He should not have allowed her to come, especially as her prediction that Mr. Foxcombe’s mother might be at home came to nothing. She did, however, distract the footman at the door to the building sufficient for Charlie to slip by and up the stairs.

Leaving her below with the fellow was enough to make his molars grind. She had never fluttered her lashes at him like that. But the moment the footman glanced away, her pointed look at him and jerk of her chin toward the stairs gave him no other option.

She was tenacious. And adorable. And the less he looked at her anyway the less likely he was to pull her into his arms and take up that kiss where he’d left off.

He had just entered the flat when a soft footfall sounded behind him and he pivoted.

“It is I!” she whispered, her eyes entirely round as she stared at the dagger in his grip.

He resheathed the weapon and turned again.

“Never sneak up behind me.”

“I shan’t,” she whispered fervently. “It seems my criminal instincts aren’t quite as good as I had thought.”

The flat was empty except for two dogs enclosed by a fence in the kitchen.

Esme leaned close to his shoulder.

“Is either Argos?” she said into his ear beneath the cacophony of snarls and howls.

He turned his head. Her eyes were pools of perfect periwinkle, her lips a man’s fantasy, soft and shapely. The night before he had discovered those lips to be far from passive recipients of kisses.

He needed to taste them again. Now. Every surface of his skin was hot, every muscle in his body primed, every thought insisting he must.

Instinct shouted no.

They had to get out of this place before the neighbors noticed the barking.

But, by God, the pink flowers rising on her cheeks and the quick lifting and falling of her breasts were shoving aside the instinct that had helped him survive at sea for twenty-one months; they were telling him to drag her into one of those bedchambers they’d passed on the way to the kitchen and do with her what needed to be done without delay.

She leaned closer. Her lips were inches away. Her eyes were unfocused. He could practically feel her body against his already, and her wet, hot mouth on him.

“We must go,” she whispered.

Then she was gone, hurrying back to the flat’s door and out and down the stairs. He followed more slowly, locking the door, then readjusting himself as he descended. He paused on the flight above and, over the railing, watched her sidle up to the footman and speak softly to him.

Then her hand was on the man’s lapel, he was grinning and putting his hand on her arm and she was allowing it, moving closer to him, turning him to face the other direction. Charlie understood what she was doing, but prickly heat swept up the back of his neck and fanned across his shoulders.

Leaping down the remaining steps, he slipped past the pair and out of the building and was halfway down the block before he stumbled to a halt.

His breaths came quickly—too quickly—memories clamoring forward of every time Jo had stolen from him, so easily, always without effort, from extraordinary seashells found on the beach to his first fine quill pen to his favorite chair at the King’s Barrel to their father’s trust. Every time his brother had made a grievous error in the shop—ruined a page, broken a machine, lost an account—he had blamed it on Charlie. And because Charlie had never stood up for himself, their father believed Jo.

When just after Jo departed on a business journey Gabrielle came to work at the shop, Charlie had struck up a fine friendship with her. Then Josiah had returned and she had instantly fallen head over ears for the golden boy of Brittle and Sons. At the time Charlie had been hurt, but unsurprised.

It had required several years and the intervention of a naval captain for him to realize that somewhere along the way he had come to see Gabrielle as yet another thing Josiah had taken from him—not a woman with a heart and mind of her own. The realization had sickened him to the core. So he had ridden to the coast and signed on with the first ship he saw, determined to reclaim at least one treasure that his brother had taken from him: the sea.

Watching Esme walk toward him now with a quick step and bright eyes, he knew the reason Josiah had never tried to have this beautiful woman. Esme Astell had never interested Jo because Jo had never known that his little brother wanted her. Because his little brother had been too much of a coward to do anything about it.

“That was exciting!” The pale spring sun shone on her skin and in her smile. “Shall we search another dog man’s house now?”

“No.” His voice was recognizably husky.

Her gaze dipped to his lips.

“Last night,” she said, “we kissed.”

She was perfect.

“I noticed that,” he said.

“I just thought I would put that out there.”

“In the event that I had forgotten?”

“In the event that you want to do it again. Back in that flat it seemed perhaps that you wanted to. Again. For I surely do. Do you?”

“Yes.”

Her lovely eyes flared.

“We won’t,” he said.

“Not here and now on the street, of course.” She had dimples. He had never noticed her dimples before. They were shallow and only appeared when she was trying not to smile with her teeth.

“Not anywhere,” he corrected. “Ever.”

“Why not? Are you disgusted by my plain speaking?”

Rather, he was hard as rock, standing on a footpath on an Edinburgh street in broad daylight.

“Wanted criminal,” he forced through his lips. “Leaving in days. What part about those don’t you understand?”

“Well, you needn’t be insulting. All right. That is fine then. I have no intention of throwing myself at you, Charles Brittle. So you need not worry on that score.”

“I hadn’t planned on worrying. But if you prefer that I quiver in—”

“Ha ha. See how I dissolve in laughter? Now, what sort of clothing do you wish to purchase? The sort of unremarkable garments you were fond of—that is, that your mother was fond of in London? Or another sort?”

The sort that would make a perfumer with a quick tongue turn to hot honey in his hands again.

