He snorted and looked away. “Eton.”

She snorted right back at him. “My brother went to Eton. I’d recognize that. You’re lying to me.”

“Of course I am. We’re reluctant partners, Miss Marshall, not friends swapping childhood stories.” Another man might have snapped out those words. He said them with a trace of humor, as if it were a great joke that they were forced to be in each other’s company.

“Ah. Shall we sit in stony silence, then?”

“No,” he said. “I’m perfectly happy to have you entertain me, if you prefer. Tell me, what was the result of the Hammersmith-Choworth match that took place this morning? I was rather isolated this afternoon and hadn’t the chance to find out.”

Free let the glasses fall and turned to him. “We’re reluctant partners, Mr. Clark,” she mimicked. “I’m not your secretary to relay the news to you.”

He shrugged. “How like a woman. You don’t know. Do you think pugilism is too violent, that it’s beneath you?”

Free burst into laughter. “Oh, no. If you think you can set me off with a poorly placed ‘how like a woman‘, you’re much mistaken. It’s terribly unoriginal. Everyone does it. I had thought better of you than that.”

There was a short pause. Then he shook his head ruefully. “You’re right. That was a dreadful cliché. Next time I attempt to provoke you to respond, I’ll do better.”

Free took pity on him. She raised the glasses once more and trained them on the lighted window. “Choworth fell after twelve rounds to Hammersmith.”

“Hammersmith won! You’re making that up. Did he manage to outdodge him, then? I know Hammersmith is faster, but Choworth has the punch. And the strength! I’ve seen him—”

“Careful, Mr. Clark.” Free smiled. “You’re using exclamation points.”

There was a pause. “So I am.” He sighed. “Do you know, boxing is the only thing I missed about England? I’d track down English papers just so I could find the results of my favorites. I was mad about fighting as a boy. I think it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.”

“Choworth apparently landed a few cuts to the right in the ninth round,” Free said after a pause. “Hammersmith was down; he struggled to his feet, but the account in the afternoon Times said the onlookers thought he was done for.”

He tilted his head at her. “Do you know that because you read all your rival papers as a matter of course, or because you actually follow the sport?”

“My father used to take me to matches when I was a child.” Free smiled. “We still go together. Take from that what you will.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Clark snorted. “Unfair.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that though, the door to Stephen’s room opened. Free waved him to silence and focused her glasses on the window. A man was slipping inside. He wore a dark, knit cap pulled low over his head.

“There’s someone there,” she told Mr. Clark.

“Damn.”

She had wondered if all his good humor was a deception—if, perhaps, he hated her and was just extremely good at hiding it.

That one syllable convinced her otherwise. There was a quiet fury in it. Beside her, he tensed, his eyes glittering.

“Damn,” he repeated. “I was hoping—really hoping—that he’d call it off.”

This, too, might be an act. This was, after all, the man who had dashed off a brazen forgery in front of her without blinking an eye.

Free kept her gaze trained on the man in Stephen’s room. The fellow stopped in front of Stephen’s dresser, turned toward his desk, and then, after another pause, slipped out the door once again.

She stood. “Let’s go.”

They scrambled down the path over the bridge. He didn’t try to outrun her—even though it would have been an easy prospect with her in heavy skirts and a corset. He kept pace with her instead, jogging easily at her side. When they came to the outer wall of the dormitory, he paused.

“If I give you a lift, can you get up to his window?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

Before she could ready herself, he took hold of her by the waist and swung her up. She had only the briefest sensation of his strength, the power of his muscles, before her fingertips caught the edge of Stephen’s windowsill. She scrabbled for a firm hold; his grip on her shifted, sliding down. One hand came under her foot as support. Then he boosted her up, and she pulled herself into Stephen’s room.

“Do you need me to help you up?” she whispered out the window.

“You’re too precious,” came the reply. And so saying, he swung himself up, finding a foothold here, a handhold there. Before she knew it, he was hauling himself over the sill of the window, scarcely out of breath.

Her eyes widened.

“I can tell you’re not a gentleman,” she said as he pulled himself into the room. “You’re far too strong.”

“Ah, you noticed.” He straightened, brushing his hands off, and gave her a wicked smile. “I’ve done some metalwork. But we can talk about how attractive my muscles are at some time when we are not illicitly entering a building.”

From another man, that casual boast would have been downright disturbing. But Mr. Clark didn’t leer or wink. He didn’t waggle his brows to make sure she’d understood his lewd implications. He simply turned away and studied the room as if he hadn’t been outrageous at all. As if he’d spoken the simple truth.

And maybe he had.

Free covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

“You’d better search,” he said. “That way, you can be sure I didn’t place anything. I’ll keep watch.”

It felt odd, rifling through Stephen’s chest of drawers. Even though he’d given her permission, it felt like an invasion on her part. She finally found a ring—an ugly thing of tarnished gold and amber—among his cravats.

“There,” she said. “That’s it. You were right about that much.”

She still wasn’t going to trust him.

He gestured. “Take it. Let’s get out of here before we’re discovered.”

She didn’t trust him, but if she let herself, she could like him. He was clever, easygoing, and utterly unoffended by her intelligence.

It was such a shame that she was going to have to ruin their temporary camaraderie.