looked very nice on her shapely figure, was made of less than the finest stuff. Her jewelry had been simple, just a pretty amethyst pendant on a chain and demure diamond earbobs that upon recollection he realized were probably paste.

So, clearly not a rank beginner, but not an seasoned professional either—and therefore likely to take her ill-gotten gains to someone like old Connors, who had helped the Liars dispose of some of their own shady acquisitions in years gone by.

The boredom was getting to him. He was hungry and he needed to—

Suddenly, there she was, stepping out of the doorway marked with the sign of the three gold balls of a pawnbroker.

Elliot hadn't noticed her go in, but now he understood why. She was dressed as primly and sensibly as a governess in a gray walking dress covered by an unadorned brown coat. Drab, almost invisible, as common as a sparrow in a field. If it were not for the wisp of red hair that had come loose at her brow and now drifted across her cheek beneath her bonnet, he still might not have recognized her as his vibrant dance partner. This woman seemed pale, drained and weary.

Not that Elliot cared, of course. Her emotional state was of no concern to him at all. She paused outside the pawnbroker's shop, gave a tug to the wrists of her gloves, and lifted her chin.

He was too far away to know for sure, but he imagined a spark of grim defiance in her eyes. She was still pretty, even disguised as a bland upper-class retainer. In fact, he liked the way she looked at this moment. A woman like her didn't require feathers and paint to be attractive. She was rather splendid, even in her disguise.

As she marched away at what she probably imagined was a perfect pace of a servant on an errand, there was a lithe grace to her stride. That confident way of movement reminded him of the way she had danced last night, with her eyes closed and her body swaying to the music.

It wasn't that she was bold, or cheeky in any way. It was more that she could not quite hide her independent spirit.

He followed her, musing on how her grave carriage seemed as strict as a nun but somehow as direct as warrior. Furthermore, he didn't mind watching her walk away, not one little bit. The skirts of her gown swished very distractingly over her bottom with every step of her determined pace.

He already knew she had an agreeable figure. Lean and athletic, but for that tempting bodice. His arm had fit so nicely around her waist last night…

She turned the corner in front of him and disappeared from his sight. It was sheer habit that had him hurrying to catch up, and a good thing it was. He was so distracted by thoughts of the night before and of the drifting scent of apples and vanilla that he turned the corner too abruptly for proper stealth.

It didn't matter. She wasn't there.

Well now. Maybe she was a seasoned professional, after all. Elliott tugged down on his hat brim as if girding his loins for battle. With a small smile, he set out at speed. She can't have gone far. He could find her.

She might be an expert, but then again, so was he.

* * *

After Amie left Connors and his grasping betrayal behind her, she walked from the less respectable High Street to the Oxford Street shopping district. The shops became nicer, and she passed a confectionery and a purveyor of fine leather goods. In her upper class servitor guise, she looked entirely appropriate on this street, so there was no reason in the world for her to feel conspicuous.

Then why was it the hairs on the back of her neck were once again standing at attention? She felt exposed. Watched.

Some people might talk themselves out of that sensation. They might think to themselves, “Don't be silly. It's only your imagination. There's no one after you.”

Amie knew better than that.

Better to look a fool than be a fool, Papa's gravelly voice whispered in the back of her mind.

So Amie turned the next corner a bit sharply, and then ran very quickly for a few feet. Then she ducked into a doorway. In the shadow of it, she hesitated for a long moment, looking down, pawing aimlessly in her reticule for nothing at all, while a few strangers passed and didn't give her a second glance. No one slowed. No one even looked her way.

She stepped out of the doorway to cross the street quickly just ahead of a wood wagon and then had to rush out of the path of a carriage. The horses startled a bit and the driver gave her a scornful glare, but because of her respectable clothing refrained from muttering curses in her direction. She walked quickly, moving alongside the carriage for the length of six storefronts, allowing it to block her completely from the opposite side of the street.

Then she entered one of shops randomly, pushing her way into the store as if the devil himself were after her.

Sundries. All the useful little things that everyone needs but no one ever thinks about buying until they run out. Shoelaces, corset strings, buttonhooks. Low investment, high profit margin.

Amie hurried to the counter, allowing herself to look flustered and a little bit worried. She leaned close to the woman who stood there, dressed in a respectable matrons gown with her hair tightly curled. The woman regarded her suspiciously, although she'd not yet spoken a word.

Old-fashioned, strict, precise with that little gold watch pinned just so to her bosom. A woman of stature in her own community. Judgmental. Of an envious nature.

That assessment no longer than a split second. Amie changed her story in that instant and leaned close to speak in hushed and tense voice.

“I need to speak to your husband.”

The woman drew back. Her lips pressed together and her eyes narrowed. “Not another one. Get out of my shop.”

“I have to speak to him! He has to know…” Amie placed a hand protectively over her navel. “He has to take responsibility—”

Before she could utter another word, the woman had bustled around the counter and taken a painful grip on Amie's upper arm.

“You hussy. I'll teach you to tell lies. My husband can't father children, you ignorant little tramp.”