“The sort a Boston shop clerk with pretentions toward better would wear,” he said.

She simply looked at him, without pleasure or displeasure on her features, rather thoughtfully and with the reserve that in another reality he had thought was her natural state.

“On my first day here,” she finally said, “I walked past a shop that will probably do.”

She took him to New Town. Constructed on elegant, mammoth dimensions, with neat footpaths and a view of the castle cresting the older part of the city, the neighborhood boasted finely dressed pedestrians and pricey carriages. Before a particularly grand façade she came to a halt.

“That is a hotel,” she said. “Inside it is magnificent, all gilded rose and ivory. Someday when I return to Edinburgh as an actual member of the Society, I will take a room there and dine on pheasant and champagne every night.”

There was such determination in her face, and hope.

“You deserve it,” he said.

“Not yet. But someday I shall. Now to the little tailor shop to remake you into a respectable gentleman.” Her gaze dipped to his legs. “Respectable . . . Yes.” Pivoting away, she set off up the street.

It was indeed a little shop, not much larger than the front room of Brittle and Sons. She selected a coat and waistcoat that suited Charlie’s purpose ideally. He stood on the dais while the tailor poked pins into his wrists, and she watched from the other side of the shop. A dart marred the bridge of her nose.

Abruptly she turned away and opened the shop door.

“Where are you going?” he said. “There are still trousers to be chosen.”

She looked over her shoulder.

“If you imagine I will watch you fitted for trousers, Charles Westley Brittle, you were not listening carefully to me earlier.” She looked at the tailor. “Thank you, sir.” Her gaze returned to him. “Mr. Brittle, I will see you at the pub tomorrow—if, that is, you do not disappear again without warning.”

With perfect poise, she shut the shop door behind her.

The tailor paused in his work.

“Do you care to go after her, lad?”

“No.”

But he did care. And that was the trouble.

In the mirror he stared at himself in the first gentleman’s garments he had worn in nearly two years, clothing that would ensure his entrée into the auction two days hence. Before then he would find the dog. And after it, he would do exactly as Esme had suggested: leave town before Pate came looking for him.

Hot kisses were not reality. His debt to Pate was. There was no way in Hades he would put her in further danger.

“I seen him with the dug, miss!” Rory’s eyes were bright, his sunken cheeks red from running. “No’ an hour since, right here in town.”

“You saw one of the seven men with the dog in Edinburgh?” Esme said. “The actual dog?”

“Aye. Ronnie and Davie be watchin’ the house so we dinna lose him.” His eyes scanned the pub’s patrons. “I couldna find Scholar at the Thistle.”

“I have not seen him today.” Although she had stopped into the pub for tea in the morning and had returned as soon as Mrs. McDade removed her dinner plate from the table. Her frankness about the kiss must have disgusted him. He was avoiding her. Or he had left town.

Or he was in trouble—injured or in jail or in some dreadful situation because he was a criminal and running from the police and beholden to whatever awful person wanted the dog. She could not bear the thought of it.

“We must go to the house and retrieve the dog ourselves, Rory.”

“Aye, miss.”

“No.”

Charlie stood in the doorway wearing the clothing he had purchased the previous day. He looked like the man she had fallen in love with five years earlier, yet bigger, rougher, his shoulders broader and his eyes flinty again.

“Of course I will go,” she said.

“No. You have done enough.”

“Without me, you would not have come this far. And, Charles Westley Brittle, if you were hurt and I could have prevented it I would never forgive myself. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

“Charles?” Rory exclaimed. “Named after kings, you be, Scholar!”

Charlie was looking at her peculiarly. “I don’t have a conscience any longer.”

“Be that as it may,” she replied, pulling her cloak over her shoulders. “I—”

Then he was before her and brushing aside her hands and fastening the cloak clasp.

“I cannot deny a lady,” he said quietly.

Yet he already had, refusing to kiss her again.

She hoped he had regretted it all night.

As though he knew her thoughts, he smiled, slowly. “Shall we be off?”

Rory told them the street, and Esme knew it at once as a fashionable residence in New Town. Darkness had fallen and they hailed a hackney, and Rory marveled at the fine upholstery and speed of the horses. It was not a particularly fine cab, but he had never ridden in one before. Charlie folded his arms over his chest and watched the boy with quiet pleasure.

The carriage finally halted on a crescent of beautiful houses. A finely dressed gentleman walked up the steps and was admitted immediately. Through the doorway Esme glimpsed a man in neat livery, and an elegant foyer. She reached for the door handle.

Charlie stayed her hand.

“Wait.” His hand over hers was large and she had the urge to twist her wrist and meet him palm to palm. Her breaths shortened.

“Why?”

“Study the situation before walking into it.”

Acutely aware that he was not releasing her hand, she peered out. The knocker was brass and pots of spring flowers decorated the stoop. Draperies were drawn across every window. Another finely dressed gentleman ascended the steps and was given immediate entrance.

“Watch the guests.” His hand slipped away from hers.

“Yes?”

“They are all men.”

Another man descended from a carriage behind theirs and went into the house, this time accompanied by a delightful peal of feminine laughter.