She was dragging Amie toward the door. Amie tried to jerk her arm free but the woman truly had a deadly grip. It must have been from stocking all those button-hooks. “So you'll throw me out in the street? Right in front of your own shop? What will the public think?”

The woman changed her tactics mid-yank. In no time at all, Amie found herself dragged to the back of the store and thrown forcefully into the alley behind.

The woman spat in her general direction, and slammed the heavy rear door on her. Amie took a moment to straighten her sleeve and push back a strand of hair that come free of her bonnet. Well, that had been considerably faster than trying to charm her way to the back exit.

She had probably lost her shadow, but still, it wouldn't do to go straight home. She might as well take a stroll through one of her favorite neighborhoods, which wasn't far from here at all. The houses were so pretty, and she loved the way the trees branched nearly over the street making it almost like a country lane. Even in winter, a charming sight.

She was strolling beneath the barren trees when the back of her neck prickled once more. My goodness, I am having a day.

So she hurried her steps a bit, turned the corner, turned another corner, ducked down the alley backing another more affluent street and ended up at the gate of a large mews behind a very fine house.

Oh yes, this would do nicely.

Although Amie appreciated the respite standing still in the shadows of the gate next to some skeletal rosebushes, she had been poised there long enough that she was beginning to doubt her own instincts.

She had taken position near the hinges of the gate where it would conceal her when it opened, and was considering the wisdom of moving along, when the latch rattled and the gate slowly opened.

Well then. Perhaps she was not so foolish after all. Papa would be proud.

She wished she wore her boy's trousers instead of her confining gown, but there were a few ways to get around that. Even as the gate continued to open she bent down and grabbed two fistfuls of hem and hiked them up. She tucked the wads quickly into the drawstring waist of her drawers.

I'm sure I look ridiculous, like a muslin mushroom. However, now she had all four limbs available for fighting. Best to get this over with quickly, before the chill turned her limbs entirely blue.

It occurred to her a bit too late that she ought to have concealed a stone in her reticule. Her belly rumbled. She was not thinking clearly from hunger.

A figure stepped through the gate. For the first time she actually saw her pursuer.

It was the thief from last night's ball.

* * *

Elliot took the first blow on hard on one shoulder. He'd blocked the strike almost by accident, turning when he heard a slight noise behind him.

The kick knocked him off balance. Before his opponent could close in, he threw himself forward and rolled away. His hat spun off into the snow. In a second, he was back on his feet inside the yard and backing away from his attacker who had emerged from behind the gate.

Limbs. Calves and knees and slender ankles outlined in dark winter stocking—and an exhilarating glimpse of bare thighs above the garters. Her white skin glowed against the black stocking-knit.

Oh, glimpses were good. He liked glimpses...

He was so distracted that he almost didn't block the next kick. Almost.

Instead he caught a dainty ankle in one hand just in time and pushed back, hard.

The lady thief fell back, for it was indeed the pretty redhead who had consumed most of his thoughts over the last two days.

She completed a very nice role backward roll herself, and provided him with tremendously pleasing view. Oh, those glimpses...

He realized that there was rather stupid grin spread across his face, but he just couldn't help it. Then she came at him. A whirl of blurred kicks and punches and—damn it, he had underestimated her!

He took a ferocious blow to the solar plexus and a knock to his skull before he pulled his wandering thoughts in order and began to take his opponent a bit more seriously.

She was good. Almost as good as he was. To be honest, if he didn't train every day, she might have had the better of him. It was almost as if she had learned her skills at the Liar's Club. There was a certain trick Kurt taught of keeping the knees spread and the hips tilted forward. She did it just like Kurt.

Minus the generally homicidal intent. And the knives, of course.

God, he really hoped she didn't have a knife. He was having such a good time.

She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn't think he was mistaken about the curl of her lips at the corners. She was enjoying their tussle just as much as he was.

Knowing her moves, he stepped backward and then pretended to slip on the icy walk. She almost didn't take the bait, but he saw the shift in her shoulders when she decided to move in. He was ready for her strike and ducked. She over-extended. He rushed in close to grapple. If he hadn't had the advantage of height and size, he might not have gained the advantage. She was fast, but ended up wrapped in his arms all the same.

He grinned into her hair as she struggled. “I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed our dance.” She twisted in his grasp, causing him to change his grip. Yielding flesh filled his hands. His gentlemanly reflexes shouted at him to release her with profound apology. His spy training wouldn't allow it. His animal instincts settled the vote in favor of holding on, so he held her all the tighter. “Alas, I fear it is time for the music to end.”

His intention was to trap her arms behind her back and frog-march her luscious criminal arse straight to the club. Instead, she kicked his feet out from under him.

Ow. He landed on his back on the hard snow-packed path. Because he knew better than to let go of an armful of furious woman with fighting skills, she came down with him. There followed a fascinating struggle, full of punches and squirming, where he wasn't sure if she was trying to kill him or make him fall in love forever.

Damn, he was smiling again.

He almost took a knee to the groin but managed to shift his weight and took it to the inner thigh instead.

Her low laugh gusted in his ear.