“There are women inside,” she said.

“Yet not arriving with the men.” By the light of the carriage lamp his gaze was now on her. “What does that tell you?”

“That it is a gentlemen’s club of some sort.”

“Looks like a bawdy house for toffs,” Rory offered.

“A bawdy house?” Esme said.

“A brothel,” Charlie said.

“Oh.” A delightful little fever ignited in her body. “But this is such an elegant address.”

“Men of wealth have the same desires as lesser men, Miss Astell.”

“But why would a man bring a dog to a brothel?”

“Because he has reason to fear losing it,” he said grimly.

“Well, let’s go.”

He halted her hand again before it reached the door handle. This time he did not release it.

“No,” he said.

“I will not enter the house through the front door.”

“You will not enter the house at all. Rory, return Miss Astell to her boardinghouse.” He put coins in the boy’s palm.

“This is now my project as much as it is yours,” she said. “And with two people we are much more likely to be able to steal the dog than only one person alone. It is simple mathematics.”

“Not on your life.”

“Rather, on yours.” A heavy pain curled in her stomach.

“Esme,” he said, his hand tightening around hers. “I will not put you in danger another moment.”

She wrapped her free hand around his, leaned forward, and drew his scent into her nostrils.

“As your friend, Charlie, I have an obligation to you. And although you will not share with me the mystery behind this dog theft, it is clear that it is tremendously important to you. I cannot stand idly by. Anyway, I have always wanted to see the inside of a brothel.”

He pulled his hand free of hers. “Esme,” he ground out.

“Charlie,” she replied in the same tone. “What if he has given the dog over to servants to care for while he disports himself?”

“What’s disports?” Rory said.

“Tarries,” she said.

Charlie lifted a brow.

“Frolics?”

“Frolics?” Rory screwed up his nose.

“Oh, bother, choose whatever word you wish,” she said. “I will enter through the rear entrance and ingratiate myself with the staff. I see in your eyes that you know I can. Then I will search the backstairs while you search the front. But you won’t . . .” She glanced at Rory. His attention was on another gentleman entering the house, this time greeted at the door by an attractive woman with long black hair and garbed in a flowing robe. Esme returned her attention to Charlie. “That is, you won’t . . .”

His eyes glinted. He knew what she wanted to ask.

“You won’t,” she finally said.

“Frolic?” he said, a smile lifting one side of his mouth.

“Will you?”

A gleam lit his eyes. “Not unless I see something I particularly like.”

“Something?” she exclaimed. “Charles Westley Brittle, you are—”

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his grinning lips.

“Remember,” he said as she gaped, “these men are here for one thing. Take care.”

She nodded. He released her and descended from the carriage. She craned her neck to watch him enter the house as Rory directed the driver to continue around the block. Climbing out, she asked the coachman to remain until she returned.

He shook his head. “A pretty lass like you shouldna be goin’ in there, no matter Mrs. Eagan’s as decent an employer as any in the trade.”

“Oh, I’m sure I shall be entirely safe.”

She waved at Rory still in the carriage and hurried along the alley to the rear of the house. The tradesman’s door was open and she entered.

In the narrow corridor was a small group of people: one older woman in a simple starched frock and cap, one man in livery, and two young women dressed in gorgeous gowns with rouge on their lips and jewels dangling from their ears and necks. One of the gorgeously gowned women was weeping.

“You mustna cry, Peg,” the older woman said, clucking her tongue. “’Tis for the health o’ the bairn you be carrying.”

“I know.” Peg sniffled. “But Danny said if I dinna send the money, he’d turn out Mum an’ little Dicky, an’ Dicky’s only just outta the workhouse an’ eatin’ again. I canna let me brother return there. I’ve to take a customer tonight, or—” She burst into tears anew.

“You shall have half of my earnings tonight,” the other young woman said, her accent thickly French.

“You’ve your own family to feed, Aurelie,” the matron said, shaking her head.

“You there.” The footman was staring at Esme. “Who’re you?”

All eyes came to her. As though her heartbeat weren’t drumming wildly in her ears, she closed the door and went toward them.

“I am Priscilla. Mrs. Eagan sent for me.” She went directly to the weeping girl. “I haven’t a family and will be glad to share my earnings tonight with you, Peg.” She sent up a prayer that Charlie was carrying money. He would disapprove of this hugely. But that hardly mattered now.

Peg’s watery eyes were full of astonishment. “You would do this for a person you dinna ken?”

“Others have done the same for me.” Gabrielle and Mineola, when she had first come to Gracechurch Street, lending her money to pay for board until her employer gave over her first month’s wages. “I came on short notice tonight, however, and you see I am not suitably dressed.”

The weeping girl burst into tears anew. “Thank you, miss! Thank you!”

“Now, dinna crush the gown, Peg,” the matron said. “I’ve no’ brought another tonight so she’ll have to wear it.”

Esme assumed the woman was a housekeeper or some such; she didn’t have any idea how brothels were managed. But she went with her, along with Peg and Aurelie, a bit giddy and only slightly anxious that if Charlie had already found the dog and was on his way out of the house, she might have a very different night than she had planned.