“Manners, miss!” It still hurt like blazes, so in order to protect his reason to go on living, he was forced to flip her beneath him. Not very chivalrous of him, but he persisted in subduing her struggles until he pressed her to the snow, straddling her with his hands pinning her upper arms down.

For the first time since he'd stepped through the gate, he had a moment to breathe. Beneath him, her chest heaved as well. For a long moment, there was no movement but the clouds of vapor they puffed into the icy air.

Her bonnet had come completely askew and dangled from the strings. It was now a crushed ruin behind her shoulder. Her brilliant hair streamed across the white ground, like sunset on snow. Her cheeks were pink and her vivid green eyes glared at him, snapping with emerald vexation. Damn, what a picture. The image was so arresting that when she squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth he hesitated a second too long.

She let out a piercing feminine scream of terror. It was a chilling sound, to be sure. He stared down at her in shock. She laughed up at him, a husky chuckle that rippled through his entire body.

She had a healthy set of lungs, and the house was not that far away. No more than a split second past before three burly footmen erupted from the back door of the structure. With the garden stripped of foliage by winter's chill, there was nothing to keep Elliot and his quarry hidden from three shocked gazes.

He gazed down at his delicious opponent in disappointment. “Now you've done it.”

She didn't scream again but only batted her eyelashes at him with a wide innocent gaze. “You have it coming,” she said calmly.

Then the husky footmen were upon them. They pulled him off with rough hands. Elliot didn't fight them, for the fellows were only doing as they should, defending a poor young lady being assaulted on the house grounds. He suffered their blows without resistance. Even when his face was buried in the snow and his hands were confined behind his back, he could hear the diabolical minx continue to work.

“I’m dreadfully sorry that I trespassed.” She certainly sounded breathless, but the battle had been fierce. The tremble in her voice wasn't terribly convincing to Elliot, but the footmen seemed entirely hoodwinked. “I was only trying to hide from him. He's been following me all the way from Oxford Street and I simply couldn't run anymore.”

Damn. Every word of it rang of truth because it was truth. She was brilliant. That was why she was hustled into the safety of the house while he, defender of the Crown, was the one frog-marched into the mews and tied to the door of a stall. The gleaming carriage horse inside the stall looked gently amazed and then nibbled on Elliot's hair.

“Do me a favor,” he told one of his guards. “That lovely redhead. Get her name for me?”

The request earned him a cuff on the ear and a growl. Elliot let out a resigned sigh. He had the feeling he would be having a long night.

* * *

Amie spent no more than a few moments in the house all in all. One of the housemaids helped her inside, then called for the housekeeper. The briskly compassionate housekeeper took her to the lady of the house, who was a young woman not much older than herself.

The bell was rung for tea, but there was no need to wait on the sympathy. They were lovely, both of them. Amie felt rather ashamed of herself as she begged for a moment alone then, when they left her, ducked out of the nearest window. She sidled along the side of the house, and ran down the street in front into the blue-gray of gathering dusk.

It was a very nice house, she thought as she ran. Full of little treasures and keepsakes. Silver this and porcelain that. A part of her had not been able to keep from assessing the potential, but she knew she would never be tricking her way into that particular establishment. The Jackhams only robbed those who deserved it.

She threw away her bonnet as a lost cause and simply avoided people whenever possible until she was a mile gone. She slowed and pressed a hand to her aching side.

This time, she was certain no one followed her. Her gentlemen thief had been quite thoroughly detained. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Her heart slowed to a more normal rhythm as she walked. She found herself with a silly smile on her face as she thought about their stimulating match in the snow. The blows had been serious and she knew they would both carry a few bruises, but she'd felt no actual fear of her life. She must be mad. He'd stalked her like a professional, had found her out when no one else ever had and had taken her down despite her skills.

It had been altogether the most stimulating adventure of her life.

And he still smelled astonishingly good. She smiled even as she reached a hand to massage her stiffening shoulder.

He'd fought well, and had bested her fairly. It was strange how easily she could predict his moves and evidently he had done the same. It was almost as if they had been trained by the same—

Liar.

Amie had to stop and lean against an iron fence as her heart rose in her throat and the breath left her lungs entirely. Oh, heavens. Oh, no.

He was a Liar. Trained by Liars, just like her father had trained her and her sisters. The same moves—dear God, the same list, the same target!

She swallowed hard, remembering the folded papers in his pocket last night, the ones she'd not bothered to pull. She'd stolen from a spy.

What had she done? She'd ruined everything! She and her sisters had managed to live their entire lives out of sight of the Liar's Club!

And now she had placed herself firmly in their view.

Did they know who she was? They must know something, for he'd been waiting for her outside the pawnbroker shop. He had clearly known where she was going to be, or close to it.

Connors's words rang in her memory, though she'd not listened well at the time. “We got hired agents watching all our shops.”

They'd known to look for a thief on the trade, but not who she was, no, not her identity. If they'd known her name or address, they would've come to her there and taken them all.

This meant that it was quite possible they didn't know about her sisters. There was still time. Time to run. She pushed herself upright once more and picking up her skirts, ran for her life and the lives of her sisters.